Dralon and The Adventure in the Contrary World

The sun had no wish to appear on that menace-gray autumn morning. The sky threatened loads of rain, and the clouds, clustering like excited shoppers at a clearance sale, urged folks to grab their raincoats and umbrellas.

No one expected that this dull, grey day of September would soon become a day to remember.

The idea didn’t cross the mind of the solitary, cantankerous Mr. Dickens as he sat on his rocking chair, filling his fine pipe with good Virginia Gold tobacco. It didn’t dawn on the lovely Mrs. Pumpkin as she baked her delicious almond cookies for the neighborhood housewives’ committee, singing all the while. Not even Mrs. Moffet, at 13 Crocks Pot Road in Bromley, could foresee it, while she hurriedly prepared breakfast for the family before leaving for her tedious day of work at Starling department store.

“Welcome, Mr. Fall!” She thought, resigned, as she looked out of her kitchen window. “You’re as punctual as an electric bill.”

She sipped her steaming coffee from her favorite porcelain cup, then sighed longingly as she let go of the pleasant memories of her recent vacation.

Just then, the old transistor radio on the fridge, the only valuable object she had inherited from her stingy Uncle Albert Longbeard, started to broadcast the morning news: due to the usual, unending street reconstructions, there were streams of cars, taxis and busses congesting the downtown area.

“Typical!” blurted out Mr. Romeo Moffet, in a passionate tone of voice, as he struggled to pass through the door. “They start dozens of projects at the worst possible times, and then they wonder why the congestion continues for miles. And do you know what’s really funny?” he said, turning his red face toward his rather unconcerned wife. “The holes. You think, OK, I’ll stay stuck in these terrible traffic jams for hours, but at least the quality of the streets will improve. Wrong! The holes just keep multiplying like rabbits. At this rate, I wonder what will become of our country.”

He gave her a quick kiss and twirled back down on his chair, rubbing his hands as he anticipated the taste of the inviting omelets “à la Moffet.” A tower of piping hot, savory pancakes was in the middle of the table, waiting to be ruthlessly devoured. At that delicious sight, his worries about city traffic vanished completely and his mood quickly improved.

“Where are the kids?” he asked, extracting a piece of bacon from between his teeth. His wife glanced at the cuckoo clock over the door and raised one brow in disapproval.

“Peter, Michael, and Kate-Madeleine Moffet, I’m giving you exactly five minutes to come down and have breakfast, or this evening you’ll have to clean the basement by candlelight!” she said distinctly, as she bustled around with pans, cups, and orange squeezers.

Suddenly, the upper floor echoed with the sound of hurried steps. In no time, the three children were sitting at the table, wearing their uniforms and backpacks and gobbling down cookies, toast and jam.

Eleanor Moffet’s warnings were always taken seriously. She was not exactly the sweet mommy who read fairy tales at night. She was a large lady with a pale oblong face, framed by a thick head of hair which she kept orderly in a bun. She was definitely old school – strict, authoritarian, and a firm believer in ancient remedies and in the good old punishments of days gone by.

In other words, a true tyrant.

A completely explicable harshness, given that she herself had received from her mother, Helga Oleg-Stonebrock, descendant of an ancient Viking lineage, an education based on little cuddles and a lot of discipline, the only type of education that, according to rigid Helga, really formed character and prepared one for the bad weather of life.

“Good morning, London!” wished the cheerful voice from Radio Destiny.

“Good morning to you, sir in the radio,” replied Kate, as she did every day.

“Hey, blockhead, don’t you know he can’t hear you?” Michael said rudely, while drowning his cereal in milk.

“Yes, he can!” she contradicted him.

“Quiet!” Romeo interrupted them, twirling his fork in the air. “They’re giving a traffic update.”

“Latest news on the traffic situation... We’ve just been notified of new, long queues downtown, between King Street, Marylebone Road and Trafalgar Square...”

“I knew it!” Romeo replied, banging his fist on the table.

“...to anyone headed to a downtown office, we suggest leaving with plenty of time...”

“Too late for that!” Mr. Moffet mumbled resignedly, as he took another bite.

“...to those who are not worried about the traffic, we suggest enjoying our broadcasting programs.

“Today, Monday, September 24, is what occult fans call Witch Day. Many believe this is the date when many powerful dark forces cross and intercept each other.

“For the occasion, we’ve invited to our broadcasting studio a well-known expert in this field, an eminent professor of parapsychology at the University of Edinburgh, who will help us to explore this interesting theme by giving us a summary of her studies: Dr. Odilda Costalbine.”

“Hey, D.J. Einstein, while you’re at it, why don’t you ask this great expert how to make this traffic jam magically disappear?” challenged Romeo, while buttering another zwieback toast.

“Dr. Costalbine, could you tell a little more about this legend? How did it originate and why should anyone believe it? I’m sure our listeners are very interested in this topic.”

“Of course! I was just wondering when they’d talk about it,” said Mr. Moffet sarcastically, as he placed the last fried egg on his plate.

“I would not call them legends, John,” the professor corrected. “I’m aware that, for common people – which is most people – accepting the existence of magic is difficult, if not impossible. And that’s because only few people are sensitive enough to catch the signals and tune into the almost unnoticeable frequencies of the paranormal world.”

“So much nonsense!” said Romeo, annoyed. “I’m definitely not going to stay here to listen to this wild stupidity!” He moved toward the radio, intending to change channel, when Kate’s loud shriek stopped him in his tracks.

“What is it? What in the world happened?” he asked, visibly shaken.

“I want to hear what the professor has to say!” the child angelically replied.

“But it’s just a bunch of silly talk!” her dad tried to persuade her.

“Please-please-please-please-please-please...” Kate began to beg him nonstop.

“For pity’s sake, dad! Let her listen to the program or she will pester us endlessly” Peter begged him, while he covered his ears with his hands.

If anyone knew how to get something done, it was undoubtedly Kate. Her little sister, at just six years old, almost thirteen, as she liked to say, was a truly extraordinary child.

She was stubborn and enterprising like few others. She had already learned to read at the age of three. At four, she had learned to speak Chinese and play the bass tuba and at five, she had decided that she would become one of London’s most acclaimed criminal lawyers defending the rights of abused plants and animals.

“Alright, then!” her father agreed, bringing back up the volume, “but only a few more minutes.”

“...these are not just superstitions, my dear John. Several experts, besides myself, believe this is one of the special days when we can connect with the world of magic. How this contact takes place... well, it’s still a mystery!”

Finally, to Romeo’s great relief, the speaker decided to introduce a new subject. Mr. Moffet took advantage of the break to look for a station broadcasting some good music, so that he could quickly forget those absurdities.

“This is the right sound, kids!” he said, improvising a terrible pas de deux with the broom, to the children’s laughter.

“Romeo Aloysius Moffet!” yelled his wife, scaring him half to death. “I don’t think you’re setting the best example to your children when you waste time flirting with a kitchen broom.”

“But I was just...” the man tried to justify himself.

“If’s and but’s don’t make history! You should know that,” Eleanor rebuked him as if he were a child. “That pest of your great-grandmother used to say that all that time. Go on, couch potato! Bring the children’s snacks to the car and make sure they didn’t forget anything.”

“Anyhow...” Romeo tried again, “Do you remember when we dan...”

“The snacks!” Eleanor reminded him.

“Yessir... Mam! I got it. No need to repeat it,” he said, clicking his heels and leaving with the broom leaning on his shoulder, as if holding a double-barreled shotgun, the children following in formation.

Mrs. Moffet picked up her purse from the floor and gave one last desolate look to the kitchen. Pots and pans were stacked up in the sink. Dirty plates and cups rested as wounded soldiers on the coffee-stained tablecloth. Breakfast leftovers had become the main meal for Meatball, Kate’s cat. She raised here yes in despair, thinking of what would be waiting for her that evening. Then she turned off the light. Just when she thought nothing else could delay her, the vibrant ring of the doorbell surprised her.

“And now, who could that be?” she burst out, annoyed.

Romeo, still holding his fake shotgun, rushed to open the door, curious as to who it could be.

In spite of the freshly landed, thick fog, he spotted something unusual just a few feet from their house.

In the middle of the walkway, in front of the garage door, there was a strange ramshackle object – a decrepit iron bicycle covered by bells, small water bottles, and toys. Hesitantly, he leaned outside, hiding behind the broom handle. He was eager to see the eccentric owner of the contraption, but there was no sign of a rider.

“So... Who’s coming to pester us just as we’re leaving?” Mrs. Moffet asked, annoyed, while brusquely shoving her husband against the doorpost. She gave a quick look outside, stretching out her head heavy with hair, but could only see that dull and ridiculous bunch of scrap iron and her gossipy neighbor, Mrs. Byron, who had practically dug roots in the yard next door. “I keep saying we’re surrounded by lunatics! I’d love to know who in the world dares to travel on such a contraption!” she retorted.

The two turned their heads again in sync to the right and to the left, waiting for the usual door-to-door vendor to jump out from behind a tree or a bush with some useless product, but nothing happened, to the point that even the intrusive neighbor, lacking a good scoop to gossip around, opted with disappointment for a dignified retreat.

“Some senile old man must have parked his bike in the wrong place, that’s all!” Mrs. Moffet concluded hastily. “Come on! Get rid of that piece of junk and go get your car before it’s dark.”

She turned to go back into the house. To her surprise, the doorway was obstructed by the bulging belly of a drenched, dirty, and foul-smelling stranger who was holding a bucket full of water.

“AAAAAHHHHH!” cried the woman, alarmed.

“Guten Morgen frau...frau...frau Moffet!” said the man, after setting the bucket on the ground and moving his pen down a long list of names.

“Guten what?” asked the lady, still dumbfounded.

“Oh-Oh! Right. Zis is Enklant!” The man smacked his forehead, as if punishing himself for the innocent mistake, and started to jot down the information in his notebook. “Pleaz forkif my manners. I meant say, Goot Mornink Miss Moffet!”

“Who are you, what do you want, and how in the world did you get in my house?” she shot back, after arming herself with a heavy ceramic vase.

Even if the mysterious guest, with his patched up traveling bag, his threadbare top hat and his light-yellow raincoat, resembled a penniless illusionist from the early 1800′s more than a fearful criminal, Mrs. Moffet preferred to avoid any risk, and assumed one of the safe attacking poses she had learned in a self-defense class.

“I Frido Mortimer Grimalion, my fery kreat honor,” he continued, with a strong foreign accent. “Not vorry, Miss Moffet, I only delifer ein pakage!” He then handed her a form to sign and a feathered pen.

“Package? What package?” asked Romeo, who had just returned from his errands.

“Yes! What package? We’re not expecting any package!” restated Eleanor, curtly. “I bet this is a new trick to worm money out of innocent people. Now you’ll tell me that to receive the package I have to pay a small fee, right?”

“No! No! No pay!” answered the man, horrified. “You alreaty haf fery important und difficult task. Vee nefer ask money.”

“Of course, dear, don’t be silly! You know very well zis is important und difficult task,” Mr. Moffet echoed, as he turned toward his wife, twirling his finger in the air – as if the man had some screws loose.

“You pretent fery vell! If I didn’t know you ver chozen ones, I zink you ver not right recipients of pakage”, said the man, smiling as he entertained that absolutely ridiculous possibility. “Kongratulations!” he continued, elated. “You fery much look anonymous und insignificant.”

“But... But... How dare you, you... you...” Eleanor tried to reply, too shocked to find words. She couldn’t believe she had been insulted in her own house by an ill-mannered postman who had come out of nowhere with his stinking triple-malt beer breath. “Romeo Aloysius! It’s time for you to put an end to this unwelcome visit. N-O-W!” she said, roughly passing the vase to her husband. Then, fixing her skirt, she stormed away from the doorway.

“So, let’s recap for a moment”, said Mr. Moffet, thinking it was time to move the conversation forward. “If I’ve understood correctly, you’ve traveled around London on that museum piece to bring us something.”

“From Blak Forest, exaktly!” the disquieting stranger proudly corrected him.

“What?” asked Mr. Moffet, widening his eyes.

“I kumm from Chermany,” he repeated, with a pleased smile.

“Do you want me to believe you’ve come from such a distance on that unsafe contraption to deliver a package to our family? That’s how many miles? Five hundred? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?” asked Mr. Moffet, temporarily losing his balance.

“Zee vai is schorter than one sinks. I know... um...schortkut,” he hastened to explain. “Pakage has kreat falue und I vos chozen for challengink task!”

“And why the bucket of water?” asked Romeo, intrigued.

“Zis?” said the man, pointing to the bucket, as if there were other buckets on the floor. “Zis alarm system I personally invented. If sometsink bat iz arount...” he said, twirling his finger in the water. “I know right avay. Transparent liquit change kolor. It bekome purple, brown, or black, dependink on danger.”

“What kind of... danger?” asked Romeo, more puzzled than ever by that unlikely story.

“I don’t belief I kan say zis... not ausorizet.”

“Okay. Okay! I don’t think we can get anywhere this way,” said Romeo, exasperated. “Could you at least kindly tell me who sent it?”

“Um...sorry. I kannot tel even zis. It is sekret,” the man answered, his eyes glued to the mat.

“May I know what it is, then?” Mr. Moffet tried again.

“Um... I’m afraid zis is also sekret,” said the man, anxiously drumming on his large belly the stocky fingers that stuck out of his cut-off gloves.

“Mr. Frido Mortimer Grimalion, let’s suppose for a moment that I’m the crazy one and that suddenly I have forgotten why this package is so important” Romeo asked, trying a different approach. “Would you be so kind, helpful and understanding to explain it to me in your best English?”

“It is...” Grimalion started.

“Secret!” Romeo finished the sentence, annoyed. “I get it! I get it! You just don’t want to cooperate.”

“I not even know what is!” the man admitted. “Zee only one knowink truz is senter. If you vant to know sekret...” he continued, doe-eyed, while handing out again the feathered pen, “... you be goot recipient und sign.”

“Okay! You win, Frido. I give up.” Mr. Moffet raised his hands in surrender and grabbed the long feather from the hands of the so-called postman. “Where do I sign?”

To avoid giving room to second thoughts, Grimalion pulled out of his bag a sealed parchment scroll and passed it on quickly.

Romeo scrutinized the unusual document and its strange symbols. Before writing his initials, he carefully read the message:

The day has again arrived.

With courage your mission accept.

The magic quadrant guard

and, together with it, the secret of the Contrary World.

Until the time is frozen the enchantment continues.

To keep time still is now your task.

If the hands of the clock move, a deadly danger we all will face.

Nobilius Alagastor Kroon

“And this should make things clearer?” said Mr. Moffet, frustrated. But the only ones listening to his outburst were the ceramic vase, the empty umbrella stand, and Meatball who, by chance, was strolling around there.

“Great Scott! Now where did he go?” grunted Romeo, looking under the carpet.

But Mortimer was no longer in the house. He was running awkwardly down the walkway with his bucket under his arm, tripping at every step against his heavy bag full of tools. He seemed to be in a big hurry all of a sudden.

“Mr. Mortimer! Where are you going?” shouted Romeo, trying to catch his attention as he waved the signed document.

“My task here finischt! Now I really must run!” he said without turning around. “Gutten luk, Mr. Moffet!” Then, as soon as he reached his bike, he jumped on it with unexpected agility.

“But you haven’t left us any package!” Romeo reminded him.

“Oh! Not to vorry! Zat kumms soon!” the corpulent stranger reassured him, while pedaling with increasing energy. “Auf Wiedersehen, Mr. Moffet! Remember, not trust anyone!”

Then, a few feet away, he stopped the clinking contraption near a crosswalk and started to fumble about excitedly with some of the tools in his worn-out suitcase. After rejecting a crowbar and putting away a wrench, his hand disappeared again in the deep belly of the bag and resurfaced with an old brass bellows.

Mr. Moffet wondered what other scheme the odd Teutonic was up to.

As an employment agency clerk, he had met many strange and unusual people – synchronized swimming coaches for ducks, balloon twisters, plastic castanets manufacturers, unlicensed driving instructors... Yet, he was convinced that Frido Mortimer Grimalion topped them all.

In any case, especially in this particular situation, anyone would have agreed he was a poor half-witted man, needing urgent care.

Gently rolling the document in his hands, Romeo used it as a telescope to follow the action at a distance. The man had started to compulsively move the bellows all around, as if attempting to rekindle the flames in a fireplace. It would have been a perfectly legitimate action if a fireplace had been there.

“What the dickens! It’s not possible!” Romeo exclaimed, astounded.

As unbelievable as it seems, every time the flexible bag inside the bellows expanded and contracted, the thick mist that had enveloped the city seemed to disperse. Romeo was literally astonished; some common fireplace bellows could apparently absorb, in a few seconds, the dreadful London fog. He quickly computed how much money he could make by patenting that extraordinary gadget. He could buy a new car. Maybe two... A larger house with a pool, a boat, a horse... He considered whether he should fire his goofball brother-in-law and hire a real accountant, but just when he had mentally deposited the imaginary ten million British pounds in his bank, another lunacy took place.

After sucking up the last cloud of fog and placing his phenomenal bellows back in his travel bag, Grimalion started to bustle about with a new device: a faucet with a griffin head.

“What’s he going to do now, make it rain umbrellas?” Romeo wondered.

What he saw went absolutely beyond what any sane person would consider possible and normal.

After frantically looking around to be sure no one was there, the brawny postman wedged the knob on the hydrant in front of the crosswalk and turned it three times counterclockwise. At that moment, the painted stripes on the cement started to distort and undulate as if they were made of water, taking on a new, unexpected shape. Within moments, an efficient, sturdy, long ladder appeared in the middle of the street.

Hurriedly and without any hesitation, the German delivery man retrieved the knob and went down the ladder with his bike, his bag and his top hat, disappearing as if he were swallowed up by the earth, right in front of the astonished Mr. Moffet.

“I’ll be!” he exclaimed in shock, for the umpteenth time that morning.

Was he dreaming, or did he just see a pedestrian crossing turn into a ladder, and a man weighing at least 250 pounds disappear underground?

He had heard about people vanishing into thin air, but this seemed a little extreme. People just didn’t disappear this way.

For a moment, he wondered if this meeting had really happened or if it had all been a hallucination. Eggs for breakfast always had a strange effect on him, that’s for sure. Once, after eating a large omelet, he thought he heard his Aunt Claire, who lives in Yorkshire, call him from the bathroom.

“I’m just a little tired and have a full stomach, that’s all!” he said with a renewed smile.

He pinched his cheek lightly. Putting his heart at rest, he resolved never to eat so much again in the morning.

Only when he reached the last step in front of his door, he realized, in horror, that he still had the rolled-up document in his hand, and the feather in his breast pocket. His laborious work of self-persuasion had just received its first, violent blow. The second, fatal one was imminent.

As it was, a menacing crash came from the house, followed by his wife’s yells of fury and his children’s cries of excitement.

“Romeo Aloysius Moffet!” lashed out Eleanor, shouting impatiently from the living room.

Romeo grabbed the railing firmly, trying to keep calm. In spite of his efforts, he started to shake like a leaf.

As the mysterious Black Forest postman had predicted, the strange package had arrived.