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The Doldrums
Nicholas Gannon
Archer B. Helmsley longs for adventure. But how can he have an adventure when he can’t even leave his house?Archer B. Helmsley has grown up in a house full of oddities and treasures collected by his grandparents, the famous explorers. Archer longs for grand adventures but ever since his grandparents went missing on an iceberg, his mother barely lets him leave the house. So, along with his best friends, Adélaïde L. Belmont and Oliver Grub, Archer forms a plan to get out of the house and set off on a grand adventure with crocodiles and parachutes and danger. It's a good plan. Well, it's not bad, anyway. But nothing goes quite as they expected…





COPYRIGHT (#ulink_ea152380-706d-5cdf-a612-8db3e9219613)
First published in the USA by HarperCollins Publishers Inc in 2015
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Text and illustrations copyright © 2015 by Nicholas Gannon
Nicholas Gannon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008149390
Ebook Edition © September 2015 ISBN: 9780008149413
Version: 2015-09-17

DEDICATION (#ulink_74c032a0-7a32-5671-b0da-210b95f18fb3)
To my mother,
Cathleen Gannon
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover (#uf2a23826-83e8-5871-9f4d-84900e838c2c)
Title Page (#u58ff96e2-125b-571c-bcfe-af20020a5284)
Copyright (#ulink_65468a1b-016a-563c-b309-cd5da4be4cd8)
Dedication (#ulink_2b44d092-8ad9-5798-b334-4cbb5d7c8d43)
PROLOGUE: Great White Nothingness (#ulink_15020478-e63d-5d32-a6b9-9815e5d3cd3e)
PART ONE: ARCHER B. HELMSLEY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE: Helmsley House (#ulink_71daa39c-9cc7-5c30-89d0-eb5a17c7805b)
CHAPTER TWO: Mind Your Tongue (#ulink_396e442a-3f36-5b89-a532-ab121b82d041)
CHAPTER THREE: Archer the Submersible (#ulink_32142a73-ef95-5897-b655-b15b51c8efd6)
CHAPTER FOUR: Doers & Dreamers (#ulink_ff92c55b-d70e-5608-af63-afb30450ac42)
CHAPTER FIVE: A Stole in Summer (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX: A Change of Scenery (#litres_trial_promo)
PART TWO: A GIRL FROM THE NORTH OF PARIS (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN: A Girl in the North of Paris (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT: Goldfinch Spy (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE: Arctic-Related Accidents (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN: Crocodile Indigestion (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Insult to Injury (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE: THE JOURNEY BEGINS (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE: The Journey Begins (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A Not-So-Good Plan (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Warehouse Ward (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Permission to Sneak (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A Southern Gale (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Ballerina’s Spin (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Credits (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



♦ GREAT WHITE NOTHINGNESS (#ulink_0c070ac5-9e5d-5b42-859d-bb89f76df70a) ♦
Out of the thousands of children born every single day, at least one of them will turn out to be a dreamer. And on May the fifth, in room 37E of the maternity ward at Rosewood Hospital, that one child was Archer Benjamin Helmsley. Yes, there was simply no mistaking it. The doctors saw it, the nurses saw it, and much to her chagrin, his mother saw it. Even a pigeon that wandered into the viewing room station saw it.
The young Archer B. Helmsley lay quietly in the maternity ward, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t know it was a ceiling. He didn’t know what anything was. But Archer lay there all the same, gazing up into that great white nothingness, when all at once, two heads sprouted from nowhere.
“Why hello there,” said one of the heads. “You must be Archer.”
“Yes,” agreed the second head. “He truly must be Archer.”
Whether he must be Archer or not, Archer was Archer, but Archer himself didn’t know that yet.
“Do you know who we are?” asked the first head.
“How could he?” said the second. “He’s only forty-eight hours old.”
The first head agreed. “In that case, I believe introductions are in order. I’m your Grandpa Helmsley and this—this is your Grandma Helmsley.”
Archer didn’t respond because Archer couldn’t respond. There’s really not much you can do when you’re only forty-eight hours old. But the two heads went on and on about this and that, and Archer looked from one to the other, not understanding a single word. Then a third head sprouted from nowhere and just as quickly, all three disappeared, leaving Archer to stare at the ceiling.
♦ HELMSLEYS OF 375 WILLOW STREET ♦
Three days later, Archer was released from Rosewood Hospital and carried to a tall, skinny house on a crooked narrow street in a quiet neighborhood of a not-so-quiet city.
Archer was too little to notice that all of the houses on Willow Street were tall and skinny and stacked one next to the other, like a row of tin soldiers. Archer was also too little to know that his house, number 375, was frequently mistaken for a museum. You see, Archer’s house belonged to Archer’s grandparents, the renowned explorers and naturalists Ralph and Rachel Helmsley.



♦ WANDERING & WONDERING ♦
Some parents may wonder, How do we know we have the right one? after bringing their child home from the hospital. If Mr. and Mrs. Helmsley had such thoughts of their own, they were quickly extinguished. From the very beginning, Archer showed all the signs of being a Helmsley.



During his early years, Archer had a fairly perfect life. Fortunately, his fairly perfect life didn’t last very long.Why is that fortunate?





We all know perfect boys and perfect girls. They live in perfect houses owned by perfect parents. They dress perfectly and walk perfectly and live their lives in the most perfectly perfect way. It’s perfectly terrible. They’re perfectly dull. So it’s fortunate this story is about no such child.
This is the story of Archer Benjamin Helmsley.




(#ulink_e9be7a0c-1aad-5267-a544-0a1798f0a298)

CHAPTER (#ulink_fc4fb319-39ee-5cfe-a3af-9fdc18f0c414)



ONE (#ulink_fc4fb319-39ee-5cfe-a3af-9fdc18f0c414)


♦ HELMSLEY HOUSE (#ulink_fc4fb319-39ee-5cfe-a3af-9fdc18f0c414) ♦
Archer didn’t have a dog or cat like many children do, but he did have an ostrich, a badger, and a giraffe. Helmsley House was filled with creatures, on all four floors and in all of the rooms. They lined the narrow staircases and still narrower halls. They were all stuffed with fluff and couldn’t do a thing, but that didn’t bother Archer. And because he had no brothers or sisters to speak to, Archer spoke to the animals.
“Good morning, badger,” Archer said on his way to the kitchen. “How’s the weather?”
“I’m sorry to say the rainy autumn continues,” the badger replied. “This moisture does a terrible number on the fur. Just look at this poof.”
Archer gave the badger a pat on the head.
“I never would have noticed,” he lied. (The badger’s fur always looked a frightful mess when the humidity was high.)
Mrs. Helmsley poked her head from the kitchen door.
“Who are you speaking to?” she asked.
“Oh—no one,” said Archer. “Just myself.”
He stepped beneath his mother’s frown and into the kitchen.
After eating his breakfast of tea with milk and toast with jam, Archer began exploring. He wandered down the first-floor hallway and into the conservatory, a glass room filled with glass cases that stuck out into the back garden, and pressed his face against one that was filled with bizarre jungle insects.
It’s good these are dead, he thought. One, he was certain, would turn his head purple if it latched onto his toe. Another, he assumed, would dig its way under his skin and decide to start a family deep inside. Very good indeed.
Along the walls were more glass cases holding row after row of neatly aligned butterflies. Archer noted these were not of the variety one might take an interest in and chase after. On the contrary, it appeared as though these might take an interest in and chase after you.
“Best to avoid these butterflies,” he said to the giraffe.
“A wise choice, my dear,” the giraffe replied. “I shudder every time I look at them.”
“Do you think we should even call them butterflies?” he asked.
“Perhaps a name like shudderflies would be more accurate,” said the giraffe.
Archer grinned. “Yes. These are definitely shudderflies.”
He turned to leave, but nearly hit the ceiling when he discovered his mother standing behind him. Her hands were holding her hips in place.
“Who are you speaking to?” she insisted.
“Oh—no one,” he replied. “Just myself.”
Archer slipped beneath her furrowed brow and continued on his way.
♦ GLOCKENSPIEL & SCUTTLEBUTT ♦
Archer’s mother, Helena E. Helmsley, hosted frequent dinner parties at Helmsley House. The guests of these events were always eager to see the home that belonged to the renowned explorers. Archer, on the other hand, was never excited to see the guests.
“It’s going to be a big one tonight,” he said, consoling the ostrich with a pat on the back.
“Don’t touch me,” snapped the ostrich. “I told you not to come near me with those filthy hands.”
Archer apologized and slowly backed away. (The ostrich was like that sometimes.)
It’s often the case that adults look at children as if they were nothing more than bizarre museum exhibits. For a boy like Archer, in a house like his, this treatment was worse. Much worse. So on these nights he tried his best, often with little success, to escape upstairs.
“Archer,” said Mrs. Helmsley, just as he put his foot on the stair. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Glockenspiel. He owns an award-winning ballpoint pen factory in Germany.”
Archer turned and approached this well-whiskered man.
“Good evening, Mr. Glob of Seal,” he said.
Mr. Glockenspiel frowned. Mr. Helmsley tried his best not to laugh. Mrs. Helmsley found the task much simpler.
“It’s Glockenspiel,” she insisted. “Glock—en—spiel.”
“That is correct,” huffed the Glob of Seal.
Archer was glad this man’s name was not Glob of Seal. You wouldn’t go very far with a name like that.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gawk and Squeal,” he said.
Mr. Helmsley nearly burst. Mrs. Helmsley grabbed Archer’s arm. She ushered him away from the Glob of Seal and assigned him the task of carrying a tray of cucumbers around to the guests.


“Just smile and nod,” she said, her hazel eyes looking terribly grave. “There’s no need to say another word tonight.”
While making his cucumber rounds, Archer spotted a scraggly looking gentleman sneaking down the halls as though he knew them well. Archer was curious and followed and watched as the man stumbled into an empty room. Archer poked his head through the door, but nearly shouted and dropped the cucumbers when he discovered the man staring straight back at him. The man nodded for Archer to enter, then eased himself into an armchair.
Archer stood silently before the stranger, thinking he looked most out of place at his mother’s dinner party. And though this man was old, his pale green eyes sparkled with life.
“You must be Archer Helmsley,” he said with a warm smile. “The wonderful grandson to Ralph and Rachel Helmsley. And you come bearing gifts, I see.”
Archer lifted the tray. “Would you like a cucumber?” he asked.
“Never cared for them much,” the man admitted, and twisted his head around the room while keeping his eyes on Archer. “Your grandparents have a lovely house. What do you think of them?”
Archer shrugged. “I’ve never met them,” he replied.
The man nodded. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but I’m sure you will soon enough.” He then lowered his voice, despite no one else’s being in the room. “Between you and me, they wouldn’t be terribly thrilled about all these gatherings riddled with scuttlebutt filling the great halls of Helmsley House.”
Archer wasn’t sure what scuttlebutt meant, but it made him smile. And he was glad to hear his grandparents weren’t fond of dinner parties either.
“There’s a fascinating world out there, Archer Helmsley,” the man continued. “But you’d never know that looking at these people.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’m sorry to say I must be going. Mind giving me a shoulder?”
Archer lowered the tray.
“We’d best go as quickly as possible,” the man said, standing up and taking hold of Archer’s shoulder. “We want to avoid your—” he stopped.
Archer stared up at him. “Avoid who?” he asked.
The man smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no one,” he replied. “We just don’t want to get stuck in an undesirable conversation.”
Archer agreed. There were plenty of those on such nights. But he knew his house well and led the man on a roundabout way, through empty halls and down the stairs, till they arrived at the door without anyone being the wiser.
The man stood on the front steps, silhouetted in a silver streak by the streetlamps, and gazed down at him.
“Do they always dress you up like a Christmas tree?” he asked.
Archer’s green velvet suit and red dotted bow tie did make him look rather festive. Mrs. Helmsley said he looked like a gentleman, but Archer agreed with this man. He looked like a Christmas tree.
The man placed a firm hand on Archer’s shoulder and said, “Always remember you’re a Helmsley, Archer. And being a Helmsley means something.”
He turned to leave, but Archer stopped him with a question.
“How do you know my grandparents?” he asked.
“That’s a long story,” the man replied, without turning around. “Remind me to tell you the next time we meet.”
Archer watched the man hobble down the sidewalk, a little afraid he might stumble into oncoming traffic, until a hand reached out and shut the door.
“Who was that?” Mrs. Helmsley asked.
“I don’t know,” said Archer. “But he knows Grandma and Grandpa.”
Archer wished he were as lucky as that man. He’d never met his grandparents. They’d been traveling the world ever since he was born. To Archer, Ralph and Rachel Helmsley were a mystery wrapped in a secret—a secret he very much wanted to know. But his mother always changed the subject whenever their names were mentioned.
“Where’s your tray?” she asked.
Archer sighed and retrieved the tray, to continue with his cucumber rounds. “You’re a Helmsley … and being a Helmsley means something.” Archer wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain it had nothing to do with cucumbers. Still, he weaved his way through the crowded rooms and was about to attempt a second escape when the porcupine on the radiator asked if it might try one.
“Yes,” said Archer. “But not in front of these people.”
He took the creature into the empty dining room.
“Those taste awful,” said the porcupine.
Archer tried one and agreed. He left the prickly fellow on a chair and went to the kitchen to find something better. While he was away, the guests entered the dining room to take their seats. Mr. Glockenspiel failed to notice that his seat was already occupied and hastily plopped his derriere right atop the porcupine. Archer returned from the kitchen but stopped in the doorway, watching as the guests gawked and Mr. Glockenspiel squealed. His father alone seemed to enjoy the scene.
“It was him!” shouted the Glob of Seal, rubbing his rear and pointing his chubby finger at Archer.
Mrs. Helmsley spun around in her chair and looked as though she was the one who’d just sat atop the porcupine.
“Did you do this?” she demanded.
Archer didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.
It was no secret to him that little he did pleased his mother. And he knew she wasn’t as fond of the house as he was. But Mrs. Helmsley wasn’t a Helmsley by blood, and that’s often how it goes.
Things were different with his father.
♦ GAUDY LITTLE FELLOW ♦
Archer’s father, Richard B. Helmsley, was a lawyer. Archer didn’t know much about lawyers, and to be honest, he wasn’t interested. What did interest him were the secret trips he and his father took. These began when Archer was seven years old, and they had to be done in secret because his mother wouldn’t like the idea.
“Psst,” Mr. Helmsley had whispered one day.
“Hello!” blurted Archer.
“Shhh,” shushed his father.
“Why are we whispering,” whispered Archer.
“No time to explain. Follow me.”
Archer followed his father out the front door and down the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Mr. Helmsley had led him to Rosewood Park, which was more like a dark and unruly forest. Its winding walkways quickly vanished, but straight ahead, rising high above the thick canopy and glowing a brilliant orange, loomed the Rosewood Museum towers. Archer thought the museum was ancient, built with flourishes of terra-cotta and capped with a moldy green roof. The front gardens were in need of some attention, but he liked the weathered majesty of it all.
Once inside, he followed his father down countless corridors filled with countless oddities and listened to stories of how his father almost became the greatest explorer of countless places.
“And then I almost became the world’s greatest explorer of Egypt,” said Mr. Helmsley as they approached a sarcophagus belonging to the late Pharaoh Tappenkuse.
Archer admired his father and liked his stories, but knew he was a lawyer.
“Why didn’t you actually do it,” he asked.
Mr. Helmsley stuck his hands into his blazer pockets. It was a simple question, but adults often complicate simplicity. And as with his mother when he asked about his grandparents, Mr. Helmsley always changed the subject when Archer asked this.
“Did you know this gaudy little fellow was one of the youngest pharaohs to ever rule Egypt?” he said, discreetly reading from a museum guide. “Tappy here was only thirteen years old when he became king.”
After glancing over Tappy, Archer decided it was for the best there weren’t many thirteen-year-old kings. “He looks depressed.”
“I think that’s just the eyeliner,” said Mr. Helmsley.
He licked a finger and reached for the sarcophagus.
“No touching,” said a security guard.
“Sorry,” said Mr. Helmsley.
“Did he want to become king?” asked Archer.
His father wasn’t sure. “He only ruled for two years before he died.”
Archer was taken aback. “Well, I don’t think he wanted to become king then,” he said, and stepped away from Tappenkuse.
Archer listened to a few more stories about his father’s almost adventures and then followed him to the exit and down the sidewalk home. He was thinking about his grandparents as they walked.
“What are they like in person and why are they never home?” he asked. “When am I going to meet them?”
“You met them when you were little,” Mr. Helmsley said.
Archer doubted this. He had no memory of it.
As they climbed the steps back to Helmsley House, Archer spotted a package leaning against the door. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string and addressed to him. Archer quickly scooped it up.
“What’s that?” Mr. Helmsley asked.
“What’s what?” said Archer, hiding it behind his back. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
At that moment, their neighbor Mr. Glub stepped out of his house and called to Mr. Helmsley. “Haven’t seen you in a while!”
Mr. Helmsley waved and went back down the steps to speak with him. Archer slipped inside and up to his room.
♦ EYE TO GLASS EYE ♦
Archer stepped into his closet, turned on the light, and pushed aside his clothes hangers to reveal an entire bookshelf brimming with packages. All of these were from his grandparents and he kept them a secret because his grandfather suggested it in a letter—but also because he liked having a secret to keep. He sat down on the floor, pulled the red string, and tore back the paper.
ARCHER B. HELMSLEY
375 WILLOW STREET
15
OF OCTOBER
ARCHER,
THIS IS A LITTLE ODD BUT WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT. A SHIP’S CAPTAIN GAVE IT TO US. HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW HOW TO GET US TO AN ISLAND MOUNTAIN THE LOCALS REFERRED TO AS ”DEATH MOUNTAIN.”
IT WAS A TINY MOUNTAIN REALLY. SHOT STRAIGHT UP OUT OF THE WATER AND WAS SPOTTED WITH TREES. IT WAS MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN ITS NAME MADE YOU THINK.
ENCLOSED IS A GLASS EYE. HIS GLASS EYE. HE ONLY HAD ONE EYE. THE CAPTAIN DID. BUT THAT DIDN’T BOTHER HIM. HE GAVE IT TO US ON THE RETURN SO WE WOULDN’T FORGET SEEING THE MOUNTAIN.
YOURS TRULY,
Ralph and Rachel Helmsley
Archer looked at the glass eye. The glass eye looked back at Archer. He picked it up and held it to his own, thinking he might be able to see the mountain, but all he saw was the back of a glass eye.


Archer longed to meet his grandparents. Judging from their letters and house, they must be magnificent people. But when would they return? Soon, he hoped. He was growing bored with his quiet life on Willow Street. More than anything, he wanted to embark on an expedition with them. An adventure—an unusual and strange adventure—like being carried by a pelican to the edge of the world with a pocket full of pebbles, where he could skip his stones from that great height and watch as they careened into darkness.
Mrs. Helmsley had different ideas. Whenever the question was raised of what Archer wished to be, she would answer before he could.
“He wants to be a respectable lawyer like his father,” she would say.
Archer used to argue this, but realized it wasn’t worth it. He could never win an argument with his mother. And for this, he didn’t have to. All he had to do was wait for his grandparents to return. They would set things straight.
♦ NEWS IS BAD NEWS ♦
On the morning of his ninth birthday, Archer opened the front door hoping to discover a new package bearing his name, but instead, discovered a newspaper bearing the names of his grandparents.


THE DOLDRUMS PRESS
EXPLORERS VANISH IN ARCTIC WATERS
The renowned explorers Ralph and Rachel Helmsley embarked on an expedition to Antarctica with the intention of documenting the relational habits of penguins. During their voyage south, Ralph spotted an iceberg hosting two separate colonies of penguin.
“We must get closer,” he said. “I’m getting on that iceberg.”
The captain directed the ship as close as was safe and the deck crew lowered a dinghy into the water. Ralph and Rachel steered the dinghy toward that mighty chunk of ice and climbed on top.
During their investigation atop the iceberg, the skies clouded overhead and snow began falling. Ralph Helmsley said they would return to the ship in one hour, but after two, there was still no sign of them.
The captain watched a quiet haze descend over the iceberg. He blew the horn a number of times, hoping to guide them back, but the Helmsleys did not return. The captain sounded the alarm.
As quickly as was possible, crew members assembled into a search party. They attached a security line to the ship and lowered a second dinghy into the water.
Their search was long. The iceberg was massive. They did not find Helmsleys. All they found was a penguin and Ralph Helmsley’s cap.
After returning to the ship, the captain cut the engines.
“All eyes on deck,” he shouted.
The crew stood at the railing and scanned the hazy silhouette of the iceberg in silence, hoping to see or hear something, but all they heard were the waves below.
The weather worsened. The iceberg vanished. The crew gave up.
Out of options, the captain started the engines and the Helmsleys were left stranded. While there is no proof to suggest they are dead, it doesn’t look good.
—Aubrey Glub
Editor-in-Chief
Archer stood in quiet disbelief, barefoot on the doorstep.
Did penguins eat my grandparents? He wondered. Is that even possible?
He slammed the door and ran to the kitchen.
“Grandma and Grandpa are stuck on an iceberg!” he shouted.
Mr. Helmsley sipped his coffee. Mrs. Helmsley poked her egg.
“An iceberg!” he repeated.
Mr. and Mrs. Helmsley already knew what had happened. The day before, a letter had been delivered to Helmsley & Durbish:
Richard Helmsley,
I regret to inform you that Ralph and Rachel have vanished at sea atop an iceberg—an event that has shaken almost everyone at the Society. We hope for the best and will keep you informed of any developments.
Sad Regards,
Herbert P. Birthwhistle
Ralph B. Helmsley
The Society President
But they had mentioned nothing of this to Archer.
Within the hour of the newspaper’s hitting the doorstep, reporters swooped in from all directions to that tall, skinny house on Willow Street. They held cameras and notepads and shouted questions at Mr. and Mrs. Helmsley, who stood in the doorway. Archer watched the chaos from the roof.
It was the worst birthday Archer could remember. He stared blankly at his vanilla cake (which bore an unfortunate resemblance to an iceberg) while listening to his parents argue in the hallway.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who he takes after,” his mother said.
“You’re overreacting,” his father replied.
“It’s for his own good.”
Archer didn’t know what that was about, but he would find out soon enough. All at once, the secret trips with his father came to an abrupt end, he received no more packages tied with red string, and things only got worse from there. There was no further news on Ralph and Rachel Helmsley. With time, the reporters lost interest in the story and a quiet haze settled over Archer’s tall, skinny house on crooked, narrow Willow Street.

CHAPTER (#ulink_613457ed-9ee9-5f0f-9f64-598382b3d310)



TWO (#ulink_613457ed-9ee9-5f0f-9f64-598382b3d310)


♦ MIND YOUR TONGUE (#ulink_613457ed-9ee9-5f0f-9f64-598382b3d310) ♦
Two years had passed since the iceberg incident, and Archer was now eleven years old. Mr. Helmsley spent most of his time in his study and at the office, and Mrs. Helmsley busied herself about the house. It was a Saturday. But Archer wasn’t outside. Aside from school, he never was. This was his mother’s decision.
“What happened to your grandparents?” she asked on a regular basis.
“An iceberg,” mumbled Archer.
“You must speak up,” she replied. “Enunciate.”
“An iceberg,” said Archer. “They floated out to sea atop an iceberg.”
“That’s right. They floated out to sea atop an iceberg. And do you want to float out to sea atop an iceberg?”
This was not the sort of question that could go either way. This question had a right answer and a wrong answer.
“But there are no icebergs in Rosewood,” said Archer.
That didn’t matter. If it wasn’t an iceberg, it would be something else. After eleven years, Mrs. Helmsley was well aware of Archer’s tendencies, as she so often put it. Archer was like his grandparents. And that wouldn’t do. Mrs. Helmsley had no desire to see Archer drift out to sea atop an iceberg.
“And I don’t want to read another newspaper article aimed at embarrassing us.”
So when Archer wasn’t at school, he spent most of his time assisting his mother with tedious tasks around the house such as dusting the animals (which he still spoke to when she wasn’t around), polishing the wood floors, and today, licking a mountain of envelopes and stamps for a neighborhood mailer.

WILLOW STREET FLOWER FESTIVAL
The spring blossoms were stunning and I look forward to seeing what everyone is cooking up for the summer festival: Saturday, July 10th. And save the date for the autumn festival: Saturday, September 27th.
By the time he used all of the stamps, Archer had a paper cut on his tongue and his mouth was rife with glue.
“That’s all there is,” he said, and stood up to leave.
“Hold it,” his mother replied.
A large pile of unstamped envelopes sat next to her. She grabbed her purse and went to buy more stamps. Archer groaned and plunked his head to the table. This was not how things were supposed to be in Helmsley House. Helmsley House was a shrine to exploration and adventure. Not a place to spend your days licking stamps.
Archer had always thought his grandparents would return and whisk him off to incredible places. Instead, they whisked themselves onto an iceberg and Archer was left alone. He continued thumping his head up and down. The doorbell rang. Archer paused, thinking he’d knocked himself silly, but there followed a second ring. He poked his head into the hall.
“Don’t answer it,” said the badger. The fox agreed. But Archer went to the door.
♦ SCARLET TRUNKS ♦
Not only was someone ringing, but they were also jostling the doorknob up and down. Archer was too short to reach the peephole, so he went to the window and pressed his face to the glass. The front steps were cluttered with trunks that hid whomever they belonged to.
It’s them! he thought, dashing back to the door.
Archer threw it open, but the man who stood before him was not his grandfather. This man was tall and slender and wore a dingy jumpsuit stained with grease and grime and smelling of gasoline. He had a kind face and a gentle eye, but only one. An eye patch covered the other. Archer swallowed hard.
He’s here for the glass eye! Archer thought.
“So this is the Helmsley House,” said the Eye Patch, peering over Archer’s head and around the foyer. “I’ve heard it was lovely, but this is the first I’ve seen it with my own eye!” He directed that eye at Archer. “Are you Archer?” he asked.
Archer went prickly and nodded carefully. He knows my name?
The Eye Patch must have sensed his unease because he quickly stood to the side and pointed at the trunks.
“I’m only here to deliver these,” he said. “They belonged to Ralph and Rachel—were at the Society in Barrow’s Bay for nearly two years. Not sure why no one brought them before.”
The trunks were scarlet, well-worn, and beautiful.
“These belonged to them?” Archer asked.
The Eye Patch nodded. “Mind if I bring them inside?”
Archer helped the man lug the trunks into the foyer. There were five in total, and once they were all inside, the Eye Patch returned to the front steps.
“Those trunks won’t be in here for long,” he said with a somber look in his eye. “I know what everyone thinks, but I put my bets on your grandparents being alive.”
Archer wanted to believe that. “It’s been two years,” he said.
“That’s true,” the Eye Patch admitted. “But Ralph and Rachel have seen worse.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Now I’d best be running. A few of your neighbors looked like they might call the police—don’t think they see many greasy eye patches roaming Willow Street these days.”
Archer would have smiled, but he was too busy wondering who this man was. Before he could ask, the Eye Patch tapped a finger to his forehead and disappeared down the sidewalk.
Archer shut the door and knelt before a scarlet trunk, grateful his mother wasn’t home. She wouldn’t have let these into the house. But he had to be quick. She was only getting stamps. He clicked the latch on the trunk, lifted the lid, and all at once he was surrounded with peculiar smells—a bit of seaweed, a whiff of mist, and a faint yet distinguishable hint of swamp.
Inside the trunk were his grandfather’s belongings, but just as he began to dig, he stopped. There were footsteps outside. Someone was at the door. His mother. Archer slammed the trunk, grabbed the smallest one, and dashed upstairs. As he sprung for his bedroom, a shrill yelp sounded from the foyer. He threw the trunk under his bed and casually returned downstairs.
The trunks were already gone, and in their place stood a dusty and sweaty Mrs. Helmsley who looked at him as if he had a spider crawling on his forehead.
“Have you been upstairs this whole time?” she asked.
Archer nodded. “I was trying to brush the glue off my tongue,” he replied. “Why?”
Mrs. Helmsley wiped a dirty hand against her cheek. It made a streak.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “That’s the end of it. Now, into the kitchen—I have more stamps.”
Archer couldn’t stop guessing what was inside the trunks as he licked his way through a second mountain of stamps. When Mrs. Helmsley released him, he hurried upstairs with three more paper cuts on his tongue.
♦ HELMSLEY GOLDEN AGE ♦
Archer sat on his bed across from the small trunk. Inside he found a pair of binoculars, a bundle of old journals, and a tape labeled “audio conversion.”
Archer untied the journals and carefully flipped through the pages. They were filled with details of his grandparents’ travels, and from the dates he figured they had been around twenty-seven when they wrote them. Archer had leaned back on his bed and was reading a journal when something struck him. He sat up and removed the tape.
“‘Audio conversion,’” he mumbled. “But that means—”
He ran from his room with the tape in hand.
At the end of a narrow third-floor hallway was a large room lined with skinny windows on one side and maps on the other. Stretching down the center was a long wooden table littered with more maps and globes. Archer hurried past it to the corner of the room, where a smaller table held a complex audio system. He inserted the tape and sat down.
For all its dials and gauges and knobs, the system had one simple on/off switch. Archer clicked it and hit another, but instead of hearing his grandparents’ voices, he heard static and a voice saying, “Bonjour?”
Archer grabbed the microphone. “Brochure?” he asked.
“Oui, bonjour.”
“Free brochure?”
“Oui! Bonjour.”
“Thanks, but I’m not interested in a free brochure.”
Archer wasn’t sure who this person was or what they were selling, but he didn’t care. He flipped a different switch. The tape clicked on and began rolling. Archer leaned forward.



T A P E S T A R T
A LOUD CRASH / A STRANGE SQUAWK / THE POURING OF TEA / AND THEN THE VOICES OF GRANDMA AND GRANDPA HELMSLEY

A PHONE RINGS AND GRANDMA HELMSLEY ANSWERS

FOOTSTEPS RUNNING FROM THE ROOM / GRANDMA HELMSLEY STILL ON PHONE

FOOTSTEPS OF GRANDPA HELMSLEY RETURNING / GRANDMA HELMSLEY HANGS UP

T A P E E N D

Archer sat quietly, staring at the machine. He heard something familiar in his grandfather’s voice. But perhaps that only made sense. He was a Helmsley after all, like Archer’s father and Archer himself. And whatever it was about that voice, it sounded wonderful. Both did.
Archer leaned back in the chair.
If they could survive a plane crash in the desert, he thought, would an iceberg be so bad? Maybe the Eye Patch was right.
As Archer ejected the tape and stood up to leave, he spotted a wooden box beneath the table. He ran his fingers through the dust and discovered the initials R.B.H. Those were his father’s initials. It can’t be the same box. But sure enough, he lifted the lid and found that it was filled with books. He sat down again, wiped the spines clean, and opened a book titled The Wind in the Willows. It was very good. It reminded him of his house.
Archer carried the box upstairs to his room where he moved on to Gulliver’s Travels, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Treasure Island, and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
It took Archer only a few days to read all of these books, and his mother left him alone as he did, glad to see he was doing something sensible. Of course, she might have thought otherwise had she bothered looking at the titles.
When he finished Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Archer set it down and slid off his bed. A door at one end of his room gave way to a balcony and he stepped outside.
♦ ARCHER’S DECISION ♦
There was a secret world behind the houses on Willow Street. Trees sprouted from the ground, and each house had a walled-in garden and a balcony on the top floor overlooking it. From here, Archer often spied on the neighbors. He leaned against the railing and looked down into the gardens.
A wonderland, he was thinking. I need to find a rabbit’s hole.
But the only holes in the city were sewer holes, and he couldn’t imagine there was much of a wonderland down there.
Still, as he stood there, quietly staring across the gardens, Archer made a decision. He decided he wasn’t going to sit around anymore. He was going to figure out a way to escape that tall, skinny house on Willow Street and find an adventure of his own. He had to. After all, Archer was a Helmsley, and being a Helmsley meant something. Archer knew what it meant. It meant he had to do something great—something worthy of the Helmsley Golden Age—something that could even restore the Helmsley Golden Age. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he couldn’t let the Helmsleys be reduced to stamp lickers. What would his grandparents say if they knew that? No, he was going to find an adventure that would make them proud. And because his grandparents couldn’t help him, he would find someone who could.
Little did he know that the very boy he would ask lived just next door. That boy’s name was Oliver J. Glub, and at that very moment, Oliver was sitting on his balcony trying to see how many blueberries he could stuff into his mouth. Archer watched closely, guessing Oliver could fit at least twenty, but after number thirteen, he was beginning to have his doubts.
“You’re going to explode,” called Archer.
Oliver swallowed hard. “That’s impossible,” he replied.
Despite being neighbors and attending the same school, these were the first words they had ever exchanged.
♦ JUST A GLUB ♦
Archer and Oliver attended the Willow Academy, a school four blocks away, across from Rosewood Park. A long time ago, the Willow Academy had been a Button Factory (and the students still called it that). But after a number of renovations and a fresh coat of paint, it now looked something like a school. Still, great smoke towers loomed high above the roof and Archer sometimes stumbled upon a button, which he added to his collection. It was here, at the Button Factory, that Archer had his second encounter with Oliver.
Oliver was a quiet boy and kept mostly to himself. But if you’re a quiet boy and keep mostly to yourself, others will often speak for you.



“He’s got a few too many, you know, cracks in his nut,” said Charlie H. Brimble.
“He is a nut,” said Molly S. Mellings. “And I hope a squirrel takes him away.”
“That would never happen,” said Alice P. Suggins. “He’s one nut no squirrel would want.”
It was widely whispered that Oliver was some love child of disaster and tragedy. Perhaps that was true. But Oliver was also unique. And Archer realized this the moment they collided.
“I’m really sorry about that,” said Oliver, helping Archer up off the grass. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Archer. “Do you always run with your eyes closed?”
“Only when I’m late,” said Oliver. “When I close my eyes, it feels like I’m running faster.”
Archer smiled. He’d never thought about that before.
Although Archer knew very little about Oliver, Oliver knew a great deal about him. Oliver wasn’t the only one. Many of the Button Factory students knew a great deal about Archer and his peculiar family.
“They’re all crazy,” said Alice P. Suggins. “His grandparents are frozen to the side of an iceberg.”
“I thought they were eaten by penguins,” said Molly S. Mellings. “I know he has penguins inside his house.”
“Not just penguins,” said Charlie H. Brimble. “There are many strange creatures in Helmsley House—even an Archer.”
Archer and Oliver stood in the Button Factory courtyard, next to the crumbling fountain, staring at each other as they had done from their balconies many times. Oliver was a hair taller than Archer (but only because his hair didn’t sit flat). He apologized once more and was about to leave, but Archer stuck out his hand.
“My name is Archer Helmsley,” he said.
Oliver shook it. “I’m just a Glub,” he replied. “My name is Oliver.”
“Do you know what a sidekick is?” Archer asked.
Oliver flinched. “Please don’t,” he said.
After class, Oliver sat on a well-worn couch in the student room listening to Archer recount the story of his grandparents. Oliver pretended this was all news to him, but Oliver knew the story better than most. And while he had no interest in having an adventure or anything of the sort, he was interested in having a friend, so he agreed to help Archer find his adventure if he could.
Besides, he reasoned. Archer isn’t allowed to leave his house. What could possibly happen?

CHAPTER (#ulink_87d5708a-9041-58d3-88e1-69d3c6462062)



THREE (#ulink_87d5708a-9041-58d3-88e1-69d3c6462062)


♦ ARCHER THE SUBMERSIBLE (#ulink_87d5708a-9041-58d3-88e1-69d3c6462062) ♦
It was the last day of school, but you wouldn’t know that from the weather. The rain tapped against the Button Factory windows all afternoon. In a few classrooms, water even dripped from the ceiling and into buckets.
MEMBER OF THE ROSEWOOD PUBLIC LIBRARY
WILLOW ACADEMY LIBRARY
• BOOK REQUEST CARD •
REQUEST NO. 37953
Miss Whitewood,
Can you please find a few books on the deep sea? I’ve already read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.
Archer Helmsley
When the final bell rang, the students scurried to the exits like mice from a sinking ship. Archer scurried in the opposite direction, up a few flights of stairs, down a number of corridors, in one of which he stopped to pick up a button, and continued to the library.
The Button Factory library was immense. Rows of shelves stretched up to the ceiling with ladders attached so you could reach the top. A separate room was filled with old couches and chairs where students could sit and look out at the inner courtyard. That’s where Oliver was waiting, lounging in a big armchair, when Archer stepped inside.
“I’ve got something good,” Archer said.
Oliver looked suspicious and not without reason. According to his math, over the past few weeks Archer had failed to find an adventure more times than he tried. But Oliver wasn’t good at math, and it’s not possible to fail more times than you try. Still, he was right about one thing. Archer’s track record was dismal. Oliver was fine with that.
Archer opened his bag and handed Oliver a mobile made of fish.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Oliver asked.
“Use the headband,” said Archer. “Strap it to your head.”
Oliver considered this and then, like any good sidekick, strapped the fish to his head. “Why am I strapping fish to my head?” he asked.
“To set the mood,” said Archer.
Miss Whitewood, the school’s librarian, rolled by with her pushcart. Of all the teachers at the Button Factory, Archer liked Miss Whitewood the most. She had dark wavy hair and smelled of books.
“Hello, Archer,” she said. “I have the books you’ve requested, but I’m afraid you’ll—” She stopped when she saw Oliver.
♦ TWO WEEKS PRIOR ♦
“Do you have the birdseed?” Archer asked.
Oliver tapped his pockets. Both were filled. “But this is a bad idea. If giant eagles exist, which I’m certain they don’t, I’d prefer to stay away from them.”
“Trust me,” said Archer. “I’ll meet you in the library after class and then we’ll go to the roof.”
Archer sat quietly in the library reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Mrs. Whitewood was atop a ladder shelving books. All at once, the doors flew open and Oliver came barreling down the aisle like a cat on fire.
“Run!” he shouted. “Run!”
Behind him, in hot pursuit, was a flock of chickens, and directly in front of him, Miss Whitewood’s ladder. Archer spotted Alice, Charlie, and Molly holding an empty cage and peering proudly through the doorway.


“Open your eyes!” cried Miss Whitewood. “Open your eyes!”
Oliver did, but only in time to see the warning label on the side of the ladder: WARNING: LOCK WHEELS BEFORE MOUNTING, which Miss Whitewood had failed to do.
Oliver smacked the ladder and plopped to the ground. The chickens pounced. Miss Whitewood let out a shriek. The ladder blew clear past the end of the shelf and launched her atop a young girl named Isabella.
One week later, Isabella returned to school. Oliver served his time and repaid his debt to society and Miss Whitewood’s limp was now barely noticeable.
“Why does he have fish strapped to his—no—never mind. I’m minding my own business.” Miss Whitewood turned back to Archer. “As I was saying, I have some books that might help you. But you’ll have to leave them here, I’m afraid. Can’t keep books over the summer.”
Archer thanked her. Oliver remained silent till Miss Whitewood rolled away.
“Just out of curiosity,” he said. “What mood am I setting with these fish strapped to my head?”
Archer was too busy looking through his notebook to hear the question. His fingers were twitching and his eyes were flashing, and though he stood just a few feet from Oliver, Archer was a million miles away.
Oliver waited patiently.
Archer lowered his notebook. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Ready for what?”
♦ WORLD’S GREATEST DEEP-SEA EXPLORER ♦
After much deliberation and assessment, Archer had decided he would become the world’s greatest deep-sea explorer. He would voyage the vast sweeping seas and penetrate their deepest depths. He would publish journals of his expeditions, cataloging the mutinies and pirate attacks while lost at sea. Man-eating octopi would shudder at the mention of his name—a name that would ring synonymous with the sea. Where Ahab failed, Archer would succeed, capturing as many white whales as historical remembrance required.
Oliver listened closely, and when Archer finished outlining his next great adventure, he smiled and said, “That sounded really good.” And he meant it because it did. “Except for that part where I was swept overboard. I don’t see why that was necessary.”
Archer reviewed his notes. “I can change that part if you want,” he said. “But try not to get caught up in these little details right now.”
It was too late for that. Despite his best efforts to indulge Archer’s fantasies, Oliver was always caught up in the details. He flipped open a magazine and spoke without looking up.
“What about a ship,” he said. “How can you do this without a ship?”
“I’m still working it out,” said Archer. But the first step would be to meet in Rosewood Park at midnight and from there, continue on to Rosewood Port. There would probably be a security guard or two at the gate. But if they could slip by unnoticed, the rest would be easy. “We’ll just have to pirate a ship and take her to sea.”
“Who’s going to do that?” Oliver asked, again without looking up.
“We are,” said Archer.
“You can operate a boat?”
Archer couldn’t operate a boat—an obvious detail he failed to consider. Then came the submarine. He couldn’t operate a submarine, either. In fact, Oliver managed to point out there wasn’t a single thing on Archer’s list that Archer could do, beginning with step one: Leave House.
“Can I take these fish off now?” Oliver asked.
Archer nodded and tore the page from his notebook. He was disappointed, but that was nothing new.
If someone tells you they love turkey smothered with cranberry sauce, that they love it more than anything else in the world, you might spend the day roasting that someone a turkey and smothering it with cranberry sauce. If that same someone then takes one little bite and says, “That’ll be all, thank you,” you’ll likely go red in the face and hurl both these turkeys out the nearest window because clearly, this person never loved turkey smothered with cranberry sauce in the first place.
Little bites are never enough when you love something. When you love something, you want it all. That’s how it works. And that’s how it was for Archer. Archer didn’t want a little taste of adventure with a side of leftover discoveries. Archer wanted the whole turkey and he wanted it stuffed with enough salts and spices to turn his taste buds into sparklers. Needless to say, it was a tall order for a boy who wore a size small blazer.
Archer wrinkled the page into a ball and tossed it into the trash. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out,” he said. “I have to.”
While Archer was talking, Oliver had come across an ad in the magazine for a shop in Rosewood called Strait of Magellan. The shop sold many things, but the ad was for survival kits. Oliver tore it out and tucked it into his pocket.
“I’m not worried,” he said, glancing at the clock. “But we’d better go. You’ll be in trouble if you’re not home soon.”
♦ ALL GLUBS ON DECK ♦
The sky was still drizzling as they made their way down the sidewalk. The clouds made it feel much later than it was. Archer was watching the streetlamps reflected in puddles. Oliver was staring at the clouds.
“I’d like to be one,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Archer.
“A cloud,” said Oliver. “I said I’d like to be a cloud.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you think it’d be nice to be a fluffy white mass looking down on the earth while floating high above it from a safe distance? I think that would be very pleasant.”
But these clouds were neither fluffy nor white.
“What about a storm cloud?” asked Archer.
Oliver didn’t want to be one of those.
The boys walked up the steps to Oliver’s house. Archer wanted his binoculars. Oliver had borrowed them to spy on a new neighbor who’d just moved in across the gardens.
“What’s she like?” Archer asked.
“Horrible,” said Oliver. “She was shouting at the moon last night, and I think she ate a beetle.”
“A beetle?”
“Maybe it was just a raisin,” Oliver admitted.
They stepped inside the tall green door of house number 377. Oliver dashed up the stairs. Archer sat down on a bench and glanced around the foyer. The Glubs’ house always looked as if a giant had picked it up and given it a good shake. And it was styled like a sweater your grandmother knits for you—having too much in the sleeve and too much about the waist but providing more warmth than any other you own. Archer liked it. He didn’t have a grandma sweater.
A crash of pots sounded in the kitchen. The door flew open and a mouse scurried across the rug with a look of terror blazing in its beady little eyes. The mouse was followed shortly by Claire, Oliver’s younger sister, who chased the creature with a piece of toast hanging from her mouth.
“Afer-noon, Ar-chur!” she cried, and was gone before Archer could reply.
Mrs. Glub poked her frazzled-looking head through the kitchen door. “Get that creature out of the house!” she shouted. “If you don’t get that—oh, Archer dear—didn’t know you were here.”
Mrs. Glub took a moment to compose herself, but a composed Mrs. Glub didn’t look any different.
“You look wet. Are you hungry? You look hungry. Tea with milk, or toast with jam perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” said Archer. “I can’t stay.”
Mrs. Glub nodded. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind,” she said. “You mustn’t be afraid to speak up.”
“Did someone say Archer?” called a voice from upstairs.
It was Mr. Glub.
“Yes, someone said Archer,” Mrs. Glub replied. “But please—the mousetraps!”
Mrs. Glub gave Archer a smile and stepped back into the kitchen. Mr. Glub descended the stairs with the air of a conquering hero. He was a portly fellow who wore weathered suits and had bright blue eyes that were always glad to see Archer.
“Hello, Mr. Glub. How are you?”
Mr. Glub lifted his hands. “You know what they say, Archer. Just bouncing along—bouncing merrily along. Or something along those lines, I suppose.”
He popped Archer on the head with a closed fist, a ritual Archer had grown to enjoy.
“You don’t look half as excited as Oliver does now that summer’s arrived. Two and half months’ parole, isn’t it?”
For Archer, summer was not two and a half months’ parole. It was just the opposite. During school, Archer at least had the Button Factory and the library. During summer, he only had Helmsley House, with very few exceptions.
“You must enjoy being a plump, ripe tomato while you can,” Mr. Glub said. “You’ll be a sun-dried tomato like me in no time.”
This sun-dried tomato was the editor-in-chief of a small newspaper called The Doldrums Press. It was not a terribly successful paper by any stretch, but it had a decent, dedicated following. It was The Doldrums Press, in fact, that had delivered the iceberg story to Archer’s doorstep, and Archer was in the habit of asking Mr. Glub if he’d heard any news about his grandparents.
“Still nothing,” Mr. Glub admitted as he pulled on his raincoat and hat. “But there’s an expression out there, Archer. Everyone says ‘no news is good news.’ And while that’s bad news for us in the business, in situations like these, it’s always for the best, wouldn’t you say?”
Archer wasn’t sure if no news was for the best in this particular situation, but he nodded all the same.
“I knew them well—your grandparents, I mean,” Mr. Glub continued, using Archer’s shoulder to balance as he slid into his boots “Ralph once told me we’re all explorers, which was a fine observation. The only problem, I said, is that a great many of us have embarked on fantastically drab expeditions.”
Archer agreed. “My expedition is pretty drab,” he said.
Mr. Glub shook his head and opened the front door. “I can’t imagine that’s true,” he replied. “No, I saw that sparkle in your eyes the moment I met you, and I knew it meant something was on the boil. Never told your mother, of course—not sure she goes in for such things. But I was glad to see it. Either way, chin up.”
And with that, Mr. Glub shut the door and whistled his way down the rainy sidewalk.
“Found them!” shouted Oliver from atop the stairs. He took the steps three at a time but missed the final few. He valiantly grabbed hold of the railing, spun around, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“I hope I didn’t break them,” he said, handing Archer the binoculars.
“I hope you didn’t break yourself,” said Archer, helping him up off the floor. “You have to stop closing your eyes.”
“I guess so,” Oliver mumbled, dusting his sleeves. “But listen, I was thinking about this whole adventure idea. And before anything else, you should talk to your mother about leaving your house this summer. Otherwise you’re not going to get very far. It’s been two years. How long are they going to keep you in there?”
Archer hung the binoculars around his neck. “Until I’m too old to walk,” he replied.
Oliver grinned. “Well that’s only what? Seventy more years at the most.”
Archer said good-bye and stepped back into the rain. When he walked up to Helmsley House there was a soggy note on the door.
Archer,
There’s been an opossum ravaging the gardens and threatening owners. I’m next door at Mrs. Leperton’s. It nearly chewed her ankle off. You’re to remain inside the house and out of trouble. I’ll be home shortly.
Oliver was right. He had to get permission to leave his house this summer. But it wouldn’t be the first time Archer had the discussion with his mother and he knew what she would say: icebergs and tendencies. It was hopeless. Still, as he took one last look down Willow Street and shut the door, he was desperate to make it happen.

CHAPTER (#ulink_39fb1521-6272-5516-8299-da64e6ccf3d5)



FOUR (#ulink_39fb1521-6272-5516-8299-da64e6ccf3d5)


♦ DOERS & DREAMERS (#ulink_39fb1521-6272-5516-8299-da64e6ccf3d5) ♦
Archer was slow getting out of bed. Not for the first time, he’d had a dream that he was the one stuck on the iceberg. He’d wandered the ice in search of the ocean, but frigid peaks shot up all around and no matter how far he traveled, he couldn’t find the sea. As always, he awoke before freezing to death and stayed under his covers, waiting till the sunlight made his eyelids glow a brilliant red, then stepped into the bathroom, attached the blindfold to the flamingo, and took a bath.
It was a week into summer, but Archer still had not made the request to leave his house. Today would be the day. Only he wasn’t sure how. He and Mrs. Helmsley were very different people.
It’s a fact of life that we all dream while we’re asleep. Try as you may, such a thing cannot be avoided. It’s when we wake up, however, that we see two types of people emerge. On the one hand are doers, and on the other are dreamers.



When doers wake up, that’s it, their dreams are over, and in general, they’re content with this. They wash their faces, brush their teeth, and go about their business hoping nothing strange or out of the ordinary will happen along the way. Doers don’t do much original thinking and they don’t do surprises and they won’t ever do anything unexpected or anything someone hasn’t already done before. But they are called doers, after all, so they must do something and they do. In fact, doers do the same something over and over and over again. This is called routine, and doers are very good at routine.
Dreamers are different.
When dreamers wake up, their dreams have only just begun. They wash their faces and brush their teeth and open the front door hoping everything strange and out of the ordinary is waiting for them. Dreamers like asking questions that have never been asked before and doing things that have never been done before in ways that no one has ever thought of before.
Archer was a dreamer. That was obvious. Even a pigeon somewhere in Rosewood knew that. Mrs. Helmsley was a doer.
♦ SIP OF RELIEF ♦
Archer made his way into the kitchen and ate his breakfast of tea with milk and toast with jam. He listened closely to the advice of his spoon, clanking the side of his cup, as he stirred in the sugar. “Chin up,” it said. “You’ll be out of here soon.” He was plotting just that when his mother entered, her arms filled with groceries. Mr. Helmsley’s head was buried in a newspaper.
“I’ve invited the new neighbors to dinner tonight,” Mrs. Helmsley announced. “Murkley—that’s their last name. I just met Mrs. Murkley on the sidewalk. She seems a little, well … I’m sure both her and her husband are lovely people.”
Lovely? thought Archer. After everything Oliver had told him about Mrs. Murkley, lovely was not a word he would use.
Mr. Helmsley lowered his newspaper and took a swig of coffee. He didn’t look terribly excited, either.
“What time are these murky people arriving?” he asked.
Archer smiled. That was the exact word he would use.
Mrs. Helmsley was less amused.
“It’s Murkley,” she said. “They’ll be here at seven. And Archer, I expect you to put your best foot forward tonight.”
“That would be the left foot,” Mr. Helmsley said, raising his newspaper once more. “Make it eight. I’m in meetings till seven.”
Mrs. Helmsley nodded and pointed a bundle of Russian white asparagus at Archer. “First impressions are most important,” she insisted. “We don’t need to review your past performances, do we? She won’t admit it, but I’m certain Mrs. Leperton is still afraid to come over here.”
Archer sighed. While it was true he nearly set Mrs. Leperton on fire during a dinner party a few years back, it was untrue that he did so on purpose. It was simply his first time trying to light candles.
“But he used the entire matchbook, Helena! And when it ignited, he threw it on my lap!”
No, there was no need for review. Archer was well aware of past dinner parties, which was why he wanted nothing to do with this one. He pressed his tea for advice but the cup was empty, leaving Archer flying solo.
“I’ll just stay upstairs,” he said, hoping that would put an end to it.
It didn’t.
“That would defeat the purpose,” his mother replied. “I’ve invited her to meet you.”
“Why?” Archer asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.
“She’ll be teaching at Willow Academy this fall. She used to teach up at Raven Wood. And I’d like her to meet you. Oh, don’t make that face. You need good influences!”
“But I’m not feeling well,” he lied.
“You’re sick?” asked Mr. Helmsley.
“He’s not sick.”
“I feel sick.”
“Then you had better get some rest before they arrive,” she said, and that was that. When Mrs. Helmsley put her foot down, she never left an inch of wiggle room.
Archer poked a finger at his toast and thought this over. Perhaps this was an opportunity. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. It was worth a shot. He turned to his mother and said matter-of-factly, “I’d like to leave the house this summer.”
Mrs. Helmsley dropped the asparagus.
“To go to Rosewood Park with Oliver,” he quickly added.
“I don’t see why not,” said Mr. Helmsley from behind the paper. “I see nothing here about iceberg sightings in Rosewood Park.”
“It’s not a joke,” Mrs. Helmsley said.
“I work in law. A sense of humor is required. Just yesterday a man came in wanting to sue his dog.”
“You can’t sue a dog,” said Archer.
“No,” Mr. Helmsley admitted. “But he was fed up with the creature burying the family’s fine silver in the backyard.”
Mrs. Helmsley stood silently at the sink, rinsing off the asparagus. Archer watched her from the corner of his eye. He was almost certain something was coming—something good? He didn’t hold his breath.
The interesting thing was that because Archer had spent much of the past few months buried in books, she thought perhaps his tendencies were not quite what they once were. Archer didn’t know this, but it explained what followed.
“If there are no episodes,” she said. “If you can give Mrs. Murkley a good first impression, then we’ll discuss what the summer will look like. But I’m not promising anything.”
She didn’t have to. That was enough. Archer was practically beaming. He was actually going to be free! He quickly retreated from the kitchen before he could ruin this. “Your best foot,” she yelled after him, but Archer was already up the stairs.
♦ ELEPHANT HOUSE ♦
Archer stepped into his closet and scanned the secret boxes. He removed number 17: Elephant House, sat down on the rug near the balcony doors, and pulled the red string.
ARCHER B. HELMSLEY
375 WILLOW STREET
DEAR ARCHER,
I WROTE THIS TO YOU FROM THE BACK OF AN ELEPHANT. WE WERE IN A SMALL COUNTRY WHERE THE INHABITANTS BUILT THEIR HOUSES ON THE BACKS OF THEM. THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL AND HOSPITABLE PEOPLE AND WELCOMED US TO STAY AWHILE. THEY WERE ALSO KIND ENOUGH TO STRAP ME DOWN AT NIGHT. (I HAVE A TENDENCY TO SLEEPWALK.)
A MAN NAMED AYYAPPIN SCULPTED THIS ELEPHANT HOUSE AS A GIFT. THE STONE IS JADE. BEAUTIFUL, ISN’T IT? WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT.
YOURS TRULY,
Ralph Helmsley


Archer wished Helmsley House had been built on the back of an elephant. Each night he would fall asleep as the elephant wandered, and in the morning he would wake up some place entirely new. But house number 375 was planted firmly on the ground, and the view from his balcony remained completely unchanged.
Archer went to his dresser, clicked on the radio, found his notebook in a drawer, and was thinking about Rosewood Park as he returned to the rug. He had no intention of staying inside the park. The question was where could he go from there? And he sat quietly, considering just that as the sunlight slanted in through the balcony door. His thoughts were shortly interrupted when a shrill cry shot up from the gardens.
“HENRY!” the voice shouted.
Archer tilted his head.
“HENRY!” the voice shouted again.
Archer grabbed his binoculars and hurried to the balcony.
♦ NON-NOCTURNAL OPOSSUM ♦
Oliver had also dashed to his balcony. Archer motioned to him. Oliver climbed a ladder to the roof, hopped over the small gap between the houses, and slid down the ladder to Archer’s balcony.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Archer wasn’t sure. He directed his binoculars down into the gardens. The voice that had cried “Henry!” belonged to Mrs. Murkley, a rather bulbous woman with little neck to spare, who at present was cornered by an opossum in her garden.
“HENRY!” she shouted. “HENRY!”
The Murkleys’ garden door swung open and a man who looked in need of a decent meal sauntered valiantly through.
“Yes, my dear?” he said. “What seems to be the—ah! What is that?”
“It’s what you’re about to kill!” shouted Mrs. Murkley. “So don’t just stand there. Get a shovel and smash it to pieces!”
There are many tunes in this world that can soothe the savage beast. That wasn’t one of them. The opossum hunched its back and let out a terrible hiss.
“Don’t show it fear,” Henry said. “I think they attack when they sense fear.”
The opossum turned to Henry and gave him the once-over. Henry backed into the opposite corner of the garden.
“On second thought,” he said. “Show it a little fear, darling.”
Oliver placed his hand on Archer’s shoulder, trying his best not to look afraid. “Opossums don’t really attack when they sense fear, do they?” he asked.
“Normal opossums don’t,” said Archer. “They just play dead.” But this opossum was out in the daylight, and Archer thought it might be a non-nocturnal opossum. “I’ve never seen one out in the day before.”
Oliver hadn’t, either. “But it looks too soft and fluffy to be violent,” he said. “Mrs. Murkley, on the other hand …”
With all of her shouting, Mrs. Murkley had gone quite pink in the face and looked something like an overzealous mosquito. The non-nocturnal (and probably nonviolent) opossum eyed both Murkleys. It seemed to realize it was outnumbered and sounded the retreat, scurrying backward up the garden wall and scampering away. As it did, the opossum paused to look up at Archer and Oliver.
“I think that thing just winked at me,” said Oliver. “I knew it wasn’t violent. Isn’t she horrible, though?”
Archer pointed his binoculars back toward the Murkley house. The garden was empty.
“She’s coming to dinner tonight,” he said.
Oliver paled. “That’s terrible! Why would your mother invite that?”
“She’ll be teaching at the Button Factory this fall.”
Oliver needed to sit down for a moment. It was a lot to take in. As he did, Archer explained what else his mother had said and that come tomorrow, they would be on their way to Rosewood Park.
“That place creeps me out,” said Oliver. “It’s like the city grew around it and no one knew what to do so they left it there.”
“We’re not going to stay inside the park,” said Archer. “It’s about getting out of here. And from Rosewood Park, we can go—anywhere.”
“Where’s anywhere?” Oliver asked.
Archer wasn’t sure. He ducked back inside his room and returned with one of his grandfather’s journals. Those were filled with brilliant ideas.
“While you’re figuring that out,” said Oliver. “You should come to my house.”
Delicious smells were wafting from the Glubs’ kitchen. Mrs. Glub always made wonderful food. Archer knew this because ever since he’d become friends with Oliver, he’d been sneaking into Oliver’s house. His mother had no idea how easy it was, and she was completely unaware how frequently he did it. She wouldn’t like it. And with his chance for real freedom so close, perhaps he shouldn’t risk it today. But Archer knew a dinner party at night meant a day of busied preparations for his mother. He just had to be careful. So he followed Oliver up the ladder, over the crack between the houses, and down the stairs to the Glubs’ kitchen.
♦ WONDERS OF WEEDING ♦
Mrs. Glub nearly hit the ceiling when Archer and Oliver stumbled in through the back door to the kitchen.
“Did you take the roof again?” she asked, staring at the both of them.



Archer and Oliver exchanged glances.
“It’s not safe jumping over that gap! One of these days you’re going to fall into it and Mr. Glub will have to fish you out!”
“But the roof is quicker,” said Oliver, following the delicious smells seeping from the oven.
“Quicker is rarely safer,” Mrs. Glub said. “But I’m glad you’re here, Archer, and you’re just in time. Have a seat.”
Mrs. Glub pulled a steaming hot tray of apple cider turnovers from the oven. They were crusted in caramel and nuts and smelled heavenly.
“I’m taking your sister to get a new dress,” she said to Oliver. “I need you to weed the garden while we’re out. That flower festival, or whatever it’s called, is just around the corner.” Mrs. Glub frowned. “I’m sure the neighbors are whispering again.”
Oliver said he would get to it after eating, and when Mrs. Glub left the house, they began popping apple cider turnovers into their mouths as quickly as they could, careful not to burn their tongues. Archer ate with his head buried inside his grandfather’s journal. What was he going to do when he left the house?
“They finally opened the new upstairs area at DuttonLick’s sweetshop,” said Oliver. “Everyone from the Button Factory was going there yesterday. We could go if you can actually leave your house. I think you’d really like the—”
“We should do this,” interrupted Archer, not hearing a word Oliver had just said.
… the jungle dripped with uncertainty. Everywhere were insects, flying, jumping, and crawling up trees. One bit my arm. A bump swelled, festered, and popped. It flowed yellow. I became delirious. Rachel nursed out the poison and we dug in for the night. The air was thick and the wood, too wet to burn. We floated in a sea of leaves and moss. Large creatures lurked in the moonlight. We couldn’t see them, but knew they were near… .
Oliver lowered his pastry. His appetite was gone. “I don’t understand you sometimes—a lot of times. What about that sounds enjoyable?”
“‘Floating in a sea of leaves and moss,’” said Archer. “Deep in a jungle beneath the moonlight. That’s what we should do. That would be wonderful.”
Oliver shook his head and the crumbs from his fingers. “Wonderful,” he mumbled, jumping down from the counter and leaving the kitchen. Archer followed with a pastry in one hand and the journal still opened in the other.
… it was a strange plant. I shouldn’t have eaten it. Rachel was right about that. Looked like it might taste good. I was wrong about that… .
Oliver and Archer stepped into the garden.
“Well,” said Oliver. “There’s your sea of leaves and moss.”
Archer lowered the journal.
The Glubs’ garden was something of a neighborhood scandal. The stone walkway was a slimy green and the walls were caked with ivy. An apple tree that bore no apples was in desperate need of trimming and the grass, if you could call it grass, was at least knee high. The difficult part in weeding such a garden was trying to decide what was a weed and what wasn’t because it all looked the same.

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