Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse (22 page)

It was quite a large dumbwaiter, but a small space when stuffed with a person—especially when that person was afraid enough just looking into tight spaces. He had to bend over in an odd fashion to fit, the wood creaking as he shifted. The compartment was much like a shelf with a ceiling, with two ropes going through to make the dumbwaiter go up and down.

It’s just an elevator,
Bran told himself.
A very small, extremely tight elevator…that could very well break at any second, sending me plummeting to my death.

He reached for the ropes, taking one last glance into the kitchen. He felt dizzy already. But he pulled on the ropes before he could let his fear get the best of him, and started down. He tried to keep as quiet as he could, hoping he might catch the intruder by surprise. The dumbwaiter squeaked dreadfully once, and then in a second Bran’s eyes cleared the kitchen level, so that he was immediately engulfed in darkness. It did nothing to alleviate his phobia.

Had to go through the dumbwaiter, didn’t you,
he scolded himself, feeling sweat on the back of his neck.
Just had to get into the tightest space in the house.

He kept his hands on the rope, slowly wheeling his way down. He hoped it had all been his imagination and no one was there. It might have been a mouse in the kitchen and the ice maker in the freezer making the sounds, and the sandwich was probably forgotten there by Rosie before she left. Still, the dumbwaiter continued on. In the last few seconds of his downward journey, he noticed that there was a soft light coming from below, so that when he finally touched the bottom, there was a golden glow on his face through a crack in the cabinet doors.

Sewey sometimes forgot a lamp on down there so Bran didn’t let it bother him at first, though he took a cautious glance around as he pushed one of the doors open. The basement was very large, bigger than the whole length of the house. Before the Great Fire, the house had covered the entire basement, but after half the house burned down, the doors going down were left in Sewey’s shed, and the Wilomases were left to purchase the house for a very much reduced price. The basement still had remains from the old house and even a working bathroom, though the Wilomases knew exactly what to do with a gigantic space:
fill it.

And to the brim. Everything from boxes to crates to wine to cheese to old furniture: the entire basement was rows and rows of the Wilomas’ things. There were old rocking horses, tables and chairs, hanging meats and onions, decorations, pictures, and all sorts of junk, many of which the Wilomases had bought only to toss down the steps. Bran didn’t wonder at all where all the unpaid bills were coming from. The family was sitting right on top of them.

There was a small lamp plugged into the wall and sitting on a stack of crates a way off from where he was. It lit the floor softly, and he hesitated a few moments before he stuck his head out farther. It was very quiet and still, and all the columns that held the ceiling up cast long, dark shadows. Bran couldn’t see anyone, so he slid to the floor, taking the knife with him just in case.

He moved toward the lamp and stepped over the piles of mess. There was a stack of crates that went up to the ceiling filled with giant rolls of cheese and covered with labels that read, "These are Sewey’s" and "Don’t touch" and "ALL MICE KEEP OUT!" in Sewey’s squiggly handwriting. Bran stepped around them until he came to the lamp. No one was there.

"Wonderful," he said. "Just my imagination."

Then he noticed something on the floor a few feet from where he was standing. It was a huge, busted box, big enough for a refrigerator and reinforced on the edges. Bran stepped closer. He had been in the basement many times before and didn’t remember it, or even remember seeing Sewey bring it home. Normally he wouldn’t notice it, but it was so very large it seemed odd. Besides, Mabel thought cardboard boxes carried omniprotoids, and usually had them incinerated.

When he came closer, he saw that a large hole had been cut out of it, but at the top there was still an address sticker, along with markings all over warning that it was FRAGILE. Bran glanced at the address label, and yet again, it was addressed to Rosie. As so many times before, where the writer had spelled the word Bolton, there was large, swirling letter B. In an instant, Bran recognized it—from the same Mr. B. that everything else had been coming from.

He was about to study it further when he saw something else, lying on the floor next to the box. It was one of their old sleeping bags, unfurled and messy, with a pillow at its head. It looked as if someone had slept in it very recently.

"That’s it. I’m calling the police," Bran whispered, spinning for the dumbwaiter. But before he could, there was a sudden scratch of motion.

"No!" a man’s voice shouted, and there was a rush.

Bran stiffened at the sudden noise, then fell to the side and crashed into a stack of pots, sending them flying through the air and filling the basement with noise. He caught himself and had the knife up in a flash.

"Who’s there?!" he demanded, and he saw someone dart from behind the dumbwaiter shaft.

"Listen, I can explain all this!" the voice said, coming around with his hands out.

"Don’t come any closer!" Bran demanded, holding the knife out with both hands. He saw the shape of a man, but his face was blocked as he rushed to the other side. Bran turned the knife.

"I’m not getting any closer to that knife," the man said. "In fact, I might get farther away."

A bit of the lamplight crossed the man’s face, and in an instant, he became familiar. In fact, he was so familiar, Bran nearly dropped the knife altogether.

"Wait a minute," Bran said. "You’re…"

"Bartley Wilomas," the man finished for him, with a slight bow. "At your service."

Chapter 18

The Man beneath the House

If the man in the basement whose name began with B had been standing at a distance, Bran might have thought he was a younger version of Sewey: thinner, with browner hair, his face missing the marks left from years upon years of ceaseless frowning. As Bartley’s head had been so painstakingly removed from every photograph in the house by Sewey, and Bran could not remember ever seeing him in person, it was hard at first to believe it was actually him. Bartley didn’t look like a swindling, inheritance-stealing deadbeat. But Bran didn’t make it a habit to trust men whose name began with the letter B and who happened to be hiding in the basement.

"Please," Bartley said, holding his hands out. "We can discuss this rationally, Bran, without calling the police, who we both know will probably call Sewey."

"That might actually be a good idea," Bran said, sliding to get farther from Bartley. "No, it wouldn’t." Bartley shuddered. "Not for me. Unless he’s tossed his revolver for good."

"He hasn’t," Bran said. "He’s still got it, and if you don’t start explaining all those letters, and you being here in our basement, I’m going to go back up and call him."

Bran knew that if Bartley really wanted to keep him from getting away, he certainly could. The basement doors were locked from the outside, and scrambling into the dumbwaiter was not quite the easiest nor fastest maneuver. But he kept his face stern. Bartley dropped his hands.

"All right, I’ll tell you," he stammered. "Rosie knows all about it. The box was her idea."

"What’s the box got to do with it?" Bran said, not letting the knife fall but a few inches.

"That’s how I got here," Bartley said, wringing his hands. "I’ve been living in Rowhaven, a bit northeast of Dunce, and I knew if I went through the gates and got a visitor permit, they’d all know another Wilomas was in town, and somehow it might get back to Sewey."

"Go on," Bran said.

"So," Bartley nodded, "I loaded myself into a box with provisions and had myself shipped into the city. The plan was to be delivered while you were all gone to the picnic on Sunday."

"No wonder Rosie wanted us all to be gone," Bran said.

Bartley nodded again. "Overnighting a fragile package is not cheap, nor a courier that delivers Sundays," he went on with a shrug. "But it worked. I was delivered to the door, and as no one was around, I just cut myself out and used the key under the duck sculpture to get in. Then, I just went through the back door, down into Sewey’s shed, and have been down here with my box ever since."

"And then you came up to the kitchen," Bran accused. "Just five minutes ago, I heard you."

Bartley scowled slightly. "Rosie’s been sending me meals with the dumbwaiter since Sunday," he said. "Except today she was gone for lunchtime, and I got rather famished. And, as I didn’t hear anybody up there, I went up to fix myself a sandwich. Then, I hear someone coming, and I think it’s Mabel. So I did what everyone does when they think Mabel is coming, and that is run for their lives." He shrugged. "Fortunately, it was you. Unfortunately, you are holding a very sharp knife."

Bran looked at it, then back to Bartley.

"All right," Bran said, and he set the knife onto the crate beside him.

Bartley relaxed. "Whew, thank you," he said. "I promise, sincerely, I meant no harm. All this was Rosie’s idea, in order to get me here so I could rescue her."

"Rescue her?" Bran said. "From what?"

"From Sewey and Mabel," Bartley said. "See, they would never, ever let her leave here, and poor Rosie would never make it out the front door without turning back—no chance. So the scheme was for me to show up, rescue her, and then we escape together."

Something in what he had said caused Bran to stand up straighter with a slight alarm.

"Escape?" Bran stammered. "Why? Where to?"

Bartley pressed his lips together and turned his gaze away. He looked nervous.

"She didn’t tell you?" Bartley said. Bran shook his head.

"Well," Bartley said lowly, "Rosie and I…are getting married."

Bran opened his mouth to object, but he was so taken aback

it felt as if his heart had just stopped. But all the pieces suddenly fit together to tell him that Bartley’s words were true.

Then, before he could do anything, there came a sudden noise above them, like feet faintly over their heads. It made both of them look up.

"They’re home," Bartley said, listening.

Bran’s mouth was still open, unable to say anything back to Bartley…to this man who had unexpectedly appeared in their basement—only to say he was stealing Rosie away, the one real friend Bran had in the world. With all the strange events that had been happening for so long, he was an idiot not to have seen it: that Rosie really had been planning it all along, behind his back.

He turned quickly without another word, and started for the dumbwaiter.

"Wait—" Bartley started for him.

"No," Bran said. "I’m going up to talk to Rosie."

"Wait, please Bran," Bartley pleaded. "Don’t tell the Wilomases."

Bran stopped, his hand on the dumbwaiter opening.

"I said I’m going up to talk to Rosie," Bran said. "She’s not a Wilomas. Yet."

And he lifted himself into the dumbwaiter and started to wheel himself up toward the kitchen. His teeth were tightened together, feeling angry and betrayed and lied to at the same time. How could Rosie keep it a secret from him for so long? Why hadn’t she at least told him? Did she plan to just run off and disappear? As he neared the top, he heard voices in the kitchen.

"Mess, mess, mess!" Mabel was complaining. "Don’t you know yenzimes practically breed in food left out on the counter?"

"Sorry, miss," Rosie said. "Perhaps Bran left it out or something."

"And that too," Mabel sniffed. "He had better not be in town spreading rumors about us."

"I’m sure he isn’t, miss," Rosie consoled her. Bran stopped in line with the cabinet doors. They were split in the middle so a thin shaft of light went in on his face, and he could slightly see into the kitchen, where Rosie was nervously standing nearby while Mabel rushed about.

"Where are my fiddlesticks?" Mabel said, knocking things aside. "I saw a man at the store today, and I’m certain he was a harlowpath. And I probably caught it. I’ll probably die tonight."

"I’m sure you won’t, miss," Rosie said.

Mabel finally found her fiddlesticks and crunched some into a cup of water, drinking it down hurriedly while holding her left ear. "I’m off to watch soap operas," she said. "Make Sewey dinner while you’re cleaning that mess. He’s working late, and there’s no use in him coming home and making a mess here when there’s a janitor like Trolan who can clean it up at the office. When Bran shows up, send him to deliver it." She scanned the room with her eyes. "And if you see a yenzime, douse it with mayonnaise."

"Yes, miss," Rosie said. Mabel finally started out the door. The moment the sound of her footsteps disappeared, Rosie breathed a sigh of relief, starting for the dumbwaiter.

"Lunch, lunch for Bartley," she whispered, looking like she felt very bad for forgetting it. She reached for the dumbwaiter doors.

"Don’t worry, it’s halfway finished on the counter," Bran said when the doors swung apart, and Rosie gave a shriek and fell back against the counter. Bran leapt out quickly. "I’m sorry, Rosie," he said, hurrying to her side and regretting giving her a scare. She had immediately gone as pale as paper, and was clutching at the counter for support.

"Y-y-you…" she stammered. Then the kitchen door blew open.

"Did you catch a yenzime?" Mabel shrieked. Rosie and Bran both turned to face her, and Bran realized the dumbwaiter doors were still open. Mabel’s eyes were wide, and she looked ready to attack, her gaze leveled on them, and then shifting to the counter, then the dumbwaiter.

"Nope, no yenzimes," Bran said quickly. "None at all. Rosie just slipped."

"Sheesh," Mabel said. She turned to leave, and Rosie nearly collapsed to the floor.

"Bran, what were you…" she said, shaking her head, trying to catch her breath. "I mean, the dumbwaiter, the basement…"

She looked up at him quickly. "Bartley—?"

"I know about it," Bran said, stopping her.