The Favour Page 2
The responsibility for this important decision rested on the shoulders of one woman, and it was not Grace’s mother. Professor Eva Lution was short and slender with expressive brown eyes and a proud Roman nose. Her kind, matronly smile, coupled with a pair of silver framed glasses, conveyed wisdom, efficiency, and confidence. She always wore her iron-grey hair in a bun on the top of her head, and though she looked to be in her late 50’s, her real age was a closely guarded secret.
Dressed in her usual smart business suit and crisp white shirt, the Professor might have been taken for a Bank Manager or an Accountant, perhaps even a Doctor or a Lawyer. But she was none of these things. In fact, her job was literally ‘out of this world’. She was the Chancellor of the College of Customs and Myths and Legends, or Camals for short, which had now been in existence for…well, longer than anyone could remember.
Professor Lution stood in her office and absently gazed out of the window. There was a cup of her favourite Hackleberry’s Roast Hazelnut Coffee in her hand, which she sipped slowly and thoughtfully, every now and then letting out a short but troubled sigh. According to the manufacturer, the nuts were grown, collected, and ground by real mortal squirrels. The Professor knew this was absolute bunkum, and as she had a more important and pressing matter on her mind, she gave no thought to the bogus claim.
“If only Digby wasn’t so controversial,” she murmured, just as everything was suddenly plunged into darkness. Even the sky, which moment’s earlier had been gloomy and overcast, was now as black as night.
“Midnight at four o’clock?” said a man in an outraged tone. “How can I read my atlas if someone keeps turning out the lights? I’ve told you before, Professor, this electricaby thing will never catch on. Give me my old ship, The Golden Hind, and a bright star, and I can sail anywhere in the world in the dark.”
Professor Lution was the only ‘living’ person in the room, and yet she did not scream at the disembodied voice. On the contrary, she smiled. “Most commendable, Sir Francis. But I think you’ll find that the darkness is only temporary because Doctor Ambit is teaching a class.”
“Would you like me to light a candle?” asked a woman with an Italian accent.
“No, thank you, it’ll…ah, there we are.” As though someone had flicked a switch, the sky had returned to its former sombre grey. Professor Lution let out a little sigh. “Pity he didn’t make the sun come out. Which reminds me, I must put in an order for balmy weather for the Polynesian feast on Saturday evening. After the last fiasco, I really hope he gets it right this time. Perhaps I should speak to him about retirement. At 226 years of age, I’m sure he’d like a rest.”
Barely had she finished speaking when her view was obscured for a second time. A cluster of pink bubbles had appeared outside the window. About the size of a football, it rolled from side-to-side as though it was cleaning the glass, which in point of fact, it was.
As before, Professor Lution paid little attention to the distraction. It was very important, vital even, that she stay focused and find a solution to the ‘sticky’ problem that was plaguing the College. Moreover, the answer must leave no room for doubt.
A few weeks earlier, news had leaked out that a mortal named Grace Darling was being considered for Camals. The problem was not Grace herself, but rather, her grandfather. To some, Digby Darling was a lovable eccentric whose knowledge of the supernatural, especially its darker side, was second to none. To others however, he was a senile old man who should have been locked up years ago.
With everyone having an opinion on the issue, the college had become fractious and argumentative. Fights and scuffles had broken out in the corridors and cafeteria, whilst up in the dormitories, some students had received a nasty surprise. Rusty ‘possessed’ nails had been used to attach the sheets to the bed, and the only way to remove the nail was to stroke it and tell it how beautiful it was…and then give it a kiss. The latter had to be done with extreme care, for the nails had a tendency to ‘shoot-out’ the moment they were caressed.
Professor Lution sighed heavily. “Oh, Percival, what am I going to do? Grace knows nothing of our world, and yet by the laws of the college I cannot deny her access.”
This time, the remark had been directed to a gold salamander brooch resting on her lapel. The tiny creature did not move, but when the Professor stroked it with a finger, it slowly stirred into life. It raised its head, blinked its ruby eyes, gave her a look that seemed to say, ‘what did you wake me up for?’, and scuttled up the front of her jacket and disappeared behind her neck.
“My bella Senorita,” said a portrait of Mona Lisa, “what’s the matter?”
The walls of the office were lined with copies of famous paintings, but unlike their mortal counterparts, the pictures were haunted by the people portrayed. A figure could move freely in its frame but only its spirit could leave, which when required, made them handy for conveying urgent messages or running errands.
It was also not uncommon for aspects of the pictures to change. Van Gogh’s vase of ‘Sunflowers’ was now sporting a bunch of bright pink roses, which also smelt, while a portrait of the explorer, Captain James Cook, was studying a London A to Z.
Mona Lisa had long since ditched her dowdy black dress in favour of ‘happy’ colours. Today it was a vibrant yellow concoction of laces and frills and dangly gold earrings. However, her ‘sunny’ mood instantly changed when she saw the Professor’s worried expression.
“Oh, no,” she said in a jittery voice, her elegant pink hands twisting like snakes, “please don’t tell me there’s been…activity.”
Camals was home to some of the greatest people who had ever lived. Teachers such as Arthur Pendragon, Robin Hood, and Leonardo Da Vinci, were very popular, though it was rare to see the artisan without some chocolate in his hand.
But the college was also home to some of history’s nastier ‘beings’, and unlike their friendlier counterparts, these evil and dangerous entities were not allowed to roam at will. Instead, they were securely hidden behind enchanted gates, where their familiar surroundings or native habitats had been painstakingly recreated. Every night, Jack the Ripper would wander the streets of 19th century London seeking a new female victim. Nobody was actually killed though as the women were already ghosts. Nevertheless, even the suggestion of activity behind a gate was enough to set nerves on edge.
“No, no activity.” Professor Lution pointed to the report on her desk. “It’s that.”
When it came to ghosts and spirits and other entities, Camals had no control who ‘arrived’ in Zanterus. Mortals however, were another matter, and the selection criteria for admittance to the college was to say the least, unusual. In addition, any prior academic qualifications, or lack of them, played absolutely no part.
Basically, a prospective student, no matter the age, had to have a direct connection to the world of the spirit, such as being descended from a Witch Doctor or a Medicine Man. The student would then be the subject of an Infospecs report. Infospecs were entities who had been specially trained to ‘blend’ into the mortal world. A lawnmower, a lamppost, even an electricity meter - though the latter were usually avoided as it was a tight squeeze, anything could be watching and making notes.
Should a report be inconclusive, there were other methods for assessing suitability, such as the Squeamish Meter, whereby a candidate’s level of terror was recorded after receiving a ‘ghostly’ shock. There was also the Mind’s Eye Probe, which functioned exactly as the name suggests. Ho
wever, this was only used in extreme cases as it tended to make a mortal violently sick.
Mona leaned forward but was too far away to read the report. “Bah! Documents and papers. You should get out more, ride in a gondola along the Zanterus river and be serenaded by mandolins. Ahh, so romantico. And of course, eat lots of spaghetti. A good plate of spaghetti will cure just about anything, and talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.”
“Quite right, Madam,” said Sir Isaac Newton in a breathless voice, his portrait having just sprung to life.
“Ah, Sir Isaac,” said Professor Lution, “nice to…” She broke off and blinked.
Ordinarily, his static figure was resplendent in frock coat, lace cravat, and powdered wig. Now however, his coat was askew, his cravat was rumpled, and his wig was hanging over his right ear.
To see him dressed thus was not only unusual but rather amusing. However, in order not to hurt his feelings, Professor Lution suppressed a smile. Ghosts, whether a pearly white ethereal or a full colour apparition, could be very touchy about their appearance.
“…have you back,” she finished. “Any problems?” she added diplomatically, for clearly the task she’d set him had not gone well.
“My dear lady,” he responded, mopping his brow and straightening his wig, “anyone who has the misfortune to encounter that scoundrel, Edmund Hawkins, will always have a problem. Never during my 30 years of service at the Royal Mint had I witnessed such shameful behaviour. He is a disgrace to spirits everywhere.”
“Oh dear,” said Professor Lution, her eyes starting to crinkle with amusement. “What did he do?”
The office fell silent. All the figures in the other paintings stopped what they were doing. Edmund Hawkins was a notorious rogue spirit, and the opportunity to hear a first-hand account of his antics was too good to miss.
Before answering, Sir Isaac poured a glass of claret from a decanter in his picture. “Your health, Madam,” he toasted, and drank deeply. “I was successful in correcting the newly minted coins. Fancy changing the date to 007 - such childish behaviour. The problem occurred when I attempted to disgorge him from the stamping machine. He slipped out the back and floated into a tearoom.”
“A what?” screeched the portrait of ‘Whistler’s Mother’. “Speak up, man, can’t hear you.”
“Use your ear trumpet,” said Professor Lution in a rather loud voice.
“What for? I’m not deaf. It’s him, he mumbles, and I’ve never heard of a searoom.”
There was a ripple of laughter as the Professor patiently explained, “In the mortal world, Mother, a tearoom is a common refreshment area.”
“A what? Oh, you mean it’s a fancy kitchen! Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
The old woman was still grumbling as Sir Isaac continued, “I was in the process of extracting Edmund from a tea urn when, most regrettably, a female employee entered the room. Not only did the unconscionable devil deliberately make himself visible, but he pulled his head off and rolled it across the floor. The poor woman fainted in terror.”
Every figure in every painting howled with laughter. Dogs barked, horses neighed, and to the delight of a group of 18th century soldiers dressed in bright red uniforms, three chickens and a duck laid eggs. “Yay! Omelettes for tea!” cried a soldier gleefully.
Though also amused, Professor Lution was more concerned with the outcome at the Mint. “I hope you were able to alter her memory.”
“Oh yes,” said Sir Isaac dismissively. “She now thinks she slipped on a slice of cheese that fell out of someone’s sandwich.”
Professor Lution’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “You shouldn’t blame poor Edmund too much. After all, he was falsely accused of stealing from the Mint and executed in 1888. Where is he now?”
“In the mayhem that followed, he…um…departed.”
“He lost him!” cried Whistler’s Mother, her rocking chair tilting dangerously as she cackled with laughter. “Some genius you are!”
“That’s enough,” said Professor Lution firmly. Such was her respect that the portraits fell silent. “It was not Sir Isaac’s fault. Edmund is, to use a mortal expression, a slippery customer, but I’ve no doubt he’ll soon re-emerge.”
“That, Madam,” said Sir Isaac stiffly, “is not a prospect I shall anticipate with joy. Now, if you would excuse me, I wish to bathe and change.” He bowed graciously and was about to leave when he pointed to the window. “By the way, I think you’re wanted,” and as he exited his portrait, his original painted figure snapped back into position.
Outside the window, the bubbles were bobbing wildly to attract attention. Professor Lution turned to see that, instead of pink, they were now dirty and gray. “Ah yes,” she said, running an expected critical eye over the glass, “sparkling as usual.”
The Bubble & Squeak Corporation had never found it necessary for their employees to learn language. Consequently, with only the ability to make signs, the cluster broke apart, re-assembled in the shape of a tick, and then ‘popped’ out of sight.
Professor Lution suddenly frowned. “Now, I wonder…” She hurried to her desk and read the troublesome report again. Thanks to the bubbles, an idea had come to her that might solve the vexing question of Grace Darling. But even as the Professor picked up a pen and began to scribble notes, two major problems immediately became apparent. Firstly, the solution was extremely rare, and secondly, it would involve a great deal of organisation in a short space of time.
After half an hour or so, she put down her pen and picked up the cup of coffee. It was now stone cold. Undaunted, the Professor opened a drawer and withdrew a short stout stick about a hand’s span long. Then, while muttering a few incomprehensible words, she pointed the stick at the cup. Steam instantly began to rise, as though the coffee was freshly made.
The Professor took a satisfying sip, then she steepled her fingers and settled back to think. She had no doubt that what she was intending to do could be done in the time available. The important question now, was should it be done?
Chapter Two - The Solution…Well, Sort of