~CHAPTER ONE~
THE TROLL WHO LIVED
Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather of Sunnybrook, Colorado were arguably the most pleasant couple you could ever hope to meet. Young and full of hope, they lived together in a modest house with their young son, Brian.
Mr. Merriweather was a sales associate for the American branch of a Japanese multinational conglomerate based on the outskirts of town. Though pulling a white collar salary, Mr. Merriweather made his working class sympathies extremely public. His outspoken progressivism even permeated the workplace; his loud talk of benefit plans and union formation amongst the warehouse labourers were a constant cause of anxiety for the Japanese division president and his various imported executives whose ears perked up at the very mention of an organized labour force. However, Mr. Merriweather’s otherwise passive demeanour and respectable work habits kept him out of any serious trouble and he excelled at his job.
Mrs. Merriweather was unemployed, but both she and her spouse acknowledged that she was perfectly capable of having a career of her own, being the strong and independent woman that she was. Torn between the responsibility of being a mother and that of being a sovereign, self-sufficient entity, she had elected to stay at home to raise their son until he no longer needed such intimate care and she could pursue her own dreams (which she was perfectly free and able to do, of course). Though no one ever proffered any, the couple openly declared themselves targets of valid criticism on the subject.
Brian was just over two years of age. An intelligent and precocious child, his parents took great pride in his impressive mental development; he had just recently moved up from Steinbeck to Dostoevsky (an early interest in Poe had effected some concern in his parents, but it was averted by Orczy much to their relief).
It was to this model family that Mr. Merriweather returned home to one evening in 1971. Pulling up the driveway in his ancient Studebaker (a brand new copy of James Joyce’s
Ulysses sitting beside him on the passenger seat – a gift for Brian), he noticed something strangely out of place with his usually perfect and politically correct surroundings.
Parked on the curb of his property’s boulevard was an obnoxiously coloured Cadillac Eldorado with a bumper sticker reading (much to Mr. Merriweather’s annoyance) “My other car voted for Ed Heath”. More importantly though, leaning against this eyesore was a radiantly attractive brunette, arms moodily folded, sporting a t-shirt emblazoned with the Finnish flag.
Mr. Merriweather frowned disapprovingly. He had half a mind to request that she leave the premises and take her nationalistic garb and reactionary vehicle decorations with her. However, he declined invoking the right to private property; a right he perceived as socially unjust. So, ignoring her pretentiously nonchalant position, he grabbed his son’s book and exited his car.
The woman’s piercing eyes followed him as he self-consciously walked up the driveway to his home. Mr. Merriweather probably would have pondered her reasons for being there, but the loving embrace of his wife welcoming him home and the appreciative coos of his son upon receiving the gift drove all thought of the stranger from his mind and he settled down for a pleasant and relaxing night.
Had he bothered to simply glance reflectively out of his window only briefly, he would have seen that the mysterious woman remained where he had first seen her until well past midnight, her eyes never leaving the Merriweather’s household. Indeed, she had been there since that afternoon while Mr. Merriweather had long been at work. Mrs. Merriweather had noticed her arrival, but had forgotten about it by the time her husband had returned...and, like him, had neglected to mention it at all.
At around one o’clock in the morning, with the entirety of Sunnybrook still and asleep, something finally happened. A man appeared around the corner of the street and started walking up to where the woman stood. She turned her head to watch his approach – the first movement she had made since Mr. Merriweather’s return. Clearly, this man was currently more important than anything to do with the Merriweather’s house.
There was little to nothing remarkable about his appearance; he was of average height and build, middle-aged with neatly parted, greying hair. He was dressed in an inconspicuous suit with a small Texas flag pin on the lapel being the only sign of individual license on his person. His eyes were a pale, lonely blue behind unassuming spectacles and he wore a seemingly permanent and benign smile on his comely face. This man’s name was Tom Bishop.
He made no pretence of having seen the woman who was now obviously waiting for him. He continued to make his way up the street until he arrived at her location. Leaning up next to her against the Eldorado and still not looking at her, he broke the silence.
“Fancy meeting you here, Natasha.”
The woman unfolded her arms and shifted her weight from foot to foot, a grin replacing her previous pout.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been standing here, Tom?” She asked, adopting the air of a lecturing housewife. “I’ve been watching these mingers almost twelve hours now! My arse is as stiff as a...”
“Twelve hours?” Tom gently interrupted. “You mean you haven’t been to the party?”
“Some of us have jobs to do!” Natasha sniffed in mock indignation. “But...er...I don’t suppose there’s anything left is there?”
Tom chuckled at her sheepish inquiry.
“I’m sure Raist and Hara have not allowed the alcohol to run dry. You know how thorough they are in such matters.” He gave Natasha a sidelong glance as she sighed with relief. “Given the occasion, I’m sure you can safely expect even more superfluous quantities than usual.”
“So it’s really true?” She asked breathlessly. “The Conspiracy is actually defeated?”
“For now at least.” Tom replied. “We have repelled their most deadly attack on our society in over a century, but they will soon rally again. So long as they maintain their insidious grip on the minds of the people, we can never truly declare a victory for FE.”
“Still,” Natasha said wistfully. “we can finally breathe easy! And it’s all thanks to
him!”
“Yes.” Tom agreed. “It really is a great moment in our history. The Conspiracy’s most lethal agents failed to eliminate Rowbotham’s heir...and not only that, the small boy defeated them himself and has sent them scattered for many years to come.”
“Rowbotham’s heir! But how, Tom? How was a mere child able to defeat The Conspiracy’s elites?”
“We may never know for sure, Natasha. However, we do know this; Rowbotham’s heir is no mere child and he has powers that we cannot comprehend. That is why, for his safety and ours, he must live here.”
“With
these wankers, Tom? They’re a couple of bleeding heart arm-chair revolutionaries! And their brat has an abnormal penchant for classical literature...”
“Now, Natasha.” Tom Bishop scolded. “We’ve all already agreed that this is the best home he could have; the Merriweathers are arguably the most pleasant couple you could ever hope to meet and their son is obviously an intellectual prodigy. It is a prime environment for Rowbotham’s heir to be raised in. Surely you would not begrudge them for a few of their radical ideals?”
“I suppose not.” Natasha conceded, clearly still begrudging them quite a bit anyway. They remained leaning against her car in silence for a while after that until Tom glanced quickly at his watch.
“Narcberry should be arriving soon with the child.”
Natasha grimaced.
“Are you sure it’s -
wise - to trust Narc with something this important?”
“Narcberry is one of the finest contributors to FE theory...”
“Oh, I’m not saying he’s not a great scientific mind!” Natasha protested. “It’s just that...well...he
is an asshole...”
A great whooshing noise halted all further conversation and both Tom and Natasha looked up to see what the source of it was.
Through the night sky, a large object came swooping down over the rooftops of the neighbourhood and hovered for a while over the Merriweather residence. Squinting up at it, the two friends leaning against the Eldorado could just make out that it was a rowboat.
The flying boat landed with a dull thump on the boulevard next to Natasha’s car and a spry figure clambered out carrying a small bundle.
The man that now stood before Tom Bishop and Natasha could only be described as clownish in appearance. Dressed in full formal graduation attire – a flowing, yellow-striped gown complete with motorboard cap – Narcberry cut quite a gaudy and comical figure. He had a rather florid complexion and his eyes were dark and manic and wild and seemed to be furtively glancing everywhere at once. Like Tom, he seemed to always be wearing a smile...only the wide grin he had pasted perpetually on his face could only be described as “shit-eating”.
The very picture of vaudeville, Narcberry saluted and gave his traditional greeting in his shrill voice...
“The earth is flat!”
Natasha was not amused.
“Damn it, Narc! What if somebody saw you?”
Narcberry, still holding the small bundle in the crook of one arm, gave a look of false remorse and then cackled nastily.
“Just where the hell did you get that thing anyway?” Natasha demanded, indicating the previously airborne rowboat and doing her best to keep her voice at a reasonable level.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Gayer.” Narc tittered reproachfully. However, a look from Tom forced him to admit: “I commandeered one of the boats of Dogplatter’s dinosaurs and got Engy to engineer it for flight. It took a lot of convincing to get him to do it too...”
“For God’s sake, Narcberry,
why?!?” Natasha asked.
Narcberry looked very pleased with himself and he needed no encouragement from Tom to answer this time.
“Well, you see, it was all inspired by RET! As you know, water is weightless in its own medium which means that the molecules have a buoyancy force equal to that of gravity! Entailing that, were the earth round, the oceans would
float through the sky! I thought it only fitting to make a boat to do that as well!”
Narcberry chortled at his own brilliance as Natasha rolled her eyes. Even the impassive Tom seemed impatient with his antics.
“Please, Narcberry.” He said. “RET will be as pathetic and ridiculous later as it is at present which leaves plenty of time to poke fun at our leisure. Right now, though, we have work to do. How is the child? Was there any trouble?”
“None.” Narcberry replied holding up the bundle and revealing it to be a blanket-wrapped baby, fast asleep. “I managed to fish him out okay from the rubble and the little turd has been sleeping since Philly.”
Tom nodded and took the bundle carefully from Narcberry’s arms. Together, the three of them walked up to the front porch of the Merriweather’s house where Tom laid him gently at the foot of the door. They all leaned over to get one last look at the boy.
“His face is kind of misshapen, isn’t it?” Observed Natasha/Gayer.
“Yes.” Tom sighed sadly. “I’m afraid the agents of The Conspiracy did some damage to him before they were vanquished. Especially his eyes...I’m afraid he may need to wear glasses from an early age..”
Natasha wrinkled her nose.
“The rest of his face is pretty disgusting too.” She said. “He sort of looks like...”
“A troll!” Narcberry finished for her, cackling his signature cackle. Tom sighed again.
“Yes. I hope he is not ridiculed too much for it at school...”
“Well, let’s get back to the party!” Narcberry ruined the moment callously. “Assuming those faggots Raist and Hara have left us anything!”
“Shut up, Narc!” Natasha hissed. “You’ll wake up the entire street!”
As Narcberry and Natasha walked back down the driveway arguing towards their respective modes of transportation, Tom waited for a moment and then slipped a letter quickly into the blankets the small child was wrapped in. He smiled his benign smile as Natasha finally left the Merriweather’s boulevard in her Cadillac and Narcberry soared away in his flying rowboat. Tom looked up at the moon and then back down at Rowbotham’s sleeping heir one last time.
“Good luck, Eric Bloedow.” He whispered softly. “Until our next meeting.”
Then, turning back the way he had come, Tom Bishop disappeared into the night.