I suppose you could call our little gatherings a club, although none of us ever did. There were six of us in all who met almost religiously at Kobold's Korner every Friday after school; one from each grade in Springwood Elementary. Six cubs who; under normal circumstances wouldn't give each other the time of day - school cred is school cred, no matter what others might say - somehow got together to play Magic the Gathering or Pathfinder or whatever came to mind. Don't ask me how it got started, because frankly I'm not too sure myself. It just happened when Lori yanked me from my comic-shelving duties to make an even half-dozen for their Houses and Humans campaign. What was supposed to be a one-off thing slowly became tradition, and I've been part of the group ever since.
The six of us were grouped around the table that day, just like any other Friday: Hazel O'Hare - a snarky fourth grader with more siblings than sense whose parents owned the little hardware store down the road, her BFF Samantha - some squirrel from second grade who stuck to O'Hare like glue, Hobart Tudhoe - possum third grader and wannabe hustler, the Small siblings(no, seriously!) Lori and Travis - first and fifth graders who lived in(!) the grounds of Pleasant Hill cemetery on the outskirts of town. Last but not least, Sanjesh Gupta - that's me; sixth grader and part-time wage worker at my Uncle Kumar's little comics store where I spend most afternoons bagging the latest issue of Rocket Rabbit or whatever into tamper-proof plastic sleeves (yeah, it's MY fault you can't browse `em before buying `em), refilling the dime dip, or helping Uncle Kumar at the counter.
Uncle Kumar grudgingly let me off duty to be the sixth because our Friday meetings gave us the status of regular customers. Things would go the same way each time; with us all voting for which game to start (or resume) that day, drawing lots to see who got to be Dungeon Master, and then ending with everyone (except me; employee's privilege) raiding the dime dip bin for the cheapest item in the store because; much like Starbucks, Uncle Kumar wouldn't let customers just sit around playing for free. Pretty lame rule, I know...but I can sort of see why he did it - without anything like that in place we'd have played for hours, getting in the way of customers and making a general nuisance of ourselves. Knowing something about the allowance woes of grade schoolers, he never insisted we buy anything more expensive than the little discount bargains in the dime dip...which was nice of him I guess. Anyways, it's the dime dip that I'm actually here to talk about.
Picture something like an apple-bobbing barrel tub; except filled with a carefully measured ratio of Styrofoam packing peanuts and bright plastic capsules instead of apples, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what I mean. The capsules are hollow egg shaped crackers made to be twisted apart at the middle, each with a random prize packed together with a sachet of silicon beads to make the closed egg `rattle' mysteriously and the usual folded paper `manual' that's mostly a warning along the lines of: DETACHABLE PARTS, DO NOT SWALLOW or something similar. Like even us kids would be dumb enough to do that. Well, those of us who aren't Travis anyway.
Prizes were fixed at ten cents per dip, which even Hazel could afford. It became something like a solemn tradition for me as the eldest (my arms could reach furthest into the barrel, you see) to scoop out six of these easter eggs one by one, ring up their fifty cents and divide them amongst our little group. Keeping in line with the campaign theme, we called this activity `loot-sharing' and cracking open the eggs to see what prizes we'd `won' made our games that much more real. Not all of them contained a prize, of course: At the cost of ten cents per try this was expected. Some of the eggs were empty except for that little rattling sack of beads and a slip of paper saying `Bad Luck - try again later'. It became sort of a ritual for us to play pass-the-parcel, trying to `guess' which egg held goodies. Nobody wanted to be stuck with the lame decoy.
That was what we were doing the first time IT happened: sitting around our table divvying up campaign spoils. Travis was the first to crack open his egg, and the expected swears - accompanied by the equally expected diversion of Lori muzzling his snout - wasn't anything out of the ordinary. What WAS unusual was Sam's frown as a similar slip of paper slid from her egg. ``Mine's empty too. How about you guys?''
``Me too. Me too. Me too,'' All six of the eggs were disappointingly free of prizes. Each had the same slip of paper inside it; suspiciously larger than the usual try-again-later message. ``Is this a joke?''
``Is what a joke?'' Hazel had been the first to read her message; glancing over idly at first but with eyes growing wider and wider as she read. For a moment she seemed to be about to crumple it up, but then turned it over so we all could read it:
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
``Eh?'' Travis was never the brightest bulb in our drawer. Or in any drawer, for that matter.
``It's saying one of us is gonna snuff it, mate,'' ever-helpful Hob chimes from his corner, nonchalantly leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table.
``Snuff it? You mean - ''
``Yeah. Pushing up daisies, off to the farm...whatever you wanna call it. Good thing we have an expert on such things with us, eh graveyard girl?''
Never missing a beat, Lori shoots him the middle finger. ``I've got the same poem,''
Again, a rousing chorus of `me too' echoes around the table. This is too weird for words.
``You...wanna dip again?'' I ask each of them in turn. ``Second time lucky, maybe?''
Nobody seems interested. We break up for the day, and it falls to me to put away the games as usual. ``See you next week for the Lich Lord's tower then? Same time, same place?''
``Sure, if we're all still alive by then,'' as usual Hob has to have the last word. Everyone laughs, but for once there doesn't seem to be much humour in it.
--
Following Friday; 4 p.m:
We gather as we normally do at Kobold's Korner for our usual game. This time the circle is incomplete, however. One chair remains stubbornly empty: Lori is conspicuously absent.
``She's not coming back,'' Travis tells all of us solemnly. ``Gone off to that boarding school,''
Huh. Pretty lousy timing, but still...
``The Prophecy! It's true!'' we all wince at Sam's shrill gasp. ``Least till one departs forever! Now Lori's gone - just like it said!''
Hazel snorts. ``Switch to decaf, Sammy. Going to boarding school isn't anywhere close to being dead. Also...forever? That's a bit extreme, innit? She'll be back at midterm: three, four months tops,''
``B-but,'' Sam has nothing more to add to this, settling for wrapping her tail around herself instead.
``Are we playing then or not?'' At least Hob has his priorities straight. ``Let's get down to it, then,''
We continue our campaign, doing our best to ignore Lori's empty chair. It is much harder to vanquish the Lich Lord with five heroes instead of six, but eventually we manage. We always do.
Which brings us to... ``Treasure!'' Travis hands over his ten pence, tail wagging impatiently in his chair. ``Gimme!''
I ring up their purchase again (forty cents this time instead of fifty), and pass the eggs around. We glance at each other, and by some unspoken agreement all twist the tops open at the same time:
Five sachets of silicon. No toy in sight. Five identical slips of paper; all bearing the same message
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
``Is this someone's idea of a joke?'' Hob sweeps his paper aside in disgust.
``If it is, it isn't very funny,'' Sam's lower lip trembles, she seems close to tears.
``What's going on, then? What's wrong?'' Uncle Kumar shuffles over, scratching his horns in confusion as he listens to Sam and Hobart explain the situation. ``We don't have messages like that,'' he says. ``The eggs come sealed from their factory with the normal message inside, and nobody's allowed to open them till purchase,'' the old goat nibbles at his beard in distraction. ``Must've been some mix-up on factory side, I'll be having words with them, see if I don't. In the meantime, have another - on the house. I insist!''
Hazel hesitates before allowing me to pass her another egg. Hobart, Sam and Travis follow her example. We crack them open on the table just like before, with Uncle Kumar looking on
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
``Impossible!'' Uncle says again, accent becoming thicker in his distress. He plunges an arm into the barrel, coming up with first one egg, then another. The first one he cracks reveals a Digimon toy. The second has the usual try-again-later message. ``It must be a coincidence!''
We offer the others a third try, even a fourth if it comes to that - but nobody seems in the mood for it. Eventually we say our goodbyes promising to meet next week as usual. Uncle Kumar is still shaking his head from side to side as I pack up the maps and character sheets. ``Impossible!'' he keeps saying, the exclamations of disbelief following me as I leave the shop
--
Following Friday, 4 p.m:
We were six on the day the messages started appearing; reduced to five the week after. Now we are four: no more Travis apparently, because his parents didn't think it would be safe for a first grader to be wandering around alone. Nevermind mixing with a bunch of older kids.
``It's that damn Prophecy,'' Sam announces fearfully. ``Picking us off one by one. Who knows which of us'll be next?''
``Bullshit,'' Hazel folds her arms firmly across her chest. ``Nobody's died so far, have they? Not even Creepy and Creepier. One's just gone to boarding school and the other's been grounded at home. That's not much of a curse,''
``Also,'' this from Hobart, idly tossing and catching a d20 in the same restless pattern. ``If it IS a curse, then it can't be very good at maths, can it? Because - newsflash - we're six, not seven. In case some of you can't count,''
All of us, even Samantha, have to acknowledge that he makes a pretty good point. ``Campaign time, then? Let's get on with it,''
We resume the campaign, but ultimately get our butts kicked. The monsters are too high level, being intended for six adventurers and not four. Morale is low. ``Loot, anyone?''
``Ah, what they hell,'' Hobart balls up his character sheet and tosses it into the trash. He slides over thirty cents before Hazel or Sam can object. ``Drinks are on me, barkeep. Keep `em coming,''
And so I do, rummaging in the barrel with Uncle Kumar in the background anxiously looking on. For some reason there seems to be more Styrofoam than eggs that day, so it is awhile before I manage to get hold of anything. ``No bad messages today,'' Uncle keeps saying. ``I check all eggs myself; open and close again. All the eggs in today's barrel have toys - all. It is my apology for last week,''
That explains the suspiciously empty barrel. No wonder its empty, if it only has four eggs inside it - one for each of us. They rattle most convincingly when shaken, but that could be toy parts or silicon. There's no real way of knowing. We take a deep breath, twist at the shells. Four sachets. Four slips of paper, each bearing the same dreaded message
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
The only noise Uncle seems capable of making is a `baa', words lost in annoyance and frustration. I usher the others out before brewing some tea to calm him down.
--
Following Friday, 4 p.m:
According to the school secretary, Hobart is marked down as sick today and absent from class. We know this, having taken the time to check after waiting awkwardly at the school gates for our little group to assemble instead of walking alone to Uncle's shop like we normally do. For some reason the added precaution seems sensible, despite the teasing that we older kids would get for mixing with younger grades.
``Three,'' Hazel says. Instead of her usual snide expression the hare looks tired, worn out. ``Not enough for a campaign. In fact, screw campaigns. If this carries on there won't be enough of us to play Go-Fish,''
Sam stifles a sob. I pet her on the shoulder. ``We'll stop by Hobart's house to see if he's feeling better, I'm sure it's just the flu. In the meantime, how about some Uno?''
We spend the rest of the time playing card games: Uno, Old Maid, Blackjack. Sam is surprisingly good at Blackjack, and before long has gathered dozens of tokens. ``Alright then, time for prizes,''
``No!'' at the very mention of prizes, the squirrel claps both paws to her ears. ``No prizes!''
``It'll be okay this time, Sammy. I promise,'' I make a pre-arranged signal towards the counter. ``Right, Uncle?''
``Right!'' Uncle Kumar clip-clops over, beaming all over his craggy face. He looks very pleased with himself. ``No bad papers today - no dipping today!'' The elderly goat waves a clear plastic ziplock baggie in our faces. Inside, there are about five or six gaily painted eggs; each with a label with one of our names pasted to it. ``I check all - ALL! Pick prizes for each of you! Good prizes! No charge! See!'' Pulling out a purple egg, I have enough time to see that the label reads `Travis' before Uncle twists it open, revealing a Pokemon figurine: Charmander - the little pup's favourite. ``I keep bag with me all times,'' Uncle brags, making eager motions for Hazel and Sam to draw out the eggs bearing their names. ``Always in my pocket. No way for bad papers to get in!''
At my encouraging nod, Sam opens her egg. We immediately see from her expression that something has gone wrong, even before she shows us the familiar slip of paper - the same sheet Hazel is currently holding:
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
``No!'' bleats Uncle Kumar in anguish. ``It can't be!'' He scrabbles in the bag, cracks open an egg with Hobart's name on it to reveal an awesome Balrog figurine, the very one that would complete Hob's collection. No prophecy, no message. He twists open the egg labeled `Lori', showing us a beautiful unicorn inside - the very same one we'd seen her admiring on occasion.
This is the first time we've seen Uncle in this state. Hazel mutters something about needing to babysit one of her numerous siblings. She and Sam say their goodbyes. I see them out the door.
Uncle raves. Stamps his hooves, tugs at his beard. Then he clutches at his chest all of a sudden and collapses to the floor. The Prophecy has come true at last. I don't know what to do. This wasn't the plan.
``Hob! Call 911! Get an ambulance! Please!''
--
I have a confession to make. It was all my fault. Mine alone. The whole thing was supposed to be a prank. Until it got too far, that is.
I was the one who slipped those joke messages into the eggs. I help Uncle Kumar at his shop, and I'm always the one to reach into the dipping barrel - so very simple for me to take out only the eggs that me and Hob had rigged.
Yes, Hob: With Lori as a reluctant third, the three of us were the masterminds behind this entire operation, though the messages were my idea alone. Lori had told me she would be leaving for boarding school. We both knew that with her away, there was little chance of their parents letting Travis meet us for games on his own. The time of her departure tied in nicely with my plans. Hob playing hooky on that last Friday was also part of it; but we honestly didn't mean any harm. The idea was for him to jump out and say `boo' once Hazel and Sammy were fretting about their new messages...
--or should I say; MY messages. I'd been the one to set up those eggs, after all. It'd been my idea to rig the dipping barrel, and my idea to replace Uncle's custom eggs with my own. At the time I didn't know it could go this far, everything was supposed to be a joke. Heart attack? Uncle Kumar never had any heart problems in his life!
Now he's in hospital, and it's all because of me. But that's not the worst I have to worry about, if you can believe it. No, that came after Hob called the ambulance to fetch him away - with me manning the shop and wondering just what I was gonna say to my parents when they get the news.
I decided to do some tidying up, you see? Dust the shelves, restock the dipping barrel...because I felt so guilty and all... I got out a new sack of Styrofoam peanuts, fetched a new crate of hollow eggs to fill the lucky dip with. Pour eggs in, top up the rest with Styrofoam. Nothing could be simpler.
Except...except something; I'm not sure what, drove me to open one of those new eggs, fresh from its carton - twist off the top, empty its contents on the table we played Uno at just moments before.
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
No. This is not one of my prepared eggs - it's a new one, fresh from the factory. With shaking hooves, I unwrap another:
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
No!
I crack one egg after another. No toys - not even one. But the messages keep piling up higher and higher, spilling over the table and scattering onto the floor. The words blur their taunting message into my mind; the same one every time, over and over again.
Seven: Once was this thy number
Least till one departs forever
No, no, no!
A noise from the front of the shop. The bell is ringing; somebody attempting to get in. It is a sound I'd dreaded, associating it with my parents to whom I'd surely have to tell my news. But now I'm dreading it for an entirely different reason. Because for some reason I can't seem to recognize the shape of whoever's outside as my parents, even though I can clearly see the silhouette of goat horns beyond the glass. The curse is upon me. There are other things with horns, after all. And not all of them are goats.
And so I huddle under the counter, knowing it is only a matter of time before I'll have to go open that door. I know I'll be doing it one way or another, just as surely as I know I deserve everything that I get. I'm just like the Sorcerer's apprentice - the one who set the brooms walking without knowing how to stop them. I set this curse in motion, and like Frankenstein's monster it's come back to its creator. I cannot help myself. Very soon I will find myself stumbling to the door, undoing the lock, wrenching it open to face whatever is waiting for me outside
Seven: little did I know how appropriate the number was when we chose it for our prank. Hob had been wrong. The curse COULD count. There were seven of us in the shop - six of us kids, plus Uncle Kumar. We had been seven all along, and it had been the fate of one among us to depart. Forever.
My fault, for messing with forces we scarce understood. The rattles of the lock are growing louder as whatever-it-is seeks to come in. I feel like hiding under my bed, or barricading the door with Uncle Kumar's full collection of Monster Manuals. Hide or go? Run or stay? I consider my options, arrive upon the only, logical choice -
--
Springwood Shopper; Page 3:
Authorities continue to be stymied in their search for one Sanjesh Gupta, last seen on duty at his family's establishment at the corner of - and - on Friday evening. Reports suggest that Mr. Gupta was pressed into watching the store while the proprietor received urgent medical assistance for a sudden onset heart attack. Said proprietor; one Kumar Gupta, is fortunate that his nephew and friends were able to respond quickly, and is expected to make a full recovery.
The same cannot be said for Sanjesh Gupta however, as by all accounts the sixth grader has gone missing without a trace. No signs of forced entry were to be found on the premises or any indication that items of value were taken, other than the boy himself. The contents of the cash register were completely untouched, with the only thing out of place being a blank bill of sale with Paid-In-Full rubber stamped across it and the following lines printed upon the bottom
Seven: once was that thy number:
Six remains - one's all I'm after
Police are urging anyone with further information on Gupta's disappearance to come forward, while we collectively pray for the sixth grader's safe return.
