Uncle Sparky and The Haunted Socks
Dearest Gunilla,
I know that you are very busy with your own Jul preparations, and I admit that my own letter will be short this year since the milkweed harvest has been long, large, and extremely unruly this year. That said, Wash and Clovis had a curious adventure during a visit to the stately home and Jul stocking workshop of their cousins on the historic Sockington Estate I am, therefore, turning this year's story to Dr. Fourre-tout himself.
The very best and jolliest of Juls to you and all the Dyrsens! The doors of Myristica are always open should you ever chance to visit us yourself, but until then I remain, as always, your fondest cousin
Attis J. Püppendottir
From the Case Files of Dr. Washington "Wash" Fenimore Fourre-Tout, PhD, Cryptocrepundologist and Friend of Toast
It happened this year that Clovis and I were invited to tea at the Sockington Estate the first week of October - and as we had just completed work on an article for Cryptocrepundology Weekly and it was still several days prior to the start of the Jul season, we were ready for a jaunt. Especially with toast.
I don't know if you are familiar with Sockington & Co. Finest Stockings, All Sorts and Sizes for Every Jul, but the family has been in business for some time. Argyle Sockington and his second cousin Eustacius "Stitch" Highwool opened a small shop in the autumn of 1898 after the famous 1897 Jul Stocking Shortage* (*Footnote: following editor Francis Pharcellus Church's reply to 8-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon's query as to the existence of Santa Claus in the New York Sun on September 21, 1897, Christmas stockings were in such demand that they were as scarce as elbows on a chicken.)
Argyle and his daughters Flossie and Perle, along with Stitch and his charming wife Millie, (née Charlotte Camille deLaine), all of whom came from a branch of the Ouessant family known for luxurious long wool so fast-growing that the deLaines were already well-known for their line of scissors), engineered a Jul stocking with a specially reinforced orange pocket designed to prevent the dreaded Christmas Eve Citrus Sag / Drop*, the bane of every Julster's heart. (*As it is traditional to put the orange in first, the heavy fruit drops immediately to the toe, stretching the stocking out so that it becomes impossible to put in almost anything else without snagging and a lot of irritation on the part of those charged with filling the stockings.)
The partnership was immediately successful. It seemed an ideal match between the cousins, but it cannot be denied that there were some noteable upheavals along the way; Argyle being a businessman first and foremost ("Old Sockington? Very nearly *Sippian (term for a human being) if you ask me", not a few said after dealing with Sockington). Stitch Highwool, on the other hand, was an enthusiastic naturalist and bon vivant who was just as likely to be found out catching snowflakes on his tongue as designing a new line of stocking, or doodling butterflies on the factory output charts.
But all that aside, the storms were weathered and Sockington's grew to a year-round workshop supplying hearths and mantels in every country celebrating Jul today. Eventually the Persle and Flossie Sockington took over and still reside in the original workshop, where they serve a sumptuous tea featuring lemon curd made from the lemons in their own conservatory, brought from the tropics by the Highwools after an excursion to document new dye plants for the sock factory.
We arrived at Sockington Estate where we were ushered in by an intern wearing the newest Jul design, a very jolly pattern of repeating hreindyr* (small species of reindeer indigenous to Northern Europe) stripes and tinselvine* (reference to the major agricultural exports of Myristica and other Household farms worldwide). "Just this way, gentlefolk," he pointed us to a table groaning wtih a variety of lemon cookies, lemon tarts, and a hot lemon mint sweet tea of which Victorine would have approved. (although Mischa and Beech would have suggested pairing it with a little of their milkweed silk apèratif).
We rejoiced to see so many of our friends and mentors from our early days in The Order of Friends of Toast * (footnote about FoT, and the Order of the Golden Crumb, Crouton d'Or)
"How nice to see you both!" Miss Perle clapped her little gloves. "We haven't seen you since you were just little sprigs!" Miss Flossie patted the chair next to her. "We'll just settle in for a nice long chat and eat up these nice little tarts that Perle baked this very morning. Our lemons are coming on a treat, so if there are any left, we insist you take a big box home with you, as we're expecting just one more for tea today."
Just as the Misses Sockington (impossible to separate them except by hat color - Perle is fond of shades of chicory blue, while Flossie prefers coral pink) Perle was filling our cups and Flossie was laying on the cream with a lavish hand, the door blew open and an explosion in vivid chartreuse scarves blew into the room like a bad dream, the intern trailing behind and fighting off the backslip of diaphanous material as it wound around his head and feet like ghostly green pythons.
"Madame Ordealya!" the Misses Sockingtons cried. "How wonderful to see you. Tea?"
"Of course, my darling darlings," the scarf-draped apparition intoned in a voice that undulated as lush and green as its drapings.
Clovis raised one eyebrow at me over his cup. I shook my head the tiniest bit. I didn't know who this might possibly be.
"Madame Ordealya," Flossie began, "is the answer our little problem," Perle finished in a whisper.
Again, I was at sea. What problem?
"You see," said Flossie,
"We're haunted. " said Perle.
Chapter Two
The intern assisted Mme Ordealya Kravatsky in unwinding her outermost wrappings, which were a particularly bilous shiny green, but the only thing Clovis and I could actually make out were a pair of tiny deep-set eyes as black as well-licked licorice drops between lashings of bangles and veils. Ii could just make out the outline of two enormous feet under layers of drooping petticoats.
"Madame Ordealya's the toast of two continents," breathed Flossie. "The seventh in a dynasty She's conducted spirit readings for the Crown Prince of Swedenstein!" Perle nodded. "And she's agreed to clear her calendar just for us,"
Most generous of her, I thought. My cousin had set down his plate and cup and I could see him rummaging surreptitiously in his handbag, a smart red velvet affair that served as one of his collection of minaudières* and was easily his favorite. (Note about minaudières). Raising my voice, I asked "Might we ask what leads you to think that you're being haunted?"
Now, most people don't really like to talk about being haunted if they really believe they're being haunted. First of all, it's unpleasant to find that other folks tend to think the worst, that either you've gone stark staring bonkers or you're telling some really outrageous whoppers. Second of all, you yourself would rather believe that there's something living in your chimney or that there's an echo in your stairwell, or that your antique mirror is catching the light in such a way that you see watery reflections in your windows that just happen to look like your great-great-grandmother Elspeth, who was such a grouch when she lived in your house.
And so I did expect Flossie and Perle to demur, to prevaricate, to beat around the bush. But no.
"It started with the conservatory door!"
We came downstairs as always to pick a fresh lemon for breakfast tea, and the door was standing wide! And we have the only key! whispered Perle. It belonged to Minerva, finished Flossie.
Before she disappeared, said Perle.
Clovis and I looked at each other. The name Minerva rang a bell, but neither of us could place it.
Minerva Highwool, our niece, who disappeared not long after Poor Dear Papa....
Yes, we knew that Argyle had not been seen for some time, and was thought to be well, perhaps, gone, if you understand me. And she's your niece?
Yes, you see, her mother was our sister Millie
Who married Eusticious Highwool
Against Papa's wishes
Which caused more than one ruckus
Until the last one, which was when Minerva left.
But she left a note
And Poor Dear Papa was so undone that he was well, incandescent with rage, and POOF
Went right up
But that's been years ago and now
We're haunted.
It was a little while before we coaxed out of them the exact nature of their dilemma, and it turned out it was haunted socks.
Socks? Said another of their friends, the one that was surreptitiously picking all the chocolate covered lemon peel out of the bridge mix and putting in in her purse, which in spite of its cavernous size was probably NOT a minaudière.
Madame Ordealya, who was polishing off an entire lemon meringue pie, brushed the crumbs off her artichoke (and with all those layers she resembled an artichoke) green bosom and cleared her throat.
"It's a message, my dears, a message from your Poor Dear Papa. And I'm sure it's got something to do with the Sock Market, unless I miss my guess."
(Okay, probably not the Sock Market, I hate high finance in the world of the Püppen...)
No comments:
Post a Comment