Dralon and The Adventure in the Contrary World (English version)

The Strange Package

The sun had no wish to appear on that menace-gray autumn morning. The sky threatened loads of rain, and the clouds, clustering like excited shoppers at a clearance sale, urged folks to grab their raincoats and umbrellas.

No one expected that this dull, grey day of September would soon become a day to remember.

The idea didn't cross the mind of the solitary, cantankerous Mr. Dickens as he sat on his rocking chair, filling his fine pipe with good Virginia Gold tobacco. It didn't dawn on the lovely Mrs. Pumpkin as she baked her delicious almond cookies for the neighborhood housewives' committee, singing all the while. Not even Mrs. Moffet, at 13 Crocks Pot Road in Bromley, could foresee it, while she hurriedly prepared breakfast for the family before leaving for her tedious day of work at Starling department store.

"Welcome, Mr. Fall!" She thought, resigned, as she looked out of her kitchen window. "You're as punctual as an electric bill."

She sipped her steaming coffee from her favorite porcelain cup, then sighed longingly as she let go of the pleasant memories of her recent vacation.

Just then, the old transistor radio on the fridge, the only valuable object she had inherited from her stingy Uncle Albert Longbeard, started to broadcast the morning news: due to the usual, unending street reconstructions, there were streams of cars, taxis and busses congesting the downtown area.

"Typical!" blurted out Mr. Romeo Moffet, in a passionate tone of voice, as he struggled to pass through the door. "They start dozens of projects at the worst possible times, and then they wonder why the congestion continues for miles. And do you know what's really funny?" he said, turning his red face toward his rather unconcerned wife. "The holes. You think, OK, I'll stay stuck in these terrible traffic jams for hours, but at least the quality of the streets will improve. Wrong! The holes just keep multiplying like rabbits. At this rate, I wonder what will become of our country."

He gave her a quick kiss and twirled back down on his chair, rubbing his hands as he anticipated the taste of the inviting omelets "à la Moffet." A tower of piping hot, savory pancakes was in the middle of the table, waiting to be ruthlessly devoured. At that delicious sight, his worries about city traffic vanished completely and his mood quickly improved.

"Where are the kids?" he asked, extracting a piece of bacon from between his teeth. His wife glanced at the cuckoo clock over the door and raised one brow in disapproval.

"Peter, Michael, and Kate-Madeleine Moffet, I'm giving you exactly five minutes to come down and have breakfast, or this evening you'll have to clean the basement by candlelight!" she said distinctly, as she bustled around with pans, cups, and orange squeezers.

Suddenly, the upper floor echoed with the sound of hurried steps. In no time, the three children were sitting at the table, wearing their uniforms and backpacks and gobbling down cookies, toast and jam.

Eleanor Moffet's warnings were always taken seriously. She was not exactly the sweet mommy who read fairy tales at night. She was a large lady with a pale oblong face, framed by a thick head of hair which she kept orderly in a bun. She was definitely old school – strict, authoritarian, and a firm believer in ancient remedies and in the good old punishments of days gone by.
In other words, a true tyrant.

A completely explicable harshness, given that she herself had received from her mother, Helga Oleg-Stonebrock, descendant of an ancient Viking lineage, an education based on little cuddles and a lot of discipline, the only type of education that, according to rigid Helga, really formed character and prepared one for the bad weather of life.

"Good morning, London!" wished the cheerful voice from Radio Destiny.

"Good morning to you, sir in the radio," replied Kate, as she did every day.