Hamish X and the Cheese Pirates Read online

  PUFFIN CANADA

  HAMISH X AND THE CHEESE PIRATES

  Comedian SEÁN CULLEN was a member of the highly influential musical comedy troupe Corky and the Juice Pigs until 1998. His stage and screen credits include CBC’s Seán Cullen Show, The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, the Showcase series Slings and Arrows, and the Toronto stage production of The Producers. He is the winner of two Gemini Awards.

  Also by Seán Cullen

  Hamish X, Book II:

  Hamish X and the Hollow Mountain

  PUFFIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in a Puffin Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2006

  Published in this edition, 2007

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

  Copyright © Seán Cullen, 2006

  Illustrations copyright © Johann Wessels, 2006

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  Libray and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-14-305311-8

  ISBN-10: 0-14-305311-6

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  To the real Hamish X, my hero

  Hello and welcome to the book. I hope you enjoy the adventures of Hamish X. As narrator, my job is to tell the story in an exciting manner, to keep the audience interested and entertained. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t. If narration were easy, anyone could do it. As it stands, every narrator must undergo a vigorous training and certification program. For example, I have attended the Advanced Narrator’s Certification College in Helsinki, Finland, where I received the highest score in the history of the facility. Lucky you!

  A few bits of business before we get to the story:

  Throughout the book you will encounter tiny numbers in the text. These are called “footnotes.”1 If you see a tiny number, go to the bottom of the page and you’ll find some useful bit of information.

  I have tried to tell the tale exactly as it happened. I have tried to bring you the story in a way that makes you feel you are right there, in the action, in situ.2 I’ve altered details only when they might be too gruesome or perhaps too greasy for anyone to enjoy. I’ve embellished only when necessary to make it interesting. Therefore, read on, oh reader! Turn the pages and learn the truth! Welcome to the first book in the saga of Hamish X: In Which Hamish X and His Companions Pit Themselves Against the Cheese Pirates of the Arctic Sea.

  PROLOGUE

  Fires blazed throughout the compound. Shouts and screams echoed in the corridors outside the little bald man’s office. The little bald man bit back a cry of terror as he heard heavy, booted footsteps march towards the door. The elaborate brass doorknob rattled violently, but the door was locked. A shout was answered by several harsh voices. Something heavy slammed into the oak door, shaking its frame.

  The little bald man was Francesco de Maldario, cheese master of the Parmesan factory at Parma. The door rattled again with a splintering sound that caused him to hug his knees closer to his chest and whimper in terror. He hid under his desk, knowing the door could not last much longer.

  Usually Francesco loved being in his office. He sat behind his desk (not under it) every day, master of one of the oldest and most prestigious cheese-making houses in the world. The Maldario Parmesan Factory made the finest Parmesan cheese in the world and had done so since the eleventh century, supplying the sharp and slightly smelly cheese to popes, kings, and celebrities all over the globe. There wasn’t a restaurant worth its salt3 that didn’t serve Maldario Parmesan on its pasta.

  Francesco had never been brave. He was a good businessman, a good administrator. He was fearless at the negotiating table, but he doubted that the people who were breaking down the door were interested in negotiating.

  After all, who attacks a cheese factory? thought Francesco. Nobody ever had, until tonight. Francesco had run at the first sound of trouble. He’d locked himself into his office and tried to call the police in Ravenna. But he discovered, to his dismay, that the lines had been cut. So he had ducked under his desk and prayed the invaders might overlook him.

  No such luck. The door shook again. With a wrenching sound, it fell into the room and boomed on the floor. Francesco stifled the urge to cry out. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to disappear.

  An eerie silence gripped the room. No one spoke. Francesco had begun to wonder if they’d gone away when he heard footsteps on the polished wooden floor of his office. Clump. Clump. Clump. They came inexorably nearer. Finally, they stopped right in front of the desk. Francesco opened his eyes and saw a pair of high black boots in need of a good polish only a foot from his face. They smelled powerfully of rancid milk.

  As quickly as a striking cobra, a huge hand darted under the desk, grabbing Francesco by the top of his head. He was hauled out of his hiding place and held up in the air like a car in a scrap yard that’s stuck to an electromagnet. His feet dangled above the floor as he kicked and writhed, trying to escape the vicelike grip that held him, but to no avail. Raucous laughter greeted his efforts.

  Francesco quivered with terror. He tried to prepare himself for death but found it hard to imagine the world without him in it. He started to blubber uncontrollably. Big hot tears coursed down his face, through his moustache, and off his chin.

  “Please! I beg you. Don’ kill me!” he sobbed. “I giva you anything you wan’.”

  Uproarious laughter was his only answer. They guffawed as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  “Don’ keeeel meee!” they mocked
, and laughed some more.

  “Silence!”

  The command rang out and the hilarity stopped immediately. The voice was powerful, gravelly, and harsh. Francesco was so scared he stopped blubbering and hung limp.

  Slowly, the hand that was clamped on his head turned him about until he was staring into the most terrifying eyes he’d ever seen. Bloodshot and huge, they loomed in his sight like blazing blue suns. He felt hypnotized by the glare, bathed in its evil radiance, burned by its cold fire.

  “Who are you?” Francesco stammered.

  “Who are we?” said the strange voice, dripping with threat. “We are the Cheese Pirates, of course.”

  A roar went up from the pirates, and Francesco thought that an excellent opportunity to pass out from sheer terror.

  Part 1

  WINDCITY

  Chapter 1

  On the afternoon that Hamish X arrived at the Windcity Orphanage and Cheese Factory, Viggo Schmatz sat in his office, a glass cube suspended above the factory floor, trying not to think about two things.

  The first thing he was trying not to think about was cheese piracy. In his bony hands, Viggo held a newspaper. The headline on the front page announced the latest attack by the marauding Cheese Pirates on an Italian cheese factory. He crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it into a corner. He hadn’t built up his magnificent cheese factory only to have it stolen from him by pirates. He would have to beef up security.

  The second thing, which filled him with dread, was the arrival of a new child at his facility. He employed many children, but this boy was no ordinary orphan. He would require special attention, heightened vigilance, and intense scrutiny. Viggo wished he could refuse to take the child in, but you didn’t say no to the Orphan Disposal Agency, not if you knew what was good for you.

  From his perch, Viggo had a bird’s-eye view of everything that happened below. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, the orphans laboured to produce the product that made Viggo rich: Caribou Blue cheese. Sitting in his comfortable chair, gazing down like a god from his lofty mountaintop as the children sweated and slaved, he felt important. Viggo decided to engage in his favourite pastime. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and daydreamed about himself.

  In his favourite daydream he stood at the podium looking out over a sea of adoring faces. Years of tireless work had finally brought him to this moment. He was about to receive the highest honour of the cheese maker’s profession: the Cheese Maker of the Year Award. In his mind he rehearsed what he would say as the chairman of the Cheese Board handed him the Golden Cheese Wedge, symbol of dairy excellence. A daydream still, but it would soon be a reality if Viggo stuck to his plan.

  Viggo had invested his entire life in the pursuit of cheese mastery. The road had been long and arduous. After twelve years studying at the University of Trondheim School of the Milky Arts and then a four-year apprenticeship with Lars Porgengrister in the Bulgarian Highlands, Viggo was ready to go out on his own. His goal: to create the most beautiful, rare, and powerful of cheeses. It took him years of experimentation and failure, but he’d finally hit on “the” cheese: Caribou Blue.

  He developed Caribou Blue from the milk of the caribou.4 The caribou is a finicky animal, difficult to milk and completely impossible to train. To obtain the milk, Viggo had to approach them at night while they slept (they sleep standing up), attach high-speed milking machines, and get as much of the precious milk as possible before the creatures woke up. His body had been covered with hoof-shaped bruises during those early experiments until he finally perfected his technique.

  The secret of Caribou Blue lies in the introduction of a very special, genetically engineered mould that produces a bluish-green marbling effect similar to Stilton or Roquefort.5 Viggo created this mould himself by crossing several different strains in a laboratory. He’d used standard cheese moulds, moulds found only in Tibetan caves, and even moulds that he found under his own toenails until finally he had a strain of intense aquamarine colour and pungent odour. In its finished state, Caribou Blue could be consumed only in very small quantities. Eating too much of it or even spending a long time in close proximity could lead to blindness, paralysis or, in extreme cases, death.6 Just one taste of the magnificent cheese, however, could yield a sense of wild euphoria or even induce hallucinogenic visions!7 No one had ever eaten more than three ounces of Caribou Blue and survived.

  Having perfected his product, Viggo built a factory on the remote shores of Hudson’s Bay with easy access to the migrating caribou herds and with water transport close at hand. Now all he had to find was a cheap, ready workforce. He solved his labour needs in an ingenious but heartless way: by turning part of the factory into a dormitory for orphaned children. Not only did he have a ready supply of children to labour in the dangerous cheese factory, children that no one cared about or wanted, but he also received tax incentives from the government for running a charitable organization. A vile, contemptible, heartless plan but one well suited to Viggo’s vile, contemptible, heartless personality.

  Viggo looked down at the children sweating below. Each one was delivered for his use by a shadowy organization called the Orphan Disposal Agency. Viggo had first contacted the ODA a few years before and they were only too happy to provide a number of fit orphans, gathered from around the world, perfect for Viggo’s uses. The children ranged in age from three to fourteen. They were strong, healthy, and had the spirit already crushed out of them. Oh, there was the odd rebellious one, but Viggo found that the threat of an imaginative punishment was enough to keep even the most obstinate child in line. The sheer isolation of Viggo’s operation also went a long way to ensure obedience and deter escape. The best part was that when a child grew to the difficult age of fourteen, the ODA took them away and provided a young replacement.

  Viggo never questioned where the children went after the Orphan Disposal Agency removed them. He didn’t want to know. Besides, the ODA wasn’t the kind of organization one questioned. The children were terrified of the grey-suited agents with their goggles and gloved hands. Viggo had to admit that even he himself was a bit frightened of them.

  Viggo located his factory on the border between the Canadian province of Manitoba and the Territory of Nunavut in a miserable little town called Windcity. Windcity got its name from the fact that it was officially the windiest town in the world. For a hundred and eighty-two and one-half days of the year a gale-force wind drove down from the Arctic Circle, causing every building in the town to lean southeast at a sixty-degree angle. On the other hundred and eighty-two and one-half days the gale-force wind shifted and blew northwest, causing the houses to change their slant to sixty-eight degrees in the opposite direction. The people adapted to the slant by wearing special clogs indoors that had one sole twice as thick as the other, allowing them to walk more or less naturally at an angle.8

  Living in the windiest town in the world had other hazards. Walking through the streets could be perilous. Citizens who lost their footing could find themselves blown like tumbleweeds across the tundra, stopping only when they ran up against a building in Churchill sixteen hundred kilometres to the south.9 Or, if they were less lucky and the wind was blowing northwest, they would never be seen again. The town council erected ropes throughout the streets linking all the buildings so that people could haul themselves along in relative safety. The wind was so powerful some days that it wasn’t unusual to see people pulling themselves hand over hand to the supermarket, their bodies parallel to the earth. (One happy by-product of the activity was that Windcity had won the world Tug-o-War championships fourteen years running.10) Finally, as a safety precaution, two long nets were strung across the north and south sides of town to catch anyone whose hands slipped.

  On top of the vicious winds, the terrain for hundreds of kilometres around the town was featureless, frozen tundra. Not so much as a single tree stood upright to break the monotonous landscape. Any child trying to escape the orphanage was sure to suc
cumb to the desolate climate. The only possible hope for escape was to stow away on one of the cargo ships that docked infrequently in the harbour to bring supplies in and ship the cheese out. Ruthless, vicious dogs, part wolf and hungry for child flesh, patrolled the harbour. The dogs themselves were beaten and starved by the cruellest of Viggo’s guards.

  You might ask why a town would be situated in such an inhospitable place. The answer is simple: propellers! Windcity was founded to take advantage of the powerful winds for the burgeoning propeller industry. When airplanes were invented, a place was needed to experiment and produce the propellers required to keep planes flying. Entrepreneurs flocked to the site to make their fortune.11 The jet plane eventually spelled the end for the propeller industry, however, and the people began to drift away.

  By the time Viggo arrived looking for cheap space to house his cheese production business, the town was practically deserted. Only two people actually lived there any more: a widow named Mrs. Francis and an old man named Mr. Nieuwendyke who believed he was a cat. Viggo took possession of a huge brick building that had once been a propeller factory. He installed windmills (made from leftover propellers) to provide him with all the free electrical power he needed to run the operation. The wind also blew the cheesy fumes harmlessly away. Well, not exactly harmlessly: all the grass for half a mile turned black and died.

  Everything Viggo needed to make his cheese was in place. He had a building. He had machinery. He had a steady supply of raw materials. And, thanks to the ODA, he had a workforce.

  If the children arriving on the doorstep of the Windcity Orphanage and Cheese Factory had deluded themselves into thinking they might have a happy life, they were cured of their fantasies when they saw the place. The building was a huge, square, redbrick hulk. Viggo had spared all expense in making it homey. The front door was a vast steel affair that added to the overall prison atmosphere. All the dormitory windows were of the frosted variety, with wires meshed through the filthy glass for safety reasons. The windows on the factory floor were bricked up to prevent impurities from getting into the cheese and children from climbing out. As a result, the children never saw the sun in the entire time they lived in Windcity. The cafeteria had sun lamps installed to provide the children with vitamin D. They were effective but totally cheerless.