The Prince of Neither Here Nor There Read online

  PUFFIN CANADA

  THE PRINCE OF NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

  Comedian SEÁN CULLEN’S many stage and screen credits include the CBC’s Seán Cullen Show and Seán Cullen’s Home for Christmas Special, 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 three Gemini Awards. Seán is also a member of the Stratford Shakespeare Festival Acting Company.

  Also by Seán Cullen

  HAMISH X

  Book One:

  Hamish X and the Cheese Pirates

  Book Two:

  Hamish X and the Hollow Mountain

  Book Three:

  Hamish X Goes to Providence, Rhode Island

  THE CHRONICLES OF THE MISPLACED PRINCE

  Book Two:

  The Prince of Two Tribes

  THE PRINCE OF

  NEITHER HERE

  NOR THERE

  SEÁN CULLEN

  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

  Published in Puffin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2009 Published in this edition, 2010

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (OPM)

  Copyright © The Orb Incorporated, 2009

  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 the U.S.A.

  ISBN: 978-0-14-317121-8

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request to the publisher.

  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.

  Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at www.penguin.ca

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  This book is for my Brendan,

  who is too small to understand

  how much I love him,

  and for Kimberley, who is larger

  and might have an inkling

  of how much I love her.

  An Introductory Note from the Narrator

  Hello, Person. Welcome to the book. I have been chosen to be your narrator for as long as this story lasts. I can’t help pointing out that you are especially lucky. I am the best.

  Narration is a serious business to be taken seriously by serious people. Fortunately for you, I am an extremely serious person. I rarely smile and I am very careful about personal hygiene. Not that people who are clean don’t smile ... I am however very clean and I rarely do smile.

  As always in the books I narrate, there are numerous footnotes, those little tiny numbers throughout the text that direct a reader to the corresponding number at the bottom of the page where an explanation of a difficult term or perhaps a clarification of a plot point will be found. Be sure to read these footnotes. I take a lot of time preparing them and, indeed, I was given several awards for best footnoting at the Institute for Advanced Narration in Helsinki, Finland.1 I also received the Footnoter of the Year Award three years in a row. The award comes with a tiny trophy that I have placed on a tiny shelf just below and to one side of the large shelf where I keep my large trophies.

  The beginning of a series of books is always a momentous time. We are about to embark on a journey together into realms unknown. We will meet characters of many stripes.2 We will delve into dark places and find great joy and sorrow. Therefore, I suggest that you examine your intentions and be sure you are ready to make the commitment to finish this tale once you have started.3

  I always take precautions when starting a new story. I make sure I have plenty of hand lotion to keep my fingertips moist as I peck away at my keyboard. It wouldn’t do to get chapped tips! With each keystroke, the pain would become more and more intense, and unconsciously I would tend to make the story more and more bitter. I also try to have several extra pairs of fresh underpants handy. When I get involved in my writing I often lose track of time. In addition, I have a specially designed chair that massages my lower back at the touch of a button.

  Perhaps you have enjoyed some of my earlier work. I narrated Langar the Electric Donkey: Parts One Through Seventeen.4 I also won several awards for my narration of The Secret Life of Soap, a work of non-fiction that was praised as “a foamy and delightful odyssey through the life of a bar of soap” by The New York Times Book Review. Most recently, I narrated the very popular Hamish X series, which received several accolades, including Best Use of Cheese and Pirates. My point is that I know what I’m doing, so you can relax and just enjoy the book you are about to read.

  The Prince of Neither Here Nor There is the first in a series of books about a boy named Brendan who doesn’t realize his true nature. Certainly, sometimes we are all confused about who we are. For several days last month I was convinced I was a little French girl named Collette, but that was after a sharp blow to the head I received during a bank robbery.5 The boy in The Prince of Neither Here Nor There, Brendan, finds himself caught in a struggle between two worlds as he tries to find out where he fits into both. During the course of the story he will face strange and unknown dangers, discover new and amazing powers, and meet friends and family he never knew existed. I don’t want to give too much away so I’ll leave it at that. Suffice it to say that you will like this story: it will be exciting and fun! So keep reading!

  This is also a story about Faeries. Not Fairies. There’s a big difference, and it isn’t just that one is spelled with an “e.” Fairies are ineffectual little things that flit about in children’s stories, shoot magic dust into people’s faces, and dress up in flower petals and all that hooey. Insipid little things! No. No. No! The Faeries we will be dealing with are something different altogether! They are a noble race, an ancient race, often marvellous and magical but just as of
ten deadly and dangerous. I hope you are up to this. If not, put down this book and back away carefully.

  If you haven’t backed away, I assume that you are going to continue reading. Good! You’re just the sort of reader I admire. Let’s get down to it! How shall I start? Hmmmm. I know. How about a prologue? Sounds like a plan ...

  Now, let’s begin. Since this is technically a Faerie Tale we should start with a suitable phrase. Are there any four words more filled with excitement and anticipation than ...

  Once upon a time ...

  1 Good. You read this footnote. I think we’re going to get along just fine.

  2 By “characters of many stripes” I do not mean that the people will literally be striped. I mean that they will be quite different from one another. If this were to be a story about a group of zebras, then, most certainly, the characters involved would have a stripy tendency.

  3 In ancient China, during the Han Dynasty, anyone who started reading a book but didn’t finish it was thrown in prison and had to stay there for as long as it took for the warden to read the book in question. One would always hope that the warden was a speed-reader.

  4 Langar the Electric Donkey is now sadly out of print in the English language but is still available in

  5 I was not robbing the bank! Get that thought out of your mind. I was waiting in line to obtain a money order when bank robbers entered the establishment. I objected to their butting in front of me in line and was pistol-whipped for my pains. Pistol-whipping is painful but never as painful as being shot with a pistol. I suggest that you try to avoid both options if at all possible.

  Prologue

  … A storm lashed Saint Bartholomew’s Orphanage as though intent on peeling the slate roof away to gain entry to the old redbrick building on Liberty Street.6 St. Bart’s stoically withstood the howl of the wind and the torrents of rain as it had for over a century. Water gushed from its leaky gutters, pooling in the asphalt courtyard and overflowing the sewer grate, creating a small lake at the bottom of the cracked stone steps leading up to the front door. In the flashes of lightning the slate roof tiles glistened like molten lead traced with silver. The building seemed to cringe as the thunder rolled across the purple night sky.7

  St. Bart’s had begun its life as the chapel of Toronto Central Prison in the late nineteenth century.8 The prison, now long since demolished, was located on what was then the outskirts of the young city of Toronto. Farther west, along the waterfront, was the small affluent village of Parkdale, home to the rich burghers9 who could afford to be away from the soot and train yards of the growing metropolis. The prison was built on land that was surrounded by warehouses, rail yards, and the pungent hog slaughter yards that gave Toronto its nickname “Hogtown.”10

  When it was built, the prison was hardly in a coveted location. No respectable person would want to live next to a slaughter yard on a rail line. But the reek of pig manure and the clatter of freight trains were thought to be a fitting addition to the misery of those incarcerated for their crimes. Decades later the prison was shut down as the city swelled westward to encompass its grounds. The only vestige of the correctional facility was the grimy chapel and the name of the road that ran before it, Liberty Street.

  The chapel escaped destruction only because a Catholic charity that cared for orphans was willing to take on the task of renovating the building for their needs. The nuns of St. Bartholomew raised the money from wealthy, guilty Catholics to turn the chapel into a dormitory for children made bereft of parents by accident or neglect. Their young charges slept in rows of cots by night and learned their letters by day in a schoolroom overlooking the bleak asphalt playground that had once been the convicts’ exercise yard.

  St. Bart’s had endured much over the decades, but slowly the district around it slid further into decline. Industry moved to cheaper locations outside the city, and the orphanage gradually crumbled despite the sisters’ best efforts. St. Bart’s was teetering on the brink of a precipice of debt.

  On this night, the sisters convened in the kitchen after all the children were tucked safely in bed. They were discussing the future of their enterprise. A tray of biscuits and pot of tea on the table were largely ignored.

  “Bleak!” Sister Anna Grace announced. Spread before her on the table’s scarred surface were the orphanage’s ledgers, displaying an alarming amount of red ink.11 “We are in a very desperate situation, sisters. Our creditors have been quite patient with us up to now, but we can’t hope to rely on their patience much longer. They will not wait forever to be paid.”

  “Why shouldn’t they wait?” Sister Hildegard grumped, her normally sour expression deepening, lips twisting, and nose wrinkling as if the air itself offended her. “We do the Lord’s work here!”

  “Indeed, Sister Hildegard.” Sister Cecilia, the Mother Superior, raised a hand in gentle entreaty. She was tired and had no stomach for Sister Hildegard’s belligerence, even when it was aimed at others. “We must thank them for their generosity. They have done so much for us up to now, extending our lines of credit and donating all they can, but one must remember that they have families of their own and businesses to run. They have been kind, but we must face the possibility that St. Bartholomew’s may be forced to close its doors.”

  The announcement silenced the nuns. For a long moment the kitchen was filled with the sound of rain lashing against the windows and water dripping from the leaking roof into a metal bucket placed in the middle of the table. Sister Cecilia looked at each of the sisters in turn, her watery blue eyes taking in the defeat on her colleagues’ faces. She sighed inwardly.

  Motivating the staff was becoming more and more difficult. The sisters worked so hard in the face of so many difficulties. And who was going to shore up her own flagging spirits? No, she chastised herself. You are the Mother Superior! No time for self-pity.

  “Sisters,” she said, masking her worry with a smile, “let us not be so downcast. We still have a little time. I suggest we all get some rest and perhaps the Lord will send us some inspiration. Say an extra prayer tonight. Remember: miracles do happen. The Lord will provide.”

  “Sister.” The heavy male voice made all the nuns startle. They turned toward the doorway and saw Finbar, the groundskeeper and general handyman, looming there, his flat woollen cap in his thick, scarred fingers. Finbar had served in his post for many years, coming to work at St. Bart’s after his sentence at the old prison was finished. His large ruddy face and pale blue eyes spoke of his Irish origins, and broken veins on his florid cheeks spoke of his fondness for whisky, a failing that the sisters chose to overlook. He had a full head of thick white hair. He was tall and solid, filling the doorframe with shoulders that were still wide and sturdy despite the fact that he was well into middle age. A career as a petty thief and housebreaker had landed him in jail many times. When the Toronto Central Prison finally closed in 1915, the then Mother Superior, despite the other sisters’ objections, had decided to take a chance on him. Finbar had been with them ever since. He was good with his hands and could fix almost anything. He also seemed to have a soft spot for the young children, teaching those who were so inclined woodwork-ing and basic mechanics in his workshop across the yard. In a nightly ritual, he informed the sisters, “The windows is all latched and the shutters closed. If there be nothin’ else, it’s me for bed.”

  “Thank you, Finbar. Good night.”

  The big man nodded and clomped off to the cellar, where his bed was nestled in a cozy nook, up against the warmth of the ancient furnace.

  “As I was saying, sisters, a fervent prayer would not be out of place tonight,” Sister Cecilia suggested with a confidence she didn’t really feel.

  “Humph,” huffed Hildegard, pushing her chair back from the table. “It’s a miracle we’re hoping for, is it? Well, they’re few and far between these days. And the Lord didn’t have a mortgage.”12 With that, Hildegard tramped out of the kitchen. Sister Cecilia and Sister Anna Grace listened to the tread of Hildegar
d’s feet on the stairs as she ascended to the nuns’ sleeping quarters on the third floor beneath the rafters.

  “I’m sorry, Mother Superior. I wish the news was better, but we’re just running out of money.”

  “I know, my dear,” Sister Cecilia said. “Don’t worry. You’ve done an excellent job. There’s only so much any of us can do. Never mind Sister Hildegard. No one likes to hear bad news. You gather up your things and go to bed now. Those children will be up early tomorrow as they are every morning. You need your rest.”

  Sister Anna Grace gathered up her ledger books. “What about you, Mother Superior? You should get some sleep. You look tired.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, dear. One always looks tired when one gets to be my age,” Sister Cecilia said with a rueful sigh. “I’ll just clear away these tea things and I’ll be right up.”

  Left alone in the kitchen, Sister Cecilia cleared away the remnants of the sisters’ meeting. Placing pot and cups, creamer and sugar bowl, and crumb-laden plates onto the tray, she carried it to the counter and set it down by the sink. The window over the kitchen sink gave her a view of the rain-lashed waste ground across Liberty Street and farther on to the lights of cars crawling along the expressway. The grey bulk of the buildings that made up the Exhibition Grounds rose in a dark silhouette, backlit by flashes of lightning. In years past the great lake beyond had spread out as far as the eye could see, but the concrete span of the highway now blocked it from view.

  “Not that I could see that far these days,” Sister Cecilia mumbled ruefully to herself. She was getting old. Her seventieth birthday was approaching, and in the damp early mornings she felt every year in her bones, the dull ache lingering longer and longer into the daylight hours.