The Nutcrackers
On Monday morning, unlike most of the city's workforce, Adria Higgins was running ahead of schedule. She glanced at her watch as she walked through the main door of Hamilton Communications, saw that it was only 8:45 and smiled, realizing she had plenty of time to stop at the coffee shop in the lobby before meeting with Price Underhill, the managing editor of Modern Collector magazine. Fifteen minutes later, with two large coffees in hand, Adria entered Price's office promptly at nine.
"On time, as usual," the editor observed. "It's amazing. In the eight years you've worked for me, I don't believe you've ever once been late."
"That's because I can't wait to see your smiling face," she teased, handing him one of the cups of coffee.
"I wish that were true, but it's more likely you're anxious to learn what your next assignment is going to be."
"That, too. I keep hoping you're going to send me to France to write about Limoges porcelain."
"France? Sorry, but not this time."
"England then? I've always loved those Royal Doulton characters and Toby jugs."
"I'm afraid Europe is out of the question right now."
Adria's mock, exaggerated frown registered her disappointment.
"How about a trip to Massachusetts instead?" Price suggested.
"Thanks a lot, boss. Well, at least I won't have to brush up on my high school French. What's the assignment?"
"Have you ever heard of a company called Muldowney Woodcrafters?"
"Yeah. They make hand-carved nutcrackers that sell for a premium price at upscale gift stores—definitely not Walmart merchandise."
Price handed his writer an envelope containing a plane ticket and a travel itinerary.
"You leave tomorrow. A car will meet you at Logan Airport and take you to Birchwood."
"Never heard of the place."
"It's north of Boston, just south of the New Hampshire border. It's not too far from Amesbury, Salisbury and Seabrook. Any of those places ring a bell?"
"I've heard of Boston."
"That's a start. As I was saying, the car will take you to Birchwood, where the Muldowneys live. They have a big house and are more than happy to have you stay with them. They're an elderly couple who moved to this country from Ireland some years ago."
"An elderly couple? Sounds like fun!"
"Cheer up. It should only take a few days. You'll be back in New York before the weekend."
* * *
When the driver took the exit ramp off the highway, Adria noticed the sign welcoming motorists to Birchwood. She was a city girl at heart. Nevertheless, she could not help admiring the beauty of the small New England hamlet. The car headed north on a country road, past the quaint Colonial houses and mom-and-pop shops, before venturing into the sparsely populated woodlands. The Muldowneys' house, which would more aptly be described as a castle, was set so far back in the trees that it was not visible from the road.
"This is it," the driver announced as he drove up the long, winding driveway and stopped in front of the house.
He then got out, walked around to the passenger side of the car and opened the rear door for Adria. No sooner did the journalist step onto the driveway pavement than a smiling, snowy-haired maid appeared at the front door to welcome her to the Muldowney home.
"Come in, dear," the woman greeted her in a pronounced Irish brogue. "Don't you worry about your bags. I'll have someone bring them up to the guest room. There's a powder room at the top of the stairs if you'd like to freshen up. When you're done, I'll take you to the parlor where you can have tea."
"And Mr. and Mrs. Muldowney? Where are they?"
"They're in the workshop, naturally. I'll go tell them you've arrived, and they'll join you in the parlor."
As the young houseguest made her way to the second-floor powder room, she eyed the exquisite antiques and expensive artwork that adorned the stone house. It was definitely preferable to staying at the Holiday Inn.
* * *
When Adria first saw Clancy Muldowney, he reminded her of an overgrown leprechaun. His green eyes twinkled merrily when he spoke, and large dimples formed at the corners of his mouth when he smiled, which he frequently did. Both he and his wife, Maeve, a plump, jovial woman, laughed a great deal and made the writer feel welcome and completely at ease.
"After dinner," Clancy proposed, "I'll take you down to the workshop."
"Dinner? You and your wife don't have to feed me. As it is, you're letting me stay in your lovely home. It's very generous of you."
"Nonsense!" Maeve brushed aside her objections. "We're glad for the company. My husband and I get lonely sometimes in this big house with no one but our children for company."
"Children?" Adria echoed.
Clancy cheerfully explained, "My wife is referring to our creations: the nutcrackers. We've become quite attached to them over the years."
"Alas!" Maeve sighed. "We never had any children of our own."
"I'm sorry," Adria commiserated.
"No need to be, my dear. The two of us have had a long, full life just the same," the jolly Clancy answered her. "And our work will last long after Maeve and I are gone."
* * *
Dinner proved to be an enjoyable experience. The food, traditional Irish fare, was delicious, and the hosts were exceptional conversationalists. Despite her initial misgivings about spending several days under their roof, Adria enjoyed the couple's company. Clancy delighted her with folktales from Ireland, and Maeve filled in the details her husband had forgotten. Adria was almost disappointed when the meal came to an end, but the evening was not over yet.
"Would you like to see our collection now?" Maeve inquired.
"Yes, please. I can't wait to look at your work."
The Muldowneys led her to a wing of the house devoted exclusively to their wood-crafting business. There was nothing particularly interesting about the workshop. The only things of note were a workbench littered with sawdust and scraps of wood, a cabinet filled with painting supplies, a toolbox and a pile of wooden posts, which would eventually be transformed into exquisitely carved nutcrackers.
"This is my kingdom," Clancy boasted. "Here is where our children are conceived and born, all individually brought to life with chisel and plane. Our next stop is my wife's workroom."
Maeve's room was more feminine than her husband's woodworking shop. Her work area was cluttered with bolts of felt, velvet, satin and lace, as well as spools of thread and packages of pins and needles. What Adria didn't find in the two workrooms was more interesting than what she did. Clancy had no power tools of any kind, not an electric saw or a battery-powered drill; and there was no sewing machine, electric scissors or glue gun among his wife's sewing supplies.
"When you advertise your nutcrackers are handcrafted, you're not exaggerating," Adria noted.
"Yes. We are a bit old-fashioned," Maeve admitted shyly.
"We prefer to think of ourselves as craftsmen, not manufacturers," Clancy proudly added.
The elderly woodcarver then reached into his pocket, took out a gold key on a shamrock key ring and unlocked a door at the rear of his wife's workroom. When Adria entered the private display room, her eyes widened with wonder. There were close to a hundred different nutcrackers in the glass cases that lined the walls; each carved masterpiece within was a prototype that was later put into the retail line.
"These are incredible!" Adria exclaimed, marveling at the nearly two-foot-high nutcrackers.
"In this case, we have our royal monarch collection," Clancy, assuming the role of tour guide, pointed out.
Among the subjects were Queen Elizabeth I, Henry VIII, Louis XIV, Richard the Lionheart and Mary Queen of Scots. The craftsmanship was first-rate. The pronounced mechanical jaw aside, a characteristic common to all nutcrackers, the figures looked like hand-carved dolls.
"That's Marie Antoinette, isn't it?" Adria asked, pointing to a finely attired wooden figure with an elaborate powdered wig atop its head.
"Yes," Maeve answered with an almost maternal love, "that's my Marie."
"Are your retail pieces this detailed?" the writer wondered, admiring the extensive beadwork on the French queen's gown.
"Certainly. We don't believe in cutting corners on our costumes. The clothing you see here is the same as on the nutcrackers we send out to our customers."
Once Adria had a chance to examine all the items in the royal monarchs collection, she moved to a larger one that consisted of famous literary figures. Her favorites were at the far end of the display case, in an area dedicated to William Shakespeare: wooden depictions of many of the bard's most beloved characters, including Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, Othello and Desdemona and a newly crafted Hamlet.
In her years writing for Modern Collector, Adria had seen thousands of collectibles: Harbour Lights, Hummels, Lladró sculptures, Precious Moments figurines, Delftware, expensive porcelain dolls and inexpensive Beanie Babies, and yet she had never wanted a collection of her own until now.
"How much would one of your nutcrackers sell for in the retail market?"
"That's hard to say. Some are priced higher than others," Clancy replied.
"What about Juliet here?"
"I'd estimate anywhere from $850 to $1,275, depending on where you buy her. High-end gift shops in places like San Francisco, Los Angeles and Manhattan always charge more."
Adria smiled wistfully, knowing she would never be able to afford even a single Muldowney nutcracker, much less an entire collection on her salary.
The last case in the display room held nutcrackers dressed in traditional cultural costumes from around the world: a Japanese geisha in a kimono and obi, a Scottish piper in a kilt, a Bavarian farmer in lederhosen and an Indian maiden in a sari. A Native American wearing a feathered headdress, an Eskimo in an animal fur parka, a Polynesian dancer in a grass skirt and a Dutch boy with wooden clogs completed the grouping.
"Now that you've met all our children, what do you think?" Clancy inquired.
"Words can't adequately describe how exquisite your work is," Adria praised them without any exaggeration. "I think we'll use the Romeo and Juliet nutcrackers on the cover, and on the inside spread I'd like to include close-up photographs of Marie Antoinette, Henry VIII, the Japanese Geisha, King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, Ebenezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim."
"Splendid! Tomorrow, you can visit the warehouse and take as many pictures as you like."
"I'd prefer to photograph the ones here in this room."
"I'm afraid that's out of the question," the Muldowneys declared in unison.
"I promise I won't harm them in any way."
"I know you wouldn't, but my wife and I never remove the prototypes from their cases."
The leprechaun-like man then looked at his watch and announced, "It's getting late. Maeve and I aren't as young as we used to be, and we need our rest. So, we shall say goodnight to you now."
* * *
Early the following afternoon, after a delightful lunch with her hosts, Adria was shown around the warehouse—located in a small town several miles from the couple's castle-like home—by Niall McGuirk, the production manager, a man nearly as old as the Muldowneys themselves. As Clancy had told her the previous day, the nutcrackers produced for retail were meant to be identical to the prototypes kept locked away in glass cases in the Muldowney home. Had she not seen the originals, Adria would have been greatly impressed by the reproductions. However, she had seen them, and in comparison, the retail nutcrackers were decidedly inferior. The writer could not put her finger on exactly what that difference was, but there was definitely something lacking in those in the retail line, some quality in the facial features perhaps.
Niall was most helpful. He set up a table with a white backdrop for Adria to use when taking pictures of the nutcrackers. The work went smoothly, and she was finished photographing by three. She stopped briefly for coffee and then returned to the production manager's office where she was given the company's most recent sales brochure. At 4:30, the Muldowneys' car picked her up and took her back to Birchwood.
"I trust you've had a productive day," Clancy said when Adria walked into the dining room.
"Yes, and your employees were most helpful, especially Niall."
"I'm glad. I instructed everyone to give you the V.I.P. treatment."
"Is there anything else you need to know about our children to write your article?" Maeve wondered.
"I'm sure our readers would be interested in knowing what to expect from you in the future. Are you working on any new pieces?"
"As a matter of fact, we are," Clancy confirmed. "We've almost finished Ophelia, a companion piece to Hamlet. We just need to add a few finishing touches, and then we can put her into production by the end of the year."
"I don't suppose you'll let me have a sneak peek at what you've done so far?"
Clancy's green eyes twinkled.
"I'll see if we can arrange an early unveiling—for your eyes only, mind you. No photographs."
"Of course not," the writer agreed.
* * *
After saying goodnight to the Muldowneys, Adria retired to her room, took out her laptop and began drafting her article. She opened by extolling the fine craftsmanship of the prototypes she had seen in the glass cases in the display room. While she was disappointed that she could not get a photograph of the first Romeo and Juliet to accompany her article, the pictures of the reproductions did the Muldowneys' fine craftsmanship justice.
But the faces of these nutcrackers, she mused, studying the digital images on her computer, lack the life-like appearance the originals had.
Feeling like a corporate spy, the writer slipped her camera and a nail file into her pocket and sneaked down to the Muldowneys' workrooms. Neither the door to Clancy's woodshop nor the one to Maeve's sewing room was locked, albeit the one to the private display room was.
"You don't think a common interior door lock can keep me out," Adria laughed to herself, reaching into her pocket for her nail file. "I was born and raised in New York City."
It took her only a few minutes to pick the lock and open the door, but as soon as she stepped inside the room, the door slammed shut behind her, and she found herself in total darkness. Her heartbeat quickened when she heard a shuffling noise and realized she was not alone. When the lights came on, Adria screamed, for in the center of the room she saw a group of robed figures standing in a circle around the trunk of a large oak tree.
"I'm glad you could join us, Miss Higgins."
She could not see the man's face under the robe's hood, but Adria had no difficulty recognizing Clancy Muldowney's voice.
"She's a perfect choice," muttered the man to his right, who sounded like the Muldowneys' production manager, Niall McGuirk.
"Yes, isn't she?"
The question was unmistakably asked in Maeve Muldowney's delightful Irish brogue.
Suddenly, two strong men grabbed Adria, forcibly led her to the center of the circle and secured her to the trunk of the oak tree.
"What are you doing?" she cried. "I demand you untie me!"
No one paid any attention to the writer's entreaties. The robed figures began to chant, not in English but in an ancient Celtic language. Adria fought against the ropes that bound her, but struggling did little good.
"It is time," Clancy pronounced in an authoritative voice, and the chanting abruptly stopped.
"As I told you at dinner," the woodcrafter reminded her, "I am going to give you a private showing of my new creation. Price, would you get Ophelia and bring her here?"
Adria's heart lurched. Was her boss, Price Underhill, one of the hooded celebrants? Was he in cahoots with the Muldowneys? Was that really why he had sent her to Birchwood?
Price walked to the glass case containing the literary figures. When he opened the door, it was as if a spell had been broken: the nutcrackers' mechanical mouths fell open, and a heartrending wail of anguish echoed through the room. The pitiable screams continued until the glass door was closed, at which time the mechanical jaws snapped shut and the figures fell silent again.
Unaffected by the heartrending outcry of the wooden people, he returned to the circle, carrying a nutcracker wrapped in a piece of green velvet.
"Here she is, Master," the managing editor of Modern Collector magazine said.
If Adria had any lingering doubts as to the man's identity, the familiar sound of Underhill's voice dispelled them.
Clancy removed the velvet covering and revealed the Ophelia nutcracker beneath it. Despite her terror, Adria could not help noticing that it was as beautifully dressed and finely crafted as the other prototypes in the display room. Yet, as was the case with the retail figures she had seen, something was missing in Ophelia's expression.
As though on cue, the people in the circle lowered their hoods of their ceremonial robes and turned their heads expectantly toward their master. From the folds of his robe, Clancy Muldowney withdrew a large, ancient, jeweled dagger. When Adria saw it, she shook with fear.
"Please don't hurt me," she sobbed.
Maeve stepped forward and ran her aged hand gently down Adria's long blond hair.
"Hush, dear," she cooed, trying to comfort the terrified young woman. "It will be over soon, and then you'll be one of our children."
* * *
Their sacrifice offered, the Druids worshipped at the trunk of the felled oak tree. When the prayers were over, Price Underhill nodded to the two strong men who had tied Adria to the trunk and signaled for them to dispose of her body.
"When you come back," the editor instructed, "take the tree trunk to the woodshop."
The oak tree had been cut down to honor the god of the Druids, but its felling had not been in vain. Clancy would use the wood to carve a new nutcracker. Although the ceremonial sacrifice was a necessity, he considered the waste of a human soul unforgivable. Thus, he had devised a way to preserve the wood of the fallen tree while at the same time encompassing the soul of the sacrificial human.
Price Underhill carried the Ophelia nutcracker to the Shakespearean collection case where it belonged. As he opened the door, the mechanical mouths of the other nutcrackers dropped open again, and the human souls trapped inside the two-foot-high wooden bodies reprised their mournful dirge. When the newly completed Ophelia was placed next to Hamlet, Adria Higgins's mechanical jaw dropped open, too, and her woeful cries joined the cacophony of lamentations of those of her wooden companions.
I don't know why Salem turned himself into a nutcracker for the holidays. The only nuts he likes are chocolate-covered ones!
