The Quelling Quandary
By MLynnBloom
Summary: In any handy dictionary, you might find that the word "quelling" means "suppressing" or "overwhelming" and that "quandary" is "a dilemma". I advice you keep looking up definitions instead of reading this story where these questioning words refer to Quigley Quagmire's quest for the Baudelaires and his own siblings. (Takes place right after The Slippery Slope)
A/N: I have gotten such awesome reviews from everyone from my story The Ship in the Sky! I never thought I'd write another chapter to it (it was intended to be just one) but after the Grim Grotto, I realized that I could go a bit farther with it and actually write a story. Mostly on what happened with Quigley during Book the Eleventh, and them some.
(It's not exactly required to read A Ship in the Sky before you read this. I think most of you will catch on, but go ahead and read it if you want ::wink::)
Chapter the First
"I think we're out of sugar."
"We can't be. Mother just bought sugar. Check the cupboard on the left."
"But I've looked there and everywhere else and I can't--- wait… oh."
There were voices faintly coming from the kitchen and a clatter of pans. He yawned but he kept his eyes closed and soon felt himself falling back asleep again…
"Don't drop it!"
"Shh, you'll wake him up!"
He woke up to the voices again. He must have slept another hour or two. He heard footsteps in his room and pretended he was asleep, trying not to smile.
"Ready?"
"Yes… Quigley? Quigley, wake up…"
A hand shook his shoulder. It felt like Isadora's. He turned over onto his stomach and covered his face. They would have to try harder than that to get him up.
"Quigley? Wake up, Quigley! It's today!"
Quigley smiled. He couldn't take it any longer. He opened his eyes and then his mouth to speak. Instead, he inhaled in a lung-full of sand with his first breath.
He shot up, right out of his dream and coughed violently. There was nothing to help his choking, so Quigley coughed until he hacked up the sand. Then he collapsed on his back.
He did it again… reliving his past in his sleep and waking up to find it a painful memory. He had dreamt that particular one three times already since the fire and it always fooled him into thinking he actually was in his bed asleep, sick with the flu as Isadora and Duncan came in with their 13th birthday cake just for him. Just like he remembered.
He buried his palms into his eyes. He missed them so much… Finally he took a look around, squinting in the morning light.
Ocean. There were miles and miles of it as the tide continued to rise and fall. Its deep rumbling and crashing on shore could remind one of thunder, only without lightning. The morning was still young and in the sky the moon could still be seen faintly beside the winter sun, shining down blindly; it was giving off a dead heat.
Yesterday seemed like a colorless blur. What had happened…? He was wet. That was right… the Stricken Stream, this was where it led him… and the reality of it all flooded back into his memory.
After struggling against the river's current all night, his entire body felt as if it was on fire. His tongue was swollen and he ran his hand through his knotted hair and shook out sand. Sand. It was everywhere.
He forced himself to get up and wobbled as he stood up. A shooting pain went through his legs. He hurt so much… if only he could lie down for a few more minutes…
No, he mustn't. He had to catch up with the Baudelaires somehow. They were in trouble and he knew sleeping on the beach wasn't going to get him anywhere. How he would catch up with them, he didn't know.
Quigley staggered over to the shore as the tide rushed over his feet, thinking back on the last twenty-four hours. He had tried to tell the Baudelaires to meet him at the Hotel Denouncement, but the current overtook him. But Klaus was smart; Violet was brilliant. For now, he could only wish that they would be able to figure out where he meant.
The hairs on his neck prickled; it was the feeling of being watched. He turned around. No one. Strange. He looked back to where he had slept, his notebook still lying there, and remembered the blurry slip of paper he found that night. It was gone.
Quigley knelt down on his knees uneasily, the foamy waves spilling over his throbbing legs. Then he bent down and splashed the seawater onto his face. He had to stay awake. He licked his salty lips and splashed some more water onto his face. His neck prickled uneasily again but he ignored it.
He opened his eyes but shut them quickly. They stung horribly from the salt water and Quigley let out an exhausted groan. This morning cannot get any worse, a weary voice said in his head.
He was receiving strange looks.
Quigley quickly understood why. He had left the beach and walked into the outskirts of a large city by the beach he had washed up on. People had stared at him as he walked by. Finally, he had found a privately-owned breakfast café hidden away in an alley and here he was, sitting on one of the café's stools … wet, sandy, and worn out. He held his notebook in one hand and a few newspaper pages he found blowing around on the streets. He looked up.
There were only two other people in the café. One was an elderly man, chewing on the corner of a piece of toast as he studied a chessboard in front of him. He gave Quigley an unkind look as he eyed his dripping clothing. The second was a younger woman with dark hair and a suit with a single cup of coffee in her hand. She hadn't looked up at him because she was concentrating hard on the book she was reading, as if looking for something.
"Hey, kid."
Quigley turned back around. A rough, stout waitress was standing in front of him. She looked him up and down and her brows furrowed.
"Rough night?" Her voice grumbled but her face softened. She had a glass of orange juice and a plate of eggs in her hands and set them down on the table in front of him.
"Don't worry about money. It's on the house," she said as Quigley fished his pockets for any sort of change. "You keep it easy, okay?"
Quigley nodded. He stuffed half an egg into his mouth once the waitress returned to her work. Suddenly, he became lost in another one of his memories where Duncan, Isadora, and himself had brought breakfast to their parents on their anniversary…
In five minutes, he was done with his meal. He had never felt so hungry in his life and strangely enough, just two eggs had filled him up. He remembered the newspaper pages he had found and picked them up.
"Cat Rescued From Towering Treetop"
"Paperclips! FREE with purchase of Staples!"
"Man Tackles Ferocious Emu, Lives to Tell (entire story on page 3)"
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Quigley sighed. The newspaper was his key to finding the Baudelaires, even if it was the Daily Punctilio. Any kind of sighting or report of a fire or Count "Omar" would lead him there. He also looked hopefully for any headlines stating "hot-air balloons".
Quigley left a tip with the small change that had actually survived the Stricken Stream in his pocket and left. Through the café's window, he could see the old man still studying his chessboard but the woman was gone. He brushed off the rest of the sand on his clothes and kept walking.
She's following me.
Quigley clutched his notebook a little tighter and stopped in front of a shop. He acted casual but stared hard into the reflection of the shop's large window. It mirrored the street behind him and standing by a bus stop was the dark-haired woman from the café looking his way.
No. He was just paranoid. No one was following him. And yet…
Yes. She had left the café before him but he had spotted her walking behind him. Just seconds ago, the city bus had stopped to pick up passengers. She hadn't boarded.
Was she with the authorities? No, she would have stopped him by now, wouldn't she? Quigley took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.
He started to walk away from the window. He didn't dare look behind him. He kept his head down low, his steps quickening. He got faster and faster until he finally approached the corner of the street… this was it. The test.
He turned the corner nonchalantly and glanced back to the bus stop. His heart stopped. She wasn't there…
She was walking right towards him.
Quigley hid himself past the corner and looked around. He only had a few seconds before she would turn the corner as well. He had to get away fast. Then something caught his eye. A park.
He couldn't believe his luck. If you had to hide and blend in anywhere, a park was definitely it. He dashed across the street and straight under its stone archway.
Quigley ran as fast as he could and looked over his shoulder. She was nowhere to be seen. He had done it; he lost her. Perhaps he was overreacting. Besides, what were the odds that someone knew who he was and decided to follow him? The mind flashed to V.F.D. members but his thoughts were interrupted He turned back around. Something was wrong.
It was too quiet. There was no laughter from children playing in the park or friendly conversations to be heard. It was dead silent and he looked down around him.
Tombstones. He was standing in a cemetery.
A shudder ran through him. A cold draft blew around his legs and he strode through the gravestones, never looking down once. It seemed to stretch on forever but Quigley kept on watching, tears blurring in his eyes. He was scared he might see his parents' names on a headstone… he didn't even know if they had gotten a proper burial. If they had, then there would be no doubt that his would be on a gravestone too.
"Ouch!" His toe cracked as his foot hit something hard, and he fell with a gasp of pain. Slowly he looked up at the gravestone he hit. It was crooked and buried in the ground unceremoniously. Plainly embossed into the stone was a name in bold letters: JACQUES SNICKET.
Quigley sat there on his knees and frowned sadly. Jacques has been a good friend for the time he knew him; he had taught him nearly everything he knew about the V.F.D. It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve a poor memorial like this. Indeed, he didn't deserve death. He tried to straighten the headstone but it sagged deeper into the soft earth.
"I didn't realize this was a sad occasion."
Quigley shot back against the tombstone. It was her, the woman. She gave a slightly sympathetic smile. "You poor thing," she said looking down at him, "you're in bad condition."
Something clicked in his head. The list of V.F.D code phrases Jacques had taught him flipped through his memory like pages of a book: "I didn't realize this was a sad occasion."
Quigley stumbled as he pulled himself up, stepping backwards. He said nothing although his mouth was slightly agape. A V.F.D. member…?
"Come with me, Quigley," the woman said bluntly, "we will be able to track down the Baudelaires faster if we work together."
Quigley stood stock-still as his brain went numb. His tongue stumbled over his words. "W-what? How do you know---"
"Come," she repeated, "I'll explain."
Quigley took a step midway but stubbornly stood in place. Anyone could pick up names such as his and Baudelaires.
"No." He said plainly.
The woman's eyes sparkled as if he was a student of hers who had just answered a question correctly. "You're not easily taken are you? That's good. Persistence and suspicion are good traits to have. I noticed the newspapers you picked up on the streets. You would make a good Volunteer. Now come, there's no time to lose."
"No," Quigley repeated hesitantly, staring her in the eyes. He wouldn't be easily fooled. He swallowed the last of his nerves down as he grew increasingly confident. "How do I know you're on the right side of the schism?" He asked firmly. His insides squirmed as he thought about being trapped in a graveyard with a member from the wrong side of the V.F.D. He glanced around for a quick exit. There were none.
The woman gave a pained smile and took her hands out of her pockets. They were covered in white gloves. She pointed to the gravestone behind him.
"Because he was my brother. My name is Kit Snicket."
Snicket. Quigley stepped forward.