Happy Fourth of July, everybody!
Author's Notes: As always, many thanks to my three fabulous betas for their help, ideas and support. Reibish, Trilliah, and Oddmanrush, you guys mean the world to me!
A special thanks also goes out to Idol Hands for all of their encouragement with this chapter.
And thanks upon thanks to those of you who haven't given up on this story, even with such huge gaps between installments! I truly appreciate all of my readers, the ones who comment AND the ones who don't. Thank you all for reading.
Distance Makes the Heart, chapter thirteen, part one
by Piscaria
"The Lord is compassionate and gracious," said the Reverend Richard Hewitt, trying not to fidget with his prayer book as he looked out over the mourners, few as they were. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so nervous speaking at a funeral. Normally, the Reverend Hewitt rather liked funerals. He liked their understated solemnity and their mingled tones of grief and hope. His colleagues said he had a good hand with the bereaved. But then, this funeral was rather different from most. It wasn't every day one spoke at the Wonka chocolate factory, after all.
Hewitt didn't mind the factory in and of itself -- if you had to hold a funeral in a chocolate factory, Wonka's was the best in the world. Hewitt had prepared himself to speak inside a room filled with machinery and conveyer belts. He hadn't even wanted to think about what they might do with the corpse. But when Charlie Bucket, their hometown hero and probably the luckiest boy in the whole world, had met Hewitt at the gate that morning, he'd led him instead through a maze of gleaming corridors and down a million flights of stairs. Finally, the youth had stopped before an elaborate wrought iron gate fashioned into twining vines and twisting Ws. A brass plaque beside the door read, "Mortal Coil Room." Smiling nervously, the youth had pulled an enormous key ring from his pocket.
I'm sorry about all the stairs, he'd said, unlocking the gate with an apologetic shrug. "There are easier ways to get here, but you didn't seem to like them much before."
Before? Hewitt had started to ask what Charlie meant, but then they'd stepped into the room beyond the gate, and shock drove the question from his mind. The mortal coil room was nearly as large as the city's cemetery. Its floor was entirely covered with grass, which shivered slightly in the faint breeze blowing in from the air vents on the ceiling. A gravel path led to a cluster of willow trees. Four gravestones stood there. Grass covered the ground before three of them; the fourth stood before a gaping hole, no doubt waiting to be filled by the coffin which sat on a curiously low table nearby. Incongruously, a gleaming pulpit stood near the grave site, with hundreds of tiny chairs and four regular-sized chairs arranged around it. Catching sight of the Reverend's expression, Charlie had smiled grimly.
"That's real grass," he'd said softly, pointing at the ground. "And that's real dirt beneath it. All of the trees are real too. There's nothing eatable in this room, I'm afraid." Then a reluctant smile had crossed his face, and he'd amended it to, "Well, nothing that you'd want to eat anyway."
Hewitt couldn't begin to guess what the youth meant by that, but he had to admit that this room was the perfect location for an indoor cemetery. From the softly rippling grass to the grey ceiling cloaked by an illusion of clouds, the room radiated serenity. Even the gravestones seemed to belong there. So no, Hewitt had no problem with the factory itself. Nor did he mind the mourners, exactly, strange as they were.
Willy Wonka, in particular, was hard not to stare at. It wasn't every day one met the world's most famous chocolatier, after all. Wonka had been even stranger than Hewitt had expected. He wore full Victorian mourning attire: a black tailed suit with a black jacquard waistcoat over a black shirt. A black silk cravat was tied around his throat, adorned with an understated pin shaped like a W. The dark colors only emphasized the unearthly pallour of his skin. Wonka didn't wear that famous top hat -- in deference to the funeral, he'd set it on the chair beside him -- but even his unusual haircut was worth gawking at. He'd greeted Hewitt with a distracted hello that morning, and ignored his offer of a handshake. Now he sat quietly through the Reverend's sermon, his gaze fixed on the empty air above Hewitt's head and his mind obviously a million miles away.
Compared to Wonka, the Bucket family seemed almost normal. The solemn young man who'd guided Hewitt to the mortal coil room sat beside the chocolatier. He too wore black, although his suit was cut a bit smore modernly than Wonka's Victorian one. He sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, nodding in the right places and looking thoughtful. A good boy, a polite boy, Hewitt thought. His own grandchildren could learn a thing or two from him. Charlie, too, had grown pale from his years inside the factory, though not quite so pale as Wonka. His hair was darker than Wonka's, cut short and neat. Beside Charlie sat his parents, both dressed in black and drawn from grief. Mrs. Bucket wept quietly, holding her husband's hand and dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Mr. Bucket's face was troubled, almost distracted. With their dark clothes and pale skin, all four of them, Hewitt thought, looked like plants uprooted from the sun and left in the darkness to wilt.
Vaguely troubled by that thought, the Reverend Hewitt reminded himself that, however strange, this family still grieved as others did. They could still perhaps find some consolation, however meager, in his words. With that thought, he brought his mind back to his sermon, which he'd been speaking on autopilot these last few minutes.
"As a father has compassion on his children," Hewitt said, "so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we were formed; he remembers that we are dust."
Wonka winced at that, glancing down at the ground, and beside him, Charlie laid a hand on his arm. The chocolatier turned to study the youth and, smiling sadly, wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders, drawing him close against his side. Touching, really, to see them trying to comfort each other. Yet there was something in the motion, in the easy familiarity of Wonka's gloved fingers curled around the boy's shoulder, the way Charlie leaned ever so slightly into the touch, that made Hewitt frown in suspicion.
Surely they couldn't -- Wonka had to be at least twice the boy's age, perhaps even more, if some of the stories about him were true! Hewitt had attended the opening of this factory fifteen years ago. He'd watched Willy Wonka cut the red ribbon from the gate. The man hadn't aged at all in all these years. It was worrisome, really, to see his unlined face, to hear that vaguely childish voice. Unnatural. And yet, Wonka had a surprising beauty to him, in the surprising tint of his lips and the violet gleam of his eyes . . . Hewitt turned his thoughts away from that rather forcibly. Judge not lest ye be judged, he told himself, glancing away from Wonka and the Buckets. Besides, strange as they were, Wonka and the Buckets were the least of his worries.
No, what really bothered Hewitt were the midgets.
There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, all dressed identically in black suits or black dresses (other than that, the men and women looked the same) and all wearing identical frowns. They stared at Hewitt as though he were the oddity, shifting slightly in their seats and whispering to each other now and then.
Trying very hard not to be unnerved, Reverend Hewitt continued with his sermon. "It has pleased the Almighty God to take from this world the soul of Georgina here departed. We now commit her body to the grave; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ."
At this, eight of the midgets solemnly stepped forward, lifting the coffin from the table and lowering it carefully down into the grave. Trying not to stare, Hewitt desperately turned his gaze towards the human mourners. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket released each other's hands. Leaning down, they each caught up a handful of dirt and tossed it into the grave atop the coffin. Seeming troubled, young Charlie drew away from Wonka to follow suit. Only the chocolatier remained in place, his gaze focused not on the grave, but rather somewhere overhead, as though he'd found something to contemplate in the room's ceiling. He hardly seemed aware of funeral at all. Yet when Charlie returned to his side, he wrapped an arm around the boy's waist automatically. Mrs. Bucket had broken into a fresh burst of tears, burying her face in her husband's shoulder.
"Let us pray," said the Reverend, relieved that the funeral was nearly over. The Buckets resignedly lowered their heads. Wonka and the midgets did not. Trying to keep his voice steady, the Reverend Hewitt began the final prayer, finally ending with, "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all evermore. Amen."
"Amen," the Buckets echoed, and lifted their heads. The Reverend Hewitt cast a wary glance over their heads, to where the midgets studied him with stone-faced speculation. Swallowing, he stepped from behind the pulpit.
A moment of awkwardness followed. Wonka and the Buckets glanced at each other. The midgets had already risen from their seats, which they began to fold and carry out of the room with near mechanical precision. After a second, Mrs. Bucket wiped the tears from her face with a lace-edged handkerchief. Stepping forward, and took the Reverend's hand.
"We really can't thank you enough for coming," she said.
Relieved to be back on familiar territory, the Reverend Hewitt patted her hand. "It was no trouble at all, madam, let me assure you. It is my joy and duty in the Lord to attend to all of the mourners in my parish . . . even the ones who don't attend church."
A momentary shadow crossed her face, but quickly faded. Her husband had now joined them, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, easing the sting of the chide, gentle as it had been "Well we appreciate it," he said.
Mrs. Bucket nodded. "This would have made her happy," she said softly, glancing back towards the grave. The midgets were busy over it. They'd already filled in the rest of the dirt, and had begun sprinkling some sort of seed over it. Others were carefully wheeling the pulpit out of the room. "Thank you for being willing to come to the factory on such short notice," she said. "I'm sure this must all seem very strange to you."
Smiling faintly, the Reverend said, "Well that was hardly a trouble, madam. I think every man in town would give his eyeteeth for a look inside the Wonka chocolate factory. Why, I know my grandchildren will be begging me to tell them all about it!"
"Oh will they?" a deceptively smooth voice spoke. Hewitt turned, again knocked off balance: the famous Willy Wonka had stepped silently forward to meet them, and stood there now like a shadow, dressed in black, young Charlie hovering behind him like a younger, more solemn shade.
"Y-yes," Hewitt stammered, suddenly nervous.
Wonka gave him a beautific smile, teeth gleaming. "Then you must tell them all about it!" he said. "Would you like to see some more?"
Hewitt could only nod and follow as Wonka started down the cobblestone path. Summoning Charlie with a glance, the chocolatier began to speak.
"This room is only one of the subterranean naturaspeculum rooms in my factory," he said. "It's relatively small, all things considered. Just a tiny closet compared to this!" Wonka had stopped beneath a set of doors. A sign to the right of them read, "Cacao Room." Taking a key ring from his pocket, he selected a tiny key and stuck it into a slot beneath the sign, giving the key a quarter turn. At once, the doors slid open. Pocketing the key ring, Wonka motioned him to follow him.
Hewitt gasped as they stepped inside, not only from the size of the room, which dwarfed the other in comparison, but from the wave of humidity that threatened to overwhelm him. They'd stepped into a sort of rainforest. Trees grew all around them, hiding the ceiling with their canopy. Tropical flowers bloomed everywhere. Birdsong filled the sky. Glancing dizzily upwards, Hewitt saw something that looked like treehouses dotting the trunks high above. There were more of the midgets here; they moved efficiently from tree to tree, watering them, examining the bark, and harvesting beans nearly the size of their heads.
Speechless, Hewitt turned dazedly to Charlie. The youth smiled nervously at him.
"This is where we grow our cocao beans," he said.
Wonka nodded, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's far more efficient to grow our own," he agreed.
"And the . . . the . . .?" Unable to manage proper speech, Hewitt simply pointed towards the midgets. Wonka beamed.
"Oompa-Loompas," he said. "Imported, direct from Loompa-Land. Aren't they magnificent? I'll have you know they're on their best behavior today. Normally they can be rather mischievous. Come along."
Wonka started down a jungle path, his boots and his cane crunching softly in the carpet of leaves. Casting a sympathetic glance at Hewitt, Charlie nodded that they should follow. Wonka led them down a twisting path, turning his gaze right and left, as though he were searching for something. Charlie's eyes suddenly widened, and he stepped forward.
"Willy!" he warned, but it was too late.
Wonka smacked right into an invisible something and fell backwards, landing in the leaves with a muffled thump. Shaking his head, Charlie hurried forward to help him up, retrieving his hat from the ground. Rubbing his eyes, Hewitt stared at the thing Wonka had hit. It was a glass box, he realized, lined with buttons, and nearly invisible in the filtered light that reached the jungle floor. Why, Hewitt thought, it looked almost like . . .
"My word, is that an elevator?"
"It sure is," Wonka said, adjusting his hat with a forced giggle. He pushed a button on the contraption, and a door slid open. Stepping inside, he motioned Hewitt and the boy to join him. Charlie cast Wonka a troubled glance, but didn't say anything. Smiling widely at Hewitt, Wonka shut the door.
"This just isn't an ordinary up-and-down elevator, by the way," Wonka said smugly. "It can go sideways and slantways and any other way you can think of."
Uncertain how to respond to that, Hewitt simply nodded, wide-eyed. Wonka beamed at him, and pushed a button. The elevator slammed suddenly sideways, and Hewitt scrambled for something to keep his grip. Touching his arm lightly, Charlie pointed to some nearly invisible straps hanging from the ceiling. Catching hold of one, Hewitt bit his lip and prayed for dear life as the elevator spun, repositioned itself, and rocketed upwards at a sideways slant. Why this was just like those dreadful amusement park rides his grandchildren loved. Wonka and Charlie must love it too: they hadn't even bothered to grab ahold of the straps. The elevator suddenly changed its mind and shot backwards. Thinking he was going to be sick, Hewitt pressed his face against the glass and whimpered slightly.
Fortunately, the ride proved as short as it was torturous. The elevator drew to a halt outside the carpet-lined corridor Hewitt reminded seeing just inside the factory door as Charlie led him inside this morning. The doors opened with a ping, and Hewitt staggered forward, dropping to his knees on the thick carpet.
"I told you," Charlie was saying to Wonka. "He gets motion sickness."
And how on earth could the boy know that, Hewitt wondered, closing his eyes. The tip of Wonka's cane prodded him gently in the ribs.
"Come on now, get up," Wonka said cheerfully. "It was just a little elevator ride, nothing to get upset about."
Opening his eyes, Hewitt swallowed, and climbed shakily to his feet. Examining his face, Wonka tutted and shook his head.
"Oh dear," he said. "You do look green. Here, try this!" From his pocket, he took a small peppermint and pressed it into Hewitt's hand.
Unwrapping it shakily, the Reverend popped it into his mouth. The cool minty flavor slid over his tongue, and as he sucked, he felt it easing the nausea in his stomach.
"Oh my," he managed, as the sickness left him.
Wonka grinned. "That was a memento mint!" he said. "With a swirl of Wonka's Magic Stomach Soother, just for you. I modified the formula after your last visit."
"My last?" Hewitt said, shaking his head. Wonka was leading him down the carpeted corridor. Hewitt frowned as he glanced around, trying to decide why it looked so familiar. He'd only been here once, this morning. Or had he? Looking about again, Hewitt realized that the trace of familiarity was gone. It must have been some other corridor he was thinking of.
The man in front of him opened a door, and Hewitt looked out onto the street running by the Wonka factory. Relieved to be on familiar ground, the Reverend stepped forward at once. Glancing back, he studied the pair lingering in the doorway behind him. With their old fashioned suits and the one's top hat, they looked like two throwbacks from the Victorian era.
"I'm sorry," Hewitt said, touching his hat. "Do I know you?"
"No," said the one in the hat. "I'm afraid not."
Shrugging, Hewitt simply nodded at them, and started down the street towards home.
(continued in chapter thirteen, part two)