War of the World Records (23 page)

The Last Attempt

A
rthur became a
flurry of fingers and steel, ripping the knives from the first block and popping them into the empty one beside it.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
The clattering of wood and metal echoed into the stands.

The instant the empty block was full Arthur swiveled thirty degrees left and set to work on the newly emptied block before him. When the second block was full he proceeded immediately to the third.

He had discovered in practice that working counterclockwise gave him a considerable advantage over the traditional direction of play. The preparation had paid off. He felt more comfortable in the ring now than he ever had before. The knives were merely an extension of his own body. He could hardly tell where his fingertips ended and the blades began.

As he completed the first revolution, Arthur allowed himself a quick glance around the stage. Nineteen other competitors stood at the centers of nineteen other knife-block rings, all of them frantically flinging blades from one block to the next.

He glanced up at the giant scoreboard—and could barely believe his eyes. There, beside the letters
A
.
WHIPPLE
, was a bright blue light. He was in first place. His technique was working.

He quickly checked the spinning digits of his Knives Transferred Count, then compared it with the numbers beside the glowing red light further up the board. The second place competitor was only four knives behind him. It was no surprise who it was.

At the start of his third revolution, Arthur risked another glance, this time to the knife-block ring directly to his right. There at its center; stood Rupert Goldwin.

As the Goldwin boy finished one block and pivoted to the next, Arthur realized something: unlike the other competitors, Rupert was moving counterclockwise—just like him. The Goldwin boy had stolen his technique and was now using it against him.

At that moment, Rupert turned his head, and the two locked eyes. Rupert smiled, scornfully.

Arthur smiled back. Though he would normally have been intimidated by such a menacing grin, he was strangely encouraged by this brief exchange with his rival. For the first time in Arthur's life, someone was imitating
him
.

And besides—had Rupert even bothered to check the scoreboard? Unless he especially liked being in second place, it didn't seem he had much to smile about. Arthur, on the other hand, had very good reason to smile. He had finally gained the one thing he'd always wanted: his family's acceptance. And now, he was having the race of his life. Rupert Goldwin could smirk all he liked. This event belonged to Arthur Whipple.

Just before the boys turned back to their own rings, Rupert's grin faltered ever so slightly—but Arthur's grin only grew wider. He had no need to fake it. He could not remember ever enjoying a record attempt so much.

As he completed his third revolution, Arthur checked the scoreboard again. His ranking was still the same; his lead, however, had increased substantially. Rupert was now a dozen knives behind him; the third-place competitor was a full knife-block behind Rupert.

Arthur tried not to get too excited. He had failed enough record attempts to know his luck could take a turn for the worse at any moment. Still, it was hard not to be optimistic. He had never had a lead like this before. It would take quite a catastrophe to rob him of it now.

It was at that moment, of course, that the cleaver sliced into his hand.

He scarcely realized what was happening until it was already too late. As he watched the edge of the blade slip across his left palm, he felt only a bit of pressure and a hint of cold. Something told him, however, he would not escape so easily; his payments in the pain department had merely been deferred—and he'd be made to settle them shortly.

Yet, as he waited for the inevitable pain to arrive, he managed not to miss a beat. His hands continued to fly in front of him as though nothing had happened. . . . But
oh
—there it was. A searing fissure shot through his hand like a stream of lava. He gritted his teeth—but continued on at the same breakneck pace as before. It was going to take more than a bit of shooting pain to shake him from this competition.

He reached for the next knife—but his fingers merely slipped from its handle. It was then he noticed the blood.

Scarlet drops dripped from his fingertips and spattered the surface of the wooden block before him. He reached out a second time, but again, the handle only slipped from his grasp.

Arthur's mind flooded with panic. Was this how it would all end? Would he be unable to even complete the event?

In desperation, he reached for the handle once again. Tightening his grip this time, he drew the knife from its sheath and drove it into the empty slot in the block beside it.

Arthur glanced at the scoreboard. His lead had slipped by a few knives—but he was still in first place. He continued plucking knives as fast as he could, careful to clutch each one firmly.

His rhythm returned and he proceeded around the ring with ease and precision. Though the added effort slowed his pace ever so slightly, his lead was large enough that even the Goldwin boy had no hope of catching him.

That is, of course, had Arthur not cut himself a second time.

“Ah!” he cried as his grip on a carving knife slipped a fraction of an inch. There was no delay in pain this time. But the stinging in his hand was the least of his concerns. With both hands crippled now, his fantastic lead no longer seemed so unbreakable.

Blood dripped down the blocks and onto the floorboards. Arthur pushed the pain from his mind and launched into his sixth revolution.

Come on,
he urged himself.
Just two more revs. Don't think about the blood. This is what you were born for. Just stay ahead—and don't think about the blood. You can do this. . . .

A chef's knife chipped a chunk out of the knife block as Arthur forced it into its slot.

Keep going. Stay in front. Focus.

He could feel Rupert Goldwin slowly gaining on him out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over to see that Rupert's smile had returned and was now wider than ever.

“Looks like you've got a bit of a scratch there, Whipple,” the Goldwin boy called without looking up from his knives. “Feel free to step out and get a bandage if you like. Don't worry—I'll let you look at my trophy when you get back.”

Ignore him,
thought Arthur.
Don't let him get to you. Don't say anything. . . . Okay, well, maybe just one quick thing, to make sure he knows he's not getting to you.

“What—
this
?” Arthur called back. “This is nothing. I've had worse
paper
cuts. I just like to bleed is all.”

“So you're bleeding on purpose, then?”

Arthur paused, realizing he'd talked himself into a bit of a corner here. He tried to imagine what one of his brothers might say in such a situation, but nothing came to him. He was on his own.

“Yep,” he said with perfect confidence.

“Brilliant,” Rupert snickered. “Good luck with that.”

Arthur wished more than ever that he'd been blessed with his family's trash-talking skills. But then, it struck him. There was only one thing left to say.

“Scoreboard, Rupert,” he said plainly. “Scoreboar—”

And with that, Arthur slipped on the wet floor and crashed to his knees.

The crowd gasped. The front runner had fallen—and in his final lap.

“Ha!” snapped Rupert, then surged forward.

Arthur watched in horror as the blue light that had marked his name from the start suddenly abandoned
A
.
WHIPPLE
—and cozied up alongside
R
.
GOLDWIN
.

For a split second, Arthur wanted just to stay down and collapse beneath the pressure of shame and embarrassment piling onto his shoulders. But something forced him to his feet. He hadn't come this far to give up now.

Arthur seized the next knife handle and launched himself back into the race. His family was counting on him. He wasn't going to let them down. Not this time.

His hands whipped through the air.

Four knives behind. Only three more blocks to fill. . . .

He willed himself forward.

Two more blocks. . . .

He was catching him. Rupert was only one knife ahead.

One more block. . . .

It all came down to this.

Thwack!

Arthur slotted the final blade home—and dropped to his knees.

He looked to the scoreboard. The blue and red ranking lamps had been extinguished.

Arthur checked Rupert's time. 1:57.32.

His eyes darted to the digits beside his own name. His heart stopped.

1:57.32.

The scoreboard showed an even draw—but of course, the board only displayed hundredths of a second. The official times, Arthur knew, were kept by the certifier. His heart started up again.

He turned to see Rupert raising his arms in presumed triumph.

As the last of the other competitors finished the race, the crowd clamored for just a moment—then hushed, in anticipation of the judge's decision.

Archibald Prim made some final marks on his scorecards, then straightened the stack against the podium.

Unseen at the back of the crowd, an impossibly tiny man stood beside his enormous, hunching companion and readied his thumb over a small red-buttoned device.

Mr. Prim cleared his throat and addressed the arena.

“By a margin of eight thousandths of a second,” the certifier's voice echoed into the stands, “the winner of the first ever knife-block speed stocking event at the World Record World Championships—and new record holder in the sport—is . . .”

Arthur closed his eyes and held his breath.

“. . . Rupert Goldwin!”

Arthur opened his eyes. A drop of blood mixed with a bead of sweat and dripped from his eyelid.

A wave of applause rose up from the crowd.

Rupert's family stormed the stage. The Goldwins hoisted their son onto their shoulders and raised their arms to the arena.

The tiny man at the back of the crowd lowered the small red-buttoned device, having never pressed the button. He gave a satisfied smirk to his companion and slunk off beside him into the crowd.

Flashbulbs and fireworks went off in every direction.

Arthur's heart dropped. He fell to the floor and wrapped his arms around his face. Confetti rained down on him like volcanic ash on a ruined city.

From his position at the podium, Mr. Prim looked en-tirely unsurprised. “Mm-hmm,” he remarked—and ticked his clipboard.

Arthur tried to block out the sounds of the Goldwins' celebrations, but he couldn't cover his ears tight enough. Why on earth had God not seen fit to provide lids for ears as well as for eyes? Surely, in His infinite wisdom, He'd known how useful a pair of earlids would have been at a time like this. Arthur wanted nothing so badly as to shut his senses down. He never wanted to see anyone again. He never wanted to hear anyone again. He wanted to stay on the floor forever. They could disassemble the stage and transport the pieces to some secluded storage facility somewhere, and they wouldn't even have to bother moving him. Just give him a quiet corner of the warehouse without too many rats or spiders and let him stay there in the dark. He wouldn't take up much space. He'd hardly breathe. He just never wanted to see anyone ever again. Especially not his family. Oh no, his family! How could he ever face them? They had given him a chance to finally belong—and he had failed. He had let himself down; he had let them all down. How would he ever be able to stand again?

Amid the cheering and pyrotechnics, Arthur began to detect a muffled voice above him. Slowly, cautiously, he uncovered his face and tilted it upward.

Silhouetted against the flash of fireworks, Arthur's father stood leaning over the edge of the knife-block ring. He smiled warmly and stretched out an arm toward his son.

“Well done, Arthur,” he said.

Arthur stared at his father's hand. “I—I've failed you,” he said.

“You've done what now?”

“I've lost you the Championship Cup. I've failed you.”

“Nonsense! You've done nothing of the sort. You, son, have fought harder than any mere record breaker has done all week!”

Arthur sighed doubtfully and lowered his eyes.

“Arthur,” his father insisted, “it's true. Just look at your hands, Son. Look at this stage! You've practically painted it red. Clearly, you've left it all in the ring here—and then some. Do you think any of the other competitors would have done so well with an injury like that? You are stronger than all of them. It's just that your strengths are, well—not so easily quantifiable. I know I've failed to see it in the past—and for that I'll be forever sorry—but today my eyes have been opened. There is something in this world even more valuable than the ability to break world records—and you, Arthur, have got it. We should all be so lucky.”