A Mischief in the Woodwork Read online

  A damp cold hung in the air around us in that front room, radiating from the articles heavy and dark with water. Viola held an article to her face as if it were her mother's skirts, and Dani wrapped his arms around his bony knees and held them blankly to his chest. It was all he could do to be blank, I supposed. It was that, or be terrified. Terror did not aid anyone in these times. A peep, and it could bring the wardogs down on you – apparently even during the day. Panic, and you could fall right into the many traps laid out across the countryside, trip across the rubble, or falter in song when the weedflowers needed singing.

  Or simply die of fright, because each day was riddled with things of terror. It simply would not do to live like that, in fear.

  A shadow swept across the curtains drawn over the window, and then chaffed against the house, faltered, rattled the eaves, and then scuttled onto the roof. Scraping, plunking steps made their way over the shingles.

  We listened, calculating the telltale sounds.

  It was only a buzzard. Normally, they left us alone. There was plenty to pick over in the city. We had heard stories, though, of a few that designated themselves loyal gargoyles to some choice rooftops. Gargoyles biding their time, until a soul under the roof fell sick, or dead, and then a bizarre thing happened.

  The vultures came down the chimneys to collect.

  And they were not to be deterred.

  But after scraping around for a time, the buzzard on our roof spilled back off the edge, and its shadow passed back over the corner of the window and was gone.

  My bones creaked as I shifted.

  “I'm cold,” Viola said – quietly, but any voice was enough to draw sharp eyes.

  “Ssshh!” Letta bade, but rose to go fold herself by the girl. She pulled the wet garment out of the child's hands and drew her away from it, for it was surely not helping. Then she scooted her close and pressed her against her bosom. Dani slowly unbent himself and crawled over to join them, curling up like a dog at Letta's feet.

  I watched the light soak slowly down the curtain as the day ticked by. We did not hear anything else in those hours, and soon twilight was dawning in its silver way.

  “I must sing,” I announced, breaking the silence.

  “But minda...” Enda objected.

  “We don't know what's changed,” I said. “I must. You may wait here for me.”

  “But, Vanti, how will you find your way back?” Viola asked.

  “I will sing with her,” Dashsund said, standing. I nodded.

  “As will I,” Letta volunteered, carefully peeling herself away from the children. Looking lost, they shifted to Enda and Henry.

  “We will stay with the children,” Enda said.

  I nodded again, and my small procession ducked through the laundry to the door.

  “Sing strong,” I bade as I turned the handle, and then the twilight seared into the room like a burning canvas, and we filed out into the blue light that was the mystic dark of gone sun.

  *

  At dawn, my eyes flashed open. I felt my pupils contract at the sudden onslaught of change.

  I sat up on my pallet, casting about a moment as if to bestow what had occurred to me on someone else. But they were all asleep.

  Full wakefulness brought sense back to me: I did not need to disturb them. I could handle this well on my own.

  It was Wednesday. The day the paper boy came.

  I had to warn him about the predatory anomaly on the loose.

  I would have to hurry to catch him, though. He was an efficient sort, that Johnny, if only to achieve elusiveness – a valuable trait, but it would not save him from any wardog. It would likely only save him from me; a victory for the shy thing, but it would do him no service to elude this warning. He flitted through his rounds at dawn, while there was light enough to send the wardogs packing, but still a generous cover of mist clinging to the land to sequester him from other mischief – but if there was a beast out there that didn't mind the light, it could find him in the mist. Who was to name its preferred hunting hours, but Johnny would do well to be informed.

  I padded quickly through the creaking house, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders. Was I already too late? Johnny was always here and gone, that quickly. Only once had I seen him. Once more I had heard his footsteps chopping away after he disappeared into the mist. But on a regular basis, the only sign of him was the paper left at our doorstep – a crude little stack of curling, torn papers scribbled on with charcoal and tied up with shreds of old string. He wrote it himself, on whatever he could find or the paper we traded for the service.

  I pulled open the screen, threw back the lock of the door, and heaved it open into the quiet, cold kiss of early, early morning. Tendrils of fog curled into the house. I waved them aside, like smoke, and stepped out onto the ghostly front step.

  No paper yet.

  “Johnny?” I whispered fiercely. The whisper melded with the fog; it seemed they were made of the same stuff. I tried with an ounce of voice: “Johnny!” It got a little further this time, but cut off not far from my body.

  I waited.

  “Johnny, are you there? It's Vant.”

  For a moment, nothing.

  Then, slowly, a scrawny form materialized through the fog out of the corner of my eye, hugging the edge of the house.

  I turned to him. He was a small, secretive fellow, stopping with his features still masked behind mist, but I could see his silhouette. He hugged something to his bony chest.

  “Monvay,” he uttered. I could just make out the crude edging of his worn leather coat as the fog shifted, and the breath of his words cleared his face ever so slightly.

  I ushered him closer, though I didn't imagine it would do any good. True to form, he just hugged his bundle tighter to his chest, possessively, even though I imagined it was the newspaper he had come to deliver.

  “Thank the gods you're in one piece,” I said, relieved that he hadn't run into any light-savvy jaws on his way over.

  “Monvay?” he asked, confused.

  “There's a wardog abroad,” I advised quietly, seriously. “It got someone yesterday.”

  “Yester...day?” he inquired, his voice sounding suddenly even smaller. Perhaps it was just the mist, but I thought he went a bit pale.

  “We heard it in the light,” I said. “I didn't know if you would have also.”

  “I was elsewhere,” he murmured.

  I nodded. “Be warned.”

  He nodded in turn. “It'll be in the paper. So others will know.”

  “Good.”

  He stood there awkwardly for a moment, as if not knowing how to end a conversation, and then abruptly handed me the paper.

  “Be careful,” I bade.

  “As always, Monvay.” And then as I straightened onto the step, he nodded and turned to go, his coat fanning out ever so slightly at the bottom with the motion, before he disappeared back into the mist.

  I hugged the paper to my own chest as I watched him go, concerned, but then drew it away as I realized I might be smearing it.

  Wherever Henry had come from, he had been educated to read, and it had been his legacy to teach the rest of us. It was a skill we were glad to have, especially whenever the paper came in.

  I read the headline on the front page:

  SHIFT UPROOTS FOUNTAIN IN HANOVER SQUARE,

  still in working order.

  Water everywhere.

  The square: flooded.

  Put a new lake on your maps, Albinos.

  Prepare for Atlantis.

  I glanced up after Johnny once more as I finished, even though he was long gone. Be careful, Johnny, I willed one last time. Then, interest dangerously piqued, I bent back over the paper and set about untying the strings as I turned absently to go back inside.

  The usual morbid curiosity had a hold of me – it always claimed us, one by one, after Johnny delivered his paper. What bizarre developments had tainted the land since last week that we had not been privy to, we wonder
ed, and soon all of us would have devoured the spine-prickling reports, and I, especially, would have filed it away for future reference, since I was so often plunged into the fray of things out there.

  One had to wonder, also, after going over the numerous and wide-spread articles, how it was that Johnny managed to stay privy to it all himself. I knew he was efficient, but surely it was impossible for any one man to accomplish being that efficient. Besides, it was entirely too dangerous for one child to be gallivanting all over the countryside covering every dark occurrence, just for the sake of producing a newspaper for the rest of us who locked ourselves away behind closed doors.

  It seemed more than likely, then, that he must have accomplices. And surely that was evident enough just because surely he couldn't deliver the news to the entire city by himself.

  There must be a whole operation of newsboys, I decided. Perhaps Johnny only covered our sector.

  It was impossible to say, really. The news business was a shady business. I had subscribed to the service by the Dorn's paranoid request – or order, I suppose – down a dark, broken alley in the city, where Johnny had met with me for the first time. I had paid and traded for it in a shifty sort of exchange like that of dishonest businesspeople trading illegal commodities. Conversation was kept to a minimum – maybe because Johnny was shy, maybe to keep from disturbing the city – but the effect was ominous. I left feeling like a criminal.

  But the paper came, and we all devoured it. Only after the slaves had educated themselves did I deliver the crude bundle of parchment to the Dorns upstairs, on a tray with their lunch.

  What good did it do them, I wondered, to stay informed about the happenings of the land, when they stayed cooped up and tucked away in one room for years on end? It wasn't as if the news covered the transpirations that crept up our own stairs and down our own hallways.

  But I supposed not knowing would drive anyone mad after too long.

  When the paper was well-read, it was returned on the lunch platter the next day, but rather than burn it, I tucked it away with the others of weeks past to return to Johnny when our month's subscription ran out. Then I would have to renew it, and bring paper to trade as part of the payment for a subscription. If we brought the old newspapers back to him, he crossed out the old headlines and squeezed in new ones, until every pocket, corner and margin was filled. Then it was up to me to provide new papers.

  Johnny and his gang may be faring quite well in their business, I mused. Business in general was rare these days, but there were countless many who would subscribe to the news if they could. Who wouldn't? It was the only way to stay on top of this ever-changing world, the only way to keep up with the unpredictable anomalies roiling over the land. People wanted to know what was happening out there. They wanted to know without having to get out there themselves.

  And who could blame them? The headlines that Johnny brought us only reinforced the instinct that kept us depending on those daring young newsboys in the first place. It was a dangerous game they played, I thought, but no one could blame them for that either. They were making a way for themselves. They were surviving.

  They were the great voices of our time. The small, pitiful voices of street urchins turned mighty, convicting, and utterly climactic, which would echo into the legends of the future:

  Prepare for Atlantis...

  S I x –

  The Diary

  By lunchtime, the day had been disturbed by nothing but the uncanny headlines that we read in the newspaper. Deeming the silence secure in this hour, I sat upon the hearth and set to work tearing pages out of books and crumpling them into wads to burn. I went through an entire volume, casting the carcass aside and digging for the next victim.

  This one was smaller, leather-bound, with a fasten on the side. I beheld it a moment, the small entity that was at once a fond weight in my hands. I traced the scratched leather, the pages, the place where it fastened, my fingers wandering with intrigue. I recognized it: the diary I had found on my last loot.

  I had never loved butchering books, but something truly made me hesitate this time. I had burned countless stories, accounts, records, logs – pages and pages of information. But a voice such as this? It was so personal. Curious, at least, I hooked my thumb under the fasten and popped it open. Folding back the cover, I smoothed the first page and ran my eyes over the scribble there:

  Winifred Sebastian

  I traced the name with my finger. The ink was raised with a fine, crusted grime – like braille, I thought – as if it had been written while dust was thick in the air, or on dusty paper.

  I turned the page.

  Today, a tower fell. I heard the voices of the gods rumble 'timber!', like reverberating thunder in the wake of an ax, and down came one of the greatest symbols in the city. I could see it, even from this distance. Its peak was ever a landmark in the sky. I felt the earth tremble, rattle, shake, as the great pillar of architecture collapsed on itself – an ocean wave of stone. The destruction disappeared behind the buildings before it reached its bone-rattling climax, but it echoed through us all. We were left utterly shaken. I am shaken still. There is dust in the air, like the ashes of a volcano that has erupted over the city. It grinds beneath my quill. It grinds in my teeth.

  Disaster has stricken three times now. This, the third, is sure to cause a great unrest amongst the populace. I cannot shake the image of that great structure buckling to its knees, like so much timber for a woodsman's ax. I pray a great prayer of irony that I am not the only one praying right now, that the gods hold up walls around the innocent. But the preacher at the chapel keeps it fresh in our hearts, as any preacher worth his salt will: none of us are innocent.

  So I pray for the souls of those that went down with the rubble. I pray for my soul.

  I pray for yours.

  At the bottom of the page, it was signed: Lady Sebastian. I pursed my lips, mulling over the entry. As with the newspaper, I itched to read on, to devour the next record of what had happened out there. But lunch was already late, since I had been wary of starting the flames of what might prove to be a beacon for that light-happy wardog, and I daren't get engrossed.

  But I was reluctant as I turned back to crafting my fire. I knew every page was valuable kindling, but I could not bring myself to rip out this voice and crumple it into fire fodder.

  Glancing about the dark room, I did a treacherous thing and tucked the volume under my tunic and into the edge of my skirt. I would hide it under my pillow, and read of its fruit here and there when I could. I was too curious to let it go, too curious of the extent of this voice and what had driven it to these pages each day, what it had endured and where it had cut off.

  What had become of Lady Sebastian? It was likely not going to end a pretty story, I reminded myself. I would do well not to get attached. This wasn't some fairy tale or even a true account adapted for the history books – it was someone's recent, raw journey, handwritten and freshly dug from the rubble. It was secret and foreboding. Precious and dire.

  “Reading more than working again, I see,” came Letta's intruding voice into my captured thoughts. I flinched, and beheld her over my shoulder. She had brought the vegetables for lunch from the garden.

  My fire was still a dry pile of crumpled white papers. Wads of pixie-light popcorn kindling over dead, cold coals.

  It was not the first time she had caught me in that act, so I didn't bother denying it. “I can't help it,” I said. “All these words, to be burnt like they were never meant to speak.”

  “A terrible shame,” she agreed. “Like most things, nowadays.”

  “Do you suppose there will be any books left, when it's over?” I asked, running my fingers over the next cover in the stack. I was suddenly very aware of the soft little frame that pressed against my gut where I had stashed the diary away. It was a conspicuous lump jutting like a tumor, at least from my guilty perspective.

  “I think the proper question is whether or not there might be people
left to read them,” Letta gave her perspective, and suddenly a vision came to me of nothing stirring for miles and miles except the pages of lost books, fluttering in the wind. The rubble would have settled, the screams would have silenced, and the only breathing the world knew would be that breeze, combing through the open pages of a thousand strewn books.

  Free books.

  For perhaps that end for us would be their own desperate revenge, I thought, and we would have met with the poetic justice of choking on that very same wind, and the ashes of books past that we had burned, burned, and burned.

  I would not put it past the books to be possessed with such a vengeance. Not when our city itself had overturned on its founders, its tenders, the very people that were its lifeblood.

  I caressed the book a moment longer, tenderly, as if for a moment we understood each other, the book and I.

  Then reality set back in, and I bared its first page and tore it asunder.

  S e v e n –

  A Stranger at the Door

  That night, I read more from the diary. It was a haunting thing to read it, but it felt important that I connect to this voice. This lost voice of a woman who had disappeared off the record. It was as if my reading it anchored her somehow, paid tribute to her life as a person, rather than leaving her solely to the disgrace of the claiming rubble. I honored her memory by reading it. I raised her from the ghostly dust. I pieced her back together, word by word, from wherever she had been disassembled, crushed, snuffed.