by James Somers
“What in the world was that?” I shouted.
“Oh, just one of the mud people.”
“They’re made out of mud?”
I dusted off my clothing.
Tom started to laugh as he looked up at the struggling mud person. “Actually, in a way they are. Don’t worry. It’s just a stray. The more we get, the easier it becomes to lose track of some.”
I stared inquisitively at the mud person in the tree branches. “They come from somewhere else?”
Tom grinned as though he’d just given away something. “I told you, we mustn’t keep Mr. Sinister waiting, Brody.” He lifted his hand and the mist came up around us like a cloak. In a moment, I saw nothing but the mist. When it dissipated, we were no longer in the forest.
Lord Winston
Lord Charles Winston pursued his quarry with a discerning eye. At age sixty-seven he had a great deal of experience in this regard and tapped his chin thoughtfully before acting.
“There you are,” he muttered, fingers recoiling.
Descending upon his prey he said, “I’ll have you.”
Lord Winston plucked the leather bound case from his custom made pipe rack. With care he undid the latch and opened it, revealing a pipe rare of beauty and costly to afford.
“Ah, the meerschaum lion,” he cooed as he retrieved the exquisitely carved pipe from its case. “You are perhaps my favorite of all.”
The white mineral held the regal form of a lion’s head with the mane sweeping back along the stem. Lord Winston had had it specially made in order to compliment his collection with a piece bearing the lion from his family’s crest. The stem had been fashioned from ivory to compliment the white lion and had been kept long after the style of churchwardens.
Examining the contents of his dozen or so tobacco jars, Lord Winston settled upon a recent Turkish blend that carried a hint of mint. He opened the clear glass jar and took a pinch between his thumb and forefinger before replacing the lid.
“Charles! Where are you?”
Lord Winston jumped at the sudden intrusion, scattering tobacco across the front of his new smoking jacket.
“Confound that woman,” he muttered. “Always when I’m enjoying my leisure time! Always.”
“Charles?” she called again from the floor above where she had her private bedchamber.
“I’m in my smoking room, of course!” he shouted back, though he was certain she wouldn’t hear. Lady Winston had not been able to hear well for quite some time.
“What is it, Amanda?” he shouted again.
A maid appeared in the archway leading into the den.
“Alice, go and see what she wants,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the younger woman said. “I’ll see to her needs directly.”
Lord Winston brushed the tobacco from the red velvet jacket, no longer paying any attention to either Alice or his wife’s calls. He went back to the jar of Turkish mint, removing another pinch and placing it quickly into the top of the white lion’s head. He picked up a stopper from his pipe rack and tamped the tobacco down.
There was no moon visible tonight. Lord Winston had kept a fire going all afternoon against the damp. Half a dozen gas lamps burned upon wall sconces. He picked up his matches and sat in his favorite chair before the fire. Striking a match to his pipe, he puffed several times drawing the flame into the tobacco. He sank into his leather high-back, relaxing as flavored smoke coiled about him like a python.
The sound of a serving tray spilling onto the floor above his smoking room startled him. He heard footfalls as though two people were wresting against one another.
“Will you two please be quiet!” Lord Winston shouted to the ceiling.
The tussling stopped abruptly, satisfying him.
“It’s getting so that a man can’t even enjoy a good smoke anymore,” he muttered. Then he drew upon his pipe and closed his eyes, attempting to relax again.
Lord Winston was not sure how long he had dozed. Only a few minutes seemed to have passed as he enjoyed his pipe and the warmth of the hearth. However, when he opened his eyes he found both Amanda and Alice facing him from across the room. He blinked only once as he straightened in his chair, but now they were a mere few feet from him.
“What the devil?” he exclaimed, wondering if his eyes might be playing tricks on him.
The two of them held warped vacant expressions—unfeeling looks through darkened eyes. Lord Winston attempted to stand, but he was held in place in his chair. He looked down to find burlap mittens gripping him tightly. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the leather upholstery had actually transformed completely into burlap.
The chair came alive beneath him, standing and hoisting him into the air with it. His feet dangled above the carpet as the arms of the chair wrapped around his torso. He attempted to scream, crying out for help from his wife and the maid. But they only grinned at his predicament, and he saw in their eyes that they were something other than human.
The mid-seam opened behind him and the burlap monster’s arms pushed him inside. He heard the rattle of chains and felt their tightening grip around his body. The aroma of mint flavored tobacco smoke wafted around him as the seam closed itself over him again.
Mr. Sinister
The retreating fog revealed a sunlit alley, dingy buildings and stained garments drying on wash-lines high above. I stared, trying to get my bearings in the new environment. I searched quickly for any of the amazing sights I had just seen. The smell of urine and sweat helped me realize where I was.
“Have we come back to London?”
Tom gave me a funny look. “Of course. You can’t live in a dream all the time, Brody.”
Tom’s clothing had returned to its former disheveled state. I frowned when I realized my own accouterments had faired no better. “Why did our clothing go back to the way it was?”
“This is a different world,” he said. “It doesn’t take much effort to make things any way you want in Faerie. But in this physical world, it’s more difficult. I mean I could whip us up some nice duds for sure, but you’d stick out like a sore thumb…easier for the police to spot you. You wouldn’t want that would you?”
I felt disappointed. “Of course not.”
“Good.”
A bird called from high above. I looked up and saw a large raven diving through the lines of clothing swaying in the light breeze. As it swooped down upon us, Tom raised his arm as though he might shield himself from the creature. The bird opened its wings to catch the wind then lit upon Tom’s arm.
The bird sat there, staring past Tom at me. I felt uncomfortable under its gaze and wondered if it might suddenly leap from his arm to peck my eyes out.
“Why is it staring at me?”
“What’s wrong, you ninny?” Tom chided. “Afraid of a bird?”
I shook my head, though there was no conviction to it.
The bird opened its beak and spoke. “You’re late, you’re late.”
Tom found nothing unusual in this and responded, “Of course, I’m late! You’d be late too if you’d been pinched. The beak almost stretched our necks—not that you’d care.”
The bird fluttered and squawked disapprovingly upon Tom’s arm.
Tom scolded the bird. “Now off with you and tell Mr. Sinister I’ve brought someone special to meet him. Brody West from America.”
The bird took flight, bouncing Tom’s arm with its weight as it leaped away. The bird flew out of sight among the clothing high above us. I very nearly leaped out of my skin, turning to find a tall lanky man standing almost on top of me.
The man stood nearly seven feet tall, wearing dark trousers and a coat. He was unshaven and had dark circles, like streaks of soot, under his eyes. A black derby sat upon his dark shaggy mop of hair. He smiled at me with perfectly white teeth that reminded me of a predator. He extended one of his hands, which had been hidden behind his back. Long black nails reached down to take my small hand in his. “It is a pleas
ure to make your acquaintance, Mr. West. I am Mr. Sinister.”
I stood there speechless. His sudden and menacing appearance unsettled me more than I can say. Had I searched the entire world for a description of the man, I would never have found one so fitting as his given name.
Mr. Sinister regarded Tom standing next to me. “It seems Mr. West is quite speechless, Tom. Perhaps you can enlighten me as to how he came to us?”
Tom motioned toward the door in the building to our right. “Come on, Brody. We’ll get you something to eat while I talk to the boss.”
I tried to turn and follow Tom, but my eyes kept peeling back to look at Mr. Sinister. He seemed the sort of fellow who might cut your throat as soon as you weren’t looking. He continued smiling at me, though his thin lips had now come down over his teeth. As I came through the door, darkness engulfed me. Only the light from the alley, through the doorway, penetrated the room. I looked back, wondering how close Mr. Sinister had followed. The door slammed shut, seemingly of its own volition.
“Tom, where are you?” I cried in the darkness.
An oil lamp’s flame rose in intensity across the room, revealing Tom. “This way, Brody.”
He stood next to another door. Junk lay everywhere around me—old papers, books and ragged clothing. I walked through the twisted path cut through the heaps and came to where Tom was already opening another door. He went through with the lamp in hand. I followed.
“What happened to Mr. Sinister?” I asked.
“Oh, he’ll be along in a moment.” Tom stopped and turned to me. “Brody, Mr. Sinister is a very important and powerful man. One piece of advice—don’t cross him.”
I stammered for an answer, wondering why such advice should be given, or how I might cross the man. After all, I was only seventeen years old and posed little threat to anyone, least of all Mr. Sinister. Tom turned, continuing down a narrow hallway leading to a circular stair rising through the ceiling.
We ascended the stair and came directly into a room filled with sewing machines on small wooden desks. Behind each, a woman sat sewing material resembling burlap. Other women labored at worktables cutting the coarse brown cloth into patterns vaguely human in shape—each having two arms, two legs and a head.
When two halves of the pattern were sewn together, more women stuffed them with sawdust from a pile next to their workstation. A hole remained over the heart of each crude doll and into it went the stuffing. The final item added came from a small pile of knick-knacks and accessories. Leather wallets, handkerchiefs, hairbrushes, pendants, earrings and other sorts of personal belongings lay there. Once one was selected, a woman placed it into the hole, down in the sawdust, then stitched it up.
I tapped Tom on the shoulder as we passed through the large workspace. “Are they making some sort of dolls?”
Tom shot me a sly grin. “Yeah, that’s just what they’re doing. Nice aren’t they?”
I didn’t answer. In truth they were hideous. Very poor workmanship. And they were as big as the women sewing them. The hair was made of stitched-on straw and they had big button eyes.
“Who in the world would want to buy one of those things for their children?” I asked.
Tom patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Brody, it’s a very exclusive market we serve. Now, let’s get some food into you.”
I followed him through, taking one last look at the women and their handiwork. The whole scene became even creepier to me as I noticed the expressions on their faces. They seemed to be in a trance. Their eyes never fell to their work, yet they completed the tasks as though born to them.
The woman nearest me worked a sewing machine running two halves of fabric under the bobbing needle. I gave her a little wave as we passed. She ran her hand right under the sewing machine needle and stopped. She did not scream, even though blood oozed out of her wounds. She simply backed up the needle, removed her hand and went back to her work like nothing had happened. Her eyes never ceased staring straight ahead toward the wall.
I stepped back from the little desk into Tom, who had stopped and come back for me. “There’s nothing to see here, Brody.”
I looked at him, my horror written all over my face. I started to complain, but his stern look told me it was best not to bother. Another life-sized doll flew from a worktable to the growing pile in the corner. We moved on.
Tom and I took another two flights of stairs upward toward the attic of the building. Here a host of children, all boys of various ages, lit upon plain wooden bunks, rickety chairs and even the rafters above. All of them wore the same shabby apparel.
Most of them looked our way when we came to the top landing and stood. Some of the boys smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, still others smoked clay pipes. None of them looked pleased to see us, which meant they were not pleased to see a stranger among them—namely me.
Some of the boys, nearly a dozen of the fifty or so present, sat huddled upon a long table near the middle of the room dipping into a sizzling skillet of sausages. Someone spoke up from behind them in a low voice and they scattered like cockroaches, revealing Mr. Sinister seated at the head of the table.
He spread his left hand to me invitingly. “Welcome, Mr. West. Please sit down and have something to eat.”
Said the spider to the fly, I thought to myself. Still, how could I refuse?
Tom ushered me into the room toward the table where Mr. Sinister sat at the far end. The boys watched me from every corner of the room. I sat down on the opposite end of the table. Several sausages waited in the iron skillet, their heat fading. I reached for one. Roaches skittered across the table, racing to the meat in the pan. I withdrew my hand in disgust, trying not to be obvious.
“I’m not really hungry at the moment, sir. Thank you, anyway.”
Two of the other boys moved on the pan and emptied it quickly. Mr. Sinister’s eyes never left me. Even when a cockroach crawled over his fingers resting upon the table, he simply raised his hand near his face, waited for the insect to reach his fingertips then flicked it into his mouth. It gave a sickening crunch as he bit into the insect, but his gaze never left me.
“What brings you to London, Mr. West? I understand you are an American,” he said with interest.
I found myself nodding absently. His eyes were like a serpent’s—hypnotic. “I came with my father.”
“And where is your father, Brody?”
“He was murdered two days ago, sir.”
“Oh dear, how terrible for you,” Mr. Sinister said, the grin never leaving his face.
“I ran away…afraid. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. The constable thought I was helping Tom and the other boys, so they threw me into prison.”
Mr. Sinister’s eyes narrowed slightly as he smiled even wider. “Yes, Tom certainly has been a naughty boy, but how fortunate for us that we should make your acquaintance.”
I looked at Tom. He stood against the wall nearby.
“Well, at any rate, I’m very glad that Tom saved me from the hanging. I saw a boy hung upon my arrival in London. It was terrible.” Tom frowned at me while his eyes dodged to the back of Mr. Sinister’s head.
I knew immediately that I had given away something I shouldn’t have. For his part, Mr. Sinister never stopped grinning at me, although his eyes did squint slightly at the mention of the hanging. “Really, Brody? I’m afraid Tom didn’t mention that yet.”
“I was meaning to tell you,” Tom interjected hurriedly. “Only it slipped my mind what with Brody coming to meet you and all.”
Sinister ignored him for the moment, his gaze never leaving my eyes. I had the distinct impression Mr. Sinister could literally look beyond my expression into my mind to see what I was thinking. Gooseflesh rose on my arms as a nervous trembling attempted to overtake me.
“Tell me, Brody, exactly what happened when Tom saved you…how did he ever manage it?” Now his eyes narrowed on me. I felt Tom’s sidelong gaze upon me as well, probably wondering if I would give away
anything else. My only problem was that I didn’t have a clue what parts of the story could be told and what Tom meant to be kept a secret. I supposed our crossing into the place Tom called Faerie must be completely off limits, but there was little else to be said besides it.
I stammered, but at least came up with, “I’m not really sure how he did it, but I am very happy to be alive.”
With his eyes still narrowed, Mr. Sinister’s smile vanished a little. “I’m sure you are, Brody.” He held up his hand and snapped his fingers. “I think you could probably do with some sleep, hmm?”
One of the other boys appeared with a tattered blanket, waiting to lead me away from the table. I looked out the windows. The gray sky hid the sun. I guessed it was only dusk. Still, I didn’t want to anger the man. After all, Tom had warned me not to cross him.
“I suppose, sir, if you think it a good idea.”
“I do.”
Dolls
My sleep that evening was fitful at best. I had been tucked away in one of the bunks formerly used by the boys who had been hanged while Tom and I had escaped. I didn’t ask if Charlie had been sleeping here, but something told me he had.
I dreamed of them that night—the boys sitting next to me while awaiting the hooded hangmen to come for us. I remembered Charlie’s final questions about the pain he was about to endure.
Then we were standing in a row again. The Noose was placed about our necks. The switch was thrown. Charlie looked over at Tom. Tom flashed the boy a devilish grin as a tomato flew past him, hitting me in the chest. Then the floor gave way. Charlie and the other boy—I had never known his name—dropped through. Tom and I disappeared from before his eyes along with the nooses about our necks.
Charlie hung there, wondering what had happened to us. His neck burned—I could feel his pain radiating out through his limbs. His head felt like a balloon about to pop as his face turned blue. The boys dwelling beneath the gallows laughed and jumped at his legs, fighting for a turn to add their weight to his. Two boys latched on and his spine gave way with a sickening crack that rang in his skull.
After the deed was done, as the bodies were being removed, no one questioned the absence of the other two boys who had previously been strung up with these two corpses. Any evidence of our existence had been erased. We were not even remembered.