Gloom Town

by Ronald L. Smith

  “This shouldn’t all fall on you, Son.” She sniffed. “You should be out enjoying being a boy, not worrying about whether you have a roof over your head.”

  “But it’s not all on me,” Rory countered. “You work two jobs every day, Mum. It’s only fair I do my part as well.”

  Hilda turned to him. She clasped his hand. Embers pop-ped and hissed in the fireplace. Rory looked into the flames. “I’ll get the job,” he said quietly, “and we’ll pay off that miserable Mr. Bumbailiff. Then, maybe we can go on a little trip. Set sail and see all of Europica. How’s that sound, Mum?”

  In answer, Hilda Sorenson squeezed her son’s hand a little more tightly. “That would be splendid, Rory. Absolutely splendid.”

  Chapter Three

  Upon Entering Foxglove Manor

  The house itself was a monstrosity—a gargantuan tapestry of brick, wood, and stone—jutting out of the earth like a madman’s nightmare. It leaned a little, too, as if the whole thing could blow over in a strong wind. Creeping green vines snaked their way up the walls and coiled around a crumbling, blackened chimney.

  Rory swallowed hard.

  Only a crumbly, old house, he reassured himself.

  Mothsburg Lane was east of Copper Street and farther away from Quintus Harbor. The houses here were set apart from one another, giving the inhabitants room to breathe. In Rory’s neighborhood, most people lived in small row homes crammed together. But not here. Patches of green grass divided the houses, most of which loomed behind high gates and tall trees. Rory wondered how much money it would cost to maintain them. There would have to be a groundskeeper, maids, butlers, and all manner of servants. But he saw no sign of life on the street, not even a stray dog or a slinky, roaming cat, which were numerous around Copper Street and Market Square—closer to the docks and scraps of food, he figured.

  He let out a breath. What would Izzy say if she saw him here now? He needed to tell her about the job he was seeking. She was his best friend after all.

  Rory walked up a row of white steps and faced the door. He’d wanted to arrive early that morning, but he’d had chores around the house to finish first. Now it was already late afternoon. A gentleman’s valet, he thought again. That was a butler of sorts. Someone who helped rich people do stuff. I can do that, he told himself. How hard could it be?

  Rory took a deep breath and reached for the door knocker. He shivered. It was a gruesome, leering face, the tongue being the knocker itself. He picked it up and let it fall, sending an echo down the block and back again.

  The air was cool, and red and gold leaves swirled around on the stoop. The glass in the gaslight above his head was shattered. The air smelled like copper pennies.

  He shuffled his feet. Why is it taking so long?

  The heavy door opened with a creak.

  A man in a black and white butler’s uniform stood before him. He was very tall and stooped, as if he had trouble straightening himself. His arms hung at his sides like some sort of simian creature.

  Rory didn’t speak while the butler looked him up and down. Finally, he realized he should say something first. “My name’s Rory,” he said a little too quickly, “and I’m here about the gentleman’s valet job.”

  The butler continued to observe him, and Rory noticed that one eye was blue and the other ice-cold gray, which Rory found quite unsettling. Long, dark hair hung flat on either side of his face.

  “Are you indeed?” the butler asked in a deep, slow voice, his mouth opening and closing like a marionette.

  “Am I indeed what?” Rory asked.

  “Why, a gentleman’s valet,” the man answered, as if Rory was the dumbest boy in the world.

  “Oh,” Rory replied, trying to put on a good face. “Yes, well. I suppose so.”

  The butler let out a dismissive humph, then straightened a little and pulled the door wide. “Follow me,” he said.

  And that’s what Rory did.

  He found himself in a long, narrow hall, with rooms to either side. Decorative brass sconces were affixed to the walls, spreading weak light. He had heard of gaslight inside homes before but had never been in one that had it. Paintings were hung close together in ornate frames of gold and silver. There were so many that Rory could barely make out the color of the wall beneath. They were all portraits—men and women looking out from their frames with solemn gazes. They seemed to be from another era, one Rory was not familiar with—men with powdered wigs and ruffled collars, women with elaborate hairstyles and glittering jewels around their necks. Rory took it all in quickly, trying not to ogle at the strangeness he had just stepped into. At the end of the hall, a rusted suit of armor stood at the ready, silver lance in hand.

  The butler made a right turn and Rory followed. The room they entered was like nothing he had ever seen. Tall windows let in light through faded yellow curtains. One wall revealed a towering bookshelf sagging under the weight of too many leather-bound books. Fancy chairs with scrolled armrests and clawed feet were spread about, and several candelabras sat on tables and pedestals. Paintings were hung here as well, but not as many as in the hall.

  “Please,” the butler said. “Take a seat.”

  Rory looked left, then right. He wasn’t sure where to sit but finally settled in a chair covered in a mossy-green fabric. A lighted candelabra flickered on a small table beside him. The man remained standing, reached within his suit jacket, and took out a small pad of paper and a black fountain pen. He flipped to a blank page, coughed, and then said, “Diseases. Do you have any?”

  Rory swallowed. His mum told him he’d once had the ague when he was very little. Is that what the man meant? But he didn’t have time to answer.

  “Have you ever been to Outer Europica?” The butler continued.

  “No,” Rory answered.

  “The Isle of Falling Clouds?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen a snake shed its skin?”

  “No.”

  “Been bitten by a tarantula?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever found a golden egg?”

  Golden egg? Rory thought. What is this all about?

  “No, sir,” he said. “I’m here about the job. The valet job.”

  The butler looked up from his pad. His gray eye moved around in its socket, while the blue one remained still. “Why, what do you think we are doing, young man? This is an interview. Lord Foxglove is taking great care with whom he shall hire for the position.”

  “Lord Foxglove?”

  The butler closed his eyes and then sighed. “This house is called Foxglove Manor, is it not?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That means, quite possibly, that someone by that name might reside here. Do you understand?”

  Rory swallowed. “Yes.”

  This interview wasn’t going very well.

  The man turned away and walked to the bookcase. He rubbed his chin, then extended a long finger and pulled a book from the shelf. Rory watched him as he turned and made his way back. He had a strange gait, more animal than human, almost as if he were walking on his tiptoes. He stopped in front of Rory and handed him the book. The cover was dusty, and Rory felt his nose tingle as if he were about to sneeze, but somehow he avoided it.

  “Can you read?” the butler asked.

  “Yes,” Rory answered. Reading was one of his favorite pastimes, though good books were hard to come by in Gloom. They were all sad stories with unhappy endings.

  “Very well,” the man replied. “Open to any page and read a passage.”

  Rory shifted in his seat. He felt a coiled spring underneath him and thought it would burst through and poke his backside. Why does he want me to do that? Maybe he’d have to read shopping and errand lists for Lord Foxglove if he was hired. He couldn’t think of any other reason.

  “Ahem,” the butler sniffed, impatient.

  Rory looked at the cover. Words in an unknown language stared back at him. Maybe it was different inside, he thought, and opened the book. The butl
er crouched down, close to Rory’s face. Rory caught a faint whiff of something unpleasant. He wrinkled his nose.

  “Anywhere will do,” the man instructed him.

  Rory scanned down the page, which seemed to be some kind of brittle parchment. He exhaled. “The ancient sea mariners of old crafted ships from the finest ebony—”

  “That’s enough.” The butler cut him off and rose back up to his full height.

  Rory closed the book. Dust coated his fingertips.

  A sly grin formed on the strange man’s face. “You didn’t say you could read Old Aramaic.”

  “Old what?”

  “Aramaic, one of the oldest languages in the world.”

  “Well, I can’t,” Rory said rather bluntly.

  “Well, you just did, young man. You just did.” He crouched down again, and Rory saw a long, black hair curling out of one nostril. “And how, pray tell, do you explain that?”

  Rory gulped. “Luck?”

  His interviewer straightened back up. Rory wanted to check the book again and get a closer look, but it was quickly snatched away.

  “Lord Foxglove has charged me with finding a valet.” The butler sniffed. “You’ll do.”

  Rory contained his excitement. He had a job!

  “Come back tomorrow and the lord of the manor will take a look at you.” The butler reached into his suit jacket and took out a scroll of paper, which unspooled to the floor like a ribbon. “It’s all in order,” he said, handing Rory his fountain pen. “Please sign.”

  Rory held the heavy pen between his fingers. Take a look at me? he thought. What did he mean by that?

  Rory lifted the bottom of the page and brought it close to his face. Several passages were written in English, as well as other languages he didn’t recognize. It was as if a colony of ants had swarmed the page. “What exactly am I signing?” he asked.

  “I thought you said you could read,” the butler scolded. “You are signing a contract, and in order to do that, one must be able to read, don’t you think? That is why I asked you in the first place.”

  A contract, Rory thought. He had never signed anything before, especially something as important looking as this. He tried to focus. He had a decision to make. He and his mum needed money, that was certain, but he didn’t know what all of these words meant. Just do it, he told himself. Mr. Bumbailiff’s threat rang in his ears: One week . . . with interest. If not, you’re out.

  Rory steeled himself, and then signed on the dotted line.

  The butler quickly snatched the paper from his hands. It was only then that Rory saw, very clearly, as if it had just come into focus, a few words in a small, fanciful script at the bottom of the page, and they struck him like an arrow:

  Upon Penalty of Death.

  Chapter Four

  Black Maddie’s

  Rory left Foxglove Manor in a daze. His thoughts were scattered. He knew he had just signed a contract, but the memory of it was floating away second by second, like a dream.

  He felt mesmerized. Under a spell. How had he been able to read all of those strange words? The butler had said it was Old Aramaic. How could that be?

  And what about Lord Foxglove? Shouldn’t Rory have met his employer?

  Oh well, he thought, nothing to do for it now.

  A gray and white cat lazily strolled in front of Rory as he passed Black Maddie’s, Gloom’s most popular inn. It was a small, one-story building made from white stones covered in slick, wet moss. Loud, raucous music drifted out the door and into the street.

  Rory climbed the steps and wiped his muddy shoes on a straw mat. Inside, the strong aroma of beer, smoke, and cooked mutton filled the air. It was a familiar scent and one that clung to his clothes every time he visited. Darkness lay over the place like a cloak but for a few fat candles placed on the square-cut, wooden tables. Music rose above the din of clinking bottles and raised voices. Rory looked to the makeshift stage built with planks of wood stacked higher than the floor. One melancholy voice rose in the air and he smiled. It was his mum, singing a sad sea ballad, one that she had sung to him when he was a child, and he knew the tune well:

  “So I signed aboard a whaling ship

  and my very first day at sea,

  there I spied in the waves,

  her reaching out for me.

  ‘Come live with me in the sea,’ said she,

  ‘down on the ocean floor,

  and I’ll show you many a wondrous thing

  that you’ve never seen before.’”

  Hilda Sorenson raised her arms in the air. The pianist, a man as skinny and white as a bleached skeleton, hammered away at the keys. A few strands of lank hair clung to his bald head. Rory shifted his gaze back to his mum. She had bright-red hair that flowed down her back and a thin, sharp nose—two things Rory had not inherited. He was darker than most in Gloom, with close-cropped, curly black hair and almond-shaped eyes. When Rory asked his mum why they looked so different, she’d told him that he favored his father and left it at that. Rory could tell it was something she didn’t want to talk about.

  His mum stood against a backdrop of a rippling sailcloth painted sky blue. If you looked at it closely enough, you could imagine seagulls and small white ships riding the waves. After the song was finished, Hilda and Rory sat at a table in the dim back of the room. Rory ordered a cinnamon root elixir from the barkeep. It was his favorite drink. There were certainly stronger cordials available at Black Maddie’s, but Rory wasn’t of age to drink them. Plus, he didn’t want to. More than once, he’d seen the men stumbling out of the inn, their legs too rubbery to hold them up. They usually fell into a heap and didn’t move again until morning, when they dusted themselves off and went about their way.

  “There’s my love.” Rory’s mum kissed him on the cheek. She had dark circles under her eyes from too many nights singing for tips after working at the leather tannery during the day.

  “Well?” she asked eagerly, raising her eyebrows in anticipation.

  Rory sipped his drink. He had good news, although the circumstances were still a bit odd to him. He decided to draw out the moment, and slurped again.

  “Rory.” She persisted.

  He set his glass on the table. “I’ll be working at Foxglove Manor as a valet.”

  Hilda Sorenson almost jumped out of her seat, which was quite dramatic for someone who lived in Gloom. “Oh! That’s wonderful, my boy! Splendid. Now, tell me all about it. When do you start?”

  “Tomorrow.” Rory paused.

  He had no idea what time he was supposed to show up. All he remembered was that the butler had said to come tomorrow to meet Lord Foxglove. Take a look at you, he recalled with a shiver.

  “Tomorrow?” Hilda repeated. “Not much time to get ready then, huh?”

  Rory shrugged.

  “Well,” she said optimistically, picking a speck of lint from Rory’s frayed sweater. “I’ve taught you a few things, haven’t I? You know how to tie a cravat, mix a whiskey sour, press a shirt, and tell a good joke. So, do you think you’re prepared?”

  Rory nodded. “I think so.”

  But inside, he wasn’t really sure. He remembered the words on the contract he had just signed: Upon Penalty of Death.

  He swallowed the last of his drink.

  Chapter Five

  Lord Foxglove

  Rory woke to the smell of fried bread. His mum must have made him a slice. He dressed quickly and headed downstairs, hoping she was alone.

  Sometimes, Rory would wake up to find men and women sprawled on the sitting room floor and furniture. Rory’s mum called these people her “comrades” and said they’d been together through thick and thin. There was Vincent, who wore a type of eyeglass called a monocle, a round piece of glass that fit snugly over one eye. He had one leg shorter than the other and walked with an ivory-tipped cane. Ox Bells was as big as a giant, with a gleaming bald head and hands as meaty as two cooked hams. Supposedly, he had once worked as a strongman at a circus, but if there
had ever been a circus in Gloom, Rory hadn’t heard of it. Then there was Miss Cora, who sported the fanciest clothes Rory had ever seen—long red gloves up to her elbows and hats that were shaped like animals. One time, Rory thought an actual squirrel had taken up residence in her hair but soon learned it was just another one of her hats, a “cloud,” she’d called it.

  Whenever these comrades visited, Rory’s mum referred to their little front room as a salon. Rory wasn’t sure what that meant. They usually played cards or sang songs around the battered piano late at night. Sad songs, of course, it being Gloom. But last night, the house had been quiet. Rory had slept uneasily, rolling around in his bed. He still had to meet Lord Foxglove, and he had no idea what to expect.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, his mum had laid out the toast and two boiled eggs. Rory sat down and dug in. He ate quickly, not even relishing the wonderful taste. He was preoccupied, his brain racing. Tension gnawed in the pit of his stomach. It was the butler. Something wasn’t right about him. And Rory was certain it was more than just the man’s creepy eyes.

  “So,” his mum said, sitting across from him. “You have the job, but you haven’t met the . . . what’s he called?”

  “Lord of the manor,” Rory reminded her.

  “Right. Figured it would be something fancy like that.”

  “I thought I’d go in early, you know,” Rory said between bites. “Make a good impression.”

  Hilda cocked her head. “They never said what time?”

  “No.”

  “Humph. That’s odd.”

  Rory thought it odd too. But he resisted saying anything about how strange the interview really was. It would only startle her. And he didn’t want that, especially with Bumbailiff breathing down their necks.

  Rory gulped down the rest of his food.

  Before he left, his mum gave him a kiss on the cheek. “For good luck,” she said.

  Rory hoped he wouldn’t need it.

  * * *

  He passed the docks, dodging the frequent droppings from the gulls overhead. The Strasse, the main avenue of Gloom, stretched out before him like a winding snake. It ran from one end of the town to the other. Small shops and homes lined both sides of the street. Rory had taken this route so many times he could navigate it with his eyes closed.