“Relax, boy,” Whiting said, tapping his walking stick on Snail’s bouncing knee. “It’s an easy job. I’ve already done most of the leg work. They know you’re coming. They’re quite excited actually.”
“But I know nothing about their world,” Snail said.
Whiting leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve already told you, that’s the beauty of it. No one expects you to. The prince was hardly two when he was lost at sea. It shouldn’t be a wonder that he knows nothing about his past. You just stick to the story. You were found washed up on a distant shore, taken in by a fisherman and his wife. You lived your early years knowing nothing of who you were. All you had from your past life was that ring, which you kept on a string about your neck. Then one day, not too long ago, one of my agents happened upon you at the docks. You looked a bit familiar and on a whim he asked to see the ring around your neck. Low and behold, the heir to the kingdom was found and brought to me and I, in turn, bring you to the palace to be presented to your father much to the jubilation of the entire court.”
“Won’t they care about…this?” Snail held up his dark hands.
Whiting raised an eyebrow and then smiled. “They will care about what you tell them to care about when you are king.”
The carriage came to a sudden halt and when the driver opened the door music poured in. Snail paused at the sound. Like the rest of Lagoa’s poor, he too had once listened from the gate but he’d never heard it so clearly, so pure.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Whiting said. He gave Snail a reassuring pat. “Welcome to the dance.”
Men and women dressed all in red attended them as they dismounted and even with their visors Snail immediately marked them as former miners. They were all lobsters. They’d clearly been bathed and scrubbed, but there was no mistaking the yellow boy stains on their skin.
They were led across a courtyard of high white walls and sprawling topiary. Snail did his best not to stare. Whiting had told him it didn’t matter. He could gape all he wanted. As far as the people knew he was just a kid from a poor fishing village. However, Snail had decided early on to keep some illusion of sophistication. Foundling or not, appearing an uncultured rube would not win these people over.
Yet, it was impossible to keep up appearances when he entered the grand ballroom. Clearly, all the gold exchanged at the hill gate ended up here. Everything was gilded, and sparkled under the light spilling from golden candelabras and braziers. The cutlery, bowls, cups, all of it was gold. The guests wore gold too. Dresses sparkled and jewelry glinted. Even the floor was inlaid with golden filigree. At the far end of the room, watching men and women spin and twirl, stood a young man in a golden mask atop a dais. When he saw Snail and Whiting he clapped twice and the music stopped.
For a long, silent moment he simply stared at Snail, then he raised both arms. “My lost brother has returned.”
The ballroom erupted with applause, except an old man who slouched in a chair upon the dais.
“That would be the king?” Snail asked.
Whiting nodded. “Come, let us present you.”
They crossed the dance floor, flanked by partygoers who continued to applaud. Snail had never seen so many white faces in his life.
When they reached the dais, the prince clapped his hands once again. A bow pulled across a string and as the other instruments joined in, so too did the dancers until once again the room swayed with a tide of movement.
“Come, let Father have a look at you,” the prince said. He placed his hands on Snail’s shoulders and guided him to the king. Even with the wrinkles, there was no denying that Snail had elements of this man’s face. There were differences, of course, a bit less here a bit more there, but if Snail didn’t know the truth of it, he might even believe the lie himself.
“Your son has returned, Father,” the prince said.
The king said nothing, and didn’t even look up.
“Thank you,” the prince said to Whiting. “I will be able to sleep much easier knowing he is accounted for. You have done this court a great service and you will have your reward.”
So, there was a reward. Of course, Snail should have thought of that. He wondered just how much Whiting stood to gain from this. Looking at the decadence of the room he decided not to bother asking. Money no longer mattered. Let Whiting have his reward.
“Thank you, my lord,” Whiting said with a bow.
The prince turned back to Snail. “It is good to have you home, brother. You must be tired from your journey. Come, sit with me.”
Snail was ushered to a seat between the prince and the king. They watched the dancers for some time, while lobsters in their red outfits scurried about the room pouring drinks into golden chalices. Snail nursed his, careful not to let any of it get to his head. He did not want his mind hazy should he have to answer any questions. Much to his surprise he was asked none. They sat in silence, watching the spectacle, though every once in a while the prince looked over and studied Snail’s face. Snail politely ignored him.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of silence, the prince spoke.
“So, brother, shall we begin the dance?”
Snail put down his chalice. “I thought this was the dance.”
The prince’s mouth twisted into a predatory grin that chilled Snail.
“This? Oh my, no.” He stood up and clapped his hands once. The music stopped. The dancers stopped, then they parted to make a large square in the middle of the room. Against the walls the lobsters pulled vials from their uniforms and quaffed a sparkling golden liquid. In the long silence no one moved, except the lobsters who began swaying unsteadily where they stood. A wandering toot of an oboe rose from the band and, in a shambling dance, the lobsters moved to the center of the ballroom. Some were close enough that Snail could see the clouded eyes behind their visors.
“What is happening?” Snail asked.
“The dance,” the prince said with savage hunger.
Every instinct in Snail’s body told him it was time to leave, yet he couldn’t for the life of him get up.
The oboe continued to pipe away and the lobsters came together in the center of the room. Then the strings joined in and more servants poured into the ballroom. These were not lobsters but men and women in black suits with black masks. Snail’s stomach twisted when he saw the long knives and shining hatchets they carried.
The drums rumbled as they drove the song toward a crescendo. The servants in black advanced on the lobsters and with a crash of the cymbals they swung their cruel implements. The lobsters did not run, they didn’t even defend themselves. Whatever those vials had contained hollowed them out. They simply danced while they were hacked down. By the time the song ended the ballroom floor was slick with gore. Then the strings plucked up and began a jaunty tune. The servants in black held up grizzly trophies and the assembled patrons clapped.
Snail watched in horror as the servants brought the ghastly red morsels to the guests, who took them in their bare, bloody hands and sank their teeth into the flesh.
A servant with a golden tray approached the dais. Snail tried not to look. The prince took a severed hand and held it out to Snail.
“Won’t you join the dance, brother?”
Snail recoiled and the prince laughed. “You were a fool to return,” he said, though his voice was distant, as if hidden behind clouds. He threw the hand into the crowd and the guests scrambled for it. Then another servant in black handed him a knife and hatchet. He turned back to Snail and smiled, his teeth gleaming golden. “Turn not pale, beloved brother. Lobster is an acquired taste. Perhaps you’ll have more of a stomach for the main course.”
“What’s the main course?” Snail heard himself say. His head was suddenly very foggy and when he tried to rise to his feet he found he didn’t have the strength. He rolled his eyes toward his cup and saw the golden flecks floating in his wine. From somewhere outside the fog he heard drums and the crash of a cymbal. Then a voice like stale wine whispered in his ear
.
“Escargot.”
JAUNE
Catherine MacLeod
The way station entrance was below street level, and the rain splashed down the stone stairs behind him. A small neon sign reading Jaune buzzed quietly above the door.
It opened as he approached, and a tall, burly man said, “Hurry, come in before you wash away.”
Henry Knight said, “Thank you. Are you the owner?”
“No, I just saw your taxi pulling up.” The man took his coat and hung it on a rack. “I’m Andrew Barrett, fellow seeker. Isn’t this the worst weather you’ve ever seen?”
Henry said, “Not even close.”
There’d been the flash flood in Lima that had carried off a good chunk of the city, including his hotel. The tornado in Arkansas that had sucked his driver’s dog out of the back of the truck. The Nebraska blizzard that had taken two of his toes and his status as a card-carrying atheist. He’d travelled through worse than this to get a story.
Tonight’s was already writing itself in his head. Not that he’d be filing it, but as Emma, his long-time editor and sometime lover, used to say, old habits died hard. She’d also said old reporters died harder.
Most stories about La Maison Jaune have the flavour of urban legend. Surprisingly few of them mention ghosts and unsuspected intruders. The house may well have ghosts, though – those invited to its annual tour seem to know a great deal about being haunted.
No one will admit to knowing how the guests are chosen or by whom, but it’s said they all have one thing in common – they all long for a second chance. Every September twenty invitations, each painted with a picture of a yellow door, are sent with letters explaining that this is a one-time offer. You’re under no obligation to accept your second chance; but if you refuse it, or turn back at any point in the journey to Jaune, you’ll never get another.
Most stories about second chances say they can be had for a price. But it’s also said that those invited to La Maison Jaune have already paid.
Not bad for a first draft, Henry thought. Writing articles in his head was a habit he’d picked up as a stringer. He started writing them on the way to the nearest word processor, and by the time he got there they were half-polished. In fifty years he’d never missed a deadline, and only once failed to finish a story.
(Mama?)
He closed his eyes wearily. It had been a long trip. But he’d travelled further than this for a story, too, back in the day.
Andrew said, “I’m trying to get a poker game going. Do you play?”
He did, but, “No, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Looking around the bar, Henry felt…off, somehow. There was something not quite right about the place. He had the feeling that if he walked back out that door he wouldn’t recognize his surroundings.
The bartender was a dark, handsome woman with a pretty smile. Her name tag read Nadia. He said, “May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Where are we?”
She said, “If you’ve come this far, does it really matter?”
He decided her question was better than his, and watched her get the drink he hadn’t ordered. He considered himself in the mirror as he slid onto a stool. When he was a boy everyone had said he looked like his mother; that he had her big mild eyes and gentle expression. He didn’t think his eyes looked so mild anymore. He turned away, swivelling in half-circles, watching the other customers. No one had brought luggage, but he imagined they all had baggage to spare.
Once, he would have tried to guess their stories. Tonight, he didn’t much care. He noticed most of them were wearing yellow, though.
Jaune. He’d read somewhere that yellow was the colour of optimism, and somewhere else that it was associated with betrayal.
(Mama?)
He shook his head. The past was close tonight. Yellow had been Emma’s favourite colour, but he’d always favoured blue. Emma’s eyes were the bluest he’d ever seen, like the sky at dusk.
Alice’s eyes had been more like the sky at dawn, waiting to fill with light.
Gran’s had the blue of approaching thunder.
His mother’s had been the colour of soft, comfortable denim.
Three of them gone, none of them forgotten.
Nadia brought a glass of red wine, so dark it was almost black. “Is there anything else you’d like?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t, but he doubted he was alone in that. The bar resembled a scene from an old movie: strangers gathered from around the world for some mysterious purpose. They kept their voices down. A few nursed drinks and watched the basketball game playing on a TV mounted on the back wall, its volume turned low. A red-haired woman sitting near the door read a paperback volume of Robert Frost. Andrew had found a fourth for his poker game.
Henry counted nineteen customers, including himself. One more and they could leave. He realized he didn’t know what would come next. He thought he didn’t much care about that, either.
He sipped his wine slowly. It was very cold, and smelled of raspberries and distant lightning; of spruce and the cold wind off the lake by Gran’s house. It smelled of the fog rolling in the morning he’d joined a search party to look for a missing girl in the town of Traverston. He’d been there for a rare long weekend, wanting to be out of the city for a while. But the waitress at the coffee shop had served his breakfast with a side order of gossip that ended his vacation. There was a story there, and with any luck he would get it first.
He had. But he hadn’t felt lucky.
He’d been the one to find Alice, stumbling into a clearing and seeing her curled up on the grass with her head in her dead sister’s lap. Her sister’s head had rolled away into a pile of leaves.
He’d forgotten about calling for help, about not touching anything. He’d forgotten everything but the too pale, wide-eyed little girl who kept whispering, “Snicker-snack, snicker-snack.”
He’d lifted her away from the body, and carried her back the way he’d come, toward the river. Neither of them looked back. When the search party found them, they were both in shock and weeping.
He’d known it was going to be bad for her. She’d been eight when she told her parents she’d gone away to Wonderland, the same age he’d been when Gran told him his mother had gone away.
“She left, Henry. She just didn’t want to be your mother anymore, okay?”
Of course, it wasn’t okay. And she was lying. But he knew better than to call her on it. (Yellow: the colour of old bruises.) She’d stomped back to the kitchen to make something she knew he wouldn’t like for supper, and he’d slipped into his mother’s bedroom.
Her suitcases and all her clothes were gone. She hadn’t had much else. He’d known she was planning to leave – which Gran hadn’t known – and that she was taking him with her. “Even if I have to stuff you in my backpack,” she’d said, making him laugh. Softly, though; Gran didn’t like laughter.
He peeked down the hall, making sure Gran wasn’t coming, then slid under the bed. The brown envelope was still there, wedged between the springs. He pulled it out and hid it in his own room, behind the bureau mirror.
He’d have to keep changing hiding places, though, because Gran would go through his room and take anything good. Anything pretty or fun. Anything she wanted. The envelope contained a half-dozen photos of him and his mother taken in the photo booth at the mall, and a smaller white envelope containing his birth certificate and eight hundred dollars in cash. And, most telling, two bus tickets to Larson, a town three states away.
Mama hadn’t planned to go without him.
“Supper’s ready!” Gran hollered, and Henry knew better than to keep her waiting. But halfway down the hall there was a little alcove with a rough plank door in the ceiling, a hatch that could be pulled down by a wooden rod with a blunt hook on the end, and he stopped to look inside. There was something…off about it. The floor was usually dusty in there; no one went
in the attic much, except to get the Christmas ornaments.
The dust was scuffed, as if something had been dragged in there. The little gold key that locked Mama’s suitcase glinted in the corner. He picked it up.
He remembered the rain the night before, voices raised and the shush of hard wind across the lake. He thought it had been a good night for doing bad things.
Nadia said, “Sir, are you all right?”
He started back to the present and smiled tiredly. “Yes, just wool-gathering.”
She might have been thirty. Or fifty. She was one of those women who could be called timeless. Like Emma. Or Alice. His mother. Hell, even Gran, except that she’d only been beautiful if you didn’t know her.
“What do you know about La Maison Jaune?” he asked.
“Not much. I’ve never seen it. But I once heard about someone who changed his mind about going there, and got the shuttle driver to stop so he could walk back.”
“What happened when he got here?”
“He never did.”
“Have you ever seen any of your customers again?”
“No.”
He said, “One of them just forgot his cell phone on the bar.”
She didn’t look around. “He didn’t forget. He just doesn’t want it anymore. Look around – lots of people checking their messages, right? But I’ve never seen anyone make a call. By the time they get here they’ve probably said everything they need to.”
That definitely would have gone in his story.
She says they leave photos, letters, money. Jewellery, sometimes. A lot of wedding rings. “I put it all in a lost-and-found box. No one’s ever come back for anything, but it seems right to wait. After a year I claim it.”
Emma would have enjoyed publishing this. She loved drama and intrigue. Although knowing that the illness which had taken her from him was going to reunite them might have been too much even for her.
Nadia took a teapot and a box of teabags from under the bar. Henry went back to people-watching. He wasn’t impatient to leave. Even the bad memories weren’t bothering him much tonight. He didn’t mind that back in the day wasn’t that far back.
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