by Iva Viddal
“Watch,” the girl whispered, her eyes on the skull.
Nerma watched.
The skull swung forward and backward, and the buzzing nightglows began to crawl from its eye sockets like phosphorescent tears. The other skulls began to cry luminous yellow-green tears, too, and soon the surface of every skull swarmed with nightglows.
Antanasia stood and lifted her arms slowly in the air, and the nightglows took flight. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny, humming insects billowed into a shining cloud. Her hands danced in the air, and the cloud changed shape, twisting and dividing itself, until it formed the outlines of letters in the air.
N E R M A
“My name,” Nerma whispered. It was barely audible in the small space.
B E N N Y
“Ben-Ben—” Her little brother’s name escaped her as a sob.
J U N K O
“H-how—how do you know about Junko?” Nerma’s voice shook.
“I know that he had the softest brown fur, that he loved the taste of blueberry ice cream, and that he was hit by your neighbor’s truck when you were six years old. That was very painful for you. I’m sorry.” Anastasia’s face shared in Nerma’s grief for her old dog. “This is my Purpose. I know.”
“But . . . you are so little.” Nerma thought of a hundred other things to say, but they all seemed equally foolish at the moment.
Antanasia smiled, and for a second, she looked like a normal four-year-old. “That was easy.”
Nerma struggled to think clearly. “Can—can you tell me how to find my way home?”
The girl flipped her wrists and the nightglows scattered.
“Did you like my mother’s stew?” she asked. The nightglows took on the form of a giant bowl.
Nerma nodded.
“There is no correct recipe for stew, my mother tells me.” The girl rotated a finger, and the nightglows scattered again before reforming in the bulbous shapes of vegetables. “The recipe changes each time it is made. Carrots and peas in the spring, squash and corn in the summer, radishes and onion in the fall.”
Nerma was confused. “What—”
The nightglows imploded upon each other, morphing into the face of a furious beast, and Nerma gasped.
“Please, let them do their work,” Antanasia admonished, holding up a hand. “Stew cannot be made with only peas or only onions, of course. It must be made with things that work together but are not the same.”
The nightglows—once again shaped like vegetables—danced together in the air.
“Each ingredient has its own Purpose. A carrot is orange and sweet, while an onion is pale and aromatic. Most children—like me—won’t eat a carrot or an onion alone, but mixed together in a stew, they become delicious. People are like this, Miss Nerma. We each have a Purpose, something that makes us different, but it is within the stew that we shine.”
Nerma was utterly, entirely lost. Yes, everyone was different, but what did this have to do with finding her way back home? Politely, she said as much to Antanasia.
“You have a Purpose, Miss Nerma, but it is lost, and until you find it, home does not exist. You are a ghost.”
The nightglows shuddered.
14
The Menagerie
It was not a short walk at all to the Count’s cottage, and the night has a way of stretching time until seconds become minutes and minutes become the place of haunted imaginings. The moon had long ago dropped below the cliff’s edge, and the climb down the ditch’s steep and rocky wall had been difficult for Nerma. The darkness of the wet ravine swallowed them, and she struggled to follow October along the rough streambank trail. The ground became rockier, and when after Nerma tripped for the third time, she reached for his jacket sleeve to steady herself.
“What’s that smell?” she whispered, pulling herself upright.
“The landfill. It’s just ahead,” October murmured.
“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled!” Nerma tried not to breathe.
“It’s the rotting garbage from town—fish skin, badger bones, potato and turnip peels, babies’ diapers.” October gasped against the stench. “Hold your breath. We will be past it soon.”
Nerma grew lightheaded. The odor permeated the night, but the air gradually became easier to breathe as they made their way deeper into the woods. Creatures rustled unseen in the bushes alongside the trail, and Nerma imagined a colony of raccoons, feeding on the putrid fish and vegetables of the landfill. She clung tightly to October’s jacket and didn’t let go until he slowed. Two enormous pine trees jutted into the midnight sky, and between them a faint trail wound its way even deeper into the woods.
“This way,” October whispered, stepping between the giant trunks.
The path grew ever narrower, and although Nerma followed October single-file, low branches and sharp twigs pricked and clawed at her hair and dress. She grabbed hold of October’s coattails. At last, ahead in the gloom, two small, lopsided windows glowed orange. Drawing closer, Nerma could make out the uneven outlines of a stone hut, and although twinkling embers floated from its squat chimney, an air of abandonment seeped from it like an icy draft on a winter’s day.
“Welcome.”
The whisper came from the hollow darkness just beyond Nerma’s ear and she screamed, dropping October’s coattails.
“Run!” she cried, shoving him forward.
Instead of running, however, October stumbled, and before he could regain his balance, Nerma hurtled into his back. Together, they dropped to the ground in a tangled heap of flailing limbs.
“Something’s here! Something’s here!” Nerma hissed frantically. October’s weight was on her coat, and she found herself pinned to the ground. “Go, go, go!” Terror gripped her, and she felt October shaking with fear beside her. She pushed at his side, but he wouldn’t roll over.
Instead, he shook and shook and shook, until finally, Nerma realized that he was laughing. What started as silent quaking now erupted into a roaring belly laugh, and from across the dark yard, another voice wheezed with amusement. Nerma understood with a flush of embarrassment that she was once again the cause of someone else’s entertainment.
October, at last, moved off her coat and sat upright. “Nerma, this is the Count. Father, this is Nerma, a Stranger.”
Nerma leapt to her feet and scanned the shadows. “Your father? Where?”
“Where? Well, right there. Can’t you—can’t you see?”
“No! It’s pitch black out here!”
From only a few feet away, a low voice mumbled: “Oh my, terribly rude of me. Juth-t one moment, pleathe, while I get a light.” A tall shadow moved through the darkness, and a moment later a lantern was lit, illuminating an aging and stooped man. Silver hair framed a weathered but dignified face, and above a thin mustache, two gentle eyes peered out from beneath the bushiest eyebrows Nerma had ever seen.
“Nerma, ith it?” The man shook Nerma’s hand. He spoke with a strong lisp. “It hath been ages since I last met a Thranger. What a pleasure. Around here they call me the Count, but I’m afraid I thimply go by Dracula these days.”
The Count’s smile widened and revealed a gaping space where his top teeth should have been but where now only a dark chasm remained.
Nerma opened her mouth to speak but was struck silent by the view beyond the Count’s shoulder. In the light from his lantern, a wild garden took form. It started at the bottom of the hut’s tiny porch and swirled its way in spirals and circles across a small clearing, taking up every inch of soil and giving the clearing an ethereal, otherworldly aura. Nerma had the feeling she had stepped into a fairy bower. Gourds swelled like giant teardrops from a hanging trellis that circled an Eden of purple fruits that burst from the ground like gems. Across the garden, climbing beans shivered against a wall of emerald greens that curled their way skyward into a pointed peak. Rings of mushrooms—in yellows, crimsons, and iridescent shades the color of the moon—framed the garden like ripples in a pond.
�
�How beautiful,” Nerma gasped.
The Count held the lantern higher, and the light from the nightglows twinkled against the flowers and vegetables throughout the garden. “I am glad you like my garden,” he said. “October rather enjoyth it too.”
October only nodded, but his eyes shone with pride.
“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Nerma replied, but then she leapt back. “Oh!” she cried. Beneath her feet was a crush of golden dandelions, their lion’s manes smashed and wilted where she and October had fallen. “Did I smash your . . . your weeds—I mean, your flowers?”
The Count bent to yank a giant clump of the yellow flowers from the ground. “I’m glad you thmashed them,” he said. “Doctor Mapple th-pecial ordered these to wear in his lapel at the Gala, and it will give me pleasure to tell him he will have to thettle for thomething like an ugly rose. Every week it is thomething new—this week it is dandelions, but next week Mapple may want a Dutch amaryllith or a bird-of-paradise. If only he would pay me, then I could afford to help October out now and then…” His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat, shrugging to himself. He held the dandelions up high and dangled them, dirty roots and all, before Nerma’s nose.
“Give them a whiff,” he ordered.
Nerma did. Their sunny scent reminded her of lazy summer days spent in her grandmother’s backyard.
“Ever tried them with birch bark?” the Count asked.
Nerma shook her head and glanced at October, who grinned. “Delicious,” he said.
“Come,” the Count wheezed. He turned toward the hut. “Meet my friendth. They must be clamoring for their thupper.”
And indeed, his friends were clamoring—and cawing, screeching, whistling, chirping, grunting, and snorting. When Nerma followed the Count through the hut’s sloping doorway, at least a dozen creatures skittered, wiggled, fluttered, and slithered off in every direction.
“Come out, come out!” the Count called. “It ith only our dear October—that wonderful thun of mine—and hith friend! Come out, my little friendth! Come meet a Thranger!”
From between two books on a low shelf, a pointed, furry nose peeked out, and two pearly black eyes inspected Nerma suspiciously.
“Hello, Tom,” October said. He bent to scratch the creature’s head, and the animal allowed itself to be coaxed from the bookcase. October cradled it in his arms. “This is Tom,” he said, showing the bundle of fur to Nerma.
“What is he?” she asked. The little animal scowled at her.
“A shrew, of course,” October answered.
“How do you do, Tom?” Nerma asked, feeling silly.
Another animal wriggled forth from beneath an old wingback chair.
“And this is Gina. She is a marmot,” October said, gesturing toward a large rodent with fur the color of rust. Gina pawed at October’s pant leg, eager for attention, and Nerma bent to touch her soft fur.
A burst of inky black wings erupted across the room, and a bird with a wingspan nearly as wide as Nerma’s glided down to perch atop the Count’s shoulder.
“Hello,” it said, swiveling its neck to get a better look at Nerma.
“H-hello,” Nerma responded, taken aback. “How are you?”
“R’you?” the bird echoed, bobbing its head.
The Count held up a red strawberry, and the bird seized it with its curved beak.
“Thith is Elena,” the Count said. “She ith a raven from Western Carpathia. Elena, meet Nerma.”
“Stranger! Stranger-danger!” the bird exclaimed, moving its head rapidly up and down without breaking eye contact with Nerma.
“Hush, Elena,” the Count soothed, holding up another berry for her. “Any friend of October’s ith a friend of ours.”
“Danger! Danger!” the bird repeated before grabbing the strawberry from between the Count’s fingers.
“Where is Milton?” October asked.
At the sound of his name, a slender green snake slipped from the mouth of a pot and glided confidently across the wooden floor. It flicked its tongue at October’s shoelace, and the boy slid his fingers affectionately down the reptile’s smooth scales.
“Ah, there’s Milton. Is everyone else hiding?”
The snake flicked its tongue, and one by one, more animals crept from their hiding places: a silvery fox, a trio of excited bats, five fluffy squirrels, a tortoise named Horatio, a family of large toads, a yellow-spotted salamander, three chocolate-colored bunnies, a beaver with one eye, a racoon with a cast on its leg, and a fat skunk.
Other than the skunk, which immediately curled up before the fire and began to snore, each of the animals approached Nerma with curiosity, sniffing her feet and hands, batting at her skirt, or circling her head. One of the bats alighted briefly on the tip of her spoon and hung upside down, its eyes level with hers, before darting away with a series of excited clicks and squeaks. Once all of the animals had gotten a chance to inspect her up close, the Count calmed them down with a tut-tut and a wave of his hand. The animals back off, some of them more reluctantly than others.
“Do you like my menagerie?” The Count asked Nerma.
“Do you mean the animals?” she asked.
“Indeed.” He nodded.
“Very much,” she said. “Do they all live here?”
“Yeth, most of the time. Here, have a seat,” he said, although it came out as have a theat. “I shall tell you all about my menagerie, but I must feed my friends before they decide they want to eat us.” He shot her a gap-toothed smile. “I’m only kidding.”
Nerma sat in a cushioned chair beside October and let her eyes explore. The hut was small but brimmed with the leftovers of a once-grand lifestyle. Bookshelves lined the low walls and sagged beneath the weight of many thousands of pages. Beside the plush velvet armchair near the hearth, a table lay burdened beneath countless quill pens and parchment leaves. Across from it, a wide grandfather clock ticked beside an ancient, chipped harpsichord. The most remarkable object in the room, however, was a towering sarcophagus that loomed in one corner. Painted upon its smooth wood was the black and white image of a man, his arms folded across his chest.
Now that the excitement of Nerma’s arrival had worn off, the animals found activities to occupy themselves. The raccoon and salamander lounged before the fire, and the squirrels began to play with a set of Chinese checkers in the far corner. Horatio the tortoise pulled a book from a shelf and began to read. Nerma could just make out the title: On the Origin of Species. On the mantel above the fire, the raven paced with one black eye glued to the door, and the silver fox curled itself up at Nerma’s feet. In a corner near the stove, the bats flitted about the Count’s head as he brewed dandelion-birch tea and chopped vegetables from the garden for a stew, which he set to boil on a large black stove.
“My menagerie didn’t th-tart out this large,” the Count said, gesturing at the room full of animals. “It th-tarted with only Elena here.”
The raven rose into the air and settled once again on the Count’s shoulder. A loose feather drifted down into the bubbling pot, but the Count didn’t seem to notice.
“Elena came to me soon after I left Thmall Hourth. She was injured. Her right leg had been crushed in a hunter’s trap, and she had lost nearly all her feathers.” He reached up to pet the bird’s silky side. “A bird with no feathers and a vampire with no fangs. We made a good team, eh, Elena?”
The bird nuzzled her cheek against the Count’s and used her beak to straighten a stray lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Team!” she agreed.
“For the first time in my life, I was alone. I had lost my wife, my students and colleagues, my thun . . .” He lisped quietly, looking back to smile sadly at October. “You know, when I first arrived at the hut, there was no roof. It was terrible when it rained, unbearable when it thnowed. But I learned to use a saw and hammer, and Elena and I nursed each other back to health, did we not, old girl? And then one day I came upon Horatio out behind the hut. Did you kn
ow, Nerma, that tortoises’ shells are made up of dozens of bones that have fused together?”
Nerma shook her head.
“If a shell gets fractured, ethpecially as badly as poor Horatio’s was, it can cause a devil of an infection. He had to wear a cast for two years. By the time his shell was healed, October had covered every inch of it with childhood th-cribbles. They have all washed away now, of course.”
Nerma looked closely at the tortoise’s back and noticed for the first time that a long, deep ravine marred his glossy shell.
“Before long,” the Count continued, folding his slim body into the chair beside her, “a new animal was arriving every month. Word had gotten out that there was a vampire healer in the wood-th.” He chuckled. “Imagine that, the eighty-ninth Count of Wightworth Castle is now a hermit who heals animal-th.”
Nerma smiled. “It’s like your own private zoo.”
All at once, the peaceful little cabin erupted in a cacophony of snarls and squeaks. The squirrels stopped playing their game, sending marbles skittering across the floor. The raven and bats took to the air, and the marmot and shrew stood on their hind legs, their snouts pointed angrily in Nerma’s direction. Milton, the snake, uncoiled and licked the air, and even the skunk uncurled itself from before the fire. When it lifted its tail high in the air, October leapt from his seat and held up his hands.
“Now Tiffany,” he soothed. “It is just a word—just a simple word. She is a Stranger. She doesn’t know any better.”
The skunk arched her back and turned, ever so slowly, until her back end was aimed directly at Nerma.
“Should I . . . ?” Nerma scooted back in her chair.
“No. Do not move.” October eased closer to the skunk, who began to paw at the floor like a contented cat. “Tiffany has quite a temper, and I’m afraid you have used her least favorite word.”
Nerma tried to recall what she had said. “Was it because I said ‘private z—’”
The Count held up one long finger. “We call it a menagerie,” he explained, “because my friend-th are free to come and go as they choose, and some of them”—he dropped his voice to a low rasp—“some of them find the term zoo to be extraordinarily offenthive.”