by Iva Viddal
He recalled the booming voice of Doctor Mapple at a Moontide Meeting months ago: “He who hath no soul hath no home. Promethean Primer: Chapter Four, Instruction One.”
And another time, Doctor Leech had lectured about the inherent treachery of Strangers. “For the Stranger, the lie is no different from the truth,” she had warned. “It is our Purpose that gives us knowledge of good and evil, and the Stranger can understand neither.”
Yet here he stood, watching as a fluffy white cloud passed over the slope of Harmony Hill. It was very real indeed. “How do we get there?” he asked Nerma, his throat like ash.
“I was hoping you would know the way,” she said.
October ran his tongue over his fangs. He needed to think.
They were quiet as they rinsed their faces and mouths in the cold stream and as they began their walk back toward Diviner’s Ditch.
“I believe a friend of mine may be able to help,” October said at last. “He lives in town, not far from the Abbey, in a neighborhood called the Slab. Let’s get something to eat on our way.”
When they arrived in Diviner’s Ditch, however, the cliffside was asleep and its walkways still and empty, so they moved on. They passed back through the woods and finally into Small Hours, where October led Nerma to a small all-hours tavern. There, they breakfasted on pan-fried vulture livers and poached goose eggs.
October ordered two black pudding sandwiches with hash browns to go, and they emerged from the tavern into a cool autumn night. Fog had settled into the nooks and crannies of the village, clogging the narrow gaps between buildings and leaking into alleyways. It blocked out the spires overhead and distorted the highest windows into spectral shapes that seemed to shift in the darkness. The gargoyles’ eyes glistened in the dampness.
Nerma shivered.
“Not much farther,” October said.
They were wet and chilled to the bone when they reached the Slab, the small corner of Small Hours where the handful of village eccentrics and artists lived. The Slab’s name came from a great block of granite that huddled between a crumbling mansion and the old foundry building, both of which had long ago been converted into apartment complexes. The granite slab itself was a constant site of conflict within the Slab, for no one could agree on how it should be painted. The Classicists fought against the Impressionists, and they in turn fought with the Orientalists, who abhorred the Cubists. Week after week, the great granite boulder was repainted as artists crept down in the middle of the day to cover their rival’s artwork with fresh layers of paint.
On this misty morning, October could just make out the image of a mermaid painted in bright oranges and blues upon the smooth granite surface. He recognized it as the work of his friend.
He led Nerma up a shaky staircase and knocked on a scuffed door upon which two signs had been hung: “Welcome Dear Guests!” and “Go Away!” Nerma stamped her feet and rubbed her cold hands together. They waited for what felt like ages, and October knocked once again. At last, the door creaked inward, and there stood a creature as green as a Granny Smith apple and an expression on his face that was just as sour as one.
“Ron! Did we wake you?” October worried.
The creature grumbled and ran a furry hand across the top of his disheveled head. He was covered in unruly green fur from head to toe. “I had a late daytime,” he grumbled, gesturing for October and Nerma to follow him into the apartment.
“I am sorry, Ron. We would not be here if it were not important.”
Ronald waved a hand in the air absentmindedly.
October briefly introduced Nerma and handed the sandwiches over to his friend. “Ted is still asleep, I presume?” he asked.
Ron grunted. “Painting,” he said, and beckoned for October and Nerma to follow him.
They passed through a doorway into a room with tall ceilings. Dozens of lanterns blazed brightly, and the airy space glowed with serenity. In the far corner, a man with wild black hair stood before a canvas. He remained intently focused on his work, and without taking his eyes from it reached toward a collection of glass jars filled with globs of thick paint. His fingers, Nerma saw, were long blades, like those on a set of tailor’s shears. He dipped one sharp index finger into a pot of rose-colored paint and dabbed the color onto the canvas, gently at first, here and there, and then in one dramatic motion he swept the blade across the canvas. Nerma thought that the painting would be cleaved in two, but it remained intact.
Ronald grunted. “Teddy. Visitors.”
The painter paused just long enough to mutter, “One moment,” and then he delicately scraped two bladed fingers against the canvas. He sat back to examine his work.
Nerma stepped closer. “That’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Indeed, the work was a startling masterpiece of light and dark, a contrast of good and evil played out on a rectangle of canvas.
“Thank you very much,” Ted said, turning to face his guests. He was as pale as a ghost, but his eyes were rich and warm, and they lit up when he smiled.
Ron curtly made introductions. “Ted, this is Nerma. Nerma, this is Ted. Now what do the two of you want?”
Ted smiled remorsefully at the two young people. “I’m sorry about Ronald. He’s a bit of a grouch when he wakes up, but he’ll warm up. Can I get you some tea?”
In the apartment’s roomy kitchen, October and Nerma sat across from Ron and Ted and shared their adventures—and problems—of the past few days.
“You know this village better than anyone,” October said to Ron.
To Nerma’s surprise, the furry green man glowered. “Those days are behind me.”
October shook his head. “No, no—you don’t have to break any laws. We are not breaking and entering. We just need you to be Nerma’s guide. She needs to get back home.”
Ron thought for a moment. “You say that you crossed at a place called Wishers Warsh?”
Nerma nodded.
“I have heard of it. Once, a long time ago.” He stirred his tea. “You understand that my expertise has always been of a more . . . domestic sort. I know the ins and outs of every villager’s house. I do not, however, know the woods, the bridges, the places where passageways might . . . shift.”
Nerma nodded.
Ron bit into his sandwich. “Thanks. Tastes good.” He chewed slowly and glanced up. “Did Oct tell you that me and Ted used to live with Strangers, years before we met each other? That was a lifetime ago.” He filled his mouth to brimming with bread and black pudding but kept speaking. “Nevertheless, our backgrounds are”— gulp— “quite alike.” Bite. “We were both outsiders who were taken in”— gulp— “by well-intentioned Strangers like yourself. But at the end of the day,”—bite— “we were misfits. You see that door there? See how tall the frame is?”—gulp—“I bet you never seen doors like the ones in Small Hours before, eh?”
“They don’t have door handles!” Nerma was glad someone had finally brought it up.
October puzzled over the term. “Door handle,” he muttered under his breath. Why would a door need a handle? Did people on Harmony Hill carry their doors around with them like suitcases? If that were the case, a door certainly would require a handle.
Ron continued. “These are special-made doors, you see. Where I used to live, all the doors were so small that I had to climb through a window or sometimes even the chimney. Imagine that, having to slide down someone’s sooty chimney just to visit! It eats away at a man’s pride, at his sense of self. So when I got here to Small Hours I made sure the doors were good and tall.” He rubbed his big green belly. “I bet you’re wondering about the door latches. Here, let me show you.”
Nerma followed him to the door. Like all the others she’d seen in Small Hours, it didn’t have a knob.
“Close it,” Ron ordered. Nerma obeyed. “Now open it,” he prompted. Nerma pushed on the door and whacked at it with the heel of her hand, but it wouldn’t budge. She tapped at the weird sliver-thin slots in the doorframe, but still
nothing happened. Ron stopped her. “Teddy, your services are required. I left my pentadagger in the bedroom.”
With a smile, Ted slid his long-bladed fingers into the slots, and the door clicked open.
“It just so happens,” Ron bragged, “that you, Nerma, are in the presence of the one—the only—locksmith in all of Small Hours. I present to you, Ted.”
Ted bowed. “At your service.”
Nerma was perplexed. “But why don’t you just put knobs on the doors? Then everyone could use them.”
Ted held his hands aloft and pretended to try—and fail—to grasp an invisible door handle.
Nerma looked down at her hands, and October looked at his own. He had never considered before why the doors of Small Hours were built the way they were. He simply carried a pentadagger in his pocket or asked someone nearby if they had a set if he needed a door opened.
“It’s not the best design,” Ted admitted. “When I first came to Small Hours, doors were opened in a different way. They called it acid-bending. The last locksmith was an acid-spitter.”
Nerma raised an eyebrow, and Ron jumped in to explain. “If someone got locked out of their house, locksmith would come along and spit acid on the lock. It melted the metal, so the door was no longer locked. But that meant that locks had to be replaced all the time, and some mistrustful folks wanted their doors locked all the time, which meant that the locksmith, ol’ Timonus Acrid, was running around all night and day spitting on people’s locks. So, the guy decided to solve his problem and make a few bucks on the side. He started selling his spit.”
Nerma made a face.
“Gross, right?” Ron agreed. “And dangerous, too, because—people being people—acid was getting spilled everywhere, and that stuff was strong. People were spilling it in their shoes, in their midnight beetle chowder, in baby’s cradles. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. Well, poor ol’ Acrid died from glandular complications, and Teddy here was put to work. Ted knew how to—how should I put this?—he knew how to open doors in creative ways, which got him into a little trouble in his previous life. Teddy always wanted to be an artist, but the Doctors decided his Purpose was as a locksmith, so here we are. Now Teddy here spends his days painting and his nights helping folks repair their locks.”
Ted smiled shyly. “Most of my work is really just helping people get back into their homes after they’ve had a few too many mugs at Yeasty’s Well.”
Most of this was new to October, who had known both Ted and Ron his entire life. “So, Ted, you can get into any building in town?” It was unbelievable.
Ted nodded. “If I’m asked.”
Something stirred in the back of October’s mind, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.
“But we don’t want any more run-ins with the law, if you know what I mean.” Ron furrowed his fuzzy brow. “Like I said, those days are behind us. Now, we paint.” He stifled a belch. “Long story short, I don’t know where your Wishers Warsh is, but give me some time and I’ll think on it. For now, enjoy your stay. The Gala of the Ghouls is tomorrow night. You won’t want to miss that disaster.”
October grinned at Nerma. “You will love it. But . . . you will need a costume.”
“We have a whole closetful,” Ted said, brandishing his sharp hands through the air. “She’s welcome to borrow one.”
Ron made a face. “Yeah, fine. But maybe let the kid shower first. She smells like a marmot. Not to be rude or anything.”
Nerma was horrified. “Can I use yours?”
“Be my guest.” Ron shrugged. “Just don’t complain about the green fur in the drain.”
17
The First Chase
Feeling better now that she was clean and had friends who promised to help her get back home, Nerma agreed to accompany October on an errand. They stopped first at his apartment, where he changed out of his soiled clothes and donned a funny-looking uniform, which he said was part of his training.
“What kind of training?” Nerma asked as they walked through the courtyard of Corpescule College, but October was distracted.
He needed to stop at the Office of Purpose Perfection, he said, to receive his training assignment. There, a blond giantess with hands of bronze greeted him warmly and positively glowed with delight when he introduced Nerma.
“My, my, what a perfect little picture you are with that darling Purpose.” The enormous woman leaned forward and admired Nerma’s spoon with an eyeball the size of Nerma’s fist. “How positively normal you look!” she boomed, her vast eyelid dropping into a wink.
She handed a slip of paper to October, and he and Nerma walked out into the open university gallery. Night-blooming cereus and creamy moonflowers bobbed in the misty breeze, their pale faces like small moons in a stormy sky. October was mumbling quietly to himself when Nerma reached out to touch a tiny blossom. She yelped and pulled her hand back.
“It bit me!” She held up her left hand. There were tiny teeth marks on the tip of her finger.
“Well, what did you expect? It is a flower.” October frowned. “We will have to stop and get another bandage for you.”
“It’s fine,” Nerma said, gripping the finger tightly in her other hand. “Just a scratch.”
October sighed and looked down at the paper in his hand. “I need to go on a training exercise. Perhaps you should not come.”
“How long will it take?”
He thought for a moment. “Not long. But I do not want you to . . . get hurt again.”
Nerma raised her eyebrows. “I think I can survive two cuts on my fingers, but if it helps, I promise to stay out of the way. Please? Let me go with?”
October smoothed his hair and adjusted his glasses. “Well.” He felt his fangs. “Follow me. But be careful.”
They walked in silence through the fog for some time, following the twisting, coiling alleyways of the village. Nerma kept close to October, especially as the passages became ever narrower and darker, and after a while, she realized that the sky had completely disappeared and had been replaced by stone. They had entered a series of tunnels, which, like the alleyways outside, forked and splintered in unexpected ways, and Nerma quickly lost track of the direction they’d come from. Every fifty yards or so, a dimly lit lamp caged to the tunnel ceiling provided a meager circle of light. Everywhere else was stifling darkness, and Nerma held tightly to October’s hand.
“What is this place?” she whispered.
“The Tunnels of Entanglement,” he answered, his voice low.
For some time, the only sound they heard was the rasping their shoes made against the stone floor, but as they traveled deeper into the gloomy matrix, the haunting tendrils of a melody began to stir the stagnant air. The music seemed to come from the mouth of every tunnel they passed, and to Nerma space itself seemed to grow and shrink as the chords rose and fell.
October seemed to be unbothered by the strange music, though, and moved through the labyrinth without hesitation. The melody grew louder and clearer the nearer they drew to its source, and soon Nerma could make out the individual notes of a stringed instrument and a sorrowful voice. A man’s voice rang through the darkness:
On a snow-covered mountain
So high in the sky,
A loneliness settled,
And a man, he did cry,
For his love, she was yonder,
Where the sun never sets;
Two hearts torn asunder,
So full of regrets.
On a snow-covered hilltop
So high off the ground,
A loneliness settled,
But the man there was bound.
His Purpose had robbed him
Of the one he held dear.
But forever he waited
For her to appear.
The lyrics seemed to hang in the thick air, wrapping themselves around Nerma. Goosebumps trickled down her arms.
At last, October slowed to a stop beside her. The light was still quite dim, but up ahead th
e orange glow of a flame reflected off the walls, and Nerma was able to see October raise his finger to his lips. Nerma mirrored him, promising to remain silent.
He motioned for her to stay where she was, and then, with his hands flat against the tunnel wall, began to scale the dripping limestone that surrounded them. When he reached the ceiling above her head, he smiled down at her and then continued silently forward toward the light and the source of the eerie voice.
Nerma saw October pause. A new song started, this one an upbeat fiddle tune, and as October disappeared around the corner, the lyrics to this second song resounded through the tunnel:
A babe on knee wants a shiny toy,
But the Doctor says, ‘Why, no, dear boy!
Look at yer Purpose, look at ‘er good!
For a babe like you gets a block o’ wood!
No tin soldiers, no big red ball,
For the Maker says it’ll cause yer fall!
Not from the bough of a broken tree
But from Heaven above and so-ci-e-ty!
Sawing is what you were made for, boy,
So stop yer—
The music stopped abruptly with a resonant thunk and the sound of a shout. Panicked footfalls thundered through the tunnels.
“Help!” a strangled voice cried.
Nerma didn’t hesitate. She hurried around the corner, ready to help October, but found herself frozen, stunned by the scene before her.
Ahead, a small stove illuminated a sleeping mat and some overturned crates. Beside them, an enormous spider’s web bulged and writhed. Struggling within it was a man with the torso of a large instrument, perhaps a guitar or cello. At the top of a long fingerboard neck was the man’s head, his face contorted in a grimace that revealed a mouth full of crooked teeth. With one arm shaped like a violin bow and the other equipped with fingers like guitar picks, he stabbed and slashed violently at the sticky webbing. Clanging, wild music filled the air in a concert gone terribly, dreadfully wrong as he tried to free himself.