by Iva Viddal
They found Ron and Ted busy at work on a new piece of art: a giant sculpture of metal and feathers that roosted gawkily in the center of their kitchen. Nerma eyed it suspiciously, as though it might suddenly take flight, but October pronounced it “the most splendid fogeyman” he’d ever seen. Nerma opened her mouth to ask what in the world a fogeyman was but thought better of it and instead asked if Ron and Ted were still willing to loan her a costume.
Within half an hour, the contents of their enormous wooden wardrobe had been strewn across the living room, and the furniture and rugs were littered with scarves, boas, hooded robes, scepters, boots of all sorts, gowns, suits, and a whole collection of rompers in funky prints.
Nerma stood before a tall mirror. “I don’t know,” she muttered. She plucked at the straps over her shoulders and frowned.
“It’s just because you don’t look like a Stranger anymore,” Ron said, adjusting a large papier mâché carrot.
“It’s because I look like a bowl of clam chowder,” she retorted. She wiggled her hips, and the giant bowl around them swayed to and fro.
“Incorrect. You look like a perfectly average bowl of fisheye stew.”
She looked down into the wide container that circled her torso. Staring at her from within its depths were five shiny fisheyes the size of grapefruits. Ted had reassured her that they were fake and merely looked real.
In the mirror, her reflection wrinkled its nose. “Why can’t I just wear one of the dresses?”
Ron stopped fidgeting and lowered his face to Nerma’s level. His green fur had already been carefully smoothed and curled for the Gala, and a tufted pompadour crowned his head.
“Sweetums,” he said, “if you don’t want to look like a Stranger, you need a Purpose, and for the Gala, that spoon just isn’t going to cut it. You need a big, bold Purpose, something the folks in Small Hours can really sink their teeth into.” He gestured grandly at Nerma’s bowl. “And you got it right there.”
“My Purpose is . . . a bowl of fisheye stew?” Her face was beginning to ache from all the frowning she was doing.
Ron nodded. “See, now you’re getting it! You started with the spoon—but now we take it up a notch! My Purpose is to be beautiful, to be interesting, so that’s what Small Hours will see when I walk in tonight.” He smoothed his pompadour with a furry hand. “Your Purpose is . . . this.” He gestured limply at her costume.
“What about Ted?” Nerma asked. He entered the room just then, dressed as a giant and elaborately decorated combination lock.
“It’s a joke.” He said, pointing at the round dial over his bellybutton. “Because I can’t turn dials, you see?” He smiled at Nerma.
She moved closer for a better look. Ted’s entire costume had been painted to tell a story. Arresting images danced across the lock’s curved sides: a dark mountaintop, a snowy Christmas night, and a woman dressed in white.
“It’s beautiful,” Nerma whispered.
Ted smiled again and thanked her. Then, tentatively, he extended a bladed finger toward her hair.
“Would you like a haircut?” he asked her.
“No!” Nerma held up her hands. “No.”
Ted sighed. “No one ever does anymore.”
The moon was full, and its light poured over the uneven skyline of Small Hours as October and Nerma descended from his loft. The breeze smelled like rain, and the moist air chilled Nerma’s ankles, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
October looked striking in his costume. His dark hair was freshly washed and oiled, and he wore a jet-black suit of velvet with winged sleeves that were lined with silver piping. On his feet were a pair of gleaming black-and-silver wingtips. It was an elegant, understated costume, and Nerma was envious.
She waddled beside him, tipping her bowl sideways now and again in order to squeeze through narrow passages and arches. This simple act triggered a torrent of papier mâché stew to spill upon the cobblestones each time; stiff paper onions, carrots, potatoes, and radishes clattered to the ground, and the globular fisheyes rolled away. Each time, October calmly gathered the ingredients and returned them to Nerma’s bowl while she stood and waited.
As they drew closer to Soul’s End Lane, the streets grew more crowded. Villagers traveled in excited clusters that congested the alleys and made it even more difficult for Nerma to keep her bowl upright. At last, the individual groups congealed into one great crowd before the gates of Soul’s End Cemetery, where everyone waited impatiently for the clock to strike three. Towering above the throng of guests was the giant woman from Corpescule College, dressed as an enormous quill pen. The woman recognized Nerma and waved excitedly. Nerma waved politely back and then ducked behind a man with tree branches sprouting from his head.
When the bell of Grackleswot Abbey chimed three times, the gates opened with a rumbled groan, and all of Small Hours poured into the cemetery. The guests scattered amongst toppled gravestones, found seats upon those still standing, or congregated around tables laden with food and drinks.
Music struck up across the lawn, and Nerma and October paused to listen. The melody was ghostly but spirited, and Nerma swayed as she took in her surroundings. Soul’s End was a large, old cemetery. Worn headstones and crumbling memorials squatted like ancient relics among black vines and neglected creepers, which were now lit from above by hundreds of colorful nightglow lanterns strung between the limbs of twisted trees.
Nerma read a headstone near her feet:
Bubbles V. Peterson
3 Apr. 1616 – 29 Dec. 1683
He were a decent husband, a quiet father, and a divine bubbler.
May the Maker save his Perpose.
And another nearby:
Scientia Belle Cerveau
15 July 1801 – 19 May 1849
A fine teacher and beloved sister
taken by the Maker to
serve her Purpose Beyond the Grave.
Nerma shivered. She would be very happy to return home and leave all of this Purpose stuff behind her. There was something very creepy about all of it.
Booming laughter near one of the tables drew her attention. Doctor Mapple was dressed in his everyday black suit, but a vibrant purple rose had been tucked into his lapel. He stood with two familiar looking figures in gray. Nerma nudged October and gestured.
“Bluff and Lure,” October growled. “They never come to the Gala. I wonder what they are doing here.”
“Where is Doctor Leech?” Nerma scanned the crowd. She saw some familiar faces from the town meeting in Grackleswot Abbey and from the Midnight Market, but the beautiful Doctor was nowhere in sight.
“Lure keeps looking in our direction,” October warned. “We had better stay far from them. Come, let us get something to drink.”
Nerma wasn’t surprised to discover that the drink tables offered an assortment of unfamiliar and unappealing options. Two enormous punchbowls were labeled “First Bath” and “Second Bath,” and an attendant told her that a large glass dispenser of pale green liquid was a traditional recipe called “Ogrette’s Eau de Bile.” October helped himself to some First Bath, and Nerma eventually settled for a drink called “Sparkling Iris.” It had a fresh floral taste, and she discovered that she quite liked it.
A hand at her elbow made her jump, and her large costume swung wildly, knocking the short figure beside her to the ground.
“Worm!” October cried, helping the old woman to her feet.
Nerma apologized, but Old Worm shook her head. “No need, child. You could not help it in this outfit, I dare say!” She tittered and poked a crooked finger at an eyeball in Nerma’s stew bowl. “How is the Count?” she asked, squinting up at October.
While Old Worm and October discussed the Count’s slowly failing health, Nerma sipped her lavender drink and picked up a small tart from a tray. She nibbled at its edges, avoiding the quivering pinkish gray filling in its center.
“Mmm,” a voice hummed in her ear. “I always say that nothing hits the spot like a
Pilgrim’s Pie.” It was Doctor Leech, her face painted in shimmering jewel tones. Upon her head, her hair had been piled into a fiery bouffant, and she wore a gown of so many layers and patterns that Nerma’s head spun. Stripes, roses, stars, paisley, checks, and damask—each clamored for attention at the slightest movement. In her hands, she clutched a black velvet bag.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. “Take another bite. I shan’t find it rude.” Her teeth were white against her apple-red lips when she spoke.
Nerma set the tart down on the edge of the table.
“Not up to your standards, I see,” the Doctor pouted. “Although, not everyone enjoys pickled rat cartilage. I simply adore it.” She picked up the tart and bit into it, crooning with delight. “I see you are still as quiet as ever,” she said with her mouth full. Crumbs clung to her lipstick. “Fine. I shall be the one to speak.” She batted her eyes at Nerma and leaned in closer, her fingers toying with the cords of her bag. Her breath smelled of stale meat. “I would be careful with my little friend if I were you,” Doctor Leech said, nodding toward October. “He doesn’t exactly have a . . . trustworthy reputation.”
Nerma tried to back away, but her costume bumped into the table’s edge. “He’s my friend,” she snapped.
“Yes, of course.” The Doctor smiled. “But still. Be careful who you trust.” She winked and sashayed away, her skirts swirling like an optical illusion.
Nerma turned toward October, but he was no longer beside her, and Old Worm was nowhere in sight. Before Nerma had the chance to look for either of them, another hand was at her elbow. Irritated, she whipped her head around.
“What a lovely surprise, dear! We did not think you would actually come, you know!”
The five beaked women she’d met at the Midnight Market crowded around her, each speaking over the other. Their crown feathers were festooned with sparkling jewels, and their talons glinted scarlet in the lamplight.
“So delightful to see that the Stranger is not being a stranger to the Gala!” one cackled gleefully.
“My, oh my, what a gorgeous costume you have, darling! It’s simply beautiful!”
“When I saw you, I said to Hennie, ‘Oh Hennie, that simply can’t be our Stranger. Just look at her terrible costume!’ What a scandal, you poor creature!”
Another tutted. “I adore that costume, Gertie. Adore it! I simply must get one made for my little skunk Frank. He’ll look as adorably horrible as our darling Stranger, I dare say!”
The one called Hennie flapped a feathered hand. “You simply must meet Gilda. She’ll crow with jealousy when she sees we’ve brought you with us. She’s simply terrified of the soulless! They give her nightmares!”
Nerma was ushered and prodded to a little sitting area beside a trio of marble busts, each with an unidentifiable Purpose protruding from its head. Alone on a bench sat a woman whom Nerma took to be Gilda. Like the other ladies, Gilda sported a beak and a head of feathers, but unlike the others, she had a certain air of quietness about her, a graceful practicality. When she saw the group of women approaching, her gray feathers ruffled against the seams of her suit.
“Ladies,” she drawled.
“Hello, Gilda,” the women sang in chorus. “Look who we brought with us!”
An introduction of sorts followed, although Nerma never heard her own name and was instead variously referred to as “the Stranger,” a “poor little pet,” and a “creature with no soul, poor thing.”
Gilda merely nodded. “Pleasure,” she said, glancing at Nerma with a bored expression.
The other women launched into a round of gossip involving the butcher’s daughter, a bucket of syrup, and someone called “Igg.” Nerma tried to break away, but her stew bowl was held in place by the women’s long tail feathers.
She craned her neck to look around and spotted October. He, Ron, and Ted were huddled under a tree together, their attention on a sheet of paper in Ron’s hands. October looked at it intently for a moment before taking it and slipping it into his breast pocket.
“No need to be jealous, Gilda,” one of the beaked women was fussing. “Just because the motherless little devil likes us more than you does not mean—”
A bugle call sounded from the center of the cemetery, and conversation ceased.
A stage had been erected upon the roof of mausoleum, and Doctor Mapple now stood upon it. He addressed the crowded cemetery. “Gory night, citizens of Small Hours! Welcome to the seven-hundred-and-sixty-seventh Annual Gala of the Ghouls!”
The crowd applauded.
“I hope you have all been enjoying Yeasty’s famous punches and brews. And Mrs. Boyled’s pies and puddings could not be ghastlier or greasier.”
The baker from the market waved a pink hand in the air. She appeared to be dressed as a lumpy ball of dough.
“Small Hours has been celebrating the Battle of the Ghouls for over seven and a half centuries, and I do believe it only gets better every year. Maker willing, it will continue to get better for centuries to come. After all, a tradition born in blood is a tradition bound in Purpose. Promethean Primer, Chapter Twelve, Instruction Ten. A toast!” he shouted, raising his glass.
The villagers of Small Hours raised their glasses in unison.
“To Purpose!” he boomed.
“To Purpose!” they echoed.
Nerma didn’t raise her glass—and neither, she saw, did October. He held his goblet stiffly at his side and watched the stage through his thick glasses, his expression unreadable.
“Now,” Doctor Mapple continued, “let us dance!”
The five beaked women rushed off to the dance floor in a swirl of feathers, leaving Nerma alone with the unfriendly Gilda and the silent stone busts.
20
Of Monsters and Men
On the high mausoleum stage, a group of villagers dressed as musical notes gathered in a semicircle. One tapped a baton against the podium, and on cue, their bottom jaws all dropped to their chests. They began to sing in the undulating organ-like music that Nerma had heard at the meeting in Grackleswot Abbey. Like the first time she heard it, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
The villagers, however, found the ghostly acapella music rousing, and they split into rows upon the dancefloor, where they spun and dipped and clapped to a choreography unlike anything Nerma had ever seen. Without touching each other, they moved their arms this way and that and stepped in unison, left-right-left-back-turn. It was both unnerving and entrancing.
As Nerma watched, she realized that her costume wasn’t the only strange one at the Gala. Out on the dancefloor, someone dressed as a white whale bowed to a woman costumed as a flaming candle, while a figure in knight’s armor curtsied to one of the men with gramophones for ears whose costume seemed to be nothing more than a giant ball of cotton.
A group of small children ran through the cemetery, shrieking with excitement. A boy leapt over a headstone nearby, and Nerma recognized him as the one who had asked her to play at the Midnight Market.
She waved at him as he passed, and he shouted, “Hey, Stranger Girl! Come and play Maker’s Egg! Jess is setting it up!”
Nerma’s eyes tracked him as he went to join a girl—Jess, she guessed—whose arms were burdened under a large basket of eggs. Nerma scanned the crowd for October, but he had again disappeared, so she decided to join the children.
The boy whistled to his friends. “The Stranger is goin’ to play!”
Nerma found herself once again the center of attention as the children gathered around her.
“Hey, the Witch is here!” one shouted.
“She ain’t got a soul!” another declared.
“Lemme see your Purpose!” a third demanded.
Small hands reached up to touch Nerma’s spoon, but she batted them away. “So, what’s Maker’s Egg?” she asked, laughing.
The boy who had called her over—whose name, he said, was Tock—explained the rules. “It’s easy. You got to carry an egg from here,” he
said, indicating a patch of grass at random, “to that tree right there, and you can’t drop it! And you got to use your Purpose to do it.”
Tock showed Nerma how to lean forward and carry an egg in her spoon. It was harder than she thought it would be, especially with the bulky stew bowl around her body, but she quickly realized that the game would be much easier for her than for many of the children. A girl with hands like hammers smashed her egg before the race began, another with a peacock’s tail kept losing his egg as it rolled into the grass, and yet another got his egg stuck in his saxophone mouth in the middle of the race. Others still weren’t even allowed to play.
“Rules is rules,” Jess had said. “Diviner kids don’t got a Purpose that they can carry an egg with, so Diviner kids don’t get to play.” Jess herself had four horns growing from her head in the shape of a jester’s hat, and her egg was nestled safely between them.
Nerma wanted to argue for the Diviner children. If she could play with a kitchen spoon strapped to her forehead, there was no reason the Diviner children couldn’t play, too. Just as she opened her mouth to protest, though, Tock’s hour-bell chimed, and the race began.
Jess tore across the lawn, while Nerma waddled along at a more cautious pace. She was sure she wouldn’t win, but at the last second, Jess tripped on a tree root and flew headlong into its wide trunk. Her egg was smashed, and she was disqualified.
When Nerma crossed the invisible finish line in first place, the children cheered, but when Jess stood up, a hush fell over the group. A hairline crack had formed in the middle of one of her horns, and a thread of blood trickled down its grooved side.
“She pushed me!” Jess shouted, pointing at Nerma.
Nerma looked from the girl to the group of children and back. “No, I didn’t. You fell. We need to get one of the Doctors.”
One of the younger kids sprinted off and returned almost immediately with Doctor Leech, who made soothing sounds over Jess’s injured horn. “It will be just fine, Jestra, as good as new,” she assured the girl.