The Devil Delivered and Other Tales

by Steven Erikson

  “Oh, we’ll put a bucket on her head long before that happens, dear.” Mom replied dreamily, since she’d already seen the tiny hairball trying to sneak into the kitchen. Her knuckles went white on the broom handle, and she began creepering forward.

  Out on the porch Sis ruckled in the old ruckling chair, staring out at the lake with a scowl. “I hate this,” she kept saying over and over again. “I hate this. I hate everything about this and I hate you!” she hisspered at me.

  The fire o’ love had worn off, thank gothic.

  Her hair was now blue, bright like the sky and if there were any clouds they were all inside her head. Every now and then she reached up, her fingers all turembling, and touched it, then she’d dart her hand back down and start ruckling like mad. Crazy. Just plain crazy.

  Hearing footsteps on the roof I went outside and stood in the middle of the driveway and looked up. “Hey, Grandma Matchie!”

  She waved at me with the hammer, her mouth full of nails. Shingles sat in piles all around her like burnt pancakes and her yellow dress bilbowed brighter than the sun. I ran to the ladder and crawpelled up. The roof crucked and crackled as I walked across it to where she was working.

  From the looks of it she’d finished patching the hole. Frowning, I asked, “What’re ya doin?”

  Around the nails she whispered: “Shhh! It’s a disguise!”

  Duckening down beside her I stared wildly about. “Who are ya spyin on?”

  “Take a gander, Tyke. The Major’s island!” And with that she jerked her head ever so slitherly, her eyes squimbled to secret slits. “He’s up t’no good! I can feel it in m’bones!”

  “Which bones?”

  “Never you mind. There’s trouble in the air, can’t you feel it?”

  On his island, the Major was humbering back and forth between his dock and his cabin, carrying stuff down, packing it into the H.M.S. Hood, his blarny boat. And every now and then he’d take out his long spyin glass and study us, and when he did that Grandma Matchie’d bend down and pretend to be hammering nails, and I’d look down too with a big frown of concentration on my face.

  “He’s preparin fur war, that’s what he’s doin,” Grandma Matchie muthered in a low voice, after checking the sky in case any gulls were trying to listen in. But the sky was empty.

  “Against us?”

  A shake of her head. “Uh uh. Somethin else I can’t scry. But come mornin you can bet your toad ranch he’ll be gone. Right dis’peared inta thin air!”

  We heard screams coming from below and I looked down to see Mom runnering out onto the dock, waving Dad’s fishing rod over her head like she was trying to swat a horsefly out of midair.

  “What’s wrong?” I cried, jumping to my feet.

  Grandma Matchie squimted. “Damn girl! Sometimes I wonder how’n hell I…” Then she shook her head. “She’s bein chased by a wasp, is my bet.”

  “Probably as big as the one Dad made last week,” I said.

  “Probbly is the one Dad made last week! Still tied t’the line!” Grandma Matchie threw back her head and let out a wild laugh.

  And she was right. You could see the fishing line glittering every now and then in the sunlight, as Mom frantically whippled the rod over her head, screeking and runnering round in circles at the end of the dock. Then, with a mighty swing, she flung the wasp down into the water, and there was a huge saplash and suddenly Mom was yelpering. A giant fish leapt out of the water and we could hear the drag winding as the fish raced out into the bay.

  “Keep ridin im, Ester!” Grandma Matchie shouted, jumping to her feet and waving the hammer over her head. “Keep on ridin im! Ya-hoo!”

  It was a tug-o-war as the fish brolled the surface again and again, throwing spray everywhere. And Mom had her hand on the reel now and was pumpening madly, her legs spread wide and bent inward at the knees. Even from here I could see the terror in her wild eyes and if her high heels weren’t stuck between the boards again she’d have been pulled right out into the water. But she pumped and she reeled, and the fish was dragged closer and closer, and suddenly it flew up and splanded right on the dock, flippening about between Mom’s feet.

  “Oh my! Oh my!” Mom plopped right out of her shoes and danced around, trying to avoid the slimy flippening fladapping fish. “Oh my!”

  Running forward along the roof, Grandma Matchie gave one mighty jump and landed clear on the dock beside Mom. “You got im! You got im clean! Hah!” And with that she dived, grabbling the fish in a bear hug and they rambelled back and forth, struggling and torngling and grumting.

  By the time I crawpelled down the ladder and raced around the corner of the cabin and down to the dock, Grandma Matchie had put the fish down for the count and was standing triumphantly above him, one boot on his gaspering head.

  “Must be a hundred million ninety-nine pounds!” She shook her fist at him, and he mackled his eye and fladapped and squirmed feebly. “We got dinner t’night! Hah!”

  And sure enough Mom put the pot on the stove and stoked up the fire until the water boiled crazily, and then she added salt and a whole load of potatoes. Dad put the fish in the sink and filled it up with buckets from the lake to keep him fresh until the time was good and right. I sat on a stool beside him and watched him glape, glape, glape.

  Everything was just about ready when we heard a browl from the porch and we all ran outside to see Sis standing beside the ruckling chair, a mirror in her hand. Her face was turning every color and so had her hair—yellow, red, mauve.

  “Waaa!” Sis wayloned. “Waaa!”

  Behind me I heard a funny fladapping sound, then a wild laugh.

  Whirling, I tore into the kitchen. “Grandma Matchie!” I screamed. “The fish is getting away!” And there he was, pushing at the window latch. One of his eyes winked at me and he laughed again.

  Grandma Matchie flew toward him but it was too late, because just then he got the window open and plungered over the sill.

  “Aaak!” Mom squawked from the porch. “It’s got my broom! Give me back my broom!”

  We ran back out to the porch. A whufizzing sound came from over our heads and we ducked low. The fish had Mom’s broom, all right, and he was flying on it all over the place, laughing hysterically.

  He did one last loop then raced away into the west. Looking after him, Grandma Matchie put her hands on her hips and announced in a low voice: “That, Tyke, was no ordernary fish.”

  Numberly, I shook my head.

  “I’ve known alotta fish in my day,” she muttered, “but I ain’t never known one like that!” And then she turned to me, shaking her head. “You ever heard a fish laugh like that? I never heared a fish laugh like that.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “It sure was eerie.”

  Next morning, just as Grandma Matchie had predicted, the Major and the H.M.S. Hood were gone.

  “Bad omens, Tyke. Bad omens.” Grandma Matchie paced up and down on the dock, while I sat with my feet in the water. “Too many strange thins goin on round here.” Grimmerly, she stopped and faced me. “Jus list em! First that fish, laughin like some demon. Then Sis, gettin a hangnail as if from outa the blue! An those potaters didn’ taste like they shoulda at all. An, the most gothic damnin omen of all, Dad can’t read those J’cuzzi ’structions—cause they’re in French!” She began pacing again. “Nosiree, I don’t like this one bit!”

  “Where d’you think the Major went?” I asked.

  Suddenizedly Grandma Matchie slapped her forehead. “O Course!” She whirled to me, her eyes burning merrily. “Why didn’ I think of it afore? Course! That’s gotta be it!” She began stramping up the dock, then paused to straighten her dress and glare at me. “Well, are ya comin, or what?”

  I leapt to my feet. “You bet! Where?”

  “Where? I’ll tell ya where! We’re goin after the Major!”

  “But what about the demon fish? And Mom’s broom?”

  “They all went to th’same place, or my name ain’t Grandma Matchie! A
n we’re goin after em!”

  “Where?” I asked again.

  A shiver jampled across Grandma Matchie’s shoulders like there was a snake in her dress, and her eyes narrowed as she glared out over the water. “We’re goin t’the deepest lake on Earth! That’s where we’re goin!”

  Well, it wasn’t long after that that we packed all the essentials and readied ourselves for the trip. The deepest lake on Earth, I knew, was Westhawk Lake, over there in Manitoba. And it was made by a shooting star.

  “Not just any old shootin star,” Grandma Matchie said mysteriously, but she wouldn’t explain any further, only a burning kind of look would come into her right eye, then jump across to her left eye, then back again and back again and back again until I got dizzy just watching it.

  By the time we were ready it was almost dark. “Just right!” said Grandma Matchie as she stood at the end of the dock with her hands on her hips. “An there ain’t be no moon tonight, neither,” she said, nodding grimmerly.

  “How’re we gettin there?” I asked.

  “You jus keep your eyes peeled on the lake, Tyke,” she growbled, “an you’ll see soon enough!” Bending down she checked her backpack and I heard clinking come from inside it.

  “What you got in there?”

  “Canada’s Finest crayfish wine! That’s what I got in there!”

  By now it was night and the lake turned completely black, looking like a giant hole going down forever. I watched it like Grandma Matchie told me to do.

  Then Mom and Dad and Sis came down from the cabin.

  “Don’t forget to bring back my broom!” Mom said, her hands all fluppering and her cheeks glowing red in the darkness. “Oh my! Look at the dirt on this dock!”

  Sis’s hair glowed neon green but no one said anything about it so she wouldn’t run off browling her eyes out. And there were funny little twigs sticking out of it now too. I thought back on it and was pretty sure it wasn’t me who stuck them in there, so they must’ve grown naturally. Not that that made any sense, since Sis is so dumb she likes taking baths all the time, unless the water made those twigs grow better, I don’t know.

  “Don’t you go brawlin bears this time, Grandma Matchie,” Dad warned. “I don’t wanta hear that my son has bin exposed to that!” He paused, frowned, and plungered his hand right into his beard and scritching sounds came out. “You’re s’posed t’be sensitive ’bout things with chil’ren, y’know. It’s a turrible sight t’see a creature of the furest cryin and beggin like that.”

  Grandma Matchie ignored him, thank gothic. “Ready, Tyke?”

  I nodded and with that she turned to face the lake.

  “All right! Come outa there you varmits! Afore I come down there after ya!”

  And it wasn’t long before the lake started glowing, and the water started burbbling and churmbling about. Then little streaks of light began flashing around the dock. Peering down I shouted: “Those are lamp rays!” You could see their little helmets with those lights in them, flashing around as they swam in crazy circles and started fleaping out of the water. Then two big ones came up to the edge of the dock and poked their heads out.

  “You two’ll do jus fine!” Grandma Matchie said, then chackled, dancing a little jig.

  It was then I noticed that she’d tied straps to her boots, with brass buckles. And all of a sudden Grandma Matchie jumped clear off the dock and landed right on those lamp rays. She bent down and strappered her feet to their backs, while they wraggled fumeously. “Climber on my shoulders, Tyke! There’s only one beast on Earth that knows the way t’Westhawk Lake—at least my Westhawk Lake—and that’s a lamp ray!”

  So I climbered over her backpack and onto her shoulders and she grabbed my legs and yelled: “Here we go!”

  Those lamp rays surgled forward and carveled deep grooves in the water, throaming white foam everywhere. The wind made my eyes tear and I leaned forward and stuck out my arms like you do in your Dad’s Bronco when he’s going a million thousand eighty-nine miles an hour and you got the windows rolled down.

  “YA-HOO!” Me and Grandma Matchie hollered both at the same time. And again: “YA-HOOO!!” So it was just like the old timers at the lake always grumped about—these days the whole lake was filled with bluddy Ya-hoos. Old timers know everything, and they know what’s true and what isn’t, and the Bigness of Things doesn’t scare them one bit.

  Course, Grandma Matchie’s the oldest timer of all. “I was here when this lake couldn even lick your boots! An the whole world was jus swamp!” she’d say. “But them dinosaurs knew enough not t’mess with Grandma Matchie!” And she’d dance around like the Indians must’ve done when they tied string between all the trees and caused the extinction of the dinosaurs.

  And boy did those lamp rays swim. Lakes whizzled by and when we came to the shore we just leapt high in the air and when we landed again it was in another lake. And then we crossed a big red line painted on the surface of the water and we were in Manitoba, which didn’t look much different from Ontario except for all the buffalo swimming around. Course, they got out of our way! Hah!

  And then, just as the sun was coming up in front of us, we stopped.

  “This is Hunt Lake, Tyke,” Grandma Matchie said as she unstrappled her boots. “An right over there on th’other side a those trees is Westhawk Lake. The deepest lake on Earth!”

  “Are we gonna sneak up on it from here?”

  “Yep. We gotta. There’s demon fish spyin round all over th’ place!” Off we jumped, hitting the water with huge spalashes and going straight down to the muddy bottom. Then we started tuddling, the water around us getting lighter and lighter and the bottom getting weedier and weedier as we crelpt toward shore. But all of a sudden a big black hole loombered in front of us and we planged into darkness.

  “A secret cave!” I exclaimed.

  Grandma Matchie paused to light a torch, since the lamp rays had gone home, and the fire made the water swirl with burbbles and the walls of the cave spackle as if they were full of gold.

  We tuddled a long ways when Grandma Matchie stopped suddenly and crouched. “There’s somebuddy skulkin up ahead!” she hisspered, and we began edging forward.

  We could see a light coming from around a corner further up the path, and Grandma Matchie put out her torch and ever so snuckily we came to the corner and peepered around it.

  Grandma Matchie shouted and jumped forward and I followed, because there sat the Major, boiling tea over a fire right in the middle of a giant cavern. His eyes poppled out and he leapt off his camp stool.

  “Gads! It’s Grandma Matchie!”

  “So there you are, eh? Jus as I figured—skulkin ’bout like the good-fur-nothin Major you are!” Grimmerly, she stalked toward him and he shrank back for a second then puffed up his chest and stood his ground. Grandma Matchie kept coming until their noses jambled together, the point of hers pludging into the red bulb of his. “Good-fur-nothin Major!”

  “Hah! And what ’bout you, hah? Spiteful ole witch!”

  “Spiteful? Ain’t I got reason t’be?”

  “What ho? Reason? Whenever d’you need a bleedin reason?”

  Uh oh, thinks I. “Hey!” I shouted. Their heads turned at the same time and you could hear the Major’s nose pop back out. Glaring at them with my hands on my hips, I said in my lowest, meanest voice: “Tea’s ready.”

  And it was, and we all sat down round the fire and poured ourselves a cup. After a time Grandma Matchie sniggered, “So, you’re goin after er again, eh? Well, if you’re one thing, Major, it’s stubbern!” And she tilted her head back and shouted: “Stubbern as a loaf of Ester’s bread in a bear’s belly! Hah!”

  The Major glommered and his face got redder than the fire between them. “Cripes! It’s none o’ yer bizness! None!”

  “Oh, an ain’t it, now? Ain’t it? Well, somethin’s saying t’me we’re agoin after the same thin in the end. An jus like all th’other times you’re agoin t’get in the way, afoulin thins up for alla us!”


  Spluttering, the Major surgled to his feet. “ME!” He began waving his fists around, making swirmbling currents so big even the fire pafted and wavered. “I got ere first! I did! I did!”

  “It don’t matter one bit!” Grandma Matchie was on her feet now too, and the fire shrank between them. “Yer daughter ain’t got er broom stolen, did she? You ain’t even got a daughter!”

  “I do too! I do too!”

  All of a sudden Grandma Matchie sat down, looking shocked. Then she got a hold of herself and glared at him. “So he finally admits it at last, eh? Well, isn’t this a pretty picture! A father, aren’t ya? Afta all these years! Now you’re a father!”

  “An whenever di’you lemme be one, hah? Hah?”

  I didn’t know what in blazes they were talking about, so I stood up. “Hey! Tell me some stories! Tell me some stories! You said we gotta wait till mornin, anyway! I wanta hear some stories!” And I put on my best little poor boy face and made my eyes real wide and pleading like.

  Course it worked! It always does!

  “The Major ain’t gotta story in his hat worth picken!” Grandma Matchie sneerved.

  “Hah! Is that right, is it? Is it? Well, I done thins that’ll make yer stories look like they came from a Grade Fur Reader!”

  “Iz that right?” Grandma Matchie leaned back and crossed her arms. “Okay, Major,” she said in a low dangerous voice. “Let’s hear yer story! Come on, give it yer best! Hah!”

  Pulling out a pipe, the Major settled himself in his stool and gave me a wink. And all at once his voice changed, getting all gravelly like Long John Silver’s: “Well, it wuz afore yer time, there, lad. Afore alla yer times—” Grandma Matchie snarted but the Major kept going. “—in th’ Nort Sea, aye, an ya ain’t seen waves as high o’ those back then! An there I be, out fishin like a lad did in those days. An I was abaitin and ahookin an me boat wuz agettin lower’n lower wi’ all the fish I wuz catchin. An in I throws the line, one last time, y’see, cause the waves wuz gettin a little big e’en fer the likes o’ me—pullin down stars they were, makin em hiss and sputter in all kinds of steam!”