Hug Chickenpenny

by S. Craig Zahler

  Phalanges nodded. “Agreed. Only two per person.”

  “Hmph.”

  Hug picked the dirt out of his leg brace while each member of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences greedily seized and devoured his small allotment of mushrooms.

  “They didn’t taste rejuvenating,” remarked Sidney, who then smacked his gums distastefully. “Not in the least.”

  Doctor Hannersby shook his head. “I cannot say that I don’t agree.”

  “They’re not instant coffee,” defended Phalanges. “Give them some time to get digested.”

  The portly phrenologist snorted in disbelief. “I’ll withhold judgment for seven more minutes.”

  The teratologist looked around and noticed something. “Where did all this dusk come from?”

  Hug eyed the environs.

  Very little light remained in the sky.

  “Are we going home?” asked the anomalous boy, who tried to sound manly when he spoke, even though he was worried.

  “Hastily, we are,” replied Doctor Hannersby.

  The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and proceeded along the overgrown trail, followed by the acolyte, whose stomach was gurgling with hunger.

  Hug considered asking if he could eat one of the special mushrooms, but decided against so doing, since they smelled bad and seemed to be valuable.

  The dim golden sky blued as the group continued along the tortuous and obscure path.

  Without much effort, the anomalous boy maintained the pace that was set by the oldsters, all of whom looked fatigued.

  “Doctor, do you need to rest?” asked Hug.

  “No,” wheezed the teratologist. “Proceed apace.”

  At present, the group ascended a hill. The dim, violescent light of the western horizon shone upon the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, whose faces were pale and covered with sweat. Despite the warmth of the night, Doctor Hannersby and Phalanges were shivering.

  Hug suddenly knew for certain that something was wrong. “Doctor, are you—”

  “Proceed apace.”

  The group continued along the trail at an even slower rate. Crackling branches and a heavy thud garnered the attention of the anomalous boy, who then turned his head.

  Beside the path and in the brush lay Sidney. His hands massaged his swollen belly, and he groaned.

  Hug looked toward Phalanges and Doctor Hannersby.

  Oblivious of the fallen phrenologist, the pair of oldsters continued along the trail. The lank mycologist rubbed his stomach as if he were working dough, and the little teratologist shivered while continually wiping moisture from his eyes.

  “Doctor,” said Hug. “I think—”

  “Phalanges!” barked Doctor Hannersby.

  The lank mycologist groaned.

  “When will the beneficial . . . effects of these . . . m-m-mushrooms manifest . . . ?” asked the teratologist.

  “S-s-soon . . .”

  Fearful, Hug hastened from the capsized body of Sidney toward Doctor Hannersby. “Doctor?”

  “Y-y-y-yes . . . ?”

  “Sidney fell over.”

  “Did he?”

  Teeth chattering, the teratologist turned and looked at the fallen phrenologist.

  “Are you sick?” Hug asked Doctor Hannersby.

  “I am as hale as—”

  The teratologist groaned and fell to his knees. “I cannot feign that—” he grunted, “—that I am not . . .

  exhibiting . . . symptoms.” He wiped his red eyes. “It appears . . . that I am no longer . . . the z-z-zenith . . . of salubriousness.”

  “You’re sick?”

  Doctor Hannersby nodded an affirmation.

  Hug felt tingles upon his nape.

  “If I d-do not survive,” the teratologist wheezed, “know that . . . you were always . . . of great interest.”

  The anomalous boy felt a stinging sensation in his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

  Something thudded upon the ground.

  Hug and Doctor Hannersby looked toward the noise.

  Prostrated in the middle of the overgrown path was Phalanges.

  The teratologist looked at his adopted specimen.

  “Hug . . . the Society for . . . the Advancement . . .

  of the Greater . . . Eccentric Sciences . . . must now depend . . . on you. Return to our . . . place of residence . . . and g-go into the basement. Inside the ninth drawer of the—”

  Doctor Hannersby grunted. “Inside the middle drawer . . . of the one hundred and thirty-seventh file cabinet . . . there is—”

  The teratologist convulsed. “There is a long brass key . . . with six teeth. Take it to the eleventh . . . the eleventh—”

  Unconscious, Doctor Hannersby spilled forward.

  Hug interposed himself.

  The anomalous boy caught the teratologist, whom he then lowered to the ground. It was clear from this brief contact that the diminutive fellow had a very high fever.

  Hug surveyed the three fallen members of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences who lay in the darkening forest. Frightened, he waggled his nubbin and eyed the trail ahead.

  Something gurgled.

  Startled, Hug turned his head.

  A puddle of olive-green vomit lay in front of Sidney, whose swollen eyelids were now open. “Hasten back . . . and call . . . for an ambulance . . . or we’ll die . . .”

  “Okay.”

  Sidney convulsed and again lost consciousness.

  Hug nodded to himself and lopsidedly hastened forward.

  The spaces between the trees darkened, and soon, the anomalous boy was ambling through a grayish-black forest. Brambles caught at his legs and low branches scratched his arms as he attempted to follow the overgrown trail. Foremost in his mind at every moment were the bodies of the three sick oldsters who lay upon the ground.

  “Let me get there in time,” muttered Hug. “Please just—”

  His bad leg plunged into a hole, and he spilled forward. Earth slammed against his chest.

  “Darn it!”

  He rose to his feet, filled his lungs, and continued through the dark forest. His chest and left knee hurt from the fall, but did not slow his progress.

  “I’ve got to be more careful—I’m their only chance . . .”

  A silver light flickered through the woods that lay ahead, and the anomalous boy quickened his pace around the bend. In front of him was a small clearing in which stood a big gnarled tree. Moonlight illuminated the branches and surrounding foliage.

  Hug caught his breath and made a survey.

  On the opposite side of the clearing were three separate trails that led back into the forest. None of these routes looked familiar.

  “Which one?”

  No divine answer came, and thus, he proceeded toward the middle path, which seemed like a safer choice than either of the outliers.

  Again in semidarkness, the anomalous boy followed a winding trail.

  His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped, continually and forcefully, and his little lung burned.

  Something cried out, startling Hug, who then glanced up toward the noise.

  A black cruciform that was a raven or a crow drifted between the canopy of branches and the lambent sky.

  Ambling, the anomalous boy lowered his gaze.

  A tree branch smacked his face and threw him backward. His little rump thudded upon the earth.

  “Darn it!”

  Hug rubbed his stinging forehead, rose to his feet, and continued along the path. His skull hurt, and his little lung burned, but he tried to ignore these pains. The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences was in need of help, and he was the acolyte.

  Every second was valuable.

  The anomalous boy navigated a left turn and one to the right, climbed a hill, descended the far side, and continued along a twisting stretch for a long tim
e. Suddenly, he saw something.

  One hundred feet down the trail loomed a wall of darkness.

  Concerned, Hug ambled toward this barrier.

  Ahead of him lay a thicket of vegetation that was a dead end.

  “Double darn!”

  It would take more than thirty minutes for him to retrace his steps, and even then, there were two paths from which to choose.

  The anomalous boy blinked his brown eye, waggled his nubbin, and made his decision.

  Teeth gritted, he plunged into the thick foliage.

  Branches snapped and twigs cracked as Hug forced his way through the pathless forest. With myriad fingers, the woods clawed the young trailblazer.

  A thick black pillar emerged from the charcoal night, and the anomalous boy circumvented this tree and the others that got in his way. Low branches slapped his face, and one carried a bug into his mouth, which he then expelled with a snort through his left nose slit.

  Eventually, Hug arrived at a very dense copse that was surrounded on either side by thorn bushes. Every second counted, and he could not allow this obstacle nor any other to get in his way.

  A nubbin waggled while the anomalous boy surveyed the wooded barbican. Soon he located a sliver of charcoal gray that separated two black trees.

  Into this space, Hug inserted himself. Rough bark scraped his right arm and face as he bypassed rows of trees and came to another bushy area.

  Something grabbed his left leg.

  The anomalous boy yelped and looked back.

  His metal brace was caught in a prickly thicket. Leaning against a nearby tree, he jerked his left leg, tried again, and pulled a third time, but the supportive apparatus would not come loose.

  Hug reached into the thicket, and a dozen thorns stabbed his hand.

  “Ouch.”

  Forcefully, he jerked his left leg.

  Something creaked and snapped.

  The anomalous boy tumbled forward and landed in some bushes. His curved left leg was free from the metal brace, which had been ruined by his efforts.

  “Darn it!”

  He tried to stand. His weak limb buckled at the knee, and he stumbled into a tree.

  “Double darn!”

  Hug hopped forward on his good leg, passed through some brush, and entered a small moonlit clearing. There he found a Y-shaped stick, which he seized, tucked under his nubbin, and used as a crutch.

  “Okay.”

  On the opposite side of the clearing was a path that looked somewhat familiar.

  “I think that’s it.”

  Mismatched eyes blinked one after the other as the anomalous boy followed the trail, which turned each way a few times and led him to a larger clearing. Lying on the moonlit ground of this area were the crusts of the cheese sandwiches that the oldsters had eaten for lunch earlier that day.

  “Getting closer!”

  Aided by the crutch, Hug crossed the picnic area and hastened along a familiar trail. His throat dried, and his eyes watered as he hobbled through the night. The duration of his wild beeline was unclear, but all of his limbs felt like they were on fire. This forest seemed to be limitless.

  A dark bird shrieked.

  Fatigued and clumsy, the anomalous boy stumbled. His crutch barely saved him from capsizing.

  Hug gasped and raised his head.

  On the far side of the adversarial forest was a flickering red light.

  Hopeful, the anomalous boy left the path and plowed through some underbrush toward the distant glow. A few thorn bushes got in his way, and he circumvented these obstacles with little difficulty.

  “Almost . . . there . . .”

  Hug passed through a last thicket, emerged from the forest, and found himself in the field that was the westernmost portion of the Hannersby Estate. Squinting, he looked at the flickering red light.

  A quarter of a mile away was a huge fire. In the direct center of this blaze stood the barn.

  Stunned, the anomalous boy gaped at the infernal tableau.

  The smoking carcasses of the pygmy sheep, the two-headed pig, and the “talking” moose lay beside the burning edifice. With bright incisors, wild wolves pulled strips of meat from the deceased specimens.

  Scared, Hug looked away from the barn and eyed the gabled, four-story house.

  This separate building was currently unaffected by the fire.

  Employing the crutch, the anomalous boy hastened to the place that had been his home for more than three and a half years. Flames threw his unique shadow across the grass and breathed hotly upon the left side of his body as he crossed the open field. Never before had the Hannersby Estate seemed quite so immense.

  Hug reached the front of the house, retrieved the hidden key from the brainpan of a buried opossum skull, climbed the landing, unlocked the entrance, flung the door, and ambled inside. His crutch smacked floorboards and echoed loudly as he hurried past the framed photographs of odd circus folks.

  Inside the living room, he hopped onto the upholstered chair that was next to the wall telephone, hung the receiver upon his nubbin, inserted one of his four fingers into the 9 of the rotary dial, drew a clockwise circle, and repeated this lattermost action twice with the number 1. The plastic circle spun and stopped.

  The anomalous boy inflated his lungs and set the telephone receiver against his right ear.

  Something boomed, and Hug looked at the window.

  Outside, the barn was collapsing. Smoke and debris billowed as the roof sank into the fiery interior.

  “Is this a police, fire, or medical emergency?” inquired a woman.

  “There’s a fire, but I need an ambulance too—with three stretchers—for Doctor Hannersby and two other grown-ups. They ate some mushrooms and got sick.”

  “What is the address?”

  “The forest.”

  “What forest?”

  “The one behind the Hannersby Estate. That’s where they are.”

  “I’ll dispatch an ambulance to the estate.”

  “Okay. And a fire engine also. Maybe two.”

  “Your name is?”

  “Hug Hannersby.”

  “They’ll be right over.”

  A click sounded on the line.

  The anomalous boy hung up the phone, looked at the window, and felt a weird tingling sensation climb up his spine.

  Standing in front of the conflagration and staring at Hug with blind, white eyes was the Devil Goat of Nagathraxis.

  XI | Two Sleepers

  One unwashed, anomalous boy and six formally dressed oldsters were gathered around the open, antique coffin within which lay the still and diminutive body of the teratologist. On either side of Hug Hannersby stood Sidney and Phalanges, who were covered with olive-green rashes from which grew little white beards. The two remaining members of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences had brought the adopted specimen and former acolyte to the funeral.

  All of the mourners stared at Doctor Hannersby.

  “Look at Hannersby’s hands,” Sidney whispered to Phalanges.

  The lank mycologist and the anomalous boy looked at the teratologist’s small, youthful hands.

  “Did you ever see his feet?” inquired the portly phrenologist. “Like his hands, they too stopped aging when he was twelve.”

  It did not seem like Phalanges was very interested in these observations.

  Hug returned his gaze to Doctor Hannersby, who had been lying still for a very long time. “Is he going to wake up soon?”

  The lank mycologist shook his head, but did not remove his gaze from the coffin. “He’s dead.”

  “But when will he wake up?”

  Phalanges glared at Hug. “Why did you fetch those mushrooms?”

  The anomalous boy was confused by the question. “Um . . . Doctor Hannersby told me to get them.”

  “Well you got the wrong ones. The beards were supposed to be—”

  “Don’t blame the boy,” interrupted Sidney.

  “Well this c
ertainly isn’t my fault,” rasped Phalanges. “It was dark—I couldn’t see what he’d picked. He got the wrong ones.”

  “There’s no point in blaming anybody.”

  The lank mycologist huffed, and the portly phrenologist sniffled twice, scratched his olive-green rash, and wiped his eyes.

  “Did I do something wrong . . . ?” inquired Hug.

  Nobody answered his inquiry.

  ———

  Later that day, the cemetery was visited by Abigail Westinghouse, who had black clothing, a colorful bouquet, and a bit more silver in her hair than when she had breakfasted with George Dodgett. Her shadow fell upon the inscription of an isolated headstone, which read: In Loving Memory of Meredith Jubilee Chickenpenny.

  Abigail kneeled and set the flowers upon the grave.

  “I’m sorry.”

  XII | Unwanted Again

  Dressed in an oversized blue suit that had once belonged to Doctor Hannersby, Hug Hannersby sat upon a bare mattress in the corner of a long room that contained twenty-six bunk beds. The anomalous boy looked through an unclear window at an oval of green grass that was circumscribed by a tall concrete wall. Mirthful toddlers and older children tumbled about this yard like crazy insects.

  Heavy footfalls resounded in the inner hallway of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, and Hug turned his head to face the approaching visitor.

  A golden object flew across the sleeping quarters and slammed into his stomach.

  Gasping, the anomalous boy doubled over. His heart beat a few uneven triplets, but soon, he refilled his lungs and sat upright.

  Lying on the floor between his dangling loafers was the mutilated and repaired golden gorilla of his infancy.

  Heavy footfalls echoed, and he raised his head.

  Standing across from Hug and wearing thick boots, a dark brown skirt, and a matching blouse was a plump, bleached blonde woman who had two long, deep facial scars.

  “Hello,” said the anomalous boy, who vaguely recalled the person whom he had just greeted.

  “That stuffed gorilla is yours. It was in the basement.”

  Although confused by the ungentle manner in which the toy had been returned, Hug nodded his head in appreciation. “Thank you.”

  Silently and coldly, the scarred woman stared.