But it’s not my injury she’s concerned with.
I move my head just enough to glimpse Kaleb’s moody stare. If I can be repaired by Maybelle’s magic, maybe he can, too.
***
I wake early the next morning and wait impatiently for the clock to strike nine so I can catch the bus to the library. I don’t stop to revel in the nostalgia of the old building, nor do I pause to look at anything I think might make a good personal read. I head directly into the stacks, gathering books on geography, astronomy, and history, before I go to the basement and collect fiction novels set on beaches, in futuristic cities, even altogether different dimensions.
Maybelle gives me back my foot, if only for the short times I live in the worlds of her creation. But if she can temporarily heal my wounds, then surely she can offer Kaleb the same kind of respite from his damaged spine. If I find a place, a large field where he can run, jump, bend himself without tear or fracture, I can let him borrow Maybelle’s powers for a few moments of unrestrained relief. And if his injury disappears in the midst of Maybelle’s perfect, magical world, maybe his permanent scowl will disappear, too.
I check out a dozen books, my tote bag heavy and awkward as I make my way back to the bus station. I struggle home, dragging the books up the stairs to my room so I can start marking the descriptions I think are best suited to Kaleb’s tastes.
I search until all of the books are open and spread across my room like a sea of musty pages. By the time I hear ugly footsteps outside my door, I’ve reached a state of excited giddiness, a light-hearted sensation which plummets when the door is thrown open.
“Hey, Stump.” Kaleb stomps in without knocking. He grins at me, and then peers at the books on my floor. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Something for you,” I say, wishing I hadn’t mentioned anything to him until I was ready for his arrival. I asked Kaleb to come to my room hours from now, but as usual he hasn’t listened to my request. He walks into the room trailing mud from the backyard, one hand rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“Well, what do you want? I’ve got things to do,” he mutters, glancing briefly at my face before fixing his eyes on my leg. I wonder if he remembers the nights when he consoled me about my foot, when my girlhood self snuggled securely in against his side.
I walk among the books, working to make a quick decision. “I have a gift for you. Something to help your back.”
“A miracle cure?” Kaleb asks, and I look up at his softened tone, only to see him sneer at my hopeful glance. “I wouldn’t trust an idiot with a miracle. You can’t do shit-all for my back.”
“Kaleb.” I breathe his name in frustration. How can it be possible for the progression of time to change someone so drastically? How can one injury steal away an entire personality?
I pick up one of the books, skim over the selected page. It describes a cottage in an English pasture. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for now.
“I have a gift. And, yeah, it’s kind of a miracle,” I say, holding the book out in front of me. “Read this book, and you’ll see.”
“So you are a total idiot,” Kaleb scoffs, turning back towards the door.
“It gives me back my foot,” I blurt out. The reasoning is stupid, but I haven’t had time to think up a plausible explanation. “If you read this, your back will be better.”
His shoulders tense at my words. “I’ve had enough,” he says, stepping away until I grab his arm.
“Kaleb!” I shout his name, my heart hammering against my ribs, my fingers trembling with furious agitation. “Just listen to me.”
“Don’t you touch me.” Kaleb swings around and pushes me away. I topple backwards, tripping over the books and stumble sideways until I fall onto my bed.
“I’m trying to help you,” I tell him, the words hissing through my clenched teeth. “I’m trying to give you a way out, a way to get back what you’ve lost.”
Kaleb stands before the bed, his once lean and muscled arms doughy across his chest. “Help me? Like you’re not an even bigger waste than I am.”
“Kaleb.” I struggle upright, and immediately he pushes me back down, his hard grip on my shoulder leaving behind a pulsing ache. I wince in discomfort, and raise my eyes to see him looming above me with a wolfish grin. There never used to be a wolf inside Kaleb. One must have slipped in alongside the metal rods in his spine.
He licks his lips, but when I curl my knees up to block my body from his view, he only laughs.
“Who would want rotted meat like you? I’ve already had your sister, and that’s bad enough.” He turns away from the bed, missing the way my features shade with stony resolve.
I get up fast, as if I have two feet to stand on, and I reach for a book near the bed. It’s a science fiction novel, one I chose for a beautiful passage describing a crystalline pool where peaceful men and women bathe under a blanket of emerald stars. But I saw more of this book before I spotted the lovely scene, and now I want to locate a passage of a wholly different nature.
“Kaleb.” This time his name is a growl on my lips. I lift the novel, and am surprised to notice Maybelle’s beak peeking out top near the back of the book. I don’t remember taking her out of my pocket, but as I open to the page she’s marking, I find the passage I was after.
Kaleb is already at the door, and he makes no effort to acknowledge my voice. I hobble across the small room, book in one hand, the other outstretched and poised to grab. I pull at Kaleb’s arm with enough force to rock him backwards, and I pin him to the wall.
“You’re going to regret this,” he says. I push my knee in against his jeans so he knows how serious I am.
“Read the passage,” I say, holding the book before him. He snatches the novel out of my grasp.
“What passage?” he asks, his lips sliced into a blood red smirk. He thinks I’m clueless of the gruesome plans forming in his head. He has no idea how much grislier are the ones in my own.
“This one, right here. Read.” I point to the passage, careful not to touch the paper, and I step back as Kaleb begins, his voice flat with suppressed rage.
“Thunder bellowed as the black lake engulfed them, the once serene pools now alight with hellfire and eternal screams as the Underworld claimed them all.”
Invisible flames race up my side, but I steel myself against the pain, refusing to succumb to its agony. I don’t want to miss this. I watch as Kaleb reads the words, and catch the first glimpse of his shocked expression before he disappears from the room, the book dropping to the floor.
I kneel down to look at the page, grasping Maybelle safely between my fingers before I study the passage, the sentence, the words Kaleb had been reading when the pain returned and his voice vanished.
Hellfire and eternal screams as the Underworld claimed them all.
I don’t have to wonder if Kaleb was transported, if the translation made the horrific passage even worse. I know he’s there. I know it’s more terrifying than I can comprehend. And I know he can’t get back without Maybelle’s birdsong to guide his way.
I stare at the page for a long, silent moment, remembering the nightmare of my own trip into a world probably half as frightening as this one. I wanted to help Kaleb, give him something to look forward to so he could perhaps look forward to the rest of his life as well. But I was as stupid as he claimed to think I could change the person he’s become. I’ve told my sister to accept it a million times, and I have to accept it as well. The old Kaleb is gone, and we’ll never get him back.
I slip the fabric bird into my pocket as I take one final look at the passage of Kaleb’s portal. If the old Kaleb is gone, the least I can do for my family is make sure the new one is, too.
I press my fingers against the cursed words, and then I close the book.
BIOGRAPHY:Mere Joyce is a Canadian author of short stories and novels. As both a writer and a librarian, she understands the importance of reading, and the impact the right story can have. She’s never seen a bird
like Maybelle, but through the power of books she’s still been transported to many new worlds, some darker than others.
RODENT IN THE RED ROOM
Matt Hayward
“You sure this is where you’re meant to be?”
The man in the driver seat arched an eyebrow. “Seriously, I don’t think this town has anything to offer besides O’Brien’s Bar and peculiar looks. If I go back to the motorway, I can find you a bus stop back to town. People around here . . . They like to keep it in the family, if you know what I’m getting at?”
Ben forced a smile and said that he did.
“All right, then. Just as long as you know where you are.”
The wipers whined as they struggled to keep the heavy rain off the Toyota’s windshield, weather the driver had described as pissing when he’d collected Ben nearly a half-hour ago. Now they’d reached Ben’s destination. A small town named Rathdun.
Zipping his army jacket, Ben took his fisherman’s hat from his lap and gave the driver a final, tight smile. “I really appreciate the lift.”
The driver’s face fell in concern, his hands fixed to the wheel. “Sure thing. Look, take my number, okay? The wife and I only live fifteen minutes from here and if you’re stuck for a place to stay, we’ve got a room. It’s no trouble.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’ve got a friend here. Thanks again for the lift.”
“Your decision, boss.”
Ben closed the passenger door and gave the roof a tap as the driver took off, hazard lights flashing in response. Then the car disappeared down Rathdun Main Street, slipping away under the heavy cloak of rain.
Closing his eyes, Ben lifted his face to the falling drops and let them beat his face. The constant migraine that accompanied these trips felt worse than ever today. Whatever lurked in Rathdun, whatever force had drawn him here, had to be very powerful. He wanted to get the job done and leave before sunset.
Wiping his face with his sleeve, Ben scanned the town. Rathdun sat on a summit in the Wicklow hills, little more than a street slithering between overgrown foliage. To his left stood a burned out school, a ‘No Trespassing’ sign stuck to its black iron gate. In front of the gate was a phone-box, and Ben sighed in relief. Phone-boxes were being decommissioned all over Ireland, replaced by more modern means of communication that made his job a lot harder. Luckily, backwoods towns like Rathdun weren’t high priority for phone companies and Ben made his way towards the booth. Picking up the receiver, the familiar hum filled his ear. Still in service. He dialed.
“Burkley’s Fish and Chips,” the voice on the other end announced. “You want it fresh then go someplace else.”
“Cut the crap, William.” Ben grinned and leaned on the booth. “I’m here. Now, what’s the deal?”
“Nice to hear your voice, too, Benjamin. All right, look, from what I know, a suit-and-tie man by the name of Richard Evans went missing there almost a week ago. JEM Entertainment founder, remember?”
“I remember. Just tell me where I need to go, my head is killing me.”
“Poor baby. Okay, listen. My client says there’s a brothel there called Seomra Dearg, but I think I’ve told you that already. Some fucked up deal the town’s got going with a so-called pimp. The locals get their pockets filled, keep their mouths shut, and everything stays hunky-dory. But listen, the whole place is in on it, so, needless to say, you need to be careful. Who, or what, is running this operation is just guesswork at this point, but that’s why I have you, isn’t it, old man?”
“William, please, this one is serious. My head feels like it’s about to explode.”
“All right, I’m sorry. There’s a code to get in, a series of numbers. No ID allowed, they’re very strict on that. My guess is that my client’s partner, Richard Evans, did something to piss the owner off and got himself wasted. Now, normally, this would be a case for local law, but it’s been kept out of the media. That’s when it started to get suspicious. And after your headache began, I knew we had a live one here. I just don’t know whatone.”
“I’ll get the job done. Give me the numbers.”
William listed them, and then added, “My client’s name is Peter Jones, the J in JEM Entertainment, as you’ve probably already guessed. That’s your new name. You’ll be expected, I should think.”
“Expect a call back from me tomorrow.”
“Confident, huh?”
Ben sighed. “I’ve never let one slip by before, have I?”
“I guess not. But be careful, buddy. I mean that.”
“I know.”
Ben cradled the receiver and exited the phone-box. Starting up the street, he slung his rug-sack over his right shoulder. Even if he hadn’t been called here (because that’s how he thought of it now, being called), he would have kept an eye on the place. It oozed bad mojo.
A sign to his left welcomed him to Rathdun, and before entering, Ben stashed his rug-sack in a nearby ditch for safe-keepings. He’d collect it later, if later ever came.
The buildings to either side of Main Street seemed to fall inwards over the potholed road. He knew it to only be a trick of the eye because of how the road veered slightly to the left as it descended, but it gave a very claustrophobic vibe. Slick, bare plaster walls ran with rainwater, the occasional red brick popped through like a sore. If the right wind were to blow, the whole town could collapse.
“Y’all right there, lad?”
The voice caused Ben to jump. Scanning the rain-battered street, he spotted three men standing in the doorway of O’Brien’s Bar. They huddled together in the small cubby, pints in hand, watching him with stupid grins splitting their faces. At two in the afternoon, drinking seemed to be the day’s plan for these folk. The one in the middle stood just over five feet, bald-headed, and wearing a very clean tracksuit. Ben doubted the man to be an athlete. Two tall men flanked him, both with faces uglier than the last.
Ben raised a hand in good-nature. “Hi there. I’m fine, thanks.”
The small one, who Ben guessed to be the leader, nudged his friend on the right. “Goin’ fishin’, are ye?”
Fuck it, Ben thought. The sooner I get this over with, the better. Besides, he already knew that what he’d come looking for prowled behind the walls of O’Brien’s Bar. The feeling pulled his brain like a magnet. That had to be where the brothel lay.
Ben started across the street. “Actually, I was hoping to come in.”
The three men exchanged looks of fake-surprise before breaking out into laughter. Two sounded like donkeys, the other like a hyena. The bald-headed ‘athlete’ spilled a slop of beer while shuffling into the road, leaving a bare space between the two larger men.
“Go on in there, then. But you know it’s not a barber shop, yeah? That’s three doors down.”
The tall, donkey-laugher’s heads bobbed as the joke registered. Good one, Ben thought. Small town yokels telling a guy with long hair to go and get it cut. How original.
Speaking low and steady, Ben said, “You going to keep talking shit or am I going to make you?”
The laughter cut. Cheeks turning red, the small man’s face fell. “What did you just say to me, lad?”
“You heard me. I’m not fond of repeating myself.”
Nobody spoke. The white noise of rain continued, patting off car roofs and hissing down the tarmac.
“Go on inside,” The bald man said, cocking a thumb over his shoulder. “Go on. I dare ye.”
Ben pushed by the three without hesitation, catching them off-guard. One of the tall men’s arms shot out and gripped him by the jacket, but Ben whipped his sleeve free and shoved the bar door open, not turning back.
As the door swung shut, one of the men shouted, “Fucking hippy.”
Inside the dingy pub, heads turned. Ben spotted many identical faces, each with half-closed eyes and drooping mouths. Inbreds. He remembered an article he’d read online before coming here that declared Rathdun to be one of the most inbred towns in Europe. Not just Ireland, fuc
king Europe.
One of the tall idiots from the doorway shouted in, “You hear what this lad told to Davey Mac?”
Before anyone could respond, Ben stalked to the bar and said in a loud, clear voice, “I’m here for the Seomra Dearg. Do I need to call the boss and tell him I’m being mishandled?”
An almost tangible tension descended. Seomra Dearg. TheRed Room, in Gaelic.
The bartender, an elderly man resembling a potato, scuttled from the far end of the pub, his face strained with fear. “No, no! No need for that. I’ll just call up and let him know you’re here, Mr . . . ?”
“Jones.”
“Mr. Jones. One minute.”
Jones? The name had been Jones, hadn’t it? If not, then things were going to turn very ugly, very fast. Ben breathed slow and steady through his nose, trying to appear calm and collected. The headache messed with his brain, making it hard to recall details.
Numbers, he thought. That’s what comes next. He’s going to ask me for the numbers.
The bartender muttered on the phone, cradling the receiver to his face with his back turned. Then he nodded frantically, listening to the speaker. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll send him right up. Bye, bye, bye.” Turning with a smile, the bartender clasped his hands behind his back and announced, “He’s expecting you, Mr. Jones. I’m sorry for how you were treated outside.”
Ben forced a smile, feeling it twitch his cheek like a hook on string. “That’s okay. Thank you.”
“I have to ask you for something. You know what it is, I’m sure.”
Ben licked at his lips. “12,” he said. His throat clicked. “6, 31, 42, 47 . . . ” His heart-rate quickened. Shit. Had the last number been a 9, or a 15? Definitely a multiple of 3. Or had that been something he’d told himself to remember the 6? “15,” he guessed.
The bartender glanced slowly around the room, scanning his customers. Ben kept his eyes on him while slipping his hand into the pocket of his army jacket, wrapping his fingers around the grip of his pistol. His kept his expression neutral and steady. The bartender addressed the crowd. “This is Peter Jones, everybody. One of the owners in JEM Entertainment, so if you want to ever drink here again, you’ll leave him be and treat him with some respect, understand? As for Davey Mac and the Rourke brothers, you’re on your last warning. Boss won’t stand for it again.”
Tales from The Lake 3 Page 9