by Ransom Riggs
“I’m just sorry as hell about this, young people,” said Adelaide. “You seem very nice.”
“We are,” said Millard. “But we’ll be all right.”
“‘We are,’ he says!” Adelaide laughed. “I like that.”
Mr. Potts leaned over and spat through his teeth onto the ground. “You laugh too damn much, Adelaide.”
Adelaide ignored him. “It’s a shame,” he said. “This was a nice place once. Nice peculiars like you used to come here to have a good time. Now people just wash up like flotsam and get stuck.”
“I ain’t stuck,” said Mr. Potts. “I’m retired.”
“Sure, Al. Tell yourself that.”
“What happened to the ymbryne who made this loop?” Millard asked. “Why didn’t she stay around to help protect it?”
Adelaide looked at me and whistled. “Ymbryne. When’s the last time you heard that word, Al?”
“Long time ago,” said Mr. Potts.
“I haven’t seen one in . . . oh, forty years,” said Adelaide, his voice softening with nostalgia. “A real one, I mean. Not one of these halfsies who can’t even shape-shift.”
“Where did they all go?” Emma asked.
“There weren’t all that many to begin with,” said Mr. Potts. “I remember back in the fifties, the loop up in Indiana where I lived shared an ymbryne with the next closest loop. Miss Pigeon Hawk. Then one day it seemed like the wights and their shadow creatures were everywhere all of a sudden, and they just hated ymbrynes worse than poison. They tried everything they could to get rid of ’em. Did a pretty good job of it, too.”
“How?” said Emma. “We’d had hollows and wights in Europe since 1908 and they hated our ymbrynes just as much, but most of ours managed to survive.”
“Can’t say I’m an expert on how the wights operate,” said Adelaide. “But I’ll say this: Our ymbrynes were every bit as tough and smart as anyone else’s, if not more. I’d trust an American ymbryne with my life—if I could find one. So it’s not that they lacked mettle.”
“And instead you have a so-called loop-keeper,” said Millard, sounding doubtful.
“Old Rex,” said Potts. “Passable keeper. Terrible drunk.”
“He drinks?” Millard said.
“Like a tent preacher,” said Adelaide. “Rex comes every few weeks to fiddle with the loop clock, day turns to night, and so on—”
“And then he finishes off a bottle of Miss Billie’s homemade rye,” said Potts, “which I believe is how she pays him.”
Emma turned to Millard and said, “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Only apocryphally,” he replied.
Adelaide clapped his hands. “Have you all eaten? I got a pot of coffee on in my room, and Al always has a few crullers stashed away.”
“You leave my crullers alone,” said Potts.
“These young people are having a bad day, Al. Get the crullers.” Potts grumbled something under his breath.
Adelaide walked us across the courtyard to his room. We passed a bungalow where a woman was singing opera, loudly, behind a closed door.
“You’re sounding fine this morning, Baroness!” Adelaide shouted.
“Thank youuuuuuuuuu,” the woman sang back.
“Is it just me,” Emma whispered, “or is everyone here a little—”
“Nuts?” said Potts, and broke out cackling. “Yes, we are, honey. Yes, we are.”
“Wow, his hearing’s good,” I said.
“Eyes are shot,” said Potts, pushing past us in his wheelchair. “The ears still work.”
We had coffee and crullers around a little table in the living room of Adelaide’s bungalow, a tiny space appointed with a floral-patterned sofa and chair, a knob-operated TV bolted to the wall, and flowers in vases. I noticed he had a suitcase packed by the door, and I asked about it.
“Oh, I’m leaving,” Adelaide said.
Potts laughed. “So you keep saying.”
“Any day now.”
I glanced at Potts. Potts shook his head.
“Headed to Kansas City,” said Adelaide. “To see an old girlfriend.”
“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” said Potts. “You’re stuck here just like the rest of us.”
It reminded me of the nursing home where we used to visit my grandma on my mom’s side, who had Alzheimer’s. Leaving was all she talked about, but of course she never could.
“We’re supposed to find a portal,” I said. “Have you heard of one around here?”
Adelaide looked at Potts, who grunted and shook his head. “I sure haven’t,” said Adelaide.
“There’s no such thing as portals,” said Millard. “We’re just going to keep getting the same answer. It’s a dead end.”
“You all should talk to the baroness,” said Adelaide. “Or Weiss, our nonagenarian bodybuilder. Those two have been everywhere.”
“We will,” I said. “Thanks.”
We ate our crullers in silence for a minute or two. Then Bronwyn set her coffee mug down loudly and said, “I hope I’m not being too forward, but what are you gentlemen’s peculiarities?”
Adelaide coughed and looked down, and Potts pretended he hadn’t heard the question. “What say we go outside and get some sun?” he said.
My friends and I looked at one another. It was an odd moment.
We went outside. Paul was walking by.
“Young man!” said Adelaide, raising an arm and waving.
Paul came over. He had a slim, knotted tree limb under one arm and a knife in his hand. “Yessir?”
“These people want to find a—what is it again?”
“Portal,” said Emma.
“Oh,” said Paul, nodding. “Sure.”
He didn’t seem confused at all. Totally normal thing to be looking for.
“Really?” I said.
“Well, we better get back to it,” said Adelaide, and he grabbed the handles of Potts’s wheelchair and began to push. “Good luck to you all.”
“Thanks for the food,” Bronwyn said. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
I cringed. They pretended they hadn’t heard that, either, and disappeared into Adelaide’s bungalow. We turned back to Paul, trying to put the momentary awkwardness behind us.
“You say you know where the portal is,” Emma said.
“Surely do,” he replied. “That’s where I’m from.”
“You’re from a portal?” said Millard. “There’s no such thing as—”
“I’m from Portal,” said Paul. “The town. Portal, Georgia?”
“There’s a town called Portal?” I said.
“It’s not famous or anything. But yeah.”
“Where is it? Can you show us on a map?”
“Surely can. But is it the town you want? Or the loop that’s nearby? There ain’t much to the town.”
I broke into a grin. “The loop. Definitely.”
“Then that’s a different story. You can’t get to the loop without me.”
“I’m a certified cartographer,” said Millard. “I’m sure I can handle even the most complex directions.”
“It’s not a matter of directions. The location of the entrance changes.”
Millard snorted. “It changes?”
“Only peculiars of my persuasion can find it. Diviners.”
“Well, could you take us there?” I asked.
“Um. I don’t know.”
“Come on,” said Emma. “We’re good company.”
“I don’t much like to travel. Besides, it isn’t a nice trip.”
“What’s so bad about it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s just . . . not so nice.”
“Matchstick. I need you.”
It was Enoch, his arms painted in grease to the e
lbows. He darted toward Emma like he was going to wipe filth on her new clothes, and she squealed and leapt out of range. He laughed, then started back toward the garage.
Emma’s shirt had come partly untucked. She fixed it, glaring after him. “Idiot.”
We followed Enoch toward the garage. So did Paul, whose curiosity about what we were up to apparently overwhelmed whatever awkwardness he felt about denying our request.
As we were making our way across the parking lot, Bronwyn said, “Did I cross a line back there, asking those old fellows about their peculiarities?”
“Peculiar abilities are like muscles,” Millard replied. “If you don’t use them for a long time, they can atrophy. Perhaps they’ve none left, and you hit a nerve.”
“It wasn’t that,” said Paul. “They weren’t allowed.”
“What do you mean?” said Emma.
“The gang in charge made a law that nobody can use peculiarities but them. They even hire snitches to make sure nobody does.”
“My God,” said Millard. “What kind of country is this?”
“A cruel one,” said Emma.
Paul sighed. “Is there another kind?”
* * *
• • •
The sign said ED’S GARAGE, but it just looked like an old barn to me. There was nobody around; the loop must’ve been made on a Sunday or a holiday. Bronwyn had pushed the Aston into an empty bay lined with tools, and Enoch nearly had the car running now. There was some metal to be welded, he said, and for that he needed Emma’s fire to finish the job.
It took several minutes of sustained effort, pacing and rubbing her hands together, for Emma to make her hands hot enough to weld metal. They were nearly white, and so dangerous she had to hold them well away from her body, lest her clothes catch fire. We stood back while she leaned under the hood and sparks flew. It was so noisy and fascinating that only when she’d finished, sweat pouring down her face and breathing hard, did we hear angry shouts coming from the motel.
We dashed out of the garage. The same vintage police car that had harassed us earlier was now parked in the Flamingo’s forecourt with its doors flung open.
“Looks like the highwaymen tracked you down,” said Paul. “You all better run. Take the back way out.” He pointed to a road that led behind the garage and out of town.
“We can’t leave all of them at the mercy of those thugs,” said Millard.
“What?” said Enoch. “Of course we can.”
Just then one of the fake cops dragged Miss Billie through the courtyard by her arm, her three poodles yapping crazily and nipping at his heels.
“If you can spare me for one moment,” said Bronwyn, “I’m going to go and break that man’s jaw.”
“It’s no use fighting them,” said Paul. “It just makes them madder. They’ll come back with more people and more guns and it’ll be even worse.”
“There’s always use in fighting,” said Emma. “Especially when it makes terrible people cry.” She laced her fingers together and popped the knuckles, and sparks flew from her still-glowing hands. “Enoch, how’s the car running?”
“Good as new,” he said.
“Jolly. Keep it idling for us.” She turned to me. “Back in two shakes.” She turned to Bronwyn. “Coming?”
Bronwyn rolled her shoulders and shook her arms, limbering up, then nodded.
I secretly loved it when Emma got like this—so pissed off that she grew oddly calm, her anger a focused tool she could wield to great and destructive effect. She and Bronwyn started walking toward the motel. The rest of us weren’t going to stay behind, of course, but since Emma and Bronwyn were the ones among us most capable of wreaking havoc, we kept a few paces behind them.
In the forecourt, one of the highwaymen had Miss Billie by the wrists and was shouting questions at her while the other one rampaged from bungalow to bungalow. “They was here, I know it!” he shouted, and burst out of Adelaide’s place. “Every one of you who’s lyin’ is gonna wish to hell they hadn’t! You know the punishment for disobeyin’ orders!”
They didn’t look much like cops, on closer inspection. They were wearing green fatigue pants and army boots, and they had the buzz-cut hair and dumb, overconfident swagger I’d come to know well growing up in Florida. The shorter of the two wore a gun holstered on his hip.
“Disobeyin’ orders is even worse than not payin’ your protection fees!” the taller one shouted. “Next time your clock needs windin’, maybe old Rex don’t turn up.”
“You leave him alone!” cried Miss Billie.
He drew back his arm to slap her but stopped short when the smaller one said, “There they is, Darryl!” His mouth formed an O as he pointed to us.
“Well, well, well,” said Darryl.
He let Miss Billie go. She scurried off behind the POOL RULES sign. We came into the forecourt and stopped where it met the pool. There were about twenty feet separating us. Emma and Bronwyn stood at the front of our little group, Enoch and I at the back. Millard was silent and, I hoped, sneaking around to flank the highwaymen. I kept Paul behind me.
“Y’all must be new in town,” said Darryl. He cleared his throat loudly. “The road you was on is a toll road. What’s the toll today, Jackson?”
“Gets a sight higher if you try an’ skip out on it.” Jackson joined the other highwayman at their squad car, leaned against the door, and hooked his thumbs into his holster belt. He’d been looking us up and down, and he didn’t seem worried about what he saw. His lips broadened into a greasy smile. “How ’bout their cash and their wheels.” He nodded toward the garage. “Why, I think I seen one of those babies in a magazine.”
I could see the residents of Flamingo Manor peeking out through their blinds, like a scene in an old Western movie.
“You can go to hell,” Emma said.
Now Darryl was smiling, too. “Bless her heart, ain’t she got a mouth.”
“I don’t allow anybody to disrespect me,” said Jackson. “Least of all a woman.”
“Least of all,” Darryl agreed. He snorted again, then took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his nose with it. “’Scuse me.” He turned slightly, pressed a finger to one nostril, and with a sharp exhalation fired a little black snot rocket onto the ground, where it proceeded to steam, eating a small hole in the pavement.
I heard Emma gag.
“Wow,” Enoch whispered beside me. He sounded jealous.
“That’s one nasty habit, Darryl,” Jackson said.
“It ain’t a habit. It’s an affliction.”
Emma took a step toward the men. Bronwyn followed her lead.
“So he’s got nuclear phlegm,” said Emma to the short one. “What’s your peculiarity—being the planet’s biggest asshole?”
Darryl burst out laughing. Jackson’s smile vanished. He unleaned himself from the patrol car and unbuttoned his holster.
Emma and Bronwyn took another step toward them.
“I think they wanna dance,” said Darryl. “Which one you want?”
“The littler one,” he said, staring at Emma. “I like her mouth.”
The girls broke into a run toward the two men. Jackson went for his gun, and Emma, who had kept her hot, glowing hands hidden behind her back, whipped them around to her front and grabbed the man’s gun as he raised it.
The gun instantly melted. As did Jackson’s right hand. He fell to the ground, writhing and howling.
Darryl dove behind the squad car. Before he could begin firing, Bronwyn rammed the driver’s-side door with her shoulder. The car skidded sideways, tires squealing, then tipped onto its side and fell over on its roof, pinning the man beneath it.
The whole encounter had lasted about fifteen seconds.
“Holy Mother of Moses!” I heard Adelaide shout, and I turned to see him watching from the doorway of his bungalow.
Potts was cheering and cackling in his wheelchair. A few doors down, a woman peeked out of her room—had to be the baroness, because she was wearing a sparkly dress and long white gloves—and she sang out, “Thank Goooooooooood!” in a quivering vibrato.
“Uh-oh,” Bronwyn said, peeking under the car. “Are they dead?”
“Close enough,” Emma said, giving the short one a nudge with her foot.
Miss Billie emerged from behind the trash cans, trailed by her three shivering poodles. “There was a third one,” she said. “Little skinny fella.”
“Watch ouuuuuuuuut!” sang the baroness.
She was pointing one of her gloved hands toward the loop exit. We heard feet pounding pavement. The third man had jumped from wherever he’d been hiding and was bombing toward the loop exit.
“STOP!” Emma shouted, and started after him.
The guy looked back once, terrified. Then he seemed to make a decision, and he pulled a gun from his waistband and turned to face us.
“Git on the ground!” he shouted at us. “Don’t move a muscle!”
We put up our hands and did as he asked. From the corner of my eye, I saw Miss Billie dig something out of her purse. “Here you go, sweeties!” she said in the high-pitched voice she used with her dogs.
The man spun and pointed his gun at her, but when he saw her poodles, he laughed. “You gonna sic them little things on me? You done lost yer mind, lady. Now, git on the ground over there with the rest of ’em.”
Miss Billie raised her hands and walked toward us. Her poodles yipped and scarfed the treats.
The man came toward us, cautious, his stiff arms shaking with adrenaline. He saw what we’d done to his friends, and he looked ready to do worse to us.
“I’ll have the keys to that there automobile,” he said. “Somebody toss ’em at me.”
Enoch took the keys from his pocket and threw them. They landed on the pavement near the man’s feet.