A Map of Days

by Ransom Riggs

  “What should we do with them, Poop?” She turned to offer us a quick aside. “His name isn’t really Poop. I just call him that because I can call anyone anything I like.”

  “Perhaps we should eat them,” Poop suggested.

  Frankie sneered. “You always want to eat them. It’s weird, Poop. And anyway, that gave me a stomachache last time.”

  “Or we could sell them.”

  “Sell them? To who?”

  “To whom,” the teacher said, and then he put a hand over his mouth and turned pale.

  The girl flew into a rage. She pointed at him, then drew a quick, invisible line downward. The teacher fell to his knees as if pulled by strings. “YOU. DO NOT. TELL ME THINGS.”

  “Yes, Frankie. Yes, ma’am.” His voice was quivering. “Mater semper certa est.”

  “That’s right. That is extremely correct.” A small line of dolls was marching toward him across the room. “Because you’re so obedient, Poop, I’m only going to have them chew off one of your legs.”

  The teacher repeated the phrase over and over, faster and faster—“Mater semper certa est, mater semper certa est!”—until the words were slurring together. The dolls swarmed him, grasping and champing their porcelain teeth. The man was crying, sobbing, but he didn’t struggle. When he seemed about to pass out, the girl spread her arms and then brought her hands together, and the clap made all the dolls go limp and fall over.

  “Oh, Poop. You’re so funny.”

  The man gathered himself, wiped his face, and wobbled to his feet. “Where was I?” He cleared his throat. “You could sell them to the Animists, the Mentats, the Weathermen . . .” He pressed a trembling hand to his neck, quickly checking his pulse, then tucked it behind his back. “But, as always, the Untouchables are paying the highest rate.”

  “Blecch. I hate them. But as long as none set foot here . . .”

  “I’ll call them and arrange a sales meeting.”

  “I’m not selling him, though.” She pointed at Enoch, then traced a U in the air with two fingers. Enoch’s lips curled into an exaggerated, grotesque smile.

  “That’s fine, Frankie. That’s very good.”

  “I know it’s good. The rest of them, I don’t care. I just have one condition. If whoever buys them does something nasty to them? I get to watch.”

  * * *

  • • •

  After a long and dreamless blank, I woke up tied to a chair. We were spaced out all in a row, our feet bound to the chair legs and our hands strapped behind us: Emma, Bronwyn, Noor, and even Millard, the ropes hovering around what looked like an empty seat. All but Enoch. He was nowhere to be seen.

  We were on the stage of an old theater, arranged behind a tattered yellow curtain. If I craned my neck, I could see ropes and pulleys behind us and lights along a catwalk above. We weren’t gagged, and yet I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even persuade my mouth to open. Then I heard voices on the other side of the curtain. They seemed to be talking about us.

  “They were trespassing on my property! Trying to steal from me!” It was the psychotic little girl, Frankie. “I had every right to hang them, but I’m showing mercy instead. And doing you all a favor.”

  “That’s funny, usually it’s you who’s tryin’ to steal from us,” said a gravelly male voice. “The last specimen I bought from you turned to corpse-dust after only two days.”

  “S’not my fault if you don’t take care of ’em right,” said Frankie.

  “The seller isn’t responsible for user error.” An oily-sounding voice I recognized—Poop, the tutor.

  “You sold me junk! I’m owed a free one!”

  It sounded like a scuffle was about to break out, but then a lady shouted, “Stop it! No brawling allowed on neutral ground!”

  Things settled down. The gravelly voice said, “You’ve wasted too much of my day already, Frankie. Let’s get your dog and pony show started.”

  “Fine. POOP!”

  With a loud squeak and a puff of dust, the curtain began to rise. Beyond it was an empty and decaying theater. The seats were torn, the balcony level was teetering at a precarious angle and looked as if it might collapse at any moment.

  On the stage were six people. Their gazes were trained on us but they seemed to be watching one another just as closely, each maintaining a wary distance from the rest. Frankie and Poop stood closest to us, Frankie wearing a coat with tails and holding a baton, as if she were the ringleader of a circus.

  It seems amazing to me now, but I had no way of knowing then who the others were. That was probably for the best, because if I’d known their reputations, I might’ve been too intimidated to think straight. Frankie had reached out to the most notorious peculiar gangs in New York, and the leaders of three had made an appearance. Front and center was a young fellow with hair like a cresting wave. He wore an immaculate suit, shoes caked in red mud, and a thin, threatening smile. His name was Wreck Donovan. Standing behind him were his two flunkies, a demure girl who was casually reading a newspaper and a boy who didn’t strike me as someone who could read at all, his mouth hanging open in dim amazement.

  Wreck was staring at me while having an argument with someone else: a young-looking girl in an immaculate white dress tied with a huge silk bow. Her hair was coiffed in complicated, ironed curls that cascaded down her back. Her face was milky-white and smooth and very cold, the mouth an inverse of Wreck’s, turned down at the corners and always moving, as if she were chewing something, or talking to herself silently. The strangest thing about her was the cloud of black smoke that hovered around her head and shoulders, churning slowly but never dissipating. It narrowed to a funnel shape that seemed to emanate from her right ear. Her name was Angelica, and she was alone.

  Wreck hated to be photographed, but one day I would see a blurred snapshot of him posing much as he sat before me now. Angelica, on the other hand, loved the camera, and one portrait of her in particular—moping on a swing, smoke cloud wafting to one side—would become famous among American peculiars, framed and hung with pride by some, used as target practice or a wanted poster by others.

  Wreck and Angelica were arguing about someone who hadn’t shown up yet—the representative for the Untouchables—and Frankie was refusing to start without him.

  “There’s no chance he’s gonna show his hairy mug here,” Wreck said. “Or anywhere else in the city, for that matter.” He had a melodious voice tinged with a light Irish accent.

  “I hope he does,” said his gape-mouthed flunkie. “I’ll tie him up and turn him in for the bounty.”

  “That, I’d pay to see,” said Angelica. “None of you are getting that bounty, anyhow. Dogface and his clan aren’t afraid of you. Leo and his goons, yes, but not you.” She spoke in a kind of lilting sigh, the sentences starting high and chirpy before fluttering down to the floor.

  Wreck glanced at his pocket watch, uncrossed his legs, and stood. “One more minute, Frankie. Then I take my associates and blow.”

  “Poop, make him sit!” Frankie shouted.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Donovan,” said the tutor.

  “I’ll never take orders from someone who lets a child call him names,” said Wreck.

  “You’re gonna regret talking about me like that,” Frankie said. “One day, you’re gonna beg for my forgiveness.”

  Before their argument could escalate, there was a loud slam from the rear of the theater, a set of double doors swung wide, and a small figure rushed in.

  “There he is!” said Frankie. “Told you he’d show.”

  He charged down the aisle, peeling off a hat and high-collared coat that had obscured his face. “Sorry I’m late,” he said in a high, sharp New York accent. “Traffic was a nightmare!”

  He bounded up the steps and into the stage lights, and I was shocked to see that his face—every square inch but his eyeballs and lips—w
as covered in long, thick fur. This was Dogface, the leader of the Eldritch Street Untouchables, the most despised peculiar clan in New York.

  “Dogface!” Wreck shouted. “I truly didn’t think you’d have the stones to show yourself, after the beating we gave you last week.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it?” Dogface replied, licking two fingers and brushing a lock of fur from his eyes. “Funny, I remember three of yours getting carted off to the healer, and only two of mine.”

  “I think you forgot how to count,” said Wreck. “Just stay out of my territory, or it won’t be the healer they take you to, it’ll be the deadhouse.”

  “Wahh, waah, waah,” the furry boy said, mocking him. “‘Stay out of my territory!’ Someone needs to have his diaper changed.”

  Wreck, who had sat down again, jumped out of his chair, but one of his flunkies held him back. Dogface didn’t flinch, chuckling to himself as Wreck made a show of needing to be dragged back to his seat to prevent a brawl.

  “I wouldn’t try it,” said Dogface. “I got three boyos waiting with their ears to the door, and if they so much as hear me bark, you’re a dead man.”

  “Enough of this tiresome peacocking,” said Angelica, her face placid but her smoke cloud dense and swirling.

  “Yes, may we please begin,” said the tutor.

  Everyone took a seat. Though the tension between the clan leaders was palpable, their focus gradually returned to my friends and me.

  “What have you got for us today, Frankie?” Dogface said. “More rubes from the sticks?”

  “I don’t need any more parlor-trick peculiars,” said Wreck. “I want genuine talent this time.”

  “Yeah,” said Dogface. “He’s got enough deadweight morons in his crew as it is.”

  Wreck shot him a nasty look.

  “No, no, these here are the real deal,” said Frankie. “And they’re gonna be real expensive.”

  “We’ll see,” said Angelica.

  “Only thing I care about is, can they rob?” said Wreck. “I need muscle. I need lookouts.”

  “I need chameleons,” said Dogface. “My crew have been getting noticed by normals lately, and we’ve had some close shaves.”

  “You could surely use one,” Wreck said, laughing.

  “This one’s invisible!” said Frankie. She spun around and poked Millard with her baton, and he squeaked.

  We still couldn’t talk.

  “Hmm,” said Wreck, drumming his fingers together. “I could be interested . . .”

  “They ain’t ugly enough for your crew,” said Dogface. “Better leave ’em to me.”

  “I need weatherfolk, as ever,” Angelica said with a sigh. “Wind-shifters, cloud-seeders. Competent ones.”

  “All right, talk,” said Frankie, waving her baton in our direction. “Tell ’em what you can do.”

  I felt my jaw slacken and my tongue, which had nearly gone numb, suddenly go all pins and needles as the feeling flooded back. It was hard to talk at first. Bronwyn tried to speak, too, but it sounded like we had forgotten how to form consonants.

  Dogface tossed up his hands. “What are they, idiots?”

  “Of course they are, why d’you think Frankie was able to catch ’em in the first place?” said Wreck.

  “Lose my telegraph number,” Angelica said, and stood up from her chair.

  “Their tongues are just tired!” Frankie pleaded. “Don’t leave!”

  Frankie started to beat Bronwyn with her baton and scream, “TALK RIGHT!”

  Seeing that made me so furious that something jarred loose in my head, and I found my voice again and shouted, “STOP IT!”

  Frankie turned, enraged, and came at me with the baton. She had to pass Emma to reach me, though, and Emma had burned through her wrist restraints without anyone noticing. Though her feet were still tied to the chair, she was able to lunge at the girl with the top half of her body and tackle Frankie to the floor.

  Emma got Frankie in a choke hold, one arm around her neck and a flaming hand held beside her face.

  “Stop, stop, stop!” Frankie screamed, wriggling and writhing. She seemed to have lost her telekinetic grip on Emma, and though she was trying mightily, she couldn’t get it back.

  “Let us go or I’ll melt her face off!” Emma yelled. “I mean it! I’ll really do it!”

  “Oh, please do,” said Angelica. “She’s such a pain.”

  The others laughed. They seemed surprised, but not particularly upset, by the sudden turn of events.

  “Why are you just standing there?” Frankie shouted. “Murder them!”

  Dogface crossed his ankles and laced his fingers behind his head. “I don’t know, Frankie. This just got interesting.”

  “I agree,” said Angelica. “For once, I’m glad I got out of bed today.”

  Emma looked annoyed. “None of you cares if she dies?”

  “I do,” the tutor said halfheartedly.

  “You can’t do this to me!” Frankie shouted. “You’re mine! I caught you!”

  I was starting to feel control returning to my arms and legs as well as my tongue. The girl’s spell had been broken. I looked at my friends, and I could see them beginning to move their limbs as well.

  “I say we split them evenly,” said Wreck, and he drew a fat-barreled pistol from his waist belt and cocked it. “One each for you, two for me.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Dogface. He dropped onto all fours and snarled ferociously. “I get all of them.”

  “That won’t work out so well for you,” Angelica warned him. Her cloud flashed bright white, then rumbled. What I had thought was smoke was really a storm cloud. “And don’t even think about using that fire on us,” she said to Emma.

  “Nobody’s taking us,” I said. “Nobody’s buying us, either.”

  “When the Ymbryne Council finds out what you’re doing, you’re all in serious, serious trouble,” said Millard.

  That comment prompted a few raised eyebrows. Wreck stepped forward, his tone suddenly a bit more respectful, and he said, “You’ve misunderstood us. We don’t buy people. That sort of trade has been illegal for a long time. But we will occasionally make monetary bids to post bail for peculiars guilty of criminal offenses. If we like said peculiars.”

  “What criminal offenses?” Millard said. “You’re the criminals.”

  “Trespassing on Frankie’s turf,” said Dogface, and Frankie, who was too scared to talk, nodded vigorously.

  “She trapped us!” Bronwyn said. “Drugged us with food!”

  “Ignorantia legis neminem excusat,” said the tutor. “‘Ignorance of the law excuses no one.’”

  “We post your bail,” Wreck continued. “You skip jail, then repay us with your service for a period of three months. After that, many people decide to stay on with us.”

  “Those who are still alive,” said Dogface with a sly grin. “Our initiations ain’t for the faint of heart.”

  “You, miss, are very talented,” said Angelica, taking a cautious step toward Emma and bowing slightly. “I think you’d feel right at home with my clan. We’re elementals, like you.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Emma said. “I’m not going anywhere with you, and neither are my friends.”

  “I think you are,” Dogface said.

  There was a loud snap as Bronwyn’s ropes broke and she stood up from her chair.

  “Don’t you move!” Wreck shouted. “I’ll shoot!”

  “You shoot, I burn,” said Emma.

  “Do what she says!” Frankie whimpered.

  Wreck hesitated, then lowered his gun a little. Despite their tough talk, they really didn’t want Frankie to die. Or they didn’t really want to kill us.

  Bronwyn went to Noor’s chair and snapped the ropes binding her.

  �
�Thanks,” Noor said, standing and rubbing her wrists. Then she swatted her hand through the air and scooped away the blinding spotlight. It was still on, shining up in the catwalk, but now its cone of light stopped high above our heads. “There. That’s better.” She pushed her hands together, compressing the handful of light she’d collected, then tucked it into her cheek, where it bulged like a glowing lump of chewing gum.

  “Mother Mary,” Wreck muttered under his breath.

  “Who are you people?” said Dogface.

  Bronwyn had just snapped Millard’s ropes, and now she was coming over to free me.

  “They can’t be from around here,” said Angelica. “With peculiarities like that, everybody would know their names.”

  “Remember the wights?” said Millard.

  “You must be joking,” said Wreck.

  “They’re dead or in jail now because of us.”

  “Because of him, mostly,” said Bronwyn. She snapped the rope that held my wrists and then held up my arm like the winner in a footrace. “We’re Miss Peregrine’s wards. And when she hears about what you people are doing, she and the other ymbrynes are gonna bring such hell down on your heads, you won’t know what hit you.”

  “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard,” said Wreck.

  “Then I think they’ll fit in just fine,” said Dogface.

  The dynamic in the room had changed. We had earned some grudging respect from them, and the balance of power had evened. But the clan leaders were still wary of us—and of one another—and no one had let their guard down. Wreck was still aiming his gun, Emma was still holding her flame to Frankie’s face, Dogface was crouched on all fours, ready to pounce, and Angelica’s cloud was now quietly storming, pellets of rain wetting her head and shoulders. It felt like we were dancing around a stick of lit dynamite.

  “I got one question to ask you, and you’d best answer it true,” said Wreck. “People like you don’t come through town without a good reason. So what are you doing here?”

  I suppose I thought I could talk to them like equals, but thinking back, I don’t know why I said it. I was feeling proud and reckless, and the truth just came tumbling out. “We came to help her,” I said, nodding at Noor. “She’s a brand-new peculiar who’s in danger, and we’re taking her home with us.”