Lampie and the Children of the Sea

by Annet Schaap

For a moment, Lampie imagines how wonderful it would be if she could do exactly that. But then she sees her father and the floor covered in broken glass. She thinks about the seven years. She can’t leave. And there is something else. She wants to know, she wants to find out more about that strange creature upstairs. She sat with him all night, and she still does not understand. What is the boy doing up there all alone in that tower?

  Lampie puts down her coffee. “I’m staying,” she says.

  “Really?” Martha spills half of her coffee on the table. “You can’t possibly mean that!”

  “But I do,” says the girl.

  “No, you can’t. There’s no way a child could…” But she is already giving the girl a look of relief.

  From the corner of the table, Lenny is staring at Lampie with big, wide eyes, as if he understood what she just said. In fact, he probably did. He tilts back his head and throws a handful of newspaper pieces into the air. They float down, landing all over, even in his mouth and his nose, and he coughs and sneezes, and then Lampie has to help him pick up all the bits of newspaper. When they have finished, he looks at her seriously and strokes her bandage with one finger.

  “It doesn’t hurt now, Lenny,” she says. “I promise.”

  “Well…” Martha pours herself another coffee. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not glad you’re staying. But are you really sure about that, child? No one ever stays here. I’d leave if I could. And the master’s been away so long this time. He might never come home. And we’ll be stuck for ever with his… With that…”

  “Does he have a name?” asks Lampie. “I called him Fish, but he got angry.”

  “Um, yes…” says Martha. “What was it again? Come on, Martha. He’s called… Oh, my brain’s such a sieve. Ah, Edward, of course. Edward Robert George Evans. Just like the master.”

  “Like the admiral?” Lampie asks in surprise. “But why?”

  “Oh, I thought you already understood.” Martha looks at Lampie over her coffee. “It’s his son.”

  TAMING THE MONSTER

  So it’s Edward, thinks Lampie, as she climbs the stairs. Not Fish. Edward. She thinks Fish suits him better. The cup and the plate are rattling on the tray, because she is shaking a little.

  Her rabbit had never had a name. She had thought of a lot of different ones: Fluffy, Long Ear, William. But her mother had said, “Don’t do that. Don’t give him a name. Or you’ll only get attached to him.”

  Which was, of course, what had happened anyway. She had cuddled and stroked him until he was tame and slept on her bed and had stopped trying to run away.

  But her mother had just shaken her head. “Don’t become too fond of that rabbit.”

  “I will,” she had said. “I already am.”

  She has to move slowly so as not to startle him. Smile. Talk quietly in a kind voice. That is what she needs to do; that is how she will tame him. He is not a monster – she is certain of that. Her rabbit used to bite her at first too.

  Slowly, she slides the bolts.

  “Don’t be scared. It’s just me,” she says as she opens the door. It is still a bit smelly in the room. She’ll open a window, she’ll wash the sheets, she’ll—

  “Can’t you knock?” says an angry voice. She is not sure where it is coming from.

  “Um… Well, yes.” Lampie looks around. The curtains have been closed again. There is barely any sun shining through the gaps. The room is dark.

  “Well, do it, then,” says the voice.

  “Now?”

  “No, it’s too late now. Just leave it. You can put that down. Here.”

  Lampie turns around, but she still can’t see anyone. That voice, is that Fish – no, Edward?

  “Over here. Hello! Are you blind or are you deaf?”

  Then Lampie sees him. He’s lying almost completely under the bed, with a book in front of him on the floor, and he is looking at her with his pitch-black eyes.

  “Or are you just plain stupid?”

  “Oh, there you are,” she says in her sweetest voice. “I didn’t—”

  “What is that? What have you brought?”

  “Your breakfast,” says Lampie cheerfully.

  “Well, it smells absolutely disgusting. Oh, just put it down.”

  He drums impatiently on the floor in front of him.

  “You must be hungry.” She bends down and puts the tray on the floor in front of the mouldy bed. “You haven’t eaten anything for—”

  “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “Um… Well, Martha said you only eat fish but there wasn’t any, so she’ll buy some this afternoon,” Lampie quickly says, still in her sweetest voice. “But you haven’t eaten anything for so long, and I thought: how about some eggs? That’ll—”

  “Take it away.” The boy pushes the plate away with such force that the eggs slither off the bread. “And what about that? Is that milk? I don’t drink that.”

  “But you haven’t eaten anything for so—”

  “I can wait another day. I’d just like some water, please, in a glass. A clean one.”

  Lampie looks around the room, where everything is grubby and mouldy. “A clean glass,” she says. “Right. I’ll just—”

  “Then you can change the bed. And someone needs to come at half-past three, because that’s my bath time.”

  “Your bath time?”

  “My bath time, yes. I have to take a bath at half-past three every afternoon. Do you think you can remember that?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can.” Lampie stoops to pick up the tray. He glances at the bandage on her wrist, but does not say anything. Close up, she can see that his skin is no longer as grey and scaly. He looks very different to last night, no longer as pale and white and feverish. Now that she can’t see his tail, he seems just like an ordinary boy. But one with green hair and pitch-black devil’s eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

  “What? What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” says Lampie quickly. “I’m not looking at anything at all.” She puts down the tray on a big chest of drawers that’s covered with books and papers. There are some used cups too – she will take them back down to the kitchen. She starts opening the curtains, one by one.

  “Did I tell you to do that?”

  “No.” Lampie gives him her very sweetest smile. “But the sun’s shining so nicely today, so…”

  “I hate the sun. Close them.”

  “Oh,” says Lampie. “Fine.” She closes the curtains again. Taming a wild rabbit with strokes and cuddles was easier, she thinks. But that took a long time too. She stops for a moment at the fifth window and looks out. There, in the distance, the lighthouse stands, a grey line against the blue spring sky.

  “So are you deaf?” says the boy. “Or just slow?” He clicks his fingers impatiently.

  “Did you say something?” Lampie turns around.

  “Yes. Twice. And I’ll say it again. The atlas, please. Just put it down here.”

  “The what?”

  “Don’t you know what that is?”

  “Of course I do,” says Lampie. “I just didn’t hear you properly.” Talking in her sweetest voice is becoming more and more of an effort.

  “The atlas. At-las.”

  “Um…” Lampie looks around the room.

  “Under A.”

  “A?”

  “On the bookshelf.” He says it with clenched teeth.

  “Oh,” says Lampie. “So it’s a book?”

  “Yes! It’s a book, yes!” He starts yelling. “A book! A book of maps! Maps of the land! Maps of the sea! Have you never seen a map before, you… you bumpkin?!” He bares his teeth, and his eyes spit poison.

  Lampie steps back; she has no idea what to do. There are books all over the room. So she walks over to the wall and looks at the rows of books on the shelves, all made of brown leather, all with their spines facing her, as if they have turned their backs on Lampie and are laughing at her.

  “Is it, um, one of these, um, brown
ones?” The letter E – that is the only one she can read, but she can’t even see that anywhere. The boy on the floor is watching everything she does. Hesitantly, she picks up a book, just any old book.

  “This one?” The boy does not reply, so maybe it was a good guess. She turns around to see him looking at her with disbelief.

  “She can’t read!” he says. “You can’t read, can you?”

  Lampie does not answer. She puts the book next to him on the floor.

  “It’s not the right one.”

  “A book is a book.”

  “A book is most definitely not a book!” On his elbows, he wriggles out some way from under the bed. She can almost see his tail. “Why can’t you read? Have you never been to school?”

  “Yes, I’ve been to school.”

  “But I bet you were too stupid, weren’t you?”

  “Two weeks. I was only at school for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? And then what happened?”

  “Then… Other things happened.”

  “What sort of other things?”

  “That’s none of your business!” She picks up the tray, which tinkles and clatters. “Right, I’m taking this back downstairs. And I’ll fetch some sheets. And towels. And a clean glass. And I’ll come back at half-past three because that’s your bath time. And because, yes, I can remember that, and yes, I can tell the time, if you really want to know.” Lampie takes big steps towards the door. She completely forgets to move calmly, slowly, but what good would it do?

  As she leaves the room, she hears him say something.

  “Wait a moment.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not you, is it?” He has crawled back under the bed. She can barely see him now.

  “What’s not me?”

  “The one who’ll be coming from now on.”

  “Yes,” says Lampie with a nod. “Yes, it’s me, Edward. That’s your name, isn’t it? Edward?” She tries her smile again, but it has stopped working. He can’t see her anyway.

  “Isn’t there anyone else?”

  “No,” says Lampie. “There’s no one else.” Then she walks out of the room and down the stairs.

  One morning it was gone, of course, her rabbit. Her mother had already warned her though, hadn’t she?

  It was not on her bed as usual, and she found it that afternoon, hanging up in the shed, head gone, fur gone.

  They did not have much money, but they still needed to eat. Yes, Lampie understood.

  It was painful, but she understood.

  THAT STUPID CHILD

  When she has finally gone, he breathes out. How could they do this to him? Such a stupid child, such an illiterate bumpkin.

  And she is supposed to take care of him? To do everything that Joseph did? No, no way, never! If she comes back, he will bite her to death.

  Did she really sit with him all night, singing to him? Or did he just dream it? Oh well, so what?

  No one else wanted to come, or more like no one dared to come, and so they sent that child.

  If his father knew about this, then he would, he would… He would never approve. He would throw her out and look for someone else, another Joseph or someone else who was good enough for his son.

  Or would he? Would he really be bothered?

  Of course he would.

  So where has he gone? Why hasn’t he come back?

  He always comes home a few times a year, doesn’t he? Edward has lost count – has it been a year already?

  Edward turns onto his side, sees the harness in the corner, his walking bars. He has not practised for days, of course, what with everything going on.

  And I’m supposed to come all the way back from Japan for that? he can hear his father saying. For a son who doesn’t do his best, who doesn’t even try?

  I was ill, he says, defending himself. I nearly died.

  Ill? You call that ill? Seven weeks of malaria – now that’s what I call ill. Shaking with fever, red lumps full of pus – that’s what I…

  Yes! he shouts. You can stop now. I know! Edward has a headache. And of course he still has not had anything to eat. He should have eaten those disgusting eggs after all.

  He lies on his back. He’ll practise tomorrow. First thing tomorrow morning. And this afternoon, a bath – finally!

  At least, if she ever comes back, that stupid child.

  BATH TIME

  Of course she comes back, at half-past three exactly. She has even brought a plate of fish, which Martha dashed to the market to fetch.

  “Maybe you could pop that upstairs for him. If you go up there again. I’m not telling you to do it though, mind.”

  Lampie had nodded.

  “I promised to give him a bath at half-past three.”

  “Pff,” Martha had snorted. “A monster that can tell the time?”

  “He’s not a monster,” Lampie had said yet again. But she is no longer so sure about that. He is actually some kind of monster, after all.

  “I’ve brought someone with me,” Lampie says to the mouldy bed. She still has not seen or heard Edward, but he must be under there again. “Lenny from downstairs. That’s not a problem, is it?” No answer. She puts down the pile of clean sheets on top of the dirty ones. “He’s a bit, um… slow. But he’s also very strong and he’s going to help me. It must take about thirty buckets to fill that bath, and I don’t really feel like—”

  “No.”

  “But…”

  “No one is allowed to see me. That’s one of the rules. Do you understand? There are rules.” The voice comes out from under the bed, but the boy himself does not.

  “But he’s already seen you, Fish. Edward.” She bends down and puts the plate of bloody chunks of fish on the floor. “He saw you this morning. He already knows that you have a tail.”

  He shoots out from under the bed and suddenly he is on top of her. Lampie’s head bangs against the floor and she gives a gasp of fear. His pitch-black eyes are so close; she can feel his breath on her cheek.

  “It!” he hisses. “Is! A! Deformity!”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Not a tai—Not that other thing! A deformity! My legs are just deformed! Say it!”

  She tries to wriggle out from under him, but he is holding her arms too tightly.

  “Um… But…”

  “Say it!”

  “Right,” she says. “Fine. It’s a deformity. Now let go of me.”

  He lets go and slides back under the bed. “I could still grow out of it. It’s possible. If I practise lots. A doctor said so.”

  “Oh,” replies Lampie. She rubs her sore head with her sore arm. What a wonderful job she has. “So what exactly do you have to practise?”

  Edward does not reply.

  *

  Lugging thirty buckets of water is as easy as anything for Lenny. He keeps looking nervously around the room and splashing big puddles of water on the floor, but when he realizes that he cannot actually see the monster, he calms down. He empties bucket after bucket into the big iron bath. Flakes of black dirt float on the surface of the water, and dead insects. Everything here is dirty, thinks Lampie. Silently, she changes the bedclothes. Does he ever actually lie in the bed?

  From under the bed she can hear the boy eating, tearing off pieces of fish with his teeth and chewing away.

  “Rule number one: my head must not go under the water. Rule number two: I have to stay in for one hundred and thirty-five seconds. Exactly one hundred and thirty-five seconds, no more, no less. And you have to count the seconds. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Lampie says with a sigh. “No problem. But why is it such a short time?”

  “Short is good, shorter is better.” The boy is still lying halfway under the bed. He has taken off his shirt. He is white and thin, and his shoulder blades stick out.

  “But isn’t it nicer to—”

  “Can’t you just do as you’re told?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Good. And
you have to count, because I’ll forget to do it.”

  “Forget? But why?”

  “And don’t look. When I’m in the bath, you’re not allowed to look. That’s rule number three. Is that clear? You turn around, with your face to the wall, and you count. Out loud.”

  Lampie nods. She smiles at Lenny, who is waiting just outside the room.

  “And when it’s time, you have to help me out of the bath. Even if I don’t want to get out. I still have to get out anyway. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Then he comes out from under the bed and shuffles across the room, his dark tail – no, his deformity – twisting behind him. At the edge of the bath, he takes a deep breath and tries to pull himself up. It does not work. He tries again. And again.

  “I can do this,” he pants. “I can always do this.”

  “Shall I help you?”

  “You’re looking.”

  “So that’s a no.” Lampie turns around and listens to him struggling and quietly cursing himself.

  “Come on, you weakling, you wimp. Come on.”

  “You’ve been ill,” she says. “You almost died last night – remember?”

  “So? That’s no reason to…” She hears him slipping from the bath and back onto the floor. “I have to be able to do this. No! Turn around! Don’t look!”

  Lampie does not listen. She walks over to the boy and grabs him around the waist. He is so light that she lifts him into the bath without any difficulty. His tail brushes again her, as cool and smooth as a frog’s skin. Then he plunges into the water and surfaces, spluttering and shrieking.

  “No! My. Head. Must. Not. Go. Under. The. Water! That’s what I said! Listen to me!”

  “Oh yes. I forgot.”

  “Or I’ll drown. I already told you that! Don’t you have a brain in your head?”

  Lampie sighs. Stroke the rabbit. Sweet little rabbit.

  “And look away! And count: seven, eight…”

  “What? Already?”

  “Yes, you stupid child. Ten, eleven…”