Isabella ignored them and continued.
“I am serious. We might not get along completely but in this matter I am most earnest. I need a handful of fish scales for some research I am conducting. I am sure it wouldn’t be a big deal for you to gather them up in your class and hand them over to me. It would mean the world to me if you could help me out. I would be most assuredly in your debt.”
As snarky as the boys were, they weren’t completely dumb and Jada most of all. They all had some sneaking suspicions that Isabella was more than just a peculiar girl. She struck them as potentially non-human—something more bizarre and more supernatural than her personal appearance allowed. It was just a hunch. A hunch, of course, that was accurate.
“Let me think on it. I will let you know,” said Jada. He turned back to the boys to continue their conversation on inanities. Milliard and Isabella walked off toward the paleontology building.
“Fish scales, huh?” asked Milliard. “What kind of research are you up to?”
“It’s just a guess I have regarding their properties. I think they might help with this stomach pain I have,” replied Isabella.
“Oh, right. Your stomach. I don’t think Jada will help you, but let me see if I can talk him into it.”
They continued to walk to class in silence. Isabella snickered to herself about Milliard’s naiveté. She knew Jada would help her. She could see his eagerness in his eyes. If ever there was one, he was an opportunist. She expected and received his request to come in private later that evening. She also had no interest in telling Milliard about her plans to escape or about the exact nature of her stomach illness. It would invite too much speculation regarding her bizarre background. Talking about Marty, Fennel, the cave, the water, the Duke, it was all too much. She and Fennel had always kept their private life under wraps and some habits don’t go away.
Later in the evening she was unsurprised to spy Jada making his way to her bunk. She had never completely adjusted to the night sleeping regimen and usually spent the first half of the night staring into the ceiling. Jada quietly made his way to her bunk and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Good evening, Jada,” Isabella whispered. “I’m glad you decided to pay me a visit.”
“Evening, Isabella,” Jada whispered back. “I don’t want to stay long. I have thought about your offer and I thought perhaps we could make a deal.” Jada pulled from his robes an envelope. “I have here the fish scales you requested. They weren’t easy to get. Monk Genuine kept a pretty close watch for whatever reason on the holding tubs that held all the dead fish. Not to mention that when he finally did leave the room, it took much longer than I anticipated to get the fish scales. They don’t pluck out as fast as you might think.”
Isabella smiled sweetly at Jada. His gruff demeanor in front of the boys had clearly switched to someone both intimidated and beseeching. She found it cute in the extreme if not because it was also, to some degree, pathetic.
“But I need a favor first,” he said as he held up the envelope in the air out of her reach.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I know that you and Milliard were able to swap out some tests for Walter. To get the fish scales, I need you to do the same for me. The finals for botany are coming up and I could use a stellar grade.”
Isabella smiled. “Your imagination on favors is about as myopic as your skills in conversation, my dear Jada. Nevertheless, like the jinni in a bottle I am here to answer your prayers. In order for me to do as you say, however, I will need the fish scales up front.”
“No, we trade one for one, once you have done your part. Now let's finish this so we don’t cause too much more attention.”
It didn’t matter. Isabella had already stolen the envelope from Jada’s hand. He looked up to see that it was no longer there though he couldn’t recall her actually moving to take it. She held up the envelope for him to see from her small catlike hand. His eyes widened and her teeth glimmered. It was fun, on occasion, to surprise people with her skills.
“I have them right here. And thanks. I have great need for their fishy qualities. And don’t try to get them back. I will scream and cause a ruckus and well, you don’t want that now, do you? But don’t worry. I will do your inane favor. I’m a woman of my word. You want an A and you will get an A. Go back to your bunk. When you open your eyes, you will find your test upon your desk. It will be as simple as that.”
Jada blinked twice in stupefaction, creased his brows to think, and then shrugged his shoulders in resignation. What else could he do? He turned and made his way back across the barracks. At first sad, his posture moved toward confidence as he realized he was about to graduate with honors.
And there she had it—the major ingredient to stir into the balm. She opened the envelope to see them glistening like jewels in the sliver of moonlight. She placed one on her tongue and spit it out. Yes, they were real, but boy were they gross. Next up, hairs from Marty and she had a pretty clear idea where she might find some.
Chapter 21
“Be careful what you wish for,” mumbled Fennel to himself as he piled yet another box into the boat. Sweat dripped from brow and he stopped to pat down his forehead with a handkerchief. He took off his jacket, delicately folded it and placed it in the corner of the boat. The night was more humid than ever and the boxes had begun really coming in. He looked back at the shore. Six more to go. Fennel shrugged his shoulders. They would just have to wait. He couldn’t have yet another night filled to the brim with these menial tasks. He had done everything asked of him and still nothing but worse than before.
He grabbed the oars and made his way through the turns in the marsh. Since the incident, he had taken to docking down river behind an abandoned lubrication shop. He didn’t feel like seeing Heinrich’s disapproving eyes. “What does he know anyway? He will get his.” Things were just going from bad to worse.
He pulled up behind the warehouse, watching the cats scatter from the backwater trashcans. Fennel leapt up onto the banks and quick as can be, had whirled an orange tabby cat by the tail straight out into the river. The sight of the freaked out cat flying out into the night provided him a brief comfort.
“Lesson 1. Don’t be around me,” he said to the large splash that erupted on the water.
As the soggy cat swam its way back to the shore and away from Fennel, he lugged the boxes onto the bank. The note had explicitly stated that all of the shipments were to go to the dripping guild entrance for pick-up. The other six were meant for a drop off spot out near Danderill. No way. The guild and Danderill were nowhere near proximitous and so half would wait. These other six that he now lugged on that bank were probably for Castilla, but Fennel would never know.
Forever in the dark. It wasn’t right. He had demonstrated fealty and Marty had given him marching orders. These tasks would clearly be easier with two. But no—that was over.
He hauled the boxes onto the awaiting carriage and snapped at the horses to get his way onto the guild. The horses had a fever in them. That at least made Fennel smile. They came blasting through the streets, Fennel howling loud, his eyes still yellow from his new transformation into the Raven. He dropped the boxes off at the mouth of the tunnel entrance, doing his best to avoid the sewer drainage, but, unfortunately, stepped into it anyway.
“Dammit!” The smell filled his nose and his body shook at the nastiness of it all. It wasn’t all that long ago that he and Isabella had descended these halls to visit the sinuous and calculating Castilla and company. Another exciting idea that had come to naught. Not only did Isabella not go for the offer but neither did Marty when Fennel had finally reported on the incident.
The fire had been higher than ever. Fennel had come back victorious—his eyes butter with fever and glory. Fish eggs, twine, children’s teeth, bottle caps, bad way crumbs, coffee grounds, molding baby toys and fabric softener all went careening into the blaze. Fennel’s voice grew to a feverish pitch, he ran about the fire wildly, summoning
the absent Marty McGuinn.
Marty’s janky body appeared in the flames, classic muddy overalls, Texas Ranger baseball hat he probably found on the floor of a casino, his old beater boots, and his tobacco spit.
“Ain’t gotta lotta time der, Scratch. Get at it.”
“Ha, ha, ha, Marty! I did as you asked. I am your humble servant after all. Iz, the bad news biz, is closed up tight in the Billington Hills. She won’t be stirring the pot while you’re out and about.”
Marty laughed and scratched his arms. “Serves da bitch right,” he said, clearly pre-occupied.
“Sure does!” answered Fennel back. He threw an extra handful of bad-way crumbs into the fire and they lit up firecracker. Blam! “Oh another thing, Marty, I didn’t mention it last. Don’t know why. We were approached by a man named Castilla.”
Marty spit a wad of gross and shook his head. His face suddenly perturbed. “Shoulda neva happened. Caught wind a dat. Money man gettin outta line. Ah took care of it.”
Fennel crooked his neck. “I thought maybe I could work the deal for you.”
Marty laughed more to himself than Fennel. “Oh ya? Ya gonna work da deal, Scratch? Gonna pass on dat. New shipments a’comin. Ready yerself, boy. And don’t get uppity. Ya find yaself up in dat snake pit to boot. Gotta get back to da table. On a streak.”
And with that Marty’s image disappeared. Not the party he wanted. Not that it ever was, but still.
That was many moons ago and the excitement of the pyre had given way to the strain of shipments. The Stallhammers were relentless in their deliveries. Fennel jumped back toward the carriage glad to be rid of his never-ending duties for the night. If Marty meant for him to simply take Isabella away and then double the workload something would have to be done.
“Yes,” Fennel decided, “I am on a partial subtle strike. A slow down.”
It had been much too long and he figured Derrilous would have to be done by now. He raced through the streets of Barrenwood far too excited and without Isabella there to oversee him, subtlety was an attribute in short supply. He chased after children and scared the elderly. He watched a bicycle messenger accidently go head first into a parked almond stand. Fennel laughed loud in his victory. Time, when he had it, would be action packed.
Inside Derrilous’s Den, Fennel inhaled the acidic haze and placed his laboratory coat over his couture attire. Yes, steam again. The knobs were still turning and the room still groaning. Sulfuric crust clustered around the ends of cast iron pipes. Dust fell from the cement ceiling in broad sweeping sheets. The air sizzled in the highly ionized den. The desk was more cluttered than ever with hot candles accidently pouring wax onto books on the fall of the Roman Empire and daddy long-legs nurturing cobwebs in the dog-eared pages. Three steel bathtubs sat in the center of the room with very expensive halogen lights pouring rays of light onto their blue liquid interiors. Inside, the very sought after liquid bubbled and traveled up the thin clinical tubes. The tubes circled endlessly through the laboratory doing donuts until they eventually were cinched with plastic ties to glass beakers. They rattled back and forth from the steaming pressure. Exhaust. Intake. Pistons were being invented in here as well. Derrilous turned up his radio.
“Ya, ya, on this long, lasting caravan!” he sang in a raspy, wet cement melody. The wa-wa guitar blurping in and the deep bass line palunking along. His speakers boomed. He exhaled and the smoke moved through the dust along the pipes past the concrete staircase to the dead still dark waiting room. Lights out. Fennel threw himself on the couch. He was glad to be back in control of his life, even if just a little bit. Derrilous ran around the room working on something or other. Things hadn’t turned out the way they were supposed to. Marty had shanghaied him. At least that was how it felt. Back when the Raven first came around, Marty’s tone had been so very different.
“Git her in dare. Get in wit da monkeys and you get her good and locked. The door’ll open for ya, Scratch, and that sickness’ll take her by the tonsils. You’ll be as fit as a fiddler’s itch so don’t ya worry bout dat. Get her good and bloated and she’ll keel over for a bit a time. They’ll knows what to do. Those monkeymen owe me more than a few good dances with the devil. They’ll keep their crawdad claws on her till I get up an back. You sit tight there, numero uno. We’ll put the charm back in the farm.”
Where was the charm now? Fennel put his legs out straight in front of him. He was sore from the boxes. Sore! What was he, some kind of dockworker or something? Stiff legs. Stiff as a board. Did he want this? He was Marty’s numero uno. He was just doing damage control until Marty could deprogram his resistor sister.
“Derrilous!” he shouted, jumping up from the couch and bounding into the lab. “Derrilous! Gimme the toxins, baby! Give it up and out of your dread bred head!”
Fennel spun around on his heel and threw an empty bicycle tire tube at Derrilous. It wrapped around his head causing him to spill some of the mysterious alchemical whatnot in his hand.
“Pa-lease, do not play the Lone Ranger game right now!” Derrilous yelled as he pulled the tire off. He walked over to Fennel fuming. “Playtime bad, Fennel. Understand? Understand playtime bad? Playtime not now. Be good boy. Go couch.” He turned around and got back to work, his small knotty hands fiddling with pliers.
“How much longer?” yelled Fennel. He was bouncing on his heels. “Play time good until Fennel get Blue Goo from mini-Marley!” He walked like Frankenstein and shuffled toward Derrilous. “I am a stick man from the future!” He yelled in a robotic voice. “I need the goods!”
Derrilous turned around slowly. “Okay, Romper room. You have got to get out of here. You are exceptionally stupid tonight.”
Fennel put his hands out in Frankenstein fashion and squeezed his hands around Derrilous’s neck. “Ha, ha, ha!”
Derrilous pushed Fennel’s arms away. “Such an imbecile! Listen, in all seriousness, I can have this stuff ready to go by the end of the night, but only if I can work constantly. Constantly! None of your pantomime shenanigans. Get out of here and give autistic children nightmares or something.”
Fennel did just that and scampered out of the den of tubes and bubbles. Upon exiting, he let the entirety of Barrenwood come-a-crawling up his nose. He inhaled and smelled the faint scent of freedom. It filled in his lungs and he sensed its contagion. “A man could get used to this,” he told himself.
Fennel was excited. He threw off the lab coat and thought about his new life. He would be a great conductor of the world. Time was opening up. No sister to stop him and no master to monitor. His arms would wind up with his mighty orchestra supporting him and with this blue goo in tow, and he would make such a delightfully tragic magical song wash over the restive lot-of-em. This upcoming hoopla was all he needed to kick his vertigo into gear. He already had seeded the ever-so-dour command of that innocuous cultural committee. The goo, if Derrilous would ever finish it, will get the sculptor on board. And then, he had to get that down and out circus up and running. He had so many pieces at work simultaneously across this wet city. What a busybody he was. Thank goodness Isabella was locked up in that school of deep boredom. And come to think of it, screw Marty McGuinn.
“I am no longer on board!” he shouted into the night. “I am the Raven and the Raven needs to peek his dirty eye down into the business of his marionettes. Let's be off!”
Fennel bounded across the rooftops toward the docks of the Calliope. He had heard them. They were out there. He had a demon in him and he hoped he could let it free tonight. As he bounced, he appreciated the madness that was Barrenwood. Tucked along the river, the Vietnamese restaurants were in full swing with their boats returning from the tucked away rice paddies out in the marsh.
The street vendors sold exotic soft fruits just past ripe, barrels of deep fried crickets and squid, and basics for the family like brooms, underwear, and flyswatters. Trucks erupted in gas convulsions as they tugged the cardboard boxed goods around, along with the trash that never seemed to ever stop piling
up.
When Fennel landed on the roof, he half hoped to see another ship of fools at the dock again. He could really benefit from another opportunity to juggle and dunk some sailors and petty merchants into the Aliber. And much to his surprise, he was half right. The Ship of Fools was in view. It just happened to be far out on the Aliber. Safely out of range of his tomfoolery rage. He gnashed his teeth.
On the wind, he could feel the howling of the crazies on board. Their wailing stuck in his ear and made dung in his blood. They were wildly wild. He could feel it, sense it, wanted it. Fennel faintly eyed the muslin robes swaying in the night air—a field of lunatic wheat on the bow. The sailors were laughing, whipping and working. The whole scene made him sick with hate.
What did people know? They ran around jailing, judging, pointing, and hiding and all under the pathetic name of righteousness. The whole thing would be a comedy if there was anyone left in the audience to laugh. But the entirety of the population stood on the stage without a modicum of humility, just running around blind with clinical diagnosis and loophole law decrees. But the Raven had its own justice. If Fennel had a window of time, he should use it to correct the correctors. And just as boredom sows the seeds of inspiration, so too does the cauldron of antipathy. And out of his bubbling gut that spilled and seeped with maddening anger came an idea most simple and inspiring.
“He’s gonna get it.” Fennel whispered to himself as he wacked the roof hard with his cane. Old Mother Mellonow looked up from traditional evening boardwalk saunter in time to see a small boy, waving his hat in the air, fly through the sky in the direction of the Pedigree.
Fennel bounded across the rooftops with determination. He would let the energies of the night move through him and fuel this adventure. By the time he arrived at the doorstep of the Never family, he was in rare Raven form. The massive Victorian home sat at the outer edge of the Pedigree where the backyards stretched into plots of land and the porches competed by way of charm. Each porch swing was trying to outdo the last, each set of wicker chairs was more country than the last. Dr. Eldridge Never most certainly did not want. The lights were still glowing inside the home where the entire family—as the family was large indeed—hustled and bustled about. Marisa Never folded clothes in the basement. Her two small boys were upstairs in their beds pretending to sleep but, in fact, were telling each other stories about a fat man that ate everything he came in contact with. Granddad Toby Never sat on the couch, listening to the radio, which had on a radio play of The Great Gatsby. Dr. Eldridge Never sat at his desk, reading the memoirs of Wilhelm Reich. The read entertained him and he laughed frequently.
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