Oddity

by Eli Brown

  One wore no coat. The other had removed a boot to whittle at his calluses.

  Nessa cooed reassuringly to the horses as the wagon slowed to a stop. “There are checkpoints on most every highway now,” she whispered to Clover. “Searching everyone for . . .” Nessa turned to the soldiers. “Just what exactly are you looking for?”

  “French influence!” the limping soldier said, hopping on one foot to get his boot back on. The coatless soldier fumbled with the latches on the wagon-side cabinets.

  Clover asked, “What gives you the right to search travelers?”

  “Auburn’s law, kid,” the coatless soldier said, peering through a murky bottle of tonic.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Don’t make no difference to the law. Do you have any hazardous, uncommon, or seditious materials on you?”

  “He means oddities,” Nessa explained.

  “You’re confiscating oddities?” Clover gaped at the soldiers.

  “We’re monitoring the traffic of hazardous effects and suspicious persons during a period of national danger, is what we’re doing. If you’re a law-fearing American, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Just hand your bags over.”

  “And if I refuse?” Clover asked.

  The sore-footed soldier swung his gun from his shoulder, saying, “Everyone knows we’ve got the French spying around, spreading their notions and burning our border settlements. Why would you refuse unless you were in with them? It’s not my habit to point a gun at a lass, but unless you turn your pockets out, I may forget my manners, miss.”

  “Well, you’ll find nothing on this wagon but the same tonics I rode into town with,” Nessa said. “As well as a Sweetwater rattlesnake.”

  The soldier yelped and slammed the doors shut.

  The sound woke Hannibal, who jumped to his feet, shouting, “Hold your fire!”

  The soldiers’ eyes bugged, and the sore-footed soldier dropped his rifle in surprise.

  “Didn’t know it was you, sir!” The soldiers scrambled to attention, pulling their suspenders up. Their hands trembled as they held their salutes.

  “Your uniforms are a disgrace. Where is your coat?”

  “Lost down the river when I was washing it, sir!”

  “Miserable.” Hannibal shook his head. “Who is your commanding officer? If I find you disgracing this uniform again, I’ll have you both stationed in a fever swamp for the rest of your days.”

  “Sorry, sir!”

  “Now, let us pass; we’re in a hurry. Go on ahead, charlatan.”

  Nessa chuckled as she started the wagon rolling again. “Doesn’t hurt to have a war hero along for the ride, does it?”

  They were halfway across the bridge when one of the soldiers called to them, “Is it true we’re headed to war, sir?”

  “We are headed to victory, soldier!” Hannibal barked.

  Clover turned to watch the guards disappear behind them.

  “They may call it security, but it looks a lot like highway robbery,” Clover said.

  “The coming war will not be won with rifles and grenades,” Hannibal said. “Have you heard of the bulletproof Thimble? During the battle of Serenade, when the Indians were still allied with Louisiana, my officers saw with their own eyes a Sehanna warrior wearing that Thimble. He strode through rifle fire like it was a gentle rain, the bullets bursting against his shaved scalp without leaving so much as a bruise.”

  “If his head was shaved, he was probably Okikwa, not Sehanna,” Clover said, remembering her father’s descriptions of the tribes that belonged to the Confederation.

  “He fought under the Sehanna flag, regardless.” Hannibal sighed. “The point is that we lost an entire platoon trying to capture that oddity. What has become of it? Does Bonaparte have it? These are the questions upon which our future rests. We cannot afford to leave such powers in the hands of hobbyists. How can we hope to mount a defense against Bonaparte if we as a nation have not gathered our own strengths? The checkpoints” — Hannibal tucked his head under his wing and trailed off — “keep our assets from slipping through . . . fingers . . .”

  When the tired old bird began to snore, Clover whispered, “What if he’s right? What if there’s a war coming?”

  Nessa held up a finger and did her best impression of Hannibal. “Take heed, children! Who do you suppose has been sneaking into our pens to steal our cracked corn?” Nessa’s chin doubled as she deepened her voice, “Why, Napoléon Bonaparte!”

  Clover tried to stifle a chuckle, but Nessa’s puckered lips, a terrible impression of Hannibal’s beak, were too funny. Her clowning was contagious, and Clover found herself trying the imitation herself: “And, morning after morning, who has taken the eggs from our very nests?” Clover’s voice cracked as she matched Hannibal’s tone. “Why, Bonaparte!”

  Both the girls broke out in laughter, but Clover clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes watered with shame. How had she been tricked into laughing?

  Nessa leaned out to snatch a sprig of roadside fennel as it passed and chewed until her teeth were green. “You can tell me,” she whispered to Clover. “Was it vermin?”

  “What?”

  “You have the look of a kettle about to boil. And your boots are stained, like you’ve been running through weeds.” Nessa arched her eyebrows knowingly. “Anyone can see you’ve had a fright.”

  Clover touched her father’s bag to be sure it was safe. A fright? Everything had shattered all at once, and Clover knew the breaking wasn’t over. She felt that the shards of her life were still turning in the air, looking for a place to land. She shook her head. “It wasn’t vermin.”

  “Oh,” Nessa seemed disappointed. Then her eyes widened and she whispered, “It wasn’t the witch, was it?”

  “What witch?”

  “We’ve only got but one witch around here,” Nessa said. “I’m talking about the Seamstress. The one that stitches pelts and carcasses together and revivifies them into vermin. The witch that comes in the night to rip teeth from the mouths of sleeping children.”

  “I’m not interested in ghost stories,” Clover said.

  “I saw the hag with my own eyes!” Nessa pulled her cheek back to show Clover the gap in her molars again. “I was sleeping by the creek because it was a hot summer night. It was the smell that woke me, like burning hair. When I opened my eyes, the witch was leaning over me, her eyes glimmering like broken glass and her face sewn together like a tinkerman’s purse. I wanted to scream, to wake Uncle in the wagon . . .” Nessa paused here, and Clover held her breath. “But the Seamstress had already yanked my mouth open. I thought she was going to rip me in half. She leaned down close, that stench wrapping around me. She looked into me like . . . well, the same way you look into that bag of yours. I just knew she was going to suck out my soul, or eat my tongue. And then she said something I’ll never understand.”

  Clover’s breath quickened. “What did she say?”

  “‘Croak, croak.’”

  “Like a frog?”

  Nessa shrugged. “I’ve never been able to make no sense of it. Naturally, she didn’t find a frog in my throat. So she made a disappointed hiss and grabbed one of my teeth and just” — Nessa snapped her fingers, making Clover wince — “yanked it out of my skull. Then she was gone.”

  “Was it a loose tooth?”

  “Not until she tore it out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I did what any child would do,” Nessa said. “I peed. You can be too scared to scream, but you’re never too scared to wet yourself.”

  Clover shuddered. She believed Nessa’s story and wished she hadn’t heard it. “My only interest is in finding Aaron Agate,” Clover said, trying to focus on the road ahead. “In New Manchester.”

  She imagined catching the famed adventurer after a lecture, marching right up to the podium to whisper her predicament into his ear. Mr. Agate would appraise her with a wise eye, seeing the truth in her weary face and stained clothes. He wo
uld tell his assistants to postpone his scheduled meetings and sit Clover down in his library. After offering her tea and almond cookies, the learned man would pull on his maple-colored beard, take a deep breath, and patiently explain everything.

  “Oh, you won’t find him.” Nessa shook her head, the fennel wagging. “The celebrated professor has up and disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “They say he still lives somewhere in New Manchester, but no one knows exactly where.”

  “The canary among doves,” Clover said, remembering her father’s words.

  Nessa squinted at her. “That sounds like a riddle. What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know, but I will find out.” Just saying it gave Clover a feeling of confidence.

  It felt good to set her heavy bags down and be carried along for once. This road would take her to New Manchester; all Clover had to do was stay on the wagon. Nessa was nosy and loud, but she handled the wagon confidently, giving the horses encouraging clicks and whistles. Her father would have called Nessa a “huckster,” but at least Clover was moving north at a good pace with someone who knew the road well.

  She rarely met anyone her own age. Salamander Lake was populated by people who’d fled the war, old people. The children she met on doctor’s visits were either too sick or too frightened to talk. Clover had never thought she needed friends, but now, sitting next to Nessa, she found she wanted one.

  “Is it safe?” Clover asked. “Traveling this road alone?”

  Nessa shrugged. “If anyone gets too pushy, I tell them I work for a parcel of nasty characters. People leave me well enough alone.”

  “You’re in league with criminals?” Clover asked.

  “I am not in league,” Nessa scoffed. “I’m working off an honest debt. They get a cut of my profits, that’s all. Like a tax. Anyway, it keeps me from getting robbed, so I can’t complain, at least about that.”

  “If you don’t like this business, why do you do it?” Clover asked.

  “I just told you: I have debts. Selling medicine is my sole occupation.”

  “Tumbling around like a clown does not qualify you to dispense medicine,” Clover said.

  “Didn’t you see me recover from the deadliest venom known to man?”

  “I saw you thrash about that stage like a rabid muskrat. That’s what I saw.”

  “That was the powerful effects of a potent poison!” Nessa said.

  “Oh, just stop it!” Clover crossed her arms. “I’ve seen folks bit by rattlers and by scorpions too, and none of them hopped about as foolishly as you did.”

  “Just what do you know about medicine?” Nessa demanded.

  “I am the daughter of a Prague-trained surgeon.”

  “Oh.” That took the steam out of Nessa for a moment. “He didn’t see my show, did he?”

  “No,” Clover said, trying to keep her voice even. “He did not.”

  “Well, then,” Nessa said, “he missed a miracle and an opportunity. Every man of medicine would benefit from Bleakerman’s, unless . . .” Nessa seemed to see something in Clover’s face. “He died, didn’t he? I mean to say, it’s none of my business, I guess.”

  “It is none of your business,” Clover said, her eyes brimming.

  “I can see that.” Nessa combed her hair and scowled at the road ahead. For a few miles the only sounds were the huffing of the horses and the buzz of flies drawn to the smell of the tonic.

  Then Nessa leaned forward, squinting. “I do believe we’re getting close!” she said.

  “Close to the city already?”

  “Close to pie.” Nessa winked. “It’s just beyond these trees. That should put a smile on your face.”

  “I would not object to a well-made pie,” Hannibal mumbled sleepily.

  “Prepare yourselves for the only winceberry pastry in the entire Unified States with the Branagan seal of approval,” Nessa announced in her full-throated stage voice.

  “Do we have to stop?” Clover asked.

  “The Regent’s Highway is sometimes cobbled,” Nessa said, “sometimes just a muddy rut, but it is the only road that threads all eleven states, and I have traveled every inch of it selling Bleakerman’s and I have eaten every manner of roadside grub, from fur trapper’s gristle to the jellied aspics of the citified gentry. When pie is on the menu, I take it as my solemn duty to investigate. So you see, there is no judge better suited to determine which pie is the best. And I, Nessa Applewhite Branagan, declare that the winceberry pie we are, right this minute, approaching is practically perfect. I refuse to pass it by.”

  “I am in a hurry.” Clover said. “To get to the city.”

  “And you’re welcome to go on ahead on your own two legs,” Nessa said, slowing the horses with gentle tugs of the reins. “When I come along again, you can hop back on and ride. Or you can take two minutes to enjoy the best pie of your life. You’re going to thank me.”

  They stopped near the gate of a ranch. Across a sloping meadow of sorrel and chickweed was a farmhouse surrounded by the evidence of a full life. Stoic sheep nibbled the grass between the washtub and the laundry line. A young man straddled the peak of the house, his mouth bristling with tacks. He was replacing the gray roof shingles with new caramel-colored shakes, his hammer smacking out a neat rhythm. Three children came wheeling around the side of a corncrib, flapping their arms like crows.

  “I don’t see a sign,” Clover said.

  “We’re not here to eat a sign.” Nessa pulled on her boots and leaped from the wagon, humming.

  Seeing the strangers at the gate, the children fell into a giggling heap and hollered, “Customers!”

  Clover had been to homesteads like this before. It was refreshing to arrive without someone screaming for the doctor. Usually children ran in fear when Clover appeared — but here she wouldn’t have to hold anyone down for the needle or a bitter pill. Now the children were taking turns crawling under the woolly-eyed sheep, who tolerated their shenanigans with cud-chewing patience.

  A farmer wiped his hands on a rag and shouted from the door of the house, “Eggs, pie, wool, or cheese?”

  “Just the pie and thank you please!” Nessa shouted back. “Three of your finest!”

  Soon the farmer was crossing the yard, carrying bundles wrapped in newsprint. Clover noted that the man’s left arm was stiff and held close to his ribs. He passed the pies over the fence, handsome pastries, each the size of a sparrow’s nest, with a lace of blackened berry juice at the edges. Nessa unwrapped hers, cradling her hands to catch every crumb.

  “Could that be Hannibal Furlong?” the farmer wanted to know.

  Nessa’s cheeks were too full to answer, but Hannibal hopped off the wagon and saluted. “At your service.”

  “I was a rifleman in the Eighth Regiment, sir. I fought at Chalmer’s Gorge.”

  “A braver regiment has never worn boots,” Hannibal said kindly. “That push broke Bonaparte’s hold on the southern front. But what a price we paid. We lost too many that day.”

  “My own two brothers fell beside me,” the farmer said. “One on each side.” He touched his arm. “I was hit too, but for some reason I didn’t go down.” He glanced over his shoulder at the young man on the roof. “Is it true there’s trouble coming?”

  “Hoo!” Nessa gasped for breath, syrup running down her chin. Half her pie was already gone. “M’golly, but that’s as good as I remember.”

  Hannibal said, “We’re doing everything we can to ensure that the next engagement will be decisive.”

  Nessa rolled her pie over and kissed its flaking crust. “Who’s the sweetest? Yes, you are!”

  The children gathered around their father to stare at the talking Rooster. Nessa shoved the last edge of crust into her mouth, making faces for the children, who squealed in delight as they tried to hide behind their father. “You’re living in paradise,” she told them. “Pie cannot cure every ill, but it will try its best.”

  The young man on the roof took a bre
ak from hammering and played a bouncy tune on a jaw harp. Even the sheep looked up to see where the warbler twang was coming from. Clover didn’t want to think what would happen to this peaceful homestead if war broke out.

  “Go on, now.” The farmer shooed the children back toward the corncrib, where they took up smacking one another with turnip greens. He tugged on his beard, looking for the right words. “What will you do about” — he cleared his throat and whispered — “the blue devil?”

  “This time will be different, soldier,” Hannibal promised.

  The farmer didn’t ask any more questions, and when Nessa tried to pay, he shook his head. “I can’t take money from friends of Hannibal Furlong.”

  Hannibal stretched his neck and saluted with pride, but Clover could not tell if it was admiration or fear that made the farmer stare at Hannibal that way.

  “Begging your pardon, there’s wood to chop,” the farmer said, and he turned to herd his children back to the house.

  On the wagon again, Nessa asked, “Just what is the blue devil?”

  Hannibal waited until the ranch was well behind them before answering. “That’s what our boys called the accablant, Bonaparte’s endless army. We still don’t know what oddity created them.”

  Clover remembered her father’s descriptions of the injured soldiers during the war. Constantine had refused to fight, so he’d been conscripted as a field surgeon, one of three doctors in a medical tent, trying to keep boys alive. He spoke of the tent only once, because Clover had demanded to know, and the details still made her shudder: the blackened bone saw sterilized over a lantern flame, the waxed cotton he stuffed his ears with to block out the screams.

  Once, when US forces reclaimed the Grendel Valley, Constantine saw French soldiers on his table. “We treated twenty, maybe thirty of the accablant infantry. Prisoners of war,” Constantine told her. “It is true what they say: they were all the same man.”

  “Like twins?” Clover asked.

  “No twins were ever so similar,” Constantine said. “Every accablant had birthmarks, scars, palm creases in the same place. They were all the same man . . . repeated. But they suffered, each of them.”