Oddity

by Eli Brown

  Clover noted the blue thread used for Susanna’s original seams. Much of the Doll’s fabric was dingy and worn soft as a horse’s nose, but the blue thread was bright as spun candy. Clover made quick work of the rest of the patch, then she turned Susanna over and made an identical patch on the other side where the bullets had gone through. She mended the tear in Susanna’s arm and then retied the loose button of her eye. Throughout it all, the Doll hardly twitched, a perfect patient.

  “There you go,” Clover said, setting Susanna on the ground. “Like doctoring a sock. Easier than real suturing, at least. And it looks better too.”

  Susanna patted her newly mended belly and turned in a circle, trying to see her own back. The patch was a bright square on a dun body, and Clover thought if anything could make the Doll smile it was this. But Susanna just climbed back into the bag and pulled it closed behind her.

  “You’re welcome,” Clover said.

  “At least she didn’t crush you with a rock,” Hannibal said, emerging from his hiding spot. “Your courage almost makes up for your recklessness, Nurse Elkin. Lock her up, then, and we’ll make good use of her in the war effort.”

  “Why do you suppose she is so ornery?” Clover asked, ignoring his last comment.

  “Why does the wind blow? That Doll is a bundle of rage. You’d be safer with a rattlesnake in your pocket.”

  “In my experience, folks are angry for a reason,” Clover said. “She has a temper, but she’s not so bad.”

  “She is a hurricane! There is only one use for something like that.”

  “All my life I tried to be quiet, helpful, tidy,” Clover said. “Where has it gotten me? Susanna is none of those things. I like her. Anyway, she’s with us now, and we’ll just have to be careful.”

  “Best to lob her from a distance, with a catapult, perhaps, into a fortified stronghold.” Hannibal paced and chopped the air with his wing. “Imagine the effect on enemy morale! We’ll consult with the senator when we catch up with him in Brackenweed —”

  “Susanna is not a weapon.” Clover insisted, trying to remain calm.

  “What is she, then?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. What are you?” Clover asked.

  “I am a colonel of the Federal Army and field commander of the State Watch. I am a decorated hero of the battles of —”

  “And what am I, if I can’t be burned?” Clover asked, remembering the scorching pain.

  “You, my dear, are a born fighter. The bravery you’ve shown already cannot be faked. I’ve seen seasoned soldiers crack under less. With a little training, I am certain you’ll be one of our most powerful assets —”

  Despite the storm in her heart, Clover’s voice didn’t waver. “I won’t let you throw Susanna at some imagined enemy! After we find Smalt, we’ll find a home for Susanna. If not with Agate, maybe another Society member . . .”

  “Have you considered,” Hannibal said gently, “that Smalt may not have what you’re looking for?”

  “Of course he does. He stole my secrets, the oddity inside my father’s bag . . .” Now her voice quavered. “I promised to protect it.”

  “But surely you’ve figured out that there is no oddity in that bag,” Hannibal said.

  Clover held her breath, not wanting to hear what he was going to say next.

  “How many young women have a miraculous immunity to fire? You are a singular specimen, Clover Elkin. You are the oddity. Your father obviously knew what a stubborn girl you are. If he told you to keep yourself safe, you would get killed trying to avenge him. But if he told you to keep that bag safe — well, you’d stay alive in order to do it. And so you have.”

  “He wouldn’t lie to me,” Clover said through clenched teeth.

  “He didn’t lie. He said he kept one oddity, the only one necessary to him: you.”

  Even as he said it, Clover knew she’d been avoiding this truth. Mr. Agate had been more interested in her than the medical bag. Hadn’t Bolete threatened to burn her? And the Heron’s attack could not have been survived by anything other than . . . But hearing the plain truth spoken aloud made her knees go soft. There was nothing in the bag but tools and an old watch someone had hidden long ago.

  “But Father abhorred oddities,” Clover whispered. “When he looked at me, what did he see?” Her fingers tingled, and she felt like she might faint. Then a terrible wish entered her head: Would that he had died without knowing what I am. Clover dropped her head into her hands. She regretted the thought. All of this horribleness was corroding her heart.

  “For reasons of safety, the locations of specific oddities have been omitted,” Clover whispered to herself. “That’s why we never visited the cities. He was hiding me in Salamander Lake.”

  “A fireproof girl!” Hannibal marveled. “Nothing more than a rumor until I stumbled upon you while searching for Louisianan interlopers! Do you see how fate is in our favor? Your father was right, young Elkin. You do indeed carry hope. It wasn’t fire you feared, my girl, but your own strength! You must let me introduce you personally to the senator. He trusts me.”

  “Why do you work for him?”

  “He is the chair of the Wartime Powers Committee and the Borderlands Security Committee. He is the man with the vision and daring to protect our nation —”

  “But what would he want with me?”

  “I cannot discuss sensitive strategies in the open field. But, if you let me, I will answer all of your questions once we’re safely reunited with the senator.”

  “I want no part of it.”

  “We all must play a part. I can help you choose what part you play.”

  “Hannibal,” Clover begged, “we’re still recovering from the first war. How many will die this time? I don’t want to fight.”

  “Of course you don’t. No good-hearted person wants war. But, twenty years ago, Bonaparte stole victory with an oddity that created an endless army. In the past six months, the senator’s investigations have proven that the French are massing troops at the borders again. We have no choice but to defend our nation. Do you intend to go home and wait for the enemy to arrive at your front door?

  “And when war is declared, we still don’t know which side the Sehanna Confederation will fight for. Their ambassadors promise neutrality, but we believe Bonaparte already has the loyalty of the Ormanliot chief, and this could drive a wedge between them and the other tribes. So you see, we could be facing enemies to the north as well, and the stakes are nothing less than survival. We would be fools not to use our own oddities in the fight. We must utilize every weapon at our disposal to tip the scales in our favor. That includes the Doll and the Heron —”

  “No —”

  “Of course, there are risks. There is really only one person who can safely wield the Heron. Consider it. Together you will be unstoppable. You were born for this duty. I will no longer call you Nurse Elkin. You will be, henceforth, Lieutenant Elkin, First Rank. It is a high honor I am offering, but I have seen your bravery. You might just win this war for us. I will make certain that the senator understands your value.”

  “But the poachers work for Auburn too!”

  Hannibal’s hackles rose as he barked, “The poachers work for themselves! The senator cannot be blamed for the duplicity of notorious bandits!” He regained his composure, letting his feathers settle before continuing, “It is true that, on occasion, the senator sees fit to relieve those poachers of dangerous items they’ve acquired. Would you prefer he leave oddities in their hands?”

  “No . . . but . . . I . . .” This was not an argument Clover felt she could ever win. She looked at the Rooster, the livid ridge of his comb glistening in the lamplight. She forced herself to stand. “I am not a weapon.”

  “Of course not. You’re a soldier. A strategic agent —”

  “No.” Clover clenched her fists, blinking tears away.

  Hannibal sighed, his comb deflated. “I cannot make this decision for you, of course. But the question remains.” Hanni
bal’s unblinking gaze seemed to pierce Clover’s skin. “What will Clover Elkin do? I myself am a born tactician, a commander of brave men with thousands depending on me. I am a defender of the Unified States. That is my proud purpose. What is yours?”

  Clover picked up her bag but immediately dropped it again. “I . . . don’t know.” She turned in a circle, but the forest offered nothing more than shadows and the dizzying chorus of crickets. She sat again, utterly lost. “Am I even human?”

  Hannibal clucked dismissively. “An overrated trait. The celebrated Incitatus Germanicus, Caesar’s most trusted magistrate, was a horse.”

  “But how did this happen?” Clover asked, choked by the things she didn’t know. “Did Mother . . . meddle with me somehow? Why did the poachers call me ‘frog’?”

  “Everyone knows that combining oddities is dangerous and unpredictable.”

  “So I was a mistake? A disaster . . . misbegotten.” Her chin trembled.

  Hannibal stood defiantly at her feet and beamed up at Clover. “A few sniffles are understandable after surviving a shameless kidnapping and a direct assault from a hell-wrought fiend. But this is no tender milkmaid I see before me, weeping over a ripped seam. No, indeed. Clover Elkin is nothing less than a warrior of the first degree. With a little training, I make this pledge to you: that Heron will be your cringing pet.”

  Clover shook her head. “I have to find Smalt. I made a promise . . .” She trailed off, staring at the searing ring of soot on the edge of the lantern’s glass.

  “Let’s stop pretending it’s the bag you’re after.” Hannibal shook his head sadly. “Your father is gone. Aaron Agate is addled and naive. You think Smalt is the only one left who can tell you what you want to know about your family.”

  “Willit said Smalt took secrets from everyone, so perhaps my mother . . .” Clover bit her lip, then blurted out. “I think I heard her voice coming from the Hat. Smalt must know something that can lead me —”

  “You can’t afford his secrets! You won’t get a thing from that wraith! You must learn to abide the mystery of your existence.”

  “It’s not a mystery, it’s a curse! Oddities and Willit and the witch, they’re all tangled up with my family somehow. Father tried to hide from it, and it came hunting us. If I don’t know where I come from, how can I know where I am supposed to go, what I’m supposed to be? If Smalt knows anything about my mother, I have to find him.” Clover sat, feeling exhausted.

  Hannibal touched her back with a gentle wing and said, “I myself do not know what egg I came from. And I too wondered if heaven had made a cruel joke: a man’s upright spirit crushed into the frame of a farmyard beast. But while others were scratching in the dirt, I taught myself to read discarded tracts. A library, its window left ajar for summer ventilation, was my university. Before my pinions were grown, I had read every military history on the shelves and begun a correspondence with Auburn himself. And when war provided the opportunity to prove my tactical merits, I leaped at my chance to defend our glorious nation.

  “Let go of eggs and mothers! The past is a shackle. March toward that which is greater than yourself, the integrity of a nation.” Hannibal considered her quietly, a glint of compassion in his eyes. “I can offer you a generous enlistment bonus,” he said. “Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you that a ranking officer is entitled to lifelong benefits, which include not only the privileges of status and —”

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. I don’t want your money! I don’t want your war! If you’re so eager to hand me over to Auburn, why not let the guards at the checkpoint take me?” Clover said.

  Hannibal bristled. “I am doing everything in my power to protect you, to guide you along a safe path.” Then he softened, his neck feathers settling into a brass-colored collar. “But clearly all I’m doing is upsetting you. I’ll let you consider in peace.” Hannibal started to turn away.

  “Wait, you aren’t leaving, are you?”

  “You need time to clear your head and heart. Unfortunately, that is not time I have.” Hannibal stood and shook the dust from his plumage. “My report is expected and, given the events of the last few days, rather consequential. So ruminate in these woods like a hermit or pester Smalt if you must, but hear this: if you don’t choose your fate, it will be chosen for you.”

  “Don’t go!”

  Hannibal said over his shoulder, “Fear not. We’ll meet again soon. I’m sure of it. I’ll try to give you the time you need to reach a sensible decision.”

  Hannibal sauntered into the shifting shadows and was gone.

  Clover lay down by the fire and worried. She worried about the poachers, who could be creeping up on her in this unfathomable darkness. She worried that Hannibal was right and she would never know what she was or how she had come to be.

  She touched the dandelion seeds in the vial on her necklace and thought about Mrs. Washoe’s face, lit with love as she held her newborn. Had Miniver held her that way? She wished her father’s ghost would appear. He would say something calm and infuriating. He would tell her to blow out the lamp because she was wasting oil.

  Instead, she heard a strange voice, like a cricket song, coming from her bag.

  “Mean old bird,” Susanna said.

  Clover peered into the bag. “You can talk!”

  “Talk is junk,” Susanna said.

  “I have so many questions,” Clover said, pulling the Doll gently from the haversack. In the dim light she could see that the mouth was not sewn shut. It was a tiny buttonhole, and the voice that emerged was raspy, like that of a toddler recovering from a bad cough.

  “Junk questions.” Susanna crossed her arms irritably.

  “I haven’t asked them yet.”

  “Junk!”

  Clover found herself admiring the grumpy Doll again. “Let me ask you this,” she said. “Do you wish I had let Mr. Agate take you back?”

  “Stinky old cigar box.”

  “You don’t mind sleeping in my bag? I mean — do you miss your home?”

  “Need no home.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Old Missus Seamstress.”

  “The Seamstress made you?” Clover was shocked. “But she makes vermin. You’re not scraps of skin and wire.”

  “I am many stitches strong,” Susanna said, arms proudly akimbo to show off her little body.

  “I don’t understand,” Clover said. “You are nothing like those nasty beasts.”

  “I am first best,” Susanna said. “Before junk. Old Missus makes me to carry bags and wood and rocks. To clear the tumbledowns. To dig deeper tumbledowns. To make the mountain home. Then Old Seamstress wants more.”

  “More Dolls?”

  “She wants tooth bringers and junk whisperers. She tries to steal my stitches so she can make junk.”

  Clover remembered the blue Thread she’d seen in the neck of the vermin Squirrel and understood the connection. “She tried to pull you apart to make vermin?”

  “So I leave mountain home. Need no home. Stinky old hole.”

  “That’s terrible,” Clover said. “But how did she make the vermin without your Thread?”

  “Bits and scraps. Junk whisperers just one stitch. Not strong. I am many stitches strong. Want to see?”

  “I have seen your strength.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “I believe you, Susanna. I think I understand now.”

  Susanna climbed back into the haversack.

  Clover blew out the lamp. She couldn’t claim to be fearless. But with Susanna nearby, she found the courage to sleep.

  The wind brought the stench of Brackenweed’s famous leather works long before Clover saw its chimneys. What had begun as a rustic market for fur trappers had grown into a bustling economy of furriers, milliners, and merchants, the second-biggest city in the state. It was rumored that the only reason Brackenweed wasn’t chosen as state capital was a general objection to the caustic odors of the tanneries.

  Th
e road toward the city brought Clover past a paddock full of plucked geese, who waggled their necks and honked, but Clover had no crusts of bread to throw for them. A butter-colored brightness spilled out of a barn’s open doors and lit the morning mist like the entrance to paradise. Fiddle and piano trills mingled with the hoots and boots stamping on wood. A sound like a mule braying was actually a man laughing. As Clover passed, she asked a red-faced farmer just emerging from the shindig, “It’s mighty early for a dance, isn’t it?”

  “Wasn’t early when we started last night!” He laughed as he climbed up to the seat of a wagon and slipped a piece of ham to the dog that had been patiently guarding the load of potatoes in the back.

  “What are you celebrating?”

  “‘Hain’t you heard? The senator’s coming to Brackenweed! He’s gonna be president!”

  If the senator hadn’t arrived yet, then Smalt was still waiting for his meeting, which meant Clover had a chance to find him first. As she entered the main square, Clover was impressed by the number of sage wreaths and pots of smoldering cedar placed about the main square, a respectable effort at masking the tannery odors.

  The merchants were doing a brisk business. The town was bustling, and everywhere people were haggling over furs and saddles, boots, belts, and gloves. Anything that could be made from an animal’s skin was for sale here. Clover saw a man wearing a bearskin jacket with the claws still attached at the cuff.

  A brass band clattered down a narrow alley where people had gathered around a roasted goat. But not every conversation was joyous. Here and there, Clover heard whispers about another settlement burned on the Sawtooth Prairie. Some said that the French had done it, some said it was Indians. Everyone agreed that the senator would have answers.

  Clover peered into the darker corners of the city, eyeing the shops, alleys, and even the jailhouse, all built of the same jaundiced bricks, as if the city had risen whole from the tannery-poisoned mud. She felt Smalt waiting nearby like a scorpion under a log. She was not looking forward to confronting him, but having a strength like Susanna in her bag gave her courage.