by Eli Brown
Clover dragged a long chain behind her. Attached to the end of it was a blackened iron box. She walked out across the frozen face of the ice, the box hissing behind her.
She found a particular point at the middle of the lake and knelt to open the box. The Heron’s Heart tipped out and sputtered on the surface for a moment before melting a blue hole right through the ice. A steady column of steam came up through the vent as the Ember found its way to the bottom.
A moment later, a gush of water. Then another. The ice beneath her groaned and popped as Clover ran back to shore.
Somewhere below, the Ice Hook and the Ember were beginning their struggle. It would take days, maybe weeks before the ice was fully melted, but the Heron would never stalk the earth again. The ice and the fire would balance each other and return life to Salamander Lake. Eventually, no one would know that such powerful oddities were down there, locked in an endless waltz.
As Clover crossed the empty village, she wondered how many other things were held together by hidden oddities. Was this universe just a foam floating on unseen forces?
But then, maybe a sunset was just a sunset. As her father had said, “A water pitcher that just holds water. A needle that just pulls thread.”
The journal she’d taken from Mr. Agate’s room was already ten years old, but it was more recent than any of Widow Henshaw’s brittle issues. Clover was listed in it as “Unconfirmed . . . a Fireproof Child.” But she was more than that now. She had been shaped not just by fire but by shadows and secrets, by hope and by love.
She walked to the mossy clearing of the graveyard. Her eyes welled up when she saw that they had given Constantine an honored position at the top of the little hill. Someone had even carved a soapstone marker that read:
Constantine Elkin
1780–1822
Doctor and Friend to All
Clover bowed her head, looking for the right words.
“They spent too much money on the stone,” Constantine said.
Clover turned and saw her father’s ghost clearly, the tapered beard, the sun-bleached rim of his hat, the smell of pine needles and smoked trout.
“I forgive you,” Clover said.
“Forgive me?” There was the edge of a smile in his voice.
“I thought it was my fault,” she said. “Then I thought it was your fault. I hated you for hiding the truth. For trying to control me. But now I understand what you were trying to protect me from. I know that everything you did . . . I know it was love.”
Constantine looked at Clover, his expression a forlorn mixture of adoration and worry. He touched her cheek and said, “It holds hope.”
“I broke my promise,” Clover confessed. “I became a collector. It’s messy and it’s dangerous, but I didn’t have much choice. I’m not the doctor you wanted me to be. But I tried to stop the bleeding. I stopped Smalt. I stopped the poachers, and I kept the worst from Auburn’s hands. I faced the ghosts that haunted you.” Clover wiped tears from her cheeks. “I’d been digging after the secrets you buried. I found myself. I found Mother. She loved you.”
“What is to become of my remarkable Clover?” But it was clear in his voice that Constantine was no longer worried.
“I don’t know, but my hands are steady. I have my own tools and I’m learning to use them. You can rest now.”
He nodded, removing his hat and passing a hand through his hair as if a nap sounded like a good idea. And then he was gone.
Clover tugged the vial of dandelions from her neck and emptied the seeds upon her father’s grave. The weeds would grow stubbornly, raggedly beautiful, and they would spread, generation after generation.
On her way to her house, Clover heard a chittering and flinched. But it wasn’t a vermin in the trees; it was that grumpy squirrel, who’d somehow survived the unnatural winter despite a wounded leg. Its back paw was tangled in a length of fishing net. It huffed and barked at her, guarding its brittle kingdom even as Clover coaxed it down with a stale raisin bun from Widow Henshaw’s cold kitchen.
Clover took her time, catching the squirrel in a laundry basket and holding its head firmly as she clipped the knot off its foot. It was furious, but its leg was already working better as it dashed back into the leafless canopy. After that, Clover chopped wood to replenish the pile behind the kitchen. It felt good to be solving small problems with nothing fancier that her own hands.
Of course, the rest of the surviving vermin were still out there somewhere. Clover wondered if they’d followed her at a distance, the poor, sleepless creatures lost now without their mistress. For lack of a better idea, she buried Smalt’s Hat in a barrel of salt in the pantry, but she thought she could still hear it whispering.
One week later, when Nessa and Widow Henshaw arrived on the battered yellow wagon, the lake ice had broken into jade-colored bergs drifting on the warming water. Nessa waded upstream to find fry to restock the lake, while Widow Henshaw revived her spurned oven, humming as she fed it kindling.
A deep burn on Nessa’s cheek, an injury she’d hardly noticed during the battle, was toughening into a pale scar despite the calendula and comfrey balm Clover applied. Nessa winced at the taste of the ginseng tonic Clover brewed but agreed it probably worked better than Bleakerman’s.
Clover, for her part, spoke very little; the storm in her heart kept words from coming easily, but she laughed at Nessa’s jokes, and she ate as if she’d never seen food before. She helped the widow cook huge meals, taking solace in the miracle of a well-stocked pantry.
On their second week together, Nessa played a tin whistle and sang experimental bits of a ballad about their adventures while Clover stirred a white-bean soup seasoned with smoked fish, rosemary, and pine nuts. Between songs, Widow Henshaw nudged the oven embers with a long stick, told stories about her days in the Society, and mused about reviving her old chapter. The soup had just been ladled into the bowls when they heard someone whistle from the bridge.
Clover leaped up, grabbing the Pistol from the battered medical bag, and ran to see who it was.
It wasn’t poachers and it wasn’t returning villagers. Margaret, the granddaughter of Yellow Mouse, was waiting on the bridge, attended by two runner-scouts. Margaret wore a beaded belt and the same scowl that Clover remembered.
Margaret lifted her hands to show that she wasn’t holding a weapon.
“You dropped something,” she said, opening the satchel on her hip. A little head poked out.
“Susanna!” Clover cried as the Doll leaped out and ran across the bridge, giving her leg a bruising hug. Clover picked her up and examined her. Susanna had been lovingly repaired with new hemp fabric. Her belly, well-stuffed with fresh wool, was now armored with stripes of red and yellow beads. She looked better than ever. Even her button eyes shone with beeswax polish.
Susanna spread her arms, proudly displaying her repairs. “Many stitches strong!”
“Of course you are!”
Margaret said, “The little monster insisted we bring her. She threw a tantrum. In fact, she threw a cannon.”
“Did you throw a cannon?” Clover tickled Susanna, and the Doll grumbled, clambering roughly up onto Clover’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing her all this way,” she said to Margaret.
Sehanna runners were famous for their endurance. The trip that had taken Clover a week might have taken Margaret only a few days, but it was still a considerable journey.
“You’re easy to find.” The way Margaret spoke, it sounded like a warning. “The war is still coming.”
“I’ll have no part in it,” Clover said. She knew Margaret was right. Despite her best efforts, Clover had only postponed the hostilities.
Clover studied the visitors, wondering how Widow Henshaw would react if she invited Yellow Mouse’s granddaughter in for soup. Something was troubling about Margaret’s appearance, though Clover couldn’t put her finger on it. The warrior wore the same enviable deerskin leggings and silver armbands. It was when Margaret turned to leave th
at Clover saw that the beads in her braids had been replaced with iridescent feathers. Clover felt Sweetwater’s rattle twitch against her ribs. That was it. Even from a distance, Clover recognized those feathers.
They belonged to Hannibal.
But before Clover could say anything, Margaret and her lieutenants were gone, running swiftly down the road.
Clover considered running after them, demanding an explanation, but she was hesitant to cross the bridge. She was afraid that if she took one step from Salamander Lake, she’d be swept away by trouble again.
“Soup’s getting cold,” Nessa hollered, approaching the bridge. “Who was that, anyway?” Seeing Susanna on Clover’s shoulder, Nessa stopped in her tracks and went pale. “Law and lye, not that thing again! Isn’t the snake enough?”
Clover couldn’t help but smile at the pout on Nessa’s face. Clover put her arm around her friend’s shoulder, and together the incorrigible group headed back to the warmth of the cottage, following the smell of the molasses-rye bread Widow Henshaw had just pulled, steaming, from the oven.
Compiled and Edited by Ruth O. Yamada and Aaron Agate
Oddities denoted with†, having been in Miniver Elkin’s collection,
were lost or destroyed in the fire of 1810.
BIRDCAGE (SEE CANARY)
CANARY, FAUNA #FP5, Confirmed
A brass-wire Birdcage, with a simple latch door. Upon placing one’s head within the empty Birdcage, a person will see through the Canary’s eyes, no matter how far away the bird wanders, to invigorating and disorienting effect.
DOLL, AKA SUSANNA, ITEM #O5, Confirmed
A hand-sewn child’s toy of cotton and faded yarn with button eyes. The Doll is quick and extremely strong. The upper limit of her strength has yet to be determined, but one editor of this publication has seen her lift an anvil with ease. Her temper makes her dangerous, though she can be mollified by the lullaby “Susanna, Don’t Be Sore.” She prefers to rest in dark nooks, such as cigar boxes or coffee tins, and is best left alone.
EMBER, AKA HERON’S HEART, ITEM #IEO32, Confirmed
A hot coal the size of a dollar coin. A rare “Incarnate Elemental” object, the Ember never expires and cannot be extinguished by any means. It will ignite any flammable material it touches. When enough smoke has gathered, an explosion will produce an animated conflagration in the form of a Heron. It was previously catalogued as the “Phoenix,” but ornithologists have since testified that the morphology of the bird is most similar to that of a blue heron. The Heron will always swallow the Ember first and then proceed on random and catastrophic wanderings, growing in size as it eats. It is responsible for the destruction of the entire Hawthorn Forest. It is an incredibly dangerous oddity that must be kept in a fireproof iron box, far from flammable materials.
FIDDLE, ITEM #O55, Unconfirmed
A worn red-lacquered violin in the French style. The Fiddle, when played, is said to make anyone hearing it dance, against their will and without rest, until the music stops. This oddity has been described by people of dubious character, but reports of its existence persist.
FROG, FAUNA #F6, Confirmed†
A small brass-colored tree frog. The Frog is unremarkable in every way except that it is entirely immune to heat and fire. It has been known to swim happily in boiling oil. Tadpoles and minnows swimming near the Frog benefit from its effect, surviving similar insults until separated from the Frog.
GLOVES, ITEM #O13, Confirmed†
Pale-yellow calfskin long gloves of the type worn by ladies in spring. This pair of Gloves allows wearers to share thoughts, memories, and even dreams. If one user wears the right and the other user the left, they will be able to communicate in the most intimate manner no matter the distance between them. The effect is said to be quite pleasant.
HANNIBAL FURLONG (SEE ROOSTER)
HAT (SEE SMALT), ITEM#AP29, Confirmed
A light-blue silk Hat made in an outmoded colonial fashion. The Hat forces secrets out of anyone who looks into it. Its effect is irresistible and sickening. The secrets stored in the Hat can be retrieved at will by the user. The Hat has been classified as extremely toxic, having corroded the humanity of its longtime user, Smalt, who uses it to blackmail victims. Secrets have been known to leak from the Hat and move about of their own accord. By some accounts, Smalt has been in possession of the Hat for over a hundred years. The effects of the Hat have atrophied Smalt’s body to an extremely frail state while somehow extending his lifespan unnaturally.
HERON’S HEART (SEE EMBER)
HIERONYMUS K. WILLOW (SEE LONG COAT), WRAITH #M5, Confirmed
A short, portly man, whose image wavers like a distant mirage. Willow is a reclusive being who vanishes when spoken to. Mr. Willow is often spotted stealing pies and pastries. His Long Coat seems to have rendered him intangible. Some describe him as “like a reflection on water” or “more shadow than man.” Despite his girth, Willow seems to be suffering an insatiable hunger. He has also been accused of more serious crimes, ranging from poisoning wells to toppling church steeples, but it is hard to know what he is truly guilty of. When something unlucky happens, many people will say, “Willow did it.”
ICE HOOK, ITEM #EO7, Confirmed
Curved steel tool with wooden handle. The Ice Hook is, itself, incredibly cold and will freeze any water it touches.
LONG COAT (SEE HIERONYMUS K. WILLOW), ITEM #AP42, Partially Confirmed
A dark-gray woolen coat with an ermine collar. It is believed to be an oddity that gives its user the ability to move through shadows. Other theories posit that the Long Coat turns its user to smoke. Hieronymus K. Willow is said to use its power to steal food, traveling to distant locations instantly. Willow, however, is extremely antisocial, so this oddity has been particularly difficult to verify. The Long Coat seems to have made Willow insatiable and should be considered a toxic oddity.
MATCHBOX, MATCHES, ITEM #EO48, Confirmed
A small wooden box, reddish in color, containing a number of sulfur Matches. The printed manufacturer’s label is long since worn away and illegible. The Matches, when struck, stop time. So long as the Match burns, the user may move freely about a world completely frozen and immobile. A rare case of an oddity that degrades with use, the number of Matches seems limited. The box once held fifty Matches but as of this publication contains fewer than twenty. Some scholars speculate that the box itself is the oddity and will impart curious behavior to any Matches placed inside it. This has not been verified. The criminal Willit Rummage has been known to use the Matches to take victims by surprise. Rummage once sold a forgery of this oddity at auction for four hundred dollars. The buyer, not wanting to waste the matches, was not aware of the cheat for several months, by which time Rummage had fled the county.
MINER’S LETTUCE, FLORA #FL01, Partially Confirmed
A weed looking like every other, in a small clay pot. One who eats even a single leaf from this plant will turn into an animal. Much is unknown about this oddity: whether one can choose which animal to turn into, whether the roots or flowers of the Miner’s Lettuce have the same effect. Trusted Society member Kingsley Hook claimed to have witnessed his cousin eat a pinch and turn into a shrew. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Hook himself disappeared and is yet to be found. Mr. Hook’s doors were found locked from the inside, and a barn owl was discovered roosting in his bookshelves. The owl flew away, but shrew bones were found in its nest. Anyone with any information about these events should write to the Society immediately. The particular effects of the Miner’s Lettuce remain unstudied, as no safe test of its effects has been devised. Proposals to test the Miner’s Lettuce on criminal convicts have been dismissed as inhumane.
MIRROR, ITEM #O02, Confirmed†
The poorly understood Mirror is both a portal to an identical world and a kind of Lethe. Those who enter forget. On September 17, 1789, Ephram Carter entered the Mirror with a rope tied around his waist and written notes to remind him of his purpose. However, upon crossing the threshold,
he untied the rope immediately and wandered away. He spoke not a word, but his aggrieved assistant who held the rope on the other end reported that he looked happier in the Mirror than he had ever been on this side: “He seemed not to have forgotten this world, as much as to have remembered a better one. He moved with quick determination, as if called by a happy task, or a beloved’s voice, just beyond the frame.” No one who has entered the Mirror has ever returned. The Mirror never reflects the viewer herself. It presents an identical room but empty, as if waiting for guests. Collector and editor Ruth Yamada has offered this argument: “We know that everyone who enters the Mirror forgets themselves. But if they wander off into that twin reality and refuse to return, can we be certain that the world of the Mirror isn’t a kind of heaven?”
MUSIC BOX, ITEM #O34, Partially Confirmed†
A mother-of-pearl inlaid music box with a steel crank, in the Swiss style, playing a variation on Ober’s Sonata in G. The Music Box is an item shrouded in much confusion. Although well-trusted Society members, including Miniver Elkin, Pierre Bertrand, and Kingsley Hook, have examined it at length, there is no clear consensus on its effects. Reports vary wildly, even from observers who witnessed the same demonstration. Some say the music from the Box induces a waking dream. Others say the music “rearranges reality.” Some who heard the music suffered dramatic and permanent personality changes, while others claim to have “seen under the rug of creation itself.” It is unclear if the Music Box affects the perceptions of witnesses or the world itself. Because of the uncertainty surrounding this object, it should be considered an object of moderate toxicity.
PESTLE, ITEM #O41, Confirmed†
A ceramic pharmaceutical-grade mortar and Pestle. The Pestle can be used to grind human teeth into a blue Powder that is a powerful panacea, able to cure any ailment. It was this Powder that cured President Cooper of his typhoid fever and gout. Attempts to grind other items with the Pestle have resulted in nothing remarkable.