A Natural History of Hell: Stories

by Jeffrey Ford

  More cans of kerosene were called for, and when Jennings threw the matches this time, there was a great whoosh of flame reaching eight feet into the night. It quickly settled down to merely a steady fire, and the three of them moved closer to it for warmth. They each stared into the burning barrel at where Jib’s left leg jutted up. The ankle turned black; the old shoe melted. Suddenly there was a great pop, and Benett jumped back a step.

  “That’d be the head popping. Right, Pa?” said the boy.

  “For certain,” said Jennings. “Now watch for the libban.” He and his son stood leaning forward in anticipation.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Benett.

  “A certain spark that always flies up when the skull cracks in the heat. The libban. The other sparks die out just above you, but this one stays lit, no matter how high or far it goes. As long as you can see it, it burns. From the soft core of the nut,” said Jennings and knocked twice on his forehead with his knuckle.

  “There now!” said the boy and pointed up.

  Benett cocked back his head and caught sight of the so-called libban. He watched for a long while as the winter wind carried it high away over the dark silhouette of treetops.

  “Like a soul?” he asked, still staring into the distance.

  “Like a seed,” said Jennings.

  “From a will-o’-the-wisp,” said Jennings’ son as if reciting.

  The master wondered just how many bodies the boy had seen burned.

  For the remainder of the winter and well into spring, Benett applied himself as a student of the vanished fairy realm. He spent a small fortune on books, most of them ancient, their yellowed pages crumbling to dust once read and turned. The gears of his mind became tarred with fairy lore, and the mechanism slowed to a crawl. He was struck by long bouts of lassitude and imagination. These creatures that were the object of his scrutiny were elusive, and understanding came to him only in glimpses. He persevered, though, through long hours, pots of tea and pipes, and eventually reached a point where his natural disdain for the fanciful turned to admiration and respect.

  The natural settings of the tales and histories he consumed made him long for a journey to the forest. So, in the first fair days of May, he set out in the carriage, his new driver the Jennings boy, and headed south, away from the city, toward a small village, Ilferin, on the edge of the wild. Enormous stones stood in a meadow nearby. A steady stream of fairy sightings had poured forth from the place, down through the ages.

  They found lodging at the Inn of the Green Dog, Benett renting out the entire second floor of rooms, young Jennings getting a tattered blanket and a half bushel of hay in a corner of the stable. Mr. Yallerin, the owner of the establishment, was delighted to have Mr. Benett and Mr. Benett’s money staying beneath his roof. Over a welcoming glass of spirits on the front porch, the industrialist asked his host where he might find someone who could speak to the local fairy lore. Yallerin rubbed his bald pate, drew on his pipe, and said, “We call her the crone, just for a laugh, of course. They say she’s over a hundred. Lives out past the meadow in an ancient stone cottage next to the stream.”

  “And you,” said Benett, “have you seen the good folk in your years here?”

  “As a scamp, I saw them once,” said the innkeeper. “My grandpa was laid out for burial in the sitting room of our house. His box, lid off, rested atop two sawhorses next to the hearth. I woke in the middle of the night from a frightener in which the old man called to me. I crawled out of bed, lit a candle, and crept out to where he lay. I didn’t want to, but I did hold the candle high to see one last time his death expression. Shock, sir, shock and zero to the bone when I discovered a half-dozen tiny violet men with pointed heads perched upon his forehead, cheekbones, and chin, using long-handled spades to dig out his eyeballs. Only for a moment before the candle blew out, and then I fell through the dark.”

  “His eyes?” asked Benett and took a small notebook and pencil from his jacket.

  “The next morning, I found myself in bed. When I went out into the sitting room, the lid was on the box and my ma and pa were crying.”

  “Did they explain?”

  “I knew not to speak of it.”

  “What did it mean, their taking his eyes?”

  “Mr. Benett, even a brilliant gentleman such as yourself can never know the ways of the fairies. They seem to us crazy as a mad woman’s poo.”

  The industrialist jotted down mad woman’s poo.

  The next morning, after a hardy breakfast of bacon and potatoes for the master and a dry biscuit and a hunk of cold fat for his driver, the two set out on foot. The sun was warm, the sky was blue, and there was a breeze coming out of the forest, carrying the scent of blooming life. Benett had had a suit of clothes made for this very occasion—a jacket and trousers, a shirt and vest—all the same color of grass. He swung his walking stick and whistled. The boy ran to keep up with him.

  They set out across the meadow. At the very center of the rings of silent sentinels, there stood a thin, ten-foot-high pointed stone, like a crooked finger, accusing the sky. Here Benett stopped and put his arms around the crude obelisk. Young Jennings watched as his employer touched his lips against the hard rock. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth and told the boy to do as he had done. The lad stood wide-eyed, unable to move. Benett employed the stick. “Kiss it good,” he commanded. “Hug it tight.”

  When the boy completed his duty, his master inquired, “So, did you feel the enchantment?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Jennings.

  “You’re a chip off your father’s block head,” said Benett.

  “I should hope so, sir.”

  Across the meadow, at the tree line, they found a path that led in amid the Wych Elms and Ashes. Sunlight dappled the forest floor as the leaves rustled. Benett breathed deeply, taking in the heady green fizz of nature. Before long, they came upon a brook, and the sound of the water moving swiftly over the rocks reminded him of his mother’s voice, when, with eyes closed, she’d continue to murmur her tales from the other side of sleep.

  At the brook they turned west as instructed by Mr. Yallerin of the Green Dog, and before long they came upon a small clearing inhabited by a trio of deer. “Be gone, demons,” said Benett and swung his stick over his head. The gentle creatures fled, clearing a pathway to the stone cottage. Smoke issued from the chimney, a grumbled song from the open window. Just before reaching the steps to the door of the place, the industrialist put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and stayed him. “Take this,” he said, a silver derringer in his hand. “It’s loaded. Remain outside here and keep an eye. If I call for help, you must rush to my assistance. Should the necessity arise, you’ll be ready to shoot?”

  The boy took the gun and put it in his coat pocket. “Yes,” he said.

  “There’s hope for you, Jennings,” said Benett and took the steps. He knocked. There was movement inside, and then the door slowly opened. A squat old woman with white hair and large forearms appeared. Her simple gray dress was much mended, her kindly smile was a grimace. “You’re the gentleman about the fairies,” she said in a gruff voice. “I had word you were coming.”

  The hair on her pointed chin was disconcertingly long, and it took Benett a moment to focus. “From whom?” he asked.

  She turned slowly and retreated back into the place. He followed her inside and shut the door behind him. There was a large room at the front of the cottage, and they settled down at a table by its window. A steaming pot of tea, cups and saucers, awaited them. She lit her clay pipe and moved it to the side of her mouth. “Name, sir,” she said, squinting at him.

  “Hollis Lackland Benett,” he said.

  “Tima Loorie.” She nodded.

  “I heard it said in the village that you’re over a hundred.”

  “Are you a gull
ible man, Mr. Benett?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Then there’s no reason to begin now. Give me your hand,” she demanded.

  He reluctantly offered it to her.

  She squeezed his wrist with a powerful grip and turned it so his palm was facing her. “I see you’re a self-made man,” she said, “Come from the salt and now a king of factories. Wealthy. When you sleep, unbeknown to yourself, you call out in the dark. Always the same word.”

  “Progress?” he asked and smiled.

  She shook her head. “You’re not to know.”

  “All right then,” said Benett. “Tell me something else. I want you to tell me where fairies come from.”

  “They come from whereever they are,” she said.

  “No, what is the process by which they’re created? Do you understand?”

  “I might.”

  “I intend to manufacture fairies. I want to make the household fairies, the ones that help with chores and play mischievous fun on their adopted families. There’s a need for them in the city. Playthings for the wealthy, helpmates for the poor.”

  “A fairy’s a living thing,” she said. “These aren’t brass hinges we’re discussing.”

  “I’ve done my research. I know they won’t thrive in an environment of iron and smoke. My plan is for an organic process, beginning with the libban.”

  Tima Loorie laughed loud, flashing her one tooth. “You’re barmy, Mr. Benett,” she said. “A fairy factory?”

  “I’m also wealthy enough to make you wealthy as well. I’ve brought a substantial amount of capital with me, and it is now locked away in the safe at the Green Dog.

  “How much of the filthy soft have you brought?” She poured him a cup of tea.

  “Two hundred pounds, if you have the answer I’m looking for,” he said and took a sip.

  “Drink up and I’ll take you to a fairy circle. It’ll be easier to explain.”

  He finished his tea and they left the cottage. As they moved into the trees, the boy followed them. Tima turned to Benett and said, “The boy can’t go.”

  “Jennings, there, is my protection.”

  “From a hundred-year-old woman?”

  “Go back and guard the cottage,” he said to the boy.

  Tima was none too fast on her feet, but she inched ever deeper into the forest. It seemed that the dial of the day moved with the speed of Benett’s mind, passing them. It seemed they went far but walked little. As they strode through morning and afternoon, she spoke intermittently, dispensing fairy knowledge. He jotted it all down in his notebook.

  “The fairies you spoke of, household fairies, hobs, goblins, they’re of the earth, a mix of dirt and the freed crux of a corpse’s being. This seed sprouts into the fruiting body. Like here,” she said and pointed at the ground.

  Benett looked away from his notes. It was late afternoon and the forest was filling with shadow. They stood on a particularly shaded byway, beneath a giant oak. He followed Tima’s direction and looked down to see a circle of strange mushrooms growing out of the forest floor. They were pale like a toad’s belly, with brown spots, and their heads were large fleshy globes. He watched as Tima bent over and picked one of them. She handed it to him. “Glasfearballas, they’re called.” He took it from her.

  “A fairy factory,” she said.

  In the dim light of the path, it appeared to him that there was something moving inside the globe of the mushroom. He brought it closer for a better look, and with a whisper, it suddenly burst open, spewing a black powder at his face. In an instant, he lost his balance and dropped to his knees, coughing. When he blinked to clear his eyes, he went blind. “Help me,” he managed to choke out.

  “There is no money in the safe at the Green Dog, is there?” he heard her say. “Be honest or I’ll let you die.”

  He shook his head and began to drool uncontrollably.

  “For that, you shall have your wish.”

  Benett managed one more strangled “Help,” and a moment after there was a loud bang. His sight returned at once and he found himself sitting at the table in Tima Loorie’s cottage. It was late morning. The door was open and the boy stood in the entrance holding the derringer aimed forward. A trail of smoke issued from the short barrel of the gun.

  “How did I get back here?” he said to Jennings.

  “You never left, sir. A few minutes went by and you called for help. I come through the door, sir, and this rabbit I shot come running at me.”

  “A rabbit?” said Benett. He stood and moved around from behind the table to see the boy’s kill. A large gray rabbit lay on the floor with a trickle of blood coming from its blasted face. “Where’s the crone?”

  “She must have gone out the back,” said Jennings.

  “She put something in the tea, no doubt, the hag.” Benett reached for his jacket pocket and retrieved his notebook. Opening it, he frantically flipped through the pages and found he’d recorded every word Tima Loorie had spoken on their journey through the dream day. He snapped shut the book. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Well done,” said the boy. By that afternoon, they were in the carriage, heading back toward the city.

  After his journey to the wild, the master of Whitethorn secreted himself away for months only to emerge in late August for a business meeting with Thrashner. Benett had the collateral for the factory, but he needed Thrashner’s powerful connections both political and local to make its construction move at the rapid pace he desired. The meeting took place on the gruff old industrialist’s veranda, beneath the summer stars. Benett arrived promptly at seven. The night was stifling save for an occasional breeze rolling through the back gardens. “All right, Benett,” said Thrashner when both men were seated, “you know I don’t like a lot of dither. Cut through and let’s get to the meat of it.”

  “I aim to construct a new type of factory, and I need you to help me grease the palm of government so I don’t get tripped up by deeds and inspections. My plan would also benefit from the availability of some of your private work crews.”

  “Not impossible, by any means,” said Thrashner. “But what are you making, and what’s in it for me?”

  “What I’ll be making is fairies.”

  “Did you say fairies?”

  “You asked the question at the industrialist’s soiree months ago, ‘What do people want?’ I’ve determined they want fairies.”

  “I’m not a good man for a joke, Benett. I’d have thought you’d known that by now.”

  “No joke. I’ve studied the process. It starts with fresh corpses.”

  “Benett, are you having some sort of episode of hysterics? You look pale.”

  “Fresh corpses, not left to lie past the dawn following their moment of demise. We need the heads.”

  Thrashner’s eyes widened. He smoothed his mustache. “Corpses! Where does one acquire corpses for manufacture?”

  “Believe me sir, deals can be made with the morgues, etc. Out of a sense of morality, so that all’s on the up and up, we’d only use those without close kin. The lonely dead.”

  “So your factory will run on the remains of the lonely dead?”

  “No, we will burn their heads to release the libban, which we will gather through a vacuum sitting at the vaulted ceiling of the libban silo.”

  “Libban?” asked Thrashner.

  “The soul or seed of the dead. A kernel of life that flies off once the head pops open in a fire.”

  “I believe I may have heard the term.”

  “Of course you have,” said Benett. “The libban are gathered up at the top of the silo and then pushed through a tube into a chamber where they are blasted with the powdered dirt of the earth. This mix of spirit and dust is then spewed out across the fruiting vats of the factory, wherein will grow lar
ge, globe-headed mushrooms. When they succeed to a certain plumpness, these fungi will burst and fairies will be born.”

  “You’ve gone ’round the bend, Bennet. You’re completely off your chump.”

  “We use the dirt because we’re making hobs and goblins, brownies, household fairies that help with chores. It’s not that people need fairies, Thrashner, it’s that they want them.”

  “Even if you could make them, how do you intend to sell them?” The old man laughed at himself for not having thrown Benett out.

  “When they burst forth from the mushrooms, they’re invisible—the natural fairy state. Then comes my secret technique of gathering them up and capturing them individually in colored glass balls. These are sold to the public, and they are instructed to take them home and smash them on the kitchen floor, which will release the hobs into their homes.”

  Thrashner leaned across the table that separated them. He facetiously whispered, “What is the secret?”

  Benett also leaned in. “The secret is, there are no fairies.”

  “You mean you’re selling humbug?” Thrashner smiled from ear to ear.

  Benett nodded. “That’s why the process must be both gruesome and a tad mysterious. The better the show on that end, the more empty glass balls we can sell to the hopeful.”

  “A moment ago, I was certain you were mad, but now I’m certain you’re a genius.”

  “We’ll need a good artist. The advertisements will be important. Once we fill every house with a hob, we’ll start turning out sylphs. I’ve envisioned a demon that I’m sure will catch on with those who consider themselves naughty. The skeptics, of course, will scowl, but I predict it will be all the rage.

  “The factory will cost money, as will the fruiting vats and the mushrooms. I thought we’d make the latter out of rubber and paint them. Have two or three automated ones that burst and spew black powder on cue. We’ll give tours of the factory once a week and charge a few coins. A hoax the customer will long to have perpetrated upon him.”