My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  Pieces of the Mother of Monsters flaked away, fell into the egg.

  “It was my right! They are nothing but cattle! IT WAS MY RIGHT!”

  “Maybe once, but those days are long gone.” Puck’s back was an arrow, straight and true. His chin lifted. “Adieu, Echidna.”

  The last of Echidna disappeared; dust and fragments of a horror Isabelle hoped to never see again.

  The traveler has crossed. I close the gate.

  Once again there was a simple painting of a landscape on the surface of an egg, a door closed to the world.

  She was sticky with sweat. The grime of the adventure’s toils stuck to her like an extra garment. Badges of Isabelle’s struggles stood out in blues, purples. Her limbs ached. All of her ached. The egg, once so light, was a thousand pounds of fear and triumph.

  Puck, disheveled and tattered, grinned like a person after a delightful picnic.

  “Well, I’m all for getting corned now that this is over,” he said cheerfully.

  At this point, Isabelle had to agree. Perhaps a good, stiff scotch…

  “How did you get out of Echidna’s tails?” Isabelle asked suspiciously.

  “She loosened her grip when you told the egg to transport her. A hearty thanks is in order for not shouting my name, by the by.”

  “Perhaps I should have,” Isabelle said wryly.

  Puck barked out a laugh, “You aren’t the first to say so. I dare say, you won’t be the last. “

  Isabelle ran her fingers over her handiwork. Her painting was back to what it was when she finished it. A murky figure in the background was the only exception. You could almost make out two tails.

  Remembering Echidna made Isabelle wish for her blade back.

  “Where’s my knife?”

  “Hmm?” Puck was back to gazing absently over the tortured ruins of the chapel. “Oh, you dropped it back there.” He summoned it with a crook of his finger. It emanated a starlit wink and was in his grasp. Not a scratch marred the surface. Pristine as the light of a full moon, the blade flashed dying candle light into her eyes. “Would you like it back?”

  “No. Thank you. And you can take this now,” Isabelle passed him the Bennu Bird egg.

  “Are you sure?” Mischief did a jig behind his eyes, “It’s worth quite a bit.”

  “I prefer demand notes. They’re more predictable.”

  He chuckled again and offered her his arm in a courtly manner.

  “Shall I escort you home, lovely lady?”

  Mother would be scandalized. All proper society would be scandalized. Isabelle was hardly decently dressed, modesty threatened in the name of practicality. And here she was with a strange, fetching man, wild merriment exuding from his person, about to be escorted through the streets of New York.

  Hang propriety and hang society.

  “You shall, sir.”

  She looped her arm through his and they left the torn battleground behind them.

  It was impossible to believe that night still reigned. Hours must have gone by. Surely the whole event took longer. Morning’s sun should have usurped the moon. Night’s blanket still settled heavily over the city. Not a whisper of activity at all. But this time, it was the relieved silence after a raging storm. It was the sleeping of individuals feeling safe in their homes, rather than the frightened huddle of animals fearing a predator’s approach.

  And Isabelle had faced it. In a single, terrifying night her world changed. Her eyes had been forced open to things modern humanity had left behind in the dark ages. While she was afraid, Isabelle was also fascinated. What more was out there? What wonders and horrors lay in wait around the corners of a previously familiar world?

  Isabelle absorbed the velvet sky feeling more alive than ever. All worries about society and being a proper lady seemed paltry, the Cult of Domesticity, guarding moral purity, constant housekeeping and child rearing. It had always left a bitter taste in Isabelle’s mouth, but now seemed even more absurd. Life had become far too vast. Every detail was clearer, as though frosted glass had been removed from her eyes. Scents of summer in New York were stronger. The smell of litter rotting in gutters, bread shops wafting the lingering scent of bread, wood smoke from chimneys, her nose caught and identified each.

  As Isabelle walked with Puck she noticed other things. Tiny flits of movement she mistook for rats. They weren’t. Delicate limbs, nude, willow slim bodies, wings of iridescent silk. Beautiful faces peaked out from behind sleeping window flowers. Overhead a winged thing passed. Stick legs trailed a broad tail. The outline of breasts could be seen, a lighter shade of grey against a dark body and darker sky. A pair of ember eyes regarded them with indifference.

  It’s beautiful.

  “Hmm…” Puck mused, “You’re seeing things as they are, not for the glamour they create. Interesting...”

  “There’s so much!” Isabelle breathed the newness in. Part of her sloughed away into memory, the way Echidna did into the egg. It hurt, a twenty year old scab on an unhealed wound of repression. Afterwards there was such a sweet release. Calmness washed over her.

  Every turn of her head brought fresh miracles. There was foulness. But, like everything else in the world, there was beauty. There was just more if it now.

  Her fingers itched. Tiny muscles in every digit twitched and flexed. Bugs shimmied under her skin. She rubbed her hand against her leg to make it stop.

  It was too much excitement for a night. Isabelle’s nerves must have become distraught from adrenaline’s drug like influence. Sweat glued her rags to her skin. In some places the film of perspiration itched beneath what was left of the cumbersome underclothes and blouse. A breeze would be welcome.

  Mother Nature’s breath cooled her. Puck glanced at her momentarily, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “You did well. I worried you wouldn’t be able to handle such an unpleasant introduction to the supernatural.” He paused, “Most humans would have lost all their nerve.”

  “I was terrified!”

  “Rightly so! Echidna and her ilk are mortifying! But you faced it with more bravery than any soldier on the front of Lincoln’s war. Even many of those would have wet themselves at the sight of Echidna.

  Despite the cooling breezes, Isabelle felt heat radiate from her cheeks, “Thank you. All the same, I’ve had my fill of myths becoming reality tonight.”

  Puck laughed. Isabelle marveled at a sound so full of wicked merriment and innocent fun. It was an old laugh from a young voice.

  “Fair enough,” Puck grinned. “I’ll bring you safely home, my lady.”

  Normally, Isabelle could have looked forward to the blessed tranquility of her studio, and the calm of her second floor apartment. Chaos awaited her. Her door hung forlorn, a broken soldier that stood in the way of a cannon ball. Her walls vomited debris into the street. The destroyed rib cage of her floor bled splinters all over itself. Spilled paint splashed in a rainbow of blood stains. The robust walls inside were scarred. Her beautiful, little divan was reduced to kindling. And her easel, Isabelle’s pride and joy, just another casualty in a weird war. Isabelle slumped.

  This is going to cost me a fortune to fix.

  The apartment was mercifully spared. She kept her corsets in the closet, not wanting to bother with the lacings and still unwilling to give up unfettered breathing. Isabelle also left behind the petticoats and bustles. She doubted she’d ever wear them again. Now corsets and bustles were as restricting as all the social rules she’d been forced to follow.

  All she put on were a couple under garments, skirt and blouse. Modesty restored. There was still water and a cloth in the basin, and Isabelle managed to mop away the dirt caching her neck, face and hands. She didn’t know what to do with the mop on her head.

  Her fingers continued to prickle. Ignoring it, she plucked at her frayed locks, wishing she had the energy to bathe.

  In the mirror, Isabelle’s tresses melted and smoothed out. Debris rained down onto the floor. Nerves jumped and twitched beneath
her skin. Mahogany locks fell in a glossy waterfall around her face.

  Isabelle rubbed the fingertips together again. Every digit was on fire, making her wonder if touching the egg had damaged them.

  At least Puck had fixed her hair. It was nice of him. Practicality wise, she could have done the same with a washing or two and a brush. Still, for a trickster, it was downright decent of him.

  Downstairs Puck waited in her studio, which had turned pristine with everything in its place. There were extra shelves, neatly ordered with tempera and oils. Brushes gleamed, looking unused. Even the windows looked clearer. Isabelle’s easel looked as fresh as it had when she first bought it. In awe, she walked to her divan and caressed the fabric. The upholstery was softer than kitten fur and shone like a sunrise.

  Puck leaned against a brand new door. His finery was once again immaculate. Carvings of ivy and pixies climbed the length of oak. A brass door knob, (suspiciously egg shaped), gleamed like a beacon to a new world. Isabelle half expected to open the door and find a magic garden full of unicorns on the other side.

  “AH! You chose to not wear a corset! Excellent decision. Can’t understand how you ladies breathe with those infernal things. Those laces bugger all common sense. I could never get them right.”

  “You’ve worn one?” Isabelle wasn’t sure she should have asked. It was too late to take it back.

  Puck seemed to realize he said too much, “Uh,” he muttered, then mumbled something about Amsterdam. A feminine sounding name was uttered and Isabelle hoped wasn’t the name of another god.

  She didn’t want to know. It was nice that there was more to the world. But taking that knowledge in a little bit at a time would be more preferable.

  Besides, her studio was perfect!

  “You fixed it?”

  “Yes.” Puck expanded his arms, a performer looking for an encore. Or, maybe he was looking to apologize. “I added a few extra touches here and there. Did you think I’d let you suffer such a defeat after so much triumph?”

  “Thank you, it’s wonderful,” Isabelle said softly. She toyed with a lock. “And thank you for fixing my hair. Could you do something about my fingers?”

  His perfect brow furrowed. “I didn’t fix your hair. What about your fingers?”

  Again Isabelle tried to rub away the insects crawling under her skin. “It started a while ago. I think my nerves are undone, or I’ve been over working…”

  Puck was before her, in that same instantaneous manner he moved earlier. In the twinkling of an eye, he lifted her hand up to his face like a curious child. He traced her palm. Heat swarmed up her arms, through her chest and blossomed in her cheeks. The fae tsked, turned them this way, then that. He muttered things like, “interesting” and, “Sometimes that happens” and, “Well, that would make sense”.

  Isabelle felt her heart slam into her ribcage, and not all of it had to do with the ominous rumblings Puck made. His fingers gently touched, explored. At one point he pressed his ear to her palms. An thrill shot through Isabelle. She bit her lip. Inside, her temperature sky rocketed. Isabelle nearly jumped out of her stockings when Puck lightly kissed each palm.

  “My dear, you have a latent talent for magic.” He was still holding her hands. His fingers were warm…. “I thought perhaps the egg was doing most of the work. But it appears it was an equally mutual effort. Quite a rare talent at that. It’s not uncommon for a gift to be unlocked like this. It also appears our trap left some of its power with you as well. I’d be extremely careful how you paint from now on.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Only if you want things to jump off the canvas and run around. I wonder what the world would be like with two of me. Two devilishly handsome gentlemen…I could…No, Grandmother would be put out with that. She’s already peeved about Easter Island. Probably best if you didn’t channel magic when you paint.”

  “And how in hell do I not do that?” Isabelle asked incredulously. In frustration she took her hands from his and crossed them over her chest.

  “Ah, well, don’t let your hands tingle, for one.”

  “Don’t…” She stopped. The way the corners of his mouth ticked up, he was having fun with her. “I swear! Everyone you meet desires to slap you, don’t they?”

  “Now, now, Isabelle darling, language.” He kissed her cheek.

  Puck hovered awkwardly by the door. He didn’t open it. Instead he stood looking like he was waiting for her to do something. What was he waiting for? Was this goodbye? Should she hug him? Did she invite him to stay? What do you do with a force of nature?

  “Perhaps you should teach me not to make paintings run around?” Isabelle said sheepishly.

  “Frankly, my dear, that’s a capital idea.”

  Tuckahoe Marble

  The story of

  Victor, the Herbalist

  F. Allen Farnham

  What’s in a name, you say? For some, a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches...

  Victor’s father was handsome and modest, not a brawler or a drinker. He was well raised on an upstate wheat farm, polite in manner, unafraid of a full day’s labor. The land of the upper Hudson Valley was generous, and in the antebellum reconstruction boom New York City bakeries bought up every harvest... that is, until the Erie Canal and railroads bought cheaper grains from the west.

  New pests came with the influx of western grains, as well. Aphids, mites, and cutworms flourished like never before, dropping crop yields and raising costs even more. Bakeries and breweries had trainloads already, and they were less interested in the better quality than in the lowest price.

  The family wondered about days ahead. Technology had changed the landscape, and it was clearly going to change more. That was just fine by the young man. Farm life did not suit him. Stark, tall buildings to the south called him with a promise of new faces, new experiences. The height to which they climbed proved conclusively that man had conquered nature and could shape the Earth entirely to his will. To be the man shaping those new structures, to be the guiding hand, the architect of such creation was akin to the very act of creation, itself.

  Such thoughts given voice at home would have earned a sharp slap for blasphemy. So the young man kept them inside but argued that the farm was no longer a certain way of life for him, that he needed to make his own way in this changing time. After many tears from his mother, and the hurt, yet understanding, frown of his father, his parents gave him money for tuition, and he left to seek his education in the big city.

  Upon graduation his upright character impressed, and employment was not hard for him to find. A solid work ethic drove him to give all that was asked and more, ensuring his supervisors thought well of him. Despite years of service and diligence, however, his co-workers all surpassed him. Propriety kept him in his seat until, at last, he had to know why he had not earned promotion.

  “You do good work, lad,” his supervisor said, “but can’t put anyone named Abednego Ó Ceithearnaigh on the side of the building. Clients’ll walk on by rather than try to say a name like that!”

  Jeers from colleagues reddened his cheeks, but it was the rebuke of his proud Irish name he could not stand. He tendered his resignation on the spot.

  Turning his back on years of work experience was a tough lesson. Without a strong reference, no other drafting firm would hire him. And no matter how impeccable his character, banks refused loans to a man with no income and an unfashionable name.

  Never one to slouch or sigh, the man realized he was wasting his time seeking employment from others. He gathered his savings, obtained the appropriate forms for permits and licenses. Tedious details, calculations, and forecasts proved no challenge. What stymied him was filling in the line asking for the name of his business. He stared at the blank spot on the page, hating his reservations, yet knowing exactly what his hesitation meant. Though it broke his heart to do it, he wrote in, ‘Abe Kearney, Master Drafting Services’. Bearing an anglicized name, the loan papers were finall
y approved.

  Through years of effort and fair dealing the man found the success that had eluded him.

  Freed from the day-to-day minutiae of his prospering business, he settled in to a more administrative role and focused on building his next great concern: a family.

  When his son was born, Abe swore the boy would not suffer the same handicap in life as he had. The child would have the best start, would benefit from the best gift a father can bestow. He named the boy, Victor.

  A child named Victor cannot help but succeed, his parents reasoned. A victor is a conqueror, a master of all things—dominant, undeniable, supreme. He would excel in business school, or become a military strategist of the highest caliber, or he might enter the world of banking and so enlarge his family fortunes. At least, that is how they imagined it. But Victor was no master of warfare, no great lender of money, no Judge of Law. Victor was an Herbalist.

  When Victor was eight years old, he watched first his mother then his father taken ill. Their fevers were high. They were delirious, incoherent, thinning and weakening with alarming speed. The housekeeper had strict instructions to keep the boy away, lest he succumb, as well. She did her best, but Victor would slip away for a glimpse when she was distracted or, late at night, he would slip in while everyone else was asleep. In less than a fortnight, the boy watched his parents age years.

  Doctors came with laudanum for the pain and little else. They wagged their chins at one another then turned to the boy and told him the fever would have to run its course.

  “If you pray for them, young man, God may be merciful,” they said.

  The boy asked, "If you can't help them, then what good are you?"

  It was an honest question, one that dented their haughty egos. No more doctors came to visit the Kearney household, which is good, because it was an Herbalist who delivered his parents back to health.

  The Herbalist was elderly and patient. He listened to the boy’s concerns, and assured him he need not worry.