“Badger! Good boy, what are you doing here?” What, for that matter, was she doing here? Her mind was clouded as milk. The dog licked her face and whined in joy.
Mother’s voice called, and how angry she sounded. Well, no, that wasn’t right for, of course, Maggie’s mother had died long ago. Images flashed into her head: a sickeningly sweet pie, a ratty little woman in a tiny shack, a door, Trickster, Srebrenka … And then she remembered Kyle. Her gut twisted. How had she forgotten him? She jumped to her feet, tearing the blue fabric of the dress, and kicked off the yellow-bowed shoes. Badger danced around, barking. How the hell had he got here? How had he found her? He turned to the door just as Mother Ratigan appeared. He snarled and bared his teeth.
“You’d harm a poor old woman, would you?”
Maggie felt a fool in this absurd dress, and more so when she noticed her fingers covered in cherry stains. Her head hurt, and her stomach, too.
Mother Ratigan said, “Don’t leave me, little lamb. You’d leave me here to starve and freeze to death?” She reached out to embrace Maggie, a silver brush in her hand.
Maggie stepped out of reach. “Where are my things? My clothes, my boots, my pack?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the woman pouted. “You have such a lovely dress and a closet full of others.”
Badger growled. It was Mother Ratigan who bared her teeth then, but catching herself, she wrung her hands and said, “I don’t like dogs. I don’t like them at all. Make him go away.”
“Badger, come, boy. Find my boots, find my things; find them.” Badger cocked his head and then raced around the room, sniffing as he went. “Good boy. Find them!”
Badger dashed into the bedroom and Maggie followed, leaving Mother Ratigan to pace and hurl curses. “May you freeze in a snowbank with your eyes under an inch of ice! May you die of hunger at a king’s feast!”
Badger ran for the armoire. Maggie opened it but only saw a row of fussy dresses hanging from a rod and a row of fussy shoes lined up beneath. Badger scrambled at the floor of the armoire and Maggie realized there was a hidden drawer. She pulled it open and, sure enough, there were her things, balled up and stuffed inside. She ripped the dress from her body and dove into her jeans and turtleneck, her heavy socks and boots. Mother Ratigan still raved in the other room. “May you break out in boils the colour of cherries! May mice feast on your bones!”
Badger stood in the doorway, barring Mother Ratigan’s entrance. Maggie grabbed her coat, checked the pockets to make sure the little enamel box Mr. Strundale had given her was still inside. It was. She snatched her pack. She felt as though she’d slipped back into her own skin.
They stepped into the main room to find Mother Ratigan sitting at the table with her hands over her eyes, weeping. “Leave me, they all leave me in the end.”
“We had a deal,” said Maggie. “You promised if I came inside, you’d tell me what you know about Kyle.”
“What makes you think I know anything, you ungrateful girl?” Her voice was harsh, self-pitying.
Mother Ratigan was frail, thin as a stick, her skin nearly translucent. Her white hair was fine as spiderwebs, in a thin braid down her back … Or was it? Hadn’t her hair been in a bun just a moment before? Hadn’t she been wearing a pink kimono? Maggie blinked and shook her head.
“We had a deal. I hold you to your part.”
“Oh, what do I know of boys who come and go and won’t help an old lady?”
“Stop talking in riddles. Did you see Kyle, or didn’t you?”
“I saw him. And he just walked on like I was so much trash in the street. Not like you. You’re a good girl, aren’t you, and you ought to be rewarded. You and your friend both should be rewarded.”
A huge pie appeared on the table in front of her. Badger sniffed the air. The scent full of burnt sugar and buttery pastry and sweet cherries. Saliva once again rushed to Maggie’s mouth. Just a bite, she thought, just a wee bite.
Mother Ratigan smiled, and there was something so triumphant and so greedy in that smile that Maggie felt her skin prickle from her toes to her scalp. She looked at Badger. He inched toward the pie.
“Oh, you have time for just a wee slice of pie, to please an old lady, don’t you? Just a little one?” asked Mother Ratigan.
“Badger! To me!” Maggie took his face in her hands and turned his gaze toward her. His eyes were glassy. He drooled.
She knew they had to run and could think of no way out except the way they’d come in. “Come on, boy! Hurry! Hurry!”
They dashed for the door, while Mother Ratigan screeched behind them. As they stepped over the threshold another dizzying swoop overcame Maggie and then she and Badger stood in the strange endless laneway. It had stopped snowing and the stars shined brightly overhead in strange constellations. She turned to the hovel. It didn’t look like Mother Ratigan would follow. In fact, the hovel hardly seemed even a hovel now. It was just a pile of garbage, an assortment of tins and planks and frozen vegetable scraps and something that might once have been a chair, or a commode. Nothing that vaguely resembled a cottage with stained glass and enchanted pies.
Which way? She scanned first right and then left. Neither direction looked promising. “Where’s Kyle, Badger?” She wished she had something of his to give the dog for scent. He’d met Kyle a few times, but how much could a dog reasonably be expected to remember? Badger cocked his head one way and then the other, trying his best to figure out what she wanted. “Kyle? Can you find him?” It was a ridiculous plan. “Oh, Badger. How did you find me? How did you get here?” Badger thumped his tail. And then she heard a caw-caw. There, perhaps a hundred feet down the wall, perched two large ravens. They bounced their heads and clacked their beaks. Ravens at night? Well, why not? One of them hopped a few feet farther, and the second followed. More cawing and clacking.
“We’ll go that way, I guess,” she said. “Come on, boy.”
She began walking, with Badger running ahead. The ravens seemed to taunt him but kept in sight. Maggie kept glancing back to see if the old woman was following, but the fourth time Maggie turned round there was no sign of anything behind them, not even a pile of garbage. The lane just petered out after a few hundred feet, into a sort of misty nothingness. There was nothing to do but go forward.
As she walked she wondered what Mr. Strundale must be thinking. Surely, he’d be worried. Who knew how long she’d been Mother Ratigan’s guest … She wished she could send Badger home, but she couldn’t, having no idea how to get back herself. She wondered if Mr. Strundale would try and find her. And then, of course, she thought of Alvin. She should have left him a note. If he returned and she was gone, he’d be frantic. And furious. Why hadn’t she confided in him?
The extent to which she really hadn’t thought this journey through was disturbing. If Mr. Mustby was alive he’d lock her in the shop. Probably Alvin would have if she’d told him her plans. Just then she rather wished someone had locked her up.
The ravens wagged their heads and cawed. Badger barked. She had slowed down apparently, lost in her thoughts. Badger appeared to trust the birds, and if she wasn’t much on trusting people, she trusted him. So she would trust the birds as well.
Badger padded along, running ahead a few paces toward the birds and then waiting for her to catch up. Now and again she looked back. The path behind ended in that strange mist, always a hundred or so feet away. She stopped. Waited. The mist came no nearer. She began to walk again and the mist advanced. It was like a broom at her back, sweeping her along. It didn’t feel malevolent; it felt like nothing at all.
Maggie imagined Alvin walking beside her – broad shoulders under his olive-green duffle coat, the curl of hair on his collar, the lines around his eyes, etched by sun and wind and laughter. Just the idea of him, even glowering, glaring or scowling, was enormously comforting. She pictured him standing in
the Grimoire, looking for clues as to where she was, worrying about her. The idea warmed her.
Her boots crunched on the hard snow, the ravens cawed occasionally and Badger panted. It was a good sign, how much Badger seemed to be enjoying himself, for surely if there was trouble, he’d sense it. Maggie had the odd sensation that the laneway was unfolding before them as they walked, that it got longer with every step, and yet at the same time they made no progress. She concentrated on her feet until the feeling went away. The steady pace, the quiet all around … she fell into a sort of walking trance …
* * *
IT HAD BEEN WHAT? TWO YEARS AGO? KYLE HAD BEEN clean for a while and was living in rooms on a small street between Dundas and Shuter, adjacent to the Forest. Maggie had bought some chicken, potatoes, carrots, celery, eggs, milk and a few odds and ends. She found his address, a squat, three-storey brick building with a cracked stoop. The air smelled of diesel fumes. Someone tooted a trumpet in one of the buildings across the street. Off-key and blatting, it was enough to take the enamel off one’s teeth. A man, huddled in a too-big coat, sat on a chair near the door.
Maggie nodded as she climbed the stairs. “Hey.”
“Who you looking for?” asked the man.
“My brother. Kyle. You know him?”
“Nope,” he said.
Inside, the hallway smelled of rising damp and onions and the light was dim, but not so dim Maggie couldn’t see the rodent droppings. An unlit stairway took her to the basement where several padlocked doors graced one wall, across from which was an unnumbered door without a lock. Maggie knocked. Someone moved around inside. She knocked again. Something broke, shattered – glass from the sound of it. She used the flat of her hand on the door. “Kyle, open up. It’s Maggie.”
It took a few minutes before the door opened. Kyle held a wadded towel to his left eye and the knuckles of his right hand were abraded. He wore a not very clean pair of jeans, socks and a T-shirt. His skin was swirled with silver. He smelled unwashed.
“May I come in?” Maggie tried to keep her voice steady, keep things calm. Best not to mention the eye right off.
Somewhat to her surprise, he stepped aside. He moved as though exhausted. An iron bed hunched against one wall and in front of it a low table on which was strewn a crust of bread, melted candles, a fly-speckled bowl of what appeared to be honey and a ragged paperback with a frog-like alien on the cover. A kitchenette of sorts took up the opposite wall – a porcelain sink and a wooden table with a little microwave. A collection of chipped mugs and plates stood in the sink, which glinted with shards of glass. Above the sink was a mirror, or what was left of it. Watery grey light seeped in through the shoulder-level, grime-streaked single window above the bed.
“What have you done?” She put the bags of groceries on the table and tried to pull Kyle’s hand away from his eye.
“Nothing. I got something in it.” He shied from her.
“Let me look, Kyle.” Maggie tried to smile. “You know I won’t give up.”
Kyle plopped down onto the bed and dropped his arm. The eye was red, inflamed, but not bleeding.
“Tilt your head back.” Maggie positioned Kyle’s head toward the window. “Is there a piece of glass in there? We should go to the hospital.”
Kyle snapped his head away. “I’m not going to the hospital.” He stood and moved to the sink. He ran the water and splashed some on his face. “There’s nothing in there, or if there was it’s gone now.” He turned to Maggie. “What are you wearing? You look like an undertaker.”
She wore her usual black jeans, turtleneck, boots and coat. The same thing she’d worn, more or less, for years. Why he would remark on it now was strange. “Well, at least I don’t look like a corpse.”
He scowled with an expression of contempt so thick she could have scraped it off her shoe. And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. He laughed for quite a long time, and then the laughter turned to tears. She tried to touch him, but he held his hands up. “I’ll hit you if you come any closer, I swear I will.”
She stayed long enough to make him some soup and see he ate it.
* * *
IT WAS STRANGE, THAT INCIDENT WITH KYLE’S EYE. Hadn’t she had a similar dream recently? Kyle behind a glass wall? A shattering, and a splinter in his eye? No, in the heart, not his eye. Just before she set out on her journey, she’d dreamed that. How strange.
Just then Badger stopped, stepping slightly into her path, legs braced, chest out, sniffing the air. The ravens had disappeared. At first she saw nothing, and then two figures appeared out of the darkness, dressed in uniforms with long white double-breasted coats and fringed epaulettes on the shoulders. Badger wagged his tail, then sat by her side. The two men walked briskly and stopped in front of her. Whatever they were, they were well trained, walking in step, nodding their heads precisely at the same moment. They looked as though they might be father and son – the same red hair, the same blue eyes, the same neat moustache.
“Good evening,” the older of the two said. He wore a red crest on his lapel, which the younger man did not.
“Hello,” said Maggie.
“This is not where you should be,” said the red-crest man.
“We agree about that.” The men did not return Maggie’s smile. “I’m not sure where I am.” She waved her hands around. “I mean, is this …” What should she ask? Are we in Canada? Are we in Ontario? How crazy did she want to sound? What if it wasn’t the Silver World? “We’re here only because I’m looking for someone, but there doesn’t seem to be any way off this road.”
“You are looking for your brother,” said the man.
She glanced down at Badger, but he showed no signs of fear. “How do you know that?”
“We know only what we are told by Miss Tilden, for we are in her service.”
“Do you know where Kyle is?” asked Maggie.
“We do not. We know you are to come with us.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE TWO MEN DIDN’T APPEAR DANGEROUS, and Badger wasn’t growling, but after the way the last invitation turned out, she wasn’t sure she wished to accept another. “And what happens if I don’t care to go with anybody just now?”
“The road will only get longer and longer, and sooner or later you’ll want to arrive somewhere, and unless you come with us now, you won’t get anywhere at all.”
Maggie remembered the sensation she’d had that the pathway unrolled in front of them with every step, leading nowhere. “Where to, exactly?” she asked.
A quick smile flicked over the younger man’s face. The older man said, “Why, to Miss Tilden, of course, wherever else? You’re on her road, you do know that much at least, don’t you?”
“I didn’t see any signs.”
The man snorted. “Signs indeed. Who else’s road would it be? Are you coming, or do we leave you to keep walking until you regain your senses?”
Maggie shrugged. “It’s either forward or back, I suppose.”
“There’s no back,” said the man. “Not from here.”
Maggie looked behind her and all she saw was exactly what lay in front. The mist had disappeared, but the road behind was so formless it didn’t matter. They might as well be rats running on a wheel. “I don’t suppose either of you know the way back to the Forest, to Toronto, do you?”
“We know you are to come with us or we are to leave you here. That is all we know.”
“For God’s sake,” said Maggie, “if this Miss Tilden turns out to be a witch like the last one, I swear I’ll not be as polite as I was.”
The young man blinked and wiggled his moustache. “That old rat? Not likely.”
The older man shot the younger one a look of reprimand, then turned to Maggie. “I can assure you, Miss Tilden is nothing like the vermin who lives among refuse. The very idea is insulting,
but we won’t dwell on that since clearly you know less than nothing about a great many things, and Miss is a forgiving person. Now, come along, or not, the choice is yours.”
Maggie looked down at Badger, who wagged his tail, making a snow-fan behind him. His mouth opened in a grin. “We’ll come with you,” she said. “I don’t suppose we’ve got much choice.”
“There are always choices,” said the red-crest man, “just not always good ones. Come along.”
After they’d walked for a short while Maggie began to hear noises – a low bustling sort of hum at first, and then as they walked along, the unmistakable sound of music and voices. “Beautiful violets!” “Best cheese – creamy and sweet!” “Silk fit for a queen!” Before she could register the change, she realized they were no longer walking on a snow-packed lane, but on cobblestones. Maggie swung round, but behind them the lane had disappeared; nothing but cobblestones remained. She turned back and found they stood in a market square lit by dozens of torches and oil lamps. It bustled with hawkers, despite the late hour. (Or at least what she assumed was the late hour, since who knew whether day or night actually existed here. Perhaps it was always night. An unsettling thought indeed.) They were in front of a jeweller’s window, in which glittered a treasure chest of pearls, topaz, amethysts, emeralds, opals, dangling earrings, and sparkling chains and bangles. Next to that was a bakery. The cakes and cookies, muffins and pies, and tarts and croissants seemed no less alluring than the jewels. In fact, every storefront, doorway and lamppost glittered and shone as though made of crystal and gold. Stalls set up in the open space offered flowers and cheeses and silks; copper pots; walking sticks topped with cunningly carved faces, both human and animal; china teapots and an assortment of exotic teas. There were handkerchiefs, silver buckles for boots and belts, jams and jellies, umbrellas, hats, books, bowls of swimming fish, singing canaries in cages …
The Grimoire of Kensington Market Page 11