She grabbed her bag, opened it—
Her father’s manuscript was gone.
THE rain kept coming. Two months into the rainy season, Jo found it hard to remember life without rain. A dull weariness crept into her bones. All of Eldritch City felt colorless, drenched, and dead.
In the middle of the night, when the rain pattered gently on her windowpane, Jo could almost believe that the rainy season wasn’t so bad. But then there would come a bang of thunder so loud it sounded like an exploding bomb, and Jo would sit up in a panic, certain it meant the return of the Belgian Prankster. After a breathless minute, she would calm down, and drift back to uneasy dreams as the rain pelted down like bullets.
Jo couldn’t stop thinking about her missing manuscript. The only explanation was that Fiona had taken it. Of course, Fiona couldn’t translate it without the ring, but Jo had scribbled her own translations in its margins. If Fiona read them, she would know everything. But did she have it?
Jo tried to shove it into the back of her mind, but that didn’t work; that part was already full of the Belgian Prankster. Anxiety simmered as background noise to everything now, like the rain endlessly drumming on the roof. But the constant worry about the Belgian Prankster didn’t dull its edge. Every time she thought of him directly, a fresh stab of dread twisted her guts.
And a dark corner of her was waiting for him. The grayer the season became, the more washed-out the world seemed, the more Jo caught herself almost wishing for him to come. Sometimes it seemed as if everything around her was silently saying his name.
She needed distractions. She took on extra work in the lodge, studied up on all the knights’ specialties, and trained harder than ever with Dame Delia. There were also more dueling traditions to keep. Just as Fiona had slept over at the Odd-Fish lodge, Jo was required to sleep over at the Wormbeards’ lodge. But if Fiona really did have her father’s manuscript…but no, it was too nerve-wracking to think about. The closer the day came, the more Jo dreaded it. Especially when she learned that it fell the night before Desolation Day.
Jo had never known when her birthday was. Now she knew: Desolation Day was the most hated day on the Eldritch City calendar, the anti-holiday that marked the birth of the Ichthala and the destruction of half the city. Jo knew some special festival was going to happen, but she had no idea what. Nobody talked about it. It was bad luck even to mention Desolation Day. Jo couldn’t help feeling as if the whole city were keeping a secret from her.
The night before Desolation Day, Jo, Ian, and Nora huddled from the rain under an awning in East Squeamings, waiting to be picked up by the Wormbeards. Where there once had been a bustling fish market, now there was just a sodden, empty field of bricks. The stalls had been dismantled and put away, and the fish market was closed until the rainy season was over.
Ian said, “It wasn’t so long ago we were running around here, looking for the Schwenk. Remember?”
“And we first met the Wormbeards,” said Jo.
“And I saved you both,” added Nora. “You two don’t know how close you came to being torn apart by those lizard-dogs…. Jo, I still can’t believe you’re going to duel Fiona! Awful things happen at the Dome of Doom. Are you still sure you want to do it?”
“I’ve seen Jo practice,” said Ian. “She’s really good. She’ll beat Fiona, don’t worry.”
Jo looked out onto the gray city and remembered the first time she’d met Fiona. It seemed like so long ago. Back then, the city had seemed fresh, with a surprise waiting around every corner. Now Jo walked the streets and felt a quiet satisfaction in not being surprised. She liked knowing her way around, nodding at the stores and apartments, seeing everything right where it should be.
“Where are they?” said Jo. “They were supposed to pick us up twenty minutes ago.”
Ian said, “It’s a calculated insult. They’ll be just late enough to irritate us, but not late enough to break etiquette.”
“There they are,” said Nora.
Fiona’s seconds emerged from the fog in purple cloaks, steel goggles, and long yellow scarves, hidden under yellow umbrellas. “Let’s go,” they said.
The Wormbeard squires led Jo, Ian, and Nora out of the rain and down into the subterranean neighborhood. Snoodsbottom was just as Jo remembered it: the glowing fungi on the cave ceilings, the stale, spicy air, the cramped tunnels, the unwholesome heat. As before, the walls were covered in minutely detailed carvings, so unsettlingly convoluted that they seemed like not art but an intricate geological disease chewing away at the insides of the mountain.
Finally, the Wormbeard seconds stopped. “We’re here.”
“We are?” said Jo. All she saw was a pit.
“Look down.”
Jo approached the pit’s edge and peered in. The lodge of the Wormbeards was not a building; it was almost the opposite of a building. It was a pit two hundred yards deep and fifty feet square, dotted with windows on every side, and filled by a great glistening tree. The tree’s bark had the hard sheen of steel and copper, and its branches gleamed with thousands of purple and yellow bulbs—organic gems, or a kind of glassy fruit. The tree filled up the pit with glittering branches, supporting a staircase descending to the bottom. Lizard-dogs slept within its metallic leaves, their tails tightly wrapped around the branches.
The seconds led Jo, Ian, and Nora down the staircase. Through the branches, Jo could see lighted windows all around the pit, and Wormbeards going about their business.
Fiona Fuorlini was waiting at the bottom, reading a book by the light of the glowing tree. She stood up, her seconds crossed over to her, and at last the six squires faced each other.
Jo was ready with the traditional insult: “So! I have found you, simmering in this cauldron of dishonor—”
Fiona interrupted. “Please, Jo. Can we dispense with the etiquette for tonight?”
Jo was startled into silence. Fiona smiled and looked at her kindly. “I know, I know,” said Fiona. “According to the rules, we have to insult each other, and everything has to be tense, but do either of us really want that? I’ll take the dishonor for disregarding the proper dueling formalities. I’d rather just have you here as a regular guest. How about it?”
Jo looked at Nora and Ian. Nora seemed at a loss; Ian reluctantly shrugged.
Jo turned back to Fiona. “Um…thank you. That sounds refreshing.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Fiona. Jo tried to detect trickery in Fiona’s tone, but there was none; Jo was mystified. Before she could change her mind, Nora and Ian bowed and withdrew, followed by Fiona’s seconds.
Now Jo and Fiona were alone. Jo watched Fiona closely, searching for a sign—had she stolen the manuscript? But Fiona only smiled again at Jo, turned, and entered the gate of the Wormbeards’ lodge. Jo took a deep breath and followed.
They came into a dim cavern of rough rock and moss. Unseen waterfalls trickled from the ceiling, and little pathways twisted away into a jumble of stunted trees and chunky boulders. The gnarled, dwarfish trees grew in well-tended little groves, disappearing into the darkness. All around, dozens of bubbling little pools gurgled and steamed.
A porch was poised over the underground garden, like a pale, ghostly ship sailing just above the boulders and trees. Jo and Fiona climbed the stairs to the porch. It was bright and spacious, constructed of smooth timber and white, paper-like walls, giving a view of the dark garden. White globes glowed with mellow light from the high ceiling, and the straw-mat floor yielded pleasantly under Jo’s feet. A table had a vase of cut flowers, artfully arranged.
Jo had never felt ashamed of the messiness of the Odd-Fish lodge before, but in the elegant lodge of the Wormbeards, she felt awkward. She understood now why Fiona had regarded the Odd-Fish lodge with distaste. Compared with this, the Odd-Fish lodge was a slum.
Jo said, “So…I like your lodge.”
“Thanks.”
“I have a question,” said Jo. “The mission of the Odd-Fish is to research our Appendix.
What’s the Wormbeards’ mission?”
“We’re artists,” said Fiona. “We have all sorts here—painters, composers, musicians, architects, whatever. I’m a sculptor. In fact, I’m working on something for the Desolation Day festival tomorrow. You can come to my studio after dinner, if you want.”
Jo and Fiona had a private dinner in a little room overlooking the courtyard, where a few branches from the shimmering tree poked in through the window. The food was bland, and there wasn’t much of it, but Fiona apologized: “Everyone here is fasting before Desolation Day. I suppose they’re doing the same at your lodge.”
It was true, Jo thought; everyone was fasting at the Order of Odd-Fish. But why? Jo didn’t know what to expect from tomorrow’s Desolation Day ceremonies. She knew that almost everyone in the city was expected to attend. But whenever Jo asked anyone about the festival, she only received vague replies.
“So…how long have you been in the Wormbeards?” said Jo.
“All my life,” said Fiona. “My parents are both knights. They’re on expedition right now, but the lodge takes care of me. Fuorlinis have always been knights, going back hundreds of years.”
Why was she being so nice? Fiona made pleasant dinner conversation with Jo, without a trace of the nasty tone she had taken at the Odd-Fish lodge. Jo almost thought that it might be possible to have Fiona as a friend. After dinner, Fiona invited Jo up to her studio, and by that time Jo was entirely at ease.
Fiona’s studio was a large concrete bunker smelling of plaster and clay and paint. The studio housed tons of bulky equipment, including kilns, throwing wheels, and bins of found objects. Fiona’s bedroom adjoined the studio, and there was a large furnace in which some pots bubbled over with goo. Reinforced glass doors insulated the studio from the heat and flames.
As soon as Jo entered, her attention was struck by a giant sculpture in the center of the room. She felt her throat shrink. She hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was.
“It’s for the Desolation Day parade tomorrow,” said Fiona. “Guess what it is.”
“It’s…the Ichthala,” said Jo.
Fiona smiled. “What do you think?”
It was horrifying. The sculpture was a monstrous idol, twenty feet tall, a lumpy, bulging, grotesque tower ridged with fins and scales, a mishmash of teeth, claws, horns, tentacles, arms, bones, and legs, blazing with viciously clashing colors, and all somehow wrong: swollen to disturbing size, shrunken to meaninglessness, discolored, grafted on or torn off. But Fiona was a skilled artist: Jo could see the difference between the lean muscle, the protruding bone, the rough hide, and the blisters and boils that erupted all over. Tangled hair, hardened with dried blood, bristled from between cracks in its reptilian armor and dangled down its scabby back. Its mouth seemed ready to snap up and devour her. The idol looked alive, a shambling, snarling, unclean beast, built out of all the rejected parts of the world.
“The city commissioned me to make the Ichthala this year,” said Fiona. “Why don’t you have a seat? We can talk while I finish this up.”
Jo sat down. Fiona climbed a stepladder next to the idol and started painting on the opposite side. For a while they didn’t speak.
“The All-Devouring Mother fascinates me,” said Fiona.
Jo had noticed. All around the studio, there were paintings, sketches, and sculptures of the All-Devouring Mother. Photographs from Teenage Ichthala were scattered on a workbench.
“So you watch Teenage Ichthala?” said Jo.
“A lot of my work follows the show and the traditional myths about what the Ichthala looks like,” said Fiona. “But this is more of my own vision. You’re friends with Audrey Durdle, aren’t you? She does a pretty good job, considering.”
“Considering?” said Jo.
“Well, the show is a fantasy, isn’t it?” Fiona smiled. “Although the Ichthala is real. I don’t necessarily agree with how they make the Ichthala look, or how Audrey Durdle plays her. I mean, the All-Devouring Mother could look like anything, couldn’t she? She could even look like me. Or you.”
Fiona’s hand was gripping a knife. Jo stiffened—but then she saw Fiona was just using it to carve the face of the idol. She slowly relaxed.
“Maybe the Ichthala doesn’t even know that she is the Ichthala,” said Fiona, almost as though she was talking to herself. “Maybe the Ichthala is just a normal girl and doesn’t know what she is or the terrible things she’s done. Or…maybe she does know?”
“That could be,” said Jo carefully.
Fiona gazed at her sculpture. “When I was a kid, I used to fantasize that I was the Ichthala. I guess every girl does at one time or another. Who knows? Maybe I am. It would be something to have that kind of power, wouldn’t it?”
“It sounds tempting,” said Jo.
“I can tell we’re both interested in the Ichthala,” said Fiona.
“It’s an interesting topic,” said Jo. She had tried to sound noncommittal, but she feared she had sounded dismissive. For a while Fiona didn’t reply, and Jo wondered if she had offended her. But then Jo realized that Fiona was simply absorbed in her work. For about fifteen minutes Fiona worked, and Jo sat quietly, wondering if Fiona had forgotten she was in the room.
“There.” Fiona leaned back and nodded. Then she came down the ladder. “I’m finished. It’s my best so far…. Want to see what I’ve done?”
Jo came around and looked.
She couldn’t help it—she gasped. Fiona smiled with silent triumph.
It had Jo’s eyes.
“I think it’s a good addition, don’t you?” said Fiona. She came over to Jo and looked at the sculpture with her. “Kind of brings it all together, doesn’t it? Makes it make sense?”
The eyes were definitely her own. And the head—Fiona had resculpted the monster’s face in such a way that it now bore a resemblance to Jo’s own. It was hideous to see, like a mirror of herself in hell.
Fiona grabbed Jo’s arm. Jo struggled to get away, but Fiona forced her into the corner, pushing herself against her. Jo tried to scream, but Fiona roughly covered her mouth, murmuring: “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone until after I’ve killed you. At the Dome of Doom. I’m going to kill you, Ichthala.”
“I’m not—”
Fiona bit Jo’s earlobe, hard.
“Oww! What’s wrong with you?” Jo touched her fingers to her ears. They came away bloody.
Fiona smiled, blood on her teeth. “Now I know it’s true.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” shouted Jo, backing away.
“I saw the way you looked at those eyes!” said Fiona. “I know it’s you! And I’m the one who’s going to destroy you!”
“Fiona, stop, I—”
“No! Shut up! Stop lying!” Fiona opened a drawer and took out Jo’s manuscript; Jo gave an involuntary shriek. “I know everything!”
“That’s mine!” shouted Jo, running at Fiona. “You stole it! That’s mine!”
Fiona opened the furnace doors, and before Jo could stop her, she tossed the manuscript into the furnace. It burned up instantaneously, and the room filled with a powerful exhalation of heat.
Jo stopped in her tracks.
“Now get out of here,” said Fiona.
Jo couldn’t move. Fiona shouted and lunged, and only then did Jo snap out of her shock, scrambling toward the door. Fiona was still walking toward her, her eyes filled with hatred. Jo ran out of the studio, stumbling down the hallway. She heard nothing but the blasting moan of the furnace. She backed away blindly down the dark hallway, pain stabbing through her ear, not knowing where she was going.
A butler showed her to her room.
Jo couldn’t sleep. At any moment she expected Fiona to slip into her room and do something terrible to her. Her head was spinning, too many frantic thoughts bubbling and boiling to even come close to sleep, but she needed sleep badly, and morning was fast approaching. She finally fell into a thin and dream-wracked doze; it felt as if she had only been as
leep for a minute when someone banged on her door.
“Everyone up. It’s Desolation Day.”
Jo couldn’t tell what time it was. There was no day or night outside her window, just the underground courtyard and its glittering tree. It could have been morning or afternoon—she didn’t know. She was exhausted and disoriented, and everything seemed painfully vivid and yet unreal.
A cockroach butler entered the room and laid out some clothes for her to wear.
“What time is it?” said Jo.
“Four in the morning.”
“Go away. I need to sleep.”
“No sleeping in today,” said the butler sternly. “Get up and put these on.”
Jo looked at the unfamiliar clothes the butler had laid out. “Get me my own clothes. I don’t want these.”
“You have to wear these.”
“I want my own clothes. That’s an order, butler!”
The cockroach withdrew without another word. Jo was astonished. A butler had never disobeyed her before. She had nothing else to wear, so she reluctantly put the clothes on: a long gray dress with a gray veil. She was so bleary and muddled that only after a minute did she realize it was the costume of a Silent Sister.
Butlers swept through all the rooms, forcing everyone out of the lodge and into the courtyard. There were about two dozen people under the metallic tree, all dressed as Silent Sisters. Jo couldn’t tell who was who. Nobody spoke. A lit candle was handed to her. Soon everyone had candles. A line formed and began to climb the staircase through the tree.
Where was Fiona? Jo ached to see a familiar face, or any face. But there were nothing but blank veils everywhere. She stumbled to the back of the procession. Wax dripped from her candle onto her dress. She could hardly see what was happening through her gauzy veil.
The procession trudged through the tunnels of Snoodsbottom. Everywhere Jo looked, everyone was dressed as a Silent Sister and holding a candle. There was no sound but the shuffling echo of footsteps and the rustle of skirts.
The Order of Odd-Fish Page 29