The Order of Odd-Fish

by James Kennedy

  She wasn’t a monster.

  Sir Oliver saw Jo’s reaction. “Yes, you’re okay, mostly,” he said. “The gold thread that held the All-Devouring Mother together also bound you to it. Once the monster fell apart, the metamorphosis started working backward. We almost didn’t recognize you when we first found you. But you’ve been coming back to your old self, little by little.”

  Sir Oliver paused, weighing his words. Then he said:

  “Except for your wound from the Belgian Prankster. That you will always have.”

  Jo almost couldn’t hear him. But she could move a bit. The more she tried, the more blood seemed to flow back to her limbs, and she felt like a statue coming to life. She managed to lift her arm. Slowly, with difficulty, she reached behind her neck and felt around. The wound was there, but barely there, a tiny closed mouth.

  Then darkness crept in the corners of her vision, stars blinked and swirled—she fell back, her breath shallow and painful.

  “Don’t strain yourself.” Sir Oliver gently put her arm back, adjusting her pillow to a more comfortable position. “You’ll be able to move eventually. For now, just rest. Although…there is something I must tell you.”

  Jo stared at him blankly.

  Sir Oliver took a deep breath. “Lily is dead.”

  The fact hit Jo like a hammer. In a dim corner of her mind she’d hoped that Aunt Lily might come barging into her room with some wild, hilarous story of how she survived—the kind of thing that only happened to Aunt Lily, some crazy combination of chutzpah and ludicrousness. Jo would laugh till her ribs hurt, Aunt Lily would already be planning their next adventure, and…

  Jo’s face crinkled, but her body was so drained she couldn’t cry. She tried to speak, but all that came was a dry croak. She closed her eyes, all the breath came out of her, and she lay very still.

  For a long time Sir Oliver did not speak. When Jo finally opened her eyes, he was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. He looked at Jo and gave a small, lopsided smile.

  “As for the rest of us, the knights and squires…we’re the worse for wear, but all alive, fortunately. And perhaps a bit wiser. Sir Festus, at least, no longer talks so enthusiastically about dying in the glory of battle.” Sir Oliver paused. “A sprained nose has that effect.”

  A noise involuntarily came out of Jo, something more like a cough than a laugh.

  “Seems you’re coming around.” Sir Oliver peered carefully at her. “I admit there were days we lost hope. A couple of times we almost lost you. I don’t mean to shock you, but…you’ve been unconscious for about a month.”

  Jo’s eyes widened.

  Sir Oliver nodded. “Thirty-eight and a half days, to be precise. In fact, today’s the day of the Grand Feast. That means you have been in Eldritch City for one year exactly.”

  Jo could hardly comprehend it.

  “It’s been a nerve-wracking month.” Sir Oliver looked at Jo with concern. “We brought doctors in, but it seems modern medical science is ignorant on how to treat a half-digested ex-goddess. When we found you, you weren’t much more than a glob of burnt skin, teeth, bones, inside-out guts, strings of cartilage, and…feathers?” Sir Oliver looked genuinely puzzled. “Why on earth had you sprouted feathers?”

  Jo answered by drooling.

  “I’m going to call that progress.” Sir Oliver wiped away the drool with his handkerchief. “We ransacked the archives for what to do. The best research we could find was from a certain Dame Zulinda, who specialized in avant-garde hypochondria. But even Dame Zulinda, in her most extravagant fantasies, never envisaged an affliction like yours. In the end, we had to accept the inevitable and use the tools we had at hand. Yes,” said Sir Oliver gravely. “I was obliged to dither.”

  For the first time, Jo was glad she couldn’t speak.

  “At first I merely fudged, I hedged,” said Sir Oliver, his eyes growing distant. “Then I floundered, I waffled, I malingered…I noodled about, I loafed…”

  The door opened and Daphne came in with a stack of blankets. At the sight of Jo awake Daphne’s eyes widened, she gave an involuntary “eep!” and threw the blankets down, running back out the door.

  Sir Oliver watched Daphne run away with a faint smile. “Everyone’s been taking turns watching at your bedside,” he explained. “There’s a betting pool over who’d be with you when you woke up. I’m happy to say that you have made me a moderately wealthy man.”

  Jo could hear Daphne shouting downstairs, and a murmur of voices answering. She looked up at Sir Oliver, her eyes frightened and questioning.

  Sir Oliver nodded. “Don’t worry, Jo. Nobody blames you for what happened. Some buildings were destroyed, but it could’ve been much worse. Very few people were killed. The city knows they owe their lives to you. The Silent Sisters gave you a terrible fate—we know. And you handled it better than anyone could have asked.”

  All around the lodge, the mumble of voices rose to a roar as doors slammed and feet ran up and down the hallways.

  “But I have to apologize to you.” Sir Oliver sighed, and for once there was no twinkle in his eyes. “We were wrong, Jo. Me, and Lily, and Korsakov—we didn’t want to believe you were the Ichthala. We thought all you needed was to be protected from the Silent Sisters. But we should have told you more. We should’ve trusted you. Still, Lily said that even if we were wrong…even if you were carrying the soul of the All-Devouring Mother…she assured us you’d never do what the Belgian Prankster wanted. And in that, at least, she was right.”

  Jo hardly heard the last sentence; the words Belgian Prankster made her body go cold. In her bedroom, in the cozy haze of being half awake, she had almost forgotten about him. Her heart pounded against her fragile chest.

  Sir Oliver saw the panicked look in her eyes. “It’s okay. You don’t need to worry about him anymore. We didn’t find the Belgian Prankster’s body, but…” Sir Oliver hesitated, then stood up and held out his hand. “Actually, Jo, let me help you up. I have something you need to see.”

  At first Jo thought she couldn’t possibly. But Sir Oliver helped her put her feet on the floor, and with difficulty, she was able to stand. He held her up, and Jo took one step, and then another, and together they inched out of the room, out into the hallway.

  Step by hobbling step, Sir Oliver helped Jo around the corner, and they made their unsteady way to the staircase, and down into the common room. Jo squinted around: it was just as she remembered, with Sir Festus’s and Colonel Korsakov’s favorite overstuffed chairs, the fireplace, the huge head of the Prancing Gobbler, the ranks of bookcases and portraits, and…

  Something new was on the wall: a withered tube mounted over a dirty scrap of paper. At first Jo didn’t understand what she was looking at—and then she gasped.

  It was the Belgian Prankster’s stinger, nailed to the wall, right above a ragged note that Jo had forgotten about:

  Sir Oliver turned to Jo and shrugged. “A slapdash memorial, I know, but we were in a hurry and…”

  But he never finished. A great happy shout went up, and Jo turned and saw that the room had filled with the knights, squires, and butlers of the Order of Odd-Fish. She couldn’t hold it in anymore, and collapsed into a sob of relief. Sir Oliver held Jo up as everyone gathered around her, cheering. She remembered her first morning at the lodge, the first time she had walked down these stairs, when she wished there was something she could do, something to make her feel like she belonged in the Odd-Fish.

  Jo closed her eyes. She had done it.

  The cocktail party before the Grand Feast was supposed to be subdued, but it quickly got out of hand. Even though the lodge was still draped in black in mourning for Aunt Lily, everyone was so happy and relieved for Jo that all somberness was swept away by a giddy hilarity.

  The faces and voices passed by Jo in a whirl. Somewhere inside, she had given up any hope of ever seeing any of the knights or squires again, so even the sight of Albert stuffing his face with cheese and crackers made her unexpectedly emot
ional.

  “What?” said Albert, crumbs falling from his lips.

  Everyone wanted to hear Jo’s story, but she could still hardly manage a whisper, so she had to be content to sit while everyone came and went, talking to her. Only one thing bothered her—Ian. He was nowhere to be found, and she was afraid to ask after him.

  Meanwhile, Nora and Audrey had swooped down on Jo and, after hugging her so hard that she felt her bones might break, immediately plunged into a frenzied dialogue that Jo could barely understand.

  “You should’ve seen yourself the past couple of weeks!” said Nora in her high-pitched gasp. “Every time I came into your room you had changed into something else! One day you looked like you were made out of, I don’t know, a billion crumpled-up little squids! Then a couple days later you had become like a…what…a kind of…what, Audrey?”

  “A fish monkey?” said Audrey.

  “Exactly! A slime-leaking fish monkey! We had to change your sheets, like, once an hour or so! You smelled like rotten cheese and gasoline! Dame Isabel was in heaven! What did it feel like, Jo, huh?” Nora shook away her long tangled hair and her eyes emerged, huge and bright. “What happened?”

  “Give her a break, she can barely speak,” said Audrey. “By the way, Jo, they asked me to act in another drama about you, about your adventures in Eldritch City. Like a Teenage Ichthala—the Sequel.”

  Nora looked confused. “But who would play you then, Audrey?” A bolt of pleased surprise went through her face. “Wait…who would play me?”

  “But I told them no,” said Audrey. “Anyway, I’m not an actress anymore. As of last week…”

  “Audrey’s an Odd-Fish!” said Nora.

  Jo stared at Audrey, her mouth open.

  “Yep, I’m Dame Myra’s squire now,” said Audrey. “Turns out she’s wanted a squire for years and was just too shy to request one. I’m moving into the lodge tomorrow!”

  Audrey and Nora were soon shoved aside by other squires and knights who wanted to see Jo—Phil and Daphne wanted to tell a long story about flying their ostriches against the All-Devouring Mother, Maurice was smiling and continually saying “good work, good work,” even after everyone had stopped listening to him, and Dugan kept running back and forth with drinks and appetizers for her. There were so many questions Jo wanted to ask, but it hurt to speak; she felt like someone had scoured her throat with sandpaper. Still, her strength was coming back, bit by bit, and soon she found she could even hobble around the room.

  Meanwhile, Sir Alasdair hauled out the urk-ack and played it for a couple of songs, with the cockroaches’ band accompanying him, but it was so bad that everyone shouted at them to stop, especially when Sir Festus started singing. At one point Dame Isabel approached Jo and stiffly conceded, “I can’t say I approve of all the lies, but then again you did save the world, so I suppose it evens out in the end.” Dame Myra had strewn the lodge with curling ivy with luminous berries, and Sir Oort was hanging from them like a white-furred monkey, hiccupping and swinging from vine to vine, as Dame Delia chased him with a broom; Jo noticed that even Ken Kiang was there, although he seemed somewhat befuddled, trapped under the colossal Hat of Honor.

  “I’m not quite sure what’s going on,” said Ken Kiang, who was barely visible under the hat, his voice muffled. “Apparently I am now a knight. I suspect somebody, somewhere has made a tremendous error, and I have a creeping feeling it might be me. Er…I can’t move.”

  Just then Sir Oliver, Colonel Korsakov, and Sir Festus came roaring and singing around the corner, knocking Ken Kiang over. After hasty apologies Sir Oliver said, “By the way, Jo, I forgot. I have something that belongs to you.” He fished in his pocket and took out a silver ring. “I think you can wear this openly in Eldritch City now.”

  Jo held the ring in her trembling hand, turning it over, looking where it said JO HAZELWOOD on the inside. She remembered how she had felt when she first saw the ring, back in the ruby palace, when the ring had felt like a promise. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

  “By the way, Jo,” whispered Colonel Korsakov with childlike wonder, “what was it like inside the All-Devouring Mother’s digestion?”

  Sir Oliver said, “Time enough for that later, Colonel. The girl can hardly speak.”

  “Of course…but one day, over a roast beef and plum pudding, I’d love to hear the tale…”

  Sir Festus cut in. “And for my part, I’ll tell Jo about how I fought against the All-Devouring Mother! It’s a heroic yarn, of course, with plenty of derring-do, such as when I—”

  “Wait,” rasped Jo with difficulty. “How did you all get to fight? Dame Isabel said you had all been locked up in prison.”

  “Quite so,” said Sir Festus. “But it seems someone in the Order of Odd-Fish was owed a favor by Oona Looch. No sooner were we incarcerated than Oona Looch herself came around, bringing all our weapons and armor, demanding our release. Raised quite a fury. I recall her holding the police chief up by his ear, five feet off the ground, when—”

  “When the Schwenk came.” Sir Oliver glanced over at Korsakov. “For some reason the Schwenk came blasting out of nowhere, with all the ostriches flapping after it, and broke us out of jail. Very inspiring.”

  “Of all the unutterable cheek,” fumed Colonel Korsakov. “Now I’m in debt to the beast.”

  Sir Festus said, “Funny thing about the Schwenk. I think it likes being hunted.”

  As Sir Festus and Colonel Korsakov began a loud, boozy debate about the psychology of the Schwenk, Jo glanced around—and happened to spot Ian, creeping past a hallway on the other side of the room, skirting the edges of the party.

  Jo felt her heart twist. Why wasn’t he celebrating? She tottered across the room toward him, holding herself steady on couches or tables, passing Maurice and Phil, who were trying to wake up an already unconscious Sir Oort, and a group of cockroaches excitedly passing around copies of the Eldritch Snitch. After a long, painful trek to the opposite hall, she finally made it to where Ian had been—but he wasn’t there. Jo turned around in a painful circle, confused and hurt. Was he avoiding her?

  Then she glimpsed Ian again, on the other side of the room, jogging down the opposite hallway. Jo groaned, heaved herself up, and staggered back into the party, stumbling and weaving through the knights and squires, her legs numb and clumsy.

  Just then Sefino climbed on top of the piano, clearing his throat and taking huge gulps from a suspicious-looking bottle. Jo winced, for she knew what that throat clearing meant: he was going to make a speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” proclaimed Sefino. “I hold in my hand a newspaper—”

  “You hold in your hand a bottle of whiskey,” Albert pointed out.

  “I hold in my other hand a newspaper,” continued Sefino, waving it about. “And I am gratified to announce that we butlers of the Order of Odd-Fish have finally received our just due from the Eldritch Snitch. Though I once doubted I would ever say this, Chatterbox has redeemed himself, and I can confidently declare that our epic feud with the Eldritch Snitch has at last reached a happy resolution.”

  “What did they write?” said Daphne.

  “It’s at the end of the article detailing Jo’s little misadventure with the All-Devouring Mother,” said Sefino. “I direct you to the final paragraph. I shall allow Sir Oliver the privilege of reading it aloud.”

  “Honored, I’m sure,” murmured Sir Oliver. He put on his glasses and read, “During the battle between the All-Devouring Mother and the Order of Odd-Fish, the Odd-Fish butlers were to be found in a local tavern, carousing, capering, and consuming to excess, according to eyewitnesses. The butlers were reprimanded for disorderly conduct by the Eldritch constabulary, and Sefino was charged with public indecency.” Sir Oliver looked at Sefino. “This doesn’t seem quite so…”

  “Read on, read on,” said Sefino airily.

  “Ah…yes, the last sentence. Although a disgrace to Eldritch City in general, and the Order of Odd-Fish in particular, it will
be noted the butlers all wore irreproachable ascots.”

  “Vindication!” roared Sefino. “There is such a thing as justice, after all.”

  By this time Jo had managed to hobble across the common room to the hallway where she had seen Ian. Again he was gone. Jo leaned up against a banister, breathing hard. She could hear the babble of the party, she even heard Nora asking where she had gone to, but she was too tired to make it back. She sat on the floor in the dim hallway, alone, and then the bell rang for everyone to change into their feast robes and come to the banquet room. Footsteps pattered up and down the halls, and she only heard the squires coming and going from the closet where they changed into dining gowns. She could hardly summon the energy to make it there.

  The bell rang again, far away, in the banquet hall. Jo picked herself up; she couldn’t spend the rest of the night lying in a dark corner while everyone else was whooping it up in the banquet hall, and soon the knights and squires would start to worry. Her body aching all over, she started toward the squires’ closet to change into her own dining gown. The last few steps, and she grabbed the doorway, pulling herself into the closet.

  Ian was in the shadows.

  Jo stopped, too surprised to speak. Shouts and hoots buzzed down the hall, but in the closet it was silent. It was almost too dim to see. Jo couldn’t even tell what was in Ian’s eyes.

  “Where have you been?” said Jo, out of breath.

  Ian did not speak for a few seconds; then he said, very quietly, “I was out of the lodge when you woke up.”

  They stood in the dark and Jo had no idea what to say. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read him.

  Finally Ian said, “I heard about your aunt, Jo. I’m sorry.”

  Jo stared into the darkness. He sounded like he was sorry. She wanted more than anything to touch him, to make up with him, but she couldn’t find the words, couldn’t find the energy.

  “Ian, are you still…?”

  Ian didn’t say anything.

  Jo came closer to Ian. “You don’t…still blame…”