Dark Little Wonders and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “For two hundred years?” I reply. “How many copies have been made in that time? How many do you need?”

  “No copies have been completed.”

  “Seriously? Why not?”

  “Because Ms. Fabricci insisted that each copy must be absolute and complete. Even the slightest error, whether typographical or otherwise, renders the entire facsimile useless and means that we must start again. Given the complexities of the original manuscript, and the conditions under with each transcriber must work, it is simply a sad fact that we have not yet managed to fulfill Eleanor Fabricci's desire for a full, complete and perfectly accurate facsimile. Always, at the end some error was found to have crept in. So the work goes on, and we can only hope that some day an executor and a transcriber will manage to create a copy of the manuscript, and then...”

  He pauses, before checking his watch yet again. Then he looks over his shoulder, as if he thinks he heard something, and he hesitated before glancing back at me.

  “Soon it will be eleven,” he continues, “and I must leave you before then. Let me explain how this works.”

  Stepping closer to the cabinet, he takes a gold chain from his pocket and then holds it up to reveal a small key dangling at the bottom.

  “You must work at the desk,” he explains, “and only at the desk. The one exception to this rule is that you are to come over to the manuscript in order to read another section that you will then add to the copy.”

  “Can't I bring the pages over and just copy right here?” I ask.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But -”

  “Ms. Fabricci specified as much in her original instructions. Under no circumstances, Ms. Culper, can you write anything unless you are seated at the original desk.”

  “Okay,” I say, even though the rule seems kind of silly and arbitrary. “If you say so.”

  “Whenever you need to turn a page in the manuscript,” he continues, setting the key into a slot at the bottom of the cabinet, “you are to unlock the cabinet in this manner.” He turns the key, and then he carefully opens the two glass doors. “Then you are to take the pair of leather gloves at the bottom and put them on, and then – and only then – are you permitted to carefully turn to the next page in the manuscript. Do not touch the book with your bare skin.”

  Looking down, I see some leather gloves nestled at the bottom of the cabinet.

  “Once you are done, you must close the cabinet again and lock it,” he explains, “and then remove the key and keep it on the desk. Please, Ms. Culper, remember every detail of your instructions. There can be no short cuts, no inventions or conveniences of your own. You must follow the instructions as if your life depends upon them, and you must work at a steady pace. Remember, it is vitally important that you make no errors. If you notice an error on a page, you must immediately take that page down to the furnace in the basement and burn it. Don't delay, don't keep the page for reference, don't do anything except hurry to the basement and throw the page straight into the fire. You'll be fine, so long as you're quick enough. Then come back up and start anew on that page. Do you understand?”

  “Uh, sure,” I reply, still taken aback by how formal and weird this whole arrangement feels. “If those are the rules, then those are the rules.”

  He checks his watch again, as if he's worried about leaving before eleven.

  “And I'm sure I do not have to tell you,” he continues, heading to the desk and setting the key down for me, before hurrying to the far corner and retrieving his coat and hat and briefcase from some hooks, “that you absolutely cannot have company here. One of Ms. Fabricci's rules is that the transcriber must work entirely alone in the building from the hours of eleven at night until seven in the morning. You are not to play music, or to amuse yourself in any similar manner. You are simply to work, in silence as much as possible, until I return at seven o'clock. Is that perfectly clear?”

  He checks his watch again.

  I check my own and see that it's five to eleven.

  “Is that clear?” he asks, sounding a little frantic now.

  “Sure,” I reply, “but I'm starting to think that maybe -”

  “And I shall give you your two hundred pounds in the morning upon my return, in cash.”

  “Well, I -”

  Stopping suddenly, it takes me a moment to register exactly what he just said.

  “Two hundred?” I ask cautiously.

  “That is the rate we are offering for a full night's work. Take it or leave it, Ms. Culper, but decide now because there really isn't much time.”

  “I mean, sure,” I tell him, still shocked to think that I could make that much. At two hundred a night, I'll be able to afford Myrtle's operation in no time. “But if -”

  “Everything else should be self-explanatory,” he adds, hurrying to the door. “I shall see you at seven in the morning, Ms. Culper, and I wish you a pleasant night. Just stick to the task you have been assigned and everything will be absolutely fine. If in doubt, use common sense. If in further doubt, focus on transcribing and ask in the morning.” He stops in the doorway and turns to me, and now he seems rather flustered. “Fare thee well, Ms. Culper,” he continues, as he sets his flat-cap on the top of his head. “Try to enjoy your work. And above all, make sure that you do not make any errors. Not one mistake can be committed to the final copy, do you hear? Not one. Why, if a mistake makes it through...”

  He hesitates, and then he looks around for a moment as if he half expects there to be somebody else here with us.

  “Just don't make any mistakes,” he adds finally, turning to me again. “And if you do, make sure to burn the page immediately. It's the only way.”

  With that, he turns and hurries away, and I listen to the sound of him rushing down the staircase. A moment later I hear the front door open and then slam shut, followed by the sound of a key turning. I think he just locked me in the building.

  “Okay, then,” I mutter, turning and looking back over at the cabinet that contains the original manuscript. “I guess I'd better get started.”

  Four

  Masi enliven forthmagait. Tenduso og. Velidion tempress a.

  I write each word carefully, from memory. Sitting at the desk in the center of the room, I dip the quill back into the pot of ink before making a few minor corrections to the lettering, and as I work the only sound comes from the quill's tip as it scratches against the page. To be honest, that sound is becoming quite reassuring and helps to keep my mind off the fact that I'm all alone in a large, old and otherwise completely empty house that doesn't even have any electricity.

  Candles flicker and burn nearby, providing just enough light to let me work.

  Velidion tempress a.

  “Velidion tempress a,” I say out loud, committing the spelling to memory before getting to my feet and heading back to the cabinet, where I double-check that I've got the latest section down without any errors.

  Once I'm sure I'm right, I take a look at the next few words, which appear at the very bottom of the right-hand-side page.

  “Molion,” I read. “Casprian delirium half foor.”

  Huh.

  Delirium is actually a real word. That's something I've noticed over the past couple of hours, since I started work. The Fabricci manuscript might be a mess of made-up stuff, but every so often I stumble upon a word that exists in English. It's hard not to try deciphering the lines, and I keep trying to find patterns or little clues that might help me understand exactly what I'm writing. I know, I know, smarter people have probably been working on this thing for centuries, and there's no way someone like me is going to make a breakthrough, but I just keep looking for something – anything – that might give me a clue as to what this manuscript is all about.

  So far, however, I've come up with diddly squat.

  “Molion,” I read again. “Casprian delirium half foor.”

  Confident that I've committed those five words to memory, I head back to the desk and retak
e my seat. Picking up the quill, I dip the end into the pot of ink and then I start writing, trying to stick to the sloping old-fashioned handwriting that's in the original book. To be honest, Mr. Shawyer didn't say anything about copying the original's style, but somehow it feels appropriate to be respectful of the source material.

  Yeah, respectful.

  That's the word.

  I mean, I still haven't wrapped my head around the story Mr. Shawyer told me. As I oh-so-carefully write down the seemingly made-up word Casprian, I find it very difficult to believe that two-hundred-plus years of this business haven't yet resulted in a single accurate copy of the original manuscript, although I suppose I'm in no place to argue. If that's what Mr. Shawyer says, then it must be true. I work carefully to get the last few words down, and then once I'm finished I take a step back and read over my work.

  That's a second whole page done, which isn't bad for my first night. It's only 3am, and it's already time for me to open the cabinet and turn to the next part of the book.

  Slipping the key from my pocket, I get to my feet and head across the room. My footsteps ring out, breaking the quiet of the house in a manner that makes me feel just a little guilty. Once I reach the cabinet, I slip the key into the lock and give it a turn, causing a slight clicking sound, and then the glass doors creak slightly as I open them up. For a moment, I almost feel nervous about touching this old book, but I tell myself that I just need to get on with the job. Reaching into the cabinet, then, I take the edge of the page and -

  “Damn it!”

  I pull back at the very last second as I remember the leather gloves. I take the gloves and start putting them on, while telling myself that there's no reason to worry. The tip of my right index finger brushed against the book's edge, but there's no way I caused any damage. Still, I need to pay a little more attention, so I make sure that I've got the gloves on properly before finally I reach in again and very carefully, very respectfully turn the surprisingly heavy page to reveal yet more text waiting to be copied.

  Once I'm done, I close the cabinet doors and turn the key, but then I realize that I'm still wearing the leather gloves. Sighing, I'm about to open the cabinet again when I realize that I'll probably be opening it later anyway, so I simply remove the gloves and set them on the table before leaning closer and taking a look at the first line of the new page.

  Essi essi essi, no malor. Fengringham.

  Well that sure makes a whole load of sense.

  I take a moment to memorize those six words, and then I head back to the desk. To be honest, I'm starting to feel just a little tired, which is natural since I didn't even expect to be working tonight. Sitting down, I take a moment to rub my eyes and then I get to work, carefully writing the words I just saw in the book.

  “Essi essi essi,” I read out loud as I write, “no malour. Fengrin -”

  I stop suddenly as I realize that I've made a mistake.

  Malour should be malor.

  Sighing, I get to my feet and head back to the cabinet, and sure enough I see that I'm right. A little over four hours in, and I've made my first screw-up. At least it's at the start of the page rather than at the end, which means I haven't wasted too much time, although after a moment I remember Mr. Shawyer's instructions for how I should act in this kind of situation.

  “If you notice an error on a page,” he told me, “you must immediately take that page down to the furnace in the basement and burn it. Don't delay, don't keep the page for reference, don't do anything except hurry to the basement and throw that page straight into the fire. Then come back up and start anew on that page. Do you understand?”

  Seems strict, and kind of a little over-the-top, but I guess I shouldn't start cutting corners on my very first night.

  Taking the ruined page from the desk, I turn and head across the room. When I reach the landing, I realize for the first time that Mr. Shawyer didn't actually tell me how to find the basement, but I figure there's an obvious place to start looking. I make my way down the steep staircase, keeping hold of the railing in case I slip, and when I get to the hallway I find that a few candles were left burning for me. Looking around, I spot several doors, but there's one in particular that seems to lead to a space under the stairs, so I walk over and pull the door open, and sure enough I find another set of steps heading down into absolute pitch darkness.

  I instinctively reach out for a light-switch, but of course there's nothing to be found. Candles are fun, but sometimes a girl wouldn't mind some good old-fashioned electricity.

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out my phone and bring up a flashlight app, which at least allows me to see where I'm going as I start cautiously making my way down the dusty staircase. The boards creak beneath my feet, and I'm worried that at any moment one of them might break and send me hurtling down to a neck-breaking crunch at the bottom, but somehow I make it all the way and finally I spot some light flickering beneath a door. I step closer and turn the handle, and then when I pull the door open I'm shocked to see a large basement room with flames roaring in some kind of incinerator at the far end.

  I guess that's the furnace that Mr. Shawyer mentioned.

  Putting my phone away, I head over to the basement's far side. This room is pretty hot, and there are various thick metal pipes running out of the furnace and up into the house's higher floors. Even with a heavy door in place, the furnace is pretty loud, and when I crouch down to take a closer look I see flames roaring on the other side of the glass. For a few seconds I feel a little reluctant to open the small metal door at all, but when I reach out I find that the handle is insulated, so I take a deep breath before pulling the door open. I quickly throw the piece of paper inside and slam the door shut, and in a flash the page burns and then disappears in the inferno.

  “I guess that was that, then,” I mutter, getting to my feet.

  So far, so good.

  I turn and head out of the basement, taking care to shut the door properly behind myself, and then I head up the rickety stairs and through to the hallway. My legs are aching a little from all the steps, and as I shut the second door I make a mental note to minimize the errors so that I don't have to make quite so many basement trips. Frankly, I don't understand why I can't just cross out any mistakes and add corrections. I mean, it's not as if a typo here or there really matters, but I'm not in a position to argue with Mr. Shawyer's rules so I head back to the main staircase and begin the slow, steep climb up to the landing.

  One side benefit of this job, at least, should be that I become a little fitter.

  Reaching the main room again, I head to the desk and prepare to get back to work, but then I notice that something seems a little out of place.

  The leather gloves are resting on the desk, next to the pot of ink.

  I feel a sudden chill run up my spine, because I know that I left the gloves over by the cabinet. In fact, I distinctly remember the moment I set them down, and I sure didn't move them after. I hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out whether there's anything I've forgotten, but a slow sense of realization creeps up onto my shoulders as I turn and look slowly around the room.

  There's no-one else here.

  There shouldn't even be anyone else in the house.

  Yet when I look back down at the gloves, I'm more certain than ever that I left them over by the cabinet. I even remember thinking that I should lock them away properly, as per the rules, but as I reach down now and take the gloves in my hands I realize there's no explanation for how they could possibly have moved over here to the center of the room.

  I pause, before walking to the door and leaning out to listen once again to the silence of the house.

  “Hello?” I call out, and my voice immediately sounds so small.

  I wait, but of course there's no answer.

  I open my mouth to call out again, to make myself a little louder this time, but at the last moment I hold back. Somehow it would feel wrong to disturb the silence and, besides, I know that there's nobo
dy else here. And if somebody else had shown up, it's unlikely that they'd simply move a pair of gloves and then be on their way, in which case there's really only one possible explanation.

  I was wrong.

  I remember putting the gloves next to the cabinet, but obviously after that I inadvertently carried them over to the desk. I could swear that's not what happened, but I also can't argue with the fact that the gloves were on the desk just now. And I'm not the kind of person to start believing a pair of gloves could magically move by themselves.

  “Whatever,” I say under my breath, as I turn and head to the cabinet. This time, I take care to unlock the doors and pull them open, so that I can set the gloves back into their proper place.

  Then I shut and lock the doors, and I re-read the manuscript's last line before going and sitting back down at the desk. It's about half past three, and as I yawn I remind myself that I've still got a few more hours in which to get some work done. The last thing I want is for Mr. Shawyer to come back in the morning and be disappointed that I haven't made enough progress, so I quickly start writing again.

  “Essi essi essi,” I say out loud, pronouncing each word clearly and carefully as I write, “no malor.”

  Yeah.

  Nailed it.

  Five

  The quill's tip scratches against the paper as I carefully and rather slowly add the loop to another letter. Once that's done, I lean back and admire my latest sentence, and I read it over several times before I'm satisfied that I got it down exactly right.

  “Vendi memorian,” I read out loud. “Pu larner exto im. Ando til -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a sudden clicking sound in the distance. Turning to look out at the landing, I feel a brief flash of fear that quickly ends as I realize that I must have lost track of time.

  Sure enough, when I look down at my watch I see that it's bang on seven in the morning, which means Mr. Shawyer is right on time.

  I take a deep breath, and in an instant all the tiredness comes rushing back into my body. I guess I managed to fall into some kind of trance, but as I hear Mr. Shawyer making his way up the staircase I start sorting through the pages to make sure that everything's in the right order. I managed a total of three and a half of these large sheets, each of which is filled with meticulously copied versions of the original text. And to be honest, I think I've done a pretty good job.