by Jenn Thorson
Mary Ann looked to the desk. “Are you writing another book? The last one of which I knew was Lady, Croak No More.”
“Oh, dear child, that was twelve books ago,” the bird said with a merry flap of her wing. “I’ve done very well in the suspense genre of late. There’s been a huge market for my raven detective novels. The readers just flock to them, you know.” She indicated a stack of books at one end of the room, presumably the library. They were almost the size of the raven herself and it must have been no end of trouble getting them into the nest. The covers were beautiful, ornate things, covered in twining flowers. The Shattered Egg, by Lenore Nightwing. The Human, by Lenore Nightwing. The Talon Terror by Lenore Nightwing. And so on.
Mary Ann looked back to the desk and pointed to a machine there taking up the bulk of surface space. “Now, that contraption is fascinating! You simply must tell me what that is.”
“Oh, that? Yes, I’m quite pleased with that. It’s an entirely new way of printing words, my child. It’s a bit like a portable press. You may recall, I used to dip my beak in ink to write. But it left such a dreadful aftertaste, it made everything from carrion to carpenter ants taste like ink. So now I have this little gadget.”
Mary Ann leaned closer, captivated. “And how does it work?”
“Hunt and peck, dear child,” said Mrs. Nightwing, “Hunt and peck. You just press the letter of the alphabet you want, like so …” The bird demonstrated, pressing a key, which connected to a little arm on the machine, that in turn struck a ribbon with ink, then the paper. It was miraculous. It made a marvelously satisfying clatter. In a moment, Mary Ann could read the perfectly typeset word:
Nevermind.
“Actually,” said the bird, rereading, “I believe that should be two words … Ah, well. That’s why we have editors.”
“It’s remarkable,” said Mary Ann. “I didn’t know such a thing had been invented.”
“It hasn’t,” said the bird with a wink, “but it will. Turvian invention, you know. Manufacturing first, then the invention. I’ve had this ‘writetyper,’ as I call it, for several years. And —” The raven gasped. “Oh, my goodness, where are my manners? Please, child, have a seat!” She indicated a chair made from twigs, twine and a sea sponge. As Mary Ann sat, Mrs. Nightwing held out a bowl. “May I offer you a beetle? Some grubs? They’re fresh!” Indeed, they were, for they were still squirming around in the dish.
“Er, no, thank you. I’ve already had some grub this morning.” But it was toast.
Mrs. Nightwing nodded, set the bowl aside, and perched down in front of her desk. “So, about what topic did you come to speak with me?”
Mary Ann had been so interested in the writetyper she’d almost forgotten. “I was just wondering, since you lived so close to my father … Did he ever mention any … enemies?”
“Enemies?” The raven cocked her head thoughtfully. “Why, not so as he ever expressed. He is very much his own man, your father. He doesn’t need an unkindness to make him feel comfortable.”
Mary Ann raised an eyebrow. “What unkindness?”
“No, not an unkindness,” Mrs. Nightwing went on, thinking. “A … murder?”
“I’m sorry?” By now Mary Ann’s heart was thumping and her mind was awhirl. Had Mrs. Nightwing been witness to what had happened? Was word getting around? Did she have information?
“Perhaps that’s solely for crows,” the raven continued, almost as if to herself. “What do you humans call a group of your people who share space together?”
“A family? A crowd?” stammered Mary Ann. Now it was starting to making sense.
“Yes, just that. A crowd,” said the raven. “My goodness, you’ve come over so pale, my dear! Are you quite all right?”
“Yes,” Mary Ann pressed a hand to her face, “I’m fine. Fine now.”
“I’ll get you some water,” said Mrs. Nightwing.
Mary Ann looked around the lady’s home while she bustled off for the pitcher and a glass. In addition to mud, twigs, feathers, paper, fabric scraps and tufts of furniture fluff that comprised the nest’s walls and ceiling, there was an odd assortment of objects included there, as well. Here Mary Ann spied a child’s marble, there a die, there a thimble, all much larger than she was used to them being, given her current size. There were also some bits of broken bottles and a remarkable number of shoes. Tiny shoes — doll shoes, perhaps — since they were almost twice the size of the marble and all basically the same — shiny and white. It created an interesting texture to the place. “You have quite a knack for design. So many unusual objects you have worked together.”
“Oh, these old things?” But Mary Ann could see the lady was pleased that she’d noticed. “I just pick up whatever’s around. What people toss aside or forget. Waste not want not, we ravens always say. There you go, child.” She handed Mary Ann a glass of water. “Would you like a maggot in it? I find it adds some flavor.”
“Er, no, thank you. Plain will do.” She took a long enough drink of the water that it made it worth the lady’s trouble.
“So if you don’t mind my asking: why do you think your father would have any enemies?”
Mary Ann had not been prepared for questions in return. She looked hard at the raven, whose face was open and sincere. Her eyes fell on the stack of mystery books that the lady had penned. (Or, more recently, writetyped.)
And Mary Ann found herself explaining the entire situation. “I’m at a loss, Mrs. Nightwing,” she concluded somewhat out of breath. “I’ve no real power. I can’t accuse a courtier of Neath of anything without putting myself in jeopardy. If I had any evidence beyond my own eyes — some motive, some tangible item I could bring forward as proof — then maybe. Maybe I could bring it to Lord Carmine. But the only one related to my father who seems to have any questionable intent is my father’s business partner. And that man’s suddenly packed up and left. Not to mention, based on what I’ve learned, he doesn’t seem to have had much interaction with Neath. If anything, based on the account books, my father had more motive to murder him.” Mary Ann shifted in her chair. “You write mysteries. You have a fine mind. What would your characters do?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Nightwing, tapping the tips of her wings together in thought. “In my books, when my detective reaches an impasse such as yours, he usually sits down to examine his Ises and Isn’ts.”
“Excuse me?”
“That is to say, he examines the things that Is that Aren’t. And conversely, those that Aren’t, that Is. Or Are, rather.” She settled into her chair. “Is that clearer?”
“Like a pudding,” said Mary Ann.
Mrs. Nightwing gave a croaky laugh. “The trouble with our brains, no matter how fine they are, is that we often don’t know what we don’t know. I’m talking of the sort of thing we take for granted that Is, that in our minds simply Must Be, but not only Isn’t but Never Has Been. We’ve accepted that thing unquestioned for so long, that it’s Become. But it still Isn’t. Not really. Those are the points my detective looks for. The Betweens. In Turvy, as well as Neath, my dear, we are filled to the brim with Betweens. We exist on Betweens. Nothing is what it is for long.”
“I don’t know what happened with Nothing, but Nobody is wanted for questioning in the rath case,” Mary Ann said, trying to be helpful.
“Well, Nobody will get far on Nothing. Mark my words.”
“How do I find my Ises and Isn’ts?” Mary Ann asked. Her head was starting to throb a little and she wasn’t sure if it were from the conversation or her reduced size.
“I suggest you start at the beginning, child. Take the thing of which you’re most certain, most firm, most unshaken. Then dismantle your truths from there. You’ll end up with a terrible pile of bits and bobs, and likely some extra pieces. Still, knowing’s worth the time for reassembly.”
Mary Ann left Mrs. Nightwing with a small bag of grubs “to snack on for the journey home” and a spinning brain. It was the latter, she thou
ght, and a need not to offend her kind hostess that led to her accepting the former. Especially since she wasn’t quite ready to return to Carmine Manor yet. She had one quick stop she wanted to make first.
She sorted out her size issues with a bit of Burgeonboosh and turned at the lane that read, “Goodnuff.”
Noting the fine weather, Mary Ann knew better than to knock at the cottage. Instead she went directly to the meadow in back of it. She could see Professor Cyril Goodnuff crouching in the brush, like a creature of prey himself, though a lumpy, awkward one in kneeboots and breeches. Mary Ann came up quietly but wasn’t sure of the best approach to catch the gentleman’s attention. Speak aloud and she’d startle the fellow to death, along with whatever he was watching. Tap him on the shoulder, and she might get caught in that butterfly net the man had at the ready. She settled for clearing her throat.
The man turned, grinned a grin broader than even that of Chester the cat and motioned her close, to come down into the grass where he crouched. He whispered, “Be very quiet, or the whole mission’s done for.”
“What are you doing?” Mary Ann whispered. She looked among the grass and flowers before them, but spied nothing.
“I’m trying to lure a Passing Fancy,” he said and gave her a confidential wink, like she’d practically written the definitive paper on the subject, so he was letting her in on a good thing.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with what that is,” she admitted, hating to disappoint him.
“Why, it’s only one of the rarest and most unpredictable creatures in Turvy. No one has as of yet photographed one in the wild.”
Then a thought occurred to her. “Does it wear funny spectacles and a false nose and mustaches and have a body like a banana skin?” It seemed very likely to be that thing she and Rufus had seen running around outside Carmine Manor.
But Professor Goodnuff quickly shook his head in the negative. “Oh, not at all. No, a Fancy’s got legs like party streamers and a body like a cream cake, a head like a cherry and eyes like boiled sweets. So it is said, anyway.”
To Mary Ann, it sounded more like the man needed his tea. “How do you lure it?”
“It operates entirely on its sense of whimsy. Goes however the spirit moves it. Follows the way of the wind … The twinkle in the eye … The rumble in the lower bowel.”
“So, basically, you’re just waiting in case it shows up,” she said.
“Yes.” He grinned. “Only way to catch a Fancy.”
“How long have you been out here?” she asked, for what parts of his face weren’t covered in wiry grey whiskers seemed to be quite sunburned.
“Four hundred and thirty seven days,” he said. “But I feel certain today’s going to be a lucky one.”
“While we wait,” said Mary Ann, who had been looking for a good way to introduce the reason for her visit (it was getting toward tea after all), “I don’t know if you recall me, but —”
“You. Yes, you! You’re the Yellow-Headed Mary Ann. Eats predominately seafood, berries and porridge and is recognizable by its distinctive yellow hair, full cheeks and overbite.”
“Er, well, yes, I suppose …” It was somewhat more flattering than Mr. Milliner’s comments about her appearance, at least. “I am rather off seafood now, after eating it so often as a child but —” She tried to redirect the discussion. “I’ve come because I wondered if you’d spoken with my father recently.”
“Your father?” He thought a moment. “Oh, the Great Taciturn Carpenter! Known by its rough, stained hands, sinewy forearms and stiff mandible.”
It didn’t sound that far off.
“Ah, by recently: how recent do you mean? You see for the last four hundred and thirty seven days, I’ve been enmeshed in this project of mine and haven’t had much company.”
Mary Ann decided to try another angle on this. “Do you recall ever hearing talk of any enemies of, er, the Great Taciturn Carpenter?”
“Well, there was, of course, your mother.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, the Wild Roaming Clarissa,” he said. “Same yellow crown feathers as yourself, erratic behavior patterns, mostly nocturnal. Oh yes, she was trouble. Predatory species.”
“I can’t say,” Mary Ann replied. “I don’t really remember anything about her.”
“Sure, she left your father when you were just a tyke. But she joined the White Turvian Resistance when the Battle of Square Four happened. Ran off to her White Turvian roots and became a pawn for the King and Queen of that side.”
“My mother was White Turvian?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the professor. “We knew when she married your father that the match was doomed from the start. But, every now and then you’ll have that with varied species. I think it has to do with proximity, myself, and — You look surprised, dear girl. Didn’t you know?”
“My father never spoke much about my mother,” she said.
“Well, your father shipped you out to Neath, didn’t he, before the battle made it to this Square? He tried to keep you out of it. So it’s hardly a wonder.”
“He told me I had to go because children were to be seen and not heard. Because I made too much noise and asked too many questions.”
“Well, you did! That’s a child for you. That’s their job. But two things can be true at the same time and your mother was a traitor to the Red Turvian cause.” He scratched his chin. “What’s prompted all these questions about your father?”
“I’m not sure any more.” Mary Ann rose to go. “Thank you, Professor. You’ve been very enlightening.”
“A Running Joke,” the man called to her.
“Pardon?”
“Your friend the spectacled, false-nosed banana skin. That’s a Running Joke. To catch them, you need to find their source.”
“The punchline?”
“Certainly not!” he said. “To really understand ’em, you need to get ’em where they start. You see, those chaps pop up wherever you find some particularly concentrated humor. Just spawns ’em right out. But don’t you worry … You see ’em once, you’re bound to see ’em again, until they completely wear out their welcome.”
“Oh, thank you ever so much, Professor!” she said, a bounce coming into her step. “This is joyble news! Good afternoon to you! And best of luck with your Passing Fancy.”
“I think today might just be the day,” he said.
13
“It’s a Running Joke,” Mary Ann whispered as she passed Sir Rufus in the hall before tea.
He frowned. “What is?”
“That creature we’ve seen twice on the Manor grounds. I spoke to an expert in the field about it.”
“Which field?”
“The one behind his house,” she said.
He gave her a look. “I meant field of study.”
“Oh. Well, he’s a Turvian zoologist. He says it’s a Running Joke.”
“And this matters to me, why?” He folded his arms.
“He said they’re spawned from concentrated humor. I have this feeling that if we find out where the Running Joke begins its journey each day, we’ll find your wit and whimsy again.”
He shook his head with an expression of actual pity on his face. “Mary Ann, that’s mad.”
“Precisely why it’s worth a go,” she said. “Do you or do you not want to get your humor back?”
“Of course I do,” he said. “Yet, the longer it’s gone, the harder it is to remember what it was even like when I had it. If I think very hard, I can almost remember the carefree times when humor both brightened the good days and soothed the bad ones. But it’s fading fast.”
“Then we’ll make this a priority.” She wondered about taking on too much, but the offer did have Sir Rufus looking a bit more hopeful.
“You!” Mrs. Cordingley seemed to have emerged from the ether. She snapped her fingers at Mary Ann. “There you are. Come here. Cook has an errand for you.”
Watercress. The
dinner salad demanded it, said Cook, and when your side dishes spoke, a proper chef listened. Of course, a proper chef didn’t go fetch the ingredients herself. She sent someone less important to get them and Emmaline was already up to her eyeballs in gravy boats, tureens and silver polish.
That was all right. Mary Ann was never against getting some extra fresh air. She knew the patch of watercress of which the cook spoke, an enthusiastic little thicket of it along the banks of the Topsy River. Mary Ann had missed this river, having lived in Neath so long. She had vague memories of playing along it. It wasn’t always here, of course. Sometimes it was a series of streams, sometimes a tiled bath and sometimes a gravel lot. But when it showed up, it gave so much.
She was pleased to see it was here at the moment. The trouble was, so many people were here, as well. Lord Carmine’s guards trod the reedy shores, backs to her, right at the spot in which she was hoping to wade. “All right, men,” said a fellow on a horse. “On three. One … two … three!”
It was obvious the job was completely unplanned, or the task would have been done backwards and neatly executed. But now she saw the men clasping ropes, straining to drag something from the river …
Something that was not very forthcoming. Initially, Mary Ann felt sour about the state of the watercress. They were crushing it, churning the waters and dredging up mud. What kind of trouble would she be in when she got back to Cook, watercresst-fallen and failed? Why, she would be …
Dead.
The body slid onto the bank, at that last great heave. At first, Mary Ann didn’t recognize it, so tangled in vegetation as it was. But then she spied the color of the fabric. A bright pink. A cerulean blue. And patterned trousers, the silk now stained and sopping.
“J. Sanford Banks,” gasped one of the men.
Oh no. She moved closer, barely daring to breathe, and could now see the fellow’s boat, or rather, what was left of it —shards of wood spiking from between rocks.
“Drownded,” assessed a Tweedle, examining the body. From this distance Mary Ann couldn’t tell which Tweedle it was. Crouching, he was almost a ball. “Full of water his lungs are. Suffixiation.”