The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

  Her face clouded up again, and Mardox murmured, “There, there, Mistress. Tell me the lovely part, the part when we became one.”

  And so, in the gray morning light, Miss Carbunkle told the tale of how she found the manticore on the outskirts of a graveyard, at the edge of a barren field. She recounted how she had tripped over a root and tumbled down face-first into a ditch, twisting her ankle along the way. When she sat up, she knew she’d need help climbing out. That was when she saw the top of a cane sticking out of the earth. She saw his wooden hawk face, and their eyes met.

  Just when she needed help the most, there he was, unlike her family. They had never been there for her. Not once.

  “Your eyes flashed amber, and I felt something inside me. I had to free you. I knew it then.”

  The manticore’s face brightened. “Go on, Mistress! Please tell me the rest!”

  She told him that she knew how painfully he wriggled and writhed inside his wooden prison beneath the earth. She felt it. As though she were inside the cane, struggling to be free.

  She felt it all. How he had waited all those years, for decades, for centuries. And then she came. The one to whom he was meant to bind his soul.

  Even long after her ankle had healed and she had no need for a cane to lean on, she never took a step without it. The manticore was her confidant, and she was his protector. She rid the Home of mirrors, to prevent him from seeing his own reflection. For it was true that a manticore must never look upon himself, but only gaze at the one to whom he was bound — lest he accidentally see his own dark soul in the reflection . . . and perish.

  What she didn’t know was that she was but a stopping place along his way. And, that as special as she was — beloved by him, one might even say — there would always be Miss Carbunkles when he needed them. And they would always need him. For he was born of old magic, which, as we all know, has a mind of its own.

  After she had finished telling him the story, Mardox drifted off to sleep. Miss Carbunkle sat there, unmoving in the gray light, unable to shake her memory of that time. How she hated that time. The dreaded funeral, and all the horrible, cloying people clustering around her darling, sweet sister — that awful, awful creature, that freak. And the day before that, when she and Phoebe sat beside their father and watched him die. Even then, despite the fact that both of them had come to sit vigil, he still loved her sister more than he loved her.

  It had always been so, her father’s preference for the other twin. The oh-so-talented, silver-tongued beauty Phoebe Nightingale, the sister she hated with all her heart, or what was left of that small leathery sack inside her chest.

  They were not identical twins, in more ways than one.

  When the first twin arrived, the father sang out her name — Phoebe, named for his beloved wife. She arrived pink and beatific, with two tiny blue-black wings sprouting from each shoulder blade, just like her mother. But at the moment of the second twin’s birth, something went terribly wrong. When the baby emerged, red-faced and screaming, the mother let out a gasp, rolled her eyes heavenward, and was gone.

  For days, the child remained nameless. Its father was lost in sorrow and couldn’t bear to see it. A week passed, then two. Finally, after a month, the maid came into her master’s study, holding the infant in her arms, and said: “If you please, sir, the wee bairn needs to be called somethin’. What abouts Clementine for a name? Look at them chubby orange cheeks — round and bright as a fruit to be plucked, they are.” The infant’s father whispered feebly, “Call it whatever you like; just take it away,” and waved his hand for the maid and the child to leave.

  And from the day of his wife’s death, Clementine Carbunkle’s father preferred Phoebe, who had inherited her mother’s angelic voice and small fluttering wings. Wings that the family kept secret, just as they kept secret Clementine’s hairless, feathery head.

  Although the second twin could not carry a tune, Clementine had gifts of her own. But no one noticed.

  She invented things. Extraordinary things. Just like her father, the inventor. She kept the models she made for her inventions hidden in a cabinet, along with her diagrams, sketches, and intricate building plans. For not one soul in the house paid them any mind at all.

  The day both girls turned eighteen was the day their father suddenly took ill. Within a week, it was clear he was dying. He told the maid to call the girls to his bedside. They came at once.

  Phoebe and Clementine sat on the edge of his bed, one on either side.

  “I don’t have long, my dears, I know this now. So please listen to what I have to say.” He turned his head to young Phoebe, who was weeping and clutching his hand. “There, there, my darling girl! No tears! There’s a good girl. My time is short, so listen: You, my Phoebe, my little songbird, shall be a great singer. You shall take your mother’s last name, the grand name of Nightingale. Certainly not mine. Carbunkle is no name for a shining star. A Carbunkle is one letter away from a pustule, a blemish, a boil. No — you, my darling . . .” He paused to cough violently. He took a sip of water from the glass Phoebe offered him and went on. “You, my dearest Phoebe, shall be the nightingale you were born to be, and sing to the world like your dearly departed mama, my one great love.” Tears filled his eyes as he said this. “You shall sing in the grandest concert halls across the world. Your trademark shall be your name and your cloak. It shall be rich indigo, like your eyes, and it shall conceal your secret inheritance — your beautiful blue-black wings.”

  Their father broke into a terrible fit of coughing. When he composed himself, he turned to Clementine. “And you, my dear.” He sighed and coughed again. “You must have a respectable profession, my dear Clemmy. Why not? Why should women always marry? Yes, you too shall go forth into the world and succeed.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, followed by another bout of coughing. Phoebe reached for her father’s hand and squeezed it hard. Her sister sat stiffly on the other side of the bed, her hands rigid in her lap.

  “As you know, my child,” he continued, smiling weakly, “you were not blessed with your mother’s musical gift like your dear, darling sister. It is unfortunate. But I know you can make your way in the world somehow. At first I thought . . . a nurse is a fine profession or . . . a secretary or . . . a companion to a high-hatted lady . . .” His sallow face brightened a little. “But then I hit upon it. You shall teach! As they say: those who cannot do can always teach. And you shall!” He coughed again. It was clear it was getting more difficult for him to breathe. “My dear Clemmy.” Oh, how she hated that name! It sounded like “clammy!” And her full name, Clementine, the name of a sour fruit, given to her by a mere commoner! “You are a smart girl,” said her father. “And while you did not inherit your mother’s talent” — here he paused again — “you have her strong will and . . . and I suppose you have a little of me as well. You have . . .”

  She waited for him to say the magic words she had wanted her whole life to hear: You have my gift for invention.

  Instead, he said in a feeble voice, “You have my family name — Carbunkle — which, although it does sound rather like an infected boil . . . will help you gain access to Society. And without your sister’s grace and talent, my dear” — he smiled weakly at her — “you will need all the help you can get.”

  He didn’t notice the pained, constricted look on his daughter’s face. How she pulled back from him ever so slightly, how her heart began to shrink at the very moment of his demise.

  “My dear girls,” he whispered hoarsely, for he was not long for this world. “Always be good, always be kind, and —” His voice broke off. He began to make terrible rasping sounds and seemed to be fading away.

  “Papa!” cried Phoebe, grasping his hands in hers.

  Several moments passed in silence, save for the sound of their father’s labored breaths.

  Finally, with great effort, he slowly turned his face to Phoebe’s, away from Clementine’s, and gasped, “My darling girl . . . you must reac
h for the stars. For you, they shall always be within reach.”

  And then he died.

  It was Phoebe who inherited his most miraculous invention of all: the Songcatcher. It was Phoebe who inherited the house — her mother’s family home, the lavish House of Nightingale — and everything in it. She inherited her mother’s gowns and her beautiful indigo cloak edged with tiny gray pearls.

  Clementine inherited a large crate of textbooks and money specifically earmarked for her training as a teacher and, afterward, to start a school, or orphanage, should she desire to do something to benefit the less fortunate of the world.

  When Mardox awoke from his nap, he knew from Miss Carbunkle’s face what she was thinking. “Do not trouble yourself about her, Mistress! She is not worth it!”

  “She is a constant reminder of what I do not have,” said Miss Carbunkle, punctuating each word in anger, for she had been fuming about her sister for the last hour while the manticore slept. “And I mean to stop her from having what she wants.”

  “Yes, Mistress. You must. And you know I shall do whatever it takes to help you.”

  The two sat for a while in silence as Miss Carbunkle stroked the creature’s ears.

  “Mistress?”

  “Yes, my pet?”

  “When shall we astonish them all, my lady? Do something terrible and grand? You know I have waited so very long.”

  “I know, my pet, I know. You must have a bit more patience. Your day will come. And when it does, you shall blaze in glory! You will reveal your power —”

  “Our power, Mistress. For we are one.”

  Her thin lips curled into a smile. “Mark my words, my pet. When the day comes, together we shall unleash your — our — extraordinary power. I promise you that.”

  ARTHUR DIDN’T STOP RUNNING until he came to Stinkbottom Bridge. Music poured out of the Swan & Whistle, floating over the waves. How he longed to go inside, take his hat off, and order a big plate of cheese toasties with a cold glass of milk. But it felt too risky, so he hurried down the towpath to the riverbank instead. An upturned skiff promised shelter. He grabbed hold of the gunnel, heaved up the side, and slipped below.

  He waited all day beneath the skiff, drifting in and out of sleep until darkness finally fell upon the City. It was time.

  Arthur crawled out from under his hiding place and stretched his stiff legs. Quintus had said he would know the boat when he saw it. When he spotted the red glow of a grease lamp coming from a weatherworn rowboat docked along shore, he wondered if it was the same vessel he had seen ferrying passengers across the river during his first night in Lumentown.

  Arthur crept up to the boat; he could barely make out the hooded figure hunched at the stern. Despite the fact that it was a warm night in June, the lumpy little man was wrapped in a heavy black coat and scarf, and his face was hidden in shadow.

  “P-pardon me, sir,” said Arthur. “If you please. Can you take me across the river?” He added, “Quintus sent me.”

  The ferryman spoke in a low, croaking voice. “We are the Norahc. We ferry the nameless, the hunted, and the lost.”

  Another voice piped up, a pitch higher, and repeated the words. “We are the Norahc. We ferry the nameless, the hunted, and the lost.”

  Arthur tried to make out where the other voice was coming from, but he couldn’t see anyone else in the boat. The man motioned for him to climb aboard. As he settled onto the hard splintery seat, a little head, identical to but smaller than the first, popped out of the man’s collar.

  “Oh, h-hello,” said Arthur nervously. “I see there are two of you.”

  The two heads said in unison, “We are the Norahc. We ferry the nameless, the hunted, and the lost.”

  A third head, much smaller than the other two, popped out and said, clearly annoyed, “Yes, yes. What they said.” He rolled his eyes toward the other heads. “We’re the Norahc, blah blah blah. Can we just get on with it?”

  “Oh, all right,” said the first head. He turned to Arthur. “Pay first, go second.” The third head grumbled, “Them’s the rules.”

  Arthur could now see his face — rather, all three faces. They appeared both human and amphibian: three frog-like heads with bulbous eyes and greenish skin. “How m-much is it to cross?” asked Arthur.

  “Show us,” said the second head.

  “Reveal,” said the first.

  “‘How much is it?’ he asks,” said the third head. He snorted. “Pony up.”

  Arthur removed the tag from around his neck. “Will this do?”

  The third head bit the disk and spat on the floor of the boat. “This ain’t gold or silver. What you playin’ at? You know how much we risk to take you lot across?”

  “It’s worth a lot of money to some,” said Arthur.

  “Not to us,” said the first head. The Norahc tossed the medallion over its shoulder. Arthur watched it sink into the water without regret. He next offered it the coin that Quintus had given him as he was leaving Wildered Manor. The first head blew on it and bit it hard, his bulging eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The Norahc slipped it into its pocket. “What else? What else?” murmured all three at once.

  The Norahc finally settled on the coin and Arthur’s rucksack and its contents: his new set of clothes and the red hat that Pinecone had given him. “Well,” said the first head, “this will have to do.”

  “I suppose so,” said the second.

  “We gets the dregs o’ the earth every time,” said the third.

  “Let’s just push off and go,” said the second head.

  Arthur still had the other coin tucked away, the one Quintus had given him the day he found his pocket watch below the floorboards. It was hidden with his baby blanket scrap and key. He was certain that he’d need some money when — and if — he made it below.

  The second and third heads sank back down into the coat. The Norahc grabbed a very long oar and stood up. It began rowing as if it were steering a punt in low water. But once they pushed off from shore, the river became very deep indeed.

  The fog swirled around the boat as they cut through choppy waves. The Norahc was silent. Arthur listened to the waves lapping against the boat and to night sounds floating over the river. Things drifted by in the wake: a piece of wood, a dead rat, a tattered fisherman’s cap, and the carcass of a pig. They passed a coal barge, a steamboat, and a cockleboat or two, causing the Norahc’s boat to rock violently in the black waters.

  Then a strong wind blew in from the east, and choppy waves slapped hard against the boat, tossing Arthur from side to side. He feared they might capsize and lamented the fact that he had never learned how to swim. But then, who would have taught him to swim where he came from?

  “If — if you please,” said Arthur. “Mightn’t it be easier if you . . . if you sat down?”

  “The Norahc does not sit,” said the first head.

  The boat continued to rock back and forth, the gunwales dipping dangerously in the river each time.

  The second head appeared. “Excuse me, but he does have a point.”

  The third head popped up and snapped, “Sit down or we’ll never get there. Besides,” he added, “we need to rest our bum.”

  The first head sneered. “The Norahc does not sit when the Norahc steers the boat.”

  “Well, I’ve never liked that rule to begin with!” said the second head.

  The three heads argued back and forth, causing the boat to rock even more wildly.

  Arthur suggested in a meek voice, “Ex-excuse me, not to be disrespectful or anything, but . . . shall I row? I mean, if it would help out.”

  He immediately regretted this, for, along with swimming, he had never ridden a boat in his life, let alone steered one.

  The three heads all stared down at Arthur, their froggish lips curling into three identical sneers.

  “I take that as a no,” said Arthur. He cleared his throat. “I’ll just . . . I’ll just sit here and be quiet, then.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “Lov
ely moon out tonight, don’t you think?”

  But the Norahc said nothing, and the second and third heads disappeared inside the creature’s coat.

  The tide was strong, and the Norahc rowed hard as it approached the shore. Arthur could see the kindling fires of Huddlers along the dock and riverbank. Finally, the boat reached the other side, about a half a mile downstream from Stinkbottom Bridge. There, Arthur disembarked, hatless, nearly penniless, and dressed exactly the same as when he had first arrived in Lumentown.

  “Good-bye,” he said to the Norahc as it swung the boat around and started back to the other side. “Thank you for the, uh, ride. Much obliged.”

  But all he could hear as the night swallowed up the boat were the creature’s words, drifting over the waves. “We are the Norahc. We ferry the nameless, the hunted, and the lost.”

  QUINTUS HAD SAID that when he reached the other side, he should look for a manhole near where the Huddlers gathered. Through it was the way down — the unofficial way down, that is. There was an official entrance near Lumentown Market: an entrance to a station for the subterranean trains of Gloomintown. But those trains were reserved for the ones who could come and go freely from one realm to the next — the High Hats, D.O.G.C. officials, and factory owners. Groundlings — the numberless ones, the hunted ones like Arthur, and the lost — had to find another way.

  Arthur came upon a group of Huddlers sleeping near a manhole, just like Quintus had described. He could see the steam rising around their bodies from the vents. One of the Huddlers, a gaunt young man, was kind enough to open the manhole cover and help Arthur down into the hole. From there, he descended a long rusty ladder that led into a large sewer pipe. He didn’t know what else to do but follow where the pipe went — down, down, down — sloshing through who knows what kind of filth.

  The stench was unbearable.

  He slogged through a labyrinth of pipes in pitch-darkness. The water — or whatever it was — came up to his knees and was as thick as pudding. It was so dark that Arthur couldn’t even see his hands in front of him. It felt as if the darkness crept into him and settled in his soul.