Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  "We ought to go quick," Caleb muttered. "I ain't easy in my mind, leaving her all on her own at the shop. Sommat might happen to her."

  "She cannot get into any mischief shut up in her box," said Jenk, "so long as you made certain to close the catch."

  "Aye," replied Caleb. "But that ain't what worries me. She can't cause no mischief, that's certain sure—but what if some mischief comes to her?"

  Jenk shook his head. "Sometimes, your concern for that unnatural little daughter of yours becomes tiresome."

  The gates of the ancient graveyard were closed but not locked. Jenk pushed one open very slowly, lest the rusty hinges creak. Then he and Caleb moved silently among the old monuments and the tilted gravestones until they came to one of the larger mausoleums.

  As they were now some distance from the lighted street, Caleb uncovered his lanthorn. A high fence of iron pickets surrounded the tomb, and Jenk broke the lock on the elaborate wrought-iron gate with his crowbar. It was a noisy business.

  "My dear Caleb, I believe you are trembling," whispered Jenk. "But who are you to fear the dead?"

  "Guess I'm as easy with the dead as any man," Caleb hissed back at him. "But my nerves ain't what they once was, and I don't care for all this racket."

  The marble mausoleum gleamed white in the moonlight. One section of the wall, not far from the door, had collapsed. Jenk dropped his crowbar, and passing the basket and the papers over to Caleb, he bent down and crept through the opening. Then Caleb handed the lanthorn through.

  "As I had hoped." Jenk's voice drifted out of the tomb. "The steps leading below appear to be sound."

  Caleb stuck his head through the opening and crawled through. Jenk had already reached the head of the stairs. When Caleb caught up with him, they descended into the vault together.

  The bones of the dead lay neatly arranged on marble slabs. Weird frescoes and carvings were on the walls, stylized figures from another age, which Caleb found oddly disturbing. Had the men of the past truly seen themselves and the world they inhabited with a vision so skewed and distorted—or had the world changed and the races mutated since then, achieving their present forms?

  Jenk, however, was impelled by an odd sense of urgency. Without so much as a glance at the frescoes, he set the lanthorn down on a slab, opened his basket, and began to lay out the contents: a piece of chalk and some black candles; a dagger with a long, wicked blade; a tinder box and a little charcoal brazier. There was also a crudely made wooden doll, about twelve inches high, and something stiff and furry, loosely wrapped in a piece of old cloth.

  "What's that lot?" Caleb asked, indicating the last two items.

  "The corpse of a grey cat, and a wooden man to house the spirit when he comes," said Jenk. "There is a little chamber inside, containing a mummified human heart."

  Taking the chalk, he drew a five-pointed star upon the stones at his feet. He lit five black candles, setting each one on a separate point of the pentagram. Then he unwrapped the corpse of the cat, with its awkward, rigid limbs and its staring green eyes, and placed it near the center of the figure on the ground.

  Jenk drew out the medallion, from a pocket in his waistcoat, and a little bag containing the crumbling remains of the cloth from the coffin. He wrapped them both around the doll. "Now we are ready to begin," he said, standing the wooden man up at the center of the pentagram, propped up by the corpse of the cat.

  He handed the roll of papers to Caleb. "Hold these up near the light, beginning with the first page, so that I may read them."

  "It ain't too late to be changing our minds," said Caleb, shifting uneasily away from the dagger in Jenk's hand.

  "I have no desire to change my mind. And do not flinch so . . . I have no intention of using this dagger on you," said Jenk, with dry humor. "Now, how does the spell run?" he asked, as Caleb held up the first paper. "Ah, yes!"

  And with the words impressed more firmly on his mind, he turned, skewered the cat, and began to chant the invocation.

  Dawn was staining the eastern sky when Jenk and Caleb left the tomb and trudged wearily toward the bookshop. A fog rolled in from the river, and the two old men shivered in the early morning chill.

  "Guess we can try again at the full moon," Caleb said. "Pay Matthias and Walther to help us cart the coffin up to the boneyard on Fishwife Hill. I told you it weren't likely to do no good, your spells and conjurations, without we had the corpse along with us at the time."

  "Yes, you warned me," said Jenk, in a hard, bitter voice. "You were on hand to nay-say me on this occasion, as indeed on so many others."

  Caleb, startled, turned to look at him. "Here, now, you ain't blaming me? It weren't no way my fault your spells was too weak."

  "Was it not?" said Jenk. "But I think it was. You with your reluctance and your disbelief, draining the spells of their power. I am determined to try again when the moon is full, but without your assistance, Caleb—without your interference."

  They continued on to the bookshop, each entertaining his own angry thoughts. The street lamps were burning low by the time they arrived at the door, and Jenk spent several minutes fumbling about in the misty darkness before he was able to fit the key in the lock.

  As soon as they entered the shop, they both knew that something was wrong. A thumping and a banging and a high-pitched wailing issued from the room at the back.

  "I knowed she'd come to some harm, we kept leaving her alone in that box!" exclaimed Caleb, rushing heedlessly into the darkened shop and crashing into a bookshelf along the way. Recovering, he felt his way to the laboratory door, where he rattled the lock and shook the door in a helpless rage until Jenk, following more cautiously, produced the key.

  The door opened on a scene of destruction. Rather than leave Eirena totally in the dark, Caleb had left a burning oil lamp hanging from a beam in the ceiling. The oil was nearly gone, the flame growing dim, but it provided enough illumination for the two old men to see the broken flasks and vials scattered across the table, the overturned vats, the chaos of bent copper tubing, the sand and the water poured out upon the floor—and the staggering figure of a man wreaking havoc in all directions as he groped blindly about the laboratory, knocking over the equipment and clawing at his face in a panicked attempt to tear the stitches from his eyes.

  Eirena's box lay open on the floor, and the tiny creature ran frantically around the room, in her efforts to avoid being stepped on. At the sight of Caleb, she flung herself at his leg, wailing and scratching, trying to climb up into the safety of his arms.

  Caleb reached down and snatched her up, cradling her protectively against his chest, and heading out of the room as fast as he could go. Jenk was only a step behind him, slamming the door shut and throwing his body against it.

  "Guess we done better than we thought," Caleb said, in a shaken voice. "But what—what do you reckon we ought to do now?"

  "I believe the choice is clear," said Jenk. He tried to speak firmly but his voice wavered. "We must either calm him—and convince him to allow us to cut the stitches from his eyes—or else find a wooden stake and drive it through his heart!"

  CHAPTER 38

  Which the Reader may Choose to regard as the

  Calm before the Storm.

  With typical generosity, the Duchess insisted that she, and she alone, should provide costumes for Elsie and Sera. "The Wichtelberg lumber rooms contain any number of chests and boxes filled with old gowns and cloaks and wigs. And there is a clever little seamstress down in Pfalz who shall come up and see to the alterations."

  Accordingly, Sera and Elsie followed their hostess up a narrow, twisting flight to the attics. As Marella had promised, there were trunks and wardrobes and boxes all stuffed full of ancient clothing, most of it still in excellent condition. And besides hundreds of old garments there were the accessories: shoes with rhinestone buckles; kidskin gloves scented with civet and ambergis; amazing hats, hoods, and veils; vials of gold and silver dust—"An invention of the dwarves, I believe," said t
he Duchess—"to be worn on the hair instead of powder."

  They found also a number of masks, some quite elaborate, others very plain. "We used to wear these black velvet masks whenever we ventured out of the house," said the Duchess. "Oh, yes, I assure you, it wasn't thought decent for a well-born woman to appear in public without her mask, though the gowns we wore were often rather daring, and our shoulders and bosoms were shockingly bare, however we covered our faces."

  There was a lovely old gown of white brocade that seemed just right for Elsie. (Of course, thought Sera, it would be white. It is always white for Elsie!) "With the 'diamond' stomacher and the rhinestone buckles," said the Duchess, "and the spangled scarf, it will do very well for—Well, I'm not yet certain, but something allegorical."

  For Sera, she found an old court costume of midnight-blue velvet, with slashed sleeves, a jeweled bodice, and an underskirt of bronze-colored satin. (And of course, thought Sera, it is something as dark as sin for me! ) "Lady Nemesis, the daughter of Night," said the Duchess. "I know just what is needed to complete the effect."

  They went down to the Duchess's bedchamber to try on the gowns, and the little seamstress came, too, to pin them into the dresses as needed, and make note of the necessary alterations. But the Duchess would not allow the girls to look into a mirror. "You must not see yourselves in these dresses before the night of the ball, and then you will receive a delightful surprise."

  Elsie looked sweet and pretty in her white brocade. And in the sunlit bedchamber, Sera realized that her own deep blue velvet was not so dark and ugly as she had feared. But the gown was obviously one of the daring ones, with a low, square neckline that put Sera to the blush.

  "It does rather gape," said the Duchess, "but that may be easily fixed. It is nothing to take a gown in."

  "I think that it rather suits you," said Elsie.

  "But naturally it suits her," the Duchess exclaimed, "Sera is a young woman with a great deal of presence, and she carries these darker colors very well. Another girl would only look insipid."

  Then she laughed at Sera's expression of surprise. "Yes, I know, you wish to dress like the other young ladies, and that is perfectly natural. And it does not help that Clothilde's gowns lack even a particle of style. But really, Sera, pastel satins are not for you. This dress is absolutely ravishing."

  This was a new thought—one that had never occurred to Sera before—that she might look anything but hideous in her made-over gowns. She looked from Elsie to the Duchess a little warily, wondering if they were teasing.

  But Elsie smiled and shook her head, saying with some of the old warmth in her voice, "Dear Sera, I have tried to convince you of this before. You always look so dramatic in Mama's old gowns. Like a princess in disguise!"

  It was the fortieth day of the season of gathering, and in the counting-house at Master Ule's it was the usual hustle and bustle of letters to be written and accounts to be rendered before the turn of the season.

  "Mr. Braun," said a voice at Jedidiah's elbow. Jed looked up from his ledgers to find one of the journeyman glassblowers standing by his desk. "Mr. Braun, that lot of crystal flasks as the gentleman ordered from Vien, it don't look like we'll finish in time to ship them out. That last load of barilla, the salts was very poor."

  "Aye, very well," sighed Jed. "A letter to the gentleman in Vien, begging his indulgence, and a stiff note to the merchant who sent the glasswort. I'll see to them both, first thing in the morning. "

  "Mr. Braun," said the boy who swept up the offices, "you're wanted in the warehouse."

  Jed pushed back his chair, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out his watch. It still lacked an hour 'til four o'clock, he noted with relief; he might yet make it in time for tea at the bookshop with Uncle Caleb.

  "My dear Jedidiah, I thought I had given you the afternoon off," said Master Ule, when Jed returned to his desk.

  "Guess I haven't had time," said Jed. "I'll just tot up these figures and—"

  "You will do nothing of the kind," said Master Ule. "You are a conscientious lad, but you are working much too hard. A pleasant visit with your granduncle is precisely what you need."

  Jed nodded glumly. "Guess it won't be so pleasant as all that. Uncle Caleb hardly makes me feel welcome anymore. And him and Mr. Jenk, they're both so queer and . . . and skittish, I don't exactly know what to make of it."

  "I do not wish to pry," said Master Ule. "Particularly knowing that interference from this particular quarter might prove unwelcome . . . but Jedidiah, I hope you know that if you should ever require any assistance or advice, Mr. Owlfeather and I are entirely at your service."

  "Aye." Jed reached for his hat and jammed it on his head. "I know that well enough. But I reckon this is something I've got to handle on my own."

  The bookshop was locked and shuttered, but Caleb came down to admit Jed, then locked and bolted the door again.

  "Thought you wasn't coming," said Caleb, as he hobbled up the steps, lighting the way with the stub of a candle. "Mayhap that would of been best; I don't feel much like company, and that's the solemn truth."

  "I'll make the tea," said Jed. "I'll set the table. And I brought gingerbread and a pork pie. You don't have to do anything, just tell me how you been."

  Caleb pushed open the door at the top of the steps. "I been tired. Not surprising, for a man of my years." He limped over to a chair in the little sitting room and sat down heavily. "But I do well enough. I do well enough. You ain't got no cause for concern."

  Jed looked around him. The room had recently been tidied—rather surprising with Sera out of town and Caleb looking so peaked. And Gottfried Jenk had never been fastidious; he was always too absorbed in his books and his musty old documents to pay any heed to mundane things like dust and dirty dishes. "Where is Mr. Jenk? Seems he's generally out, these evenings when I come around."

  "He's took to his bed," said Caleb, shifting his eyes in an odd sort of way. "No, you can't look in on him—he don't want no visitors. Likely he's sleeping, anyways.''

  Jed filled the teakettle and hung it over the fire. Then he took a seat opposite his granduncle. "Just how long has Mr. Jenk been ill?"

  Caleb shrugged. "Must be five or six days now. I don't rightly remember. And don't you go for to tell me I ought to of sent for a doctor—there ain't no doctor yet come up with a cure for old age, and I reckon that's all that it is."

  "If it's the doctor's fee you're worried about, I guess I could help out," Jed offered.

  Caleb reacted with surprising vehemence. "High and mighty, high and mighty! You think you're such a swell—tell the old folks how to go on, and throw your money about. But we don't want no interference from you, old Gottfried Jenk and me, nor yet none of your charity!"

  He glared at Jed resentfully. "No, and there ain't no need for you to keep coming around, neither, with your fancy new clothes and your high-toned ways! You got new friends, a decent job, why should you bother with us at all?"

  Jed heaved a sigh. He had thought it might be something like this, the cause of Uncle Caleb's growing coldness. "So that's it; you think I'm getting above myself. I could—I could quit my job," he said wearily. "If that's the thing that's come between us."

  "Now, now," said Caleb, shaking his head, softening considerably. "There ain't no call to talk like that. I'm pleased to see how well you done for yourself. But—but the fact is, lad, your old Uncle Caleb, he's got no place in this new life of yours. You're a rising man, you're—"

  Jed felt a hard lump forming in his throat. "If I've worked hard to raise myself," he said, "I always intended to raise you up with me. Do you think it was all done for my own gratification? You took care of me when I was small, and now it's my turn—nay, it's my pleasure and my privilege—to do for you."

  "You can't raise me up," said Caleb. "Truth is, I'm much more likely to bring you down. Fact is, I ain't no credit to you."

  "It's not a fact," said Jed. "It's not anything like a fact." He pounded his fist on the arm
of his chair. "I have no cause to be ashamed of you. You've some education, and you know how to go on in polite company. Weren't you once a footman in the house of a jarl?"

  "I used to know how to go on," said Caleb, tugging meditatively at his pigtail. "Used to be, I could talk near as good as you do now, but that were a long time ago. I been down too long, and it's the solemn truth: I just ain't got the strength to climb up again.

  "But you . . ." The old man smiled at the recollection. "You was always the bright one. Yes, and you had all them good instincts, too: 'the sensibilities of a gentleman', that's what Gottfried Jenk once told me, and I never forget it, neither."

  Caleb heaved a mighty sigh. "I know I was inclined to be rough on you," he said. "Acted like I wasn't pleased when you read your books and learned your lessons; told you it weren't your place to be so particular about where the money come from or what we had to do to get it; wanted to toughen you up, as I reckoned it wouldn't do you no good to be so finicking, the life you was going to lead. But now it turns out . . . you had the right of it all along: you was fated to be a gentleman from the day you was born.

  "If you're looking about for someone to raise up along of you," he added, "look to your ma and the girls."

  Jed sat up a little straighter in his chair. "I don't forget my mother, and I don't forget my sisters. I've sent them money, and I mean to do more. But it was always you and me, Uncle Caleb," he added wistfully, pleadingly. "The two of us always partners. That hasn't changed, and it never will."

  Caleb's face had hardened again; and his voice, when he answered, was gruff. "It has changed . . . we ain't partners no more! And it's past time you learned to accept it."