The Adventures of Lettie Peppercorn

by Sam Gayton

  “Why trick me?” Lettie said to the Snow Merchant. She understood the greedy old crones, but she could not fathom him.

  “It was a test,” the Snow Merchant spat. “And you failed. You were useless. I crossed oceans to find you, for nothing! I thought you were special. I thought you might . . .” He trailed off, looking bitterly at the snow. “I had predicted that this might happen.”

  “Really?” said the Goggler. “And did you predict this?”

  With a mere flick of the wrist, she whipped a small silver pistol from under her skirt. She cocked it, ready to fire.

  “What are you doing?” Lettie cried out in horror.

  “Be quiet while I am aiming!” ordered the Goggler, squinting.

  “I knew you two were horrible old bats! I never realized you were murderers too. Well, that’s enough.” Lettie held up her broom and waved the bristly end at the crones. “Get out! I’m—”

  With a jerk, the pistol moved from the Snow Merchant and pointed straight at Lettie.

  “You,” said the Goggler, “are a very irritating girl.”

  “You can’t kill me,” Lettie said, clutching her broom. “I’m twelve!”

  “I don’t want to kill you,” said the Goggler. “Not unless I have to.”

  “Then what do you want?” said Lettie.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” chuckled the Snow Merchant. “She wants the snow cloud.”

  “Of course I want it!” the Goggler ranted, her pistol whipping from Lettie back to the Snow Merchant. “It is incredible! It is magnificent! With those diamonds I could make jewelry fit for an Empress!”

  “But they are fakes!” declared the Walrus. “Worse than Zirconium!”

  “Only because they melt, you fritter-headed fool!” said the Goggler. “But we are on our way north, to a place even colder than here!”

  “If we take the cloud to Laplönd . . . we can make snow that will never melt,” said the Walrus slowly, as if just beginning to understand. “Not for a thousand years!”

  “That is not how alchemy works,” said the Snow Merchant. “You do not understand my problem.”

  “Oh, I am sure we could find a way,” the Goggler mused. “We are rich. We can have anything we want . . .”

  “. . . and we want the snow cloud,” the Walrus finished.

  “But you can’t wear snowflakes,” Noah pointed out. “You could never make them into rings or necklaces; they’d melt in a moment.”

  “Not if I took a drop of æther every day,” said the Walrus. “It would be a small price to pay for beauty.”

  Lettie shivered and wrinkled her nose. The Walrus was willing to be cold for the rest of her life, just to wear diamonds!

  “You’re mad, both of you!” she said.

  The Walrus and the Goggler ignored her, staring wide-eyed at the Snow Merchant’s suitcase, and Lettie saw the truth in her words. They were mad; they were obsessed. In their eyes was something Lettie saw in Da, every night before he went out gambling.

  It was a kind of hunger, as if they had a hole in them that could never be filled.

  Greed, thought Lettie. It’s got hold of them. Now they’ll never stop wanting snow for themselves.

  “Give me the suitcase!” the Goggler said to the Snow Merchant.

  “The æther too,” added the Walrus, her chins quivering in excitement.

  “I don’t think I shall,” said the Snow Merchant with a shrug.

  “Then I will shoot you and take it anyway!”

  There came a sound from the pistol, and though she had never seen a gun in her life, what Lettie knew in that split second was: That is the sound of the bullet sliding into its chamber.

  Lettie’s heart stuttered. Her legs quaked. She knew she had to take control of the situation and stop her guests from killing one another, but what could she do?

  “What can you do?” gloated the Goggler. “You are trapped!”

  “A situation I often find myself in,” said the Snow Merchant calmly, tightening his white-knuckled grip around the suitcase. “Fraudsters like me become accustomed to making a swift getaway.”

  “Then I shall not give you the chance!” said the Goggler. “Au revoir!”

  The Snow Merchant ducked.

  But the Goggler was not aiming for him.

  She pulled the trigger, and the silver pistol made a terrific BANG! that sent her flying backward and into the Walrus. The two of them tumbled head over heels into the armchairs, onto the floor, with the bullet thudding into the mahogany suitcase. It punched through the top and lodged itself in a lead buckle, an inch away from the Snow Merchant’s heart. Instantly the nimbostratus began to pour out of the hole.

  The Goggler might be mad, thought Lettie, but she’s clever too. There was no way the Snow Merchant could make his escape now, with the nimbostratus leaking into the living room. He shrieked and plugged up the hole with his finger. The Goggler, in a heap on the floor, reached for her pistol where she had dropped it.

  “Stop this right now!” said Lettie, springing forward. Moving on instinct, she took her broom and swept away the gun, sending it spinning under the pianola and into the cobwebs.

  “No matter!” said the Goggler. “I always carry a spare!”

  Pulling another silver pistol from her sock, she rolled off the Walrus, aiming for the mahogany suitcase again. Another bullet exploded from the silver chamber, thudding into the wood. A second hole! The Snow Merchant kicked off a shoe—which struck the Walrus on the nose—and jammed the hole with his big toe. With his free hand, he rummaged in his pocket.

  “Stop fighting!” roared Lettie, but she could barely hear herself over her ringing ears. No one paid her any attention. The Snow Merchant and the crones were battling over the suitcase and the extraordinary snow that lay melting in a pile upon the floor. It was a fight that would be won by whoever was greediest, whoever wanted snow the most.

  From his pocket, the Snow Merchant whipped out an alchemical bottle: a long, thin vial shaped like a J. The mammonia he had used to make the silver shillings. He uncorked it, to tip over the Walrus.

  Lettie raised the broom again but it was too late. The Snow Merchant raised the mammonia—there was a blue flash and he yelped. The nimbostratus had thundered inside the suitcase and electrocuted him! He dropped the vial and Lettie batted it away with the broom, hoping to send it under the pianola or into the fireplace. Instead it flew through the air, hit the Goggler’s pistol, and shattered.

  The Goggler shrieked and began to jump and skitter across the room, just like the pebbles had done in Lettie’s palm. Her hand and her pistol began to break up into tiny circles that Lettie realized were silver shillings. The fizzing stopped abruptly as loose change rolled all over the floorboards. The Goggler blinked three times at her missing hand, and fainted.

  “I’ve got it!” cried the Walrus, pulling out the first pistol from behind the pianola. Her fat fingers couldn’t pull the trigger, and Noah tried to wrestle it from her. She grabbed him by the stalk and screamed as his thorns cut her hand. In pain, she dropped the pistol, tripped over the Goggler, and stumbled toward the Snow Merchant, who reached for another vial. Not æther. Not the alchemical for shillings. Another.

  With a laugh he shook a single pink-colored drop on the Walrus’s bald, wrinkly head.

  A hole appeared, billowing green smoke and sparks as it got wider and wider and filled with steam and tea. The Walrus screamed. Her skin turned to china. One of her ears grew huge and became a handle with a chandelier hanging from it; the other became a spout!

  “He’s turned her head into a pot of darjeeling!” cried Noah, and Lettie remembered the words of the Snow Merchant from before:

  Every alchemical works a different change. Mammonia, for example, changes pebbles into shillings. Gastromajus, another of my potions, changes people into their last meal.

  The Walrus’s fingers felt around the edges of her head. With a trembling hand, she dipped a finger inside the steaming tea, and with a thump that set the whole
house creaking on its stilts, she fainted too.

  Lettie looked around her inn: the armchairs were broken, the rug was ruined, and the floorboards were soaked with tea. She dropped her broom, suddenly feeling very tired. Tidying up was going to take a long, long time.

  “I didn’t need your meddling,” the Snow Merchant snarled.

  Lettie gaped. “I wasn’t meddling; I was trying to stop you from killing one another!”

  “I could have beaten them without your help,” he replied. “I don’t need another apprentice.”

  “I’m not your apprentice,” yelled Lettie. “I’m your landlady, and I’m evicting you! So get out!”

  The Snow Merchant’s face was cracked and black with fury. “Good riddance, girl. You’re as troublesome as your mother!”

  Those words to Lettie were louder than gunshots.

  “What did you say?” she whispered.

  Had she heard him right, above the ringing in her ears?

  Of course she had.

  “You knew Ma?” whispered Lettie.

  “I did,” said the Snow Merchant. “And now I must make my escape.”

  It was almost as if he had baited her on purpose. If he had, it had worked: as he turned to the door, Lettie jerked forward like a fish on a hook.

  “No, wait!” she cried, wishing she hadn’t evicted him. “Stay!”

  But the Snow Merchant had no intention of staying. He turned and threw himself from the porch. Lettie ran to the door and looked down, half thinking she would see him shattered upon the ground. But, somehow, the Snow Merchant had landed on his suitcase, and now he was hopping down Vinegar Street, unable to take his finger and toe from the holes, flashing blue with electric shocks. Then he must have plugged them with something, for he stopped hopping and broke into a run.

  “He’s heading to the harbor!” said Noah, stalk suddenly blooming a bright-red flower.

  “He knew my ma!” said Lettie.

  “He’ll steal my boat!” said Noah.

  Lettie looked back at the Walrus (her tea was draining out onto the rug and mixing with the slushy snow) and the Goggler (her hand vanished into a pile of shillings). She looked at Noah. He looked at her.

  And together they said: “After him then!”

  But as she surged forward, Lettie’s eyes caught Ma’s writing just above the door.

  Don’t set a foot upon Albion, for it can kill you.

  “I can’t go, Noah. The note.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Lettie!”

  “I won’t break my promise!” she said fiercely. “It’s the only thing holding me and Ma together.”

  “You’ve got to, Lettie. You’ve just got to! Don’t stay because of some old note that’s been nailed to the door for years. The Snow Merchant might lead you to your ma; he’s what matters!”

  Noah was right. If Lettie stayed, she’d never know the mystery of her ma’s vanishing. For years now, all Lettie had had was a note nailed to the door. Now there was a trail to follow. Now there was a clue to chase. Better to take her chances on the ground than let the Snow Merchant escape.

  “You’re not breaking her promise—just stretching it a bit,” said Noah.

  That was all the convincing Lettie needed.

  “That’s right!” she said, pulling off her apron, grabbing her deerskin coat, cramming her fingers into gloves, and tying her boots tight. “Let’s go!”

  “My hand . . .” murmured the Goggler.

  “My head . . .” muttered the Walrus.

  As the crones began to stir, Lettie climbed down the ladder and jumped to the ground. She half expected to die right there on the spot, but nothing happened. She felt giddy with shock. Had the danger in Albion all been a lie?

  “Come on!” said Noah. “He’s got a head start, and longer legs. Follow those frostprints!”

  They sprinted down Vinegar Street, following the feet etched in ice upon the cobbles.

  The Wind Lends a Hand

  Another ninety paces from the White Horse Inn and they were utterly lost. The Snow Merchant’s frostprints led them in circles, crisscrossing and backtracking all over the place.

  “He’s trying to lose us,” said Noah. “He knows we’re following him.”

  “Either that, or he’s as lost as we are,” said Lettie.

  “We haven’t caught him up at all. We need a shortcut.”

  But Lettie didn’t know any. Barter looked very different through a telescope. Down here all the street signs were smeared with grime. The cobbles were slippery with blubber and beer. Gas lamps flickered and died. Underneath them, drunken sailors swore and sang.

  “I’m not asking them for directions,” she said. “They don’t know their up from their down.”

  “What about the Wind?” said Noah.

  She rolled her eyes. “You don’t expect the Wind to show me a shortcut.”

  “It’s your friend,” said Noah. “It might give you a tug in the right direction.”

  “Even if I ask, I don’t think the Wind will listen.”

  “It has to,” he insisted. “That’s what joint best friends do.”

  Noah was right, again. If the Wind ignored her now, then it wasn’t her friend at all. Closing her eyes and whispering to the air around her, Lettie made a little prayer.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me, Wind. I don’t think you’ve even got ears. And I know you’ve not let me go into Barter before, but this is different. I’m lost. I don’t know Barter, but you do. You whistle down every street in this town. You can show me a shortcut to the harbor. Please, you’ve got to.”

  She took off a glove, held out her hand . . . almost at once, the miracle came. Lettie felt the pull. The pull of the Wind.

  It was like an invisible hand had taken hold of hers to lead her someplace. She laughed with the joy of it, she laughed with the wonder. She began to run at such a speed that Noah could barely keep up.

  “Where are you going?” he called, and Lettie cried back: “I can feel it! You were right, Noah! Follow me, I know the way!”

  The Wind really was talking to her. It had no words; it was speaking in a language of tugs and nudges. Lettie concentrated, feeling the pull, trying to follow where it led. Down side alleys and dark streets, so they could reach the harbor before the Snow Merchant escaped.

  The chase was on. And Lettie had discovered a gift, a power: she could hold the hand of the Wind, and it would show the way.

  They rushed down backstreets reeking of mold and beer, hopping from one shadow to the next, with Lettie never knowing whether they would go left, right, or straight on. Noah followed Lettie, and Lettie followed the Wind.

  They scarpered down Drum Lane; past windows mostly black or curtained, steering clear of the streetlamps. Then Lettie lost the Wind’s hand, and they had to crisscross and backtrack before she found it again. They ran over Riney Bridge, across Swill Street and Pickle Lane. They tiptoed through alleys of nets and rotting rope as the salt smell of the sea grew stronger and stronger. They stopped by a tangled necklace of rigging, strung with bungs of cork.

  “Keep running,” wheezed Noah. “We’ve got to catch him.”

  “Well, I’ve got to catch my breath first,” said Lettie. She leaned against a windowsill gone soft with rot, while her heart raced. Ahead, she heard the tall ship masts rattling in the harbor. She mouthed a thank you to the Wind, for saving her life. She still didn’t know how the miracle had happened: she was outside, having an adventure led by an invisible hand.

  “The harbor’s just ahead,” Lettie said.

  “There’s not a frostprint in sight!” said Noah. “We’ve beaten him to it. Let’s get to my boat.”

  The harbor held merchant clippers—big ships with three or four masts and huge rudders—and even some whaling boats with funnels and coal engines. Noah’s little wooden ship was squeezed among them. With its single mast and tiny cabin, Lettie wondered how he had managed to sail the world on it. Her mouth must have been hanging open, and Noah must ha
ve mistaken her shock for admiration, because he said proudly:

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She’s called Leutha’s Wood. Leutha was my grandmother’s name; the ship is made from her stalk.”

  “She grew all that wood from her shoulder?” Lettie asked.

  “Eventually,” said Noah. “When my people die, we bury them up to the neck, so the stalk can carry on growing.”

  “Like a tree!”

  “Exactly like a tree,” said Noah. “Every one of our forests is the graveyard of a different tribe.”

  “It sounds like a very different place from Albion.” Lettie closed her eyes and tried to imagine. “Strange.”

  Readying herself to run again, Lettie sprinted for the harbor, and then stopped. The Wind was tugging her back to look at a slanted building, leaning heavily against its next-door neighbor, too battered and bruised to stand up on its own. It faced the sea full on, and Lettie could tell that for years it had taken the brunt of the coastal winds, and sailors too drunk or seasick to walk any farther into town. Salt had stripped the paint from the door and the sign that used to hang above it, but Lettie knew the name anyway.

  “Why is the Wind bringing me here?” she said. “This is the Clam Before the Storm. Da comes here every night and gambles. He lost nine shillings and sixpence last week. But he didn’t have nine shillings and sixpence, so Mr. Sleech, the debt collector, came and took away all the pictures on the walls.”

  Lettie heard singing coming from inside. She peered through the dirty glass. Inside was a tumbled mess of beer, foam, and giddy sailors. So this was where her no-good da spent most of his time. She searched the faces, but couldn’t see Da. A group of fishermen fought, a group of whalers drank, and a group of smugglers sang and played a seven-string. It was a famous song that Lettie knew—it told of the love affair between a sailor and an albatross in over a hundred verses. The smugglers were on verse seventy-seven.

  “She flew down on the riddled deck.

  The moon was full and strange.

  She put her wings about his neck,

  Her feathers rearranged.

  And o! her shape began to change,