by Terry Griggs
The man’s eyes popped open. He said, “Your name?” He didn’t just say it, either; he grumped it, the way some crabby official might.
But he was alive at least. She stared at him and he stared back. His eyes were the strangest she’d ever seen, like something dug up out of the ground. Deep green and hard, like emeralds, but not as nice.
“Nieve,” she answered, and instantly regretted it. Somehow she felt as if her name had been snatched out of her mouth. She felt as if she’d given something away that she should not have.
He smiled faintly, then reached for the stone and plucked it off his forehead. For a moment she thought he was going to say Is this yours? the way a teacher does when you’re caught in class with school contraband – gum, or comics, or a note from a friend on the other side of the room. He didn’t say anything however. Instead, he closed his long-fingered hand over the stone (seriously dirty fingernails), enclosing it in his fist. When he opened it again, he was holding, not the stone, but a mass of tiny, black, wriggling things.
Nieve gasped. They weren’t insects. No heads, no legs. Maybe larvae of some sort. They were tear-shaped and oily-looking, squirming in his palm. She took a cautious step backward (an Alicia Overbury response might have been more sensible after all). He nodded at that, approvingly, and then flung his hand outward scattering the twitching whatevers. Most flew into the ditch or the field, but one landed at Nieve’s feet on the road’s verge. She watched it slip like water into the dry, gravelly ground. She continued to watch, amazed, as something then began to poke through. It was a black shoot that grew twisting into a black stem and upon which immediately sprouted leathery leaves, then thorns, then a glossy, blackishred flower that smelled like rotten meat.
“You’re a magician?” She was determined to keep any giveaway quivers or catches out of her voice.
“Negative. Weed Inspector.” He gazed at her as though she were a weed.
“What do you inspect them for?” She’d never heard of such a job.
“Viciousness,” he said, rising up. “Noxiousness,” he got to his feet. “Rudeness.” He climbed out of the ditch and stepped onto the road, placing himself too near for her liking. “All of the required qualities.”
“Weeds can’t be rude,” she said. “Or vicious.”
The Weed Inspector raised an eyebrow. The black plant belched (ew) then leaned toward her, hissing like snake. Nieve didn’t move, even though the thing frightened her. She stood her ground and glared at it, giving it the baleful stare she reserved for people who really annoy her, and it backed off, righted itself and fell silent. He was a magician, she decided, but what kind of magician she couldn’t guess. She looked around and saw that more of the nasty plants had sprung up in the field, corkscrewing and writhing into the air, and flowering (darkly) with astonishing speed. Other plants near them, normal plants – grasses and flowers – withered and dropped out of sight as if they’d been yanked into the earth. The black weeds were noxious, but as far as she knew this was not a quality required for anything.
“Are you from the city?” Nieve asked. Whenever people in town complained about lousy roads, or a lack of services, or new laws that made no sense, the city was usually invoked.
“The City,” he agreed. “The Black City. You’re not as stupid as you look.”
“I’m not stupid!” Talk about rude.
He gazed down at her, green eyes burrowing into her head as if he were X-raying her brain. “You will be. Soon. Very stupid.” Dribbles of mist had begun to leak out of the seams of his coat.
Nieve turned on her heel and walked away, briskly, not so fast as to lose face, but fast enough to save her life. The man was mad and dangerous. She glanced back quickly over her shoulder.
He was gone.
–Three–
Night Run
Nieve brushed some clingy cobwebs away from her wardrobe mirror and studied her reflection. Do I look stupid? she asked herself. No way. She looked the same as ever: alert and intent, friendly, but no fool. During dinner she had not mentioned the Weed Inspector to her parents and now wondered if she should have. Was that being stupid? Would stupidity sneak up on her the way unhappiness had snuck up on them? The next time she gazed in the mirror, which didn’t happen very often – she wasn’t stuck on herself – it might be with dimmed blue eyes and a dummy’s vacant stare.
Dinner had been awkward. Even handling her knife and fork had make her feel self-conscious, as if it weren’t something she’d done every evening for most of her life. There had been no conversation and no dessert, both of which were the whole point of dinner as far as she was concerned. Usually her parents chatted and talked about their day; no incident was too minor to be of interest. She was always included. But tonight . . . nothing.
Sutton had cleared his throat at one point and asked, “So, how was school today, En?”
This just about floored her. It was the kind of desperate question you got from an adult who has no idea what to say to a kid.
“Dad,” she’d grimaced, feeling sorry for him. “It’s Saturday.”
Sophie gave a little scornful snort at this, but beyond that did not break her silence.
How could she have told them about the Weed Inspector? The silence had seemed to suck up all the sounds in the room. What would they have said about him anyway? Would they have believed her, told her she was being silly, her imagination running wild? Some poor homeless person they’d say, at the same time forbidding her to wander outside of town. Then again, maybe she should have tried. It might have given them something more important than their disagreement to fret about, which was stupid as far as she could see.
After dinner, Nieve had taken some leftovers (there were lots) downstairs to Mr. Mustard Seed and set the dish flush against the breadbox so that he could reach out and nab the scraps with his paw. Then she’d cleaned his litter box so he wouldn’t be too grossed-out to use it. Before she left, he poked his head out and she gently scrubbed the fur around his ears and under his chin. She told him that she knew something bad was happening, but not to worry, she’d take care of it. He purred briefly in response, offering encouragement. He believed in her, she liked to think, although she hoped he didn’t consider her to be all-powerful. No, he knew the score. Mr. Mustard Seed was no fool, either.
Nieve made a face in the mirror. She stuck out her tongue, bugged-out her eyes, placed a finger on the tip of her nose and pushed up until her nostrils flared. All-powerful? Yeah, right.
She walked over to her bedroom window and placed her palms flat against the glass as she stared out. Night had already fallen, which was a funny way of putting it, she thought. She had tried to watch night falling many times and that wasn’t what happened. Night crept upward, out of potholes and cracks, out of bushes and shadowy corners, out of the places that were dark even in daylight. Night happened almost too slowly to observe and then it was everywhere.
If it weren’t so late, she might run over to Gran’s place to tell her about the Weed Inspector. Gran wouldn’t doubt her. Her parents would never let her go now, though. She couldn’t call Gran, either. Despite her parents’ badgering – probably because of her parents’ badgering – Gran didn’t have a phone.
“I don’t trust phones,” she’d said. “They spread lies. The ringing is annoying. I prefer visits.”
What she hadn’t said, Nieve knew, was Don’t boss me around. Mind your own business. I don’t want a phone! “Whisht,” Gran sometimes said, which meant, basically, “Shut up, will you.”
Nieve heard someone thumping around upstairs in her parents’ room, likely her mum. Unless this Saturday night was different than any other (it sure felt different to her), then Sutton would be in the family room watching baseball – in winter, hockey – entranced, so involved in the game that he’d be talking to the TV, cheering or moaning or angrily giving his favourite team coaching advice. This meant that she could sneak out easily, make a quick visit to Gran’s and be back before either of them had a cha
nce to clue-in. If she said her goodnights early, pleading exhaustion from a full day of running everywhere, they’d never suspect.
Since she was too restless to read, and too troubled to do anything else, this is what Nieve decided to do. She mounted the stairs slowly, dragging her feet and honing her yawning skills on the way up. She needn’t have bothered. Her mother was too busy pacing around the bedroom to notice whether she was faking or not. (Nor was going to bed early anything that parents got too worked-up about.) Sophie didn’t even ask Nieve if she was feeling all right. She was preoccupied, mulling something over as she paced, stopping briefly by her nightstand, then her dresser, distractedly picking things up and putting them down – a comb, her jewelry box, a bottle of perfume. After a couple of rounds of this, she walked over, gave Nieve a hug, and told her to “sleep tight.”
Likewise, back downstairs, Sutton gave her hand a squeeze and, without averting his face from the screen, sickly pale in the TV light, said, “Sweet dreams, En.”
Fat chance, she thought, returning to her room by way of the kitchen, where she had retrieved a flashlight from the odds-and-ends drawer. Then, window or back door? She pulled on her navy blue sweater and turned off the bedside light. Window, she decided. Best not to wander through the house again, and at night the doors were kept locked, front and back. The doors were squeaky and the locks, stiff from disuse, might be tricky to open. Locking-up was not something her parents had bothered to do until recently. About a month ago there had been a break-in at the pharmacy. Bored teenagers from the city, Theo Bax, the sole member of the town’s police force, had concluded. Nothing much had been stolen: some petty cash and a bottle of headache pills. People shrugged it off and forgot about it . . . but not entirely. At night, keys turned in locks.
Nieve unlatched her bedroom window and raised it slowly, smoothly. Before climbing up onto the ledge, she checked for dangling spiders by swishing her hand back and forth in the open space. The air felt cool, not much summer left in it. All clear, she climbed up and out, letting herself down carefully, landing in the flowerbed under her window, her shoes sinking into the soft earth.
She’d hardly had time to fill her lungs with the delicious night air when something hissed at her. Startled, she jumped aside, crashing into a prickly rose bush.
A cat out prowling? Or a skunk – not good! Nieve edged carefully out of the bush and retreated to the edge of the flowerbed before turning on her flashlight. It wasn’t an animal at all, but one of those repulsive leathery weeds growing right under her very own window! The thing hissed again and leaned toward her. She trained the beam on it, the way you do when you shine a flashlight in someone’s eyes (and they get pretty annoyed). It jerked backward, avoiding the beam, and she noted, Doesn’t like intense light. Fine, she’d give it intense light. Tomorrow she’d dig it up and burn it.
But at the moment she was on a mission. An even more urgent one, seeing as those abhorrent plants were spreading. Not that she saw any others when she strafed the garden with her flashlight, playing the beam over Chinese lanterns and chrysanthemums and clumps of dead nettle. All ordinary, unthreatening plants that she’d never before been so glad to see. She flicked off the flashlight and moved toward the front yard, waiting there briefly for her eyes to adjust fully to the dark. She figured that she could find her way to Gran’s blindfolded, but was glad all the same that the sky was clear with a nearly new moon rising and a brilliant array of stars on display. The Big Dipper was serving up a vast helping of night and Orion was striding along, unhobbled, despite having the star Rigel stuck in his left leg.
Nieve suddenly felt the thrill of being out late, unknown to anyone, the shrouded night-world so different from that of the day (although not as different as it was soon to become). She told herself that she should come out more often after dark, but then could almost hear Gran’s voice in her head saying, Do what you enjoy, Nievy, and do what you must. But don’t weigh yourself down with ‘shoulds’ and ‘oughts’. That’s like filling your pocket with rocks. “Right on, Gran,” she whispered, and darted off, no rocks in her pocket tonight.
Swiftly she crossed the yard, ducked through the hedge, and headed down the lane into town. Swiftly, almost flying, she pelted past the Post Office, the Library, the Town Hall, Warlock’s Books, Redfern’s Five & Dime – named at a time when you actually could buy something decent for 5 or 10 cents. Was it her imagination, she wondered, or did she run faster at night? Both feet seemed to lift right off the ground as she sped along. And then . . . was it her imagination, or was there some sort of pattering sound behind her? She stopped to listen. No sound. She started to run . . . and there it was again. A soft pat pat pat, as if someone were lightly tapping on a drum. Her excitement about being out and tearing down the deserted street turned into apprehension. A cold drop of fear trickled down her back. A spider of fear crawled back up. She ran harder, the street narrowing as it led out of the main part of town, past some houses, and then up the hill toward Gran’s cottage. The pattering sound was getting closer, but she knew better than to break her stride, or her nerve, by glancing back. She ran faster than she had ever done before in her life. She ran so fast that she felt as though she might fly apart. The only thing that seemed to be holding her together was a painful stitch in her side.
She was almost there, the cottage ahead began to loom larger and larger. But strangely it was wrapped in darkness. Not a single light was lit. Gran in bed already? She always stayed up late. Nieve tore up the path and lunged at the cottage door, rapping frantically, gasping for breath. No answer. “Gran!” she shouted. “Gran, it’s me!!” Still no answer. She rattled the handle. Locked! Locked?
Desperately, Nieve reached down and grabbed the broom that lay across the threshold and turned to face her pursuer. A crouched, black shape veered silently off the path and melted into wood that flanked the cottage.
Artichoke, she thought. Was it? Was it him? She called the dog’s name, but neither Artichoke nor any other being reappeared.
–Four–
Rain
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nieve knew that she sounded more exasperated than she had a right to be. Besides, her dad didn’t need another member of the family to be peeved with him.
“Forgot,” he said. “Does it matter?” He addressed this question to the inside of the fridge where he was rummaging around for a midnight snack.
Yes it mattered, but she could hardly say so. Nieve was heating up a saucepan of milk on the stove and gave it a stir with a wooden spoon so it wouldn’t burn. She’d been so worried about Gran – and so worried period – that she couldn’t sleep. She had returned home – fast – without incident, and had clambered back in through her window without discovery, but still shivered to think of her close call. If that’s what it had been, she didn’t know. Nor had she known that Gran had gone to the city hospital for a few days to be with Dr. Morys, who was still in a coma.
Sutton’s hand appeared above the fridge door holding a carton of gooseberry yogurt. “Want this?”
“No thanks.” She poured the hot milk into her old, chipped Bunnykins mug.
“Gran came by earlier to let us know. I meant to tell you.” He pried the lid off the carton and plucked a spoon out of the dish rack. “I would have tomorrow.”
Nieve nodded, but she doubted it. Her father wasn’t exactly with it these days. He hadn’t even mentioned the scratches on her hand that she’d gotten from crashing into the rosebush. Usually he was much more observant. Although now she knew that Gran was safe and accounted for and that was the main thing. Gran wouldn’t be sitting idly by Dr. Morys, either. She’d be talking to him, calling him back, working hard to help him.
“Dad.” She took a sip of her milk. “Where’s the Black City? Is it near here?”
“Black City?” He set the yogurt on the counter and stared through the kitchen window, perplexed, as though a city might have sprung up outside without him having noticed. “Nowhere. Never heard of it.”
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nbsp; “Ick.” The skin that had formed on the surface of the hot milk had come off and stuck to Nieve’s lips like a popped bubblegum bubble, only it was white and rubbery. She felt so goofy with it stuck on her mouth that she started to laugh.
Sutton didn’t join in, only stared at her absentmindedly for a moment before wandering out of the kitchen without a word, his uneaten snack abandoned on the counter.
Nieve picked the milky seal off her lips and, filling in for her dad, said, “Try to get some sleep, En.”
“I will,” she promised.
She did, too. She slept as if she were in a coma, or as if she’d spent the night underground, dreamless in a deep cavern. When she woke, she even had strands of cobweb trailing across her chin as if she had emerged from some hidden, spidery place. Nieve brushed the cobwebs away with her pyjama sleeve, not much liking the idea of spiders taking shortcuts across her face during the night. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and blinked a couple of times. It was still fairly dark in her room, yet she had a feeling that it was late morning. For a minute or two she lay listening to a soft tapping sound on her window. That creepy plant outside came to mind . . . and then . . . rain, she realized, her heart sinking. Then school, and her heart sank farther. Not that she minded school, but a dreary Monday, and the smell of damp clothes in the classroom, and math, and the hands on the classroom clock moving so slowly that they seemed to be injured . . . then no, it was Sunday!
Nieve sat up. Sunday, no problem. A rainy Sunday indoors was bearable. She was never at a loss for things to do, drawing, reading. Her friend Malcolm might be over his measles by now and they could get together at his place or hers, play some cards or crokinole. She was a wizard at crokinole. Or, even better, they could start a newspaper. This would give Nieve some journalism experience, see if she was suited for it.
Getting dressed, she considered what to call the paper. Not The Star or The Sun, both of which were taken already. The Moonbeam? Too cute. The Beacon? Too boring. The Comet maybe . . . or how about The Laser? Yeah, that was more like it: incisive, probing, up-to-the-minute news.