Nieve

by Terry Griggs

  The house was hushed and dim, no sign of the parents. Nieve made her way to the kitchen and fixed herself an ample breakfast: cereal, toast with loads of butter and jam, juice. She was careful not to make too much noise. Her parents might feel better if they got to sleep in. She certainly felt better, although there was something at the back of her mind struggling to get to the front. Something she was supposed to do? Didn’t matter, if it was important, she’d remember eventually. If it was about burning that freaky plant out front, the day was too wet. She might try cutting it down, but pictured it fighting back, or springing back up, twice the size. She pictured it bleeding all over her . . . and then she told herself to wise up. That wasn’t possible.

  When Nieve finished breakfast, she carried the dishes to the sink and called Malcolm’s place. No answer. She hung up and tried again, in case she’d punched in the wrong number. There was still no answer. Her luck, he and his mother were away somewhere. Malcolm must be better, which was great. Maybe they’d gone out for a morning hike . . . in the rain . . . .

  Nieve wandered into the living room and looked around. It was awfully quiet, not to mention gloomy. She turned on the lamp beside the couch and the light that poured out made the whole room cozier and more inviting. What would it be like to produce light simply by snapping your fingers, she wondered? She tried this, although finger-snapping wasn’t one of her finer talents, and nothing happened of course, but there was no harm in pretending that it had. FINGER-SNAPPING GIRL GENERATES LIGHT read a headline in her (so far) imaginary paper.

  Rain was pounding down on the roof and she could hear thunder in the distance. When she walked over to the window and gazed out, she saw that the front yard had huge puddles in it, and the spruce trees that lined the walk were twitching and shaking their branches as if they were mightily angry. A vein of lightning streaked across the sky and the boom of thunder that followed was a whopper, a house-shaking crash that made her jump. Somebody was getting pummeled.

  Nieve had always found storms exciting, and when younger had begged to go out in her swimsuit and jump around in the rain. Silly, since she could have gotten fried by lightning, and she’d never been allowed to anyway. Storms terrified her mother. During a storm, Sophie usually hid in the downstairs closet with a shopping bag on her head. Nieve smiled at that, and it occurred to her to check the closet in case her mum was in there. The moment she turned away from the window to do this, though, the front door sprang open.

  “Dad!” She whirled around. He’d given her a start. “I didn’t know you were up.”

  “Yep.” His hair was plastered to his head and his sneakers made a slurping noise as he pried them off.

  “What were you doing outside?”

  He unzipped his sodden windbreaker, which was sticking to him like an extra skin, and peeled it off. “Walking.”

  Weren’t single-word answers the kind only kids delivered when they were trying to be evasive? Apparently not.

  “In this weather?”

  “Great for ducks,” he said.

  “I suppose.” She also supposed that corny humour was better than none. “Is Mum up? I was going to check the closet.”

  Sutton gave her a blank look. A blank, wet look, as there were drips of water hanging off his nose and chin.

  “You know, in case she’s hiding from the storm.”

  “I already checked there,” he said, heading toward the bathroom.

  She watched him go, watched as his socks left big wet splats on the floor. Ducks, she thought.

  Nieve spent the rest of the day working on her newspaper, although she found it hard to concentrate. Where was her mother? She drew a picture of Artichoke for the front cover and wrote a story about him, about how Dr. Morys had found him, a puppy abandoned on the side of the road (people from the city often dumped their unwanted pets in the countryside, which infuriated her, but she tried to give her story a neutral tone). She wrote about what a smart and loyal dog he was, and how he had gone missing. Missing . . . where was her mother? Every time she asked herself this question, a knot in her stomach tightened. By dinnertime her stomach was practically all knot and she couldn’t have forced a single thing down. Not that any cooking smells were wafting out of the kitchen.

  But then . . . Sophie reappeared. She walked through the front door at six-thirty carrying a pizza! And not only was she back, but she was back to her old self. Except that she was chattier than usual; she hurried through the house, talking a mile a minute. Nieve didn’t care. She didn’t even care that the pizza had spinach on it. Relief swept through her, unpicking the knot on its way, easily undone as a slipknot. She scrambled to get some plates on the table. This was more like it! She was ravenous.

  As she ate slice after slice of pizza, she watched her mother’s animated expression with pleasure, and listened to her talking about the storm with mounting interest. This was definitely going into her paper, front page news.

  “So many trees down, it was incredible.” Sophie was waving her hands around, too worked up to eat. “Power out all over the city, I did tell you I was going to the city, didn’t I? Nora Mullein called last night, you remember her, don’t you? Friend from way back, maybe you don’t. She was all in a stew about . . . nothing really, some personal problems, but I had to go, she was flipping out. I’m positive I left a note beside the phone. No? Gosh, sorry you two, hope you didn’t worry . . . .”

  Sutton was also watching Sophie and smiling. Smiling and frowning. “Where did you get that ring?” he asked.

  “This?” Sophie looked at her hand in surprise. “Oh this.” Nieve had noticed it, too, a gold pinky ring set with a jet black stone. “Piece of junk. Nora insisted I take it, guilty for dragging me all the way in to the city, I guess.” She pulled it quickly off her finger and slipped it into her pocket.

  Sutton shifted uneasily in his chair and continued to frown.

  Nieve didn’t want to think about what the frown meant, didn’t want another dinner ruined, but when she climbed into bed that night, she did have to admit to herself that things weren’t quite right with her mother. But they were more right than they had been. Whatever the not-right thing was, it didn’t get in the way of sleep. The storm had spent itself and she drifted off listening to the rain plicking softly against her window. It sounded like a clock that kept wonky, imperfect time, but had a hypnotic effect just the same.

  It was only the next day that the forgotten matter that had been idling at the back of her mind finally worked its way to the front.

  –Five–

  Jenny Green-Teeth

  Homework! Nieve was confounded. She had completely forgotten. What was even more confounding was that the whole class had forgotten . . . except Alicia Overbury. Alicia marched up to Mrs. Crawford’s desk with her finished assignment, delivered it with a flourish, then returned to her own desk and sat down, primly, but not without first giving the whole class a satisfied smirk.

  The weird thing was that the assignment had promised to be fun, everyone had been keen on it. It involved a report, with drawings, on some aspect of folklore and old-time beliefs. So you could write about night-hags or changelings, magic talismans or hell hounds, whatever you wanted. Nieve had chosen a creature that Gran had told her about called Jenny Green-Teeth. Jenny was a water-demon who lurked at the bottom of deep wells and ponds. If children got too close, she stretched out her long arms and grabbed them, pulling them under and drowning them. Sometimes she was called Nelly Long-Arms and lived in trees. At night you could hear her moaning and sighing like wind in the branches. Scaring the wits out of kids to make them behave, or to keep them safe, was Nieve’s take on this. Still, since hearing about Jenny Green-Teeth she herself had been more wary of the pond out back of her place. Pure make-believe, but once you knew about her, she somehow became more real. Nieve could easily picture her in all her grim, stretchy-armed scariness – a warty, tack-toothed Jenny, horrible enough to make your hair stand on end (like Mr. Mustard Seed’s fur the morning he
ran terrified through the door), and she relished the idea of drawing a picture of her. How could she have forgotten?

  Mrs. Crawford, normally mild-mannered, was a bit horrible herself about the homework. She was convinced that the mass-forgetfulness had been some sort of conspiracy the class had cooked up to balk her and wouldn’t listen to their protests of innocence. She gave them a severe talking-to, plus extra math homework, plus a detention after class. Everyone, that is, except Alicia, who managed to smirk throughout the whole day, which must have been hard on her face, but obviously worth it to her. The most confounding thing, though, was that by the end of the day, Mrs. Crawford had forgotten. Had this ever happened before? Never.

  “Tomorrow, class, your folklore assignments are due,” she said, directly after the three-thirty bell rang. “I must say that I’m looking forward to them very much.”

  “But . . . but, the detention!” said Alicia. “Don’t you remember?

  ”

  “Detention? If you’d like to stay after class Alicia, I’m sure I can find something for you to do.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t say what, dear. Now everyone scoot. You, too, Alicia, or you will have to stay. Goodness!”

  “What are you grinning at,” Alicia snarled as she shoved past Nieve on her way out the door. “Snotface.”

  Alicia was the snot, but Nieve let it go and didn’t respond. She had more important matters on her mind. Like remembering, for one thing. Mrs. Crawford’s surprise memory lapse had been easy to take, but it had also made Nieve feel uneasy. It wasn’t normal. Nor was her own forgetfulness, or her father’s . . . or her mother’s. So she was determined to keep sharp. I’m going to remember everything, she thought. Even the bad stuff . . . especially the bad stuff, or there’ll be no getting rid of it. For instance, where was Malcolm? He hadn’t shown up at school, so he wasn’t over his measles after all. Nieve decided to take a detour on the way home, drop by his place to see what was up.

  Before turning off Main Street, she passed by Warlock’s Books, which appeared to be closed. Tatty green shades were pulled down over the door and windows. Not much business Monday afternoon, she supposed. She didn’t like going into this store because Dunstan Warlock made her feel uncomfortable, and she got the impression that he didn’t even like books – or children. He wasn’t anything like the kindly booksellers that you sometimes encountered in books themselves, who were always old and wise and somewhat mysterious. Dunstan Warlock was mysterious all right, but in a nasty way. He rarely spoke, scowled a lot, and always wore grubby black jeans and a black T-shirt with an “Eat the Rich” slogan on it that barely stretched over his fat stomach. On his head he wore a black Stetson with a snakeskin hatband. His store didn’t contain anything intriguing, either, mostly bashed-up, second-hand paperbacks and books about war and weapons. It was certainly a mystery how he made a living. Nieve could understand why he might want to eat the rich, and given the size of the stomach maybe he had.

  That his store was closed wasn’t a big deal, but Exley’s pharmacy next door was closed, too. Not only that, but when she peered through the darkened storefront window, she saw that all the stock was gone, the shelves had been wiped clean. Even some of the shelves were gone. When she’d passed by the store on Friday, three days ago, those same shelves had been crammed with boxes and bottles of this and that, toothpaste and witch hazel and soap and everything you needed in a pharmacy. Now you’d be out of luck. Weird!

  Nieve turned away and was about to pelt down the street, when she bumped into Mayor Mary, who’d approached from behind.

  “Gosh, sorry,” she said, stepping back quickly.

  “That’s all right, Nieve.” Mary smiled as she rubbed her arm. “Don’t think its broken. Serves me right for sneaking up on you.” She nodded at the empty pharmacy window, her smile losing its shine. “I don’t get it.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Being the mayor, and an excellent one in Nieve’s opinion, Mary usually knew every single thing that was happening in town. Besides which, she was enthusiastic and smart and full of ideas. Although at the moment, she looked stumped.

  “No. I was in here on Saturday buying supplies for the clinic. Good thing I did, too. Mr. Exley didn’t say a word about closing-up.”

  “Maybe he sold it,” offered Nieve. “And the new owners want to take over really soon, and he . . . forgot. Forgot to tell you.”

  “Maybe.” Mary gazed into the dark interior of the store. “Whatever’s going on, I don’t like it and I’m going to find out.”

  “Um–” Nieve couldn’t help but notice that Mary’s hair was a mess. It looked like she’d forgotten to comb it that morning . . . and the morning before. She even had a long, dusty strand of cobweb entangled in it, a strand that was floating in the breeze and twisting around her head, as if it had come to life. Nieve didn’t want to be rude, but thought she’d better mention it. “You have–”

  “Gotta run, Nieve. Thousand things to do. Say hi to your folks for me. Maybe I’ll need their services soon.”

  She was joking, right?

  Nieve watched her stride away, cobweb and all – a stride that was as close to a run as walking can get – and then she herself took off in the opposite direction. She did run, and it was the best feeling she’d had all day, her legs practically a blur as she whipped along at champion speed. She peeled around the corner of Redfern’s Five&Dime – it was still open – and shot down Duck Street to Malcolm’s place. (Duke Street really, but everyone called it Duck.)

  Malcolm lived with his mother, Frances, in a broken-down old house at the end of the street. Nieve liked the house because it had lots of little rooms in it, some that didn’t seem to have any reason to be there at all. Frances did her best to fill them up with furniture and purpose, but she didn’t have much money, so said things like, “This one is the Thinking Room, Nieve. That’s why there’s only one chair in it. You don’t need anyone yakking at you while you’re trying to think, do you?”

  True, although Nieve wished there were someone at Malcolm’s place right now to yak at her, if only a little, and tell her what was going on. She knew it was no use. The house looked abandoned, and sad on account of it, but she climbed up the front steps anyway – steps that she and Malcolm had painted a peacock blue only a few months ago. The doorbell was an old-fashioned mechanical one with a key-shaped ringer. When she gave the ringer a firm twist, the bell made a rattly-clattery-jangly sound that brought no response whatsoever (although it usually did, so it wasn’t the bell’s fault). Since it was against her nature to give up easily, and because she dearly wanted someone to answer, she knocked several times as well. More pounding than knocking, which made the house sound strangely hollow. She moved over to the front window and peered in, holding her breath in case it was hollow, as empty as the pharmacy had been. But the saggy old couch was still there with a plaid blanket tossed across it, and books and newspapers were piled everywhere as usual, and there were dirty dishes on the floor . . . only no Malcolm. And no Frances.

  They’ve gone somewhere, that’s all, Nieve told herself as she walked slowly back up the street, hands shoved in her pockets. A visit to some relatives, a short holiday to cheer Malcolm up. Frances wasn’t the sort to take school very seriously, or rules about regular attendance. They’re bound to be back soon, she concluded. Although she wasn’t much consoled by this. Her heart felt heavy, as if it were a clump of earth stuck in her chest. It didn’t help, either, that the day, overcast and grey, seemed as desolate as she felt. Yesterday’s storm hadn’t cleared the air at all.

  When she got home she made a pot of tea and poured herself a cup. She added lots of milk to it, plus an extra spoonful of sugar, which was consoling in a small sort of way. When she went off in search of her parents to see if they’d like a cup, she found only her dad home and he was locked in the study, crying. Rehearsing, had to be. The important sympathy job was tomorrow night and he was brushing up on his skills, she thought, trying
his best to please Sophie. Nieve decided not to interrupt and went back to the kitchen to work on her folklore report.

  It was brilliant. Totally. Not that she’d say this to anyone except herself, and maybe Mr. Mustard Seed. The drawing was especially good, especially scary. She gave Jenny two rows of teeth that were sharpened to fine points, like pike’s teeth, and she coloured them a violent green. She showed her rising up out of a river and reaching out, her scaly arms three times the length of any human’s, her wrinkly, gnarled hands like claws, black talons dripping with slime. A terrified child was standing on the bank of the river, about to be snatched up and plunged under the water. Nieve allowed a remote possibility of escape – she didn’t want to seal the kid’s fate entirely. But it wasn’t likely.

  All in all, she was highly pleased with her report and felt much better for having done it. It wasn’t until the next day in class that she realized her mistake. When the substitute teacher, Ms. Genevieve Crawley, snatched up her drawing and smiled delightedly at her, Nieve saw that real monstrosity could be far more subtle. Ms. Crawley’s hands were almost normal, and her arms weren’t overlong, and her large square teeth were only very faintly green.

  –Six–

  Eye Candy

  Ms. Crawley wore gooey black lipstick that was as thickly applied as icing on a cake. How she managed not to get it on her teeth was a puzzle because her mouth was extremely active. She smiled constantly, even when she was speaking, which was also most of the time. As she strolled up and down the aisles exclaiming over their folklore reports, she marvelled at how clever the class was, how talented, how extraordinarily well-behaved . . . the compliments were laid on as thick as the lipstick.