Nieve

by Terry Griggs

  Nieve stepped cautiously over the threshold and into the store. Despite the weak light coming through the front window, it was very dark inside. No overhead lights were on, and yet as far as she knew there hadn’t been a power outage in town. Towards the far end, where the dispensary was, she did see a small light shining and she headed toward that, navigating between the counters more by touch than sight. Her fingers trailed over bottles and jars, and moving along, she touched something soft and thick that felt horribly like human hair. She pulled back her hand in alarm, but then remembered that Mr. Exley used to sell wigs for people who got sick and lost all their hair, so this was probably one leftover from when he must have so hastily cleaned off the shelves.

  Still, she felt uneasy. She told herself to turn around, to leave. It was dumb to be fumbling around in the dark, dangerous even. The new owners couldn’t be wanting business too badly. But she couldn’t stop moving toward that light – it seemed to draw her on. It flickered and wavered, beckoning. Candlelight, she realized, and the closer she came to it the more agitated the candle’s flame grew, as if she were a gust of wind that had stirred up the air in the dusty old store.

  As she arrived at the dispensary, a figure rose up suddenly from behind the counter, clearly calculated to startle her. She did give a start, but more so because she recognized him. It was the same tall gangly man she’d seen bicycling into town dragging the darkness with him. He stood directly behind the candle and the light it cast gave his already narrow and ghastly face an even more ghastly aspect.

  He smiled down at her with an equally ghastly grin, and said, “May I be of some service, young lady?”

  Nieve, determined to keep her cool, said evenly, “Yes, I would like to buy some tissues. Six boxes, please.”

  “Tissues?” he said. “Tissues. What an interesting request.”

  She didn’t like the way he said “tissues.” And she couldn’t think of anything less interesting.

  Nevertheless, he said it again. “Tissues. Hmmm, let me see.” He placed a long, stick- thin finger on his bony chin and tapped it a couple of times. “Mr. Wormius, tell me, would we happen to have any tissue on hand?”

  Confused, Nieve looked around to see who he was talking to, and it was only then that she noticed the top of someone’s head – wide and moon-white – behind the counter, barely cresting it.

  “Tissue, Mr. Ashe?” The round head now rose above the counter and came into full view. (He’s climbed onto a stool, Nieve thought.) He appeared with a considering expression on his large, smooth, dish-like face. His eyes were as grey as gravel and unadorned with either lashes or eyebrows. “Why, I believe we do, Mr. Ashe,” he said in a raspy voice. “I believe we have several boxes of . . . tissue.”

  Nieve squirmed a little and bit her lip. They were trying to creep her out and coming very close to succeeding. “Tissues,” she said firmly. Not skin. Jeepers! “Made of paper, to blow your nose on, dry your eyes, stuff like that.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Ashe. “Bodily excrescences. Tears! Mr. Wormius, I think this young lady needs a little something to cheer her up.”

  “Oh indeed she does, Mr. Ashe,” said Wormius. “She’s terribly pale. Trouble at home, a best friend missing . . . why, it’s enough to make anyone weep.”

  Nieve narrowed her eyes.

  “Have a medicinal candy, my dear,” offered Ashe. He extended a skeletal hand into the gloom and pulled a glass apothecary jar toward him. “A sweet to soothe the aching heart.”

  Nieve couldn’t help it. When she saw what was in the jar she gasped. It was those jawbreakers again! They rattled and clinked and shuffled in the jar until the black eyespots were all turned toward her. She made a face, thinking of the bitter taste left in her mouth from the one last night . . . how alive it had been, the explosion, the stink in her room.

  Ashe, eyeing her closely, said, “You appear to be ill, my dear. How worrying, especially with no one to look after you. No one at all. But we can help, can’t we Mr. Wormius?”

  “We can, most certainly, Mr. Ashe.”

  “Why don’t you stick out your tongue for me and say, Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  Ashe made this sound like he’d fallen down a mine shaft.

  Nieve was seriously tempted to stick out her tongue, but not in the manner he intended.

  Instead, she said, as haughtily as she could manage, “I don’t require any help thank you.” She then turned and walked back down the aisle, quickly, in case they followed after and tried to grab her. She didn’t glance back to see if they were pursuing her – or to see if they’d completely vanished as the Weed Inspector had done – but kept walking swiftly toward the door, focused solely on getting through it.

  “You’ve forgotten your tissue . . . Nieve,” she heard Wormius chuckle.

  “Yes, Nieve,” Ashe called after her. “Nieve, dear, whatever will you do without it?”

  –Eight–

  Dark Matters

  In her rush to get through the door of the pharmacy, Nieve didn’t observe as closely as she might have done the woman who passed her going in. She did note that the woman radiated a frostiness because she felt it in passing, as if she’d pushed through a cold current. This caused her to glance up briefly, taking in the woman’s pale, perfect features, the elegant, upswept hairdo, the ritzy clothes, the confident stride. Altogether the woman looked as if she knew exactly where she was going, and why. Nieve didn’t try to warn her off.

  Instead, she hurried down the street, trying not to think about how those two creeps in the pharmacy had known her name . . . and that wasn’t all they seemed to know about her. As she passed the bookstore, she saw that DunstanWarlock was arranging a new window display. This was something he did so infrequently that there were thick shoals of dust in the window and long-dead flies belly-up on the foxed and yellowed books.

  Glancing out at her, the bookseller straightened, tipped his hat, and smirked. He’d never acknowledged Nieve before and she couldn’t see why he did so now. She ignored him and kept on. But her stomach tightened in distress only a few steps ahead when she realized why he’d tipped his hat at her. On his little finger he was wearing a gold ring with a black stone, the very same kind of ring that her mother had been wearing the night of the storm. He had wanted her to see it.

  Nieve picked up speed. The street was oddly empty: no one was out shopping or running errands, visiting the library or dropping into the post office for a chat with Mrs. Welty, the postmistress. When she’d passed by Redfern’s Five & Dime, she saw that it was closed now, too. The storefront windows were covered with black paper. Wishart’s Bakery was open, but when she stopped to see what kind of cookies and squares they had on offer, she saw instead a single cake displayed in the window on a peculiar pedestal cake stand. The stand was made of grey marble, stained and chipped. Around its base were detailed carvings of strange men. They were like bald, ugly children, pug-nosed, with crafty eyes, pointy ears, and sharp teeth filling their leering mouths. These carved men were holding up a marble plate upon which sat what Nieve thought must be a chocolate cake, although it was so dark it could have easily been licorice. The cake’s icing had been whipped into fierce peaks as sharp as claws. In colour and consistency the icing reminded her of Genevieve Crawley’s lipstick.

  Nieve gazed at the cake, unable somehow not to. She had no desire to sample it. Her stomach tightened even more the longer she looked at it, and yet it was . . . .

  “Divine,” someone beside her said.

  Nieve had been so absorbed that she hadn’t noticed Alicia Overbury sidle up beside her.

  “It’s icky, if you ask me.” Nieve pulled her gaze with difficulty from the window. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Why aren’t you? ”

  “I’m sick.” This wasn’t a lie, she’d witnessed enough this morning to make anyone sick. Although Alicia did look sick. Not only did she appear wan and listless, but she was a mess. Her clothes were rumpled and torn, and her face was dirty, flecks of
mud on her cheeks and the corners of her mouth smudged with jam. Not at all her usual prim and prissy self.

  “You’re missing out. We play games all the time and get loads of treats.” While Alicia spoke, she continued to stare intently, hungrily at the cake.

  “Why aren’t you there then, if it’s so much fun?”

  “Night school,” she said tonelessly. “We’re starting night school.”

  “Night school?”

  Alicia nodded and licked her lips, her full attention devoted to the grim pastry in the bakery window. That’s when Nieve saw that her tongue was black. It wasn’t simply stained from eating black candy, but had turned black. She tried not to stare, but it was so freakish and ugly. Not that Alicia noticed.

  “I don’t want to go to school at night,” Nieve said quietly. Amazing, but she was beginning to feel sorry for Alicia. “Going during the day is bad enough. Why do you?”

  “No choice. You’ll have to go, too. The truant officer will come and get you. He’s horrible. I’ve seen him. He’ll come at night and drag you out of your bed.”

  “I’d like to see him try,” Nieve said stoutly.

  “Don’t worry, you will.” Alicia finally turned to look at her.

  Nieve saw then how zoned-out she was, her eyes drained of their usual spark and glint. This wasn’t the exasperating Alicia she knew. Exasperating, but still lively and full of herself and with-it. Those treats aren’t jawbreakers, Nieve thought, they’re mindbreakers.

  “Alicia, listen, don’t eat any more of those candies or anything else like them. They’re really not good for you. They’re harming you.”

  “That’s a laugh,” Alicia said, not laughing at all, but turning once again toward the window to stare and stare at the black cake.

  Nieve knew she had even more reason now to see Mayor Mary. She backed away from Alicia and ran headlong to the clinic, troubled, but not without hope that Mary would understand what was happening and know how to stop it. When she arrived, however, and pushed eagerly through the door, she found the clinic abandoned. No one was minding the front desk and no one was seated on the chairs lined up against the wall reading tattered old magazines and waiting their turn for whatever medical advice the mayor had to offer.

  Unsure of what to do next, Nieve walked over to the receptionist’s desk. She’d noticed that a pile of papers had fallen onto the floor beside it, along with a couple of pens and a tongue depressor. A coffee mug with a jokey I’d Rather Be Dancing inscription lay toppled over on the desk, as if the mug itself had given dancing a shot and it hadn’t worked out. Drips of coffee were splattered on the pages of the appointment book and a large, sloppy stain had spread over the ink blotter. She touched it – still damp. Several empty medicine bottles sat on the blotter, lids tossed aside. She picked one up and read the label: SCATTERBRAIN’S SUPER-DUPER EXTRA-STRENGTH HEADACHE PILLS. Mary must have come down with a terrible headache, Nieve concluded. No surprise there. The headache must have been so sudden and sharp that she’d knocked over her coffee and the papers and . . . and . . . had gone home.

  At a loss, Nieve supposed she’d have to go home, too. Spotting a box of tissues on the filing cabinet next to the desk, she wondered if it would be okay to take it if she left a note promising to replace it later. Hesitating – it didn’t seem right – she heard a faint muffled sound coming from somewhere in the back. She crept over to the door of the consulting room and put her ear against it. Nothing. As quietly as possible, she turned the knob and opened the door a crack. She peeked in, but saw no one. Nor was there anywhere for a person to hide – or be stashed – since the room contained only a couple of chairs, an examining table, Dr. Morys’ desk, a small cabinet, a garbage can, and a sink. This was a room she was familiar with, having seen Dr. Morys here for some bad colds and sore throats, and once a sprained ankle. (“Ahh, Nieve no more running for you, I’m afraid,” Dr. Morys had said. Fortunately, he’d winked at her when he said it.)

  She heard the voice again, still muffled but louder, so slipped into the consulting room and crept over to the window that overlooked the lane behind the clinic. Outside were three child-sized figures dressed in black leggings and short cloaks, baggy hoods over their heads, obscuring their faces. They were struggling to load a body into the back of the idling ambulance, a body that was wrapped from head to foot like a mummy in gauzy swaths of spider silk. Their captive was fighting hard, squirming and wriggling in an effort to wrench free. Muzzled, the captive’s angry protests were smothered, the voice squashed and unrecognizable. Almost unrecognizable.

  Nieve tugged desperately at the window, trying to yank it open. It was jammed shut. The only way out was through the front door. She tore out of the consulting room, ran past the reception desk, and out the door. Without slowing, she turned sharply at the corner of the building and sped down the alley beside the clinic . . . but she was too late! By the time she got to the back lane, the ambulance was pulling away. Frantically, she searched the ground, seizing a rock to throw at it, a last ditch effort to stop them, but already the ambulance was speeding down the lane toward the road that led out of town.

  She hurled the rock furiously in its wake.

  Mayor Mary! Nieve had failed her, but what could she have done? Not only had she been outnumbered, but the figures themselves, although small, were not children. When the ambulance had peeled away, spinning its tires and spitting gravel, one of the abductors had turned to stare at her. His hood had fallen onto his shoulders revealing a bald head and a clenched, rag-grey face. His yellow eyes, taking her in, were as sharp as pins.

  –Nine–

  Truant

  “The nights are getting longer,” Sutton said, staring out at the starless sky.

  That’s for sure, Nieve thought. Longer, denser, and more sudden. At exactly five o’clock the dark had come racing in from all sides and swallowed up what little light was left in the day.

  “Dad?” She tried to get his attention, not easy these days. She’d never known her father to stand around so much like a gowk – Gran’s word – aimless and jingling the loose change in his pockets. “Is Gran home yet?”

  “Nope. She’d drop by if she were, wouldn’t she?”

  “Guess so.” She listened to him jingling his change, which reminded her. Reaching into her pocket, she said, “Here’s that ten dollars.”

  He smiled down at her, accepting the bill. “Hey, thanks En. I’ll pay you back.”

  “No Dad, it’s your–”

  “This’ll top up what I need for the sitter.”

  “But–”

  “Nieve is old enough to stay on her own.” Sophie had swept into the room, dressed to the hilt in a black evening gown and satin heels, tear-shaped onyx earrings and matching necklace. Splashy compared with her usual working clothes, but Nieve knew this job involved high-class sympathy. Probably lots of weeping of a snobbier sort, snivelling discreetly into lacy hankies between sips of champagne.

  “I don’t want her to be alone,” Sutton shrugged. “I called Becky to come over.”

  “Unnecessary.” Sophie pulled on a pair of long black gloves. “You’re not a baby, are you, dear?”

  Nieve shook her head, watching her mother tug on the gloves, flexing her fingers and smoothing the wrinkles out of the silky material. The gloves disguised but didn’t completely hide the ring she was wearing, which rode like a bony bump on her little finger. But then, Nieve had caught sight of it before the gloves went on . . . and the ring had caught sight of her! That’s what it seemed to do anyway. The ring’s stone was as soft and black as a pupil, and she could have sworn that she saw a thin golden membrane falling quickly over it, blinking as it vanished into her mother’s glove. It was the same kind of ring she’d seen earlier on Dunstan Warlock’s fat finger, too.

  “Did you get the tissues?” Sophie asked briskly.

  “Darn,” Sutton said. “Forgot.”

  Sophie sighed and snatched up her evening bag from a side table. “You’d forget your hea
d if it wasn’t attached.” This was the sort of thing she usually said with a fond laugh, but Nieve didn’t hear any fondness in it, only impatience. Plus something else, something harder. “Come on, let’s go.” Her mother marched down the front hall, spikey heels drilling into the hardwood floor. “Don’t be late for school,” she called back to Nieve.

  Becky didn’t show, which probably meant that Sutton hadn’t gotten around to calling her. Nieve hoped that’s what it meant. She liked Becky, they had a riot when she came over. She was game for anything, and didn’t head straight for the TV, with the inevitable detour to the kitchen, the moment she walked in the door. Yet tonight she would have happily put up with someone who devoured all the treats in the house while settled like a zombie in front of the tube. Her mother was right, she didn’t need a babysitter, and she liked being on her own, but it was so unnaturally dark outside, and she felt so . . . uneasy.

  Nieve curled up on the living room couch and began thinking things over, while staying alert to any unusual noises. The problem was that there was too much to think over. She picked up a book off the coffee table, new, but probably one of those tear-jerkers her parents liked to read. She opened it, stared unseeing for a moment at a page of print, then snapped the book shut. Ignorance is bliss, isn’t that what her dad said? I wish, she thought. Then, no, I don’t. Somebody had to do something, and more and more she felt it was going to have to be her and her alone.

  She kept replaying over and over in her head what she’d witnessed behind the clinic. What should she have done? After seeing Mayor Mary so horribly dragged off, she ran to the police station for help, and had found Theo Bax gone, too. His wooden swivel chair lay tipped over on the floor and nothing remained of him at his desk except two small piles of fingernail clippings neatly mounded on either side of a half-eaten doughnut. Next, she’d tried the Town Hall, but the clerk there had only laughed at her and told her to run along. She knew that Mrs. Welty would listen to her, and she did, but then – speechless and dazed – the postmistress had walked promptly into the Post Office supply room and locked herself in.