Nieve

by Terry Griggs

  Elixibyss dropped her sleeve instantly. “Don’t be absurd! It’s a bruise. Your eyes haven’t adjusted to the light here yet.”

  Nieve knew what she’d seen.

  Elixibyss flinched, pain evidently streaking across her brow. She flicked a hand and a teeming pile of headache pills appeared on her palm. These she crammed into her mouth, crunching and grinding them, while saying, “Yes, you’ve been a most disagreeable daughter. Punishments are called for, spoil the rod, etcetera, I do want to be a good parent.” She swallowed the pills down in one acrid lump. “However, I am willing to overlook your insolence and disobedience and bad attitude this one time. If you cooperate.” She sniffed loudly. “I have a little chore for you to perform.”

  “What kind of chore?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “What I want to see is Malcolm.”

  “A what not a who, eh? Now you’ve got the right idea, darling. Your tutor will be able to skip the grammar and get down to the real lessons. Genevieve Crawley, didn’t I tell you? I believe you’ve met. I must say she’s done some fabulous work at your old school. Absolutely everyone has graduated and become most . . . useful. But come, this way.”

  As Elixibyss marched toward another line of chairs, Nieve, following behind, caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. She stopped and surveyed the other side of the room, unable to see anything, only more seated, comatose bodies lining the wall. But she had the distinct impression that someone had waved at her.

  “Dawdle, dawdle, dawdle!” Elixibyss called back. “Come, before I lose my patience.”

  Nieve hurried toward the spot where the Impress was waiting, tapping her foot noisily, as if cracking beetles with the toe of her shoe. In the chair before her sat Malcolm.

  Nieve crouched down in front of him and placed a hand on his ice-cold one.

  He looked terrible, gaunt and worn, his forehead marked with a ugly bruise (a real bruise). He stared straight ahead, but not with resignation, Neive thought. She knew Malcolm could be a scrapper if it came to that. Another troublemaker. But how much trouble can you make with only an ounce of life left in you?

  Elixibyss smiled down at him.

  “Why are you doing this?” Nieve clenched her jaw.

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it, dear? I’m doing it for you.”

  “Me? ”

  “Really now, there’s no need to play the ignoramus, is there? Mothers make sacrifices, that’s simply what we do. Your dreary old granny has told you, surely, that you have a few minor abilities, nothing to boast about. But they haven’t anything to do with healing. That’s sentimental nonsense. Quite the opposite, in fact. Why, you could quench this boy’s light with a snap of your fingers.” Elixibyss raised her hand, as though she were about to do exactly that, but paused and dropped it again. “It’s fantastic luck to touch the dead, you must know that. Everyone’s lined up here, ready and waiting. Think, a whole roomful of luck to harvest! Yes, you’re going to be a busy girl indeed once the wedding is over.”

  Nieve was so astonished by this, all she could think to say was, “What wedding?”

  “Twisden’s, of course. To that Sarah person, hand-picked for the job. Finalizes a few matters for me, but honestly, wedding, divorce, funeral . . . humans have the most pointless rituals. Which reminds me, I have preparations to make, and you, my dear girl, have a job to do. Remember, no more naughty behaviour. We wouldn’t want your little friend here to perish before his time, would we?”

  With that, Elixibyss gathered up the hem of her gown and walked briskly toward the double doors. “Get a move on!” she ordered, without once glancing back.

  Nieve herself rose, heartsick, giving her friend’s hand a squeeze, passing along some warmth, some hope, even though there seemed precious little of that to go around. On rising, however, she saw that flicker of movement again. Then, from across the room, someone – a short familiar someone – jumped up from one of the chairs, dashed over to Elixibyss, and began making faces behind her back.

  Lirk!

  He hopped around and cavorted behind the unwitting Impress, imitating her regal walk, jeering and thumbing his nose at her. After which he simply . . . vanished. He mostly vanished, that is, for the stubby fingers that waggled on the tip of his snub nose were visible for a few seconds longer before they too winked out.

  –Twenty-Eight–

  Nayword

  When it became evident that Elixibyss was leading her back to the dining room, Nieve gave up wondering about Lirk. One thing, he had nerve. She figured that he was probably the one who had followed them to Bone House, but with what intention she couldn’t guess. (More jam!?) Instead, she tried to prepare herself for another confrontation over Gowl. If the chore she had to perform was to finish him off, then no thanks. Let the Impress make her. Let her try! It was the threat to Malcolm that worried her more, much more. How best to respond so that he wouldn’t come to further harm?

  Entering the dining room behind Elixibyss, she glanced quickly at Lias’ cage and at Weazen, who was busying herself near it, then at the stone table. What she saw arrayed on it made her cry out. Not a gross serving of leftover Gowl . . . but Dr. Morys! He lay flat out, wearing his blue hospital gown, his white legs and knobbly feet sticking out, his arms at his sides, his kindly face composed, although showing no signs of consciousness.

  Nieve rushed over to him and touched his arm, running her fingers down to his wrist, where she felt a faint, distant pulse. His hand was clenched into a fist, which she thought odd, until she remembered what Rob Cooper had said. That before Dr. Morys collapsed, he had reached out with one hand as if grasping at something.

  “My, aren’t we the little doctor,” sneered Elixibyss, standing by, arms folded.

  “That’s what he needs.” Nieve ignored the sneer. “We have to get him to the hospital, right now.”

  “That could be arranged, I suppose. Depending.”

  “On what?”

  “Your chore, my dear. How quickly you forget. Nothing to it, really. No pain involved for the old geezer here. I simply want you to unclench that fist of his. Open his hand.”

  Nieve scrutinized the Impress, searching her cool face for a clue as to what this was about. It had to be a trick of some kind, but she had no idea what.

  “Why don’t you do it?” she said.

  “Not my sort of thing.” Elixibyss folded her arms and smiled. “Go ahead.”

  Keeping an eye on the Impress, Nieve put her hand on Dr. Morys’ fist, which, curiously, felt much warmer than his arm had. Reaching for the tips of his fingers that were pressed tightly into his palm, she tried to prise his hand open, but gently. It was too firmly clenched, though, and she couldn’t budge it.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” said Elixibyss. “Elbow grease, my dear.”

  Nieve didn’t want to consider what, in this house, elbow grease might truly be. Before she was offered any, she tried again, putting more effort into it, but his fist was squeezed tight, closed up like a clam.

  “Break his fingers,” Elixibyss suggested. “Or, I don’t know . . . use your imagination. Saw them off.”

  “Yeah, right.” The woman was disgusting.

  “That’s my girl!” Elixibyss surveyed the table as if searching for the appropriate tool with which to do the deed. Fortunately the cutlery had all been cleared away.

  Nieve cast a helpless look at Weazen. The old deiler, standing by the cold fireplace, had been silently watching, and now stepped in front of the poker that was leaning up against the hearth, hiding it from view.

  “Hmmn,” pondered Elixibyss. “We want to crack open the fingers, but not lose the . . . wait, I have just the thing.” This said with an evil little chuckle. “Weazen, keep the girl out of mischief. I’ll be right back.”

  But mischief happened, and Weazen had no intention of stopping it.

  The moment Elixibyss was gone, Nieve did something unusual and very surprising. She certainly surprised herself. Out o
f frustration and fear for Dr. Morys, and contempt for the Impress, she opened her mouth, ready with a good strong curse, a tough schoolyard oath . . . and instead spat out, “Flaught.”

  This wasn’t what she meant to say, but for some reason she had to say it, had to get it out of her mouth, as if it were a stone or a piece of glass. It had felt that hard on her tongue. She didn’t even know what it meant – flaught was just another Old Country word of Gran’s, and not one spoken in anger – but it clearly meant something, because the moment it was out in the air a series of startling things happened.

  First, a loud flapping noise filled the room. It sounded like a flock of birds flying through, huge, invisible birds. This was followed by a brisk wind that swept in, stirring everything that could be stirred, including the ashes in the hearth and the flames on the candles, which bent and swayed crazily. The black cloth that covered Lias’ cage fluttered, as did Dr. Morys’ hospital gown. The wind picked up the ends of Nieve’s hair, swirled them around and around, tied a few strands in knots, and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it was gone.

  But the best was yet to come, for once the room was still again, Dr. Morys’ clenched fist began to relax. His fingers slowly unfurled, like the petals on a flower (although not that slowly), and soon his hand lay open on the table. In his palm Nieve saw what appeared to be a small bright patch of . . . what? She bent down closer to inspect it . . . not a jewel, because it was transparent, and it floated on Dr. Morys’ palm like . . . .

  “Daylicht,” said Lias, crawling out of the cage. “What happened? Where are my shoes?” He looked around the room, bemused. “Oh, hello Weazen.”

  “Master Lias,” Weazen said with a tight smile. “Caught again.”

  “But still kicking. Ah, Nieve, it was you, wasn’t it? You discovered the nayword! I knew you could do it, what did I tell you.”

  “Lias! How did . . . what’s a . . . you two know each other?”

  “Aye,” Weazen said, staring anxiously at the door. “She won’t be long away.”

  “Better take it now, Nieve,” said Lias. “Hurry.”

  “Take what?”

  “The lux. You know, the daylight.”

  “That?” She pointed at the patch of light, about the size of a quarter, that continued to float on Dr. Morys’ palm. “How? I can’t pick up light! Besides . . . .” She couldn’t help but think of what the Impress had said in the ballroom, how she’d be able to put out Malcolm’s light with the snap of her fingers. “What if it’s the only thing keeping him alive?”

  “Accept it, miss,” said Weazen. “He wants you to have it.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, heels hammering into the floorboards.

  “Blast!” Lias scanned the room, then scrambled into a corner and crouched in the shadow of the sideboard. This furniture had no human attributes at least, outside of a burly, imposing presence, which made it a handy place to hide.

  Nieve, panicked, didn’t know what to do. What was right? What if she hurt Dr.Morys? Fatally? But there was no time to consider. She held her hand out, palm upward, and slid it quickly toward him until the tips of her fingers touched his. The second she did this, the little light skimmed onto her hand, hovered briefly on her palm, then disappeared up her sleeve like a timorous mouse making a dash for safety. It didn’t tickle, as a mouse would scurrying up her arm, but she did feel a slight trace of warmth as it settled in the hollow of her shoulder.

  She dropped her hand hastily by her side as the Impress burst into the room, holding a drill. She took one look at Dr. Morys’ open hand and screamed. “You little minx! What have you done?!”

  “I did what you told me to,” Nieve said simply.

  “Where is it, then? What have you done with it?”

  “Done with what?”

  “The . . . thing. The secret thing in his hand.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. He didn’t have anything in his hand. Was he supposed to be holding something?”

  Elixibyss narrowed her eyes. She raised the drill and pointed it at Nieve, then pressed the switch. It made an excruciatingly shrill noise, like a dentist’s drill. “You’re lying.”

  Nieve shook her head, trying her best to stand her ground as she watched the drill bit, aimed at her own head, whizzing at high-speed.

  “She’s not, ma’am,” Weazen spoke up. “Was nothing in the old man’s hand. Could be you was misinformed.”

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “Think I’d trust a deiler to tell the truth?”

  Elixibyss seemed to take this in nonetheless, and, turning off the drill, stood fuming and glowering at Nieve until interrupted by a knock at the door. Weazen creaked over to open it, taking her time, and admitted someone Nieve never thought she’d be glad to see: Dunstan Warlock.

  He stepped into the dining room, huffing and red-faced, cowboy hat in hand, nervously rolling and unrolling its rim into a tight tube.

  The Impress turned on him with a snarl. “What is it, Toad?”

  Warlock was about to speak, until he saw Nieve. He gave her a slightly bug-eyed look, then glancing back at Elixibyss, jerked his head toward the door.

  “Oh, all right,” she sighed. “Nieve, I’ll deal with you shortly. Be prepared to suffer. ”

  Once she and Warlock were through the doors and murmuring together in the hall, Lias leapt out of his hiding place and began to search the room. As he searched, he said, “Don’t worry, Nieve, your ‘mother’ isn’t going to hurt you. She wouldn’t dare, she needs you. Where is it, Weazen, where’s the box?”

  “Mantel,” Weazen answered, at the same time that Nieve said, testily, “She’s not my mother.”

  “I know,” he said, moving like a cat toward the fireplace and toward the gold box that was resting on the mantel. “She’s mine.”

  –Twenty-Nine–

  Inoculation

  Surely Lias meant that the gold box was his, and not the mother, not Elixibyss? But as it turned out, the box wasn’t his, either. Just as he was about to grab it, the Impress returned. She angrily pushed through the dining room doors, slamming them against the wall. They vibrated as they bounced back and were left hanging halfway open. Luckily, she was so intently focused on Nieve that she didn’t see Lias slinking back into his hiding place in the shadow of the sideboard.

  Whatever Warlock had told her hadn’t been welcome news. Striding over to Nieve, she smiled at her in an effortful, fake-motherly fashion, which was scarier than some of her more grim expressions.

  “Darling,” she said, white-lipped. “We’re going on a little jaunt.”

  “A jaunt?”

  “Indeed. We need a vacation, don’t you think? Let’s do some shopping! We could pick up some . . . Danish furniture, modernize our digs here, Danish people do make the niftiest furniture. Yes, we’ll have some quality time together, time to bond, eh, and make up for all those years we’ve been kept apart.”

  “Sounds, um . . .” Revolting? Like a nightmare? “Nice.” Escape might be possible once she was out of this place. That and finding help.

  “I’ve never been a big fan of ‘nice,’ but I can see you’re finally coming around.” Elixibyss reached out to pat Nieve on the head, then hastily pulled back her hand. “Good. We’ll leave right away. One quick stop at the hospital, then we’ll be off.”

  “We can take Dr. Morys. Like you said.”

  Elixibyss laughed, which was even more ghastly than her fake maternal beaming. “I’m afraid you’ve already fixed him, my dear. He’s done like a dinner.”

  “No!” But turning to him, Nieve saw that Dr. Morys did look paler, and somehow sadder than he had before she had taken the daylight from him. His mouth was turned down slightly, and he seemed to be less present, less there in himself.

  “Let’s go, we’re wasting time. Oh, and mustn’t forget this.” Elixibyss swept over to the fireplace and snatched the gold box off the mantel. “Weazen, clean up the mess on the table. And be sure to keep my baby tucked up safe in his cr
ib. His snug rib crib!” she laughed again, clutching the box as she swept out. “Come, Nieve, right now!”

  Nieve reached out to touch Dr. Morys. What had she done?

  As soon as she touched him, though, grasping his open hand, she could have sworn that she saw his lips twitch ever so slightly. As if, even in death, he had found something that amused him.

  She glanced up, bewildered, looking first at Weazen, who gave her an encouraging nod, then at Lias, who, pressed up against the wall, was miming for her to go, go!

  Nieve reluctantly relinquished Dr. Morys’ hand and moved toward the open doors.

  Unable to resist one last look before leaving, she glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see Weazen snatch at something in the air. A fly, she thought at first, but no, it looked more like an ear than a fly. A pointy, putty-coloured ear suspended in mid-air, scarcely higher than Weazen herself.

  Riding to the hospital in the silver car wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs. Dunstan Warlock was at the wheel, and his driving skills were minimal to non-existent. But that wasn’t the main problem. The car itself was a menace. Bent out of shape after its tumble into the ditch, with a crumpled fender and a wonky tire, it wobbled along through the desolate streets of the Black City in what, for a car, was a foul mood. (Nor did it help that its vanity licence plate – ME!ME!ME31 – was also dangling from its rear and about to fall off.)

  The upholstery in the back where Nieve was seated kept buckling up and pinching her, until she gave it a good hard punch. The car groaned and stopped pinching, but then the seat started bouncing her up and down trampoline-style, and tossing her back and forth, from one door to the other, until she hissed, “I get carsick, you know. How would you like that all over you?” It stopped promptly.

  Next, the radio came on, full blast. The dial was set on a news channel, an extremely weird news channel, that recounted gruesome current events: