Creeping Jenny

by Jeff Noon

  One section of the tendril was still wrapped around Nyquist’s fingers, but it was weaker now. He pulled it loose and threw it to the floor.

  “I felt that.” He could speak again, after a fashion.

  “What? You’re mumbling. I can’t hear you.”

  Nyquist rubbed at the fingers of his hand. “When I cut into it, it really dug in. Holding on for dear life.” He grabbed the cup from Bainbridge’s hands, and examined the remaining half of the tendril. There was a green ooze seeping from the severed end.

  “Is that blood?” Bainbridge asked.

  “It’s green. Like sap.”

  “So it is a plant then.” Bainbridge’s mood had changed again. He now looked like a man in a puzzle palace, trying to find his way out.

  Nyquist put the cup down on the table. “I killed one half of it. But this section’s still alive. It’s like a worm that’s been cut in two.”

  “You said it wasn’t a worm.”

  “Well then, I don’t know…” Nyquist couldn’t finish the sentence. He tried to gather up the photographs, but his hands wouldn’t quite do what he asked of them.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you further,” Bainbridge said.

  “I can taste it.”

  “What?”

  “That thing you put in my tea.” He steadied himself against the table’s edge.

  “I didn’t put–”

  “It’s nasty. Bitter. It tastes like…”

  “Like what?”

  “Like biting into a moth. Not that I’ve ever…”

  Bainbridge grinned. “Oh, I’m sure the effects are temporary.”

  “I don’t feel too good.”

  “You see, I’m just trying to…”

  “Yes?”

  “To live my life. And to look after Hilda, that’s all.”

  Nyquist felt sick in his stomach. “All I need is… all is need is information… relating to my father.” His body was slowing down.

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  He looked into Bainbridge’s face. “I’ve interviewed lots of men.” He had put on an act, forcing the words out. “Tougher guys than you.”

  “You have?”

  One last effort: “I know when someone’s lying.”

  Hilda Bainbridge clapped her hands together, just the once.

  The sound was shocking.

  It set the budgerigar fluttering and chirping madly. It took Nyquist’s every last ounce of strength, just to stay upright. He looked at the woman in the armchair. She was staring at him intently, without a flicker of her eyelids. The room trembled.

  One shiver, a second shiver.

  He placed a hand against the wall, holding on.

  Like so. Concentrate. You can…

  The third shiver.

  The budgie started to ring its little silver bell, over and over and over.

  THE MAYPOLE DANCE

  He looked up and saw the moon and the overarching swathe of stars, more than he had ever seen in his life, and for a moment he felt unsteady. Drops of rain fell on his face, refreshing him. A drink from the gods. Nyquist stayed like this for a while, until he felt steady on his feet and able to move on. He walked towards Pyke Road and then turned to head back down the hill. By his watch it was past eight o’clock. The streets were deserted, not a soul was seen, no cars drove by. He remembered what Ian Bainbridge had told him, that nobody was supposed to be outside on Saint Switten’s Day. He passed lighted and darkened windows, curtained and uncurtained, and on occasion he glanced in and saw families in living rooms, gathered around the radio or playing board games, or old men and women alone, or young couples sitting together on the settee. One life after another, so many doors to be knocked upon, so many questions to be asked. Have you seen this man, he’s called George, he’s my father, do you know where he his? But Nyquist walked on. He could not intrude, not yet.

  Ahead he saw the village green. He was approaching it from a new direction: the oak tree, the pond, the maypole, they all seemed in a different relationship to each other. But he was relieved and he stopped to take in the scene. The public house was visible from here, its windows glowing with a welcoming light. He realized the significance of the pub’s name. In the city of his birth, people used different names for the night sky constellations, and one of the most famous was the Swan With Two Necks. Surely, this was a good omen. He could remember standing in the back yard and his father pointing out the visible stars to him, and calling out the names of the patterns one by one.

  The Hooded Man

  Dove with Broken Wing and Olive Branch

  The Music Box

  Maiden in Waiting

  The Swan With Two Necks

  Nyquist set off across the remains of a cricket field, the white markings barely seen in the browning grass. A circle of burnt earth marked the remains of a bonfire. There were no lights on the green, and he could hardly see where to step.

  The bright ribbons, wrapped around the maypole for the winter months, had come loose and were flapping in the wind.

  The rain fell softly, a caress on his skin.

  The water in the pond looked like black ink. The branches of the oak tree creaked and rustled and he thought again of Sylvia of the Woods and her naming tags. His hand reached into his pocket to pull out the card she had placed there: his new name. He stopped to read it but it was too dark to see clearly, and the wording seemed to be out of focus.

  Nyquist placed his suitcase on the ground.

  A large bird had landed on the top of the maypole, a raven. It flapped and hopped and settled, and made its raucous croak, the notes loud enough to call out the dead. In response, two nebulous shapes now danced around the pole: shadows, nothing more. Another joined them, and one more. Children. Boys and girls. One by one until six were gathered together, each clothed in moonlight. He could hear their voices singing from afar. Their bodies had traveled a great distance to get here, months, or years even, to appear as phantoms of spring in the wintertime. Hazy figures. Was he seeing things? Was this another effect of the poison in the teacup?

  Nyquist stood his ground. He remembered Bainbridge’s final words to him, at the door of the cottage; “Whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone. If they’re out tonight, they’re up to no good. Or ghosts.” Still, something had to be done. He spoke softly.

  “Who are you?”

  The shadows danced on. The ribbons slapped and hissed, winding and unwinding. A strange clattering sound was heard, perhaps an effect of the wind on the pole.

  Nyquist stepped closer and tried to peer into the gloom.

  The dancers circled around each other, and around the pole. Their song continued, its words audible now, or nearly so, floating in the dark air.

  Sing along a Sally, O

  The moon is in the valley, O

  He couldn’t help but be drawn forth by the sight and the sound, close enough to feel the shadow children as they passed by, close enough almost to be a dancer himself, caught in a game. And even this close he was still unsure: were the children real, or imagined? The music, the slap of the ribbons and the shrieks of joy or terror, the motion of the wind writing its own story across the surface of the pond, he saw it all, and saw nothing, and reached out, steady now, steady, and he brushed against one child, a young boy, and felt hardly anything from the contact other than a breath. Their song had more substance than their bodies.

  Come to grief or come what may,

  Tolly Man, Tolly Man, come out to play!

  And then they were gone, in an instant. He heard only the cries of the children as they raced across the green, he saw only their white tunics in the dark night. Now all was silent, and pure. The drug from the plant in the teacup in the cottage in the village in the landscape: all these things were in his mind.

  Nyquist felt dizzy. He reached out with both hands, holding the naming card aloft.

  This world… this world is waiting for you…

  He gathered moonlight in his eyes.

/>   He gathered life from the pond’s black depths, from whatever stirred there, and from the oak tree, the branches, the roots.

  He gathered the silent song from the maypole where a night bird was perched.

  He gathered time from the cricketers who played here in the summer months, the chock of ball on bat and the cheers of the crowd and the sound of lemonade poured into glasses, here, in the cold early days of December, 1959.

  He gathered the night and the blood and the breath and the games. Nyquist felt it all, all in that place, all in that one moment collected together.

  And his father’s face appeared before him, dark and clouded, floating as a mist, blown hither and fro by the wind but always buffeted back to where it appeared. Almost pulled apart by a sudden gust, but returning, returning to its shapes, its form of dust and shadow.

  Voices echoed across the green.

  Tolly Man, O Tolly Man…

  Nyquist could not move.

  Come to grief or come what may…

  The ghost of his father whispered, catching the last of the children’s cries.

  Come out to play…

  The apparition was drifting away, scattering. Nyquist moved at last, only to be attacked by the raven as it flew down from its perch, circling around him, cawing, flashing its wings, mocking him, pecking at his clothes and the skin of his hands.

  He batted it away. The wind cut through him.

  And then he was alone once more.

  The children had gone, his father also.

  The maypole was silent, its ribbons tightly bound.

  He shivered to his soul. The back of his hand was bleeding.

  The bird sat atop the pole, as before. Something was held in its beak, a white object. Nyquist squinted into the moonlight. He could see that the raven had stolen his naming card. It brought a sadness to him. He reached up, but the pole was too high. He called out in some ridiculous fashion, making noises.

  The bird flew off, over to the trees that lined the far end of the green.

  A SEWING LESSON

  He woke up and looked around drowsily from the bed, his eyes drawn to the only lighted object in the room, an illuminated figure on a shelf. Nyquist put his mind back together one thought at a time. He wondered how he’d slept at all, but the day’s travels had exhausted him. Add to which the effects of whatever had been in that tea. He remembered how the landlord of the pub had explained to him that Saint Switten would look over him: “I always put his icon out for our guests. They find it calming.” And yes, surprisingly, it did seem to have a hypnotic effect.

  Nyquist sat up. He was still fully clothed, lost at the edges of himself, half blinded by memories good and bad. He rubbed at his stubbled face with his hands and thought about food, and getting clean. He looked to the shelf where the figure of the saint stood, its golden hair surmounted by a lighted halo.

  He swung his feet to the carpeted floor, stumbled to the sink on the wall, and he washed his face. A leaf fell from his hair. He found his wristwatch at the bedside: ten to midnight. So, he’d only caught an hour or so of sleep, dream-laden as it was.

  He could hear noises from downstairs, talking, laughter. Customers were still here, still drinking in the bar. It must be a lock-in. He’d gone straight up to his room, after he’d checked in, not able to face anybody after the strange incident on the green. But maybe he should spruce himself up and wander downstairs, get to know the people of Hoxley. Hoxleyites? Hoxlians? Hoxans, Hoxeni, Hoxagonals? Hoxes? He could pass around the photograph of his father, see what response he got.

  He turned on the light and immediately Saint Switten lost his enchantment. It was just a cheaply modelled religious icon on a dusty shelf. He lifted his suitcase onto the bed and clicked it open. Held within the layers of his one change of clothes was a handkerchief. He took this out and unfolded it carefully, one quarter at a time. Inside was another photograph, number seven in his collection. He kept it separate from the others. Of similar size and shape, its imagery held a different kind of fascination. It was overexposed, completely so – entirely white, but within its blank whiteness a slightly darker shape seemed to glow. A shimmer, a shiver. Nothing more. But the eye was always drawn to it. The back of this photograph was also a little different from the others, bearing the legend St Leander’s Day 1958. He placed the photograph face up on the eiderdown. His fingers moved over the surface, feeling for dust particles, a lost image, hidden faults, a code, as a blind person might read a series of raised dots. The skin of his fingertips seemed to spark on each moment of contact. All the build-up of the years of friction, this against that, life against death, love against hate against loneliness against darkness, against light: he had felt it all and paid it no mind, indeed making his living from it – so much in payment for so much taken in pain, and damn the consequences. But now, now the sparks flew and he felt the pain of loss, and he did something odd, something he never expected to do.

  He prayed.

  He wasn’t one for prayer, not usually. He had known a number of gods in the two cities he had lived in: gods of gas lamps and neon signs, of fog and words, and magic and masks, and had learned or half learned a number of prayers and spells along the way. But tonight, he had no god other than the one found inside his heart on a dark and lonely night. He prayed that he might find his father here, in this place, this village. He prayed to the photograph, the single blank image, the missing subject. He prayed with his eyes closed and his eyes open, with silent lips, and with lips that mouthed each word.

  I have journeyed north and walked through woodland and met with a strange woman and been given a new name, and nothing is happening, I am no clearer, no closer, I am lost in the woods and the pathway is dark and overgrown and twisted, and my name has been stolen, there is no light ahead…

  The incantation tasted bitter in his mouth.

  I thought you were dead!

  He prayed for a figure to appear on the photograph’s surface, as it had once before, on the day he’d received the photographs through the post. The ghost or whatever it might be had appeared to him then, a figure in the half light of the image, briefly glimpsed – a few seconds of life that quickly faded, features unknown, gender unknown. A blur. He saw it now as a kind of precursor of his journey, although he couldn’t see the connection. Still, he hoped that something might be uncovered. But for now, the figure remained trapped in the image, hiding away.

  Nyquist stood up and rubbed at the back of his neck. He tucked the blank photograph into the safety of the handkerchief and returned it to the suitcase.

  The church clock chimed loudly twelve times.

  He went to the window and peered out. People were leaving the pub, walking onto the village green. Perhaps the landlord was finally kicking them out? Yet they all seemed to be moving with a purpose. And he remembered the words of Mr Bainbridge, that Saint Switten lost his power over the village at midnight.

  The green was now crowded. The lights of a pathway had been switched on, pushing the dark to the edges of the grass. He could imagine that everyone of adult age was out there, celebrating the end of a full day indoors. In fact, he saw a number of children darting in play or clinging to their parents’ hands. Some of the revellers carried lanterns. They were chatting to each other, seemingly overjoyed at the end of the privation. A young couple danced.

  Nyquist pulled on his jacket and overcoat. He donned his hat and his scarf. He walked downstairs, through the empty bar and out onto the street. Moonlight glimmered. Cold air. A slight mist above the village pond. The people were milling about, carrying glasses of beer and wine from the pub. Teenagers chatted at the maypole. Thursday night in the village of the true believers. He walked among them, receiving a few glances, a couple of words cast his way, but in the main they let him be. Over by the oak tree a band of revellers held court. They looked drunk, heady, composed equally of joy and desire. One of them raised a pint glass high above his head and shouted out at the top of his lungs, “Blessings upon Saint Switten
! May he rest in peace for another year.” Those nearby echoed the cry of liberation. Nyquist felt his heart beat faster at the sight and sound of such communion among people; he couldn’t help but be caught up in the shared excitement.

  “I say, old boy. Is it your innings?”

  The woman’s voice was deep and clear, and her breath was visible in the cold air. Her hair was puffed up and frosted with lacquer, as silvery as the backing of a mirror. She was dressed in a tweed jacket and matching skirt above woollen stocking and sturdy shoes. Her nose had been broken at some point. Her only adornment was an oval brooch with a gemstone at its center. Nyquist asked her what she meant.

  “Your innings, sir?”

  The woman gestured to the ground. Nyquist looked down and saw the faint marks left over from the cricket season. His feet were squarely placed in the batsman’s crease, the three holes to receive the stumps still visible but now darkened, pasted with dead grass and dry soil.

  “I’ve never played,” he answered.

  “Never?” She took a sip of ale from a tankard. “Dearie me, that’s a disgrace. Surely at school?”

  “I spent my time daydreaming.”

  “Is that Applied Daydreaming, or Pure?”

  “Both, as needed.” He offered her a cigarette.

  His new companion shook her head. “I’m a pipe woman, myself. Virginia Flaked. Black cherry flavor. Trouble is, Fanshaw’s doesn’t stock my blend and have to send off for supplies, and it can take weeks to arrive, especially in the winter.”

  “Fanshaw’s?”

  “The corner shop.”

  “I thought it was called Featherstonehaugh’s.”