by Hana Tooke
Bram Poppenmaker presents . . .
“A Carnival of Nightmares”
Meneer Poppenmaker requests the honor of your presence at the Theater of Terrors. “A Carnival of Nightmares” is a deliciously monstrous story, written by Bram’s daughter, that is sure to have you squealing in delighted horror. The show will be brought to life with full-sized puppets, mechanized contraptions, projected acoustics, and electrical lighting! Goose bumps guaranteed, or your money back.
This Saturday, dusk
Poppenmill, near Amstelveen
Tickets: 50 cents per person
TWENTY-FOUR
THEY SET OFF FOR Amsterdam at first light, all five of them on Bram Poppenmaker’s cargo bicycle. Milou was squeezed into the back of the crate, clutching a bagful of posters and trying not to choke on Fenna’s hair as the wind whipped it around her face. Behind her, Sem panted as he pedaled at speed toward the city. The polder air tingled with the smallest promise that spring was on its way, and hope as she’d never felt it bloomed in Milou’s chest. Today was the day that she would send the secret message to her parents. Soon they would know that she had come home.
“The canals are thawing!” Lotta yelled from the front of the bicycle. “Look!”
Milou pushed aside a handful of Fenna’s red curls and peered over the edge of the crate. Sure enough, the ice was patchy. Grass was poking free from the blanket of frost, and the everlasting mist shimmered like spun gold.
“It won’t be too much longer until the tulips are out,” Lotta said. “That would be a sight worth painting, don’t you think, Egg?”
Wedged near Milou’s other knee, Egg was staring silently down at his shawl, running one hand over the pattern.
“One day soon,” she said, more softly, “when we’re finally safe from Rotman and the Kinderbureau, we’ll find someone who can tell us more about Java.”
Egg frowned up at her. “There’s no reason I can’t try to find someone today.”
“Yes, there is. We have an important mission. It’ll have to wait, Egg, I’m sorry.”
Egg gave her an odd look, then turned his face away from her.
Milou felt a sharp stab of regret in the pit of her stomach, recognizing his pained expression for what it was: a desperate hunger for answers. That same desperation gnawed at every inch of her too. She’d help Egg find his answers soon enough, in any way she could, but right now they all needed to focus on their mission.
There was too much at stake to worry about anything else.
That’s what she told herself, over and over, as Sem pedaled them onward and as Egg slumped down further into himself, burying his face in his shawl.
Less than an hour later, they arrived at the outskirts of the city and tumbled, stiff-legged and aching, out of the crate as Sem propped the bicycle against a railing. Lotta had equipped them each with a bag of posters, a hammer, a pouch of nails, and a hasty lesson on how not to squish their fingers. Two of Milou’s fingers were still throbbing, but she barely noticed. Her stomach was full of jittery impatience.
“Milou and I will put posters up in the inner ring of the city,” Lotta said. “Sem, you do all along the Prinsengracht canal. Egg and Fenna, you will do all along the Keizersgracht canal. One poster every ten meters. Avoid the Little Tulip, and wear your scarves up high over your nose at all times, just in case. We will meet by the clock tower in Sophiaplein at four and then stop off at the newspaper on our way home.”
“Don’t be late,” Milou added, her fingers seeking the reassuring presence of the coin pouch in her pocket. “The newspaper closes at five.”
Still refusing to meet her gaze, Egg nodded, grabbed Fenna’s hand, and disappeared into the crowd. Sem dipped his cap, then set off with a jaunty lope toward the nearest bridge. Hefting their bags over their shoulders, Milou and Lotta set off toward the busy market square on the other side of the canal. They rounded a corner and emerged among a rippling tide of walking canes, winged bonnets, clogs, boots, cloaks, wicker baskets, and smiling faces. Milou had never seen so many people in one place before. It seemed that the whole of Amsterdam was out to enjoy the first snowless day in months.
The market stretched out in front of them, stalls lining both sides of the street. The air smelled of a thousand wonderful fragrances. Each new gust of wind carried a new scent: spice, smoke, caramel, fruit, fish, shoe polish. It wasn’t just food and clothing being offered, though; there were Bavarian broom sellers, an umbrella repairman from London, a man selling artificial limbs, children selling ribbons, carpet beaters, and a woman with very few teeth offering mustachio-trimming services. In the middle of it all was a huge street organ, decorated with a row of dancing wooden swans. A lively symphony burst from its pipes, and a smiley-faced man stood beside it, shaking a money tin to the rhythm.
“It’s so noisy,” Lotta yelled, her smile gone as she dodged around a circle of dancing children. “And cramped.”
Milou was too busy gawping to respond. Her eyes settled on a bell-shaped tent, wedged between a clog stall and a tram stop. The tent’s curtains, Milou noticed, were drawn tightly closed. She had to squint to read the hand-painted sign attached to the side.
It read: SPIRITUALIST FROM BOHEMIA—SEANCES AND FORTUNE-TELLING.
A shiver ran down the back of Milou’s neck, and she found herself walking toward the tent—until six fingers closed on her forearm and pulled her back.
“Who in their right mind would buy rabbit’s feet?” Lotta said, nodding toward a peddler in a fur coat. She handed Milou the hammer and some nails, then uncurled a poster and held it up against a wooden signpost. “People’s silly superstitions can be so cruel.”
“I bet Gassbeek would have loved those,” Milou said, bringing the hammer down. “She’d have probably worn them as earrings— Ow!”
Lotta caught the hammer as it fell, and rolled her eyes. “How can you miss the nail so often?”
“Uhh dunnuuh,” Milou said, sucking a new lump on her thumb.
With three short tack-tack-tacks, Lotta drove a nail into the top of the poster. She added another to the bottom and then stepped back to examine their handiwork. “Just another ninety-nine to go.”
They walked ten stretched-leg paces down the street, and Lotta tacked another poster to some scaffolding, and then another one to the back of an advertisement for lace doilies. Milou’s gaze kept drifting back to the spiritualist’s tent, wondering who was inside it. A sudden bell-tinkling made her jump. A tram was negotiating its way through the market, and the bay-colored horse pulling it snorted at Milou as she staggered out of its path. Milou turned to find Lotta watching the tram with pure mischief glinting in her eyes. She grabbed Milou’s arms, and they followed it to the tram stop.
“I’m going to nail a poster to the back of it,” Lotta whispered. “That way, our advertisement will travel all over Amsterdam. Keep an eye out, would you?”
She disappeared around the side of the tram as people began climbing out of the carriage. Milou crossed her arms and tried to look inconspicuous, looking lazily up and down the market. Once again, her eyes were drawn to the strange tent, now right beside her. Then, before she knew what she was doing, she reached up to touch it, the curtains drew back, and a girl emerged.
She wore a long green cloak, the hood pulled up over her head; long wisps of white-blonde hair spilling out the sides of it. Her eyes were painted in a way that made them look almost catlike, and her lips were stained bloodred. Milou’s gaze dropped to just below the girl’s chin, where a white, round object dangled from a chain. It was, Milou realized in horror, not a pendant but a human eyeball.
“Gah!” Milou pulled her arm to her chest and staggered backward a step.
The girl’s eyes snapped to hers. Long, ring-bedecked fingers reached up to touch the eyeball on her neck. Then a slow smile crept onto those blood-red lips.
“It’s porcelain
,” the girl said in a heavily accented voice. She held it up for Milou to see more clearly, then tapped with a long nail to show it was as hard as stone. “See? It’s an artificial eye. It belonged to a boy one hundred years ago. He lost his right eye in a sword fight with his little sister.”
“Oh,” Milou said. And then she frowned. “How could you possibly know all that?”
The girl’s smile twitched at both corners. “Because his spirit told me.”
Milou felt a tiny pinch at her right earlobe. She gasped, but before she could even reach up to her ear the sensation was gone. The girl was squinting over Milou’s shoulder, holding the eyeball over her right eye. Milou followed the girl’s gaze, but there was no one behind her. She could just about hear the quiet tap-tap-tap of Lotta’s hammer. When she turned back, the girl was staring intently at her. Milou wondered how old she was; certainly older than she and Lotta, but it couldn’t be by much.
“Let me read your fortune,” the girl said, pulling the tent curtain open behind her. She lowered her voice. “I could give you the answers you most crave.”
Milou opened her mouth to respond, but her ear tingled. She looked up and found the girl squinting past her shoulder again. Once again, Milou found nothing at all behind her.
“Thank you, but no,” Milou said. She touched the coin pouch. “I already know what I need to know about my future.”
“But what about your past—”
The girl snapped her mouth closed, again looking past Milou. This time, Milou turned to find Lotta standing there, hammer in hand and scowling hard.
“We should get going, Milou,” Lotta said, taking her hand and pulling her away.
“Do your ears ever—” the girl whispered as Milou brushed past, but Lotta increased her pace and dragged her away before she could hear the rest.
“Try to keep away from the kooks, would you?” Lotta said.
“She said she could read my fortune.”
“Honestly, Milou!” Lotta groaned, stopping at another signpost. “Palmistry is such a sham. There is no scientific evidence whatsoever that the future can be predicted. You shouldn’t waste your money on that nonsense.”
“She doesn’t read palms. I think she uses the eyeball of a dead boy.”
Lotta stopped, mid-hammer strike, and gave her a disgusted look.
“Forget it,” Milou said, not wanting to start an argument. “Let’s just hurry up. I don’t want to miss the newspaper. And you’re right, I don’t need to resort to silly superstitions to find my family.”
“Good,” Lotta said. “Now let’s get those fireworks, so we can hurry back to meet the others.”
Milou glanced back behind her. The tent curtains were closed again, the girl nowhere in sight.
* * *
Sem was already waiting at the rendezvous point when Milou and Lotta arrived just before four o’clock. He was sitting on a bench, covered in pigeons.
“I tripped over a bag of grain,” Sem said with a lopsided shrug. “I managed to scoop most of it back into the bag, so they didn’t charge me.”
Milou stifled a smile and wiped some grain from his hat into her hand. She held it up to a gray pigeon. Lotta dug a hand into her bag and pulled out a squashed bread roll. They watched the clock tower as they ate, swiping away greedy pigeons. At quarter past four, there was still no sign of Egg and Fenna.
“What’s taking them so long?” Milou said, her patience waning with each tick of the grand clock.
“They probably just lost track of time,” Lotta said. “They’ll be here soon.”
Another five minutes ticked by achingly slowly.
“I’m not waiting anymore.” Milou stood, brushing crumbs off her chest. “You can stay and wait if you like. You can tell Egg I’m not happy. He knows how important this is.”
“He wouldn’t do this on purpose,” Sem said.
“He’s angry at me. Maybe he’s trying to make a point.”
Sem shook his head, looking up and down the square with worried eyes. “No, something’s not right.”
Milou opened her mouth to respond, but then caught a glimpse of a figure running across the other side of the square. An embroidered silk cap bobbed through the crowd, and then Fenna emerged just ahead of them, panting and panic-stricken, tears streaming down each cheek. Sem was on his feet and bounding toward her in an instant. Milou and Lotta hurried after him.
“What’s wrong?” Lotta asked at the same time as Sem asked, “Where’s Egg?”
Fenna’s fists were balled up, and she was gasping and gulping. Lotta took Fenna’s hands in her own and rubbed them. “Take a deep breath,” she said.
Fenna shook her head. She pointed behind her.
“Did he get lost?” Milou asked.
Fenna groaned and shook her head again.
“Is he hurt?” Sem asked. “Did something happen to him?”
Fenna squeezed her eyes closed and took a few steadying breaths.
“What happened?” Lotta asked. “Where is he?”
Fresh tears spilled out of Fenna’s eyes. Milou reached up and wiped them away with shaky fingers. Then, in a quiet voice, Fenna spoke:
“Rotman.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE CLOCK TOWER STRUCK the quarter hour, but it was Fenna’s raspy voice that rang as loud and clear as church bells in Milou’s ears. It took a few stunned moments before the significance of what she’d said finally sank in.
“Did Rotman snatch him?” Sem asked finally.
Fenna opened her mouth as if to speak again, then bit her lip and shook her head no instead. Tears streamed down both of her cheeks.
“But you saw Rotman?” Lotta asked.
Fenna nodded.
“Did Egg go up to him?”
Fenna nodded again.
“You must have seen where they went.”
Fenna waved at the crowds, miming a frantic search and a hopeless defeat.
“So you don’t know where they went?”
“No.”
Her voice was no more than a whisper, and Milou wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or not. Fenna collapsed onto the bench and buried her face in her hands.
Sem pinched his brow. “I’ll go and ask around, see if anyone knows where we can find Rotman.”
He was loping off into the crowds before any of them had a chance to respond. Milou’s fingers clenched hard around the coin pouch in her pocket. She and Lotta sat on either side of Fenna on the bench. The three of them huddled together, silent and morose, minds racing. What was Egg thinking?
Sem appeared in front of them, grim-faced and panting. “No one has heard of Rotman,” he said, breathlessly. “Nor his ship. I asked in every shop along the square. We’re going to have to search every dock, one at a time.”
“The port of Amsterdam is roughly roughly twenty-five kilometers long,” Lotta said. “One thousand, five hundred acres of waterway. Nearly five thousand acres of landmass. There will be hundreds of ships across eleven major docks.” When they all stared in amazement at her, Lotta added softly: “It took me and Egg over a week to estimate that.”
“That would take us hours to search,” Milou said, her stomach twisting with worry and regret.
This was her fault. She should have known it would be too tempting for Egg to follow the clue Edda had given him. He’d been waiting over twelve years for something, anything, after all. And Milou had insisted he wait longer.
“We don’t have hours,” Sem said. “Anything could happen to Egg in that time. We need to find him quickly.”
“Perhaps we should split up,” Lotta said. “Cover more ground.”
“No,” Sem said. “No more splitting up. If we’d stuck together earlier, perhaps we could have stopped him from going in the first place.”
Fenna stiffened. Milou wrapped an arm around her. “It’s
not your fault, Fen. You couldn’t have stopped him.”
The clock tower chimed the half hour. Milou got to her feet and took her coin pouch out of her pocket. “Let’s go,” she said. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
“Milou,” Lotta said crossly. “You can’t really be thinking about the newspaper—”
“No. We’re going to use this money to find Egg. There’s only one person I can think of who might be able to find out where he is.”
* * *
The market was almost deserted when they arrived; half the stalls had been packed away as a dreary dusk settled over the city. Milou sprinted over the cobbles, the cold air burning her lungs. The others followed. Milou noticed with relief that the bell-shaped tent was still there. She slowed to a jog, a stitch beginning under her ribs, elbowing her way past a few peddlers and around wagons to get to it. The tent’s curtains were drawn closed, but a thin strip of light spilled out around the bottom.
“Milou,” Lotta said, her voice full of protest.
“Have you got any better ideas?”
Lotta fell silent, but her expression remained fixed. Beside her, Fenna eyed the tent with obvious apprehension. Sem’s face was shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, but Milou could just about make out the tight line of his mouth.
“I just don’t like this,” Lotta grunted.
“I can go in alone,” Milou said. “I won’t be long.”
“No,” Sem said sternly. “I’m coming in with you.”
There was a rustle and then the tent’s curtains opened. The girl stood there, smiling pleasantly, her catlike eyes glinting in the lamplight. “Ah, there you are!” she said. “I’d almost given up waiting for you to come back.”
Goose bumps rose all over Milou’s neck. In the distance, the clock tower struck the fifth hour, and Milou tried to ignore the knotted lump of disappointment that sat heavy in her stomach. All that mattered was finding Egg.
“Are you all here for a reading?” the girl asked. “Four fortunes might be a little more than I can manage at this hour. Perhaps—”