The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  Lena flinched.

  “They’re so beautiful, so fragile.”

  She found it difficult to catch her breath, but she didn’t withdraw her hand. No one, besides her father, had ever called her hands beautiful before.

  “Are there other people with hands like yours?”

  “I think so, but I’ve never met anyone.”

  He turned her hand over, palm up, and ran a finger down the length of it, to the tip of her index finger. Lena watched his face, but his eyes were hidden in pools of shadow.

  “Jimson, my doctor told us that my hands and feet . . .” She couldn’t continue.

  Jimson curled his hand over hers. “Go on. Your hands and feet what?”

  She took a deep breath. “That my hands and feet are part of a syndrome that is rarely seen anymore. He said they were old signs of . . . goblinism.”

  The word hung between them. Lena was acutely aware of Jimson’s warm hand wrapped around her own. She was acutely aware of his silence.

  “He said that? Then he’s nothing more than an old quack! You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “What did your parents say?” His voice was angry now. His grip on her hand tightened.

  “My father left when I was five, and Nana Crane, my grandmother, always called him a goblin. He”—she searched for words—“had a difficult time.”

  “‘Goblin’ is just an old slang term. You know that. Anyone who’s a troublemaker used to be called a goblin. So your grandmother didn’t like your father.”

  Lena pulled her hand back and let it fall. “It’s more than that. Dr. Crink agreed that he probably is a goblin. He said most people don’t recognize the signs anymore, but he still does. Don’t you see what that means? I might be half Peculiar.” She was glad that the dark hid her flushed face and wet eyes.

  “No wonder you’re so worried about them.” Jimson set the lantern down and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Lena, your mother must have known about your father. You are not half Peculiar. You might not be like any girl I know, but—”

  She cut him off. “My mother never says much about him. But I’ve heard that he’s done some terrible things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” She felt a desperate need to flee, but Jimson’s grip was warm and steadying.

  And then in the silence, Jimson chuckled. The noise startled Lena. She pulled away.

  “It’s nothing to laugh at. I may be just like him.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that you, of all people . . . You’re so proper, so polite, and you’re worried that—”

  “No. Stop. You don’t know what I’m like on the inside. You can’t know what it’s like always wondering. I need to know.”

  A rectangle of light flooded the terrace. Mr. Beasley’s head protruded through the door. “I assume we’re safe? No intruders? Come in, then. I’ve got some warm milk ready for both of you.”

  DESPITE THE WARM MILK, LENA HADN’T SLEPT THE REST OF the night. She arose with a thundering headache to a gloomy household. As she pulled on a pair of black gloves, she rebuked herself for the previous evening. She had revealed too much. Now Jimson would see her as a freak or more likely a seriously deluded person. Not that it mattered—she couldn’t afford to let Jimson or anyone else derail her from her quest. She bundled her thick hair into a loose bun and in deference to Leticia Pollet draped her black silk shawl across her shoulders.

  Mrs. Pollet seemed to have caved in on herself during the night. Red-eyed and silent, she insisted on serving tea over Mr. Beasley’s protests, claiming that work made things more bearable. Lena slipped into a chair at the far end of the breakfast table, avoiding Jimson’s eye as she remembered the touch of his finger running the length of her palm. Mr. Beasley, eyebrows carefully in place once more, informed them that the funeral was set for two days hence, when Arthur Pollet’s brother would arrive. He asked Lena and Jimson to take over Arthur’s job of harvesting the small orchard until he could hire someone else. Meanwhile, he would drive Leticia Pollet into Knoster to make the funeral arrangements.

  “Work in the library will have to be temporarily suspended until we get through the next week. Apples need to be picked and the squash harvested before the first hard frost. Jimson, there are ladders in the shed and buckets as well.”

  Jimson seemed eager to ignore Lena. “I’ll go and get started, then.” He drained his teacup and left the table.

  In the kitchen Lena tied one of Mrs. Pollet’s well-worn aprons over her own plain dress. Since she would be working all morning in the orchard, she was glad that she had dressed sensibly and chosen her practical dress. Her home in the City had only window boxes to cultivate and a small square of lawn off the back steps, which her mother called a handkerchief garden. She hoped that Jimson would know what they were supposed to do.

  The leaves of the apple trees were gold, and scarlet fruit hung heavy in the branches. The hedge of sumac lining the orchard burned red. It was as if the entire world had caught fire overnight. The orchard was small, only thirty trees on the south side of the house. Jimson had already set up a tall picking ladder at the base of a tree.

  “There are buckets and boxes in the garden shed. Come help me carry some out.”

  The shed was long and low, built of miscellaneous woods. The one window let a little light into the dimness. It seemed to function as a workshop, a gardening shed, and a place to store odds and ends. A workbench ran the length of one wall. An assortment of tools hung neatly above it. At the far end of the shed a jumble of discarded items had been dumped in a hasty pile—an old wooden birdcage, a bicycle wheel, numerous broken crates—all ready for the incinerator.

  “That seems to be the gardening section,” Jimson said, pointing to a short wall where hoes and rakes hung above shovels and hoses. There was a tall stack of wooden crates on the floor beneath. “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Lena could hear the delight in his voice.

  “Well, it’s interesting. I suppose those are the boxes we use? I’ve never done any gardening or orchard work before. We live in the City.”

  “Don’t worry. My mother has always had a huge vegetable garden. Some years it was the only way to feed all of us. And we have fruit trees too—apple, plum, and peach. I’ll climb the ladder and wear the picking apron. Then you can fill the crates.”

  Lena had made her way over to the jumble of discards. “This must be where everything from the house ends up. Look, there’s even an old child’s wagon.”

  “Help me with the crates, Lena. We’d better get started.”

  At the bottom of the pile something white and soft gray caught her eye. She bent down. Then tugged away several of the discards. “Jimson, come here! There are feathers and blood!”

  Two severed wings the size of an eagle’s had been buried under the pile of discarded items waiting for the incinerator. Cartilage protruded from the end of the feathers, which were discolored with the rust of blood. Lena felt her stomach heave. If the sun had not filtered through the window at just the right angle, she might never have noticed them.

  Jimson poked them with his finger and whistled. “Looks like a big bird was killed.”

  Lena’s throat grew tight. “Or something’s happened to your winged lady.” Again she thought of the drawings in Mr. Beasley’s sketchbook and of the marshal’s words.

  They were both quiet, and then Jimson spoke. “We can’t go jumping to conclusions. It’s a pair of severed wings, but we can’t assume what they’re from. But it looks like Mr. Pollet had a pile ready for the incinerator.”

  “I’m going to take some feathers.” Lena gathered a small clump in her gloved hands and put them in the oversized pocket of the kitchen apron. “Now what do we do?”

  “Nothing for the moment. I don’t know enough about different kinds of birds. I think we’d better get to work.” Lena could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Keep your eyes and
ears open. I’m going to do some investigating later.”

  “Not without me, you’re not!”

  Jimson shot her a look she couldn’t read.

  In silence they carried stacks of wooden crates and placed them next to the ladder. Lena inhaled the smell of apples and damp earth.

  “You get the lower branches. I’ll get the higher ones.”

  Lena started to protest, but Jimson looked pointedly at her feet.

  “Go ahead then.”

  The rhythm of picking apples, dropping them one by one into the basket on her arm, and then dumping the basketload into a crate, was soothing. But all the while Lena was conscious of the clutch of feathers in her pocket. She looked up through gold leaves burnished by the sun. “I don’t think we can wait. We need to find your winged woman and make sure she’s all right. I have an awful feeling that there’s something terrible going on here.”

  “It could be a coincidence. Things aren’t always what they seem. That’s one of the principles of science.” Jimson sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “But you’re right. We need to keep searching. I just can’t believe Mr. Beasley’s up to no good, no matter what the evidence says. Lena, let’s promise we won’t do anything until we talk to each other first.”

  By noon Lena’s arms ached. Six wooden crates were full to overflowing with apples. She looked down the row of trees and realized that they had barely made a start. Jimson had been humming quietly, not his usual talkative self, but then Lena barely felt like talking either, the weight of their discovery subduing her.

  Just after noon Mr. Beasley returned in a cab with Leticia Pollet and another passenger.

  “It’s time to take a break for lunch,” Mr. Beasley called in their direction. Lena hardly dared look at him, but she recognized the passenger who climbed from the car. It was Milo, the man she had met on the beach. “I’ve brought someone to help us. He’s willing to help with the apple harvest.”

  “We met when I first came to Knob Knoster,” Lena said.

  Milo was wearing the same cap and the same coat with baggy pockets that she remembered from their previous meeting.

  “Ah, the young miss that wants to go to Scree.”

  “So you’ve met Lena.” Mr. Beasley gestured toward Jimson. “And this is my librarian, Jimson Quiggley.”

  Milo nodded. “Pleased to meetcher.”

  Mrs. Pollet insisted on serving lunch, again over Mr. Beasley’s protestations. It was a hearty soup she had made earlier in the week. Her severe black dress made her face even paler. Lena noticed that her eyes were dry now, but she was still silent.

  “Looks like the mail’s come.” She carried the day’s correspondence in on the silver mail tray. “A letter for you, Mr. Jimson.”

  Lena couldn’t help noticing that the fat letter smelled decidedly like perfume.

  “And a letter for you as well.” Mrs. Pollet placed a slim envelope at Lena’s place. Lena snatched it up, hoping it was news from home. Instead, the return address, lettered in a cramped hand, was that of her cousin. Lena took a last spoonful of soup.

  “Please excuse me. The soup was wonderful, Mrs. Pollet. Just what we needed after working in the orchard all morning.” She left the rest of them at the kitchen table and made her way to her room.

  Her gloves were dusty from the work in the orchard, and she gratefully peeled them off. Then she stretched her fingers wide, trying not to think of Jimson’s words as he held her hand in his own. What business did an engaged man have, talking like that? Then she undid the laces of her alligator boots, still damp from the orchard grass, and rubbed her tender feet. Using a brass letter knife, she sliced open the thin envelope and unfolded the single sheet. The same cramped writing. She quickly scanned the closing. The letter wasn’t from her cousin at all. It bore the signature of Thomas Saltre.

  October 25, 1888

  Dear Lena,

  I would appreciate the chance to speak with you in person two days from now. My job requires that I leave town for several days. I would like to see you before I leave. And I am sure that you will have information that will be beneficial to us both. Please meet me on the pier at 3 o’clock.

  Your servant,

  Thomas

  Lena folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. She retrieved her purse from the dresser and removed the contents of her wallet. She had saved every penny of her salary since starting work at Zephyr House three weeks prior. The amount was meager, but Mr. Beasley had provided a small advance so that she might purchase necessities. A few weeks more and she would have enough to purchase supplies for Scree. The marshal had promised her a guide if she supplied him with information. Perhaps the marshal would take her himself. She rested her chin on her steepled fingers. Staying in this house any longer than necessary was unthinkable. She would be sorry to leave Jimson, but he had his Pansy.

  She pulled the sketchbook out from under her pillow and riffled through the pages, hunting for the Annuncius syndrome. There were the wings protruding from shoulder blades, just as Jimson had described them, just as she had found in the refuse pile of the garden shed. No, she couldn’t leave until she found the woman. She looked down at her hands and feet. She might be next. It was time to show the sketches to the marshal, no matter what Jimson thought. In another hour she would be needed back in the orchard. She lay on her side, curled in like a comma, and slept.

  “My father was a fisherman. He loved the ocean. But Mother, she loved the land. I been working on both land and sea as long as I can remember.” Milo picked apples at a steady clip and talked just as steadily. “Zephyr House used to be a working farm, but that’s long before Tobias Beasley came and added all these curlicues and doodads to it. Used to be the old Guthrie place. One of the few families round here that had nothin’ to do with fishing or whaling. They’re the ones planted this orchard. Mostly Baldwins and Belmonts, from the look of it.”

  “So, what happened to the Guthries?” Lena found Milo’s stories a good distraction. They made the work go faster. On the other hand, she couldn’t talk to Jimson about searching for the winged woman.

  “They got gold fever—every last one of ’em.”

  “You mean they took off for the California gold rush?” Jimson asked from somewhere up in the leaves.

  “No, I mean they headed north to Scree.”

  “But Scree doesn’t have gold, does it?” Lena took a bite of a large red apple and let the sweet juice wet her mouth and throat.

  “Scree has more resources than most folks know. It’s got the richest coal and copper mines anywhere. There’s always been rumors of other veins as well. Gold ore for the taking, and silver mines. ’Course most of the land was undeveloped, and no one really knew for sure what was up there. Looks like this crate is full. Mind you keep the ones that are too bird-pecked out. Leticia can use ’em for pies.”

  “So, did the Guthries find gold?” Jimson heaved the ladder to the next tree.

  “If they did, I never heard about it. They never came back. Old man Guthrie had three sons. All of ’em redheads, just like him. They went off together, along with Mrs. Guthrie. The youngest boy was still in knee pants. House finally went up for auction, and that’s when Tobias bought it. Not many folks would walk away from property like this unless they made their fortune or unless sumthin’ unfortunate happened to ’em.”

  “You’ve been to Scree, haven’t you?” Lena asked.

  “Ah-yuh, but it’s been a long time. Scree was just Scree then. It wasn’t protected by our gov’ment.” Milo gave a dry bark of a laugh.

  “What was it like then?” Lena asked.

  “It wasn’t as empty as the gov’ment would like you to believe. Scree’s a beautiful place, wild and full of life. The folks that lived there liked it that way. Adventurers came north to make their fortune, like Guthrie and his sons, and developed large mines, but there’s always been mining in Scree. The native folks were mining long before we showed up.”

  Lena craned her neck to
look up at Milo, who perched like a gargoyle on the top rung of a ladder. “What kind of native folks?”

  “Folks we might find a bit peculiar. Now the gov’ment’s making them work like slaves in their own mines. Ain’t right . . . ain’t right a’tall.”

  THE FUNERAL WAS A SMALL AFFAIR, CONDUCTED AT THE EDGE OF a cliff facing the sea. Leticia Pollet had insisted that her husband be buried on Mr. Beasley’s land because it was the place where he had been happiest.

  The sky, Lena thought, was too blue for a funeral, the sun too mellow, and the entire world too alive to commemorate death. Arthur’s younger brother, Edwin, had arrived from the Middle West and stood awkwardly next to Leticia, his head crowned at her chin. His pale wrists jutted from the cuffs of an ill-made suit, and he wore shiny spats. Arthur and Edwin had not been close, Leticia had informed them, but Edwin was Arthur’s only living relative—a banker, never married and terminally shy. He kept his chin down, his eyes focused on some imaginary spot beyond the open grave. He looked, Lena decided, as if he might bolt at any moment. The only other guests were Milo and the Crimptons, an elderly brother and sister from Knoster who had known Arthur from a time before his life at Zephyr House.

  As the minister droned a reading, Lena let her eyes roam and her thoughts wander. It was the first time she’d been to a funeral. Jimson had been to two, each time for a grandparent. He wore the same poor traveling suit Lena had scorned on the train. Here on the edge of the world with the sea as backdrop, it didn’t look half so bad, she decided. She could feel him next to her, and a glance from the corner of her eye showed him leaning in to catch the minister’s words. Mrs. Pollet was still and dry-eyed—a tall, gaunt crow in an open field, sheltered on one side by Mr. Beasley’s large and comforting presence and on the other by the nervous Edwin Pollet.

  If anyone had asked Lena how she felt, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. She didn’t feel much at all. She was sorry for Mrs. Pollet and she would miss quiet Arthur, but she had no overwhelming feelings of grief, and this troubled her. Perhaps she was like Nana Crane’s description of her father: small-hearted and unfeeling.