The Unnaturalists

by Tiffany Trent

  Syrus found the low mound by memory rather than sight. It rose like a giant, bracken-covered turtle shell through the trees. He knew he’d arrived by the smell—the odor of carrion and cat piss was strong. He thought he heard the Guard slow, as if he too had caught the scent and had suddenly become unsure. Faint ticking issued from the mouth of the mound.

  Syrus swung up into a tree, climbing as fast as he could before the Guard fully entered the clearing. Two swift, sharp sounds—tink, tank—and the Guard was on his knees. Spines in his feathered neck and the shoulder joint of his armor glinted with their own deadly light.

  Then, the great maned head emerged and before the Guard could shriek, he disappeared into the Manticore’s maw.

  Syrus clutched the tree, gasping. A sharp breeze rattled the dry leaves. He looked down, and a face peered up at him through the trees—a wide, razor-toothed face that was all the more horrible for its very human grin.

  And all along there was that ticking, as of a muffled clock. Or a faintly beating heart.

  Thank you, the Manticore said. I was quite hungry. Her voice was liquid silver, exquisite as the Harpy’s.

  “You’re . . . you’re welcome,” Syrus stuttered.

  You may come down now, boy, the Manticore said. Fierce red energy pulsed around her. Her power scorched his feet and he wondered that the tree didn’t shrivel into ashes.

  He clutched the trunk tight and said, “You . . . uh . . . sure you’re full? ’Cause there’s plenty more where that one came from in the trainyard, and I wouldn’t mind you having your fill of them.”

  The Manticore chuckled. I will not eat you, if that is what you fear.

  “Well, let’s just say I want to make certain you don’t change your mind. I’m sure I’m a mite more tasty than one of them old Guards.”

  That is most likely true, the Manticore conceded. The creature sat on her haunches, the shadow of her barbed tail curving around her paws. Still, you are far less edible because you are much more interesting.

  “Eh?”

  I take it there has been a Cull, the Manticore said.

  Syrus nodded, then realized the Manticore mightn’t be able to see him. “Yes,” he said. He began his descent, picking and choosing until he came to the last branch just a few feet from the Manticore’s smiling jaws.

  “All my family were taken or killed,” Syrus said.

  The Manticore’s eyes were like two small moons as she looked up at him. All my family have been taken or killed, too.

  Syrus remembered another old tale Granny used to tell—about Lord Virulen killing the Manticore’s child long ago on a Hunt. Anger flared like white-hot lightning. “Then why don’t you do something about it?” he shouted. The rational part of him realized he had just sassed the Manticore and that she could kill him with a well-placed barb from her tail if she chose. He shrank against the trunk again.

  Instead, she laughed, as if she read his mind. You may as well come down.

  He considered, figured there was nothing left to lose, and slithered down to land square on his bum in front of her giant paws.

  He had never been this close to her before; he had only seen her at a rare distance whenever the clans made their offerings at the edge of her clearing. He looked up at her in awe. Red light pulsed around her heart. But it was no ordinary heart. Cross-hatched with wires and hoses and gears, it sang out its rhythm like a clock. Something was scrawled on it in the old language that Granny had taught him; the characters read: ENDURANCE.

  I have done nothing because I thought there was nothing I could do, the Manticore said. But perhaps you have shown me the beginnings of a way.

  “I have?” Syrus said.

  Bring me the young witch from the City, the Manticore said. And then we shall see what might be.

  “A witch?” Syrus scratched his head. “But aren’t all the witches dead?”

  Everyone knew all the witches had been killed right around the time the Emperor had executed his daughter for openly declaring herself a witch. He had sent hundreds to die on the fatal sands of the Creeping Waste. Only the Architects had escaped, and they were all men. Every Emperor since had sponsored periodic purges from time to time; the Empress had enforced the most recent perhaps fifty years ago. All the witches, as far as Syrus knew, were gone.

  Would I ask you to bring me someone who does not exist? Do as I say, boy, the Manticore said. He heard the steel in her grin. Find the witch and together we will free our families.

  “But how?” Syrus asked. He thought about what his Granny had said—that the Manticore must be protected at all costs to keep the Waste at bay. In the old tales, it was a witch who had stolen the Heart in the first place. What would the Manticore want with her? Wouldn’t she be dangerous? He wished again that his talent was great enough to be of use.

  Bring her to me and you will see.

  CHAPTER 7

  Father hasn’t said anything to me about the unfortunate incident of yesterday, in which I nearly destroyed all of New London (and Pedant Simian’s collection) single-handedly. Nor have I said anything to Father about the Waste, for fear of reminding him of my part in the near-misadventure. I want to ask him about Pedant Lumin’s odd behavior, but I remain silent.

  Truth be told, I don’t want to say anything about that because it implicates me just as much as it implicates him. But the thought nags at me that I should report him because he’s obviously a heretic. Fraternizing with sylphids! Feeding them jam cake! It should give me shudders, but mostly it just makes me jealous that I can’t keep a sylphid in my own pocket.

  And then there was also the ridiculous notion that the young Pedant might kiss me. . . .

  I shake my head and keep my eyes down. Aunt Minta watches me with the attentiveness of a cat sizing up a mouse. She asked me about the scrape on my nose the other night. I told her I did it on a door. I don’t think she believes me.

  When Father is ready to depart for the trolley, I stand with him. He looks askance at me. “I think you had better stay here with Aunt Minta today, Vee,” he says.

  I look at him in shock. I’ve been afraid that one day he wouldn’t take me to the Museum, that he’d force me to stay here. I’ve always felt sure I would die on that day. There’s nothing I love more than the Museum. Father knows it.

  Aunt Minta’s eyes glimmer, but she wisely says nothing. I’m a constant disappointment to her. She wants to make me into a proper lady and has only lately, I think, finally given up. I’ve been able to stave her off this long because, as I said, I’m very good at what I do. Father has always said that someday it would all have to end, but I never quite wanted to believe him. Now Aunt Minta may finally get her chance.

  I can’t let that happen, not yet.

  I follow Father out into the hall, where our copy of The Chastening of Athena painting hangs. Up until now, I’ve thought Athena had a look of dreadful repentance, but now I’m thinking she looks quite defiant, despite the scarlet W embroidered on her execution gown.

  “Father,” I say, plucking at his sleeve. “Please. I will do anything, anything. Just . . . don’t make me stop coming with you to the Museum.”

  “Vee,” he says. He cradles my head, though the pins in my hair prevent him from tousling it as he once did.

  I meet his eyes and hate the sadness I see there.

  “You know this must end soon. It’s just not proper, your working at the Museum. There’s already talk—”

  “The loss of those sylphids—that wasn’t entirely my fault! And I promise never to barge into your office again, Father!”

  Despite my recurring curiosity, I still don’t mention the Waste. I must pretend I didn’t see what I saw or that I give it not a second thought, if I ever want to know more about it. And yet, it’s nearly all I can think of. Why would Father experiment on something as dangerous and unpredictable as the Waste? It swallows everything in its path. The Wall around New London was built by Refiners and Pedants working together to keep our city safe. Why bring such
danger right into the heart of New London after all the attempts to keep it out?

  “Neither of those things are the problem,” he says, after a long, thoughtful pause. “It’s just . . . you must start thinking about your future.”

  “I know what I want my future to be. I want to stay and work at the Museum with you.”

  “I know,” he says softly. “But that is not the way of the world.” His eyes flick to the painting.

  I tighten my grip on his sleeve. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ll end up like her.” I jerk my head toward Athena.

  He opens his mouth to refute me, but I say in a rush, “I won’t. I swear I won’t. Please don’t make me leave the Museum just yet. Please.” I’m embarrassed by the tears that clench my throat and burn my eyes. It isn’t very logical to get worked up like this; it probably only proves his point.

  But Father has no son, no one to follow in his profession. I am the only person in the household he can talk to about science and unnatural affairs. Neither of us want to lose that, and yet he’s saying that we must.

  Aunt Minta lingers at the dining room door.

  “All right,” he relents with a sad smile.

  I start to speak my gratitude, but he stops me.

  “But only for a little while. Your aunt is right. You are a young lady and your thoughts must turn eventually to making a good match. Today I think you should stay here and consider that.”

  Now I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me again.

  “Listen, Vee. We’re not too badly off, but we’re certainly not wealthy and I’m quite old. It may be difficult for me to support our family in the coming years, my dear. Your duty is to see that we’re all cared for and I know you can. When the New Year comes, you must put these childish dreams aside, and work with your aunt on finding the perfect match. You’re a good girl, and I know you’ll do what is right for your family.”

  He sighs. I know he hates making these pronouncements and he seldom sticks to them. But I have a feeling that he’ll stick to this one like no other. I am saddened into complete silence.

  I nod.

  I glance at Aunt Minta. She’s smiling. It’s not an unkind smile, but she’s never understood my obsession with unnatural things. A little part of me knows deep down that she and Father are right. I hate that most of all.

  I follow Father to the foyer where our maid Lorna stands ready with his coat and hat. We are too poor to afford a wardrobe wight. Father puts on the Sheep of Learning, his robes, and beret. Aunt Minta still hasn’t said a word. I guess she knows she’s won, and now she can gloat over it all day in the parlor as I prick my fingers doing embroidery or some equally dull task. Except that Aunt Minta really is too kind a soul to gloat.

  We say our good-byes. I step out on the porch to watch Father go and I nearly trip over the deliveryman who stacks bricks of bound myth for our furnace. The City Refinery in Lowtown processes raw myth from the mythmines in the north and then distributes each family’s allotment. I’ve heard some families in Lowtown receive nothing because they can’t pay, or are reduced to buying wood gathered by the Tinkers. It’s said the Tinkers refuse to use myth—something about it bringing bad dreams or bad luck. And no one exactly knows what happens in the Imperial Refinery attached to the Empress’s Tower, beyond supplying the Empress’s household with an endless quantity of myth.

  The deliveryman nods to me as he finishes his chore and hurries to his cart and the next house. I shove my hands in my pockets and find the embroidered handkerchief, a red secret as deadly as the letters stitched on Athena’s execution gown. Will Pedant Lumin notice I’m absent today? I don’t really care so much except that I wonder what he would think about the boy who stole my toad, about the Waste locked in the box in Father’s office. What should I say about his rescue of Piskel the sylphid? The fact that he is an Architect? Or that he thinks I’m a witch?

  I stare at the steep street filled with people going about their business and long for a life as uncomplicated as theirs.

  Aunt Minta’s arm steals around my waist as her chin presses softly into my shoulder. I grit my teeth, imagining what she would say if she knew what I’m clutching in my fist.

  “Come inside, darling,” she says. The compassion in her voice is almost more than I can bear; she melts my resistance.

  “I should be with him,” I say, nodding toward Father’s retreating figure.

  “I know it seems that way,” she says. “But your father is right; it’s getting time for you to lay childhood aside and think about your future.”

  She ushers me back through the door and into the hallway with its glowing everlanterns. Even during the day, the lanterns are needed to dispel the eternal gloom of the Refineries. They say every city isn’t like this. Scientia is brilliant with light because of the prevailing winds off the Winedark Sea. Euclidea, which was halfway between New London and Scientia, was once green and rich with hanging gardens before the Waste swallowed it whole.

  Aunt Minta draws me from such gloomy thoughts into the parlor where the radiators hiss with myth-made steam. She’s had a fire laid on too, for she knows how much I love the crackle-dance of true flame. I’ve heard that my mother loved such things too—Father told me so once when I was little and stared too long at the flames. I think again of the lost toad, the only thing I had from her, with a morose sigh. Aunt Minta pats the settee beside her and takes out her tatting as I sit. I watch, trying not to twist my hands in my lap.

  “I’m making this for your trousseau,” Aunt Minta says, smiling. “It’ll make a beautiful collar on a dressing gown.”

  “Aunt Minta . . .” I begin.

  She looks at me sharp as the needle she’s holding in her hand.

  “You heard your father, darling. We need to start thinking about these things.”

  “Did my mother think about them?”

  Aunt Minta’s lips crimp ever so slightly. She doesn’t like talking about my mother. No one does, actually. I learned that when I was very small.

  “Well, of course she did, dear. She married your father, didn’t she?”

  I can hardly imagine my own dear father bestirring himself from his laboratory or experiments long enough to notice anyone. “And she was a proper lady?”

  The fire snaps through the long silence.

  “But of course, dear,” Aunt Minta finally says. “Your father was quite enchanted with her.”

  It’s a rather odd thing to say, considering the position of the Church on enchantments. “Yes,” I ask, “but did your family approve of her? I mean, were they happy with the marriage?”

  Another knot, another loop pulled tight. “It was approved by the Imperial Matchmaker and done with all the proper forms,” she says at last.

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  She looks up at me with that same sharpness. “Why are you asking these questions? Have you someone in mind already? Someone you fear is unsuitable?”

  “I . . . just wanted to know about Mother,” I say softly.

  “She found her place. As will you,” my aunt says. She reaches into her tatting basket and hands me an extra shuttle and thread. She pats my shoulder as my fingers fumble, trying to remember the patterns of knots I’d mercifully forgotten since the last time I resisted her teaching. “Don’t worry so much about it all, dear. We’ll help you. Once we finally get you out into Society, I know the perfect match will appear.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” I ask. “Or what if it’s someone Father disapproves of?” Or someone I disapprove of? No one really seems to care about that.

  She nods toward the shuttle. “First things first. Learn to be a lady. The rest will take care of itself.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Syrus waited until the next night to return to the trainyard. If this was truly a Cull, the Guard wouldn’t have waited around very long. They would have hurried their catch as quickly as possible to the Lowtown Refinery. But he also knew that a Guard had been lost following him,
and while they surely wouldn’t waste time trying to find him, they might at the very least have spies posted around the trainyard just in case he should be foolish enough to return.

  And, foolish though it might have been, he went back, because he knew his extended clan would expect it of him. Nothing would be done with the Reed clan’s passenger car until it was determined without a shadow of a doubt that all had been killed or taken. It was his duty as the remaining free member of the clan to dispose properly of the bodies.

  He came when the cookfires leaped around the rusting wheels. There was no music and no laughter, and there wouldn’t be for a while. Uncle Gen had been right about it being a long time since the last Cull. Everyone had begun to think perhaps the Cityfolk no longer needed new bodies for their Refineries, that perhaps the clans could finally live in as much peace as they could expect.

  Suddenly, Syrus hated them all for being so naive.

  At the edge of the trainyard, he heard muted voices inside one of the passenger cars. The Thornishes were a new family, still without a clan, who lived on the edge of Tinkerville; no one knew them very well. A stewpot bubbled over an unattended fire; he guessed perhaps they’d gone inside to find salt or bowls or somesuch. He took none of the stew, but he did steal a shawl and old bloomers from their laundry line. He draped the shawl around his head and neck, then wrapped a branch with the bloomers. He set them alight in the fire and walked off before the Thornishes could find him.

  He left whispering silence in his wake as he passed through the trainyard with the burning branch. No one spoke to him or tried to stop him. They all knew why he was here.

  Syrus’s heart thundered, sure at any minute he’d be accosted by a Guard. He glanced toward the caved-in roofs of passenger cars and iron engines, searching for ravens, but there were none that he could see. When he came to his family’s former home, he saw Truffler sobbing by the steps.