The Lion Lies Waiting

by Glenn Quigley

  “Duncan? What are you doing with those boys?” the big bruiser asked.

  His little spectacles were fogged up and he pushed them up on his snub nose to get a better look at his would-be assailant.

  “Vince? Is that you?” Duncan replied.

  “No, it’s your dear old mum, come to give you a hug,” the man said. “Answer me.”

  “These are our friend’s nephews,” Duncan said, nervously. “We’re bringing them back home.”

  “To Hester?” Vince asked.

  “You know her?”

  “She asked me to find them,” Vince said. “She went to the schoolhouse but was told the boys never arrived. She suspected Mrs. Farriner might be involved.”

  “And you knew where to find her because—”

  “Because I know everyone in Gull’s Reach.”

  “And because she’s been working with Baxbary Mudge?”

  The name drew a startled glare from the spindly man with the knife. He motioned as if to object but then thought better of it. Instead, he exchanged a weighted glance with the man with the kosh.

  “Steady, Duncan...” Robin murmured.

  “Never knew when to keep your mouth shut, did you, Duncan?” Vince growled. “But it’s nearly solstice and I’m feeling generous. You’ve clearly got matters well in hand, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  Vince glared intently at Robin for a moment. “See you around, Duncan. Be good.”

  The skinny man was confused. “But, wait, shouldn’t we—”

  Vince thumped him hard on the shoulder. “Shut your ugly face, Percy. We’re leaving.”

  “Old friend o’ yours?” Robin asked as they watched the hoodlums walk away.

  “Not exactly,” Duncan replied.

  ***

  “What are you talking about, Mum?” Edwin asked. “What animal?”

  His mother pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “The one living inside my head,” she whispered. “It’s been there ever since I was a little girl. It was small, once. Small, with tiny, prickly claws that only stung a little. But it grew bigger over the years. It started to flex its muscles and sharpen its claws. Then it started to rage, scraping and tearing at my mind, trying to get out.”

  She kneaded the ends of the shawl with both hands, her eyes wide and unfocused.

  “It needs to be soothed. Ambrose was good at it. The pride I had in him, knowing I’d done one good thing in this world, it helped. He could always talk the animal to sleep when it was angry.”

  Edwin remembered all the times he’d found his brother, Ambrose, and his mother sitting in the kitchen of their home, talking quietly and seriously. Had his brother known all along? Had he been helping her to cope? Is that why she became so much worse after he died? Edwin stood and paced the floor. He became frightened. More frightened than he’d ever been before. He shook because she’d just put into words something he’d felt his whole life but could never articulate. It was as if in confiding in him, she’d thrown a light across a darkened room and shown him there, crouching in a corner was an animal of his very own.”

  ***

  Hester was in her kitchen. She’d spent most of the morning sobbing into a handkerchief and was entirely dried out. She flinched at every noise outside. Every scuffle of boots on pavement, every clop of hoof on cobblestone. A mighty thump on her door made her heart leap to her throat. She flung the door open.

  “Vince?” she cried.

  At her door was a colossal man in a cap and overcoat, but it wasn’t Vince.

  “Missus Farriner,” the man said. “I believe we’ve found somethin’ belongin’ to you.”

  He stepped aside to reveal her sons.

  “Rowan! Hob!” she cried, wrapping her arms around the boys and eyeing the men. “Where were you? Who are you people?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, pardon my manners,” the big man said.

  He removed his indigo cap from his head, revealing the single white tuft of hair on his otherwise bald head.

  “I’m Robin Shipp, and this ’ere is Mr. Duncan ’unger.”

  “Mr. Shipp, of course, I’m sorry, Edwin mentioned you. Where did you find the boys?”

  “We should prob’ly talk inside,” Mr. Shipp said.

  She invited them in and they stomped the loose snow from their boots as she boiled a kettle.

  “Vince sends his regards,” said Mr. Hunger.

  “You met him?”

  “Oh, we certainly did. How do you even know a man like him?”

  “When I first moved here, I got into difficulty with some men who were trying to make a name for themselves in this area. Scaring people, demanding money, that sort of thing. If you think people round here don’t like Merryapple folk, trying being one with dark skin to boot,” she said as she stroked her arm. “Vince and his men stepped in and got rid of them. Ever since then, we’ve…kept in touch.”

  She smiled as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “You shouldn’t get too close to him,” Mr. Hunger said.

  “He’s not so bad, deep down.”

  “I’ve known him for a long time and I can assure you he is,” he replied.

  “Before I wrote to Edwin, I asked Vince for help with Sylvia, but he said he couldn’t. I don’t know why.”

  “I think we might have an inkling,” Mr. Hunger said.

  Over tea, they relayed the story of finding her sons with Sylvia and Hester spoke of the things Sylvia had been doing to her, of the trouble she had caused. Then she began to ask about Edwin and his father, Nathaniel. As Mr. Shipp started to talk, she noticed his companion squirming in his seat, clearly ill at ease with the conversation. She didn’t feel either she or Mr. Shipp had said anything to make him feel that way, but she supposed the discussion of family matters was perhaps a bit too private for him.

  “I’ll see you back at the inn,” he said to Mr. Shipp.

  He wrapped himself up in his plain grey overcoat and tricorne and left them to it. Hester listened intently as Mr. Shipp told the story of how he and Edwin had gotten together. How the hurricane, which had caused so much hardship on Blackrabbit, had caused Robin and Edwin to face their true feelings for each other.

  “I must confess it was a shock when Edwin told me he was romantically involved with you now. She used to talk about you, you know. Sylvia, I mean. She said the most horrible things. I’d like to able to say I didn’t believe her, that I knew you were a good and decent man, but I’d be lying. All I knew about you was what the other people of the village told me.”

  He hung his head a little. For decades, Sylvia had been his chief detractor, though far from the only one.

  “I wish I’d taken the time to speak to you myself,” Hester said, smiling at him. “It would have been so obvious they were wrong about you.”

  Before long, it was time to leave. Hester took him by the hand.

  “Mr. Shipp, thank you so much for bringing my boys back to me.”

  “Please, call me Robin. After all, we’re practically family!” he said cheerfully, putting his cap back on.

  “I’m very glad Edwin found you, Robin,” she said. “He’s not as strong as he likes everyone to think. And one day, he’ll need someone he can lean on.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  DUNCAN WAS A few roads away from Hester Farriner’s house, lost in thought. Neither she nor Robin had knowingly said anything to make him feel uncomfortable, but their shared connection with Edwin led to them discussing family matters and so he’d politely taken his leave. When he and Robin had first met years earlier, both were effectively without a family to call their own. It was one of the things that had drawn them together. Since then, Robin had found his mother and, through Edwin, his life had opened up to include a wider family. If Duncan were being honest with himself, he’d confess seeing it happen made him feel more than a little lonely. But rather than face up to his feelings, he’d done what he always did and simply removed himself from the situation.

 
He slogged through the cold, snowy streets of Port Knot. It was shy of ten years since he’d lived there and he’d avoided returning for fear of the feelings and memories it would stir. He felt bare in Port Knot. Exposed. He paused on a street corner, blowing on his hands, then thrust them into the pockets of his overcoat to keep warm. He touched something unfamiliar and pulled out a small card marked O. Boon Finest Masks. He hadn’t looked at it since it was slipped into his hand on his first night in the Lion Lies Waiting. He laughed to himself when he read the address. It was the site of his old shop. The first he had ever owned and located close to where he was standing.

  He had a simple decision to make. Turning right would bring him towards the town square, and the inn, where he had planned to hide until it was time to return home to Merryapple again. Turning left would bring him to where his shop had once been. Did he have the strength to face it? The memories it would stir? If it hadn’t been for what happened the night before, he wouldn’t, but the scab had been picked and there wasn’t much else to lose. Besides, it would be nice to see Mr. Oliver Boon again, wouldn’t it? Hadn’t he been handsome and warm and friendly? Wouldn’t it be nice to spend a bit of time in the company of such a man?

  There was a nip in the air and he buttoned the top of his overcoat, burying his bare face behind the collar. Many of the businesses on the road were the same as they had been in his day. He definitely recognised a few faces and judging from the stares he received they recognised him, too. He kept his head low and walked more quickly.

  A flurry of snow began to whip round him and he was grateful to arrive at his destination. He stood on the opposite side of the road, drinking in the sight of the place he thought he’d never revisit. It had been repainted. Olive green, not the deep scarlet it had been in his day, and with thin copper pipes running up the walls. On the icicle-dripped sign was painted a harlequin, dancing merrily. One of his arms moved with the help of hidden clockworks, covering and uncovering the clown’s eyes with a domino mask and causing his mouth to gape open and then close again. Duncan thought the effect rather ghastly.

  The panes of the large shop window were becoming frosted, but he could see dozens of masks on display. A warm glow emanated from deeper inside. He thought back to how it had been when it was his, the window packed with hand-carved toys. Crude, in his eyes, compared to what he’d become capable of. It was there he’d made his first steps in the world. Where he was truly independent, truly free. Until Baxbary Mudge.

  So absorbed was Duncan in his memories he almost stepped out in front of a carriage. The driver shouted something indistinct but definitely foul at him as he jumped out of the way. Taking a deeper breath than he intended, he crossed the road, opened the door and walked inside. The relative warmth of the shop caused the lenses of his glasses to fog. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them.

  “Mr. Hunger!”

  Duncan squinted in the direction of the voice, a shapeless blur barely a few feet in front of him and coming closer. Rubbing the shallow indents in the skin either side of his nose, he settled the spectacles back into place, tucking the legs behind his little ears, fixing the multiple armatures so they sat neatly. The blur sharpened and he found himself once again enamoured of the sight of Mr. Oliver Boon.

  “Ah, yes, Duncan, please, call me Duncan,” he said as they shook hands.

  “Only if you call me Oliver. Welcome to the Hiding Place!” Oliver said, waving a mask in front of his own face, still smiling.

  As Duncan followed him to the counter, he drank in the sight of the man. Wide-set hips, strong thighs and a generous rear end gave him the sort of gravity, the heft, the sturdiness Duncan was always drawn to. Robin had it too, the same bearing which spoke of solidity and dependability, even. Oliver had the air of the accomplished about him.

  “I’m so glad you came to see me,” Oliver said, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, I mean, I did, but I…you see, this is my shop. Was my shop, rather.”

  “Really? I thought it was one of Mr. Mudge’s holdings?”

  Duncan bristled at hearing the name. “Before, I mean. He, ah, he bought it from me. It was my toyshop, back then. I didn’t realise, when you gave me your card, I mean. I didn’t realise it was here, you were here. It, ah, it hasn’t changed much.”

  In Duncan’s time, the walls and rafters had been strung with kites and castles and puppets, but they’d been replaced by a menagerie. From the ceiling hung column after column of masks, made in all shapes and sizes. The long shelves on each wall were packed, too. Dogs, cats, cows, sheep, hares, wolves, fish, stags, and a few creatures Duncan would struggle to name.

  He walked towards the small workshop at the rear of the building, poking his head around a corner and grateful for the chance to let his mind catch up with his runaway tongue.

  “Still got my old workbench, I see. Have you been here long?”

  “A few years now. I had trouble finding premises to work from. I’m from Gull’s Reach, so no landlord wanted to rent to me. Too risky, they said. Mr. Mudge was good to me, took a chance on me when no one else would.”

  Or he saw a person in a desperate position and took advantage, Duncan thought. He idly wondered what Baxbary was getting from their arrangement. He lifted a lion mask and brushed its soft, fluffy mane. He found he could easily picture Edwin wearing it. Something about the nobility of it seemed appropriate. He searched around for one that might suit Robin and found a white lobster, studded with golden stones and long, trailing silk antennae. A touch too dainty for Robin, he mused, and liable to snap in half the first time he tried it on. Whatever the subject, all of the masks followed the island style of covering only the top half of the face.

  “These are beautiful,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’m not the only game in town, but I studied under the master mask maker of the island.”

  “There’s a mouthful,” Duncan said.

  Oliver raised one eyebrow and smirked. “Indeed it is. Every few years, the master refreshes the council masks, adding new feathers, replacing broken or worn parts and suchlike. I hope to take over from him one day. In the meantime, there are plenty of playhouses who need my services. And this time of year is especially busy. Everyone wants a mask for the parade. There’s a tradition of casting one’s mask onto the bonfire at the end of the night. Fortunate for me, really.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it happen. I’d always wondered how that particular custom got started,” Duncan said.

  “Well, I hope you’re not suggesting it was started by people in my trade,” Oliver said, grinning.

  The favoured style was to use goose and pheasant feathers to emulate the fur of a given creature. Hackle feathers offered a flourish of colour and texture where needed. With the back of his fingers, Duncan brushed a kitten mask made entirely from goose down. It was softer even than the carpets in Chase Manor. He lifted a fox mask made from short, reddish-brown feathers, but it was cruder than the rest. Cheaper. The snout was short, the colours less vibrant. It was nothing compared to the luxury masks displayed behind the counter made from the finest feathers, the most flawless pearls, the most exquisite satin. Duncan spotted a hare twitching its long, elegant ears and a bloodhound sniffing the air.

  “Good, aren’t they?” Oliver said. “Little mechanism inside, makes them move, almost at random. So small and quiet you’d hardly even notice.”

  “So lifelike,” Duncan mused. “I’ve recently started using similar devices in my toys.”

  “A tinkerer and a toysmith! Have you a business in town, may I ask?”

  “No, I moved away some time ago.”

  “I thought as much. I’m sure I’d have noticed you around,” Oliver said with a smile.

  A jolt ran up Duncan’s spine. It wasn’t often a man smiled at him like that.

  “You must be cold; you could come and warm yourself by the fire, if you like?” Oliver gestured towards the back of the
property.

  Duncan paused, but only for a moment. “That would be nice,” he said.

  Oliver led him through the workshop to the fireplace in the office at the rear. Many’s the time Duncan warmed his freezing cold hands by the very same hearth. For a reason he couldn’t explain, seeing it again hit him harder than anything else. Standing there, with his fingers outstretched, it brought everything back to him.

  “Is there something wrong?” Oliver asked.

  “Ah, no, nothing, nothing. It’s just…memories, you understand? It’s funny how a little thing can send you back through the years. I didn’t have much money back then—still don’t, mind you! I couldn’t afford to keep a big fire going during the winter months, especially not near the end. I remember burning lots of toys I’d carved, just to keep warm. All that effort, scrounging for wood, making the toys, painting them, all up in smoke. The cold on Blackrabbit isn’t like the cold anywhere else. It led to me to making some bad choices. Ah, there are too many memories for me here, Mister Bo…Oliver. Too many memories.”

  “Bad ones, it seems.”

  Duncan nodded. Oliver moved closer. “I could help you make some better ones? If you’re interested?”

  Duncan lost himself in Oliver’s soulful, forest-green eyes and nodded again, ever so slightly. Oliver leaned in and gently kissed him. How soft those lips were.

  “Will you be staying in town long?” Oliver asked, his voice a gentle whisper.

  “Not a minute longer than necessary.”

  “Then you should make the most of it.”

  Duncan put one hand on Oliver’s hip, guiding him in closer and kissing him passionately, the two embracing in the warming glow of the fire. Duncan wanted to surrender completely to the comfort of it, the connection.