The Dead World of Lanthorne Ghules

by Gerald Killingworth

  “If you know what to say to a snarghe, it’ll do anything you want,” said Lanthorne, when he finally appeared. “But it can’t abide sarcasm. Auntie Necra is in for a horrible shock if she sneaks into my room uninvited. This one has a taste for fingers and toes.” He sniggered.

  The two boys made their way carefully down the staircase, Edwin following closely behind his friend, who carried the lanthorne. Its faint circle of light hardly managed to include the pair of them.

  6

  Jugge

  There were no street lamps or any spillage of light from windows, and their lanthorne might as well not have been lit. Such light as there was came from the sky, a narrow strip of grey streaked with bruised yellow that was turning darker as Edwin looked up at it. In the unbroken gloom, he couldn’t see very far in any direction. The boys appeared to be in a narrow lane rather than a street, and all the houses opened straight onto it. They didn’t even look like separate houses, but seemed to be part of a continuous greystone block, two storeys high, with the occasional narrow door and a few windows like portholes. There was a strong sense of people shutting themselves away and keeping very still and quiet if a stranger knocked.

  “Don’t let me get lost,” Edwin said plaintively.

  “It’s not far.”

  They walked to the end of the lane without meeting anyone and then turned right and left along two more narrow and shadowy passages. Underfoot, it felt like a hard earth track rather than a proper road surface and there were no pavements. If Landarn was London in another form, Edwin felt they hadn’t made a very good job of it.

  “Keep your head right down,” said Lanthorne. “You don’t realize how much you’re shining.”

  “No, I don’t. My face is plastered with muck!”

  “We’re going to pass through the big streets soon, so be extra careful.”

  The “big streets” turned out to be hardly any wider or more impressive. There were pavements of sorts and a few people walking on them. It was practically dark and they all wore hooded clothing, so Edwin had no idea what they looked like. Occasionally, they greeted Lanthorne, two words spoken in passing and without a slowing down of their pace.

  “Well met.”

  Each time, Lanthorne replied softly, “Be safe onwards,” a worrying response if ever there was one, suggesting that something terrible was likely to befall you quite soon.

  So near Christmas, at home, the streets would be thronged and the shops ablaze. As the two boys scurried along, Edwin glimpsed what might have passed for shops—buildings with largish windows resolutely shuttered against the night. The near silence was uncomfortable, and he was very conscious of the slap-slap he made with each step in the badly fitting sandals.

  As they turned one street corner, an almighty gust of wind blew straight into their faces. It was so strong it forced Edwin’s hood back, revealing a lot of his face. Lanthorne gasped, reached up and yanked the hood down so far that Edwin now had no idea at all of where he was going. Effectively blind, he stumbled and stubbed his toes, so he was in a rebellious and angry mood when they eventually came to a halt.

  Edwin lifted his head and saw a low, narrow door, identical to the one which opened into Lanthorne’s house. It had the same unvarnished planks of wood, with no knocker or letter box. Was this an unpleasant trick? Had he trailed around in the dark, tripping over his feet every second step, just to arrive back where they started?

  Lanthorne moved up to the door and knocked in a pattern that Edwin could barely hear.

  “You never know who’s listening,” Lanthorne said. “It’s our secret knock.”

  “I couldn’t hear it and I’m only two feet away.”

  Lanthorne put his finger to his lips. “You mustn’t shout about secrets.”

  “I’m not shouting!” Edwin shouted.

  Lanthorne repeated the timid pattern of knocks. In a more encouraging, but still quiet, voice he said, “Don’t worry about the Whisperers. It’s their time.”

  Edwin had just begun to notice how the falling of complete darkness brought unsettling noises with it. They were different from that of a breeze springing up and using the lane as a shortcut. These were sounds that moved up and down the fronts of the houses, attaching themselves to the stones and feeling for windows that weren’t properly closed. Snatches of breath puffed out of lips Edwin could sense but not see. They were beginning to circle around the boys as Lanthorne knocked for a third time. Clammy fingers of air pressed a hollow in Edwin’s cheek. Something invisible hissed and pushed his nose to one side.

  “Get off!” he yelled and, throwing himself at the door, banged on it with his fist as powerfully as he could. “Jugge, let us in!”

  The sharp explosion of sound blew the whispering airs away. Lanthorne stood speechless, and still the door didn’t open. But the whispering was quickly closing around them again, and it was even closer. Edwin felt that there were now words in the hiss and rustle. Were they questions, or approving comments like, “This one looks tasty”?

  He tried to swat them away like summer gnats. All Lanthorne did, meanwhile, was to press his ear against the door. Edwin was too busy swatting and get off-ing to hear a pattern of tapping from inside and Lanthorne’s reply.

  Suddenly a rectangle of the dimmest light appeared where the door had been. There was determined pressure on Edwin’s arm and a moment later the boys were inside.

  “Lanthorne, why so late?” asked Jugge. “Is it your Auntie Necra again?”

  “This is Edwin, my Shiner friend,” Lanthorne said excitedly. “He suddenly came through a door into my bedroom. Edwin, this is my friend Jugge. He’s the cleverest person in Landarn.”

  There was silence as Jugge stared at Edwin open-mouthed. He gasped when Lanthorne pulled back Edwin’s hood and revealed his face. Despite the mud daubed all over it, his Shinerness glowed through.

  “Such an honour. Edwin. Thank you. Thank you,” said Jugge.

  He took their lanthorne, blew it out and led the boys down a short corridor as rough and bare as the inside of Lanthorne’s home. At the end was a fairly large room that was bright in comparison with what Edwin had seen of Lanthorne’s house, but, compared with Mrs Robbins’s collection of lamps, it was seriously underlit and too full of dark corners.

  Lanthorne leant over to Edwin and whispered, “You’ll like Jugge’s house. He’s very modern. That’s why it’s so much brighter.”

  You could have fooled me, Edwin thought. It’s almost as shadowy and strange as everywhere else. And I don’t like the look of Jugge. I wish he’d stop staring at me and licking his lips.

  Edwin hadn’t given much thought as to how old Jugge was likely to be, but he was still surprised to see that Lanthorne’s special friend was apparently no older than his own cousin Alastair, who was twenty-eight. Or perhaps people aged differently in this world, and Jugge was really 278 and Lanthorne a mere thirty-two. Jugge stood a handful of inches taller than Edwin and was so thin that there was hardly room for the various features on his face. His skin had the same underlying greyness as Lanthorne’s, as if they had both stepped out of a poorly printed black and white photograph, but, when he bowed his head slightly to give Edwin a proper welcome, touches of red were visible at the tops of his cheeks.

  “Allow me to shake the hand of a creature of legend, a Shiner boy.”

  Jugge stepped towards Edwin, who had no choice but to allow Jugge to wrap his fingers around his own. They were twitchy, fidgety fingers, like the tentacles of a sea anemone, but their grip was tight and Edwin pulled his hand away as soon as he could.

  “People here have stopped believing in Shiners,” said Jugge. “But I knew. I always knew. And here you are, standing in front of me, even brighter than all the tales said.”

  Jugge was wearing loose trousers of an indeterminate dark colour and a grey shirt that was similarly baggy, as if to disguise how scraggy or skeletal his body was. Two details about him stood out. Edwin had been trying not to stare at them from the moment J
ugge stood in enough light for them to be seen clearly.

  Over his shirt, he had on a sort of tank top, knitted from bright blue and yellow wool. It was a horrible garment, an atrocity in fact. The point was that it was colourful—made in garish, loud colours—and Edwin wondered what Jugge was trying to say by wearing it. Did he only wear it secretly at home? In the street, everybody was bound to stare. Such colours might even be illegal. And it had come from his own world, Edwin was certain.

  Jugge’s hairstyle was also a peculiar statement. Around his ears it was as grey as Lanthorne’s dull little mop, but he had slicked it down over the top of his head so that he could make a kind of parting. Whatever he had used, some kind of grease, it made his hair look darker and sleeker.

  He’s pretending he’s one of us, thought Edwin. He wasn’t sure whether to smile or shiver at this.

  Three candle stubs set in recesses at head height each gave out a little more light than their lanthorne had, and in the small grate a fire smouldered. It was a feeble excuse for a fire, with only two visible flames.

  Jugge stood in the middle of the room and flicked out his arms in a Ta-da! kind of movement, as if to say, “I know, I know. I couldn’t make it more Shinery if I tried.” He looked down at the pattern on his tank top and Edwin took the hint.

  “Super jumper,” said Edwin. “My dad’s got one in the very same colours.”

  Jugge obviously appreciated the compliment. “I’ve always wondered about the design,” he said. “Is it a fat and jolly man with a peculiar face?”

  “It’s Winnie the Pooh.”

  “A hero?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It’s supposed to have come from your world, years ago. I had to pay a lot of money for it, even though nobody believed it was genuine. So, is it?”

  “Looks like it,” said Edwin.

  “Jugge tracks down Shiner objects,” said Lanthorne proudly.

  “Wow,” said Edwin.

  “Yes, his collection is the best in Landarn.”

  For a moment, Jugge looked very intensely at Edwin. The pupils of his eyes were dark in comparison to Lanthorne’s and, unlike Lanthorne’s, they actually gleamed. It was a steady, sharp gleam and definitely not a friendly twinkle. Edwin turned away and looked at the fire. He longed to stir it up with a poker and bring some life to the room, which was as cosy as a rarely used cupboard.

  “Let’s sit down and have a wonderful chat,” said Jugge. “There are so many questions I told myself I would ask a Shiner, if I was ever lucky enough to meet one.”

  He motioned for Edwin to sit in the chair nearest the fire. It was crudely made and had a single, uncomfortable cushion.

  “You don’t mind me calling you a Shiner, do you? It isn’t meant to be…”

  “Racist,” said Edwin, anxious to finish the sentence and get on to talk of going home. “No, I don’t mind. What do I call you?”

  Jugge looked across the room to Lanthorne, who had curled up on a hard chair some way from the fire. “What are we, Lanthorne? What have you told your excellent new friend about us?”

  Lanthorne gazed down at the patch of floor beneath his feet and shifted his position on his chair. Edwin wasn’t at all happy with the silence that followed. He felt he was being excluded from really important information, a kind of password that it was vital for him to know.

  “I told him my Auntie Necra’s completely horrible and we can’t control her,” said Lanthorne suddenly, breaking the silence. “I told him we’re just us.” He seemed relieved to have come up with this particular answer.

  Jugge took a stool and placed it in front of Edwin. He sat down on it, much too close for Edwin’s liking.

  “I enjoy sitting by the fire, looking into the flames,” he said as if it were something special. “I enjoy candle flames too.”

  “Not like me,” called Lanthorne. “I need a lot more practice with bare flames.”

  “From time to time you hear about sightings of Shiners,” said Jugge, “but young Master Edwin here is the best evidence for them, for I don’t know how many years. And he’s walked right into my living room as if it was nothing special. I expect that over on your side you have legends and stories about fantastic creatures too.”

  He’s fishing for something, Edwin thought. But I don’t know what. He pondered for a moment and then said, “People go looking for yetis.”

  “Yettyes!” Jugge and Lanthorne cried out at the same time.

  “They’re real enough,” said Jugge. “A nest of them must have crossed over into your world and got stuck there. Nasty, bitey things. Best avoided.”

  “If anyone finds one, they’ll get a nasty shock, then,” Edwin said. He edged further back in his chair and as far away from Jugge as he could manage without making it too pointed. Jugge had the same staleness about him as Lanthorne—more, in fact, because he was an adult—and his excitement at meeting a Shiner caused him to breathe in and out very deeply. Edwin couldn’t help flinching at each sour out-breath. He knew that if he didn’t speak forcefully now he could find himself trapped into talking for hours.

  “Lanthorne promised you would help me get home,” he said in a voice he knew sounded impatient and bratty. He didn’t care. His mother might say, “Never judge until you are really sure,” but she hadn’t smelt anyone like Jugge or been gleamed at by those dark eyes. The sooner he got out of there the better.

  “Of course, of course,” said Jugge, “but you won’t mind if I try to get right to the heart of a Shiner first.”

  Edwin was now pressed as hard against the back of the chair as he could be. He didn’t like this talk of hearts. What an odd thing to say. Had Lanthorne betrayed him, and was this the end of the road?

  “I expect you’re wondering how these doors between our two worlds work,” Jugge said.

  Edwin wasn’t wondering about it at all at that particular moment, but he thought it would be sensible to play along for a while.

  “They’re amazing,” he said.

  “It’s a complicated story.”

  “My dad—” Edwin began, but Jugge cut his sentence short.

  “For hundreds and hundreds of years,” he continued, “there were lots of doors, but then the people in your world found ways of closing them.”

  “Why?” Edwin couldn’t help asking.

  “Yes, why?” interrupted Lanthorne. Then he quickly said, “Oh,” as if he had remembered a very good reason.

  Jugge clenched his long fingers in annoyance. He went on with what he was saying without bothering to answer Edwin’s question. “Your people discovered special words of closure, and whenever a door opened they spoke them. They thought they had closed all the doors for ever, but these special words are wearing thin.” He stared into Edwin’s face with greater intensity. “Have you ever noticed doors suddenly flying open for no apparent reason?”

  “Yes, but it’s the wind,” Edwin replied. He wasn’t enjoying this conversation.

  Jugge sniggered. “No, it’s the special words getting thinner and thinner. At the moment, they’re mostly only thin enough to allow doors to open but not to let people through.”

  “Then how did…”

  Jugge folded his arms smugly. “I found some other words and I gave the doors that extra push they needed. It wasn’t easy. I’ll admit that.”

  “He was exhausted afterwards,” Lanthorne added, as if Jugge had done something impressive or brave.

  “The doors are capricious,” Jugge said slowly, like someone sharing a great secret.

  “They can be very choosy. It’s my considered conclusion that they’re annoyed at being closed for so long and so they’re getting their revenge by playing tricks.” He smiled at the idea of the sheer spitefulness of the doors. The smile was followed by a long sigh of admiration.

  Edwin instinctively turned away from yet more sour breath, but he saw a chance to interrupt Jugge’s tale with what he had tried to say before.

  “My dad’s a hero,” he blurted out, “just like W
innie the Pooh on your top. He gets very angry if I stay out too late. He doesn’t know I’m here.” That wasn’t a good thing to admit. “If you know all these other words, can you use them and find me a door NOW, please?” He tried to sound as polite and needy as he could. “My parents will be very worried.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “You’re not very helpful!” Edwin didn’t care that he’d shouted; his anxiety had reached that stage. “Why won’t you help me go through a door?” And never, NEVER come back.

  “I was really looking forward to this chat,” said Jugge. There was a new edge to his voice. “You could almost say I’ve been looking forward to it all my life. And all you want to do is go home.” He stood up.

  Edwin stood up too.

  Jugge gestured around him. “You ought to feel at home here. There’s a fire and plenty of light and two rugs on the floor. Not like the old days.” He threw a fierce look at Lanthorne, who jumped off his chair with a little squeal and hurried to stand beside his friend.

  It’s taken you long enough, thought Edwin.

  Jugge kicked over his stool and went and stood by the far wall, his arms crossed and his expression a resentful glower. Edwin glowered back. He couldn’t help noticing that Jugge’s slicked-down hair was beginning to spring back up, hair by hair, until a whole tuft was free. Was he seeing the real Jugge emerge from behind a Winnie the Pooh mask?

  “Try to be more friendly,” Lanthorne said quietly. “Jugge’s the only one who can help you.”

  Edwin was beyond being friendly. “He found you a door. Why can’t he use those same words and find me a door too?”

  Lanthorne prodded him.

  “My dad’s twice your size,” Edwin snapped. “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  Lanthorne prodded him harder.

  “We were very lucky finding doors for Lanthorne,” said Jugge. “First of all, I had to search for old books. They’re difficult to locate and their owners are usually afraid to let you have them. You see, most people in our world are glad we don’t have contact with Shiners any more. They believe you’re monsters who enjoy burning people to ash and then walk away laughing.”