The Dead World of Lanthorne Ghules

by Gerald Killingworth

  “No. That’s the way to cook them,” he said severely.

  “Cook the baby in boiling water,” said Buckette. She understood the point now and sounded as if she liked it. Edwin saw that her face was only a third of the size of her hair and it was covered in wrinkles, giving it the appearance of an antique, grey walnut.

  “The boiling water is to sterilize the bottle,” said Edwin firmly.

  “Really?” said Buckette without interest. She leant over Mandoline and gave her a little pinch. Edwin had no way of knowing if this was done with affection or if she was checking on the tenderness of a future meal.

  “I hate all these flames. They’re not natural.”

  “What have you been feeding her?” Edwin asked. He wasn’t going to be sidetracked into a discussion about fire.

  “Unripe cow’s milk,” said Buckette. “Ugh, nasty stuff. All white and runny.” She screwed up her face and half of it disappeared.

  “Did you warm the milk?”

  “Of course I did. I kept burning my hand. Look, there.”

  She held out the thinnest wrist Edwin had ever seen. It was so mottled and grey he couldn’t tell whether it was recently burnt or not.

  “That’s dreadful,” he said. “Thank you for taking the trouble.” He didn’t dare think where they had found the unripe milk. “I’ve brought a brand-new tin of dried milk. We mix it with water, but you need to read the instructions very carefully.”

  Buckette let Edwin take charge of preparing Mandoline’s bottle. She hated the fire and she hated being so close to a Shiner boy. Whatever he asked her to do, she held her wooden tray in front of her face to shield it from the fire’s heat and the glare from his skin. Edwin had to keep asking her, “Can you see what I’m doing? I’m not radioactive.” Swarme looked on, but wouldn’t help.

  Edwin found some cleaner pans and washed them as thoroughly as he could under the cold-water tap. The water itself didn’t look too clean, but he set it to boil by the fire and rinsed the bottle and its teat several times. Buckette muttered and tutted from behind her tray all the while.

  Eventually they had a bottle of warm milk that Edwin thought his mother would be proud of. He approached Mandoline with it, and she began to cry at once.

  “Let me have it,” said Buckette. Mandoline stopped crying.

  “You’re a horrible little cat,” Edwin told his sister. “You don’t deserve me. You’re guzzling that bottle while I’m practically invisible from hunger.”

  Swarme had been ordered to keep an eye on Edwin, but preparing the bottle took so long he was now bored and staring out of the window in search of something more interesting. Edwin sidled up to him and asked, in a small and extremely polite voice, “May I have something to eat, please?”

  Swarme turned his head slowly. “Not so cheeky now, are we?”

  “I’m really, really hungry.”

  Swarme flicked his hand in the direction of one of the cupboards. “It’s just your luck that Necra was putting stuff away to ripen for New Year. Well, don’t stand there expecting me to serve you!”

  What Edwin did expect was that Swarme was playing another trick on him and that whatever “stuff” was in the cupboard had been ripening there since the house was built. All the same, he opened the cupboard door and could hardly believe what he saw. There was a dish of apples, a loaf of bread with only a suggestion of blue and green on its crust, and a piece of cheese that had decided to go hard before it collapsed into mush. Edwin was still wondering how much of this treasure he could stuff into his pockets, when a knife was waved in front of his face.

  “On second thoughts,” said Swarme, “we can’t have you half-inching all our New Year nibbles. Hold your hands out.”

  He gave Edwin three of the apples, then took one back, and used the knife to cut a thin slice of bread and a corner of the cheese.

  “Thank you,” Edwin said, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of Swarme slamming the cupboard door shut.

  Swarme returned to staring out of the window and Edwin helped himself to a drink of water to wash down the bread and cheese. The apples were kept for later.

  When Mandoline’s bottle was empty, Buckette decided to burp her by shaking her vigorously from side to side like a dog with a toy. Mandoline didn’t mind this, but Edwin did. He rushed over shouting, “Not like that! She’ll come apart.” He draped Mandoline over his shoulder and gave her back the lightest of taps. She started to complain at once. Buckette shrugged. As they were standing next to one another, Edwin took the opportunity to whisper to Buckette, “My sister shouldn’t be here. Please help me take her home.”

  It was a miscalculation.

  “Swarme, he’s saying things he shouldn’t. He wants me to help them get away.”

  In a flash, Swarme had Edwin’s arm twisted behind his back and was marching him out of the kitchen to another room on the ground floor of the house. Auntie Necra seemed to have prison cells all over her home. This new one boasted a separate toilette room, complete with unspeakable bucket and rag, a low bed with two blankets and a small, high window without glass. She must have thought that dust and cobwebs were only for special people, because Edwin’s cell was fairly clean.

  The first thing Edwin did when he was left alone was to lie down on the bed out of sheer relief. Mandoline was alive and apparently taking her residence in this dreadful house in her stride. He had kept repeating the instructions on the dried milk so, even if Buckette couldn’t read, she should be able to remember how to prepare a bottle. The milk would last a week, but he only had two days to manage their escape before the man called Limbe or Legge arrived to take him somewhere that sounded a hundred times worse than Morting.

  17

  Four Legs and Lots of Stones

  Edwin was left alone for hours.

  If they thought this would break his spirit, then they had another think coming. When he began to feel uncomfortably hungry again, he took the apples out of his pocket and ate them as slowly as possible, sucking every drop of juice from each bite. They tasted surprisingly sweet, with only a hint that they were about to turn into something much less palatable. When he had finished eating, he lay on the bed for a while, staring up at the window, which was more of a ventilation hole and too high to see out of. It was also too small for him to crawl through, even if he could reach it. Despairing thoughts weren’t going to get the better of him, so he jumped up.

  Check everything, he told himself. He windmilled his arms a few times to show any despairing thoughts how full of energy he was, though he actually wasn’t. He checked the door first. It was so solid he couldn’t even make it rattle. His investigation of the walls and floor told him it was pointless to think of tunnelling out with only a penknife. Finally he rushed over to the toilette-room door, begging to walk straight back into his own world. If that worked, he intended to leave the door ajar so he and his father—and as many neighbours, policemen and off-duty soldiers as they could muster—could pass back through with guns and explosives. They’d settle the problem of Auntie Necra and Swarme for good. He violently pulled the door open.

  “Armpits!” he shouted at the stinky little cubbyhole and slammed the door. He immediately opened it again, in case the powers controlling the doors between the two worlds had been shamed into helping him. They hadn’t. He stomped back to the bed, shouted “Armpits” and worse a few more times, then sat down with the blankets wrapped round him because it was so cold even with an anorak and a coat. All he could do was wait for something to happen.

  The something that eventually happened was Swarme’s voice outside the room saying, “Get away from the door.”

  “I’m sitting on the bed,” Edwin shouted back, wishing he were skilled enough to flick the penknife across the room and deep into Swarme’s heart.

  The door opened slightly and the end of a thick stick appeared and was shaken about.

  “I’m sitting on the bed doing a crossword,” Edwin said.

  The door opened enough to all
ow a large tray to appear, the items on it sliding about because Swarme was obliged to carry it with one hand. His left hand held the stick.

  “Auntie doesn’t want you to starve,” Swarme said when he was fully inside the room and placing the tray on the floor. “Well, not till you’re out of her house. She couldn’t care less what happens to you then.”

  On the tray was a plate with more bread, cheese and apples from the New Year cupboard. There was also a jug of water, a cup and a small lanthorne which was already lit.

  “Everything you could possibly need,” said Swarme. “If it was up to me, I’d let you go hungry.”

  If it was up to me, Edwin thought, I’d force-feed you unripe food till you begged for mercy. But I’d still carry on feeding you. Then you’d know how I feel.

  “Auntie told me to give you this.” Swarme took hold of a shapeless object which was slung over his shoulder and which Edwin had barely noticed. “She said it would be awkward if we had to tell Limbe you’d frozen to death.” He threw the object at Edwin’s head. “It’s not fair, her ordering me to give you my favourite jumper. You’ve already got my best coat and a stupid thing of your own underneath it.”

  “Sorry if I’ve got your most favourite clothes,” Edwin said. “I expect you miss them a lot.”

  Swarme looked at him malevolently. He tightened his grip on the stick and Edwin flinched.

  “Enjoy the dark,” said Swarme, knocking over the lanthorne. Its light was extinguished immediately. Swarme laughed loudly, slamming the door behind him.

  “What have you done to Lanthorne?” Edwin shouted.

  “Don’t you worry about him,” said Swarme very loudly from the other side of the door, so that his every word could be heard. “He’s having the holiday of a lifetime—good food, new hobbies. Just what a lad of his age needs. You couldn’t ask for better, could you, Lantie?”

  A little voice said, “I love it here, Swarme.” It sounded minuscule through the thickness of the door.

  Edwin nearly choked with laughter. Swarme did the worst impression of his brother imaginable. If Lanthorne really had gone over to their side, surely they would have made him tell Edwin in person. He was probably locked in a similar nasty little room elsewhere in the house… Every speculation seemed to lead to a despairing thought of some kind.

  Edwin decided to put the jumper on the bed, between the two blankets. Then he ate all the food and drank the entire contents of the jug in one go. At home he would have moaned bitterly if his mother gave him the same food two or three meals running, but locked up as he was, he knew he had to be grateful for anything. He wondered why the unripe food in this world always consisted of apples, bread and cheese. How welcome a sausage roll or a plate of jam tarts would be!

  While there was still a thin beam of light from the tiny window, Edwin made several more excursions through the door of the toilette room. He was disappointed each time. All he could do now was huddle under his blankets. Before he did so, he flicked on the lighter and relit the lanthorne, which he placed beside him. Darkness meant despairing thoughts, but he hoped the glow from the tiny lanthorne would give him the strength to make plans instead. Edwin lay on his back, willing brilliant escape plans to appear in his brain, fully formed.

  As ever, worries about Mandoline jumped to the head of the queue, pushing his other considerations aside. Would Buckette feed her properly or end up dropping her in boiling water accidentally-on-purpose? Would tomorrow be the day they put some of the Special Menu in her milk? And despite Swarme’s laughable attempt to impersonate his brother, would they eventually convert Lanthorne to the Old Ways?

  Edwin also had dark thoughts about his own future. Even if Auntie Necra and Swarme were exaggerating about the sort of life he could expect with the man named Limbe, how did he get his name? Why would you be staring at a limb when your baby was born… unless that limb was on its own, detached from a body and probably laid out on a plate in front of you?

  “I don’t want that to happen to me,” he whispered. “It’s not going to happen. IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN!”

  He blew out the lanthorne, because its flame was evidence that he still had his lighter, and very soon he had slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  The winter light trickling through the little window was so feeble that Edwin had no idea how far into the morning it was when Swarme shouted, “Get away from the door!”

  “I’m on the bed,” Edwin shouted back. “I’m so cold and stiff I can’t move.” He was actually standing as near to the door as he could without his voice giving away his position. He thought he caught the sound of a second voice, Auntie Necra presumably, unless Limbe had arrived early.

  Edwin tightened his grip on the water jug hidden behind his back. He had been waiting for this moment ever since he woke up and hatched the idea. Did they really think he was going to sit there like a turkey at Christmas and let them do anything they liked?

  The door opened a fraction and there was the usual wiggly business with the stick. Next came the wobbly tray and, finally, Edwin’s target—Swarme. As soon as he had a clear view of Swarme’s head, Edwin hurled the jug and then threw himself after it, penknife in hand.

  Swarme’s reactions were annoyingly swift. He upended the tray to make a shield, and the jug exploded against it. Not a single piece hit the intended target. The breakfast, on the other hand, sprayed all over him before scattering onto the floor. By the time Edwin himself arrived, Swarme had strengthened his hold on the tray and he was able to swat the younger boy viciously aside.

  Edwin’s forehead took a hard knock. He staggered and swayed and lost all the advantage of his surprise attack. Swarme swept him onto the bed and sat down heavily on top of him. The blow from the tray had knocked Edwin’s penknife down into the baggy sleeve of his coat so it had escaped Swarme’s notice. He wasn’t able to use it as a weapon, however, because his arms were pinned to his sides.

  “Shall I break something, Auntie?” Swarme asked. “Just one or two little bones. Please?”

  The other voice Edwin had heard did indeed belong to Auntie Necra. She had backed away while the battle raged, but she now entered the room and looked angrily at the mess.

  “Don’t break anything, Swarmie,” she said. “Limbe wouldn’t like it. If you sell someone a toy, you can’t very well hand it over in pieces.”

  She came and stood by Edwin’s head, which was half buried in the mattress by the weight of Swarme’s body.

  “You’ve been a wicked boy,” she said. “You’ve smashed my best crockery and your nice breakfast is all over the floor. Well you won’t get any more. Good food isn’t cheap, you know.”

  Edwin wasn’t able to call her the names he wanted to.

  Swarme bounced up and down a few times and jabbed Edwin painfully with his fist. “I’m soaked and I only put these clothes on this week.”

  Edwin made incoherent sounds into the mattress. Their tone was clear, even if the actual words were not.

  “I’m going to fetch Buckette to clear up his outrageous mess,” Auntie Necra announced. “Don’t let him move an inch, Swarmie.”

  With the eye that wasn’t buried in the mattress, Edwin was able to watch Buckette collect all the sharp fragments of pot he hoped he might be able to use against Limbe when the man came to collect him. All that remained on the floor was the unappetizing breakfast. Swarme made a point of treading on most of it when he finally got off Edwin and left. Edwin salvaged a single unsquashed apple which had rolled into a corner by the door of the toilette room. There was also a piece of bread which he thought he might be able to put in his mouth if he rubbed it on his sleeve about two hundred times. After that, there was nothing to do but scream swear words and burst into tears at intervals throughout the Dikembra day, which seemed endless as well as bitterly cold.

  Another night fell, bringing with it an army of the most depressing thoughts yet and sharp hunger pains to accompany them. Edwin perked up for a few moments when he had the idea that if he made his fac
e fantastically clean he might be too shiny for Limbe to bear. With no soap and only a trickle of discoloured water from the tap in the toilette room, he was forced to abandon the idea. If Swarme had anything to do with it, he expected he wouldn’t even be allowed to say goodbye to Mandoline.

  “Get away from the door!”

  At first, Edwin thought the words must be in his head, part of the jumble swirling round every corner of his brain. When the door opened a fraction, admitting the flicker of a small lanthorne, he knew he had visitors. But why in the evening? What could they want with him now?

  “Sit on the bed, so we can see you.”

  Dutifully, Edwin swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat up, with the blanket around his shoulders. A spiky shadow shot across the floor.

  “You’re ever so popular all of a sudden,” said Swarme. “Your friend wants to check on you.”

  “Lanthorne?” Edwin asked eagerly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Lanthorne’s never been your friend. Good old Limbe’s arrived unexpectedly early and wants to meet you right away.”

  “Did you say eat me?” Edwin asked faintly.

  “I said meet, but it’s the same difference.” Swarme sniggered. “Necra’s bringing him along. Get over here. And none of your answering back. Your new best friend Mister Limbe isn’t in a good mood. Something bit a lump out of him on the way here.”

  “Good job. I hope it was poisonous.”

  “Better not talk like that to him,” said Swarme. “He’s in a really bad mood. Whatever it was, left a few holes in his leg.” He prodded Edwin with his stick. “And don’t think about running out, because I’d be delighted to stun you with this.”

  Edwin’s ears picked up the sound of shuffling and wittering coming nearer. Someone was holding another lanthorne, because there was more light and more shadows, distorted, wavering ones. Auntie Necra and a man leaning heavily on a stick came into view behind Swarme.