Gloom Town

by Ronald L. Smith

  The salty taste of blood was on his lips. He was disoriented and stopped for a minute to rest, taking deep gulps of air. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe.

  The main avenue of Gloom, the Strasse, was full of townspeople going about their morning tasks, but Rory didn’t see any of them. He was in a fog.

  Many people saw the shoeless, shirtless boy running down the street but were too afraid to help. They only looked on curiously and called out, “Are you all right, lad?” or, “That’s Hilda’s boy.”

  Rory didn’t answer them.

  I was right! It was a heart. A boy named Timothy. Foxglove and Malvonius killed him!

  He made it to his house, his breath coming in gasps. He turned the knob.

  Locked.

  He banged on the door. “Mum!” he shouted. “Open the door!”

  Only in the midst of calling out again did Rory realize where she probably was. She must have a work day. At the leather tannery.

  He turned around.

  He had to find Izzy.

  Black Maddie’s. She’d be there now, reading her carved deck for customers.

  Rory turned around and headed back up the Strasse.

  * * *

  He rushed into Black Maddie’s. The air was thick with smoke and the sour smell of spilled beer, even though noon had yet to arrive. The patrons turned from their drinks and conversation to stare at him. Rory didn’t care. He shoved his way through the noisy crowd and toward the back.

  Relief flooded through him as he saw his friend’s familiar silhouette behind the red curtain. He swept it aside.

  Izzy looked up, startled. “Great seas!” she exclaimed.

  * * *

  Izzy dabbed at the blood on Rory’s chin with a rag she got from the barkeep. A too-large sweater hung on his small frame, courtesy of one of the patrons. His feet were still bare. Rory sat and grasped his cinnamon-root elixir, the cup warming his hands.

  “They tried to do what?” Izzy asked in disbelief.

  She’d taken her chair from behind the table and now sat alongside Rory.

  “They said the penalty was death!” Rory spit out. “They’re crazy!”

  Izzy set the rag on the table. Her face was troubled. “A human heart?” she asked for the second time.

  “Some poor kid named Timothy,” Rory said. “For all we know, there could be more . . . hearts back there. We have to stop them! They could be murdering kids!”

  “They are crazy,” Izzy agreed. “They tried to hurt you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Rory didn’t answer. He was shaking.

  “We have to find out what’s going on there,” Izzy said.

  Rory let out a long, unsteady breath. He did want answers to the mystery of the red door and Arcanus Creatura, but he also knew that digging any further could be extremely dangerous.

  Silence passed between them, broken by the sound of someone singing on the stage. Rory fingered the stone around his neck. For a moment, the voice put him at ease, and he remembered something else he wanted to tell Izzy. “I saw some paintings at the manor,” he started. “They were all done by the same artist. Someone named Lysander Swoop, in Captain’s Quay.”

  “Okay,” Izzy said, eager for more.

  “Well, if this Swoop guy painted Foxglove, he might be able to tell us something about him. Where he comes from and stuff like that.”

  Izzy rubbed her chin—doubtfully, it seemed to Rory.

  “Izzy!” he exclaimed. “I know something strange is happening. They have a red door that’s always locked! Bones were on their dinner plates! And I found a human heart! By the sea gods!”

  Izzy looked at Rory for a long moment.

  “What?” he said.

  “We’ll do it,” she finally said, lowering her voice. “I’ll go with you to find this . . . artist, but we have to be careful. We could end up in some kind of trouble. You know—big trouble.”

  She was right, Rory was certain. But he needed to know what was really happening at Foxglove Manor, especially if someone was killed there. “Good,” he said. “My mum’s friend Vincent said some strange things about that place, and Ox Bells said when he was in the circus, the ringmaster never came to this town because they were afraid of something there. What if it’s all connected, and—”

  “You in there?” a man’s deep voice boomed through the curtain.

  Rory bolted from his chair. “It’s Malvonius,” he whispered. “He found me!”

  Izzy put her fingers to her lips and silently rose from her seat. She opened the case where she kept her carved deck and lifted the cards, then pulled out a knife with a whalebone handle. Rory looked at the gleaming blade gripped in her fist. Of course she had a weapon. He’d hate to be the person on the other end of it.

  He looked at her and nodded. He knew what to do. They didn’t even have to speak. He whisked the curtain aside and Izzy leapt forward, ready to strike.

  “Bloody seas!” a small, rumpled man cried out, cowering. “Only want me fortune read, not to get gutted like a fish!”

  Izzy sighed and lowered her arm. She looked to Rory and shook her head, relieved.

  “Well,” the customer said warily. “Ya reading fortunes tonight or not?”

  Rory turned to Izzy. “Tomorrow,” he said to her, slipping around the small man, toward the noisy room beyond. “Captain’s Quay.”

  Izzy set the knife on her table. “Tomorrow,” she replied, and invited the fortune seeker in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Captain’s Quay

  Picking the lock was easy, now that his nerves were a bit calmer. He promised himself he’d find a better way to keep their house secure in the future. Now he sat on the couch in the front room, the only light provided by an oil lantern on the table. The soft glow pooled around him, as if creating a circle of safety. Every few minutes, he got up and peered out the window.

  Do Foxglove and Malvonius know where I live? Who can stop them if they come after me? Maybe Ox Bells, but Ox Bells wasn’t there. Rory was alone, waiting for his mum to return from her night shift at Black Maddie’s.

  He could have stayed with Izzy and waited there for her. She went to Black Maddie’s to sing for the patrons right after her shift at the tannery. But Rory didn’t think the inn would be a good place to tell her what he’d been through. They needed to talk alone.

  A rustling outside made Rory stand up quickly.

  The door opened with a creak. He tensed.

  “Rory?” his mum called.

  * * *

  They sat together in the kitchen. The room was too small to hold his mum’s rage.

  “We’ll show them,” she said. “Lay a hand on my son! Ox Bells knows people, Rory. Oafs as big as he is. But he’s loyal. And Cora too. Don’t be fooled by her fancy clothes!” She rapped her knuckles on the table.

  Rory had never seen his mum this angry before. Her cheeks were as red as her hair. Rory hadn’t told her everything though, only that he’d been beaten for disobeying orders. He had to explain the cut lip, after all. It would have been too hard for her to believe the rest of it. Rory barely believed it himself—mysterious words behind a red door that seemed to be alive, the face of an animal on the butler, and a boy’s heart found in the back garden.

  No, Rory thought. Just me and Izzy know what really happened. It had to be just the two of them.

  “What about the shirrifs?” his mum suggested. “We could send them over there and give Lord whatever-his-name-is a stern talking-to at the least.”

  Rory didn’t want to get the shirrifs involved either. They were a group of men and women in Gloom who were supposed to make sure people upheld the law. More times than not, Rory saw them milling about in Black Maddie’s, drinking pints of ale.

  “No, Mum,” he said, thinking quickly. “Lord Foxglove has money. And we don’t. He’d probably just pay off the shirrifs anyway.”

  His mum nodded along, seeming to buy his reasoning.

  She scowled. “Vincent was right. There is
something strange going on in that house.”

  Rory was certain of that, but he couldn’t let on that he knew more. It would only make matters worse and create more questions. Knowing his mum, she’d probably storm over to the manor and demand to see Foxglove herself. Rory didn’t want that to happen. He couldn’t even imagine what Foxglove and Malvonius would do if she approached them in anger.

  “Well,” his mum said, “at least we got a little money out of it, yeah?”

  “Right,” he said.

  “And we’re keeping every copper,” she finished.

  * * *

  Rory lay on his bed. He breathed in deeply and then exhaled. He was home. It didn’t have the luxuries of Foxglove Manor, but there was no place he’d rather be. Not that he’d ever experienced those luxuries anyway—they’d barely even let him bathe properly. Foxglove and Malvonius were terrible, terrible people. Would they really have tried to kill him?

  Rory tried to picture Timothy, the poor boy who’d broken Foxglove’s rules, but he couldn’t. That would just make it worse, he thought. Timothy’s face would plague his dreams, and he didn’t need that. But still, he felt bad for the dead boy. Did his parents know what became of him? Were they hoping he would return someday?

  Rory fell asleep with all of these thoughts fighting for space in his head.

  * * *

  The human shape grew larger with each passing moment. Tangled strands of hair floated away from its head, as if stirring in a breeze. Black birds swirled around the form, creating a whirlwind. The figure lifted its shadowy arms. “I thirst!” it cried out as if in pain. “I hunger!”

  * * *

  Rory woke with a scream on his lips. At first he thought he was at Foxglove Manor, but the familiarity of his room brought him back to reality. He was home.

  He breathed easier, but the dream lingered in his mind. It was like the other one he’d had, where he and Izzy were standing on a great cliff. He had forgotten to tell her about it in the midst of all the other madness.

  Rory’s mum peeked her head around the doorframe. “Time to wake up, sleepy bones. Food is getting cold.”

  He shook the dark thoughts away and got dressed.

  Breakfast was fried fish and crunchy bread. Rory savored the taste. His mum watched him eat, and Rory could tell she was glad to have him back home. She even fried up another piece of fish.

  When he’d finished, he rose from the table. “Thanks, Mum.”

  Hilda smiled and pulled him close. Rory inhaled the comforting fragrance of patchouli. He’d missed it. She held on to him for a long moment.

  “Me and Izzy have something we need to do,” he said, breaking the embrace.

  His mum frowned. “Don’t go getting in trouble,” she warned. “Just leave that nasty business at the manor behind. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Mum.”

  She looked at him skeptically.

  “Mum,” Rory said flatly. “Don’t worry.”

  She tilted her head in doubt, but a sympathetic smile betrayed her thoughts. “Just a minute.” She pulled the picture frame from the wall, reached in the cubbyhole, and withdrew the jar. “You earned this money,” she said, counting out some coins. “It’s good to have a little in your pocket.”

  Rory held out his open palm and took it. She was right. He did earn that money, and he had every right to it.

  “Thanks, Mum,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

  * * *

  Rory and Izzy made their way down the Strasse. The air was cool and crisp, but the sky was as gray and leaden as every other day.

  “Do you think we’ll find him?” Izzy ventured. “This . . . Lysander Swoop?”

  “We have to try,” Rory answered. “He’s the only one we know of who might be able to tell us something about Foxglove.”

  They walked in silence for a while. Vendors and shoppers crowded the streets, as well as a few stray dogs and cats, looking for food. The familiar smell of fresh fish rose on the air.

  “I had a dream,” Rory suddenly said, remembering what he wanted to tell her. “Twice now. Once at the manor and last night at home.”

  “What . . . kind of dream?”

  “The first time it was the two of us, looking out over what I think was the Black Sea. A scary cloud was coming our way. It looked like something was inside of it . . . something trying to take shape. And then I heard a woman’s voice say, ‘I thirst. I hunger.’”

  Izzy didn’t speak for a moment. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she finally said. “You’re sure it was a woman’s voice?”

  “I’m certain,” Rory replied. “And last night, I had the dream again, but it was full of blackbirds. I heard the same voice crying out in pain.”

  And that’s when Rory realized it.

  “‘She is coming,’” he recited. “‘I can feel her upon the wind.’ That’s what I heard through the red door, Izzy! What if the voice in my dreams belongs to whoever this she is they were talking about?”

  “Maybe,” Izzy said doubtfully. “But Rory, why would you have a dream like that? Dreams of prophecy are usually seen by people with some kind of gift, like . . . magic.”

  A dog ran in front of them, and Rory jumped out of the way.

  “Magic?” He almost laughed. “I don’t think so, Izzy.”

  But the expression on Izzy’s face said she thought otherwise.

  * * *

  It took nearly an hour to walk to Captain’s Quay, and Rory was tired by the time they arrived. Izzy, on the other hand, seemed ready to walk for another hour.

  Houses and storefront awnings displayed what had once been a rainbow of colors: red, green, yellow, and blue. Captain’s Quay was near the dock that traders and merchants sailed into when they first arrived in Gloom, and Rory had heard that the citizens painted their houses in bright colors because they wanted to make a good impression. But over time, like most everything in Gloom, the color had leeched out of Captain’s Quay, and it became like everywhere else in the town, dull and gray.

  A boardwalk ran from one end of the neighborhood to the other. It was home to several businesses: mostly food sellers, fortune-tellers, and gambling dens. Rory saw a few boats out in the distance, on the Black Sea.

  “We don’t even have an address,” Izzy said. “Where do we start?”

  Rory stopped in the middle of the street and peered around. “Well,” he said, “we know he’s a painter, right? Where would an artist live?”

  “Dunno,” Izzy answered. “Some fancy house?”

  Rory sighed. “Let’s just walk a bit and see what we can find.”

  They made their way to the boardwalk, a wooden promenade where people strolled along glumly. Pigeon droppings littered the planks. They passed a woman selling fresh clams from a wooden stall.

  “Mmm.” Izzy swooned. “Let’s get some. I’m hungry.”

  Rory thought he didn’t have any money for a moment, but soon remembered. He fished in his pocket and came up with a few coins. The woman behind the counter, grim faced and thin with a tattoo of a squid on her forearm, shucked a few clams with lightning speed and handed them to Rory on a piece of flat stone. He slurped his down greedily, savoring the pungent ocean taste.

  “Fresh,” Izzy said, swallowing hers.

  Rory wiped his fingers on his pants. He looked out toward the water. A lone figure stood on the stretch of beach that ran parallel to the boardwalk, a wooden easel propped up in front of him. Rory nudged his friend. “Look.”

  Izzy peered into the distance. “He’s painting,” she said. “Could it be?”

  “C’mon,” Rory replied.

  They stepped off the boardwalk and onto muddy sand. Rocks and glass bottles littered the area. They approached the man warily. He looked to be intently focused on his work. A small canvas set upon a wooden easel revealed a half-painted seascape. He was a rotund man with bushy white eyebrows, the same color as his long hair, which blew slightly in the cool sea breeze.

  “Excuse me, sir,
” Rory said softly.

  The man looked up. He hadn’t even seen them approach and now examined the two of them closely. Clear blue eyes looked out from a round face. A neatly trimmed white beard came to a point on his chin.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  Rory froze. What should he say? He had to tread carefully. He had no idea what this man’s relationship to Foxglove could be. “Is your name Swoop?” he asked. “Lysander Swoop?”

  The man narrowed his eyes at Rory and then glanced at Izzy. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Rory, and this is Izzy—”

  “We wanna know about a man named Foxglove,” Izzy blurted out.

  Rory winced.

  “Who sent you?” the man demanded.

  He’s frightened, Rory thought. He does know something.

  “I did what I was asked,” the man said. “He . . . he said I was safe. Who are you?”

  “No one sent us,” Rory replied. “We just want to know more about him. Foxglove.”

  The painter quickly began to gather up his paints and brushes. “I do not know who you are,” he said, kneeling, “but I have nothing to say about . . . about that. I know nothing. Do you understand?”

  He carefully placed his small watercolor in a panel in the folding easel kit and then clicked it shut. “Now I must be going.” He stood up. “Good day.”

  “Wait,” Rory said. “Please.”

  The man paused. All was silent for a moment but for a lone seagull squawking above them.

  “What can you tell us,” Izzy said slowly, “about . . . Arcanus Creatura?”

  It was as if the artist had been struck by lightning. A snaky vein throbbed on his forehead. Rory even thought he saw the man’s hands tremble.

  “You know?” the artist asked in a whisper, his eyes now wide. “About them? Who they are?”

  Rory looked to Izzy and then back to the painter. “Kind of,” he answered.

  The man let out a desperate breath. “Follow me.”