Gloom Town

by Ronald L. Smith

  Chapter Sixteen

  Upon Entering the House of Lysander Swoop

  The painter, who was surely Lysander Swoop, led Rory and Izzy along the water’s edge. He wasn’t a tall man, but his strides were long and they had a hard time keeping pace with him, wading through high seagrass and stepping around mounds of sand and discarded glass bottles.

  Izzy nudged Rory as they followed behind. “Did you hear him?” she whispered. “He knows something.”

  Rory nodded. “And he seemed terrified.”

  The man led them up from the water’s edge and onto the boardwalk. There were only a few people there, solitary figures caught up in their own doldrums. A boy sold fish from a barrel of salt water. A woman spun cloth on a loom. Swoop stopped and turned around. He looked toward the other end of the promenade. “Around this corner,” he said. “Hurry!”

  Rory and Izzy shared an alarmed glance. Were they being followed?

  The man led them along quickly, past an inn called Bertha’s, where children stood out front begging for coin, their clothes in tatters. Rory’s heart panged. There were hundreds like them in Gloom. One day, he thought, he’d like to help them, but he didn’t know how.

  They passed a sail-maker’s shop, its green canvas awning above them flapping in the wind. Finally, they came to a street where rows of modest homes lined both sides. Most of them were rundown and shabby, but the one that Swoop led them to looked clean from the outside. Dead flowers littered the wooden planter. Rory felt bad looking at their faded petals. The artist took a chain from around his neck and unlocked the door. He looked left, then right, and then invited them in.

  Rory was immediately assailed by the sharp odor of turpentine. Paintings covered every inch of wall space. A few sculptures rested on tables and in between books on shelves.

  The man opened his easel kit and placed his unfinished canvas on its ledge. “Please,” he said, “sit.”

  Rory and Izzy sat on a couch covered in a fabric of painted roses.

  “Something to drink?” the artist offered. “Tea?”

  “Sure,” Rory replied. It didn’t really seem like an occasion to drink tea, but the idea sounded nice. Perhaps it would help calm Swoop’s nerves—and his own, Rory realized.

  “Thanks,” Izzy said.

  The man disappeared around a corner. A few seconds passed before Izzy whispered, “Look at this place.”

  Rory scanned the room. Several of the paintings resembled the ones in Foxglove’s main hall—portraits of men and women in various poses. There were others too: animals, seascapes, flowers in vases. In addition to the furniture and art, colorful tapestries were spread out on the floor. Rory spied patterns of flowers, bees at a hive, a woman holding two lanterns, and many more strange images. A table near the couch held spirits in green bottles.

  Swoop returned bearing a tray balanced with tea and cups, and placed it on a low table between the couch and two chairs. He poured for each of them and then walked to the window. He peered out, looking both ways, and then drew the curtains shut. “How did you find me?” he asked, returning to sit in one of the chairs.

  Rory looked to Izzy and then back to their host. “I was working at Foxglove Manor as a valet. I needed the money, see. It’s just me and my mum, so I took the job.”

  Swoop almost spilled his drink. “You went there . . . willingly?”

  “Yeah,” Rory answered. “I didn’t know anything about Foxglove or the house, but when I got there, weird stuff started happening.”

  “Really weird stuff,” Izzy added.

  Swoop nodded. “Tell me more.”

  Rory took a sip of tea. He looked to Izzy, who nodded in encouragement.

  And then, he started talking.

  It poured out of him in a rush, and with every revelation, he felt more and more relief. He told Swoop about the terrible shadow dream—the shapeless form that cried out, I thirst. I hunger. He recalled with dread the birdlike face he saw on Malvonius and the bones in the great room. He recited the words he’d heard behind the red door and spoke of how he’d found Swoop’s signature on the paintings. Finally, after pausing to sip his now-cold tea, he mentioned the human heart in the back garden and his escape.

  As Rory talked, Izzy cradled her cup and listened with wide eyes, as if she, too, were hearing his tale for the first time.

  Through it all, the artist sat very still. Finally, he reached for his teacup and took a small drink, then set it back down. “My name is Lysander Swoop,” he said. “I did indeed paint those portraits of Antius Foxglove and the others many years ago. I had to. I had no choice.”

  “Antius,” Rory whispered.

  “Okay,” Izzy replied. “But what’s so frightening about that? That’s what you do for a living, right? Paint people’s pictures?”

  “I wish it were that simple, my child, but it is not.”

  Rory saw Izzy bristle at being called “child.” It was only a small twitch along her jawline, but he knew her well enough to catch it.

  “You see,” Swoop went on, “at one time, I was the most prolific painter in all of Europica. People came from far and wide to buy my works.” He lifted his head a little higher, thrusting out his bearded chin. “I was known as the royal portraitist for the Chevalier of Mercia.”

  Rory had heard of the continent of Mercia but didn’t know much about it. It was a land that was supposedly filled with marvels: lights that came on with the flick of a switch, carriages that ran on some sort of liquid, and many more hard-to-believe inventions.

  Swoop’s proud pose slowly crumpled. “But then, I was commissioned by Foxglove to paint his portrait, as well as those of his . . . compatriots. Only the greatest painter in the world should be granted the privilege to paint his likeness, he demanded, and that is what I did.”

  Izzy frowned. “Still don’t get it.”

  Swoop met her eyes and then lowered his voice. “For many years, I had heard rumors about Foxglove and his companions. That they held secret ceremonies. That they dabbled in some sort of dark arts”—he paused—“and that if you ever crossed them, you would pay with your life.”

  Rory gulped. Upon Penalty of Death.

  Swoop sat back and swept a hand through his white hair. “That is why I painted their portraits. I didn’t want anything to do with them, but Foxglove said he would take something from me if I did not agree.”

  “Take what?” Izzy and Rory asked at the same time.

  Swoop let out an exhausted breath. “My shadow.”

  “Your . . . shadow?” Rory repeated.

  “Yes,” the painter replied.

  “How could somebody take a shadow?” Izzy scoffed. “And if they could, what would they even do with it?”

  “I had the same questions,” Swoop replied, “so I began to do some research.”

  He sighed and stroked his beard. “Years ago, before I became a painter for hire, I traveled far and wide. I met a woman on the Isle of Bird who was versed in the ways of the old world. She told me stories of shadow reavers and daemons, spirits and summoners. There are old stories like this, in Gloom and elsewhere, child. Stories of mages and magic.” He paused and swallowed nervously. “One night . . . one night, she showed me my own soul.”

  “What does this have to do with Foxglove saying he would take your shadow?” Rory asked.

  Izzy nodded in agreement, as if she had the same question.

  Lysander Swoop stood up. “The woman also told me something else. She said that from the moment we are born, our shadow is with us. It contains the stuff of life, our essence. Our shadows are guardians.”

  Rory sat motionless. He really didn’t see what shadows had to do with anything. “Like . . . a soul?” he ventured.

  Swoop walked to the bookshelf and picked up a small clay bird. “It is . . . different than the soul,” he said, studying the sculpture as if it held a clue. “More . . . tangible. More . . . solid.”

  Rory shook his head. How could a shadow be stolen?

  “My c
arved deck says shadows are good fortune,” Izzy said. “Like protectors of a sort.”

  “Exactly,” Swoop replied, setting the bird back down, “and without a protector, we are all alone in this world. Unguarded.”

  Rory turned to Izzy, then back to Swoop. “Foxglove—how would he do it? Steal your shadow?”

  The artist’s face paled. “As I said, he and his minions deal in the dark mysteries. I believe they are sorcerers of some kind, bending people to their will. That is why I painted his portrait, as well as those of his associates. I never thought of them again until you . . . accosted me while I worked.”

  Izzy rolled her eyes.

  Swoop sat back down. He seemed full of nervous energy, Rory noticed. Fidgety.

  “What happens if a shadow is stolen?” Rory asked. “What then?”

  “I would imagine you’d become a wraith,” answered Swoop. “A shade of your former self.”

  “Like a ghost,” Izzy said quietly.

  They sat in silence.

  “What about the words I heard through the closed red door?” Rory pressed him. “They said something about a great harvest, and that she was coming . . . that they could feel her upon the wind. Do you know what any of that means?”

  Rory thought Swoop flinched at the question, but his only answer was a shake of his head.

  He’s hiding something, Rory thought. His hand went to his necklace and the black stone he wore.

  “I have one piece of advice for you children,” Swoop said, which Rory took as a sign that their meeting was almost over.

  “What?” Izzy asked.

  Lysander Swoop leaned forward in his chair and his eyes grew wide. “Stop asking questions. And never . . . ever . . . go anywhere near Foxglove Manor again.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Procession of the Most-Curious Sort

  Rory and Izzy walked home quietly along the beach that ran parallel to the boardwalk. The sky above threatened rain. Rory reflected on all he had just learned. Foxglove and Malvonius were some sort of dark magicians. All the talk of shadows and magic only created more questions—one in particular, he wanted an answer to immediately.

  He stopped walking and turned to Izzy. “I’ve seen you do things, Izzy. I know you have some kind of . . . gift.” He paused. “Are you a witch, like you said that one time? If you are, now’s the time to tell me.”

  Izzy curled a strand of hair around her finger, something she always did when being secretive.

  “C’mon, Izzy,” Rory urged her.

  “My mum told me never to talk about it,” she said in a rush.

  “About what?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Izzy,” Rory pressed her.

  It seemed to Rory that she was struggling with how to answer. “It’s true,” she finally said, lowering her voice. “My mum’s a witch, and her mum before her. Mostly just healing and herb lore, but once . . . she told me how to cast a spell.”

  “I knew it!” Rory exclaimed.

  “Shh!” Izzy hissed. “Not so loud.”

  “You’re special, Izzy.”

  “Don’t feel special,” she moaned. “Mum says I have something called ‘the sight,’ but I’ve never really tried to use it.”

  Rory’s eyes grew larger. “Well, we have to figure it out. Maybe you can use it to stop Foxglove and whatever it is they’re doing. It’s bad, I know that much.”

  They started to walk again, the soft sand beneath their feet slowing their pace. The air was cooler now, and Rory wished he’d brought a coat.

  “Dark magicians,” Izzy said quietly. “Shadows. What could Foxglove be up to?”

  “The answer’s in the words I heard,” Rory said. “Through the red door.”

  “More,” Izzy said. “What do they need more of?”

  The answer struck Rory like a bell that had just rung. “Shadows,” he said.

  They both stopped walking again and faced each other.

  Izzy nodded as she began to speak, as if figuring it out right at that moment. “If shadows have some kind of . . . life essence, then maybe Foxglove wants shadows to . . . do what?”

  “‘I thirst,’” Rory said. “‘I hunger.’”

  “Hunger for shadows?” Izzy ventured.

  Rory exhaled a shaky breath. “Shadows for whoever she is.”

  A slight rain began to fall, but not hard enough for them to seek shelter. Dark clouds thundered over the water.

  “What was that?” Izzy whispered.

  Rory snapped his head left, then right. “What?”

  “Listen,” Izzy said quietly.

  A slight tinkling of bells rose in the air and floated around them, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of a drum echoing down the beach.

  Rory squinted, trying to get a better look. Shadowy figures were heading their way.

  “C’mon!” he cried out, grabbing Izzy’s arm and pulling her away, underneath the boardwalk.

  “What in the world is it?” she asked.

  “I just hope it’s not them,” Rory said, looking out from under the walkway. “You know, Arcan—”

  “Don’t even say their name,” Izzy warned.

  The mysterious shapes drew closer. Raucous laughter rang out.

  Rory still held Izzy by the arm, ready to flee or fight, he didn’t know which. But as they watched from the safety of their hiding place, a curious procession passed before them. At the head of it, a man with bare, tattooed arms spewed flames from his mouth. Behind him came even stranger sights: accordionists, cymbal crashers, bell ringers, jugglers, men on stilts, magnificent horses, women in feathered masks, and, most delightful of all, a dozen child acrobats leaping and jumping. Stray dogs had even fallen in behind the group, barking and wagging their tails in excitement and slipping in the sand.

  “What is it?” Rory asked. “Who are they?”

  “It’s a troupe,” Izzy replied, wonder in her voice. “A carnival’s coming to Gloom.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Oxtail and Cabbage Soup

  Rory sat with his mum in their small kitchen. The smell of oxtail and cabbage soup filled the room. It wasn’t one of Rory’s favorite meals, but it was easy to prepare and the ingredients didn’t cost a lot. They still needed to stretch their money as far as they could. Yesterday’s revelations weighed heavily on his mind.

  Rory’s mum placed a hot bowl in front of him.

  “Thanks, Mum,” he said glumly.

  She sat down at the table, facing him.

  “What is it?” she asked, perceptive as always.

  Rory stirred his soup but didn’t bring the spoon to his mouth.

  “Mum, you’ve been in Gloom a long time, right?”

  Hilda cocked her head. Her long hair was braided today, a style Rory thought made her look like a kid. She wasn’t that old, she always told him. “Oh,” she said, as if taken by surprise. “I’ve been in Gloom all my life, Rory. Only place I’ve ever known. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  Rory looked into his soup as if he could find an answer there. “Yeah. I guess so.” He paused. “But what about Foxglove Manor? How long has it been here?”

  Hilda flushed at the mention of the manor.

  “What they did to you is a crime, Rory. I was reconsidering calling on the shirrifs.”

  Rory squirmed in his chair. Now that he knew how truly dangerous Foxglove was, he had to be extra careful. If not, more hearts might get buried, just like poor Timothy’s.

  “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt,” he said. “You said to put it behind me, right?”

  Hilda nodded. “Suppose I did. But that still doesn’t make it right.” She raised her spoon to her mouth. “Lord Fancy Pants will get what’s coming to him one of these days. I’m sure of it.”

  They ate their soup in silence for a few minutes. It felt good to be home, Rory thought, even with all of the madness surrounding him. “Me and Izzy saw something interesting,” he offered.

  “What’s that?”

  “A bun
ch of players, like a carnival. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “A carnival? No, don’t think so. I’ll have to ask Ox Bells. He might know.”

  Rory was attempting to appear as if everything was normal. But it wasn’t. A group of dark magicians was planning something evil.

  A question came to him suddenly. “Mum, who’s the oldest person in Gloom?”

  Hilda looked up from her soup. “Well, you’re quite inquisitive tonight, aren’t you?”

  Rory didn’t answer.

  His mum pushed her bowl away. “Too much pepper,” she said fussily. She fiddled with one of her braids, then let out a breath. “Well,” she started, and then paused. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Rory. What are you up to now? Something with Izzy, I suppose?”

  “We were just wondering,” Rory said, trying to sound like he didn’t care one way or another. He sipped his soup.

  Hilda put one elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm, thinking. She drummed her fingers along her jaw. “Let me see. I suppose it would be Lyra Blanton. She’s been here as long as I can remember.”

  “Blanton,” Rory murmured.

  “You’ve seen her. She’s down at the market every day, selling those sad flowers.”

  An image appeared in Rory’s mind—an old woman with silver hair pulled back in a single braid. He’d passed her by every time he went shopping. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks, Mum.”

  Hilda went back to her soup, but not before casting another inquiring look at her son.

  As for Rory, he had an idea.

  And he had to tell Izzy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Faded Tulip

  Rory and Izzy bustled through the crowds at Market Square. The sky was dark, with ominous gray clouds rolling in. “What are we doing again?” Izzy asked.

  “If Lyra Blanton is the oldest person in Gloom,” Rory replied, “maybe she knows how long Foxglove Manor has been here.”

  “And what would that tell us?”

  A horse-drawn cart full of barrels rattled by, and Rory stepped out of the way, narrowly avoiding a puddle of some foul substance.