by Chris Cooper
After setting the bags on the table, Oliver stepped over to the window overlooking the city. He’d spent too much time in this apartment, too far removed from the people below him.
“Where should we start?” Anna asked from behind. She cradled a stack of flattened cardboard boxes under each arm.
“If you two want to start in the kitchen, I’ll start packing up my clothes,” he replied, pulling the cleaning supplies out of the grocery bags.
Izzy rounded the corner and came into the apartment. “You mean to tell me that you had to climb that staircase every—oh, how wonderful!” She had been distracted by the large cast of characters adorning the apartment walls. “Did you do all of these?”
“Every one,” he replied.
“We have to take these with us. We should hang them in the bakery!”
Oliver laughed as he pulled a box from the pile and began to tape it together.
The studio apartment left little room for storage, so the trio had finished packing and cleaning within a few hours. Oliver took one last look at the empty room. Within a short amount of time, all evidence of his existence had been completely wiped away. Soon, someone else would live here, and Oliver would be long forgotten. The more he thought about it, though, it wasn’t the fault of the city or his old job, for that matter. He’d chosen this place, to live in isolation. Despite the drama of living in Christchurch, Izzy and Anna had become family like he’d never known before. In his own strange way, he had become part of the fabric of the town, made connections, and found a pair of people who had brought something out in him he didn’t even know existed.
Oliver dropped his apartment keys into the landlord’s mailbox and carried the last of the boxes to the car. They’d managed to fit nearly everything, except for the old desk that sat under Oliver’s window.
Izzy had come dangerously close to purchasing an ordinary white delivery van after her station wagon had been totaled but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Fortunately, Oliver noticed a for-sale ad in the paper a few days after the incident. The cream-colored station wagon was a different model and year from Izzy’s, but she fell in love when she saw the wood paneling and tail fins.
As Izzy pulled the car out of its parking spot, Oliver kept a close eye on the twin bed strapped to the roof.
“Oh, would you relax,” Anna said. “The straps are tight. It’s not going anywhere.”
Oliver watched his old haunts fly by as they headed toward the highway. This journey to Christchurch was different than the last, and as the day progressed, he felt a weight gradually lifting from atop his shoulders. He still had reality to deal with and hadn’t even told his mother about the move out of the city. That conversation would certainly end in a fight. But for now, he felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. Although the future was more unclear than ever before, he saw great potential in the unknown.
Oliver Crum and the Grim Menagerie
Oliver Crum Book Two
Chapter One
Fireflies speckled the night air like burning embers. A cabin was nestled between a pair of maple trees, its dilapidated roof bowing as if it were a hammock strung between them. Firelight flickered in the window as Oliver approached cautiously, frosted grass crunching under his feet. When he ducked under the sill, the cabin provided a momentary reprieve from the icy wind cutting through his T-shirt. He wasn’t sure what had driven him to wander into the cold wearing nothing but a set of flimsy pajamas, but he was certain the answer lay inside the broken-down building.
Oliver peered through the window, poking his head above the frame just enough to see inside. The cabin was sparsely decorated, although some attempt had been made to repair its rotting walls. The crumbling beams holding up the ceiling joists had been reinforced with new wood, and several fresh planks left a haphazard pattern in the floor where the bad boards had been replaced. Much like the man inside, the building seemed to be on its last legs.
A leather wingback chair sat perched in front of a roaring fire, so close to the flames that the figure resting in it must have been roasting. At a glance, the shriveled man with desiccated skin appeared to be a corpse, but further inspection revealed the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He pulled a wool blanket farther up his lap and tightly around his waist. The elaborate cane lying next to him was enough to give Simon Hale’s identity away, and the sinister glint in his eye hadn’t aged away like the rest of his body.
Oliver had hoped the man was long dead. Simon had strolled into the sleepy town of Christchurch a little over a year before from the secret town of Briarwood, a town hidden in the woods and obscured by an invisible barrier through which only he and those in possession of the Briarwood key could cross. Although Oliver managed to save the town from Simon and his murderous witch of a daughter, the man had left several dead and the rest of Christchurch drowning in fear.
Simon’s cough penetrated the single-pane windows of the cabin, and he reached for a wineglass on the table next to him. He brought the glass to his lips, and the deep-red liquid slowly trickled into his mouth. The wine may have coated the back of his throat momentarily, but the cough came again, guttural and from deep within his chest. Simon reached for the glass but accidentally knocked it over, sending it crashing to the floor. Wine seeped through the floorboards as broken glass sparkled in the firelight.
Oliver flashed back to the chamber in the Briarwood town hall, where Simon had stood in front of him, lips soaked with the blood of his own son—blood that could somehow heal wounds and slow the inevitable effects of age on the body.
Without his son’s blood to sustain him, time had caught up with Simon Hale, and his body slumped forward and fell to the floor.
Oliver had no reason to help. The man had orchestrated the murder of several people in Christchurch, tortured his subjects in Briarwood, and abused his own children. Death by old age was too kind a punishment, if a punishment at all.
Oliver waited for the man’s chest to come to rest and yearned for final assurance that Simon was no longer a threat. As he backed away from the window and into the biting wind, the subtle glow from the fire grew brighter. Simon’s blanket must have fallen too close to the flames and caught. Oliver stood and looked inside. The fire had crawled onto the blanket, creeping slowly closer to Simon’s body.
It’s over. The fire would ensure it. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders and exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for the past year.
The building went up quickly, and soon the scene inside was completely wiped away by flame. He stood close to the cabin at first, warming himself in the radiant heat, but the fire became too hot, and he was forced to step away.
Bursts of ash replaced the flecks of firefly glow as they shot up through a hole in the roof, where the tiles had peeled away and fallen into the inferno below. He backed away to watch the building crumble, although not far enough to leave the protective warmth completely.
Once little remained of the cabin, aside from a charred doorframe and a few foundation timbers, Oliver turned to face the cold, unsure of how he would get home. Where is home? He marched forward and stepped outside the ring of soggy earth where the blaze had melted the snow. Trees encircled the clearing, and the only way out was through the snowy forest.
As he reached the tree line, he heard a whoosh of flame sneak up on him, and a wall of fire shot up in front of him, blocking his path. Oliver turned toward the cabin. Simon stood in the charred doorway, skin scorched and peeling from his bones, the metal bits of his cane red-hot and glowing. The man said nothing at first but stood, black eyes tracing Oliver’s movements.
“What do you want from me?” Oliver asked.
Simon’s scream echoed through the clearing as flames burst from his lips. He stepped down from the cabin and limped toward Oliver, and the ground hissed under his feet.
Oliver wanted to flee, but flames surrounded him. He had no place to go but toward the cabin—toward the man who surely wanted to kill him. His heart pounded as Simon raised
his cane, but before the man could press the hot metal tip into Oliver’s chest, Oliver turned and leapt through the wall of fire.
Oliver shot up in bed and frantically tried to put out the flames, which had disappeared once he left the dream world. His sweat soaked the covers, and he’d sent his fat tabby, Nekko, flying to the floor. For just a moment, he swore he felt a burning sensation under his shirt.
The nightmares had been frequent this week. Eric, the Christchurch chief of police, had brought news of Simon’s death in prison, which stirred up all the raw emotions from last year’s events. Some nights, Oliver faced Simon in a flaming cabin, and others, he ran from the Witch—Simon’s daughter—who he’d forced to terrorize Oliver’s town.
His nightstand alarm clock read four in the morning. He wouldn’t need to rise for several more hours but found the prospect of more sleep unlikely.
Izzy and Anna could probably use my help to prep for the flea market anyway.
Nekko looked up at him with indignation as he ripped his sweaty sheets from the bed and threw them into a pile on the floor.
He looked out onto the front yard, where the police cruiser had lain flipped a year before. The townspeople had wiped away the signs of the attack, filling the deep gashes in the earth and planting new grass seed, but the impact on his psyche remained. The story still felt unfinished to him, and perhaps that was why his mind refused to let it go. After all the damage Simon had caused, Oliver found it hard to believe the man had died without so much as a whimper.
Nekko had taken ownership of his pillow since Oliver was out of bed. She circled a few times then lay down, her body sinking into the soft memory foam.
“Guess you deserve it, for the scare I gave you,” he said, scratching underneath her chin.
He descended the staircase to the living room. Izzy had used the destruction caused by the Witch’s attack last year as an excuse to redecorate. Although she lived firmly in the northeast, she’d become obsessed with southwestern style, adding her own twists, of course. She’d painted much of the living room furniture turquoise then sanded pieces down to give them a more rustic look. She replaced the rug with a burnt-orange-and-red-zigzag one and lined the shelves with miniature Kokopelli figurines. She loathed the thought of hanging real antlers from her wall, so instead she sculpted artificial ones out of clay.
Izzy sat at the kitchen table, drinking a thick green concoction out of a tall glass.
“Juicing again?” he asked.
“Juicing is out. The pulp is where it’s at. Want some?” She tipped her glass in his direction before taking another large gulp. The remainder of the drink clung to the sides of the glass before collecting in a chunky pool at the bottom.
“I’ll pass,” he replied, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Izzy shrugged. “You’ll be sorry when I outlive you.”
Oliver corrected her with a smirk. “I’ll be dead, so I won’t care.”
“What are you doing up this early, anyway? Another nightmare?”
He nodded. “The flaming cabin one this time.”
“Valerian—that’s what you need.”
“What’s valerian?”
“An herb. Should help you sleep. I’m growing it along the side of the house. I’ll pick some for you.”
Oliver sat next to her and picked up a hand-scrawled list on the table. “Think this will be enough? The turnout’s supposed to be huge.”
“We could double it if you’re sure everything will sell.”
“Do we have time for that?” he asked.
“Should be able to pull it off before you two need to leave. Let’s double it. I trust you,” she replied.
Oliver had convinced Izzy to invest in a table at the flea market in Amberley, a town just a short drive from Christchurch. They’d sold baked goods and honey at a few farmers’ markets last year when times at the bakery were tough. This flea market would be four or five times the size.
“If the flea goes well, we ought to make it a recurring thing,” he said.
“You’re my own little Rockefeller,” she replied. “Can’t decide if I’m proud or disgusted.”
“I’m serious. This could be great for the bakery.”
“Well, better get to work then. So much to bake, so little time. Want to ride with me?” She swigged the last of her viscous smoothie and stood up.
Oliver nodded and refilled his coffee cup.
Izzy had lamented the death of her old station wagon until she and Oliver painted the new one with caricatures and designs that put those on her old one to shame. She insisted Oliver paint himself and Anna on the hood. They’d even left enough room to add Pan, Izzy’s black-and-tan corgi, above the left wheel well.
Christchurch slept as Izzy pulled the car through the street next to the town square, passing the statue Simon had gone careening into just a year before.
Anna had arrived at the bakery an hour earlier to prep the ingredients for the morning’s bakes. Izzy had scraped together a few extra bucks an hour and promoted Anna to head baker in the winter when the arthritis in Izzy’s hands became so painful that she could barely do more than lift an empty cake tin. Although she would never admit it, Oliver was certain Izzy was slowly removing herself from the bakery’s day-to-day operations. As Anna picked up the slack in the kitchen and Oliver became more involved in the bookkeeping, Izzy would fill in as needed, mostly as Anna’s unofficial kitchen assistant.
Now that Izzy had made peace with the town Elders, the group of senior rule enforcers who ensured Christchurch residents followed town policy to the letter, they’d come to a mutual understanding about the bakery’s exterior. She was free to decorate the front courtyard with as many gnomes, pipe dragons, and obscure topiaries as she wished as long as the building itself was left to look like all the others around it. Izzy still had moments of rebellion, but she chose her battles more wisely.
Anna stood next to one of the large mixers with her back turned toward Oliver and Izzy, a heavy sack of flour slung over her shoulder. She had lined the counters with wicker baskets, and the room already smelled of freshly baked bread.
“About time you rolled out of bed. It’s nearly four thirty.” She finished emptying the flour sack and turned around. “Oliver! Didn’t expect to see you this early. Nightmares again?”
Oliver nodded as Izzy pulled a fresh apron from the drawer next to the sink.
“Well, glad you decided to come. I’m running behind and could use some extra muscle.”
He looked around. “And where do you expect to find muscle?” He laughed.
“Load up the baskets while Izzy and I get these cookies going.”
By seven o’clock, he had filled Izzy’s station wagon to the brim with trays of cookies and baskets of bread and muffins and stacked and strapped several folding tables to the luggage rack.
“Sure you don’t want to come with us?” Anna asked.
“Who will run the bakery? Pan?” Izzy replied.
“Not Nekko. She’d eat us out of business,” Anna added.
“Next time. You two have fun, and good luck!”
Izzy waved as Oliver backed the station wagon down the driveway and onto the street.
The sun rose over the horizon as they drove past the Christchurch welcome sign and toward the back roads leading to Amberley.
Chapter Two
Leaves rustled on the trees as a late-September breeze blew through the park. The large oaks were still clinging tightly to their leaves although their colors had shifted from green to oranges and yellows, mimicking the shades of a brilliant sunrise.
Amberley was much smaller than the city from which Oliver had escaped the year before, but compared to Christchurch, it was a metropolis. The place was a college town of sorts, with a small arts school up the road that drew in all sorts of eclectic creators.
Soon, the Amberley Flea would be in full swing, and thousands of visitors would descend upon the park and its rows and rows of canvas tents to buy everything from vege
tables to artisanal mustache waxes. The town always held the flea market in the first two weeks of fall, when summer had yet to fully release its grip on the city.
Although Amberley lacked the rural charm of Christchurch, it made up for it with a larger supply of paying customers. Izzy wouldn’t admit it, but Oliver was fairly certain she’d struggled to pay him with the profits from Christchurch customers alone. He tried to decline his pay a few times, but she wouldn’t have it. Fortunately, times had gotten better, but when he’d suggested looking for more events outside town to boost revenue, she had been quick to mention the Amberley Flea.
After unstacking the folding tables from the roof of the station wagon, Oliver and Anna set them in a U shape around the canvas tent. While Anna arranged the jars of honey on the front table, Oliver arranged the large wicker baskets of baked goods. The smell of cinnamon caught his nose as he pulled the plastic wrap off a tray full of pecan rolls.
A steady stream of early birds trickled through the booths, and Anna sold three jars of honey before the flea officially opened.
“If today carries on like this, we’ll have to come back next weekend,” she said.
“The booth fee was a gamble, but seems like it’s going to be worth it,” Oliver added. He’d cut a few dowels at the bakery earlier and fashioned them into makeshift pricing signs, which he stuck down into the baskets.
As he reached into one of the baskets to straighten a sign, a hand casually brushed against his, catching him by surprise.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Mind if I set a few of these on your table?” the woman asked.
The thirtysomething wore a short-sleeved dress with a lace skirt, and deep tattoos lined her arms with intricate latticework. Her frizzy hair, along with the rest of her attire, was jet-black and looked as if she’d taken a long convertible ride with the top down. Winged eyeliner poked out from behind a pair of large round sunglasses. She stood gripping a handful of flyers.
