The Zombie Stone

by K. G. Campbell

  “Well, isn’t that just darling?” suggested Saint-Cyr. “Families can be so darn complicated these days. Can’t they?”

  The presenter guided Claudette by the hand (“Why, child, you’re cold as a snowman’s hug; you should consider some gloves like your great-great-nephew’s”) to center stage, where Yuko awaited behind a curious instrument: a slender console that supported a row of colored plastic skulls. The one-eyed percussionist bowed very deeply to Claudette and offered her a mallet. Claudette stared at the thing, a tiny strand of drool dangling from her blue lips.

  “Take it!” hissed August. Glancing nervously in his direction, Claudette obeyed.

  Yuko faced the instrument, her own mallet raised. A deeply expectant hush fell across Jacques LeSalt Park.

  After several increasingly agitating moments of silence, a bulb within one of the plastic skulls lit up. Yuko struck it, and a note, clear and true, reverberated through the giant speakers, filling everything around with its exquisite sound. The audience responded with a rapturous sigh. Another skull lit up. Another clear, exquisite note followed. Another skull, another note. The formula became clear.

  When a turquoise-colored skull lit up immediately in front of Claudette, Yuko withheld her mallet, but nodded pointedly at the zombie. Claudette hesitated, eyes swiveling.

  “Hit it!” August hissed again, batting the zombie with her own arm. She did, producing another perfect note. The crowd cheered. Claudette beamed.

  And so the performance continued, and a melody began to emerge. Claudette, although jerky and inelegant, grew more confident and adept. When she struck an illuminated skull before even Yuko could reach it, the xylophonist and the audience were delighted. The tempo accelerated, and a true duet ensued. The percussionist began to show off, twirling her mallet in the air and even around her back between notes.

  August noticed a greedy look in Claudette’s eye when she observed the swell in audience appreciation for Yuko’s antics. Without warning, the zombie tossed her own mallet into the air, snatched her severed arm from August, and, with its hand, caught the descending mallet.

  “Oh, bravo! Bravo!” cried Saint-Cyr, clapping like a child as the crowd went nuts. “Now that’s what I call a costume!”

  With the extension provided by her severed limb, Claudette could reach the far ends of the instrument, and she and Yuko artfully interwove across the keyboard, producing a frantic, breathtaking performance of such beauty that there was not a dry eye in the audience.

  When the skulls finally went dark, there was a full five minutes of deafening applause.

  Saint-Cyr was growing hoarse before he could finally calm the crowd.

  “I think we can all agree,” he pronounced, “that we have seen percussion history made here tonight.” The man faced Claudette. “I’m delighted to tell you that for being such a good sport, and such a terrifying zombie”—he turned to the audience and winked theatrically—“that you are to receive two tickets—not one, but two—donated by the Guild of Weepy Widows, to ride on their annual float in Tuesday’s Carnival Grand Parade.

  “But wait, there’s more,” he said, and held up a palm to quiet the cheers. “These very special ticket holders will be lucky enough to share the float with the parade’s celebrity grand marshal.

  “And, this year, that esteemed post will be filled by TV teen sensation Stella Starz’s…cat, Officer Claw!”

  Two able stagehands strong-armed August and Claudette toward an opening in the black fabric backdrop as a group of musicians carrying instruments (August noticed a French horn, a saxophone, and an accordion) hurried past them toward the stage.

  Behind them, Cyril Saint-Cyr was making another introduction. “While Miz Yukiyama,” he was saying, “changes costume yet again, please welcome Croissant City’s very own Papa Jax and the Jazzy Razzmatazz Cats!”

  The DuPonts stumbled down some scaffold steps into a hive of activity on the grass behind the stage. Lighting technicians, makeup artists, and performers bustled about, featureless silhouettes against the luminous white stucco of the cathedral.

  August nudged Claudette and nodded toward a nearby exchange between Yuko Yukiyama and a thin, limp young man in a plaid suit. The latter was presenting a wooden case with one hand and, with the other, holding open its lid. Inside was a kaleidoscope of sparkling, glamorous eye patches.

  Although she was speaking in another language (August assumed Japanese), he could tell by her tone and volume that Yuko was not happy. “No,” the panicked young man was protesting, “I haven’t seen the black crystal one. You wore it in Paris. Perhaps you left it…” But the discussion was promptly concluded when Yuko bonked the poor fellow on the head with her fuzzy-balled mallet and stormed off in a rustle of Bubble Wrap.

  “Theatrical types!” declared Cyril Saint-Cyr, popping up from nowhere. “They can be so temperamental, don’t you find? I can assure you, that is not the first noggin to be bopped by a Yukiyama mallet. Oh, my Lord.” He swatted aside a butterfly. “They’re almost like the real thing. So clever! Now, you young people wait right here while I fetch your release forms.”

  August, suddenly dazed and overwhelmed by the whirlwind of events, took a seat on an unplugged subwoofer.

  “I can scarcely believe it,” he muttered, half to Claudette, half to himself. “I am actually going to meet Officer Claw. The Officer Claw, the cat that shares a pillow, and sometimes tuna sushi, with Stella Starz! I might pet the same patchy fur that Stella has petted.”

  August studied the zombie’s vacant expression.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Claudette: Claw is an unusual choice for Carnival grand marshal. Any cat would be, I reckon. But I promise you, if any cat can do it, this cat can.

  “Officer Claw is an exceptionally clever animal. He can understand three languages. He can play ‘Stray Cat Strut’ on a regular-sized piano. He is even a master of disguise, although, admittedly, he mainly impersonates other cats. Stella Starz describes him as a shining example to feline-kind across the universe.” August kicked his heels against the subwoofer.

  “Do you think Officer Claw will wear a costume on the float? He would look very impressive, I think, in a superhero outfit.”

  August was picturing Officer Claw with a rainbow mohawk when Saint-Cyr returned wearing red spectacles that seemed far too large for his head and clutching some forms.

  “Now, sign right here.” He placed the forms next to August on the subwoofer. “Just so. And here. And here. Oh, and here. Now, the young lady.” Claudette received the pen in the hand of her dismembered arm and Cyril guffawed with delight. “Most remarkable. Quite the best costume. My, that is a very large signature. Maybe keep it on the paper? Oh, not quite so hard, young lady, you’re ripping it.”

  Saint-Cyr set aside the forms and unfolded a fresh document.

  “Just a few little instructions,” he assured them, “for the day of. Keep things smooth sailing, yes?” He adjusted his oversized glasses and, keeping place with his finger, read: “ ‘One. Kindly address the grand marshal as Mr. Claw. Two. Avoid the topics of dogs and llamas; Mr. Claw does not care for either. Three. Absolutely and positively no sudden movements within the grand marshal’s vicinity.’ ”

  August nodded sagely, recalling that the incident leading to the destruction of Yuko Yukiyama’s poster was provoked by Hedwig’s abrupt and unannounced entrance into Stella’s room.

  “ ‘Riders must be in place,’ ” Saint-Cyr continued, “ ‘thirty minutes before the parade begins.’ ” He lowered the instruction sheet and addressed the children directly. “The staging area is just north of River and Dolphin. Where are y’all staying?”

  August pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket.

  “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it. It’s 591 Funeral Street, sir. Can you tell us how to get there? I lost my map. Why, whatever is the matter, Mr. Sa
int-Cyr?”

  “You are guests in”—Saint-Cyr’s eyes were bulging—“in…the House of Zombies?”

  “The…what?” August’s eyes slid toward Claudette.

  Cyril leaned in, glancing around with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, as if about to divulge juicy gossip.

  “Many houses in this city,” he said in a hushed tone, “have strange and even bloody histories. Gruesome murders. Disturbing hauntings. But perhaps none has a past more macabre than that of 591 Funeral Street, once home to the necromancer Orfeo DuPont. Have you heard of him?”

  August nodded, desperately attempting to appear unlike anyone that might be related to the gentleman in question.

  “Then you’ll have learned, no doubt, of his infamous act at the Theatre Français (which, incidentally, is now home to Saint-Cyr’s Wax Museum: the famous and infamous, large as life in wonderful wax!).”

  Saint-Cyr’s rosy, gnomish little face took on a devilish glee as he continued.

  “DuPont’s Dance of the Dead was a ghoulish form of entertainment in which the magician employed a so-called Go-Between—the Zombie Stone he called it, if I remember correctly—to compel the dead to perform a grotesque ballet.

  “Well, his house is immediately behind the theater. The Old Quarter, after all, was built long before anyone had thought of suburbs; butchers and confectioners, offices and homes are all jumbled together in the tight and crowded streets. It is not uncommon for a smart dwelling to share a wall with a café, or a toy store, or…some other commercial building.

  “Legend has it, in fact, that DuPont built a secret passage to discreetly move his undead performers between the house and the theater.

  “Ever since DuPont’s Dance of the Dead closed and the theater fell into darkness and disrepair, there have been reports of strange noises at night—crashes and strangled groaning—emitting from the so-called Zombie House next door. Some claim to have seen eerie, crooked figures lurching past the windows.

  “Even the DuPont family eventually abandoned the place; I can’t imagine why a genteel lady such as Orchid Malveau might have bought it.”

  “Are you suggesting,” August wondered, “that the house is haunted?”

  “Some might say so,” said Saint-Cyr coyly. “No one knows for sure. But I can tell you this much.” The little, mischievous, rosy face came in close.

  “After Orfeo DuPont left town, no one ever found those zombies.”

  August and Claudette proceeded through a quieter corner of the Old Quarter.

  The streets here were narrow and hushed compared to the hectic avenues closer to the river. The buildings were still elegant, but more modest, and frequently punctuated by walled gardens. Occasional Carnival revelers passed in pairs and small groups, subdued and staggering, draped in the swishing strands of brightly colored beads.

  Night had fallen completely by the time the DuPonts spied a large, windowless mass at the corner of a sleepy junction.

  “That must be the side wall of the Theatre Français,” said August quietly, turning onto Funeral Street. They proceeded, keeping close to the magnolia trees that lined the curb. Shortly, beside a brick wall, in the deep shadows cast by a palm tree spreading from within, August stopped.

  “That’s it, 591,” said the boy, pointing to the structure on the opposite side of the street.

  The house was grander than most, but typical of the Old Quarter style, with lofty French windows and an ornate iron gallery supported on impossibly slender posts. Beneath the balcony on the right, where house met theater, was a wide double wooden gate. Through the gap above it, August could detect a wide passage that ran beneath the upper floor of the house and into some leafy darkness beyond. Beneath the balcony on the left, two stone steps led to the front door.

  The upper windows were shuttered and, indeed, the entire place was in total darkness, appearing to be without life. August was reminded of his first arrival at Château Malveau. Like her grand country mansion, Orchid Malveau’s townhouse was shrouded in a thick air of gloom; sadness, even.

  But suddenly a lively burst of golden light appeared at one of the lower windows. A drapery was drawn back partly to reveal a perfect, symmetrical, and very familiar face: that of a honey-haired boy, only slightly older than August himself. Beauregard Malveau, August’s cousin, peered up and then down the street, and August shrank behind the overhanging palm fronds, experiencing an unpleasant rush of apprehension.

  August knew that despite his angelic appearance, Beauregard was no angel. “What will he say,” wondered August, “when he sees me? How mean will he be? What should I say? How are you supposed to greet someone who has betrayed you and said how much they dislike you…in public?” August suddenly felt nauseous. He looked back down the street, to the safe anonymity of the Old Quarter.

  “If I didn’t need that Zombie Stone so badly…”

  Beauregard spun around, as if unexpectedly assaulted, and his friend Langley appeared behind him, laughing and wielding a fencing saber. Beauregard lunged at the lanky boy, who leaped backward, saber held high. Beauregard had Langley’s wrist, but the tussle ceased abruptly, and the boys, suddenly subdued, turned to face the same direction.

  A figure, draped entirely by a glittering veil, moved into view, carrying something black and shapeless.

  “There’s Aunt Orchid,” whispered August. Orchid Malveau waved her free hand about, clearly delivering some instructions, and the boys disappeared, then reappeared, apparently moving a table into the center of the room. They were assisted by a third set of hands. August could not see their owner’s face, but, judging by the freckles on the forearms, he guessed they belonged to Gaston, the third member of Beauregard’s trio. “Gaston Gardner,” muttered August, and for some reason, the full name made him smile.

  With a sweeping motion, Orchid unfurled the black lace cloth in her arms and covered the table. She pointed. The lights dimmed. The walls suddenly danced with the flicker of candlelight.

  Orchid noticed the open drape, gestured, and abruptly all returned to darkness.

  “Come on,” sighed August heavily. “We better get this over with now. It looks like they’re getting ready for dinner. I wouldn’t want to disturb them while they’re eating.”

  On the front steps, August paused to study a cast-iron plaque attached to the wall beside the front door. “ ‘Old Quarter Historical Monument Number Seventeen,’ ” he read. “ ‘The House of Zombies.’ ” Below, there was a shortened version of the tale recently communicated to the DuPonts by Cyril Saint-Cyr.

  “Well, if it didn’t deserve the name before”—August glanced at the small zombie beside him—“it’s about to!”

  August placed his hand on the heavy gold door knocker. It was fashioned in the shape of a capital “M.” “M” for “Malveau.” “M” for “magnificence.” “M” for “malevolence.”

  But the knocker remained still.

  All the horror and shame the boy had suffered at the hands of his wealthy relatives came flooding back. He could still hear their words: “Zombie lover.” “The ghost of Locust Hole.” “You have failed.” August shook his head.

  “I…I can’t do it, Claudette. I can’t face these people again.”

  He turned to leave.

  Claudette grabbed his arm.

  “No! No, I’m sorry,” August insisted, pulling sharply away and stumbling into the street, where he collided with a rapidly approaching woman, who in turn caused a pileup of the pedestrians immediately in her wake.

  Luckily for everyone involved, the woman was of a stout and solid frame, and quite unruffled by the multiple collisions.

  August stammered his apologies.

  “Oh, come now, child.” The woman, settling her chin into her chest, smiled sympathetically. “Don’t you give it a second thought. I know just where you’re at; grief can leave us blinder tha
n a raccoon in a top hat.”

  “Um…I…grief?” August was puzzled.

  “Sorrow, melancholy.” The woman pulled the corners of her mouth down. “Whatever you care to call it. You are here for the event, obviously, judging by the tragedy in your little faces. There, there, child.” She dabbed her handkerchief at the corners of August’s eyes. “Fret not, Champagne Fontaine is here.”

  Champagne Fontaine wore a tiny beribboned hat upon her perfectly styled pink-gray hair and carried a large purse. Her thick wrists ended in tiny hands, and her thick ankles in tiny high-heeled shoes. She was dressed entirely in black, as were all her companions.

  The funereal assembly peered at August and Claudette over Champagne’s shoulder, through black veils, and from under the black brims of elaborate black hats and bonnets. Most pressed handkerchiefs to their irritated red noses, sniffling miserably.

  “There are,” muttered Champagne, swatting at an intrusive butterfly, “an unusual quantity of bugs at large this evening, don’t you find? Now, tell me, my dears. Is this your first séance? They can seem a little creepy to begin with, I imagine. But we, the Guild of Weepy Widows”—she gestured at the entourage behind her—“find it most agreeable to converse with our dearly departed. I’ve had the most animated conversations with my dearest Henri. Oh, no need for tears, sugar.”

  August, completely dry-eyed, made a baffled expression.

  “It won’t be all withered ancients like us,” Champagne assured him. “There will be other young people present.”

  The lady made for the step, taking Claudette’s hand, oblivious to the fact that it belonged to a dismembered arm.

  “My grandson Langley and his friend Gaston are here, guests, you understand, of the young Mister Beauregard. Such fine folks the Malveaus, are they not? I am beyond delighted that Mister Beau has taken our Langley under his wing. So reassuring to know he’s mixing with the right sort.”