by Iva Viddal
The man gaped. “And you can talk so good!” He clapped with hands the size of dinner plates.
A woman with metal wheels for feet clattered to a halt beside them. “Oh my—is it—could it really be? Why, yes, it is the Stranger. How do you do?” she fawned, a purplish flush spreading from her neck to her forehead. She turned to October. “Does it understand English?” she asked him.
He rolled his eyes.
“Hel-lo,” the woman said slowly to Nerma, “You . . . are . . . wel-come . . . here . . . in Small . . . Hours.”
“Thank you”— Nerma raised an eyebrow—“very . . . much.”
The woman threw her head back and laughed uproariously. “Isn’t that adorable?” she crooned to the ton-of-bricks man. “Hardly dangerous at all, I dare say. Danger? Poo-poo. She couldn’t hurt a flea if she wanted to!”
The woman’s pealing laughter had drawn the attention of several passersby, who stopped to watch. With a finger shaped like a whisk, a woman tapped at the spoon on Nerma’s head.
“If only I’d been born so fortunate,” the woman commented. “I would kill to have a Purpose so practical.”
Nerma backed up a step, and a boy of about eight sidled up to her. “Hey, you’re on my team for Maker’s Egg!” He shouted directly into her ear. “It’s you and me against Jess and Digit!”
Nerma shook her head, pushing the boy off. He glowered over his shoulder at her as he scuttled back to join his friends, and two figures in gray suits separated themselves from the circle of villagers, drawing up uncomfortably close.
“Back off, Bluff and Lure,” October snarled, stepping forward. “She is not interested.”
“We only want to have a little chat,” purred the one on Nerma’s left, a woman with cropped golden hair. The woman blinked, and her eyeballs spun rapidly around in their sockets. When they at last settled, little green dollar signs had replaced her irises.
“No harm will come to the Stranger,” soothed the one on Nerma’s right, a man with ginger hair that curled like copper snakes upon his shoulders. “But perhaps the Stranger might like to fill her emptiness with a little profit? People would come from far and wide and pay good money to see a human creature with no Purpose.” He grinned, revealing little bars of gold where his teeth should have been.
Nerma recoiled and reached for the back of October’s coat.
“Ah now, there’s no reason to be afraid, pet,” murmured the woman. Her eyes rolled back to normal, and two crystal green irises gazed at Nerma with greedy interest. “We’re simply capitalists. And good ones, too.” She winked.
October stepped forward with his thumbs raised, as though he planned to shoot webbing at them, but the woman held up her hands in feigned defeat.
“Take it easy, boy. All we want to do is pass our card on to the young Stranger. I’m Lure, and this is Bluff, and together we operate Bluff and Lure, Business Associates Deluxe—at your service. Visit any time of night.” She handed a smudged rectangle to Nerma, tipped her hat, and receded into the crowded square with Bluff at her side.
October said goodbye to the colossal man and the wheel-footed woman and guided Nerma toward the marketplace exit. They had nearly made it when a group of five women clustered around them. Despite herself—and quite rudely—Nerma laughed out loud, for each of the women sported a squat little beak upon her face and a plume of coiffed feathers upon her head. They squawked with excitement as they gathered Nerma into their fold, admiring her “long feathers” and “muted plumage.”
“Aren’t you darling, you poor thing?” twittered one with a vibrant red comb of feathers that hung like bangs across her forehead.
“Such a little chick, she just needs some love—and maybe a new dress,” another one tweeted, plucking at Nerma’s sleeve.
“Henrietta, hush,” a third one peeped. “You know she’s not a chick. She’s more like—like an egg that’s never been . . . you know. She’s just an empty shell,” she said under her breath.
A fourth woman clucked in irritation. “Gloria, the Stranger might be a devil and she might be stupid, but she still has ears.” She leaned toward Nerma. “Terribly sorry, dear. My friends can be quite rude at times.”
“Um, it’s okay—” Nerma started, but the fifth woman interjected.
“Girls, girls! We simply must invite her to the Gala of the Ghouls. We simply must! Imagine Gilda’s reaction, that old goose. She’ll simply die of jealousy!”
“Oh yes, you simply must come,” the second one pleaded with Nerma. “Ladies, ladies, ladies—have I got an idea!” She dropped her voice again and whispered loudly over Nerma’s head, “Isn’t this little chick prime makeover material?”
The fifth one crowed. “Marvelous idea, Hennie, marvelous!”
“I do love the new Purpose,” the first one said, admiring Nerma’s spoon with beady eyes. “What a fantastic idea! The child looks halfway normal now, I do say!”
“Why, you’re right, Dora dear, I almost didn’t notice how utterly strange she is. What a relief it is!”
“Well,” interrupted the fourth one irritably. “What will it be, Stranger—will you come to the Gala or not?”
Nerma faltered. “Um, I guess I—”
“—Marvelous, marvelous, simply marvelous,” the ladies clucked in unison. “We shall see you soon then, quite soon!” The five women gossiped their way deeper into the market, leaving both Nerma and October a bit rattled.
“It seems that you have become quite popular since last night,” October commented as they rounded a corner and at last exited the Midnight Market. “Now that you have a Purpose, you are not nearly as frightening. Now, let me see that card Lure gave you.”
Nerma handed the greasy rectangle to October, and together they read the blotted print. “Bluff & Lure, Business Associates D-LUX,” it read. Beneath this, printed in fresh ink, was an advertisement:
FREAK SHOW
See The Girl Without A PURPOSE!
Flesh & Blood But NO SOUL!
Live Witch Tests, Soul Immersions,
& Demonstrations with LIVE Human Zombie
3¢ Entry
(present this card for a FREE blood berry cider)
(one cider per person)
(1¢ donation required with every free cider)
Nerma grabbed the card from October’s hand and tore it to pieces. She let them flutter to the cobblestoned ground.
“I need to get out of here,” she said. “Which way is Diviner’s Ditch?”
13
The Oracle
It seemed to Nerma that she and October walked for ages. Through countless alleyways, under bridges narrow and wide, and around corners and curves too many to count, they passed house after house and business after business.
Store windows lit from within revealed to Nerma all kinds of strange and new sights: Bakers whose specialties included fried pastries in the shapes of toads or noses. A laundromat that claimed to “Make that Filth PERMANENT” and offered to add blood stains for a low, pain-free cost. A real estate company that catered to every kind of Purpose imaginable and guaranteed “comfort for all clientele.” When they passed by an office with a sign that read “Bluff & Lure, Assocs.,” Nerma shivered.
The night had grown cooler, but Nerma found that she was quite comfortable in her borrowed clothes. As they walked, October pointed out landmarks and described life in Small Hours. He had indeed spent his entire life in the village, but one day he hoped to travel farther.
In a small plaza halfway between the Half Wick’d candle shop and Minnie’s Coffins, October paused to show Nerma a rusting fountain. Algae-tinged water trickled down the figure of a man and collected in an oval basin beneath his feet. In his corroded right fist, the man gripped a gavel, in his left, a book.
“Where is his Purpose?” asked Nerma.
October smiled. “This was my grandfather, the seventeenth Count of Wightworth. His Purpose was hard to see, but it was there. Look.” He pointed at two faint marks on the statue’s neck. They
were nearly impossible to see on the blotched surface of the metal.
“There, that is his Purpose. My father told me that it was easier to see them in real life, but my grandfather liked to wear a cloth around his neck to fool people. He had a wicked sense of humor, they say.” October smiled. “I wish I remembered him. He died when I was an infant.”
“I’m sorry,” Nerma murmured.
They continued their trek, weaving past homes with grand frontages. Each home had elaborate ironwork that curled and spiraled around windows or beneath clinging vines of black roses. Homeowners bustled about. They hurried off to work in crooked hats and starched gowns or returned home from the Midnight Market with burdens of overflowing baskets in their arms. Young children scampered and flew off to school.
After a while, the homes seemed to become less polished. Chipped frames supported lusterless doors, and sagging windowsills barely held cracked panes in place. Here and there, an old man or woman rocked on a front porch. In a small derelict garden, Nerma saw a child holding a squirming lizard as though it were a baby, her lullaby strange and lilting.
They walked on, and Nerma looked for familiar sights. Nothing—and everything—drew her attention. In a village where every building leans to the left or the right, every pathway curves, and every door lacks a door knob, the strange and the familiar easily merge. When they at last reached the edge of town, however, Nerma knew she had never before passed that way. Here, the cobblestones gave way to a dust road, and there was no iron archway to welcome visitors to Small Hours. Deflated, she followed October and kicked at the rocks that littered the moonlit road.
Soon, the cacophony of the woods drowned out the sounds of the village behind them. Crickets chirruped, and katydids clicked. Autumn leaves rattled in the lazy night breeze. October led Nerma through the darkness. She tripped once and after that clung fiercely to the elbow of his suit jacket. A mist seemed to rise from the earth around them and escaped in little tendrilled puffs from the dewy grass alongside the trail. Without warning, the ground gave way to a steep drop, and October held out his arm to stop Nerma from walking right over the edge. Far below them, campfires bordered a trickling stream.
“How do we get down?” Nerma asked.
“Look.” October showed her a narrow set of steps that zigzagged their way down the rocky cliff face. He had no trouble navigating the worn footholds, but he warned Nerma to hold on tight to a rope anchored in the limestone.
They began their descent into the ditch, and Nerma’s knees shook from fear of the great height. She immediately realized that this was no ordinary cliff wall, however. Its entire surface had been chiseled and reshaped into a vertical hamlet. Doorways and ledges had been cut into the rock face, and in many places, it had been embellished by dizzying wooden projections—high platforms and narrow walkways, but also what appeared to be boxy rooms that clung to the limestone like barnacles to a whale. Lanterns hung from hooks in the stone, and a complicated network of pulleys, ropes, and baskets crisscrossed the complicated construction.
The cliff wall wasn’t static, either, but teemed with community life. Children swung from support beams and swayed upon swings a hundred feet in the air. Women and men traversed the winding system of stairways with baskets and infants strapped to their backs, hollering greetings to each other in passing.
A round of hellos erupted across the cliff wall as the busy Diviners noticed October and Nerma, but October didn’t stop to chat. He led Nerma halfway down the cliffside and then across a rope bridge. Nerma looked down once and saw the campfires twinkling below, but dizziness threatened to send her tumbling, so she kept her eyes focused on October’s back.
Now and then, a sign indicated the type of dwelling they passed. Nerma read their curious names as she passed by: Astrologers’ Alliance, The Guild of Mediums, Weatherwomen, and The Confederation of Divine Movers and Shakers. To her great relief, October finally knocked upon one of the doors. It was painted red, and in its center an eyeball had been painted in yellow and black. A tall man answered it and greeted them with a wide smile.
“Oct! What a pleasant surprise it be!” he bellowed. “Back so soon! But ye know, we never tire of ye.” His smile was gap-toothed and warm.
“Hello, Stewart.” October smiled. “This is Nerma.”
“Gory night, Nerma. Come in, come in—this way. Word has spread, and we been curious to meet ye.”
They ducked through the low entrance into a room that had been carved deep into the limestone. The walls were rounded and smooth, and intricate patterns had been etched into them. In a recessed alcove, a fire burned, and nightglow lanterns hung from the ceiling, illuminating the cozy space. A woman with dark hair sat at a table. She assessed Nerma coolly.
“Ye’ve brought the Stranger to my home, Oct. I hope ye have a strong reason.”
“Gory night, Vedea. Nerma has come to meet with the Oracle, on Doctor Mapple’s orders.” October smoothed his hair nervously.
“The Oracle is busy.” Vedea’s eyes remained on Nerma.
Stewart cleared his throat. “Pardon, Oct—and Miss Nerma—but the Oracle has been feeling a bit ill of late. Has a bit of a cough, she has.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I would not be here if Doctor Mapple didn’t insist.”
The husband and wife looked at each other, and Vedea nodded.
“We understand, Oct. This way, Miss Nerma.” The tall man led them through an arched tunnel and into a larger cavern. The walls here had been engraved and painted to tell a story, it seemed, and wild beasts and magical figures frolicked in the flickering light of another fire.
“Please, sit. I’ll send Thurman out.”
Thurman turned out to be a shy boy around Nerma’s age. He shuffled his boots awkwardly against the smooth stone floor and asked his guests if they would like some stew. October and Nerma both eagerly accepted, for they were famished. The stew was hot and delicious, with tender pieces of meat and savory vegetables, and Nerma chose to simply enjoy it rather than ask what odd ingredients may have gone into it.
After some time, Stewart returned. “The Oracle will see ye, Miss Nerma. I apologize for the delay. It appears that she is feeling better, for she weren’t in bed, and I had to track her down. She were out chasing cliff crawlers. Follow me, Miss Nerma. This way.”
Nerma glanced at October, but he was busy shoveling stew into his mouth and seemed unconcerned, so she followed Stewart through another doorway. It felt as though this tunnel passed deep through the earth, for the air grew damp and tepid. Small pockets had been carved into the tunnel walls, and candles flickered within them. The tunnel curved, and ahead a curtain trembled as a breeze snaked past them.
Stewart pulled aside the curtain, and to Nerma’s surprise, she found herself stepping out into a section of tunnel built from wood. The night air seeped through gaps between the boards, and when she peeked through, she could make out the cliff wall and fires below. They were inside one of the sections that extended over the drop.
Another curtain barred their way, and now Stewart pushed it aside, beckoning for Nerma to go ahead without him. Anxiety coursed through her, but she stepped through. The curtain fell shut behind her, and she found herself in a small room. It was more like a large, wooden box, its walls painted a brilliant red.
In the center of the room, a tiny girl sat behind a low table. She smiled up at Nerma, revealing a single gap where a tooth had fallen out. Nerma took a seat across from her and looked nervously about. From the ceiling hung the skulls of animals. She recognized the large teeth of a beaver in one, but the others she couldn’t identify—raccoons or wolves, she guessed. Each was lit from within by the eerie movements of nightglows, and the light that seeped from their eye sockets and toothy mouths cast strange shows throughout the tent.
“Hi. I’m Antanasia.” The girl’s voice was high and soft like a spring cloud and drew Nerma’s attention away from the slowly rotating skulls. “You are Nerma Lee. You have lost your Purpose.”
�
��I . . . I never had one,” Nerma stammered.
The girl stared, her eyes distant, as though she were only half present.
Nerma explained. “I’m—I’m not from here. I’m from—from somewhere far away, but now I live on Harmony Hill. It’s not far from here, but I don’t know how—”
The girl held up one tiny hand. “You have lost your Purpose.”
Nerma prickled. She knew nothing about this little girl, and this little girl knew nothing about her.
The girl reached for a small wooden chest. From it, she pulled a glass ball the size of an apricot. It was large in the girl’s hand. She passed it to Nerma, who held it awkwardly.
“Do you know what this is?” The girl’s eyes mirrored the yellow-green of the nightglows.
Nerma swallowed. “A crystal ball?”
The girl nodded once. “That orbiculum has been in my family for forty-two generations. We use it because without it we would be accused of being Witches. But it is only a prop, a circle of glass used to distract others.”
Nerma wasn’t sure what to say.
“Do you believe me?” the girl asked.
Nerma looked sharply at her. She shrugged warily, and the girl held her hand out for the orb.
Nerma passed it back. “Why do you keep it if it’s not real?”
“It is real. You just touched it. But it is not my Purpose. Still, if it were lost, my Purpose would remain intact, for my Purpose is within me and cannot be lost. Unlike yours.”
Nerma shifted in the hard seat. “I didn’t lose mine. I never had one. I don’t even understand what they are.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I just want to go home.”
“To go home, simply use your Purpose,” the girl said. Her lips curled into a small smile, and without warning, she tossed the glass ball into the air.
It hit one of the skulls with a sharp throck, and the nightglows inside it hummed angrily.
