The Girl with a Spoon for a Soul

by Iva Viddal

  Above this, a uniformed October hung from the ceiling, his face shining with pride.

  Nerma shrieked in disbelief. She couldn’t help it, and the sound drew October’s attention away from the struggling man just long enough for him to break free. He scampered down the nearest tunnelway, broken strings trailing behind him.

  October cursed and leapt from the ceiling in pursuit. He disappeared into the darkness.

  Nerma stared at the dark archway through which they’d disappeared. Her knees shook, but she forced herself to run after them. After only a few frantic paces, though, she fell headlong into a puddle of something cold and slimy. She moved forward cautiously after that, feeling her way along the wet walls while trying to follow the jumbled din of footsteps and untuned notes ahead of her. A lamp flickered in the distance, and she followed its dim glow into a cavernous intersection. Tunnels radiated off of it in nine different directions.

  A cry echoed through the chamber, ricocheting off the walls, and Nerma tried to guess which passageway it had come from. She chose a tunnel to her right, certain that October must have chased the man in this direction, but then a series of bellowing sounds—clunk-clank-rasp-groan—drew her back the other way.

  Again and again, she forged ahead and then backtracked, until finally, overwhelmed, she stopped. She sank to the ground. She had no idea where she was, no idea where October was, no idea how to get out of the Tunnels of Entanglement. She had no idea how to get out of Small Hours, how to get home. Home was so, so far away, and she was lost.

  Nerma curled up on the floor and cried.

  She wept for some time, thinking about October and how he had abandoned her. About her parents and how worried they must be. About Julian and Benny and how she should have helped make Harmony Hill feel like home for them. She thought about her old home, about her abuelos, her aunt Lorena, her friends all the way across the country.

  A quiet sound pulled her back from her sorrow and made her ears prick.

  A gentle clicking was crossing the darkness, moving closer.

  Something shuffled and splashed against the damp stones. Then there was a very long period of silence. Nerma lay there, frozen in fear.

  Then, out of the shadows, an indistinct face took form.

  Two round circles glinted in the dimness.

  “Are you sleeping?” October whispered.

  Nerma jumped up and nearly hit him with her balled fist. Instead, she wiped her eyes. “What was that?” she hissed.

  “What was what?” he asked.

  “All of that! The running, the chasing, the noises, leaving me alone in the dark! What was all of that?” Nerma fumed. Her fear had morphed into fury.

  October shrugged. “It was my training.”

  “Training?” Nerma stared at him.

  “I did not have a choice.” October’s fangs glinted in the low lamplight.

  Nerma raised her hands at her sides. “No choice? You just attacked a man and left me here without any idea what was happening!”

  October’s eyes blinked behind his glasses. “I am sorry. I did not understand that it would be . . . confusing for you.”

  “Confusing?” Nerma was incredulous. “Yes, confusing. It is confusing. Very. Who was that man, and where is he now? Why were you chasing him?”

  “He is a criminal. My orders were to take him into custody.” October gestured for Nerma to follow him, and she did. She felt as though she were in the belly of some strange and cold beast, a reptilian maze that swallowed girls like her for supper.

  “What did he do?” she mumbled, her anger beginning to fade into exhaustion.

  October’s voice was grave. “He has been accused of sedition.”

  “What’s that?” Nerma asked.

  “Sedition is . . . well, it is when someone tries to get other people to turn against everyone else.” He didn’t sound entirely sure about this.

  “What did he do, though?” Nerma pressed.

  “Those songs he was singing—”

  “They were so sad,” Nerma murmured.

  “They—well, perhaps they sound sad to you, but he has been playing them at Yeasty’s Well and at the Naughty Draughty.” They turned a corner into pitch blackness, and Nerma once again grasped October’s hand. “Just now was my first time hearing him sing, and his lyrics were not nearly as bad as I expected them to be, but they must be dangerous if the Doctors issued an arrest warrant.”

  “The Doctors did this?” Nerma was beginning to realize just how many decisions Mapple and Leech made in Small Hours.

  October was quiet for a minute. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “Are there not Doctors on Harmony Hill who issue warrants?”

  “Never—not that I’ve ever heard of anyway.”

  They walked in silence then, weaving their way through the maze, hand in hand. Finally, they emerged into the foggy pallor of the night, and Nerma let go.

  On the ground before them lay the instrumental man. He was bound tightly in cables of October’s webbing. When he saw October and Nerma approach, he laughed ruefully and then broke out in hearty song.

  Run, run, run, as fast as you can!

  You can’t catch me! I’m the Musical Man!

  Pat it, and roll it, and mark it with an S,

  And put it in the oven to make it confess!

  Not because it’s dirty, not because it’s clean,

  Just because it buzzed about the Doctors’ machine.

  Sing it and shout it and loudly protest,

  But ne’er is a grievance met with fair redress

  When a bone saw works as nicely (and helps cut expense).

  But fight, fight, fight, for your soul’s pur-pess . . .

  The song tapered off and the man went quiet with a sigh. “Well, young Webber, take me to the Sanatorium,” he muttered at last. “Master’s orders.”

  18

  Just a Normal Night In

  As the night stretched toward morning, the mood in October’s flat was somber.

  After turning the man from the Tunnels of Entanglement over to Doctor Leech’s assistant, October had led Nerma back to his loft in silence. Once there, he had woven a small web for himself in the peak of the ceiling, and there he sat in quiet contemplation, his head bowed.

  Nerma, too, was shaken by the night’s events. She couldn’t help but view October—and the entire village of Small Hours—with new eyes. She hoped that Ron would get back to them soon with some sort of plan so that she could make her way home.

  She bit into a soft apple and chewed sullenly. Why hadn’t she paid closer attention when she had wandered into Small Hours? Why hadn’t it occurred to her to remember her steps or to mark them in some way? Had she learned nothing from Hansel and Gretel? As a tiny girl, she had found nothing more terrifying than the thought of being separated from her family and locked in a witch’s cage, miles from home, and here she was, in a cage as big as a village.

  The moon had set, and the alleyways below brimmed with the sounds of a long night’s end: parents ushering young children home for supper, the hard-soled shoes of villagers rushing home from work, shopkeepers selling their last wares before close.

  Nerma was growing sleepy and looked around for a place to rest. October hadn’t spun a web for her to use, and she realized with a pang of compassion just how bare and cold his home was, all gaunt angles and splintering edges. For the first time, she wondered where his mother was and felt ashamed for not having wondered before.

  The room’s only comforts came from the few knickknacks and black-and-white photographs placed carefully around the room. She picked up a small frame. Behind a dusty plate of glass, a middle-aged man and a young boy smiled at the camera, their matching fangs white against dark lips. She recognized the Count and October. She turned to another image. In this one, the Count stood between a very round man with a top hat and a beautiful woman whose sugar-coated smile taunted the person behind the camera. Doctor Mapple and Doctor Leech.

  Nerma lifted the picture clos
e to her face and frowned, thinking.

  A hand brushed her shoulder and she jumped.

  October stood behind her. He had taken his glasses off, and the orbs of his eight pupils glowed iridescently. He too was focused on the image of his father and the two doctors.

  “When was this taken?” Nerma handed the frame to him.

  “At my father’s third convocation ceremony. He has three advanced degrees from Corpuscle College. Almost as many as Old Worm, you know. His first was in history, and his second in phlebotomy. For years, he taught courses on ancient societies and the body’s humors. Not long after I was born, he decided to earn another advanced degree, this time in medicine. He would have been the third Doctor of Small Hours, right alongside Doctor Mapple and Doctor Leech. If he had not lost his Purpose, of course.”

  October set the picture down and crossed to the corner he used as a kitchen. He filled a kettle with water, placed it upon his tiny stove, and scooped tea leaves into two mugs. When the tea was ready, he and Nerma sat together at his little table and sipped, each lost in thought.

  “Where is your mother?” Nerma found the nerve to ask.

  October lifted a shoulder limpidly. “She died in childbirth.”

  Nerma sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He blew into his mug. “It is not so bad, you know. I get to see my father once a week during the school year and more often during autumn break. The professors here were kind to take me in when he was sent away from Small Hours.” His fangs clinked against the mug’s rim and he winced. “But I do wonder sometimes what a normal childhood might have been like. Do you live with anyone?”

  A wave of guilt poured over Nerma, and she examined the whorls in the table. “I live with my parents and my brothers, Julian and Benny.”

  October knocked his mug against the wood table. “Two brothers!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “I have often wondered what it would be like to have a brother. What good fortune to have two! Tell me—does a brother put snails in your socks and wart powder in your toothcream?”

  Nerma smiled. “No, not mine anyway. Julian’s never done anything like that, and Benny’s too little. Julian plays a lot of video games, and he’s always making noise. It drives me crazy. But he has trouble making friends because people don’t really understand him. And Benny is only two, and he can’t really talk yet, but he really loves books and—” Nerma stopped, tears welling in her eyes.

  “You miss them.”

  Nerma nodded and wiped her eyes. “I haven’t spent much time with them lately, not since we moved to Harmony Hill.”

  October reached out a hand to comfort her, but the sudden clanging of a bell interrupted him, and he leapt to his feet. He opened a set of shutters along the back wall and poked his head out.

  “Gory night, Mr. Tater!” he shouted to someone down below. The ringing continued. “Mr. Tater, I am here! Mr. Ta— Stop pulling the cord!”

  Nerma wiped her eyes and joined him at the window. Far below the tower loft, a man was pulling vigorously on one end of a long rope. Its other end was attached to a bell, which was clamped between the grinning jaws of a gargoyle perched just outside the window. With every jerk of the rope, the bell detonated an ear-splitting CLANG. Nerma reached out and grabbed its rim to silence it, and the man down on the ground finally looked up.

  “Oh! Gory night, Mr. Oscuridad! I got here a message for yer friend!” he hollered.

  “Send it up, please!” October hollered back.

  The man reached into a bag at his waist and withdrew an object. Nerma watched as he pulled back his arm in order to throw it up to October, but rather than throwing it, his entire arm detached at the shoulder and flew upward toward the open window. Nerma squeaked and ducked her head as the arm sailed into the room and landed with a thump next to her tea mug.

  October crossed over and tried to pry the package from its grasp, but its fist held on tightly. With a sigh, he lifted the arm in the air and waved it out the window. “Mr. Tater! Let go! I have it!”

  “Ah! Sorry, sir!” the man shouted, and the hand immediately loosened its grip on the package. October caught it and dropped the arm down to its owner. Nerma watched as Mr. Tater popped the arm back into its socket and moved on to the next delivery in his route.

  “Every time,” muttered October, chuckling to himself.

  “Who is it for?” Nerma asked.

  “I am not sure.” He held it out for her to see.

  Scrawled upon it in a shaky hand were the words:

  To: The Stranger

  To: Normally

  October’s eyebrows bunched in a confused knot. “To Normally? Normally what?”

  “I think it’s referring to me.” Nerma reached for the package. “‘Nerma Lee’ sounds like ‘normally.’ See, Ner-ma Lee, nor-ma-lly.”

  October tried it. “Nerr-merr-lee,” he said through his nose.

  Nerma laughed.

  “Nermally, normally,” October tried again. “You have a very odd name.”

  “Me? I have an odd name?” Nerma felt an uncontrollable well of giggles rising to the surface. “Your name is October, like the month! One of your fancy Doctors is named after a gross blood-sucking swamp bug! Your apothem—apothep—that woman who bandaged my finger, she’s named Old Worm! And your dad is Dracula—but you think my name is the weird one?” She started to laugh and found that she was unable to stop.

  October smiled but didn’t quite get the joke. “So, what do they call people on Harmony Hill then?”

  “Sarah—or Terry—or Brian—or Jordan—or Rebekkah,” she said, quaking with laughter. “Normal names. Boring names. George, Charlotte, Michael, Kristi, Emma, Ashley, Chris—names like that.”

  “You give people pet’s names on Harmony Hill?” October’s eyebrows couldn’t have gone any higher.

  “Wait,” Nerma said, trying to quell her giggles. “You name your pets . . . Michael and—and Charlotte?” She couldn’t help it. She doubled over with laughter.

  “I once had a mouse named Brian, and one of the professors has an owl named Ashley.” October said. “Is Peter a normal name where you come from? It’s a very popular name for snails here.”

  Nerma looked at him incredulously. “Yes, Peter is a ‘normal’ name.” She heaved a sigh as she recovered from her fit of laughter. “It was my grandfather’s name, in fact.”

  Now, October began to shake uncontrollably with laughter. “Your grandfather was named after—after the snails in Small Hours?” He howled with repressed joy.

  Norma grinned. “It was probably the other way around.”

  “Tell me—tell me,” October panted, “what do you name your pets on Harmony Hill?”

  Nerma thought. “Well, we do sometimes give them ‘normal’ human names, mostly to be funny. My aunt had a dog named Phillip Henry McDuttle.”

  October nodded. “That is a normal name for a dog.”

  Nerma continued, “But usually we name cats and dogs things like Fluffy, Fritzy, Fifi—”

  “Things that start with F,” October pointed out.

  Nerma shook her head. “No, no—well, sometimes, yes. Fido is a classic. But there’s also Marshmallow, Misty, Bear, Stinky, Cookie, Frizzlebits—”

  “Frizzlebits!” October’s eyes lit up. “Mr. Frizzlebits lives just around the corner! He is the gardener for Corpescule College.”

  Nerma clapped a hand to her mouth, but it wasn’t any use, and the giggles came pouring out. It didn’t matter, though, because beside her October began to shake with laughter, and soon they were both roaring and wiping tears from their eyes.

  “So,” Nerma said at last, her breath still hitching, “this package for ‘Normally,’ should I open it?” she held up the slim box and shook it. It was very light.

  October nodded, and she ripped through the brown paper. Inside, a tightly wound roll of stationery was tied with a crimson bow. Nerma loosened the knot and unrolled the paper. Written in curling script, it read:
/>   Dear Stranger Normally—

  You and a guest are cordially invited to the 767th Annual Gala of the Ghouls

  Three hours past midnight on the Maker’s Day, October 31st

  10 Soul’s End Lane

  Please wear your most striking attire

  Music and dancing for all

  Food and drinks provided.

  Below this, someone had added in bubbly cursive:

  The ladies and I could not be more excited to have such an interesting guest!!! Everyone will be thrilled and it will be the talk of the town for ages. Do come!!!

  xx Henrietta

  “When is October thirty-first?” Nerma looked around for a calendar, but October’s walls were bare.

  “Tomorrow,” he muttered. He went over to the window and leaned out, the breeze ruffling his cravat.

  “Where is your invitation?” Nerma asked.

  “It looks as though I am not receiving one this year.”

  “Well, you will be my guest then. I’m not going anywhere in this town by myself.”

  October drew his head back inside and smiled ruefully at her. “Thank you. And wise decision, I must say.”

  Their tea was cold, but October made a stack of blood berry jelly sandwiches, and the two talked late into the morning about family and friends, irritating schoolteachers, and whether or not the moon that lit the streets of Small Hours was the same one that hung high above Harmony Hill. At last, they fell asleep upon a web of soft spider’s silk spun from the thumbs of a young boy.

  Just as two good friends normally would.

  19

  The 767th Annual Gala of the Ghouls

  Nerma and October slept through the day and evening. They finally awoke past midnight, and after a quick bite to eat (of sweet sardine dumplings with spiced coffee from Frog’s Café), they set out to find a Gala costume for Nerma. October’s outfit had been ready for weeks, he said, and he only needed to pull it from its trunk and add a few more wrinkles before it would be ready to wear.