The Girl with a Spoon for a Soul

by Iva Viddal

  A floorboard creaked beneath her foot, and she held her breath. She heard nothing but the distant bells. The next floorboard creaked, too, and this time Nerma thought she heard a sound like a sigh come from behind one of the doors.

  She quickened her pace, and now she was sure she had heard something: a shuffle, a sigh. Something moved behind the closest door.

  Nerma tiptoed to the end of the corridor, and a loud thud echoed off the paneled walls behind her. She broke into a run and tore past a kitchen with an oven as wide and hungry as a dragon’s mouth, past a dining table still laden with the remnants of someone’s midnight meal, past a parlor crowded with leaning shadows, and to the front door. It was shut tight, and she didn’t have a pentadagger to open it. There was a hook beside the door, but nothing hung from it. She looked in every direction for something to use upon the door latch but saw only the two-headed statue of an angel at her feet, its cherubic faces bowed.

  There were footsteps behind her. Nerma turned, and there in the gloom the wings of a great bird spread out, blocking the corridor and her only escape.

  But, she realized, it wasn’t a bird. It was a man with giant wings on his back. In the low gray lighting, the wings were the color of ashes, and they rippled with agitation.

  “Thief,” the man whispered. He repeated it, louder: “Thief!”

  With one of his great wings, he whacked Nerma aside and then pulled a pentadagger from his pocket. He opened the front door with such force that it knocked over the two-headed statue, which shattered against the floor.

  “Thief!!” the man howled into the street beyond. He stepped out to shout again, and Nerma didn’t wait for another chance. She ducked past him and bolted to the right. This lane was wider than most, and she looked frantically for a hiding space.

  The world was a whirlwind of sound around her. Behind her, the winged man continued to roar: “Thief!! It stole my Granny’s beloved Seraphic Bicephaly! Catch it! Thief!” From every direction, the bells shook the town from above. And around the corner Nerma could hear the grumbling, growling sounds of the mob as it shifted in her direction.

  A sharp turn in the road lay ahead, but before Nerma reached it, something grabbed the back of her coat and yanked hard. She was whipped backward, and before she had time to react, a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth, and she was lifted into the air. Two arms ferried her forward so quickly that the cobblestones blurred beneath her, and down the lane she flew in her captor’s arms—around one bend, then two, then three, four, five, until Nerma lost count. She was too stunned to squirm, but after a moment she didn’t need to, for her kidnapper set her gently upon the ground, keeping one hand tightly clamped over her mouth.

  “Don’t scream, okay?” a voice whispered in her ear. It was a familiar voice. And the hand over her mouth . . . it wasn’t gloved at all but furry. Nerma nodded, and the hand was removed.

  She turned to face not only Ron, his fur dark with rain, but Ted too, his face as white as the moon. Both grinned anxiously at her.

  “We don’t have much time,” Ron said. “We need to get you out of Small Hours.”

  Nerma wailed. “I lost track of the Midwife. I don’t know how to get out.”

  “We do.” Ted’s eyes were bright.

  “See, kid?” Ron said, shuffling her hair. “Told ya we knew this town inside and out. We just needed some time to get our ol’ brains running again.” If his words were lighthearted, his eyes gave away his fear. They darted up and down the narrow alleyway, and he turned his head to listen for sounds of the mob. “They’re catching up, kid. We got to run. Ted?”

  Ted nodded and held his bladed fingers in the air. “Armed and ready.”

  “Where’s October?” Nerma asked, but Ron held up a finger.

  “Get ready to run,” he whispered. “One . . . two . . . RUN!”

  Nerma didn’t have a choice in the matter, for Ron gripped her wrist so tightly and moved at such a pace that she found herself being dragged like a ragdoll, her toes just skimming the ground. They emerged into a wide lane, and there, not fifty feet away, the mob seethed like a many-headed beast, boiling in its own fury. Cries erupted from within it.

  “Get the snotty little Witch before it takes our Purposes!”

  “I’ll clobber it with me hammers!”

  “Get the Stranger!”

  “Blight the Stranger!”

  “Stop the Stranger!”

  “Stranger! Stranger! Stranger!” The mob chanted.

  Ron pulled her away, but Ted remained behind, wielding his sharp fingers in the air like miniature swords. They glinted in the rain.

  “Hurry!” Ron tugged at her, and Nerma struggled to keep up. They passed a familiar signpost, and Nerma felt a tingle on the back of her neck. Something felt right.

  “We’re going the right way!” she shouted.

  “Of course we are!” He pulled on her wrist, urging her onward.

  Around twists and turns and through passages so narrow they blocked out the sun’s fading light, past decrepit houses and startled looking grandmothers, around thorny black rose bushes and toppled barrels, they ran and ran, until, at last, just ahead, Nerma spotted the wrought iron arch that had welcomed her into Small Hours so many long hours ago.

  Relief coursed through her. But not for long.

  The mob had managed to stay on their heels and now caught up to them. Ted continued to try to hold it back, but one man against five dozen was no match. Ron shoved Nerma forward. “Go! Hurry!” he cried, rushing to Ted’s side.

  Nerma didn’t wait. She darted through the archway and plunged into the woods beyond. Sharp twigs snapped under the soles of her feet, but she didn’t slow. She moved swiftly, keeping the cobblestone trail in view and staying to the shadows, and soon the sounds of the town gave way to the sounds of the woods: the patter of rainfall on leaves, the squawking of birds surprised to see a strange creature hurtling through their world, the snapping of branches, the scurries of small mammals scampering out of her path. The mob was gone, and the woods were alive around her.

  Nerma slowed to a jog, and then, finally, there it was: Midwife Cardea’s gray clapboard house. She slowed to a walk and peeked around the wide trunk of a tree. No one was in sight, and just beyond the little house lay the path that led back to Wishers Warsh, back to Harmony Hill—back home.

  She watched the house for a moment, and when she was sure that no one was watching, she emerged from the woods. The cobblestones felt cool and smooth under her sore feet. With one eye on the Midwife’s front door, she followed the path.

  The gargoyle turned its head, and Nerma jumped. In her hurry, she had forgotten about it. She held her breath as, ever so slowly, it opened one eye. It focused on her for one intense moment and then closed it again, as though it found her terribly boring.

  Nerma crept forward and was nearly past the house when a creak from the front porch sent goosebumps rippling down her spine. There, deep in the shadows, sat the Midwife. She was barely visible in the gloom, swaying slowly in her rocking chair, forward and backward, forward and backward. Her top two eyes were closed as though she were napping, but her bottom eye was open. It stared at Nerma, its piercing gaze like the winter wind.

  And then, just once, it winked.

  Nerma ran and didn’t look back.

  The path was easier to follow now, and this time there was no wall of branches to block her way. She left the Midwife’s house behind, the sound of running water drawing her onward. And then, at last, there was Wishers Warsh.

  A pile of stones lay beside the little bridge, and across the stream was the familiar wooden sign. From this side of the water, Nerma could see that there were words painted in white upon its back. She hadn’t noticed them the first time she passed through. They read:

  Wishers Warsh

  Dusk turns to dawn and the day grows bright

  For seekers whose souls were caught a’fright.

  Throw ye a stone with thine heart’s true might,

 
And bid ye farewell to the lonely night.

  Nerma puzzled. Should she just cross the bridge and return home? She worried that throwing another stone into the churning waters might lead her along yet another path, perhaps to an even stranger world than the one she’d just left.

  She almost turned away from the pile of stones, but then she stopped. She knew what she needed to do—what she wanted to do.

  She took one of the stones in her hand: a simple, smooth stone streaked with brown and flecked with quartz. She turned to the water. It roiled and fizzled beneath the bridge. She pulled her arm back, threw the stone with all her might, and shouted at the sky: “I love my family!” Where the stone splashed, the water glowed a brilliant aquamarine. She picked up another and hurled it. “I love Benny! I love my mom and dad! I love Julian!” The water glowed amethyst. She picked up a third stone and held it tightly between her palms. She took a deep breath, then cast the stone into the wash with one sweeping, graceful arc.

  “I love Nerma Lee!” she shouted, and the water below blossomed into the color of the sun.

  30

  The Girl with a Purpose

  Golden sunlight shone upon number 77 Splendid Street. The Lee family’s red minivan sparkled in the driveway, and the green grass shimmered with dew. Nerma raised her hand to knock on the gleaming walnut door but remembered with a shock that this was her home now. She turned the knob and stepped inside. Sunlight flooded the entryway.

  “Mom?” Nerma called.

  Somewhere, a TV was on, and cheerful music tinkled through the house.

  “Mom? I’m home!”

  Nerma passed the empty kitchen. The drinking glasses propped upon the draining board dripped with water. They had been freshly washed, so she knew that someone must be nearby.

  She passed through the dining room with its bright Formica table and the painting of cats her dad loved so much.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  The office was empty, too, but someone had unpacked framed pictures of Nerma and her brothers. Her favorite photograph was there: a snapshot of the three of them together at the beach last year, Julian laughing at something, his arm looped around her shoulders, and Benny by her side, holding her hand.

  “Julian?” she called.

  Nerma followed the sound of the TV into the open living room. Rays of light poured through the wide picture windows. In the distance, under a velvety blue sky, the landscape stretched into a quilt of greens, oranges, yellows, and reds.

  “Ne-Ne!”

  Nerma spun around.

  “Ben-Ben!” she cried.

  Nerma knelt on the soft carpet as Benny toddled toward her, his chubby arms outstretched. A smear of purple jelly striped his cheek.

  Nerma’s eyes filled with tears as she reached out to hug him, but instead of wrapping his arms around her neck, he reached up and grabbed hold of her spoon with his good hand.

  “Moon?” he asked.

  Nerma nodded. “It’s my spoon.”

  “Ben-Ben foo’?” Benny’s brown eyes lit up. He let go of her spoon and hurried to the kitchen.

  Nerma followed him and lifted him into his highchair.

  “Arms up!” she said, and Benny lifted his arms above his head. Nerma slid his tray into place and opened the refrigerator. It was packed full of wonderfully, scrumptiously, normal-looking foods. Her stomach growled.

  “Are we having applesauce or yogurt, Benny-Ben?” she asked.

  “‘Gurt!” Benny clapped his one hand against the highchair tray.

  Nerma selected two cups of peach yogurt and took two spoons from a drawer, but Benny slapped his hand down and shook his head. “Moon!” He stretched his arms toward the spoon on Nerma’s head.

  “You want to eat with my spoon?” Nerma raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  Benny cheered. “Ne-Ne moon!”

  Nerma laughed, and Benny did, too.

  “Moon, moon!” he shouted, making himself laugh.

  Nerma’s mom rounded the corner with a broom and dustpan in her hands.

  “Nerma, thank goodness!” Mrs. Lee smiled and blew a stray strand of hair from her face. “This little boy! I didn’t want to leave him alone, but he knocked over that glass apple I’ve had forever, the one from the teacher’s banquet I got before you were born—remember? Anyway, it shattered everywhere, and I didn’t want him near it.” She looked at the cups of yogurt and her eyes grew wide. “Ben-Ben! You can’t be hungry again! You just ate!”

  “Moon! ‘Gurt!” Benny pointed from Nerma’s spoon to the container of peach yogurt with his right arm, the one that ended in a stump where his right hand had never developed.

  Mrs. Lee gave Nerma a funny look. “Nice costume, lady,” she said. She was trying not to laugh. “Are you some kind of gothic queen or something?”

  Nerma rushed to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. Mrs. Lee laughed and kissed the top of her head.

  “Careful, kiddo! I’ve got broken glass here!”

  Confusion tinged Nerma’s joy. She didn’t understand why her mom wasn’t crying with relief. She had been gone for a whole week! Her mom should be sobbing, jumping up and down, alerting the neighbors and authorities and local media to call off the search, screaming for joy—doing something. Unless . . . Nerma wondered.

  She let go of her mother. “Mom, when was the last time you saw me?” she asked.

  Mrs. Lee emptied the dustpan into the trashcan and put the broom away.

  “Maybe an hour ago? I’m not sure. Why?”

  Nerma’s head reeled. Was this one of those things that happens in movies and books, when something strange happens to a child and time just stands still for the parents? Had anyone even noticed that she’d been gone?

  Her mother turned to tidy up the kitchen “So, tell me about the costume. What’s with the spoon and the weird clothes? Should I start calling you La Reina Gótica?”

  “Well,” Nerma started. But where should she start? With the hole in the fence? With Wishers Warsh? With Small Hours? “See,” she said, “I . . . made a friend.”

  “See?” Mrs. Lee did a little dance. “I knew you would! Who wouldn’t want to be your friend?” She beamed.

  “Moon!” Benny kicked his heels against the front of his chair.

  “Hold your horses, kiddo!” Mrs. Lee nodded at the yogurt on the counter. “Are you going to feed him that?”

  “He wants to use this spoon, but I can’t get it off.” Nerma gave the spoon a tug.

  Mrs. Lee examined it curiously. “Wow! That looks like antique silver. I hope your friend’s mom won’t be mad when she discovers she’s missing her grandmother’s heirloom.” Mrs. Lee yanked at the spoon.

  “Ow, Mom!”

  “Sorry,” Mrs. Lee mumbled. “Hm. Come here.”

  She pulled a pair of scissors from a drawer. “What is this stuff? It looks like you used a whole bottle of Gorilla Glue!”

  “It’s spider’s silk,” Nerma answered.

  Mrs. Lee chuckled. “Such an imagination.” She tentatively snipped at the webbing. “Whatever it is, it’s no match for Leona Lee’s handy dandy scissors.”

  Her mother snipped and clipped, and to Nerma’s great surprise, the webbing fell away as easily as hair at a barbershop.

  In fact, she realized with a groan, there was hair among the strands of webbing that fell to the ground.

  Mrs. Lee grimaced. “I don’t know what you were thinking. I hope you want extra, extra short bangs, because that’s what you’re going to have.”

  After a few more snips, Mrs. Lee handed the spoon to Nerma, who ran her hand over her shorn bangs.

  Benny laughed. “Ne-Ne!”

  Nerma ruffled his wispy hair and kissed the top of his head. He smelled like grapes and sunshine and baby sweat.

  She washed the spoon off at the sink and handed it to Benny. He handed it back.

  “No! Ne-Ne foo’!”

  “You want me to feed you?”

  Benny bounced happily in his chair.

  Nerma took
the spoon from him. She looked at it in her hand: her “normal,” five-fingered hand, so unlike Benny’s.

  “Mom,” she said, “it doesn’t bother me that we’re all different anymore. It used to, but I wouldn’t want you to be any other way, or for Benny to be any other way. Besides, we’re all here to help each other.”

  Mrs. Lee put an arm around her. “I don’t know why you think we’re so ‘different,’ but Benny is lucky to have you—and so am I.” She kissed the top of Nerma’s head.

  An overwhelming feeling surged through Nerma. She was glad to be home—even if ‘home’ was Harmony Hill.

  She used the spoon to scoop up a big dollop of yogurt and wondered if October would be willing to eat this strange white stuff with orange flecks in it. Would he prefer his blood berries and vulture livers?

  She raised the spoon high in the air. “Get ready Ben-Ben! Here comes the birdie!”

  Benny laughed and flapped his arms, his mouth as wide as a baby pelican’s.

  The spoon sailed downward, and Benny took a bite.

  Nerma had found her Purpose, and she understood, with a rush of joy as pure as a ray of sunshine in spring, that her Purpose had never been the spoon, just as October’s Purpose wasn’t his spider’s web, and the Count’s wasn’t his missing fangs. It was what they did with them that mattered.

  Nerma looked at her hand, at Benny’s arm, at his smile, and at the spoon as it sailed into his waiting mouth.

  “Ben-Ben, I love you,” she said.

  “Ne-Ne!” he shouted.

  31

  New Neighbors

  The witch let out a strangled cry and fell into the mouth of the wide cauldron. Beside her, a two-headed monster bellowed, “Be gone with ye, Wandering Witch!”

  The monster waved it arms—one peppered with freckles and the other a deeply tanned—and lurched across the yellow grass. Behind it, a city of glass spiraled into an inky sky.