Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  “So?” It was Miss Always. “Is she down there?”

  “Don’t think so, boss,” came the wheezing reply.

  “Blast! The girl cannot have vanished into thin air.”

  “I reckon she’s crossed into Prospa,” said the wagon driver.

  “No,” said Miss Always, “we would have seen the stone’s light if she’d done that.” A long silence. Then Miss Always shouted above the rain, “I know you can hear me, Ivy, wherever you are hiding. You might be interested to know that I paid a visit to your little cottage by the sea—your friend Jago didn’t give me the warmest of welcomes.”

  I covered my mouth to trap the gasp that threatened to escape.

  “He put up an admirable fight.” Miss Always laughed wickedly. “I’m afraid I may have broken his arm. Terribly unsporting of me. Ivy, if you wish to see Jago again, then show yourself. Show yourself, or the boy is dead!”

  How I wanted to give myself up. But could I trust Miss Always to release Jago once she had me? She didn’t strike me as one of the more honorable murderous lunatics. For now I had to believe that Jago was of more value to her alive than dead. So I stayed silent.

  “Come, we will search the farmhouse,” ordered Miss Always.

  The rain fell hard. It was relentless. Angry. Even as I huddled against the rounded wall, it came for me. Filling the well until my body began to stiffen and ache. The chill was so sharp and cruel I believed the rain had leached into my skin, cracked my bones, and filled my marrow until it froze. The sky rumbled like an angry giant. The water was up to my waist now. And I could no longer feel my lips.

  That is the last thing I recall from my great escape.

  2

  “She’s waking.”

  The voice sounded faint and far away. So I pretended not to hear it. For I was somewhere else entirely. In a garden overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, playfully leaping from stone to stone. The sun splashing my face. My feet bare. And rather dirty. My arms, pencil thin. My belly rumbling with hunger. Behind me stood a modest white cottage with a thatched roof.

  “Quick, Henry, pass me the cloth. Her fever’s awful strong.”

  I heard the door of the cottage opening behind me. That sound filled me with giddy excitement, though I couldn’t say why. But I knew that I had to see who came out of that house. So I spun around. Just as a cold, damp cloth splattered across my forehead. That was all it took. My eyes fluttered open, and I was greeted by a kind and tender smile.

  “I was beginning to think you would never wake.” The woman was of middle age, with a lean, pale face and stringy blond hair. “How do you feel?”

  A persistent ache rippled through my muscles and bones. “Where am I?” I said.

  “Harrington Farm,” came a voice from across the room.

  I lifted my head and saw a tall man with a dark beard and unruly hair. He looked rather sullen as he paced about the modestly furnished bedroom.

  “My name is Margaret,” said the woman, “and that is my husband, Henry.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “That’s a very good question,” said Henry. “I went to check my fields after the storm and found you floating in the well. You were limp and lifeless. . . . I was sure you were dead.”

  “What is your name?” asked Margaret, dabbing my brow again with the cloth.

  “Esmeralda Cabbage.” It seemed wise under the circumstances.

  “What happened to you, Esmeralda?” Margaret sat down on the bed beside me. “How did you end up in our well, half drowned?”

  “And what happened in that field?” said her husband. “My crop is trampled, the harvest in ruin—I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years.”

  “Funny story, that.” I sat up, and a wave of dizziness churned through my head. I shut my eyes briefly to steady myself. “I hitched a ride with one of those charming traveling freak shows. We were stopped outside your farmhouse when the bearded lady made a run for it. As you can imagine, the ringmaster was furious. He ordered the two-headed pygmy and six talking chimpanzees into the field to bring her back. I went to help, being a wonderful sort of girl, and as I was looking down your well, I tripped over and fell in.”

  The farmer and his wife exchanged a look.

  “She is still unwell,” said Margaret to her husband.

  Which was true—but rather odd. I was sure that I couldn’t get ill, being half dead and remarkable in every way. “How long have I been here?”

  “Three days.” Margaret looked as if she were about to say something more. But instead, she glanced at her husband again. Which made the knot in my stomach tighten.

  “The day of the storm,” said Henry, “some folks came to our door looking for a girl. A runaway, that’s what they said.”

  “Then when Henry found you in the well,” said Margaret softly, “we figured you were the one they were seeking.”

  “These folks were awful keen to get you back,” added Henry, looking everywhere but at me. “The woman especially. She offered a fifty-pound reward if we were to find you.”

  Miss Always was coming! I leaped from the bed, and my head swirled more violently than before.

  “But we wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Margaret, helping me find my feet. “Not for all the money in the world. We didn’t believe that woman’s tears or her promises. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

  But Henry didn’t answer. Instead he pointed at my throat. “That necklace you wear—looks mighty expensive.”

  Instinctively I felt for the Clock Diamond—it was still there under my nightdress. “A gift from the bearded lady,” I said. “Very pretty, but worthless.”

  The farmer nodded. “These folks looking for you, are they bad people?”

  I decided the truth was my best option. “Yes. Very bad.”

  “Then I’m sorry, Esmeralda.”

  Margaret flew to her husband’s side. “Sorry for what?”

  A loud banging on the farmhouse door provided the answer.

  Margaret gasped. “Henry, what have you done?”

  The hammering on the door grew more urgent.

  “It’s fifty pounds, Margaret, and with the crop half ruined.” Henry shook his head meekly. “I’m sorry, but what choice did I have?”

  “You could have kept your trap shut, you greedy halfwit,” I said rather sternly.

  The door was taking an awful beating, and I was certain it would soon give way.

  “I will tell them I made a mistake,” said Henry.

  “Stay here, Esmeralda,” said Margaret. “No harm will come to you. We will send them on their way.”

  The poor woman was as featherbrained as she was kind! The farmer and his wife hurried from the room and shut the door. I was already pulling off the nightgown and reaching for my dress (which was folded neatly on the chair). As I slipped it over my head, I heard a great commotion coming from the other side of the door.

  “Get out of my way, or you’ll be sorry!” It was Miss Always’s brutish henchwoman. “Where is she?”

  “We do not have her!” Margaret declared boldly.

  I was halfway out the window when I heard Margaret scream. Then the sound of furniture hitting the floor. Then the door to the little bedroom broke open. I swung my legs over the window ledge and jumped.

  My legs surged with pain as I landed in the flower bed. The farmhouse was set in a small clearing, so the only means of escape was the wheat field. But I knew I hadn’t the strength to outrun them.

  “Get her!” thundered the henchwoman from the bedroom window.

  “She won’t get far!” a man yelled in reply.

  I looked back and saw the driver coming around the side of the farmhouse, running furiously. I raced across the yard, sweat dripping from my face. And spotted the villain’s wagon. It stood empty, two horses happily munching on the grass.

  “Leave her alone!” I heard Margaret cry out.

  “Hurry, Flanders!” bellowed the henchwoman. “Don’t let her get away!”

>   I jumped up on the wagon. Grabbed the reins. Brought them down hard on the horses’ backs. As the wheels began to spin, the driver suddenly loomed beside me. He grabbed the step rail and began to climb up. So I reached for the horsewhip and brought it down viciously on his hand. He squealed like a lost lamb and let go, crashing to the ground.

  By then the horses were galloping. I wiped the sweat from my face and turned the carriage onto the main road. All the while, stealing backward glances. Worried that Miss Always was close by. But I saw no sign of her.

  As the wagon roared over the dirt road, I tried to calm my mind. Think clearly and whatnot. I had to reach London. To free Anastasia from Lashwood. To journey to Prospa House and bring Rebecca home. The next hour passed slowly, my thoughts still a tangle. The road stretched out endlessly. Pain rattled through my bones. How far until London? Hours? Days? Weeks?

  It was impossible to know. Without realizing it, I had pulled the carriage to the side of the road, stopping under a willow tree. The reins went slack in my hands. My eyes shut. Just for a moment. All I craved was rest. A short, delicious rest.

  “You all right there?”

  I woke with a start. “Pardon me?”

  “I said, are you all right?”

  “Yes, dear, perfectly fine.”

  A carriage was pulled up beside me, laden with baskets of vegetables and fruit. The driver was a portly woman with ridiculously red cheeks. “You don’t look fine,” she said. “In fact, you look sick as a dog.”

  “It’s just a head cold.” I waved my hand toward the road. “Now do shuffle off.”

  “Where are you heading?”

  “London.”

  The woman snorted. “That’s a fair way.”

  “Where am I exactly?”

  “Winchester,” came the reply. “Why are you driving to London on your own, then?”

  “My grandma has taken ill,” I said quickly. “Run over by an elephant in the high street—crushed to pieces, poor dear. I’m going to take care of her.” I looked at her bounty of vegetables, and it did give me a winning idea. “Are you going to market?”

  “I am.”

  “And do they sell wagons and horses at this market?”

  “From time to time.”

  I used the sleeve of my dress to wipe my damp brow. “Excellent. Lead the way.”

  The woman shrugged, whipped her horse, and took off—with me following closely behind. The market was a short drive away, just beyond the village square. It was teeming with carts and stalls selling fruits, vegetables, eggs, and cuts of meat. And all variety of pots and pans and tools. At the far end were a few workhorses tethered to a post with a sign saying HORSES WANTED, ONE POUND APIECE. So that was where I headed.

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t the strength to drive all the way to London. And I was worried about running into Miss Always on the open road. So I needed another way—and a comfortable train ride sounded like just the thing.

  Which is why I approached a stockman picking at his teeth beneath the sign and offered him my wagon and two horses. The infuriating man was rather suspicious of my proposition. Quizzed me at length about the particulars.

  I pointed out how fine the horses were and that I had my one-legged father’s permission to strike a bargain. We haggled for some time (his first offer was criminally low) before reaching a deal—five pounds for the lot.

  “There is only one condition,” I added, stuffing the banknotes into my pocket. “I need a ride to the nearest train station.”

  We shook hands and set off at once.

  It was dark when the train pulled into Waterloo Station. I had slept the whole way to London, in the comfort of first class. But I didn’t wake feeling refreshed. My head throbbed. My body ached. I was hot one moment, then chilled to the bone the next.

  I hurried from the station, emerging onto a busy street glowing under gaslight. A slight drizzle glazed the cobblestones. People bustled in every direction. As I looked about for a carriage, I noticed a street urchin across the road—he wore a red coat covered in patches, and he seemed to find me terribly interesting. No great shock there. From around the corner, a carriage rolled into view, and I hailed it.

  “Where to, miss?” asked the driver.

  “Winslow Street,” I replied, climbing in.

  “That ain’t a nice part of town.” The driver lifted his cap to scratch his head. “You sure?”

  “Winslow Street,” I said again. “And do hurry.”

  As we drove, my mind returned to the mission. According to Miss Always, Winslow Street was the only place that I could cross from if I wished to reach Prospa House—and that was where Rebecca was being held. In that wicked building where all the innocent souls who had put on the Clock Diamond were enslaved. Used as remedies to heal the plague that had raged in Prospa for centuries.

  I patted the Clock Diamond beneath my dress. Despite how wretched I felt, it thrilled me to think I would soon see Rebecca. While I wasn’t utterly sure how I was going to break her out of Prospa House, I knew that this time I wouldn’t leave that world without her.

  The driver let me off at the top of the street. It was as bleak and downtrodden as I remembered. A long row of dark buildings, barred windows, and peeling paint. The little pools of gaslight splashing down from the streetlamps were no match for this grim place. There was no one about, save for a passing carriage.

  I walked as fast as my aching legs would allow, all the while thinking of Rebecca. Anticipating the moment when the stone sparked into life. Crossing the street, I hurried toward my destination—the empty space between a shoe factory and an abandoned boardinghouse. It had once been a building of some sort, but all that remained now were piles of bricks and a part of the wall. A front door with a frame around it. A tarnished brass plaque.

  That was the spot where Prospa House had risen up before me.

  “Rebecca,” I whispered. “I am coming, dear.”

  I kept my friend at the very center of my mind. And Prospa House. Waiting for the buzzing to charge the air like a current. Waiting for the Clock Diamond to heat up against my skin and glow radiantly. Waiting for Winslow Street to bend and melt away like wet paint dripping down a canvas.

  But it did not happen. The stone was cold. The only heat came from my fevered skin. I stood there for the longest time, willing the diamond to do its job. The necklace had never let me down before. I scooped it out and looked into it eagerly. But all I saw was a dazzling stone, sparkling in the lamplight. No heat. No light. No life.

  Why had the stone stopped working? Might I have worn it out? No, Miss Frost never spoke of such things. My head throbbed and my body ached. And it occurred to me that perhaps my illness had something to do with this mystery. Perhaps I needed to be well, to be strong, for the Clock Diamond to come alive and provide passage into Prospa.

  With a heavy heart, I wandered over to the shoe factory and sat down in the doorway. It was as good a place as any to rest. The cold wind seemed to crowd around me. I hugged my knees and tried to stop the chattering of my teeth. The situation wasn’t ideal, I couldn’t deny that. But I was confident that things would be better in the morning. Most things are. The Clock Diamond would work again. It had to.

  Such thoughts were as welcome as a warm sun. But they did not last. For by then, I had seen him. He stood across the road. The boy from the train station. The one in the red coat covered with patches. And he wasn’t alone. Beside him stood a man in a fine white suit and top hat. He was handing the street urchin a few pennies. The boy took off with his bounty. Then the well-dressed fellow shifted his attention to me.

  “I’ve had quite a time looking for you, Ivy Pocket,” called the man in white, tipping his hat rather formally. “I have news from an old friend.”

  An old friend? My blood ran cold. He must be one of Miss Always’s goons. As the scoundrel stepped onto the road, he quickened his pace. I sprang to my feet, ignoring the ache in my bones, and took off down Winslow Street.

  3


  “Stop!” His voice was deep and commanding. “Stop, I say!”

  Which was ridiculous. Why would I stop when one of Miss Always’s henchmen was chasing me down a darkened street? The fever had turned my body into a boiling cauldron; the heat seemed to steam off my skin. But I quickened my pace and turned the corner. Bolting down a narrow street, I passed a crowded tavern and was forced to jump majestically over a sleeping dog.

  “Stop, Ivy!” he shouted, his breaths short and rapid. “I don’t wish to hurt you!”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” I called back.

  Despite being on the very brink of some glorious disease, I darted across the street like a stallion. Braved a look over my shoulder. The man in white threw off his hat, charging toward me like a bull. I glimpsed the faintest hint of a smile. The brute was enjoying this little game of cat and mouse! But I wasn’t. My chest was painfully tight now, every breath a struggle.

  At the end of the street, I took a sharp left. Found myself at the bottom of a steep road—which was beastly. But I ran on, passing an elderly fellow pulling his cart from a small penny-pie shop. With a fleeting glance, I noticed that it was stacked with freshly baked pies of all varieties. Which gave me a magnificent idea.

  I stopped and turned back. The man in white was now racing up the hill after me.

  “May I borrow your cart for a moment?” I asked the old man.

  “Not likely,” came the muttered reply.

  “Terribly sporting of you,” I replied, pushing him out of the way and grabbing the cart.

  “Help!” he yelled. “I’m being robbed!”

  I took off, pushing the cart down the hill. Right at the man in white. He tried to swerve out of the way, but the footpath was too narrow and the cart too wide. So I was able to smash the cart right into the scoundrel. It sent him reeling back. He hit the ground with a thump. The cart was rather unstoppable at that point and, in a wondrous stroke of good fortune, flipped up, hurling its entire assortment of hot pies over the wicked man’s gloriously white jacket.