by Annet Schaap
STINK
“Stop getting under my feet, will you?” Martha raises her hand, but Lampie ducks out of the way in time. She’s used to it from home, of course.
She has never seen Martha like this before. There is a bandage on her leg and she keeps limping around, sitting down, standing back up, letting the tea water boil dry, jumping at the slightest thing: a dog barking, Lenny giggling, and then she lashes out. A slap for the dog, and a snarl for her son, who sits at the table with his lip trembling for the rest of the morning.
Lampie strokes his head and brings him tea and sandwiches, because Martha does not do that today either. The girl stays in the shadows as much as possible. In the afternoon, she heads upstairs with her buckets. Not that downstairs is clean or that she has nothing else to do there, but no one is paying any attention to her today, or telling her that it is not allowed.
It smells really bad upstairs in the corridor, just as bad as in the pantry, and it only gets worse as she turns the corner. The doors are wider here and the walls are covered with antlers on wooden plaques. There is also a rhinoceros’s head, all grey and wrinkled. It has sad little eyes – and a long strand of cobweb on its horn. Lampie quietly opens the door beside the rhinoceros. She sees a room lined with shelves of stuffed animals and glass cases full of butterflies and beetles, all stabbed through with needles. Not a wing is moving. An empty tiger skin lies on the floor, and on the wall there are portraits of men in uniforms. They stare at her with angry eyes. What is that child doing in here?
Quickly, Lampie closes the door again.
She walks on, following her nose, to where the stink gets worse and worse. At the end of the corridor is a door with a staircase behind it disappearing into the darkness. That is where the smell is coming from. And somewhere up there must be the room she is not allowed to enter.
But shouldn’t she go upstairs to tidy up? To mop up whatever’s rotting away?
One time, when she was much younger, there had been a boat drifting just outside the harbour, a boat that was being bounced around by the waves and was going nowhere. It couldn’t go anywhere, because its skipper had died at sea and his body now lay in the hold, while his catch was stinking on deck. It had been a magnificent haul – mountains of fish in the burning sun. The town’s seagulls went crazy, flying in clouds above the ship and filling their bellies.
The old skipper had been called Pete. Everyone laughed at him a little behind his back, because he said strange things and never washed. He had always been smelly, all his life. He could never hire a mate to work with him either.
His ship stayed out there, floating beyond the harbour, with plenty of fish still left, and the wind blowing in the wrong direction. The whole town felt sick for two days.
The sheriff and his men finally rowed out to the ship and threw the catch overboard, along with the skipper. They tossed buckets and buckets of water over the deck, but the stench would not go away.
The harbour master refused to have the ship in his harbour, so they burned it out at sea. That stank too, even worse in fact. The smoke blew straight towards the town and lingered there for three windless days.
It became known as Pete’s Revenge.
The townspeople walked around with cloths over their mouths, no one ate anything and Mr Rosewood had to throw away his supplies. Lampie’s mother was still alive at the time and was unable to talk or walk, but she could still smell, and Lampie gave her wet cloths and bags of lavender, which did not help, and she was not sure whether to open the windows or to leave them shut. Her father never helped; he was always drunk, but drink did not help against the stench either, and it got to the point where no one wanted to breathe. But of course they had to.
Pete’s Revenge. Yes, that is how bad it smells upstairs.
Lampie looks around. No one. On soft feet, she climbs the steps to the tower. Around the curve, there is another flight of stairs. Big dark drops have left a trail on the wood. It is blood, she knows it is, and she nearly turns back. Another curve, she has to go up again, and the stairs are becoming narrower and narrower. She has to let go of her nose, or she will not have enough air to breathe. Eeuw.
At the top of the stairs, in the half-light, she sees a door bolted on the outside. The source of the bad smell is lying on the floor: a broken plate with pieces of rotten fish. And something else. A key. A noise suddenly comes from below: Lenny shrieks, the dogs bark and Martha’s angry voice calls her name. Lampie grabs the key, hides it in her dress and pelts back down the stairs.
After Lenny has had ointment rubbed into his hand, the tea has been mopped up and Lampie has made a fresh pot, Martha glares at her.
“Where were you? Did you go upstairs?”
“Only a bit of the way,” says Lampie, with red cheeks. “I thought… The smell was so bad. I just wanted…”
“Let it stink,” says Martha. “It’s just how the house is. It’ll go away.” Then she roughly grasps Lampie’s wrist. “You’re not to go up into that tower. What have I told you?”
“I’m not to go up into that tower.”
Oh, but she does go, of course. The heart wants what the heart wants – and the heart of a lighthouse keeper’s daughter wants to see the lighthouse. The head of a lighthouse keeper’s daughter can think all the sensible things it wants, but that does not help.
Her mother does not believe it is a good idea either. She has been talking and talking all evening.
Even if you do see something, what can you do to help your father?
Leave the man be, he’s old and wise enough. Well, he’s old, in any case.
There is something up there, Emilia, I don’t know what it is either. But something. Something dangerous.
You said yourself that monsters don’t exist, says Lampie.
That’s right. They don’t.
Well, then.
I am your mother, says her mother sternly. And I really would rather you didn’t. In fact, I forbid it, Emilia!
Lampie stands up and takes a deep breath. “Yes, but do you know something, Mother?” she says. “You’re actually… dead.”
Her mother has no answer to that. Lampie feels her disappearing from her head, slowly and somewhat sadly. For a moment, Lampie feels miserable and lonely, but then she was miserable and lonely already. She is simply here. Simply alone.
Lampie sits down cross-legged on her bed and waits until it is completely dark. Her hands play with the key.
HUNTING PARTY
“Nick! Nick!” Martha’s voice rings out across the garden, where no sound ever rings out. Startled birds flutter away; crows mimic her with their caws. “Nick!”
It is still very early in the morning, the sun has only just come up. And there is already so much noise.
She limps up and down the steps and shouts again, even louder. “I mean it, Nick! Come here! Now!” Her hands have become fists, ready to thump him. The man is no good to her. He is never around when she needs him. But this time he really has to come. “Nick!!”
Finally, the bushes part and the thin man in his enormous coat appears, unshaven, still sleepy. “What?”
“That monster…” Martha’s voice trembles. “That monster!”
“Oh, woman…” Nick shrugs. “Monster… Just stop it.”
“It’s the girl, you fool. Listen to me! The girl, Emilia, she’s gone, she’s not in her room, not anywhere, she’s—”
“Run away. Thought she would. Probably just as well.” Nick yawns and turns around, ready to disappear into the garden again.
Martha swears her worst curse. “Run away? How? Did she fly over the fence? All her things are still here, her shoes, everything. She’s gone upstairs. I know she has! She kept saying she would. He’s got her. Do you understand? He’s got her up there.”
“Oh.” Nick scratches his head. “Ah.”
Martha sighs. The way he’s standing there, his arms dangling by his side, as what has happened slowly penetrates his thick skull. If she did nothing, said nothing, woul
d the man ever act of his own accord? No. Nothing. Never.
“Don’t you get it?”
“Yeees…”
“No, you don’t. That child was brought here. Everyone knows she’s here, the sheriff, that awful Miss Amalia, and soon the master will find out too, so she can’t just disappear. It’ll cause terrible problems. We can’t just… We have to… There’ll be such a fuss.”
“And…” says Nick slowly. “She’s a sweetheart.”
“Yes, she’s a sweetheart, and that monster or whatever it is will probably be eating that sweetheart all up, right at this very moment. Maybe he’s already gnawing on her bones. He’s wild, savage. Just look at my leg. And I don’t want to go up there ever again. That’s right – I said: never again! But we have to – and that includes you. For once you finally need to listen to me and do as I say!” She wants to grab him, to shake him, to yell in his ear.
But Nick says, “Wait.” He turns around and walks away, back into the bushes. Quite quickly for him.
Martha slumps onto a cracked stone bench. She can’t stand for too long, as her leg is so painful and she is so worried. That stupid, careless child. Martha thinks she’s a sweetheart too, to be honest, so serious and so kind to Lenny. She can’t be… It can’t be true. But then, what else could have happened? It’s ridiculous, having something like that in the house. If only the admiral would come home. Or not. Or maybe never again, in fact, and then he can’t see what a mess she has made of things. And where has Nick got to? No one helps her. She can’t count on anyone. She’ll just have to do it herself again, but this time she’ll take a stick, a big, strong stick.
Then the bushes part again, and Nick steps out. He strides up the steps. He is wearing a fur hat that is far too big for him, with a striped tail dangling down his back. There are large boots on his feet, and in his hands he has a long hunting gun. He walks to the kitchen door and nods at her to follow him. Martha limps after him, both surprised and relieved.
The dogs refuse to go unless Lenny goes too, and Lenny’s too frightened. And Martha says he is not allowed to go, but he does not want to stay in the kitchen by himself. He cries and hovers around the kitchen table, making everyone even more nervous. Nick puts an arm around his shoulders.
“Listen, Lenny,” he says. “We are hunters. We are going hunting. You too.”
Lenny looks in surprise at Nick and then at his mother. Hunters?
“Hunters,” says Nick, raising his gun. “Bang!”
Oh yes. Lenny nods seriously. Bang. He carefully accepts the carpet beater that Nick hands him and rests it on his shoulder.
“Bang,” says Nick with a smile.
“No! No bang!” Martha is not happy. “He is not… No, Nick. Just the two of us should go.”
Bang! Bang! Lenny shoots away enthusiastically. The dogs run around him, barking and drooling. Nick nods at Martha.
“Nothing will happen to him,” he says. “I just need the dogs to come with us.” He turns his head, with a swish of the tail. “Hey, Lenny? Let’s go hunting, monster hunting! Let’s go to the tower.” Martha has never heard him say so many sentences in a row. “And ssh! Quietly, Lenny. Hunters walk quietly.”
Ssh! Lenny replies, one finger to his lips. Ssh, dogs! The dogs immediately stop barking.
It’s strange, thinks Martha. There’s not much her son can do, but he can do that. She grabs the broom with the thickest handle and the hardest bristles, and she swallows hard.
“Nick,” she says. “You do know you can’t actually shoot him dead, don’t you?”
It is a strange hunting party that makes its way down the corridor. A thin man almost disappearing under his fur hat, a woman with a limp and a broom, two big brown lumbering dogs, and a boy silently shooting away with a carpet beater. When they reach the stairs to the tower, the dogs realize where they are actually going, and they back up, whining and whimpering. Lenny hesitates too. No, surely they’re not going there? Where he went once, just once, and saw something he never, ever wants to think about again. No, not there.
“Lenny,” whispers Nick. “Hunters, remember?”
Lenny looks at him nervously. Still hunters?
Nick nods. “Yes. To help Emilia. The girl, she’s up there, in that room. And we—”
“Nick!” hisses Martha. “Leave him if he’s too scared! He doesn’t understand! You can see that!”
What is going on inside Lenny’s head? No one knows, because he can’t talk. But he understands some things. Cutting, splashing, dogs, sweet dogs, a sweet mother. And since a few days ago: a sweet girl too. Who sometimes helps him. Who sometimes gives him a hug. And she’s up there? And he’s allowed to help her? He’s never allowed to help, to carry anything, to do anything: Careful, Lenny! Don’t do that, Lenny! Go and sit in your corner, cut something up and please don’t touch anything. But now he’s allowed to help. That is something he understands. And with a big grin he pulls the dogs up the stairs. Help the girl! He yodels with happiness.
“Ssh, Lenny! Remember? Quietly!”
Oh yes, ssh. Lenny nods and noisily sneaks his way up the stairs.
The light on the last landing is dim, and the door is open a crack. The smell of rotten fish fills the corridor. Nick signals for everyone to wait, puts the gun on his shoulder, lifts his boot and gives the door a kick. With a creak, it flies open. The room behind is dark and silent.
“Emilia?” calls Nick. “Are you there?” Still no sound.
“Oh God,” whispers Martha. “We’re too late.”
Lenny holds the dogs by the collars, because they want to slink back down the stairs, away from here. They whimper and whine.
“Lampie?” Nick hesitantly puts one foot through the doorway.
A voice comes from inside the dark room.
“Ssh!” whispers Lampie. “Be quiet. He’s sleeping.”
Part Three
THE BOY UNDER THE BED
THE MONSTER UNDER THE BED
The lamp is lit. It is as if a weight falls from Lampie’s chest.
The lighthouse is very small and very far away, a black line against a black sky. But the light is strong and it sweeps over clouds, waves, houses, over everything that Lampie knows so well. She lays her cheek against the cold glass.
At the door she had whispered, “Hello?” and, “Is there anyone there?” But no one replied – and nothing moved. (You see, Mother?)
On tiptoes she had crept to the window. She counted five windows in the almost round room. There were gaps in the curtains and through the fifth gap she could see a vague light moving – and then she had her answer.
She lifted herself onto the window sill behind the curtain, pulled up her feet and looked out.
So her father is at home as usual, and he can light the lamp, can somehow limp up the stairs every night. And get back downstairs, which is even more difficult. He can eat and sleep as usual.
Without her.
So he does not really need her.
Maybe he does not mind that she is here. Maybe he is thinking: Good riddance! That child – what use is she to me?
Or…
Maybe he is not living there at all, and they have locked him up somewhere she will never find him. In a cellar full of rats, with water and bread. Or not even that. And someone else is living in their lighthouse, a different lighthouse keeper, one with two legs and no daughter. Or perhaps he does have a daughter, one who is much cleverer than Lampie, who can read and write and always remembers the matches, and who is sleeping in Lampie’s bed right now, under her checked bedspread. Or…
She does not know anything. She climbed all the way up here and she still does not know anything.
Something is moving in the room.
Something under the bed is moving and quietly growling.
Ah, so there is something in here after all.
She has to get out of here, to escape right away! Mother! Help!
But her mother is not there. What did she say to her? You’re actually dead. Even
the shard of mirror is downstairs, down two safe flights of stairs, next to her warm bed, by the chair with the pillowcase and the dry socks.
Jump down onto the floor, Lampie, and run, run downstairs!
But her feet refuse to budge. She sits on the window sill, too terrified to move.
Stupid, she’s so stupid.
*
He’s so stupid.
He fell asleep and someone came into the room. He does not know who or what, but someone is sitting on the window sill. Someone who is breathing.
Attack! Rip them apart! cries the monster in his head. Face the enemy! Get up and fight! Stand up now and bite, bite, bite!
But he cannot get up and he is so thirsty. He could drink an entire lake – and then another two. His throat is sore, his skin is cracking, he must have a fever or something.
Now is when it really matters, now his life is in the balance, and now he just stays there, under his bed. He is such a gutless coward.
It sounds more like groaning than growling, but Lampie is not entirely certain.
She has been sitting here for a while now, and she still has not been eaten. But there is definitely something there.
So there is a monster. A monster that fits under a bed.
But monsters don’t exist.
“Monsters don’t exist!” she whispers.
The thing under the bed laughs, softly hissing. Lampie gasps and pulls up her feet even higher.
So it really does exist – and it sounds like a snake.
There is a snake under the bed, and she is not even wearing shoes. How is she ever going to get to the door?
She thinks about Martha’s leg with the bandage on it. About the trail of blood on the stairs.
She wraps her arms around her legs and makes herself as small as she can.
