Lampie and the Children of the Sea

by Annet Schaap

  “I bet she isn’t.” Edward stares into the distance. “No one’s nice.”

  “I’m nice. I’ve pulled you all the way here.”

  “Then turn around. Take me back home.”

  He says it, but he is not sure that it is what he really wants. He dreamt about her last night, about this mother, or whatever she is. He does not understand how it is possible; he has never dreamt anything like that before.

  He sees her for the first time and he already knows her so well.

  Her face is his and his face is hers. Their tails are the same and their hair fans out in the same way.

  Laughing suddenly feels so easy. It comes out of their mouths in bubbles. And there is suddenly so much to laugh about.

  Then she takes his hand and pulls him along. They shoot forward, into the deep water, deeper than he could ever have imagined.

  Big shadows of whales swim in the distance; smaller fish dart past in shoals. All around him everything is waving and glittering and rippling, and she strokes his cheek and swims past him, laughing, and he finally belongs somewhere.

  But dreams are just dreams.

  “Forget it,” says Edward. He is cold and all that bumping has made him feel sick. The road is full of potholes. “Forget it,” he repeats. “I’ve changed my mind. We’re going home.”

  Lampie turns around and stares at him. “You must be mad!”

  “We’ll go another time. I need to think about it first. I have to practise walking. I want to—”

  “We can’t! The fair will be gone,” says Lampie. “They never stay for long. They might not even be there tomorrow. If it’s your mother, then we have to find out now.”

  “I don’t need a mother,” says Edward. “I’ve never had a mother. I’m used to not having a mother. So just take me home.”

  “No,” says Lampie. She is absolutely certain that she must not do that.

  “I am your boss!” Edward says in an angry whisper. “My father is—”

  “Fish,” Lampie suddenly says in a strange voice. “You need to get back under your blanket. Now. And you have to be quiet and not move at all.”

  Someone is coming around the corner, heading towards them, and Lampie immediately sees who it is.

  She looks around. The undergrowth is thick to the left and the right, and there are bushes full of thorns. Can they quickly find something to hide behind? Do they still have time? But the tall figure is swiftly coming closer. Lampie has not forgotten how steadily she always strides.

  Her? Again? she thinks. What is she doing here again?

  THE SCHOOLTEACHER’S HEART

  Yes, what is she doing here? Miss Amalia? On her way to the Black House? Again?

  Nothing in particular, she tells herself. It is Wednesday afternoon, and she has sent those annoying children home. She is just going out for a walk and she is allowed to go wherever she wants. And that just so happens to be here, on the path to… Well, yes. To his house.

  It is quite a climb, and she is slightly out of breath, so she loosens the bow under her chin.

  Even though she is such a great admirer of the admiral, Miss Amalia is not as keen on that house of his. Far too large, and so draughty and dirty. It is no wonder that people start telling strange stories. About monsters and so on. Of course she does not believe a word of it.

  And she also does not like the road that leads there. It is so sinister here, in this dark forest where the sea mist lingers. If someone were to come along… Someone who meant her harm… If she screamed, who would hear her?

  She laughs at herself, because of course there is no one else here. That would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it? Ah, but someone is coming.

  Miss Amalia peers along the road with anxious eyes. But then her face brightens, as she can see who it is now. Oh yes, her eyes are still in excellent condition.

  The girl, Emilia, is walking along, pulling a sort of cart behind her. A cart with something in it. Something that… She sees the girl stopping and trying to turn around. As if she is startled, as if she has something to hide.

  Miss Amalia shakes her head. She might have known.

  A child like that, from that dirty lighthouse. You could be certain, no matter how well behaved and shy she might seem, that she would steal the cushions out from under you as soon as you were not looking. She has stolen something, that girl. Stolen from the house where she was so kindly welcomed, and this is how she pays it back, the ungrateful brat. She is quickly trying to pull a blanket over whatever is in the cart. But not quickly enough, my dear girl.

  The admiral should be grateful, thinks Miss Amalia. At least someone is still keeping an eye on what is going on in his house, as he clearly cannot expect his staff to do so.

  It’s just as well, she will say to him, that someone was around with eyes in her head and your interests at heart.

  You are a marvel, Miss Amalia, he will say with that funny little smile he sometimes has.

  Miss Amalia would rather have a crowd stoning her in the town square than ever tell anyone what she sometimes hopes for. A man all on his own, in that big house. Someone should be keeping an eye on him, shouldn’t they? And why should that someone not be her? She is a woman, is she not?

  “Emilia! What a coincidence, meeting you here like this.” Miss Amalia holds out her hand.

  “Hello, miss,” says Lampie. She gives her hand a very quick shake.

  “You’re not wearing your new dress.”

  New dress? thinks Lampie, and then she remembers. “No…” she says. “It, um…”

  “Were you on your way into town by any chance? Is it your free Wednesday afternoon?”

  That was yesterday, wasn’t it? Oh no, it’s still today. Lampie gives a little nod. “I’m allowed to go to the fair.”

  “To the fair? How nice. Is the admiral home yet?”

  “Not yet, but almost, I think. We’re busy cleaning everything.”

  “And they just let you have the afternoon off?”

  “Yes, I have to, I mean, um, I’m going to…”

  “To the fair, you said? And you’re taking something with you?”

  “No,” says Lampie.

  “So what’s that, then?”

  “Nothing.” Lampie can’t think of anything to say. She sees Fish move a little under the blanket. Oh, please just let her walk on, she thinks. Why won’t the woman leave her alone? Why won’t she mind her own business?

  “You’re probably wondering: why won’t this old woman mind her own business?” She laughs but it does not sound very friendly.

  Lampie shrugs.

  “But I really would very much like to know what you have there. Will you show me?”

  Lampie shakes her head. She sees the blanket move again. Stop it, Fish.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Lampie nods. “Yes, and I really have to get going, miss. I’m sorry.”

  She tries to pull the cart past the schoolteacher.

  Miss Amalia looks at her badly sewn dress and her worn-out shoes. It is not that she does not understand… A child like that, she has never owned very much, and now she is in such a big, wealthy house. It is tempting fate, it really is. Of course it is her duty to inform the admiral and she plans to do exactly that; in fact, she is already looking forward to it. But if anyone in the world has a tender heart, thinks Miss Amalia, then it is her. A big heart. So big that she can’t help but smile at the girl.

  “Emilia, do you know what? Why don’t you show me what you have in the cart and confess to me honestly that you stole it, and then we’ll take it back together?” She looks at Lampie with a serious expression on her face. “Honesty is the best policy, child. Of course the admiral will punish you, as is only fair, but I shall personally ensure that it is not too…” Then Miss Amalia realizes that the girl is not listening to a word she is saying and that she is trying to pull the cart past her.

  “Emilia Waterman, I have given you a chance and, if I were you, I would take it! Show me what you have
under that blanket. This instant!”

  “No, miss.” Sweating away, Lampie struggles to pull the wheel over a stone. “I can’t.”

  “I know very well what you have in there, girl.”

  “Goodbye, miss,” says Lampie. Finally managing to free the wheel, she starts to run. But Miss Amalia has been expecting that.

  “Emilia,” she says sharply, “the game is up.”

  She reaches out one long arm and yanks away the blanket.

  In a flash, she sees it coming for her: pitch-black eyes, sharp teeth. There was a monster under the blanket!

  That’s not possible, thinks Miss Amalia. Monsters don’t exist. But there it is, slithering towards her, opening its jaws to bite…

  “Fish! Don’t do it!” shrieks Lampie.

  And Fish does not do it, not really. His teeth graze the arm of the woman, who stumbles back and falls and opens her mouth to scream. But by then Lampie has thrown the blanket over him, grabbed the handle, and she is running onwards, so quickly that the cart almost tips over and Fish only just manages not to fall out.

  “The m—” Miss Amalia gasps. “That was the m—”

  Lurching and stumbling, Lampie runs on. She glances back over her shoulder, but Miss Amalia is not coming after them. She is still sitting on the ground with her skirts spread out around her. She watches them go, clutching her wrist, until they turn the corner.

  Lampie runs on around another two corners, and then she has to stop to catch her breath. She spots a shed that they can hide behind for a while. Fish pulls the blanket down a little and peeps out.

  “Wh-who was that?” he stutters. His face is completely white.

  Lampie takes a few deep breaths. “That,” she says, “was the teacher from the school.”

  “From the school? Which school?”

  “My school.”

  “You’ve never even been to school.”

  “I have! For two weeks.”

  “And she was your teacher?”

  “Yes, she was my teacher.”

  “Was that when you didn’t learn how to read?”

  “But I did learn how to read.” Lampie giggles. “I could read the letter E.”

  “Oh yes, the E…” Edward laughs too, but then he gives her a worried look. “She saw me,” he says. “No one’s allowed to see me.”

  Lampie shrugs. There is nothing to be done about that now.

  “I hope you give her nightmares,” she says. “Really bad ones.”

  “She’s not coming after us, is she?” Edward asks anxiously.

  “I can’t see anyone.”

  “Maybe we should just go home.”

  “No,” says Lampie firmly. “It’s not very far now. Really.”

  They can see the first houses in the town already. She can hear the fairground music in the distance.

  Staying in the shadows as much as possible, Lampie pulls the cart to the fairground. The tent is off to one side, where there is no music and there are hardly any people.

  Edward peeps through a gap in the blanket. “Are we there yet?”

  “Ssh! Yes, over there in that tent.”

  The fat man is still sitting in his wooden booth, next to the painted boards. He is reading a newspaper now.

  “Only a quarter…” he mumbles, barely looking up.

  A quarter. She had forgotten about that. She does not have a quarter left.

  QUARTER

  The fat man has only one eye that can see; the other is a dark hole with something blue glinting at the bottom. His pale tattooed flesh is pressed up against the glass on every side; he only just fits into the tiny booth. Anyone without a quarter can already admire his entire troupe on his arms: the bird-woman is whistling out of his armpit, the mermaid is coiled around his upper arm and, on his neck, the dwarf is playing cards with a skeleton wearing a top hat.

  Lampie takes a deep breath and walks over to the booth. “I’ve already paid once this afternoon, sir,” she says. “But I’d like to take another quick look. Can I go in for free?”

  The man does not even look up from his yellowing newspaper. “In is in,” he mumbles. “And out is out. Only a quarter.”

  “I don’t have any money,” says Lampie. “But I still need to go in, just for a minute.”

  The eye glances up from the newspaper and at her face. Then the man shakes his head and goes on reading.

  “What if I promise to bring it tomorrow?”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Well, what if I…”

  “Pay up or clear off.”

  Lampie looks at the man in his filthy shirt. With all his tattoos and with that eye, he could easily be a pirate. They used to give her money sometimes, when she sang sailors’ songs for them. The sad ones worked best, the ones about someone who was longing to be where they were not: at home or at sea. Then the tears would run down their cheeks and they would give her everything they had in their pockets: copper, gold, pearls, they did not even look first to see what it was. Sometimes it was pieces of string and fish hooks. She used to have a whole chest full of treasure, which was all hers, her mother said, for when she was older. But one day her father had found it, and the next day it lay empty on the floor. She clears her throat.

  “Sailor, sailor, where do you roam?” she begins to sing. It is far too quiet; he does not even look up. Again. “Sailor…”

  “What are you doing?” whispers Fish, sitting up a little. “When are we going inside? We were going to go into the tent, weren’t we?”

  “Shh!” hisses Lampie. “And don’t move an inch!”

  The man in the booth is still looking at his newspaper. Did he really not notice anything? She stands up, taps on the glass and starts again, louder this time.

  “Sailor, sailor, where do you roam?

  Have you no mother who’s waiting at… um…”

  He looks at her as if she has gone mad. She does not see any tears in his eye or rolling down his cheeks.

  “The lips of the sailor’s bride taste like salt…” Lampie begins, because that one always worked. But it is no good – she can see that already.

  “Well, well,” says the man, with a strange laugh. “A serenade for Uncle Earl. Fancy that! Why would you?…”

  “I wanted… to make an exchange…” whispers Lampie, with a very red face. “I thought, um… a song for an entrance ticket, or… but never mind.” She looks around. If this won’t work, what else can she do?

  “Oh, it was a swap you wanted, was it?” Now the man has put down his newspaper. His eye looks the girl up and down, from head to toe, and he leans as far forward as he can, with the counter pressing into his stomach. “Sweet and silly songs are no good to me.” He smiles, but it is not a very friendly smile. “But I can think of something else…”

  He beckons Lampie closer. Curiously, she takes a step towards him. What could she have to swap? What does she have that he might want?

  The big man purses his lips like a fish. He points at them with one fat finger. “How about a little kiss? Just one? Here?”

  “What?” It takes Lampie a second to understand. “Oh,” she says, taking a step back. “No, thank you.”

  “Two. Two kisses. One for you and one for your cart?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Lampie bends down to grasp the handle of the cart, but instead slips and falls down in the cold mud. The fat man laughs so much that the whole booth shakes.

  “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. Just one would be fine, and you can leave your little cart here. Uncle Earl will keep an eye on it.”

  Lampie walks away, slipping along in the mud, pulling the cart behind her.

  “Ohhh…” she hears from behind her. “Ohhh, what’s just one little peck?” Then he bursts out laughing again. “Mwahaha! The look on her face! Oh, they love me, they do, all the girls! They love me!”

  Three tents on, she can still hear him laughing. She drags the cart roughly over a clump of grass.

  “Ow! Hey!” Edward calls from under th
e blanket. “Ow, stop it! Careful!” Then he bangs his chin on the cart and falls silent. Lampie finds a spot between two tents, with no one else around.

  “Bleurgh,” she says, shivering. “Oh, bleurgh. Yuck.”

  “What?” asks the boy. He is sitting up now. “What happened? What did he want?”

  “A kiss,” spits Lampie.

  “A what?”

  “A kiss.”

  “From you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Lampie shrugs. “He just did,” she says. “That’s what men want, isn’t it? That or a quarter. But I don’t have any quarters.”

  “But you do have kisses?”

  Lampie sighs. Yuck, oh, yuck.

  She rubs her hand over her lips. What should she do? How are they going to get inside that tent? It is getting darker and colder and before long everything will be closed. And she does not want to go back home. Fish will see his mother today – and that is that. So should she just do it? She sighs. Just one, two, three, eyes closed – and hup, they can go into the tent. She thinks about Uncle Earl and she feels a bit sick.

  Inside the cart, Edward is wondering what he is actually doing here. He feels cold under his blanket and the world around him is suddenly so big: music, noise and shouting on every side. Someone might come along at any moment and pull off his blanket, and look and point and scream. He is tired of all the new things around him, tired of getting frights all the time, and his head is suddenly filled with all sorts of thoughts about things he never had to think about before. Mothers. Lips. Kisses.

  He fidgets around; the cart is terribly uncomfortable. Why would anyone want to do that, to kiss someone? To have someone else’s spit on their cheek. On their mouth. In their mouth…

  “Bleurgh,” he says, just like the girl. He peers up at her; in the semi-darkness he can just about make out her face, her mouth, her lips, which look pretty soft, and pink, and spit-free too.