Alistair Grim's Odditorium

by Gregory Funaro

  “Well, what do we have here?” said Mr. Smears, and he pulled to a stop alongside an elegant black coach. Its driver’s seat was flanked by a pair of large lanterns, and on its door was emblazoned an ornate letter G. The horses had already been unharnessed and bedded in the stable, which meant that the owner of the coach (a Mr. G, I assumed) had spent the night at the Lamb.

  “Looks like old Crumbsby’s got himself a fancy pants,” said Mr. Smears, jerking his chin at the coach. “I’ll have to remember that at the end of the day when the devil tries to chisel me for my drink. Ask him for how much he took the fancy pants, I will. That’ll soften him up when he starts waffling on about being strapped for cash.”

  Mr. Smears chuckled to himself and scratched his scar.

  “Shall I unhitch Old Joe, sir?” I asked. I wanted to have a look inside the stables, for certainly Mr. G’s horses must be a breed apart to pull so fine a coach.

  “Bah,” replied Mr. Smears, climbing down after me. “Let Crumbsby’s man do that. It’s only right, us coming here on such short notice.”

  Mr. Smears and I crossed the yard to the Lamb’s back entrance. But before Mr. Smears could knock, Mr. Crumbsby opened the door and gave my master’s arm a hearty shake.

  “I thought I heard you, Smears,” said Mr. Crumbsby, smiling wide. His eyes were puffy with sleep, and his waistcoat was still unbuttoned. “Good of you to come. Business has been slow of late, so I thought it an opportune time to secure your services.”

  “Business been slow, eh?” Mr. Smears said suspiciously, and he jerked his thumb toward the fancy black coach. “Looks like you’ve taken up collecting coaches, then, eh, Crumbsby?”

  “A late arrival yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Crumbsby said, then he lowered his voice. “An odd fellow that one is, too,” he added secretively. “Him and his coachman. Like something out of the Black Forest, I tell you, what with their pale faces and gloomy dispositions.”

  “As long as their money ain’t gloomy,” said Mr. Smears, then he smiled knowingly and lowered his voice too. “And nothing gloomy about the price of lodging going up, I wager. A fine gentleman he is for inconveniencing you during your cleaning season—or some excuse like that you must’ve given him, eh, Crumbsby?”

  Mr. Crumbsby smiled guiltily and ushered us inside. The fires were already roaring as we entered the kitchen, and Mr. Crumbsby’s wife gave us each a slice of bread and cheese before she and her two daughters set about readying the rooms. Of course Mr. Smears protested my share, until Mrs. Crumbsby made her husband promise not to count it against our wages.

  “Besides,” said Mr. Crumbsby, “we’ll settle our account in the tavern at the end of the day. But I warn you, Smears: you’re too shrewd a businessman for the likes of me. I have your word you’ll deal me plain?”

  “That you do,” said Mr. Smears, munching slyly. “That you do.”

  “As for you, Grubb, you’ll remember that you needn’t bother with the kitchen. And you’ll leave the keeper’s cottage until Mrs. Crumbsby tells you it’s ready. I expect the twins should be up and about by midmorning. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, my stomach turning. Mr. Crumbsby treated his lovely daughters, Anne and Emily, as little better than servants. Tom and Terrance, on the other hand, got a sizable allowance every week for doing nothing. But unlike their father, they made no pretense of being strapped, and carried themselves about town like a pair of haughty princes.

  “As for our lone guest,” Mr. Crumbsby continued, “he’s lodged on the second floor. North side, corner room, east wing. He’s paid up for two nights but plans on departing late this afternoon. Wishes not to be disturbed until then, is what he said. I warned him about the goings-on today, but he told me not to fret. ‘Sleeps the sleep of the dead’ is what he said—his words, not mine. You best mind your step up there today, Grubb, and leave the northeast flues for last. You hear me, lad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Grubb knows what’s what,” said Mr. Smears, “and knows even better the back of my hand if he steps out of line. Ain’t that right, Grubb?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come along, then,” said Mr. Crumbsby, and he led Mr. Smears and me into the tavern. The Crumbsby girls had moved all the tables and chairs away from the hearth and laid out sheets of brown paper on the floor. These extended across the tavern to the front door so that I could come and go without tracking soot about the inn.

  “All right, get on with it,” said Mr. Smears with his boot on my bottom. And into the fireplace I went and up the chimney I climbed. “Be mindful of the rooms,” Mr. Smears barked after me. “You know what’s waiting for you if I find so much as a speck of soot on Mrs. Crumbsby’s furniture.”

  “Yes, sir,” I shouted back. Then I heard Mr. Smears chuckle and Mr. Crumbsby offer him a drink.

  All morning I climbed and crawled, scraping my way up through the chimneys on the western wing. A hard go of it I had, and I was thankful when it was time to sweep the hearths and haul the soot bags out to the cart. By noon I’d lost track of how many chimneys I’d swept, but Mrs. Crumbsby and her daughters took pity on me and gave me a slice of beef and a biscuit before I tackled the keeper’s cottage.

  When that was finished, it was back to the inn for the east wing. The flues on this side of the building were much more difficult to navigate, and once or twice I lost my way and popped down the wrong chimney.

  However, as the afternoon wore on, I grew more and more tired, and soon I found myself lost in a pitch-black maze of narrow flues. I can’t tell you how many times I seemed to crisscross back on myself, crawling and squeezing my way around like a worm in the dirt, when finally I saw a light coming from below.

  Mindful of Mr. Crumbsby’s guest in the northeast corner, I popped down the chimney ready to shoot back up. Lucky for me it was one of the chimneys I’d swept earlier. I recognized the rolled up carpet and the covered mass of furniture in the center of the room.

  Not so lucky for me, however, was that the Crumbsby twins were now in the center of the room too.

  “Well looky-look,” Tom said sneeringly. “An invader come to storm our castle.”

  The twins’ freckled faces were smeared with jam. And even though they were dressed alike, I could always tell which one was Tom by the chip in his left front tooth.

  “I thought I smelled something foul coming from the chimneys,” he added, rising with a stick in his hand. He’d obviously been playing at swords with his brother.

  “I thought I smelled something too,” said Terrance, smiling wide. “A rat gone up and died in there is what I thought.”

  “You don’t look dead,” said Tom, stepping forward. “But you look like a rat. A big black rat what’s left his poop in our castle.”

  “A little black rat is more like it,” said Terrance, stepping up also. “His bottom still smelly from pooping, I wager.”

  “But there’s nowhere to poop now, is there, rat?”

  “Nowhere to run now, either.”

  The boys were right. Even though the Crumbsby twins were slower than honey in winter, they were too close for me to dart back up the chimney. And before I could think of what to do next, fat Tom Crumbsby came for me with his stick.

  He swiped for my head, but I ducked the blow easily and sent him flying past me into the hearth. His face hit the stone straight on.

  “Ow!” he cried, his hands flying up to his mouth. “My toof!”

  But Terrance was close behind, and the two of us collided in a cloud of soot. Terrance held me in a bear hug for a moment, but on his next breath he loosened his grip and started choking.

  “Agh!” he coughed. “Soot!”

  I twisted free and rushed from the room, leaving great patches of black everywhere I stepped and on everything I touched. My stomach squeezed with horror at the sight of it—Mr. Crumbsby’ll have my head, I thought—and then Tom began blubbering behind me. “My toof!” he shrieked. “Grubb broke my uhffer toof!”

  “Stop him
!” his brother called, but I was already down the hallway and heading for the stairs. I took them two at a time and ran into Mrs. Crumbsby on the landing. I nearly knocked her over, and whether from the sight of me or the trail of soot in my wake, the kindhearted woman let out a shriek that I thought would collapse the stairs from under us.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” I said as I flew past, but I didn’t dare look back to see if she was all right, for when I reached the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Crumbsby was already waiting for me.

  “What’s this, what’s this?” he gasped.

  “My toof!” Tom Crumbsby cried from above. “He broke my uhffer toof!”

  “Why, you little rat,” Mr. Crumbsby growled, grabbing for my collar, but I quickly dodged him and dashed down the hallway. Emily, the elder of the Crumbsby girls, stepped out from the parlor, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Pardon me, miss,” I said as I passed.

  The only way out for me now was through the tavern. And as I ran for it, above the din I heard a voice in my head telling me the Crumbsbys were the least of my worries. No, nothing could compare to what Mr. Smears had in store for me when we got back to the cottage. And at the exact moment I saw him swinging for me in my mind, the hulking man with the scar appeared in the tavern doorway.

  “What’s the row?” he growled.

  “Stop him!” Mr. Crumbsby shouted behind me. But the drink had long ago done its work, and in his confusion Mr. Smears lost his balance and braced himself against the doorjamb.

  “Grubb!” was all he could manage, and I dove straight between his legs.

  I slid for a stretch on my stomach then sprang to my feet, nearly slipped on all the sooty brown paper, then found my footing again and headed for the front door. Mr. Smears must have fallen as he turned round, for behind me I heard a thud and a “Bah!” and then Mr. Crumbsby shouting, “Out of my way, you oaf!”

  The afternoon light was quickly fading, but I could see the outside world through the open door ahead of me. Freedom was within my reach—but then I saw young Anne Crumbsby, eyes wide, mouth gaping, with her hand on the door latch.

  “The door!” Mr. Crumbsby shouted. “Close the blasted door!”

  But I kept running and—oh, Anne! Sweet Anne!

  The young girl giggled and let me pass!

  “Thank you, miss,” I whispered as I burst outside, but I never knew whether or not she heard me.

  “After him!” Mr. Crumbsby cried from within.

  “After him!” Mr. Smears cried too.

  A pair of men who were approaching from the road blocked my way at the gate, so I darted left and ran around the inn along the high stone wall. I remembered there was a break in the wall by the keeper’s cottage, but when I got there, I spied Mr. Crumbsby’s groom and stableboy heading straight for me. They’d been poaching rabbits at the edge of the forest, and each carried with him a long-barreled musket.

  I hesitated, when suddenly I heard Mr. Crumbsby and Mr. Smears out front shouting, “Which way? Which way?” and “You go left; I go right!” And so I stepped back inside the yard and ran past the keeper’s cottage toward the stables.

  The fancy black coach with the G on its door had been readied for departure. Its curtains were drawn, and a pair of fine black steeds had been harnessed at the fore. Drawing closer, I noticed the door to the storage bed was down, and on the ground at the rear of the coach I spied a large, black trunk. The coachman, distracted by all the racket, had abandoned it to investigate, and as I glanced toward the inn, I caught a glimpse of his coattails as he disappeared around the corner.

  “What’s all the commotion, Nigel?” a man asked. His voice, deep and genteel, had come from inside the coach.

  Mr. G, I thought—and then I realized I’d stopped running.

  “Nigel?” Mr. G called again.

  All at once, it seemed, I could hear footsteps and voices approaching from every direction. I thought about making a dash for the stables, but when the coach’s silver door handle began to turn, I decided to try for the trunk.

  It was unlocked, and along with some neatly folded clothes there appeared to be just enough space for me. I climbed inside, pulled my knees up to my chest, and closed the lid. My heart pounded at my ribs, and I hardly dared to breathe, but what little air I allowed my lungs in the cramped, dark trunk smelled musky and strange.

  In the next moment I heard the coach door swing open and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching in the dirt.

  “Pardon me, sir,” came a voice, panting. It was Mr. Crumbsby. “But did you happen to see a young boy come this way?”

  “A beggar, he looks like,” growled another voice—Mr. Smears. “Black with soot and fit for the gallows, is what he is.”

  “I’ve seen no one of the sort,” said Mr. G. “But whatever he’s done to you, I’m sure you gentlemen deserved it.”

  “Bah!” said Mr. Smears.

  “Come on, then,” said Mr. Crumbsby. And as the men hurried off, I heard Mr. Crumbsby’s groom yell, “I’ll ready the hounds, sir! He can’t have gone far!”

  Then the sound of more footsteps approaching.

  “What was that all about?” asked Mr. G.

  “Don’t know, sir,” said another man’s voice, this one higher and friendlier than Mr. G’s. “Something about a chimney sweep. Didn’t get all of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Very well, then, Nigel. Let’s be on our way.”

  “Right-o, sir.”

  I heard the coach door close, some more shuffling in the dirt, and then I felt myself being lifted up off the ground. My head thumped against the inside of the trunk as Nigel loaded it onto the storage bed and closed the door.

  A moment later we were off. And after I felt us swing onto the road and pick up speed, I dared to raise the lid just enough to prop open the door and peek out.

  The light had grown fainter, and above the horses and the rattling of the coach wheels I could hear Mr. Crumbsby’s hounds baying in the distance. The Lamb quickly got smaller and smaller as we sped away, but only when I saw it disappear behind a bend of trees did I allow myself a sigh of relief.

  We were heading southeast along the turnpike, which would take us around town and into the country. A bit of pretty luck, as Mr. Smears would say.

  Mr. Smears!

  And just like that my relief turned to horror. What was I to do now? Where could I go? Surely never back to Mr. Smears, or to our town, for that matter. Mr. Smears would find me and send me to the workhouse for sure!

  I sank back down into the trunk and closed the lid. The workhouse and all the rest of it were too scary for me to think about now. Besides, I was safe for the moment where I was. And where was that? Why, inside a trunk on the back of a speeding coach, thank you very much. Come to think of it, I’d much rather spend the night all warm and snug in a trunk than in a cold stable. However, when I thought about Old Joe having to spend the night alone in his stall, I began to feel sad.

  Chin up, I said to myself in the dark. Mr. Smears’ll find another chummy for Old Joe to huddle up with. First thing is to get as far away from Mr. Smears as possible, which you’re already doing. Next thing will be to jump from the trunk when the time is right. That’s plenty for you to worry about now.

  But how far from Mr. Smears was far enough? And how would I know when the time was right to jump? These questions were enough to keep me occupied as we traveled on. And occasionally I’d peek as though I’d hoped to find the answers out there in the passing countryside.

  The darkness came quickly, but the moon was full, and when next I peeked from the trunk I spied a great buttercup-filled meadow rolling past me. It looked like waves of sparkling silver in the moonlight, and for a moment I tried to remember if I had ever seen anything so beautiful.

  “That’s far enough, Nigel,” called Mr. G.

  I shut myself back inside and listened as we came to a stop. Nothing. No footsteps or jostling from the coach, either. So I dared to crack open the lid again.

  “Rea
dy, Nigel?”

  “Right-o, sir,” the coachman replied.

  “It’s all yours,” Mr. G said gently. Then I heard a strange cooing sound—like that of a pigeon, only higher—but before I had time to wonder at it, I was startled by a loud crack and a flash of blinding yellow light.

  I thumped my head on the top of the trunk and shrank back inside.

  The horses whinnied, and I felt a great lurch forward. We were moving again, but unlike before, the coach was now shaking feverishly, up and down and side to side. I tried to open the trunk to see what was happening, but then the shaking abruptly stopped and a great force pulled me down.

  Another lurch, this one more powerful than the first, and then everything became…well…smooth is the only way I could describe it. We were no longer moving, but it felt as if we were no longer stopped, either.

  I cracked open the trunk and a great wind rushed past me, blowing the soot from my hair like the tail of some great black comet. I could see nothing but sky, and popping my head out a bit farther, I realized the sky was not just above me but all around me too.

  I flung open the trunk, lifted the storage bed door, and peered out over the side of the coach.

  It took a moment for everything to sink in.

  There was the meadow of silver buttercups rolling beneath me; beyond that, great patches of jagged black trees; and farther still, clusters of tiny lights and the outline of our town against the sky. I recognized the steeple to our church, and for some reason felt sorry that I hadn’t had a chance to properly say good-bye to Mrs. Smears before I went flying about the countryside.

  That’s when it hit me.

  “I’m flying!” I gasped.

  And then I was falling backward into the trunk again—the sound of the lid slamming down on me the last thing I remember before everything went black.

  I suspect Nigel must have awakened me when he unloaded the trunk from the coach. But as I came to, everything was so still and quiet there in the cramped darkness that I thought I’d fallen asleep inside one of Mr. Crumbsby’s chimneys. The air was hot and stale, and my mouth was dry and tasted of soot.