Shadowghast
Page 3
And straightaway I know the answer to that. It may be that I have no memory of my life before Eerie-on-Sea, but—against all the odds—I have been able to find out something about it: I know the name of the ship I was on, the ship that struck an iceberg and was wrecked.
I found this out with Violet, on our last big adventure together, around the time I got Clermit. But right now, the most important thing about it is this: as far as I’m aware, only two other people in the world know the name of the ship, and Violet would never tell.
And the other person? Well, he’s dead.
So I see no way that a complete stranger could ever know that I was aboard a cruise ship called SS Fabulous.
“The name of the ship,” I say. “Tell me the name of the ship.”
Caliastra nods.
“Well?” asks Lady Kraken.
“First let me set the scene,” Caliastra replies as Lady Kraken’s eyes begin to narrow again. “Earlier in my career I took a few tours on cruise ships, as part of the onboard show. Lots of performers do that when they’re starting out, and all the best luxury liners had a magician back then. Your father was a pianist and—no, don’t get up! I will tell you all about him later, Herbie, I promise, but the main thing to know is that you come from a family of entertainers.”
“And his mother?” Lady Kraken demands.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said his father was a pianist. What about his mother?”
“Oh, she was part of the show, too.” Caliastra waves the question away. Then she turns back to me. “Herbie, your parents needed work, and I got them places in my cruise ship show. And not a day has gone by that I haven’t regretted it.”
“The name?” says Lady Kraken. “None of this is proof of anything. Tell us the name of the ship.”
Caliastra glances between us both and lets the crafty look come back over her face again. She gets to her feet, lifts the plate of freshly baked pastries from the table, and offers it to me.
“Breakfast, Herbie?” she says. “These are your favorites, aren’t they?”
Automatically I take the topmost croissant and feel its buttery perfection between my fingers. On any other occasion I would probably cram the whole thing in my mouth and spend the next three minutes blissfully chomping. But not today. My nostrils fill with Caliastra’s perfume as she smiles down at me. The strange pattern on her coat seems to swirl. And suddenly I can’t stand it.
What if she says the right name?
What if she doesn’t?
“I have to go!” I blurt out, jumping up and backing away from the table, from Lady K, from this whole impossible situation. I run for the door.
“Herbie!” Caliastra cries out. “Wait!”
But I don’t want to wait. I fling the door open and almost fall back into the room at the sight of Mr. Mummery standing there. He is straightening quickly. Was he listening at the door? Then I notice the other two men—Rictus and Tristo—behind him. I see immediately why their faces were so disturbing earlier, in the half-light of the sitting room. Both men are wearing heavy black-and-white face paint—one with a leering grin, the other with a terrible frown. They step forward, as if startled at my sudden appearance, and raise their hands to grab hold of me.
“Leave him!” Caliastra commands from inside the room.
I don’t hang around to see if they obey. I’m off down the corridor like a firework up a drainpipe, the croissant still clutched in one hand. I ignore the elevator and fly down the stairs, three at a time.
“Herbie!” I hear the magician cry, far behind me. “Herbie, I’m sorry!”
I don’t stop running till I’m out through the great revolving doors of the hotel, and the cold air of autumn has slapped me in the face. I stumble across the cobblestones to the seawall and lean against it, gasping for breath, trying to get my thoughts straight.
Has it finally happened?
The one thing left that could still have the power to make me doubt everything else?
I’ve been Herbert Lemon, Lost-and-Founder at the Grand Nautilus Hotel, for as long as I can remember. It’s who I am. But deep down I’ve never been able to quite forget that it isn’t my real name, that it’s not who I really am. The name Herbie was given to me because I had no memory of any other. Dr. Thalassi, the town’s medical man, used to say that in time my memories would return one day. They never have, and the doc doesn’t mention it anymore. I’d almost given up on finding the truth. But now, has that truth come to find me?
Below me the ocean crashes gray and white on either side of the pier. The seagulls wheel through the sky above and cry their pterodactyl cries. One of them swoops for the croissant in my hand, but I swipe the bird away. Then I set off at a run down Spindrift Alley and into the ancient, twisting streets of Eerie-on-Sea.
I need somewhere to hide for a bit and think. And I know just the place.
There’s a rule of Lost-and-Foundering that says A problem shared isn’t a problem at all. It’s an adventure.
I sometimes wonder if my friend Violet wrote this rule and sneaked it in with the rest. I’m wondering this again as I reach Dolphin Square, high on Eerie Rock, and approach Violet’s home. The wind is raw and loaded with dead leaves, and the only people I see are hurrying across the square, heads down, looking as cold as I feel. It turns out it’s easy to forget to put on a coat and scarf when you are running away from . . .
From what?
“A long-lost aunt?” I say aloud to the dolphin statue in the middle of the square. “Or the possibility that she’s . . . something else?”
“You can run from the truth all you like, Herbert Lemon,” says a lazy voice from somewhere, “but you can never hide from it.”
I look around. There is no one there—just the whistling of the wind and the rattle of window shutters—but then I notice, up on the weathered green head of the bronze dolphin, a white cat with ice-blue eyes, sitting, licking one paw, and pretending to ignore me.
It’s Erwin, the bookshop cat.
“Is that supposed to be helpful?” I ask him.
But, of course, Erwin says nothing.
The bookshop itself is close by, its wide bay window dark and mysterious with a hint of warm light inside. I call it the “bookshop,” but the painted letters across the glass describe it slightly differently:
Have you ever been to the book dispensary in Eerie-on-Sea? I think you’d know if you had. Surely, no one could forget the grotesque mermonkey that squats in the window and leers horribly at everyone who pauses before it.
“Herbie!” comes a cry as the door of the shop is flung open with the ding of a bell. A head appears, beneath a mass of wild black curls, and a pair of brown eyes flash at me. “There you are! Have you only just gotten my note? What kind of Lost-and-Founder are you if I can’t find you when I’ve lost something?”
“Er . . .” I say. “Hello, Violet.”
As is often the case with my friend Violet Parma, I already feel as if she’s two pages ahead of me.
“You said something about an emergency?” I suddenly feel a bit bad for ignoring Vi’s note.
“Yes!” Violet says, beckoning impatiently. “At least, maybe. I . . . I don’t know. But don’t just stand there looking surprised, Herbie. Come in!”
And so, I come in.
Inside the bookshop, I’m surprised to see no cheery blaze in the great marble fireplace. It’s still warmer in here than outside, though, so I flop gratefully into one of the big tatty armchairs. Gazing up, I see the countless spines of books around me, rising, shelf over shelf, up every wall to the ceiling. And beyond that ceiling—colored midnight blue and painted with constellations of tiny glittering stars—I can almost sense the mass of books upstairs, as they continue, volume upon volume, story after story, right to the top of Eerie-on-Sea’s strangest bookshop.
In the window the mermonkey sits, its hairy back to me now, coiled on its iridescent fish tail before an antique black typewriter. It holds out a battered top hat f
or an offering from all those who would consult it.
Outside of my Lost-and-Foundery—and perhaps Mr. Seegol’s fish and chip diner on the pier—the main room of the Eerie bookshop, beside the fire, is my favorite place in Eerie-on-Sea. And just the hideout I need to get my thoughts about Caliastra together. But today something doesn’t seem quite right. The books, now that I look at them again, are jumbled and untidy on their shelves, as if someone had been rifling through them and didn’t much care about the mess they made.
“There’s no time to sit, Herbie,” Violet declares, grabbing her coat. “We need to get out there and look. The trail is already growing cold.”
“Look?” I blink. “Trail?”
“I’ve written down everything that might be important.” Violet rummages in her pocket and pulls out a well-thumbed notebook. Then she nods at the crumpled croissant in my hand. “You can eat your breakfast on the way.”
It’s only then that Violet seems to notice that I’m not her normal, dependable Herbie today.
“Hey, wait. Are you all right?” Violet shoves the notebook back in her pocket and peers at my face. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Well, I’ve seen a guest,” I reply, “who might be a ghost. At least, in a way.”
And I tell Violet about the extraordinary woman with the raven hair who has just checked into the hotel. And about her even more extraordinary claims about me.
“Your aunt?” Vi stares at me in astonishment as I stammer to the end of my account. “But that’s . . . wonderful, Herbie. I think. Isn’t it?”
I do an enormous shrug.
“It is wonderful,” I agree, “but . . .”
“But you’re wondering if she’s really who she says she is.” Violet nods, seeing right through me, as ever. “So, did she know the name? The name of the ship?”
“I, um, I sort of left before she could answer,” I reply. “But she had the chance to tell me and didn’t. Actually, she seemed to be stalling. And Lady K didn’t look too impressed. So, I suppose she doesn’t know it, after all, and everything she says is a load of old nonsense.”
“And yet, you’re not quite sure it is nonsense, are you?”
Violet is peering into my eyes now. Sometimes I think she can read me like a book.
“Caliastra,” Violet says then, testing the name out just as I did when I first heard it. “I think I’ve heard of her. Isn’t there a famous magician named Caliastra? On television?”
“Television?”
“We can look her up,” Violet says. “But right now all I know is this: if I’d been on an ocean liner that had struck an iceberg and sunk far out in the ocean, and I had somehow managed to survive, I think I’d remember the ship’s name, at least.”
“I forgot it, though, didn’t I?” I reply. “When they found me washed up, I couldn’t remember a thing.”
Violet has no answer to that. She flops down in the other armchair and looks at me some more from inside her hair.
“It probably is all rubbish, anyway,” I declare then, almost convincing myself. “But at least I got a croissant out of it.”
And I tear the battered pastry into two halves and give one to Violet.
“Why would someone play such a sick joke on me?” I manage to say between chews, as golden flakes rain down the front of my uniform. “I almost wonder if old Mollusc is in on it somehow. Maybe this is part of some plan to get rid of me, once and for all. He’s tried every other way . . .”
But I see that Violet isn’t eating. She’s staring into her half of the croissant, her eyes big and round.
“What?” I ask.
But Violet doesn’t reply. Instead she reaches into the heart of the pastry and pulls something out of it, something that was concealed inside. She holds it up to catch the light.
It’s a metal tube.
“One end looks as if it will screw off,” says Vi, shaking the tube and making a dull rattle sound. “Herbie, I think there’s something inside!”
I have to wipe my buttery fingers on a napkin before I can get a grip on the metal tube. Then I twist off the end and tip the tube into my palm. A rolled-up slip of paper slides out.
“What is it?” demands Violet.
I remember how when I asked Caliastra, “What is the name of the ship?” she offered me the plate of pastries in response. I also remember the crafty look in her eyes.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that this is the payoff to a magic trick I didn’t even know was happening.”
And I unroll the slip.
The paper is crinkly, as if it has once spent time in the sea. It’s printed on one side with a date and time of departure and a list of distant, exotic ports I’ve barely heard of. At the top is a drawing of an enormous ocean liner with four funnels, and above the drawing—in grand letters—is the name of a ship:
On the other side some details have been stamped on with green ink. Even though they are sea-faded and smudged, it is still possible to read the words:
ISSUED TO: PERFORMER KNOWN AS “CALIASTRA,” MAGICIAN NONTRANSFERABLE
2ND CLASS ACCOMMODATION
“It’s a ticket!” I cry, handing it over to Violet. “She must have put this in the croissant before I even got to Lady K’s room. It’s the proof I asked for. She was on the ship with me.”
“But how did she know what you would ask,” Violet replies, turning the ticket over in her hands, “before you even asked it?”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Until I am.
“She’s a magician, isn’t she?” I shrug. “Maybe she used magic.”
Violet snorts, unimpressed.
“Lucky guess, more like it. Besides, if this is the only proof she has, what else would she hide in the croissant? ‘Magic,’ my foot, Herbie! I’d like to meet this magician of yours for myself. She wouldn’t get any tricks past me!”
And that’s when there’s a sharp tapping on the shop window. We both look up in surprise.
Caliastra is peering in at us through the glass of the shop door, her raven hair whipping in the wind. She smiles a half smile of apology.
“Is that her?” says Violet with a gasp.
But I don’t need to answer that, do I? Instead I get up and let the magician in.
“I owe you an apology,” Caliastra says as she steps into the shop in a gust of cold wind. She is still dressed in her strange black coat, and she carries a honey-colored walking cane of twisted glass. “I’ve handled this badly from the start. I don’t want you to feel you have to run away from me, Herbie. I never want that. I’m really, really sorry I gave you such a shock.”
“But how did you know I would be here?” I say, amazed.
Caliastra’s face slips into a conspiratorial expression that makes me feel as though we’re both in on some secret together. She leans in toward me, and I find myself leaning in, too.
“I’d like to be able to wave my hands mysteriously and say, ‘By magic, Herbie. By magic!’ But, well, that wouldn’t be true,” Caliastra confesses. “I followed you. Plain and simple.”
Then she straightens and looks around the shop.
“Of course, I’ve heard of the Eerie Book Dispensary, and I hoped to visit it during my stay in town. So, let’s just say I’ve come here earlier than expected.”
Her dark eyes fall on Violet.
“Oh,” she says, “who’s your friend?”
I do a quick introduction, and Violet and Caliastra shake hands.
“Violet works here,” I explain. “She’s Jenny’s assistant.”
“Jenny?”
“Jenny Hanniver,” says Violet. “She’s the owner of this place. I help her customers consult the mermonkey.”
“Ah, yes!” Caliastra beams a bright smile and turns to the hairy creature hunched in the window. “The famous mermonkey of Eerie-on-Sea.”
“It’s the mermonkey who chooses your book for you,” explains Violet. “Probably not the book you want, or the book you were expecting, but . . .”
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” she says, gesturing with her glass cane. “But quite a brute. I imagine the mechanism must be a wonder to behold . . .”
And she reaches out as if to pull open the mermonkey’s waistcoat.
“No!” Violet cries, making Caliastra snatch her hand back. “I mean, Jenny prefers it if customers don’t touch,” Violet continues, smiling widely in apology. “Sorry. Would you, um, would you like to try the mermonkey for yourself?”
Caliastra arches one eyebrow at Violet. Then she turns back to consider the mermonkey, tapping the top of her glass cane—which is formed into the shape of an owl—on her perfect teeth. The mermonkey grins back at her, its own teeth like filthy yellow dominoes. A fat bluebottle fly buzzes around it and comes to land on its hat. The fly’s metallic backside is as iridescent as the mermonkey’s tail or Caliastra’s embroidered coat. The magician looks entirely at ease before the hideous fish-tailed monkey, as if she and it belong to the same world of mystery and secrets. Then Caliastra smiles.
“I believe I will,” she says finally. “I presume I put a coin in its hat?”
Violet nods.
Caliastra removes her gloves and slides a change purse from her coat pocket. She pulls out a coin and drops it in the hat.
Nothing happens.
She drops in another, which clinks against the first.
Still nothing happens.
“I see!” says Caliastra, putting her hands on her hips. “It knows its own worth, clearly.”
“Sometimes it’s a little, um, slow,” Violet says, with an embarrassed shrug.
Caliastra glances at me and winks. Then she tips up her change purse entirely and a shower of loose change tinkles out of sight into the shadow of the mermonkey’s hat.