The Grimoire of Kensington Market

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Come again soon, I hope,” said Srebrenka.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “THIS AIN’T THE PLACE FOR YOU NO MORE,” Lumpy said to Maggie once they were outside.

  He sounded miffed. Doubtless he was eager to be rid of her and get back to the couch at Srebrenka’s. Maggie considered. Her body felt lead encased. She wanted to go home and stay home. Kyle’s face as a twelve-year-old – tearful, red with frustration – flashed before her, saying if she left him and went to live with her boyfriend, Lenny, he’d hate her forever. “Don’t leave me here with them,” he’d cried. Don’t leave me. Little Brother of the Sparrow.

  Badger sat by her side, gazing up into her face, so trusting. “I’m coming back, but … the dog. I can’t bring him back with me.”

  “Pity. Looks like a scrapper to me. Why not take him?”

  Badger looked up at Lumpy and wagged his tail. Maggie didn’t want to admit she was afraid of what might happen to Badger, more concerned about him than Lumpy. Badger would die trying to protect her. Lumpy might well turn heel and abandon her, might race back to the pipe. It’s what she would have done, once.

  “Let’s face it, once I come back I might never leave.” At least Lumpy didn’t insult her intelligence by denying this. “Give me the day.” She handed him some money. “Go back to Srebrenka’s and take a journey. Meet me tomorrow and when we’re all done, I’ll give you enough cash to make sure Srebrenka’s good to you for as long as you want.”

  “Long as I want?” His eyes glittered. “How can you do that?”

  Telling a Piper one was wealthy was imprudent. “I’ve never lied to you, have I?”

  He regarded her for a moment, then grunted. “Fine. But I don’t like you thinking I’m only helping because of the elysium. Got a soft spot for you. Didn’t think I’d see you back here. It’s a bit upsetting. I’ve half a mind to walk away from this whole business.”

  “I need you.” She looked around at the weirdly unfamiliar streets. “I’d be lost without you. You’re about my only hope – Kyle’s only hope.”

  He spat colourfully on the stones near his feet. “Like I want to be a goddamn hero. I must be nuts. But come on.”

  Badger padded along in front of them. Every few yards he stopped and looked back, checking they were keeping up. It was very cold, and Maggie kept her hands plunged deep in her pockets. Their breath puffed out ahead of them. As they rounded a corner, Badger stopped, sniffed the air and ran back to Maggie’s side. His tongue flicked, and he cocked his head first this way, and then that.

  “What’s the matter, Badge?” She tried to make him sit, but he refused, his eyes fastened on the corner.

  What was that sound? High pitched. Voices? Maggie looked to Lumpy for clues.

  Lumpy scowled. “Kids.”

  Badger barked, and the voices got louder. Around the corner skittered a jumbled mob of small bodies. For a moment, it appeared as though they were one large body, low to the ground, with many legs. The mass stopped and separated into individual shapes. A boy stepped forward as though protecting the rest. It took her a moment to recognize him. It was Peter, with the plaid jacket. He looked different here, more feral, dangerous.

  Badger growled, low and long. “Hush, hush,” said Maggie. “What are they doing here?”

  “Trying to find their parents,” said Lumpy. “Used to be only one or two of ’em, but now, look, six, seven … Parents are Pipers and the children left to scrounge till they get back, but some of them never come back, do they? They go too deep and never come home for little Billy, so little Billy comes here, thinking Mummy’ll turn up one day.” The big man snorted. “They can be a nuisance.”

  Peter Pan, thought Maggie. The lost boys.

  Peter rocked side to side, his hands dangling loose by his sides. “Evening, Lump.”

  “Ain’t got nothing for you tonight, Pete.”

  “Come on, there’s always something.” The boy rubbed his nose on his sleeve. He jerked his chin in Maggie’s direction. “Hey,” he said. “Guess I should have expected you, sooner or later.”

  “Where are your parents, Peter?”

  Lumpy elbowed her. “You know him?”

  “He brought me the messages from Kyle.”

  “Don’t trust what he tells you. He runs errands for all sorts, if you know what I mean.”

  The boy drew himself up and scowled. “You saying I’m not honest? I’m no Piper. That’s why I get to do errands, because I can be trusted. More than I can say for some.”

  Lumpy took a step forward and so did the boy. Badger barked and edged forward, sideways, as though putting himself between Maggie and the mob of children. Just as Maggie called him back one of the smaller kids – a girl with a butterfly barrette in her wheat-coloured hair, a Toronto Maple Leafs jacket and pink boots with pompoms – broke from the pack and hurled herself at the dog. Her lashes and eyebrows were so pale she looked like a little rabbit.

  “Puppy!” She wrapped her arms around the shocked canine. Badger’s hackles sprang up and his ears flattened.

  Maggie lunged for the dog, sure he would snap.

  “Puppy, puppy, nice puppy,” the child cooed as she buried her face in Badger’s ruff.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said Lumpy.

  “Come on, there, let go of the dog,” said Maggie as Badger rolled his eyes, pleading with her. “He doesn’t know you. He might bite.” She put her hand on the child’s arm and tried to pull her away.

  The little girl looked at her, big brown eyes full of tears. “No. No. He won’t bite. I had a puppy at home. I love puppy.”

  Badger’s lip curled, and his tongue flicked. “Badger, gentle.”

  “That dog bites Mindy and I’m gonna kill it,” said Peter, who had picked up a brick.

  “Let go of the dog, Mindy.” Maggie tried to pry the girl’s fingers loose, but she held on tighter, and then suddenly pulled back, so her face was level with the dog’s muzzle. Before Maggie could stop her Mindy kissed the dog on his nose.

  “See, nice puppy. Good puppy.”

  Much to Maggie’s astonishment, Badger licked the child’s face, just once, as though, Maggie feared, tasting her, and then again, and again, tail wagging. The child giggled and said, “Nice puppy, silly dog, good dog.”

  “Okay, that’s enough. That’s enough, the two of you,” Maggie said.

  With that the little girl tipped backward on her bottom, still laughing, and Badger looked up again at Maggie, tongue lolling. “Sit,” she said. “Good dog. Enough.”

  The not-terribly-clean children had gathered round. Several of them sucked their thumbs. They fidgeted in their ill-fitting coats and jackets, clearly scavenged hand-me-downs. A couple reached to pet Badger, but he moved beyond their grasp.

  “I’d leave him if I were you. He isn’t used to children.”

  “Stand back, you little monsters,” said Lumpy.

  How did these children survive? What did they eat? Where did they sleep? Maggie had an appalling urge to gather them up into her arms, to soothe them, brush the hair from their eyes, wipe their snotty little noses. She shivered.

  “Give us something,” said Peter.

  “Didn’t I already give you something?” asked Maggie.

  “You see how many mouths I got to feed?”

  None of the rest of the children said a word, not even the previously dog-drunk little girl. They merely stared their despairing stares, dull eyed and mute.

  “Get lost.” Lumpy waved his arm around as though to sweep them all away with a blow of his anvil-like hand.

  “Hang on.” Maggie reached into her pocket. She feared in their need they might swarm, trying to steal everything, and there was a limit to Badger’s tolerance. “Be good and I’ll give you something.” The children waited, taut as bowstrings. She handed Peter
a few bills; she wasn’t sure how many.

  He snatched the money and it disappeared into the folds of his clothing.

  “You’ll make sure they’re fed?”

  “I take care of my own!”

  And with that the little tribe disappeared down an alley so quickly they might never have been there. Maggie was taken aback by how differently the boy behaved, but doubtless he had to be tougher here. Could he really be taking care of all those children? Children caring for children. She felt sick.

  “You’re a soft idiot, aren’t ya?” said Lumpy.

  “Probably.”

  They retraced their way through the twisting lanes. Maggie gave up trying to find familiar landmarks. It occurred to her Lumpy might be leading her deeper and deeper into the heart of the Forest; he might be quite content to steal the rest of her money and go back to Srebrenka’s. However, at last they turned a corner and Lumpy stopped and pointed.

  “That’s the opening, there.”

  She squinted. Yes, she saw they had, in fact, returned to the border. Street lights on Queen Street twinkled welcomingly, never mind that the street itself looked, well, shorter. Queen Street ran for miles and miles and yet looking toward the west, and then the east, Maggie fancied she could see from Spadina to Coxwell. That couldn’t be. Apart from the fact it was.

  “You’ll be all right now.” Lumpy’s eyes darted back the way they’d come and his fingers twitched.

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks.” She reached to at least shake his hand, but he was already loping back into the shadows, probably to Srebrenka and her silver dreams. “Tomorrow night, then?” she called.

  He turned. “Mags, don’t come back if you can help it.”

  * * *

  THE ROADS HOME WERE BOTH FAMILIAR AND UNFAMILIAR; space truncated, shrunken. She remembered what the boy had said about the Necropolis having shifted to a spot near the Forest. It was a place she knew well.

  Kyle was ten, and they hadn’t been living with Horace and Phyllis Gallagher all that long. It was dinnertime and he hadn’t come back from school yet. Phyllis sent her to look for him. It was mid-winter and had been dark for hours by the time she pulled on her boots and headed out to hunt for him, slouching, more irritated at being pulled away from her book than worried.

  She went up and down the street but saw no one. She went around the school, thinking he might be in the playground. It was then, standing in the shadowed, deserted playground, that she started ever so slightly to panic. What had he been wearing when she saw him that morning? He’d said nothing about staying late anywhere or about going to someone’s house. He had no friends she could think of, who might have invited him to dinner. Perhaps he’d gone to the Necropolis. Lots of kids went there to play among the headstones. Kyle liked it there, although he preferred to go alone. In another family, children his age might not be left to wander the streets alone. In this family, they were.

  She turned back the way she’d come, passing the house. She popped her head in to see if he’d turned up, but there was no sign of him. Phyllis stood in the kitchen, opening a can of spaghetti sauce. She wore a sweatshirt on which rhinestones spelled out the word Paris. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, dropping ashes on her chest. Past her, in the living room, Maggie’s cousins Ben and Brian were watching some violent movie and pummelling each other.

  “I’m going to look in the cemetery,” Maggie said. “Do you think we should call the police?”

  “What for?” Phyllis said. “He’s only being thoughtless, as usual. No point getting everyone in a flap. I’m not ruining dinner for him. We’re eating. Brian, Ben, get your sisters.”

  “I’ll find him,” said Maggie. She grabbed a flashlight hanging from a string near the door.

  She jogged to the Necropolis and ducked into the entry between the Gothic revival pavilion and the chapel. Inside, last night’s snow softened the landscape and brightened it. She called Kyle’s name and listened. Nothing. She noticed a ghostly trail of children’s footsteps and followed them deeper into the cemetery, past stone angels and urns and obelisks and Celtic crosses. “Kyle? Kyle!” She stepped toward something dark on the ground and shone the flashlight on it. A stain in the snow. Her heart skipped. It appeared more black than red now, but how red it must have been when first it was spilled. And quite a lot of it. There was so much disturbance in the snow it was hard, for a moment, to tell … but yes, there, the footsteps went that way, spots of darkness here and there, splattered against the snow-muffled graves.

  She half ran and called his name, picturing his body frozen and twisted. And then she heard something. She stopped and held her breath. Yes, it was something … “Maggie! Maggie, I’m here,” and the catch and sob in his voice clawed at her.

  Calling, she ran toward the sound and stumbled over a hidden root and went sprawling. She picked herself up and she kept going and calling, following the sound of his voice and the path of trodden snow. She saw him, and for a moment he was standing so nonchalantly against a tree next to a gravestone with a carved harp on top that she thought he might be playing some wicked game just to frighten her and fury squirted into her stomach and she was about to tell him what an evil boy he was … but then she saw he was tied to the tree, his arms at his sides. Ropes bound him from shoulder to shin. His gloveless hands were blue with cold, his hair, which must have been wet at some point, was frozen into wild spikes and on his face …

  “Oh, Kyle, who did this?” She pocketed the flashlight and worked furiously on the knots. Her own hands were cold, and the knots were strong. She feared she’d have to run home and get a knife. “Who did this to you?”

  “Get me out of here. Get me out.” He sobbed, and his face was covered not only with blood, but with snot and frosted tears. One eye was swollen with the beginnings of a black eye.

  So much rage, she thought, as her fingers finally got purchase on one of the knot’s loops and pried it up and under … one down and three to go. She unwound the rope on his chest and he squirmed and thrashed until his arms were free. He wiped furiously at his face and squealed with the pain.

  “I hate them. I hate them,” he wailed.

  “Stay still. You’re making the knots worse.” She undid another, and the rope whipped round the tree, striking her on the cheek as he flailed and freed himself.

  Kyle collapsed. “I can’t feel my feet.”

  She rubbed his legs and he moaned and gritted his teeth against the pins and needles as the blood began to circulate. She rubbed his hands until they looked like flesh and blood again and not like marble carvings. He shook them and cried and shook his feet and cried.

  “Come on, climb up and I’ll give you a piggyback home.”

  “No,” he snapped. “No. I’m going to walk. I have to walk.” He looked at her with panic. “If any of them see me being carried … No. I have to walk.”

  “No one will see you. There’s no one here.”

  “I have to walk!”

  She helped him to his feet and he didn’t stop her when she put his arm through hers. “Who did this and why? Why?”

  “They think I’m weird,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sure that’s not true. Who’s ‘they’?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “They have to be punished.”

  “I’m not going to tell you, or anyone else, so stop asking.”

  How resolute he sounded and how very much older than his age. He leaned on her less now; his steps surer. He stopped and looked at his sister. “Is it very bad, my face?”

  “No, not very.” She saw the disbelief in his eyes. “It’s a bit bad.”

  Kyle bent down and picked up handfuls of snow. He rubbed his face with it and didn’t make a sound although Maggie thought it must hurt terribly. He did it again and again and finally turned his scrubbed fa
ce to her. “How does it look now?”

  “There’s some blood in your nostrils.”

  He repeated the procedure and asked again. The blood, snot and tears were gone. His lip was swollen, and his nose was as well, although she didn’t think it was broken. There was that eye. It might be closed by morning. “Better,” she said.

  “They invited me with them. Right from school. They asked me. Said there was something they wanted to show me and then they set on me.” His eyes were wide with the injustice of it. “They ambushed me. Four of them. Said I was to be taught a lesson.”

  “What for?”

  “You don’t think I asked? They wouldn’t say.”

  No matter how she pressed, or, later, when Phyllis did, Kyle wouldn’t say who’d been responsible, or what had started it. He never did have friends after that. He said he couldn’t care less, that the neighbourhood kids were about as sharp as a sack of wet wool and he wouldn’t waste his time.

  Little Brother of the Sparrow. How could a boy be both so tough and so sensitive? She’d never forgotten the look on his face, tied to that tree.

  * * *

  THERE WAS ALMOST NO ONE ON THE STREETS, SAVE THE police patrols. One questioned her and accepted her excuse for being out so late – Badger had run off and she’d only just found him, they were heading home.

  “Don’t loiter,” said the cop, an older man who kept his hand on his nightstick. “Easy to get lost these days.”

  At the Grimoire, she took off her boots and coat, but the stench of the Forest seemed to linger. Badger leaned into her legs. “Good boy,” she said. She fed him and quickly ate some toast and scrambled eggs. When she finished, she left the unwashed dishes in the sink, and climbed the stairs, Badger padding alongside. She thought she wouldn’t sleep, so many thoughts careened around in her brain, but Badger jumped up on the bed and lay his head on her chest in a way he usually didn’t. Dogs knew when something was up. Somehow, between his comforting weight and warmth, she drifted off.