* * *
MAGGIE DREAMS …
An old woman with skin white as bone and wrinkled as crumpled paper stands before a fire. Maggie hides in a cupboard, knowing only that she must be very quiet. The woman must not see her. Maggie bites her knuckle.
The woman’s hair is weeds. Her lips, grey worms. She is wrapped in stinking furs. She plucks the body of a small rodent from inside a skin pouch and begins to gnaw it, tiny bones cracking. Behind her is a window and on the outside sill two ravens perch. One stretches its wings and the other taps on the glass. Both birds stare not at the woman, but directly at Maggie in her hiding place.
* * *
KYLE FOLLOWS A WOMAN DOWN, DOWN A LONG, DIMLY LIT stone hall, ever deeper into the heart of an enormous stone structure. The woman’s skin is white as a dove’s wing, her hair glitters like quartz, her lips are ripe strawberries. He gazes at the large black owl embroidered on the back of the frost-toned gown she wears. It seems to cock its head this way and that in the light of the torch the woman carries. Shadows flitter along the walls like velvet bats. At last they come to a door, heavy with iron hinges. The woman opens it, looks coyly over her shoulder and beckons with her pale, slender fingers to Kyle.
Inside, all is firelight and golden, the air scented with lavender. The woman leans over a bench on which are displayed glass vials, baskets of various sizes, twigs, small bunches of herbs, and the desiccated bodies of mice, moles and shrews. The woman grinds something with a mortar and pestle. When finished, she picks up a withered apple, smears the paste she’s made upon it. The apple glows and plumps and the woman laughs with a sound like tinkling icicles as she holds it up to the torchlight. It is shining and red as blood. It looks like ruby candy. “Eat, sweet boy,” she says. “You must hunger so.” The apple is sweet as cider fermented with honey. It effervesces on his tongue. He closes his eyes as ecstasy wraps him in its arms like a cloak. She leads him to a fur-covered bed and draws him down. Kyle leans against the woman and listens to the purr of her breathing. No matter how much he eats, the apple never grows smaller and his hunger is never quite sated.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAGGIE HAD PUT IT OFF AS LONG AS POSSIBLE but just before four o’clock the next afternoon she and Badger entered the Wort & Willow Apothecary. Finnick scampered out of the back, claws clicking on the wooden floor, to greet them.
“Maggie, my dear, how lovely to see you.” Mr. Strundale popped up from behind the counter. He was the sort of person who often seemed to be exactly where you didn’t expect him to be. And, as with the Grimoire, the Wort & Willow attracted a most specific clientele, people needing advice as much as a poultice or herb tea. As the Grimoire’s clients were folk looking for answers to mysteries in their lives more than entertainment, Mr. Strundale’s clients were seeking relief from far more than just physical pain. Just now, for example, he held in his hand a jar labelled Dream Walker Tea, for the incorporation of Shadow.
Badger and Finnick meandered over to their usual spot near an air vent and flopped down. Finnick curled up beside Badger with a satisfied little huff. From a basket Maggie carried she pulled a book and held it out. “I think this might be the book you wanted?”
Mr. Strundale cradled the slim leather-bound volume. “I’d completely forgotten. Age of course, wretched condition. Can it really be?” He looked at Maggie with something like wonder. “Thirteenth century? Mel Vinum Loco Anima. Honey wine for the soul, memoirs of a vintner.” His eyes returned to the book. “Oh my. Oh my. How I shall treasure this. The wine I shall make! Is there no end to the wonders in your bookshop, Maggie?”
“You should know.” Maggie chuckled.
Cradling the old book, Mr. Strundale said, “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“Well, there is one thing …” She patted Badger on the head. “I have to go away for a bit.”
Mr. Strundale stared at her in that way of his. Did the man never blink? Was it some glamour he used to make her talk?
“It’s my brother, I’m afraid.” She hadn’t meant to say that.
“Oh dear. The old trouble?”
“I don’t think I’ll be very long. A day – or a few days at the most.”
“He’s ill, then?”
“Well, missing … but I think I know where to find him.” Her mouth went dry.
“I’m not sure I like the sounds of this.” Mr. Strundale crossed his arms and scowled. He succeeded in looking more constipated than stern. “There are strange doings these days. Neighbourhoods shifting size and so forth. I don’t believe it’s safe. And we don’t want you going back into neighbourhoods where you’re liable to be tempted. It wasn’t that long ago you came in here, saying someone from your past was chasing you. Now you’re going to look for trouble?”
“I’ll be all right.” She shrugged. “What can I do? He’s my brother.” She bent down and ruffled Badger’s ears, escaping Mr. Strundale’s glower. “Would you mind if Badger stayed with you while I’m gone?” Badger’s tail thumped the floor. Maggie indicated the bag she carried. “I’ve got food for him here. Enough for a few days.”
“You know I love Badger as you do, and my friend,” he waved his arm toward the little fox nestled in the dog’s embrace, “would be as delighted as I to have him visit, although I don’t know if Badger will appreciate being left behind. And frankly, I don’t think Mr. Mustby would much like whatever this plan of yours is.”
Her cheeks flamed at the mention of Mr. Mustby. She stood. She was taller than Mr. Strundale, although just then she felt smaller. “A day, maybe two, and Badger can’t go where I’m going.”
Mr. Strundale snorted. “You’d be surprised what a determined love can do.”
“He’ll hardly miss me. I won’t be long.”
“Maggie, dear girl. Do not dissemble. You and I both know you can’t promise that.”
And she understood from the look on his face that Mr. Strundale knew more than she wanted him to. He and Mr. Mustby had always been like that: always knowing more than seemed possible. When she had first come to the Grimoire and, in true Piper fashion, bent the truth in the assumption the bald facts would do her no good, she discovered it was quite impossible to get anything past either of them. They would simply look at her, just in the way Mr. Strundale was doing now, and all her lacy lies would unravel. “Fine. You’re right. I can’t. But say you’ll take him anyway, please.”
He regarded her for a moment and then sighed. “I am worried about you. I care for you deeply. However, I doubt I’d be able to change your mind. You must make your own choices and learn in your own way. In truth I don’t see the full picture here. I must admit it. You might very well be part of a more intricate story.” She must have looked puzzled. He waved his hand. “Never mind that. Of course I will look after Badger. I only wish I were looking after you better. Mr. Mustby will not be pleased with me.”
She might have asked him what he meant by that, but assumed he had intended to say, “would not be pleased.” Then Badger, knowing they were speaking about him, walked over to Maggie, and Finnick dashed to Mr. Strundale and stood on his hind legs, wanting to be picked up. Mr. Strundale complied, and the animal settled around his shoulders like a living stole.
She knelt and took Badger’s face in her hands. She could tell by the nervous flicking of his tongue, and the way he leaned up against her, that he knew something was up and he didn’t like it. “Now, Badger, you be a good boy and stay with Mr. Strundale. I have to go away for a bit. Not for long and I will be back, I promise.” He licked her face and whined, batting at her with his paws. “It’s okay. Take care of Mr. Strundale and Finnick.”
Maggie stood and put her arms around the old man. Under his smoking jacket he felt as though he were constructed of odd bits of ill-cut lumber, all angles and hard edges, but he returned her hug with surprising strength.
Then he pushed her aw
ay to arm’s length. “I must tell you, Maggie – you are unlikely to find what you’re looking for, and the chances of you coming back aren’t good. I feel as though I’m letting my old friend down here, by being in any way complicit. However, I want to ask you one thing: Are you sure there is no other way?”
“I’ve asked myself that. I’m sure. Whatever waits for me will be no worse than what will find me if I do nothing.” She dropped her head. “I couldn’t live with myself, you see.”
“I do. And I respect you as much as I fear for you. It’s decided then. And who knows, you may be able to do something about the ooze and expansion.” Just then, Finnick barked three times. “What? Oh! Yes.” Mr. Strundale clapped his hands and said, “There is one thing I can do. Wait here.”
He disappeared behind the ornately embroidered screen and returned a moment later with a small blue enamel box. “Take this and keep it with you. Inside are certain things you might find useful on your journey. First, a pomegranate seed, although not the usual sort of seed. It grants wisdom and learning to whoever eats it. Second, the tooth of a bear, which is useful for those who have lost things, and finally, a sprig of mistletoe for warmth. If you need them, you’ll know what to do when the time comes.”
She took the little box in her palm. It was strangely warm, as if it contained bits of burning coal. She might never understand the magic that emanated from Mr. Mustby and Mr. Strundale, from the Grimoire and the Wort & Willow, but she had come to trust it.
* * *
MAGGIE RETURNED HOME AND WENT OVER HER preparations one last time. From the trunk of cash in the closet she took what money she thought she might need, separating it into two pouches. Clothes were simple – she’d take only what she wore: boots, jeans, turtleneck, gloves, scarf, hat and coat. She put the hat, gloves and scarf in her rucksack. From a drawer in the sideboard she took a photo of Kyle, taken a few years back, during one of the periods he’d managed to stay away from the elysium. He looked defiant, with his chin stuck out, looking down his nose at the camera. She understood why girls found him attractive and why they had, on more than one occasion, supported him, let him steal from them, overlooked his moods and his bad behaviour. The blue eyes. The black hair, shaved close to his head in this photo. The air of a bad boy, a very bad boy, just waiting to be saved. She sighed and tucked the photo into an envelope. She wrapped cheese and bread in a cloth and this, along with a tin of dried berries, she placed in the pack. Clean undergarments and socks. A bar of soap and a toothbrush and toothpaste. She could think of nothing more. It would have to do.
CHAPTER NINE
THE WALK BACK TO THE FOREST SEEMED EVEN shorter than the day before. Lumpy waited for her in a doorway just inside Fee Place.
“Hoped you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“No choice.”
“Always a choice,” Lumpy grunted. His watery eyes had the wistful, longing expression of a Piper recently returned from a journey.
“Good night?” Maggie asked.
He sighed. “Let’s get going.”
Lumpy set a fast pace through narrow lane after narrow lane, each giving the impression of being piled up on top of the other. She thought, once or twice, she spotted a child’s face, but it was gone before she could be sure. Lumpy paid no mind. She kept her eyes on his broad back. While of course the people who lived in a place affected the life of that place, she hadn’t until now considered what effect so many people living with one foot in another world might have on a landscape. She lost track of time, along with her sense of direction. A small, squeaky voice in the back of her head said that if she didn’t find Kyle, and if she couldn’t find her way out, well then, she might as well just dream with the pipe again. Why not? Shut up, she told the familiar voice. Shut up.
Lumpy lumbered toward a flight of uneven stairs that appeared to run directly into a brick wall. Perhaps, Maggie thought, there’s a hidden door. Had they arrived? No. The stairs turned at the last minute. Lumpy scrunched, making his misshapen bulk as small as possible and ducked through an archway leading into a long narrow passage. The walls were damp and sprouted patchy, fungal-looking moss. After a moment, they came out into a square surrounded by uniformly grey concrete-block buildings she’d never seen before. It was a sort of parody on the village square. The buildings were chained and battered architectural ghosts. Three fires burned in the square, and around each one stood figures warming their hands. Men and women. At the nearest fire stood a woman in an obviously expensive leather coat and boots. She was still quite beautiful, even with deep shadows beneath her eyes. Instead of a purse, she carried a plastic Eaton’s bag with string reinforcing the handles. Up until recently she’d probably been living in posh Rosedale or a condo by the lake. She had her arm hooked through that of a tall man sporting an only slightly stained Canada Goose parka. Maggie guessed they hadn’t been in the Forest long. A couple of months from now that parka, the expensive coat and boots would be gone.
On the stoop in front of one of the surrounding buildings, Maggie saw four children. One of them waved. The little rabbit-pale girl from yesterday who had loved Badger. Mindy, that was her name.
“Puppy?”
“Not today, hon,” said Maggie.
“And no more money, either,” said Lumpy, as a little boy started forward, hands outstretched.
Maggie hurried after Lumpy. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a handful of coins and tossed them toward the children. They scrambled in the dirt after them.
“You do them no favours,” said Lumpy over his shoulder. “Without Pete around they’re a pack of feral dogs. Even if she catches it, they’ll take it away from her and leave her worse for it.”
A high-pitched yelp, and then wailing. “Wait,” Maggie called after his rapidly retreating back. “Stop!”
“Living on the other side’s made you weak.”
He didn’t slacken his pace, and if Maggie wanted to keep him in sight, she had to leave the children. She cursed. He was right. She had to harden. She had to focus. What had Srebrenka said about children lost in a forest, trying to follow a trail of bread crumbs home? She hadn’t even crumbs. Only Lumpy. The children, on the other hand, had each other.
The night was thick as a boiled-wool cloak around them. Here and there vapid lights flickered from busted-out windows. Just when Maggie feared she might run off shrieking, Lumpy stopped so abruptly she slammed into his back.
“Jesus, Lumpy, I almost knocked myself out.” She rubbed her nose.
“Should watch where you’re going.” He stomped at the ground to his left. “You’re here then, as promised.” He jerked his head in the direction of a door to his right. Sure enough, there was the bear knocker. Maggie shook her head. This wasn’t the same building as the day before, knocker or no knocker. Lumpy seemed to be tracking something on the ground. He picked up a rock and threw it. “Yeah, run, you little bastards. I’ll not let you get my eyes.” He turned to Maggie. “Wouldn’t last a minute without my eyes.”
“There are no weasels, not really. You have to remember that.”
“Really?” He pulled open the collar of his filthy coat. There, on either side of his silver-streaked neck, blazed five deep raw wounds, too small to be made by his own hand.
“How did you do that?” They looked angry, red around the edges, starting to fester. Given the way Lumpy lived, the chance of the wounds becoming infected was high.
“I didn’t do it myself, did I?” He pulled his collar back into place. Holes at the tops of his woollen gloves revealed dirt-clogged fingernails. “Dreams can come true, don’t you know?” His chuckle held little humour.
What he was saying was quite impossible. Then again, she was standing on a street she’d have sworn didn’t exist a few years ago. It seemed the mysteries of elysium were more complicated than she’d previously considered. She wouldn’t think about that now. “You said we’r
e here? What happened to the door?” The door, which was little more than a collection of boards nailed together, was certainly not the same door as yesterday. But there was the bear-head knocker.
Lumpy sniffed and wiped his nose. “Lots of entrances, not many exits, mostly depends on what you’re coming for. This one’s for what you want, the place you want.”
She reached out, lifted the knocker and let it drop. The knock was loud and echoed like a ricocheting stone. She fought the impulse to duck. One of the boards slid back, revealing a cleverly disguised peephole.
“What?” said a man’s voice.
“Want to see Srebrenka, she’s expecting us.”
“Maybe she’s not available. Maybe she’s having tea with the queen.” He had an English accent, cockney, to be exact.
“And I’m the Earl of Asswipe. Let me in, I’ve business.”
“It’s because I know you I’m not opening the door. Not after last time.”
“That wasn’t my fault.” Lumpy glanced at Maggie. “Weasels. I paid for the damages,” he said to the hole in the door.
“Don’t know your friend. Don’t like strangers. Get off the stoop.”
The peephole slammed shut.
“You sure about this?” asked Lumpy. “Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe you should, too.”
“You promised.”
“Said I’d get you here. No more.”
Maggie didn’t like the argent glint in Lumpy’s eyes. He seemed to be wrestling with some internal dilemma. Her heart beat faster. It would be nothing for Lumpy to throttle her and take her money. She understood his struggle. The blue couches, the silver slide into sweet dreams … For that matter, they could both lie on those blue tufted couches, close their eyes and … a memory. Kyle as a little boy, coming into her room in the middle of the night, wringing his eyes, whispering he’d had a terrible dream: he was lost in frozen winter woods, hunted by wolves. “Their eyes were yellow,” he said, his own glassy as marbles. “Don’t let them get me, Maggie.”
The Grimoire of Kensington Market Page 8
