Falcon Quinn and the Crimson Vapor

by Jennifer Finney Boylan

  “Yeah,” said Falcon. “And you—”

  “I’m Squonk,” said Squonk. “I’m the Squonk.” He looked at Falcon as if he ought to have heard of the Squonk before. “You know. The terror of the Pennsylvania forest?”

  “He’s never heard of you,” said Clea contemptuously. “No one’s heard of you.”

  “Well, there’s a reason for that,” said the wart-covered creature. “You got something like this goin’ on, you don’t want word to get around!”

  “Who are you?” said Falcon. “Where did you come from?”

  “We are known as the Filchers,” said Mr. Sweeny. “We live apart.”

  “We’re outcasts!” shouted the Squonk.

  “How many of you are there?” said Falcon.

  “Me?” said the Squonk. “I told you. I’m one of a kind!”

  “No, I mean—here. Your group.”

  “We are seven,” said Mr. Sweeny, “plus Lumpp, who is not really one of us but who enjoys Mrs. Grubb’s cooking.”

  Lumpp nuzzled close to Falcon’s leg. Falcon stroked Lumpp’s soft face, and the octopus retriever wagged all of his tentacles happily.

  “I think he’s found a new friend,” said Mr. Sweeny.

  Falcon looked at Mr. Sweeny, and Clea, and Lumpp, and the Squonk. “I only see four of you.”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Sweeny.

  “That,” said a gravelly voice, “is because some of us prefer not to be seen.” Falcon turned and saw a crooked man in tattered, black clothing—a coat and vest, a pair of trousers held up with suspenders. He wore frayed, fingerless gloves on his hands. “’Tis a pleasure, Falcon Quinn,” said the man. “An honor, indeed.”

  “This would be Mr. Grubb,” said Mr. Sweeny. Mr. Grubb looked at a conch shell in his hands. It took Falcon a moment to realize that this was the same shell he’d picked up on the beach.

  “You picked my pocket,” said Falcon, unsure whether to be angry or amused.

  “Aye,” said Mr. Grubb.

  At this moment the bird in the Squonk’s cage began to squawk. “Awe! Awe!” it said. “Awe! Awe!”

  “Squonk,” said Clea. “Please. The bird.”

  The wart-covered man held his finger over the top of the bird’s cage. “Quiet,” said the Squonk. “If you know what’s good for you.” One of the man’s fingers seemed to dissolve, and it dripped like hot solder into the cage. The drop landed on the mockingbird’s perch with a hot hiss.

  “I didn’t say fry it,” said Clea. “I said silence it.”

  The Squonk held up his hand. A new finger oozed into the place where the old one had been. After a moment, warts sprouted on this one as well.

  The bird sang a sad note and fell silent.

  A woman wearing a gray apron and holding an enormous wooden spoon appeared before them. “Luncheon’s ready,” she said. “Although it’s not much. And it’ll be less, with the extra mouth.” She glowered at Falcon. “I’m not used to feedin’ angels, and if he thinks he’s getting’s special treatment ’e’ll ’ave me to contend with. Oo, ’e’s an angel, I s’pose we’re all s’pose to bow down to ’em, well ’e’s wrong if ’e thinks that, ’e’ll eat slops like the rest of us, slops and burnt varmint roasted on a spit, and that ain’t to ’is liking, ’e can feed off ’is own filth. Come on now, the varmint’s getting cold. And me shoes aren’t comfortable.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Grubb. “It’s the missus.” He walked toward the woman, who was nearly as round as she was tall. Her angry face was framed by a head full of boiling gray curls. “Come, me honeydew,” he said. “I’d like you to meet our guest, Mr. Falcon Quinn! Say hello to our visitor, dearest!”

  Mrs. Grubb just stamped her foot. “Another mouth,” she said. “’E better not be stayin’ for dinner, that’s all I can say.”

  “That’s okay,” said Falcon. “I’m not hungry.”

  Mrs. Grubb’s face grew redder and angrier, and there was a short moment of silence.

  “Falcon,” said Mr. Sweeny reproachfully. “You’ve been invited to break bread with us. I’m sure you’ll do us the honor.”

  Mrs. Grubb looked like she was going to explode. “Yes, of course,” said Falcon.

  “Well, it’s all set then,” said Mr. Grubb. “Come along. Just like one big ’appy family.”

  “’Appy,” muttered Mrs. Grubb. “Turnin’ ’is nose up at me fine victuals and ’e says we’re ’appy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be a fine feast, my little mountain flower,” said Mr. Grubb. “My little crumpet!”

  “Don’t you ‘crumpet’ me,” said Mrs. Grubb. “Come along then. Nothin’ worse than cold varmint.”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Sweeny. “We’ll come.” The faun guided Falcon through the woods to another clearing, where a campfire was softly crackling. There was a large, flat stone covered with food: cheeses and sausage, raspberries and blueberries, and loaves of fresh bread. There were bottles of clear liquid and bottles of blue liquid and a pitcher filled with milk. A chocolate cake stood at one end of the table, and next to this, two pies, still freshly steaming. A large roast beef lay next to a whole chicken. There were mushrooms and asparagus and fiddlehead ferns, huge slabs of butter and jams and cauldrons of Irish stew and green pea soup and beef Stroganoff. There were Mexican tamales and entomatadas and a plate of sushi. There was a platter of Szechuan orange beef and another of Rhode Island–style breaded calamari with jalapeños. There was roast duckling and homemade ravioli and a plate of steaming corn on the cob.

  “It’s not much,” said Mrs. Grubb. “But it’ll have to do.”

  “Go on,” said Mr. Sweeny. “Help yourself.”

  There was a stack of clay plates at one end of the table, and Falcon took one. Mrs. Grubb began to heap the plate with the food, giving him a huge portion of everything. After she was done with Falcon, she did the same for Mr. Sweeny and the Squonk. She even set up a plate for Lumpp, which she then placed on the ground. Lumpp began to eat heartily from his dish.

  They all sat down on two fallen logs that lay adjacent to the stone table. There was lots of talking and joking as the Filchers ate their food, and Mr. Sweeny and Mr. Grubb in particular drank a great deal from the bottle of blue liquid. The food on Falcon’s plate was the most delicious he had ever tasted—the beef was rare and salty, the vegetables fresh and crunchy, the pie and the cake sweet and buttery. Perhaps the best thing on his plate, however, was the homemade brown bread, which smelled like molasses. The crust crunched against his teeth; the inside of the bread was as soft and sweet as cream.

  “She’s good with the vittles, isn’t she?” said Mr. Grubb.

  Falcon was just about to agree when he noticed someone sitting by herself at the edge of the forest. She was a pale, young girl with pointed ears and long, yellow hair. She had something in her lap that occupied her whole attention. “Who’s that?” said Falcon.

  Mr. Sweeny followed Falcon’s gaze. “That’s Fascia,” he said. “The brownie. Very determined.”

  “Doesn’t she—eat?” said Falcon.

  “Not while she’s working,” said Mr. Sweeny. “She’s kind of single-minded that way.”

  “What’s she doing?” said Falcon.

  “She’s fixing shoes,” said Mr. Grubb. “It’s her calling, you know.”

  “Hey,” said Falcon, recognizing the shoes now. “Those are Destynee’s sandals. She burned a hole in them with her slime.” The others took this in. “She’s an enchanted slug,” he explained.

  “We know all about Destynee Bloodflough,” said Clea.

  “You do?” said Falcon.

  “We know about all your little friends,” said Clea contemptuously. “The whole pathetic story.” Falcon noticed that on the elf’s plate was only a mound of red cherries. She ate them one by one. “The Sasquatch. The Chupakabra. That Jonny Frankenstein. And the wind elemental who vanished—what was her name?”

  “Megan,” said Falcon. “Megan Crofton.”

  “Ah yes,” said Clea with a derisive laugh. “T
he invisible woman!”

  The Squonk got out a paddleball and tried to whack it with the paddle, but he missed. The ball bounced up and down on its elastic string.

  “Hey,” said Falcon. “That’s Weems’s paddleball. He was looking for that.”

  “He wasn’t usin’ it,” said the Squonk.

  “So, wait,” said Falcon. “You just steal things? Is that it?”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Sweeny. “It’s just as you say.”

  “Now, you’re a bright lad, Falcon,” said Mr. Grubb. “I wonder if you can guess the biggest thing we’ve ever stolen. Go on. You try and guess.”

  “He won’t guess,” said Clea. “How could he?”

  “An elephant,” said Falcon.

  “Bigger,” said Mr. Grubb.

  “A whale,” said Falcon.

  “I told you he couldn’t guess.”

  “Sing us a song now,” said Mrs. Grubb.

  “A what?”

  “Here,” said Clea. “Maybe there’s a song in here.” She picked up the “Poetry Book of Rhyming Poems.”

  “That’s Sparkbolt’s book,” said Falcon. “Lumpp was chewing on it!”

  “Aye,” said Mrs. Grubb. “I thought we could boil down the cover, but it’s too tough. I’m going to have to make a marinade for it, and I just don’t have the time! And my back hurts.”

  “But these are his poems,” said Falcon. “This is important to him.”

  “Then he should have taken better care of it,” said Mr. Grubb, laughing. “Instead of just leaving it out where a body might nick it!”

  “But these poems are like Sparkbolt’s heart and soul,” said Falcon. “It matters to him. Just like that paddleball matters to Weems.”

  “And that Lincoln Pugh’s glasses are important to him,” said Mr. Grubb, pulling a pair of large, ugly, orange spectacles out of his jacket.

  “And the Sasquatch’s bananas!” said Mrs. Grubb, pulling out a slightly bruised banana from her apron. All the Filchers laughed.

  Falcon just looked at them, irritated and a little embarrassed.

  “Falcon,” said Clea. “They’re just things.”

  “But they’re important things,” said Falcon. “They’re important to the people who own them.”

  “Falcon,” said Mr. Sweeny, sucking on his pipe. “Things don’t matter. What matters is life.”

  “Aye, life,” said Mr. Grubb. “The pleasures of the table! Songs and stories! The blue of the morning sky!”

  Falcon looked at the Filchers in astonishment. He had to admit there was something appealing to their lives, at least if he could judge it on the basis of Mrs. Grubb’s cooking.

  “Hey!” shouted the Squonk. “Maybe it’s time for me to play—the saxophone!” He jumped to his feet happily.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said Mrs. Grubb. “You know the effect your saxophone has on the innocent!”

  “But I thought that he was going to join us!” said the Squonk. “If he’s one of us, he won’t have the problem!”

  “He hasn’t joined us yet, has he?” said Mr. Sweeny.

  “Well—,” said the Squonk. “Not—technically—”

  “And what happens when others hear your saxophone?” said Mrs. Grubb. “Do you have no memory at all?”

  The Squonk sat back down, dejected. “I remember.”

  “What happens?” said Falcon.

  “Their brains explode,” said Clea.

  “It’s because I never get to practice!” said the Squonk.

  “‘Explode’ is putting it too strongly,” said Mr. Sweeny. “But it’s not a pleasant thing for the brain, at least not for the uninitiated. It does leave one’s thoughts a bit bruised.”

  “I’m an acquired taste!” shouted the Squonk. “I’m very special!”

  “Come on then, Fascia,” said Mr. Sweeny. “Leave your cobbling for a while and let’s hear a bit of the fiddle.”

  Fascia sighed and put down her sandal and her hammer. She brought out a violin and tucked it under her chin. Clea played something that looked like a large mandolin. The others clapped along with the tune, and the Squonk got up on the table and danced. Mr. Sweeny picked up and played a set of Uilleann pipes, which were like a small set of bagpipes except that instead of blowing into them, Mr. Sweeny filled the bag with a bellows strapped under his right elbow. Their tone was haunting and sweet.

  Mrs. Grubb sang the tune:

  The man in the moon told me, “Please keep it down.

  All the church bells are waking up the dead.

  A fool looks better than a headless clown.

  Send yourself to bed.”

  Once on the gray and foam-covered shore,

  Fezriddle walked all alone,

  Saying, “We shall not see our little houses more.

  No more shall we see home.”

  He laughed and he cried and flew through the air

  Till he crashed on the sand on his knees,

  And he said three times, “It’s just not fair!

  Everything comes in threes.”

  He sobbed in his hands and his beard grew long

  And the faeries upon him sprang,

  Saying, “Before you go, won’t you sing us a tune?”

  So he threw back his head and he sang:

  “The man in the moon says, ‘Please keep it down.

  All the church bells are waking up the dead.

  A fool looks better than a headless clown.

  Send yourself to bed.’”

  “I love the way you sing that one, my love,” said Mr. Grubb, resting the thumbs of his hands behind his suspenders. “My little potato blossom.”

  “Why, Mr. Grubb,” said his wife. “The things you say.”

  “Where did you all—come from?” said Falcon.

  “Oh, there’s always been Filchers,” said Mrs. Grubb. “Livin’ on the outskirts of things. This particular group’s been together, what, seven or eight years now?”

  “The brownie was the last to join,” said the Squonk, looking at Fascia. “She thought it’d interfere with her work!”

  “I didn’t like the idea of always moving around,” said Fascia. “It’s a grave responsibility. Fixing the shoes of the world.”

  “Oh god,” said Mrs. Grubb. “Here we go with the shoes.”

  “Who would fix the shoes were it not for me?” said the brownie. “Who?”

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Grubb. “Everyone respects your trade. Don’t we, my rose petal?”

  “Do you see this hammer?” said Fascia, holding up her small cobbler’s tool. “This is a most important hammer, Falcon Quinn. The key to everything!”

  “Important?” said Falcon. “Important how?”

  Fascia smiled. “It fixes more than shoes,” she said.

  “Who knows you’re here?” said Falcon. “Does the Academy know?”

  “No one knows about the Filchers,” said Clea.

  “Except Falcon Quinn,” said Mr. Sweeny.

  “Aye,” said Mr. Grubb. “No one but Falcon Quinn.”

  “Do you live in this forest?” said Falcon. “Is this your home?”

  “We go where we please,” said Clea. “In search of cherries. In search of streams of clear water. We care nothing for your world of monsters, and guardians, and other such nonsense.”

  “There are worse things than guardians!” yelled the Squonk.

  Lumpp growled softly. At the edge of the clearing a soft, twinkling light shone in the air, drifted toward them, and then went out. The Filchers stood still. The Squonk sniffed the air. Clea closed her eyes as if deep in thought.

  “Something’s coming,” she said.

  “Frankenstein,” said the Squonk. “From the smell of it.”

  “We have to be off, Falcon,” said Mr. Sweeny sadly.

  “What was that light?” said Falcon.

  “Willa,” said the Squonk. “The wisp. Flickers when there’s danger. Or when she’s happy!”

  Clea looked at Mr. Sweeny. “Tell him,” she s
aid. “While there’s time.”

  The faun blew some smoke up in the air and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Tell me what?” asked Falcon.

  “Falcon Quinn,” said Mr. Grubb. “You’re a remarkable chap, really.”

  “Escaping from the Pinnacle of Virtues,” said Clea, her dark eyes glowing.

  “Outwitting your mother,” said the Squonk.

  “Outwitting the father as well,” said Mr. Sweeny. “Entering the black mirror, and choosing your own path. You’re quite a fellow, Falcon. Quite a fellow indeed.”

  “How do you know all that?” said Falcon.

  “We were passing through,” said Clea.

  “You mean—you were following me around?”

  “We follow no one,” said Mr. Sweeny. “But our paths have crossed yours now and again. And with good reason.”

  “What reason’s that?” said Falcon.

  “Because, my boy,” said Mr. Grubb. “You’re one of us.”

  “What do you mean?” said Falcon. “You mean—you’re angels too?”

  Clea began to laugh. “Angels,” she said as if this was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. “He thinks we’re angels.”

  “Not angels!” shouted the Squonk. “Outliers! Outcasts! Rejects!”

  “What?” said Falcon. “I’m not a—” He looked at the Filchers. “I’m part of the Academy,” he said. “Me and my friends.”

  “You never guessed the riddle,” said Clea.

  “What riddle?”

  Mr. Sweeny blew a smoke ring. “Mr. Grubb asked you what the largest thing is you could imagine we’ve taken. You never guessed.”

  “I said a whale,” said Falcon. “I said an elephant.”

  “Wrong,” said Clea. “And wrong.”

  “There may come a time,” said Fascia, taking Falcon’s hand and staring at him with her pale blue eyes. “When you realize you don’t fit in anywhere. When you decide that your fate lies outside the world of monsters, or guardians, or any other creatures. That there is no place for you. And when that time comes, remember us. You will always find yourself welcome among those who live apart.”

  “The thing we stole, Falcon,” said Mr. Sweeny. “The big thing.” He smiled kindly. “Don’t you see? We stole ourselves.”

  “You stole yourselves?” said Falcon. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”