“One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never told . . .”
The little boy’s hair was thick and unkempt, which lent a general scruffiness to his appearance. He wore an ill-fitting dark suit that seemed to be homespun and of awkward construction, with his arms and legs dangling loosely from the cuffs. The little boy was peeling potatoes with the knife, and judging from the size of the pile behind him, it would be some time before he was finished with the chore.
“Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss,
Ten a surprise you should not miss,
Eleven for health,
Twelve for wealth,
Thirteen beware it’s the—”
“Hello,” Charlie interrupted, at which point the boy looked up and immediately stopped his recital. Ringo whimpered softly at Charlie’s side.
The boy cut a piece of potato and offered it to a small magpie that had jumped onto his shoulder. The bird took the bit of potato in a single bite.
“Yer looking at me magpie, aren’t you?” the little boy asked after several uncomfortable moments of silence. “Well, I saved ’em. It’s a juvenile. He hit the stain glass you saw out there on the staircase in a storm. He was stunned, so I brought him in, now nursin’ ’em back to health. When he’s ready, I’m gonna release him back to the wilds. You ever been there? To the wilds?”
“I don’t think so. I only just got here.”
“You just got here?” the boy said, scratching behind his ear with the tip of the knife. “Whattaya supposed to be, the new kitchen boy?”
“Why, no, I don’t think I’m the kitchen boy.”
“I see, already trying to get out of some work. And as you said, just got here. So, if yer not the kitchen boy, who are you?”
“Well, I’m Charlie . . . and this is my dog—”
“Charlie?” The boy cut him off. “Well, I never heard of you. I suppose you’d be waiting for Mrs. Winthrope, then?” The little boy tilted his head as though he heard something. “I believe this is her now.”
Charlie couldn’t hear anything other than the crackling of the open fire and the bubbling pots on the stove, but he noticed that Ringo had his head tilted in the same manner as the little boy. A second later, Mrs. Winthrope pushed through the double doors, just as the boy had predicted.
“Aye, ya made it, Charlie,” she said, “and I see you’ve met Oscar.”
The little boy with the magpie on his shoulder gave a slight wave. Charlie couldn’t help but notice that the bird was staring at him.
“I thought about it after I left ya upstairs. I should have sent Oscar to fetch you or given ya some direction here to the kitchen,” Mrs. Winthrope continued. “This place can be tricky to get around if ya don’t know all the ins and outs. It’s just been so long since we’ve had a proper guest, I suppose we’re all a bit out of practice.”
Ringo licked Mrs. Winthrope’s hand and moved toward the open fire, sitting beneath the long wooden handles that led to loaves of baking bread.
“Well, I suppose that all this may be rather confusing,” Mrs. Winthrope said. “It is a bit hard to take at first. I’m afraid with the storm the Prime Minister didn’t know what else to do with ya but to bring ya here.” She picked up a heavy cast-iron skillet and set it on the stovetop. “He does crave human interaction, the Prime Minister, trying to understand ya better, I suppose. It’s as though he’s forgotten what it was even like.”
Charlie fidgeted uncomfortably under the magpie’s gaze. He did not like the way the bird was blinking at him.
“Aw, listen to me. You must be hungry. Here, let me prepare something to tide you over until dinner.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Winthrope,” Charlie said, trying to ignore the bird. “Thank you for everything, but I should get going.”
“It wasn’t a question, Charlie.” Mrs. Winthrope picked up a large metal ladle and dipped it into one of the steaming cauldrons. “It’s porridge like I used to make back in the old country.”
Mrs. Winthrope put the porridge in front of Charlie and dropped in a chunk of butter, which quickly melted on top.
“There you go. That’ll warm ya.”
Charlie looked down at the steaming bowl. The aroma poured into his nostrils and pulled at his growling stomach.
“No, really, Mrs. Winthrope. My parents might be getting worried. I should be getting home.”
“Home? Well, the trail washed out last night with the rain, so we’ll have to check the Prime Minister’s schedule for that. You can ask him at dinner later. Now, go ahead, dig in . . .”
Charlie did not move.
“Ah, yes. Ya see, Oscar? His mother raised him wisely. I forget that we’re all strangers to ya ’til last night.” Mrs. Winthrope scooped a wooden spoonful from Charlie’s bowl and took a bite. “See? Now, if we were the kind of cretins or ne’er-do-wells who would taint a bowl of a child’s porridge, would I do that? Come on, eat up . . .”
“I guess that makes sense,” Charlie said, thinking it was about the only thing that was making any sense.
Unable to resist any longer, Charlie picked up his spoon, sank it into the wooden bowl, and brought it up to his lips.
“Besides, if the Prime Minister wanted ya dead, I am afraid that we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now, would we?” Mrs. Winthrope sprinkled some brown sugar on top as Charlie dug in for another spoonful. “Mmmm, delicious . . .”
Charlie couldn’t agree more, as far as the porridge was concerned.
“Now, if you don’t mind me asking, what were ya doing out there, in that section of the woods? Alone in the dark and rain with the way it is these days?”
“What do you mean, these days?” Charlie asked through a mouthful of porridge.
“What does she mean, he asks.” Oscar laughed.
“What do I mean? Why, with the Headless Horsemen back at war with the Headhunters, of course,” Mrs. Winthrope replied. “And there’s word that Tok’s marauders are back to conducting raids into the Mumiya-held Agrarian Plains, is what I mean; you were lucky to have stumbled upon the Prime Minister when ya did.”
“Lucky, lucky,” Oscar added, chopping a potato in half.
Charlie looked up from the porridge. “I’m sorry . . . but who did you say was at war?”
“Who isn’t? ’Tis a dreadful state we’re in.” Mrs. Winthrope turned to the fire and sighed. “When your government started all this, it worked for a while, I suppose. It was a refuge, Charlie, a place where we could just be. But now, with the security cutbacks . . . and my goodness, the lost souls they’re bringing in these days . . .”
Charlie lowered his spoon and wiped the stray porridge from his face. Could what the vampire had said last night be true? Vampirestat . . . Vampirestaid . . .
“Vampyreishtat,” Mrs. Winthrope corrected, though Charlie had not said a word.
“Monsterland?” Charlie asked.
“Well, some call it that. Yes, Monsterland.”
“What? How . . . I don’t understand—”
“Oh, it is a pity what they fail to teach in yer history classes,” Mrs. Winthrope interrupted, tying her faded red hair tighter into its bun. “How? Let’s see. I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning.” Mrs. Winthrope seasoned a large roast as she spoke. “After the Second World War, the victors decided that while unified they would pool their resources and, in an effort to make the world a safer place, round us all up.”
“Us?”
Mrs. Winthrope smiled at Oscar. She cut a rib bone from the roast and let out a low, guttural animal sound. Ringo’s ears shot up and he crossed the kitchen to lick Mrs. Winthrope’s hand again. She offered Ringo the bone and slid t
he panned roast into the large open-flame hearth.
“Most people are not what they seem, Charlie. On the surface at least . . .”
With the warmth of the fire, smells of the kitchen, and a belly full of food, Charlie suddenly felt dizzy. Maybe the bump on his head from last night was worse than he thought.
“Wait, I don’t understand,” Charlie replied. “Monsterland? Monsters?”
“Well, yer one to call us that,” Oscar said, dumping another pail of potatoes on the table.
“Monsters, the strange and unusual, the gruesome, the different, and the feared,” Mrs. Winthrope explained. “There was a time when we were able to coexist, humans and monsters as you say, but that, Charlie, was back when the world seemed bigger. There was more open space in those days. Room to roam, plenty of places to hide, to go undetected. If we were smart, we were left to live out our lives as we chose to live them, same as you.”
Mrs. Winthrope paused, and Charlie saw the vampire’s sadness in her eyes.
“It worked at that time, save for the occasional sighting, a creature on a foggy moor or under a full moon—literature is filled with anecdotes. But these sightings, back in those days, were for the most part dismissed. The figment, as they say, of someone’s imagination.”
“But monsters?” Charlie said. “You’re talking about real monsters.”
“Aye, Charlie, if you are going to insist on calling us that, real monsters. Some were—well, are—certainly a danger. A danger to the likes of me, even, but it didn’t matter that only a few were a real threat. We were slowly hunted down and captured. Then sent to live here, and here we live. Self-sufficient, I might add. We have little in the way of technology with the trade embargos and all, but we manage. We grow our own food, make our own clothes. We’ve built towns and roads, our own central government even—”
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand.” Charlie looked around. “Where are we? I’ve lived just over, well, just over the mountains my whole life, and I’ve never heard of you or this place.”
“Never heard of us . . .” Oscar snickered.
“Where is Monsterland, you ask? Why, Charlie, it’s the places in between, stuck in the shadows, in the cracks, in the dark . . .” Mrs. Winthrope trailed off, apparently deep in thought for a moment. But she quickly snapped back, rattling off the rest. “Vampyreishtat, itself lost in the places where no one wants to go.”
With that, Mrs. Winthrope cleared Charlie’s bowl.
“Or that is at least the stock answer from the Prime Minister. He tends to have a flair for the dramatic.”
“‘Lost in the places where no one wants to go,’” Oscar repeated. “I always liked that part.” The magpie let out a screech as if agreeing with him, making Charlie jump.
“In truth, Vampyreishtat, or Monsterland, if you must, is a valley,” Mrs. Winthrope added. “A long, glacial valley created millions of years ago. The mountains on either side are too big and numerous to climb, so I suppose few ever came here. Then, in the days before air travel, mind ya, the valley was somehow left off the map.”
Left off the map? Charlie thought about what he learned about the Oklahoma Territory in Ms. Hatchet’s class the other day . . . Or was that today? Or was that yesterday?
“Your government discovered the mapmakers’ mistake but decided to keep it that way. They had the foresight that someday they might need a place that did not exist, and soon enough they had it.”
“How? How can they hide something so big?”
Charlie thought it would be hard to hide this enormous castle, let alone an entire land.
“Well, there are the mountains, odd weather systems, to say the least, and ya know, Charlie, your government has a way, if they do not want someone to know something, it tends to stay unknown. Besides, from time to time some stumble upon us. You are here, are ya not?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Winthrope, I still don’t understand. Monsters here? They’re all here?”
“All? Heavens no, but for the most part.”
Charlie’s face felt flush, and he thought that he might be sitting too close to the fire or maybe the stove. Even with all of Old Joe’s monster stories, he had never imagined this.
“And the government—our government in Washington—they know about you?” Charlie said. “The president?”
“Well, I don’t know about the president, but yes, of course the government knows about us. They sent us here.”
“Can you leave?” Charlie asked. He was now convinced that he must be dreaming.
“I suppose one could try, but why would we? Outside this valley, it’s the old torches and pitchforks, isn’t it?”
“Torches and pitchforks,” Oscar repeated, shaking his head.
“Besides, the rules from yer government are very clear.” Mrs. Winthrope turned to Charlie. “If we leave and are recaptured, we’ll be, to put it simply . . . executed. As I said, that much is very clear.”
“But the vampire, the Prime Minister, he was in the woods by my house. He was in the pumpkin patch, and that’s on the other side of the mountains.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “The Prime Minister in the pumpkin patch . . .”
“Well, of course he was, Charlie,” Mrs. Winthrope said in disbelief. “As Prime Minister, he is a bit of an exception, isn’t he?”
Charlie did not know how to answer the question.
“The Prime Minister’s role here demands that he—how should I say this—interact somewhat with the outside world. A liaison of sorts with your government.”
Ringo sat gnawing the bone on the hearth by the fire, seemingly unaffected by this information. Charlie, on the other hand, was sure that they were the victims of some elaborate prank, or that the blow he took to the head was even more serious than he thought.
“I-I-I still don’t understand—”
“Aw, I’ve gone on too much,” Mrs. Winthrope said, cutting Charlie off. “You should go. Stretch yer legs before dinner. I know the Prime Minister is eager to speak with ya. It is best to stay in the castle, though, with nightfall almost upon us. Go to the tower. See if you can catch the last light of the day.” Mrs. Winthrope returned to the hearth and busied herself with the dinner. “It’s the spiral stairs just off the kitchen there. That’s to the western tower. Best view for the sunset. Go on, the stairs don’t bite.” She motioned with a wave of her hand.
“I can show him the way, Mrs. Winthrope,” Oscar said, leaving the magpie on a perch in the corner. “I was going to grab a few more potatoes anyway.”
Charlie stood up slowly and called to Ringo, but the dog looked content with his bone by the fire, so Charlie left him with Mrs. Winthrope and followed Oscar up to the tower. The narrow staircase was lined with stones, and other than the spiderwebs, the walls were oddly bare compared to the rest of the castle. They climbed what felt like hundreds of steps, although Charlie lost count somewhere around the halfway point, so he couldn’t be sure.
“This is where I leave you,” Oscar said when they reached an upper landing. “What was it, Charlie?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“And you’re from where, Charlie, what did you say, the other side of the mountains?”
“That’s right,” Charlie said, slightly out of breath from the climb. “And what about you, Oscar?”
“Me? I’m from all over the place. Traveled with a circus until Mrs. Winthrope found me.”
“You were in the circus?” Charlie asked. He had never met anyone who had actually been in a circus, but it wasn’t that hard to imagine Oscar and his magpie as some kind of junior acrobat or part of a high-wire act. “As what, a performer?”
“I guess I was more of an attraction, really. Like I said, until Mrs. Winthrope found me.”
“And now you live here?” Charlie asked. “In this castle?”
“Me? No, not really. Well, k
inda. I’m down in the moat.”
“The moat?”
“Yep, the moat. I gotta get,” Oscar said, scratching himself behind the ear again. “Potatoes calling.”
Oscar turned into a narrow hallway that broke away from the landing.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie, and don’t worry, keep climbing. You’re almost there.”
Charlie continued to the top of the stairs, where he found a large windowed room. The furnishings were spare. A drawing table, stacks of books, and several telescopes of various sizes and designs. A heavy oak ladder leaned up toward an open hatch. Charlie climbed the ladder and saw it wasn’t too late. The sun was just setting.
THE VAMPIRE’S CASTLE SAT HIGH IN THE MOUNTAINS AT THE edge of a great precipice. Below it was just as Mrs. Winthrope had described: a massive valley with towering snowcapped mountains on either side stretching out as far as Charlie could see. A cobblestoned road wound down from the vampire’s castle, across a covered bridge, and through a treacherous mountain pass. It snaked along a blue-green glacial river and on to a town that looked like a tiny spot on a map. The town, perhaps more of a village, really, was like the hub of a wheel with more roads splintering out in a multitude of directions. Looking down at it, Charlie quickly realized that this place couldn’t be some kind of hoax or an elaborate prank; it was all so real, almost too real.
The wind outside on the parapet was fierce, and Charlie had to brace himself against the heavy gusts that threatened to pick him up and throw him over the edge. He felt his way along a waist-high wall toward a large fixed telescope, which was attached to a rotating track. Adjusting the lens, he could see farther down the valley and saw that it widened, the forest at the base of the mountains giving way to lakes and vast, wide-open plains. Who knows what lies beyond that, Charlie thought, pulling back from the telescope.
The wind picked up, followed by a freezing drizzle. Shivering, Charlie crammed his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He felt the rough edges of the photograph between the sharpened points of his plastic glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth and could see the pumpkins in front of Old Joe’s barn—he could see his cousin.
Monsterland Page 5
