The Phenomenals: A Game of Ghouls

by F. E. Higgins

  The four now stood in a rocky passageway with curved walls and a flattened floor. The ceiling was high enough for them to walk upright, even Jonah. The air was cool but not stale, and there was a definite breeze blowing in the direction of the Kryptos. The floor consisted of a mixture of gravel and damp, sandy earth. The only noise was the sound of the steady drip, drip, drip of water. Here and there the walls glistened wetly.

  The party made good progress along the tunnel’s gentle slope. Folly was striding ahead purposefully. Vincent was keeping up with her, partly because with Citrine and Jonah side by side there was no room for a third person. They were lagging because Citrine kept stopping to use the Klepteffigium.

  Jonah was intrigued. ‘How exactly does that . . . thing work?’ he asked.

  Citrine handed him the small brown box and showed him where to insert a piece of stiff Depiction paper into a narrow slot at the back. ‘You look through here,’ she said, ‘and line up what you want to capture within the frame. If they’re too far away or too close, just wind the proximus handle. Then, to take the Depiction, push up this toggle switch and stand steady. After a few seconds you’ll see a flash and hear a click.’

  Jonah took the contraption and looked through the small eyehole. His large hands almost covered the box. The lens distorted the figures up the tunnel, swelling them in the middle and thinning them out at top and bottom. He made adjustments as Folly had explained, and framed Citrine and Vincent with a generous margin. Then, satisfied with his composition, he flicked the switch. There was a bright flash, he waited for the click and handed the box back to Citrine.

  ‘Simple,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘But where’s the Depiction?’

  ‘On the paper inside,’ said Citrine, ‘but I need some chemicals to finish it. They’re in my bedroom. I wish I had thought to take them last time I was in the house.’

  ‘What about Wenceslas?’ suggested Jonah. ‘He has all sorts in the Caveat Emptorium – he might sell you some.’

  Citrine’s face brightened. ‘Of course!’ and the two continued, taking turns with the gadget as they went.

  Further up the tunnel, hoping that Folly was no longer cross with him, Vincent had fallen into step beside her. ‘So, where do you think this leads?’

  ‘Presumably the slab was a way out for Lady Degringolade if she awoke from the dead,’ said Folly, and when Vincent looked sceptical she added with a grin, ‘We are in Degringolade.’

  Vincent knew then that he had been forgiven for his earlier behaviour. He looked over his shoulder at Jonah and Citrine. ‘Thick as thieves, those two,’ he said cheerfully, ‘even though they come from very different worlds.’

  ‘Do you think we have more in common?’

  Vincent made a rocking motion with his head to indicate that he wasn’t sure either way, earning a rare laugh from Folly.

  The tunnel turned unexpectedly, widening out into a small chamber with three other exits.

  ‘It’s a crossroads,’ said Vincent, and started patting his many pockets. Finally he produced a compass, but regardless of which way he turned it the needle just kept spinning. ‘It must be that stuff you told me about, the magnetic ore under the marsh.’ And to prove it he flicked the magnetic switch on his wrist. ‘There’s a very strong pull down here.’

  ‘You’re right – impedimentium,’ said Folly. ‘You can see it.’ She pointed to long copper-coloured streaks that ran across the chamber walls like glittering veins. Scattered about the ground there were pebbles of the same colour, varying in size.

  Vincent pocketed a few of them and noticed at the same time that there were markings etched into the centre of the chamber floor. ‘Compass points,’ he said in surprise.

  Folly looked where he was pointing. North, south, east and west were clearly marked, each pointing to one of the exits. ‘Could be useful,’ she remarked. They had come from the south, she noted, as she sat on a broad ledge near the north exit. She took out her Blivet and started to wipe it clean with a rag from her satchel. ‘We should wait for the others.’

  ‘Did you use that to kill the Pluribus?’ asked Vincent, sitting beside her. He smiled inwardly at the question. Eminently practical, his father’s son, he had never imagined words like Pluribus would trip off his tongue so easily, as if he had known them all his life. He had not intended to stay so long in Degringolade, but when Folly had called his bluff he’d realized he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave after all. Apart from the fact that he didn’t want to travel through Antithica in the coldness of Gevra, he had to admit, though begrudgingly, that he was beginning to enjoy the company of the others. Like Citrine, he also wanted to find out more about Folly’s past.

  ‘I didn’t really kill it,’ she was saying. ‘The Blivet disperses things like that, but it doesn’t get rid of them. You can’t ever get rid of Superents completely – they will always exist in one form or another. They’re all made up of Supermundane particles, but some have more sticking power than others, I suppose. You could say the Blivet neutralizes them. It’s temporary, though some stay neutralized longer than others.’

  She gave the now gleaming tines another careful sweep of the cloth. Beautifully crafted and strange to behold, it was hard to believe the Blivet was a weapon. It was more like some sort of tool. Folly held it up to examine it with a critical dark-blue eye and just for that instant Vincent saw her in a completely different light. Now she really did look like the Supermundane hunter she claimed to be. Her hair, white-blonde, had dried slicked back, and her mouth was set in a determined line. The hood of her leather coat framed her pale face and the angle of her jaw gave her an air of grim resolve. Vincent thought he understood why she was so upset about his recklessness. Everything that had happened to him since he had come to Degringolade – the danger, the close escapes, Kamptulicon – it was all an adventure for him, but for Folly it was a way of life. He should respect it.

  ‘Have you another?’ he blurted out.

  Folly’s head jerked, taken aback by the question. ‘You want a Blivet?’

  Vincent suddenly felt a little embarrassed by his request. ‘You never know when it might come in handy,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Traditionally they’re passed down within families, from one Supermundane hunter to another. This belonged to my great-great-grandmother.’

  ‘What about your father? He must have had one.’

  Folly hesitated. ‘It was lost when he died.’

  Vincent thought for a moment. ‘And Axel?’

  Folly looked at him coolly. ‘Yes, he had one, but I don’t know where that is either.’

  Vincent broke the awkward silence. ‘Where do you think that Pluribus came from?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we should be safe here,’ said Folly, second-guessing him. ‘Superents avoid places like this, crossroads, because they can be summoned here against their will.’

  ‘Oh.’ Vincent changed the subject. ‘So anyway, you should have seen the look on Leucer’s face in the wine merchant’s.’

  Folly’s face darkened and Vincent oathed silently at his stupidity. He held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I know, it was stupid to be seen, but honestly, I was out of there before they knew what had happened.’ A white lie, but it seemed to work and Folly visibly relaxed.

  ‘I suppose there’s no harm done really,’ she admitted generously. ‘I’m sorry if I have been a bit . . . stern. I haven’t quite recovered from that whole business with Axel. Vincent, have you ever thought what would happen if you were caught? I mean, would you expect us to rescue you?’

  ‘There’s no cell can keep me. I can open any lock, believe me!’

  Folly was no longer paying attention and the Blivet hung loosely in her hand. She was sitting very still, rigid almost, and her pale face was distinctly grey.

  ‘Folly?’ he said quietly. ‘Are you all right?’ He looked into her face and was unnerved to see that her eyes were fixed and staring, the pupils huge and black, almost engulfing her indigo irises. S
he seemed to be listening to something, but the chamber was silent. If Vincent didn’t know better, he would have said that someone had hypnotized her. He was relieved when she stirred and came back to life. She looked briefly confused and gave him a terse smile.

  ‘Just tired,’ she said, and before he could enquire further a shadow darkened the floor.

  ‘Codfish! What a great room!’ declared Jonah, his huge frame filling the entrance. ‘I could live here quite happily. Of course, the Kryptos is wonderful,’ he added hurriedly, ‘but sometimes it feels as small as a mermaid’s purse.’

  Citrine looked down one of the other tunnels. ‘Which one shall we take? I’m intrigued as to where we’ll end up.’

  ‘Let’s go north,’ suggested Folly, getting to her feet as if nothing had happened. She was gone before anyone could object.

  The northern passageway was similar to the one they had already travelled, but shortly after they entered it began to slope quite sharply upward.

  ‘Hey, my compass is working again,’ said Vincent.

  ‘It smells a little fresher here too,’ observed Citrine, but to everyone’s disappointment at the next bend the tunnel came to an abrupt and rocky end.

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ said Jonah, unable to hide his relief. ‘We’ll have to go back.’

  Folly came up behind him and pointed to the wooden trapdoor in the roof directly above his head. Admittedly it wasn’t immediately obvious, and Jonah gave a resigned shrug. He was tall enough to reach it and pushed hard with the flat of his hands, but it didn’t give. Then Vincent noticed a keyhole and so Jonah hoisted him on to his shoulders from where, rather awkwardly, Vincent picked the lock. The hatch was still stuck, however, so Jonah pushed harder and it gave suddenly, slamming noisily down on the floor above. Jonah gave Vincent a leg-up through the opening.

  ‘Careful,’ warned Citrine behind him. ‘Knowing the Degringolades, there could be anything up there.’

  Like what? wondered Vincent, then said aloud, ‘It’s some sort of storeroom. Do you think we’ve reached the city?’

  Folly’s face creased with a knowing smile. ‘Not the city; Degringolade Manor!’

  CHAPTER 8

  DECREPITUDE

  Vincent could hear Citrine protesting below as he stood and surveyed his new surroundings. His initial excitement waned somewhat when nothing of any great interest was revealed. He was in a larder to be precise, but it had an air of long abandonment, smelling of mildew and dead mice and decay. It was patently obvious that not a soul had set foot in the place for years. It was now the domain of spiders which, unhindered by humans, had patiently spun their thick sticky webs from point to point across the room and back again. A rat circumspectly emerged from behind a bag on a low shelf and then quite brazenly stood on its hind legs and eyed the intruder. Vincent shivered. Rodents made his flesh crawl.

  Behind him his companions climbed up through the hole (using Jonah as a stepping stone) and the air became thick with the dust raised by the newcomers’ feet. Citrine was holding her hand over her mouth to avoid inhaling it. ‘We must be the first people in here for years.’

  ‘You mean decades,’ mumbled Jonah through his collar, once he had hoisted himself up to join the others.

  Citrine noted that this larder was significantly larger than the one in the Capodel Townhouse. It was cool, as was to be expected given its purpose, and there was a small window, high up in the wall, though no light came through its opaque pane. From a ladder-like frame attached to the ceiling there hung an array of copper pots and pans. The deep slate shelves were still laden with food containers, tins and cartons and bags, their contents mainly unidentifiable and shredded by mice. On a large tarnished platter sat the skull of a hog and on the floor beneath the shelves there were sacks of grain and flour and sugar, once full but now deflated and rotting away.

  ‘Could be useful stuff here,’ said Folly, eying the pots.

  ‘Later.’ Vincent was impatient to get going. He could think of far more useful things than pots to take away from a house this size. ‘Let’s explore.’

  ‘Maybe we should we stay together,’ suggested Citrine, ‘for safety.’

  Vincent scoffed loudly. ‘There’s nanyone here. The place is derelict.’ He led them out of the larder and through the kitchen, between the wide food-preparation counters, past the dusty grey range oven, now cold but once the warm heart of the house, and up to the ground floor.

  In its day Degringolade Manor had been the finest dwelling for miles. Even in its current dilapidated state it still had a certain grandeur that instilled a sense of quiet awe in the four explorers. The entrance hall was of enormous proportions with a vaulted ceiling that seemed a hundred feet above. Despite the dirt, it was possible, just, to see the painted mosaics on the coffered panels. An enormous multi-tiered chandelier hung from a central rose, surrounded on three sides by the galleried landing. Jonah, never having seen such a sight, began to count the candles, but gave up after three score and five. Tiny crystals strung on chains dangled from the chandelier hoops, but they no longer sparkled. As with everything, the pendulous centrepiece looked as if someone had sprinkled it first with fine dust and then cast a net of gossamer cobwebs over it.

  Vincent, like a bee to honey (like a flesh-fly to rotting meat, thought Jonah), presented himself before a gilded, flaking mirror hanging over a table against the wall. He rubbed it clean, but when he caught sight of the arch-browed expression on Folly’s face behind him he quickly moved away. ‘What exactly happened here?’ he asked. ‘Why is nobody living in this place?’

  Citrine, the only true native of Degringolade, told them what she knew: how the sea had slowly flooded the Degringolade estate and created the salt marsh; how the ancient Degringolade family had had a run of bad luck and died, one after the other, until fifty years ago only Lord Cornelius Degringolade was left. Without even a distant cousin left to marry, he had struggled to find a bride. The Degringolades were rich, but were now believed to be cursed. Cornelius was rumoured to be a hunchback, and to the city folk this was simply further proof of the blight upon them. Finally, against all previous tradition, he had settled on a woman from a noble yet unknown family somewhere in Antithica province. From the start, things had not augured well for the union. Within a year, with no heirs, the couple had become reclusive and were rarely seen again. Servants’ jobs were short-lived, and they returned to the city with elaborate tales of the eccentricities of the lord and lady of the manor, especially Lady Scarletta.

  ‘My father told me,’ said Citrine, lowering her voice, ‘that she used to throw servants who displeased her into the Tar Pit. The last servant to work there was so frightened at what he saw that he lost the power of speech, so he wrote it all down in a journal, but it was lost. Apparently there are secret rooms all over the manor and the servants used to hear screams, but couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Eventually no one would work there any more and the Degringolades stopped coming into the city and were never seen again. The only person who dared go to the manor was their solicitor, and he came back one day and said they were both dead. No one really cared. Some people think Lady Degringolade murdered her husband and then gave herself up to the Supermundane.’

  ‘Presumably that’s when the d’Avidus family gained control of the Tar Pit,’ suggested Folly.

  Vincent looked thoughtful. ‘If those are Lady Degringolade’s bones in the Kryptos, then why isn’t Lord Degringolade in there too? And who owns the manor now?’

  Citrine shrugged. ‘I only know what I told you, and that is what my father told me. I think eventually the house will pass to the city, a promise made by the first Degringolades. But with all the weird stories about Lady Scarletta, people stayed away because they were afraid and it was left to rot. Degringoladians don’t like to tempt fate. They observe the rituals without question.’

  ‘It’s a wonder this place survived the earthquake,’ said Jonah.

  Citrine pulled on one of the curtains that we
re drawn over the window beside the solid wooden front door. The material ripped to shreds instantly and both the curtain and its heavy pole came crashing down. The noise was all the more shocking because of the contrasting silence of the manor. A huge cloud of smutty particles seemed to explode from the rotting, moth-eaten material, as indeed did a fluttering of moths. Citrine dissolved in a fit of coughing.

  Vincent wiped a small patch of grubby windowpane and looked out. It was dark outside, as much because nature had encroached so wholly upon the surroundings as from the depths of Nox itself. What had once been a broad, gravelled drive wide enough for a coach and four to turn in a graceful arc, was now a jungle of broad-leaved bushes. He thought he saw something move and pressed his nose against the cold glass, his hands shielding his face to avoid the reflection of the lights behind him. But whatever it was, or wasn’t, had gone. He felt something hard underfoot and found he was standing on a three-legged frog made from finely sculpted adderstone. It must have been knocked from its perch on the door frame (placed there for luck in the Degringolade tradition) when the curtain came down. He pocketed it, naturally, and turned his attention to the rest of the house. He was not concerned with the decay that surrounded him, more with the things that might have survived the ravages of time and neglect, namely jewellery, gold, silver. Surely there was a chance they would still be here.

  Together the four went from room to room and it was the same story in each one: Degringolade Manor was a study in magnificent decay and they were almost spellbound at the vestigial beauty of the huge rooms, each of them imagining what it must have been like when there was life within the walls, when fires burned brightly in the deep wide fireplaces and servants scurried along the corridors. There was little for Vincent to salvage; everything was rotting away in the damp salty air.

  ‘Maybe we could stay in the manor,’ suggested Jonah to Citrine in the dining room. The table was still laid, as if at any moment someone was going to come in and sit down.