Darkmouth

by Shane Hegarty

Finn had been on the school grounds for four seconds and already the Savage twins were moving toward him with fists and jaws clenched. Behind them trailed a posse of three others, hovering around in a manner that suggested they were up for a fight as long as everyone else was.

  Finn kept walking toward the parking lot between him and the school doors, keeping the five boys in view on his right. If he had looked left, he would have seen a sixth lurking and ducked before this boy swung his bag hard at the base of Finn’s neck.

  But he didn’t look left.

  “Ow!” said Finn as the bag slammed into him.

  Dropping into a defensive crouch, he tried to shake off the sting of the blow. The twins stood over him. “That was James that hit you,” said Conn. “His dad has a boat. Or rather he had a boat. It’s mangled now.”

  Finn raised himself gingerly, slowly stretching to his full height, but confirming that this only brought him up to their chins. Conn’s gnarled ear looked like a discarded potato chip bag.

  Another boy aimed a kick in his direction, which Finn managed to dodge awkwardly.

  “His granny was out doing her shopping,” said Manus, “and saw the Cookie Monster or whatever it was that you were supposed to be protecting us from. She got a huge shock. Dropped all her shopping bags.”

  “We had to bring her our leftover dinner,” said the boy who had kicked at him.

  “What was it?” asked Finn.

  “One of your creatures, a big one, that’s what.”

  “No, the leftover dinner. What was it? Was it nice?” When nothing he said was going to be right, Finn had quickly decided that a reckless response was as good as any. Besides, he felt surprisingly calm under the circumstances.

  James swung his bag again. Finn dodged it, but the gang had surrounded him now, and a crowd of onlookers was gathering in anticipation of a scrap.

  “Our da says your family keeps those monsters at home, like pets,” said Conn.

  “He says your da holds on to them because he’d be nothing without them and that he releases them so as to frighten people,” added Manus. “Just to give himself something to do.”

  “Did your da hear that down the pub?” Finn asked. “He spends enough time there.”

  Finn didn’t know why, but he was enjoying this. Time seemed to be running a little slower. He felt relaxed, in control. He noted each of their positions, calculated their moves. Registered it all almost subconsciously. It was as if the near-death experience in the water had drained him of fear. He felt good. He felt confident.

  He felt a clout on the back of his head.

  With a high-pitched shout, almost admonishing the boy behind him for not playing fair, Finn spun around. As he did so, he got a whack on the legs from another bag. Time was still running a little slow, but his confidence was unraveling slowly too.

  Yet, when the bag swung again, Finn reacted quickly enough to grab and yank its holder forward into the boy beside him. They both went down in a heap. There was a pause while everyone tried to figure out what was going on, then a cheer went up from the crowd. This was turning out more exciting than any of them had dared hope.

  Finn automatically assumed a martial-arts position: hands out, right toe pointed up. It was one of the first moves he had learned in his training because it was considered useful for simultaneous defense (with the hands) and attack (kicking whatever bit of Legend was closest). He’d forgotten he knew it.

  The crowd laughed.

  Conn took a run at him. Finn stood to one side and, keeping his foot outstretched, tripped him up while grabbing the back of his jacket to help him land with some dignity.

  The crowd aahed.

  They were on his side, thought Finn with a tingle of triumph. Manus took advantage of Finn’s momentary imbalance to take a swipe at him, a slap connecting with the side of his head and sending him spinning.

  The crowd oohed.

  Finn realized they were just on the side of whoever was entertaining them most at any moment.

  The boys crowded in. Finn wrapped his arms around a torso and pushed. Their grunting scrum lurched forward a few yards, forcing the crowd to jump out of the way. Finn was buried in there, wrestling amid the press of coats, soft bodies, and hard breathing. It was going well.

  Then it wasn’t going so well. Someone had him in a headlock and someone else was pulling at his leg. Through the crush of bodies, Finn felt something wooden and long being pushed into his hand. He grabbed it and dug it into the stomach of whoever had him in a headlock, then heaved Manus Savage off him. Finally seeing it was a hockey stick he was holding, he swung low and wide, hooking Conn’s legs away, then swiped hard again, upending another boy and then another, flipping them over onto their backs until he was clear.

  Jumping from the scrap, he saw a starburst of red hair and knew where the hockey stick had come from.

  “Anyone else want a go?” he said, brandishing the stick as menacingly as he could manage.

  The mob, trouser knees scraped, picked themselves up and scrambled away. “Say thank you to your girlfriend,” sneered Conn as he left.

  Finn did nothing of the sort, instead straightening out his clothes, picking up his bag, and heading away through the dissipating crowd. He handed Emmie her hockey stick on the way through. She followed. “Finn! Hey, Finn. You’re bleeding.”

  He searched, eventually finding blood on his temple. He hadn’t noticed it in the scrap, but now that he knew a cut was there it began to throb.

  “I just took out six guys on my own,” he said, still walking. “Well, pretty much on my own.”

  “That was brilliant!” said Emmie. “I saw it, and saw it was you, and I thought, what can I do? So I gave you the hockey stick and you hooked them, and then . . . wow. Just brilliant.”

  They stopped walking. “I was doing fine on my own,” said Finn, a quiver in his voice as the adrenaline began to drain from his body.

  “I just thought I could help.”

  “You did,” he admitted. “Thanks.”

  “Wait until you see how everyone treats you today, Finn. You’ll get so much respect.”

  She was wrong.

  The day was one of snickers, pointing, wolf whistles, and a steady erosion of whatever respect his display of courage might have earned.

  Mrs. McDaid eyed him suspiciously all through their morning math class, and kept glancing at the cut on his head even as she droned on about angles and triangles. “Isosceles,” she said, a beady eye scanning him.

  Meanwhile, the glares of the Savage twins drilled a hole in the back of his head.

  “Equilateral,” Mrs. McDaid continued.

  Finn could feel the whole class watching him. Could sense them watching the Savages watching him.

  He was the Legend Hunter who had needed a civilian to dig him out of a scrap with enemies who had a standard four limbs, just one head each, and bodies that weren’t a crazy mix of several dangerous animals.

  But he had beaten them nonetheless. It hadn’t been pretty. It hadn’t been smooth. But it had been a victory.

  He looked around at Emmie and gave her a smile. She grinned back.

  One of the Savages wolf-whistled.

  26

  “Uuurghle. Aaargglle. Ckeuck.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Laird?” asked Finn’s mother, her mask billowing as she spoke. She was hovering over the patient, who was tilted back in the chair with his mouth wedged open.

  “Ight sssss llling horgh.”

  “I’m sure it is feeling sore, Mr. Laird. But we’ll soon sort it out, don’t you worry.” She gave Finn a mischievous glance. He was sitting on a chair in the corner, a mask over his mouth too. He had a wool hat pulled hard over his head, covering the angry graze on his temple.

  He had always liked watching his mother work. He was awed by her expertise, her manner, and the grace with which she could pull a tooth. He wondered if he could be the same with animals, so gentle and perceptive, and imagined himself in her position, only with a large Alsat
ian in place of Mr. Laird.

  Mr. Laird gurgled in pain.

  “Ah, I see the problem,” Finn’s mother said.

  “Eegghhh,” Mr. Laird responded.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything yet, Mr. Laird. Just looking.”

  Still in her chair, Finn’s mum wheeled backward across the floor to a cupboard. She searched through her keys for the right one, unlocked the little door, and removed a bottle. Plunging a needle into it, she carefully withdrew a measure of clear liquid.

  “This may sting a little, Mr. Laird, but only for a few seconds.”

  Finn watched intently, trying not to wince too much as the needle was brought close to the patient.

  “All done now.”

  She gave Mr. Laird a few moments to settle.

  “That stuff’s powerful, Finn,” she whispered. “It would calm a rhino.”

  “Not really,” mumbled Finn.

  “What’s that, love?”

  “You’d need a lot more for a rhino,” Finn said, a little boldly. “The larger the animal, the more anesthetic you’d need.”

  He felt somewhat exposed all of a sudden, wanting to share his knowledge with her, yet forcing down the impulse. He pulled the brim of his hat a little lower.

  Finn’s mother stopped and watched him, momentarily intrigued by this sudden flowering of knowledge. “Well, maybe a small rhino then,” she said, and resumed her work. “Now how about you? I’m guessing you’re not here to see Mr. Laird’s molar cavity.”

  “I just needed to get out,” answered Finn.

  “Was there another gateway this morning? I didn’t notice any rain. Or does this have to do with the other day? There’s a reason why that kitchen smelled of rotting prawns, isn’t there?”

  Finn thought out what he wanted to say and what he should say. He decided on an edited, mam-friendly version. “I sort of shot a boat.”

  “A boat?”

  “A trawler.”

  “Oh, Finn.”

  From the chair came a gurgle. “Arrm cagh hrrr chlllluths.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Laird?” asked Finn’s mother, removing the tool propping his mouth open.

  “I can hear the clouds,” Mr. Laird said dreamily.

  “It’s great stuff, isn’t it? Now let’s get that tooth out.”

  A few minutes later, the tooth had been uprooted and the patient was burbling away happily in the chair. “We’ll give you a little while to come around, Mr. Laird,” Finn’s mother told him, pulling the mask below her chin.

  “Mam?” asked Finn.

  “Yep?” she said.

  “Do you ever regret it? Marrying Dad, I mean. A Legend Hunter. And staying in Darkmouth.”

  “Ah now, Finn, that’s a heavy question. Two questions, I suppose, but with completely different answers.” She began to clean up. Mr. Laird was snoring gently. “I fancied your dad from the moment I met him.”

  Finn squirmed at that sort of talk, already half-sorry he’d asked.

  “Everyone did, Finn.” She laughed warmly. “As for Darkmouth, well, I didn’t fancy it so much. I grew up here, but, like so many others, I always thought I’d leave. Even when I married your father, neither of us imagined the Legends would last. They were stopping everywhere else, so why not here?”

  She began to gather up her tools, carrying them over to a sink as she talked. “Even when you came along, I convinced myself you’d get some training, and some fun, some good times with your dad, but that you’d never have to use all those skills. But the Legends didn’t stop. And your dad, well, he hasn’t stopped either. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised he’s so driven, what with his family, and especially how everything changed after your granddad Niall, but still . . .”

  “Mam, what did happen to Granddad? Dad’s never talked about it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready, Finn.”

  “Has he told you?” Finn asked.

  “No.”

  Finn watched his mother carefully place her tools along a roll of paper, lining them up expertly, counting them out, making sure she had what she needed. She washed her hands methodically. Finn admired the precision, the care, imagined himself preparing for work that way, readying himself to heal instead of harm.

  “It’ll be strange when he’s away so much,” said Finn. “Dad, I mean. He’s always been around.”

  “It might not be so bad,” his mother said, drying her hands. “I might get a vacation out of it at last. A chance to finally be able to get out of Darkmouth every now and again. To be normal. At least as close to normal as being married to a Legend Hunter gets.”

  Worry crept across Finn’s face. His mam registered it.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t abandon you. I won’t abandon you. And you’ll never be alone. I’m sure your dad will make sure that Ernest—Mr. Glad—will be there to keep an eye on you, help you out when you need it.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Glad?” Finn asked.

  “Why?” she said, somewhat defensively. “What’s your father been saying?”

  “Nothing.” Finn kicked the floor with the tips of his shoes.

  His mother eyed him for a moment before speaking. “Ernest and I grew up on the same street and went to school together. We were close once.”

  “How close?” asked Finn, not sure he wanted an answer.

  “We went out with each other for a while, before I got together with your father.”

  “Was it serious?”

  “No!” his mother said emphatically. “Not for me anyway. Still, that was a long time ago now. Your father came along and, well, that was that. Ernest became a Fixer for your dad, traveled a bit, but always returned home to that shop of his. I haven’t seen too much of him over the years. It was a bit of a surprise to see him sitting in the kitchen the other day, especially in that sodden state.”

  Mr. Laird snorted awake.

  “Now, Mr. Laird. Feeling better?” asked Finn’s mam.

  He was looking at his hands, wiggling his thumbs. “Did you ever notice the color of fingertips before? It’s sort of . . . musical.”

  “I think we’d better call you a taxi, Mr. Laird.”

  “My fingers are pushing the sky.”

  Finn looked at him, wrinkled his nose. “What did he say?”

  “Mr. Laird?” said his mam.

  “Yes.”

  “My fingers,” said Mr. Laird again dreamily. “The sky.”

  “There you go,” said Finn’s mother.

  “Pushing the sky,” Finn murmured.

  “That stuff really does make your mind go a bit la-la,” she said.

  But Finn had stopped listening. All he heard were Mr. Laird’s words repeating in his head, prodding at his brain until a realisation burst out. Pushing the sky. He leaped up and dashed for the door.

  “I’d better go. Thanks, Mam, see you later.”

  “Finn . . . ?”

  But he was gone.

  27

  Finn ran straight to the library, following the now familiar thuds and whirrs of activity.

  “Dad, I’ve just thought of something!”

  Finn’s father was at the machine, trying to work something out of a crevice. Mr. Glad emerged from around the other side of the device, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. He lifted his chin by way of a greeting.

  The smaller of the room’s empty cages had been pulled forward. Between it and the device stood a small round table holding two things: an apple and Finn’s goldfish bowl. Bubbles the fish bumped lazily against the glass.

  On the floor in front of the device was a ring of bonsai trees.

  “Dad, I just figured something out about the man at the gateway.”

  “Go on,” said his father, not looking up.

  “I thought the man was taking something from it. That’s what it looked like to me anyway.”

  “Yeah?” With a grunt, his dad snapped out whatever he’d been working at. It sparked, singeing his fingers.

>   “Only . . . what if he wasn’t taking something from the gateway, but putting something into it?”

  “Like what?” said his dad, distracted.

  “I don’t know.” Finn hadn’t thought that far. “How about an object? Or a message maybe?”

  Shaking his stinging fingers, his father stood up to ponder that idea. His face slowly broke into an aspect Finn wasn’t entirely familiar with, but guessed might be something approaching respect.

  “That’s not bad,” he said. “I suppose it would make sense if someone over here was working with . . . Hold on, what happened to your head?”

  Finn had absentmindedly flung off his hat as he’d run into the house, exposing the cut at his temple. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Nothing?” said his dad. “That’s a lot of blood for ‘nothing.’”

  Mr. Glad, who had been busying himself around the machine, interrupted. “I think we’re ready to go, Hugo.”

  Finn looked at the machine, then at his goldfish bowl. “Um, why is Bubbles here?”

  The two men ignored him, engaging in a flurry of checks and cross-checks while Finn hovered, feeling somewhat deflated. Mr. Glad carefully stepped over the bonsai perimeter, walked to the adjacent shelves, and began rifling roughly through the jars. “What’ll we use? A Hippalektryon? Too unpredictable. The Hippogriff? Too dangerous.”

  “I nearly lost a kidney to that,” said Finn’s dad.

  “That was a tough day all right. How about the Hogboon?”

  “Yes, use him. He brought the crystal here so he can have the privilege of seeing how we’re putting it to good use.”

  Mr. Glad lifted the stopper from the jar and placed the hard ball of desiccated Hogboon in the cage.

  Finn’s father darted over to a wall and grabbed a Desiccator. Expertly, he pulled its barrel free, twisting its handle away. Removing the gun’s canister, he peered inside, sloshed it about a little, and then screwed the canister and barrel together so it was more like a rod with a fat end to it.

  “I’ve never shown you a Reanimation before, Finn,” said his father. “Never needed to. You’re going to love this.”

  Finn had read about Reanimations, and understood the process as well as he understood the science behind a Desiccation—which was not very well at all.