by Paul Durham
“That was quite a scene in the cemetery last night,” she says.
I nod in agreement, tilting my head so that my hood shades my face.
“What do you suppose it was all about?” she asks.
I spent most of the night considering that very question. Memories are returning to me. The deafening static in the graveyard? The oppressive swirl of energy overhead? I have felt them before. A long time ago. They’re part of a memory I spent years trying to bury. I did a good job of it, but now it’s all swirling back.
“Hard to say for sure,” I mutter. “Every now and then, things get shaken up. Have you ever heard of a hundred-year storm? One so strong you might experience it only once in a lifetime? It’s like that. But when this kind of storm blows through, it can break down the walls between the living and the dead.”
I glance up at an overcast sky that hasn’t seen the sun in a week.
“That’s what’s happening now?” Viola asks.
“It certainly seems like it,” I answer.
I don’t mention that I’ve been through a storm like this once before. That was different. I wasn’t alone. This time, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do but hunker down and help my wards ride it out.
My eyes shift to Hetty’s apartment. I spot her hanging something inside her window frame. It looks like a wind chime—delicate shards of jade and turquoise glass strung on fishing line.
Viola notices my gaze. “Who are they?” she asks.
“Her name is Hetty. She has a younger brother named Tomás. He’s the one you helped in the playground. They live with their mother.”
Below us, Hetty balances atop a pink footstool as she positions the wind chime in her window. Her long wrists peek past her sleeves. She’s still a child, but she’s starting to outgrow everything around her. I hardly know Hetty, but I’ve seen enough to suspect that there’s more to this young ward than meets the eye.
A bright flash of light surprises me. A sliver of aqua-colored glass has somehow caught a hint of light on this gloomy day and reflected it back in my face. I turn away, blinking.
“My wards had a bad night,” I tell Viola, trying to clear my vision. “Hetty’s family in particular.”
Viola raises a quizzical eyebrow.
“Another Netherkin got into the building,” I explain. “Made it all the way up to the fourth floor. It seemed pretty intent on getting into their apartment.”
Viola’s face tightens with concern.
“I know, I know,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment. “Look, they’re crafty little pests. Sometimes one slips past even the best of us.”
“Goyle, why would they be singling out that family?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t say that they’re actually singling them out—”
“How long have they lived here?” she interrupts.
“A couple of weeks, maybe. They just moved in.”
“How many Netherkin have you discovered in your building since then?”
“Two.”
Viola narrows her eyes. “And how many Netherkin do you normally get around here?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I keep a clean Domain,” I protest. No Netherkin has been foolish enough to trouble my wards in ten, fifteen years. Maybe longer.
“Sure, there was an imp that got stuck in a mailbox last winter,” I confess. “But he was just hitching a ride in a Christmas package. He didn’t seem any happier to be here than I was to find him….”
I pause. Viola’s stare is a chisel now. I guess I see her point.
“So maybe it’s not just a coincidence,” I concede. And, yes, I would have eventually drawn that conclusion on my own.
“What do you know about Hetty and her family?” Viola asks.
I rub my chin. “Well, Hetty’s in fifth grade, I think. Her mother’s a nurse of some sort—sometimes she works long hours. Tomás is loud.” I think harder. “They go through a lot of diapers….”
Viola is waiting for more. I don’t mention the unfortunate Ouija board incident, or Hetty’s unusual interest in the comings and goings in the hallway the night before. It’s suspicious behavior, but there’s no need to give Viola the wrong impression until I make sense of it myself.
“I probably haven’t gotten to know them as well as I should,” I admit.
I look away and scowl at my neglect. I usually do a better job of getting acquainted with new wards. But truth be told, the Twins have dominated my thoughts and left me distracted from my duties.
“You need to get inside and find out what’s going on in that apartment,” Viola says.
“Maybe,” I grumble. It’s not a bad suggestion, but I’m not keen to admit it.
Viola is quiet. When I glance back over I find her watching me expectantly.
“So?” she says, after a moment.
“So what?”
“What are you waiting for?”
“You mean right now?”
“Do you have something else to do?”
She’s more impatient than a leaky gable. Who’s the Grotesque around here?
“Viola, just because you like to sit on rooftops doesn’t mean you understand the complexity of my job,” I remind her.
“What’s so complex? You said yourself no one can see you. Pop on down there and snoop around.”
I frown.
“Yes, well, here’s the thing,” I begin sheepishly. “I can’t actually enter a ward’s apartment unless I’m invited.”
“What?” she says in surprise. “I thought this was your Domain?”
“It is. But that’s sort of a rule.”
“A rule? You have a rule book?”
“Call it an unwritten rule.”
“I don’t understand. You can’t, like you’re not supposed to, or you can’t—like you’re physically unable?”
“A bit of both.”
Viola shakes her head. “I’m lost.”
I sigh. “Have you ever stood on a high diving board and wanted to dive into a pool, but something comes over you and your feet won’t budge?”
Viola glances at her boots swaying over the edge of the roof. “I’m not really afraid of heights.”
I sigh again. “Yes, I get that. Me either. But you understand the idea, right?”
She just looks at me blankly. “You’re afraid of Hetty’s apartment?”
“No, I’m not afraid. I’m trying to describe the physical sensation. What about stage fright? You have to sing in front of an audience but you can’t bring yourself to step through the curtain?”
She shrugs and pats the violin case. “Nope.”
I slump my shoulders. Humans and their primitive minds.
“I don’t like pie,” she offers, scrunching her face. “Scary stuff.”
I blink slowly in disbelief. “You’re afraid of pie?”
“I burned my tongue on an apple pie when I was a little girl,” she says, cringing at the memory. “Any kind of fruit-filled pastry terrifies me.”
I can barely control my laughter.
“It’s not funny, Goyle. My tongue was swollen up like a catcher’s mitt. I had to drink my dinner through a straw for a whole week.”
I choke back my amusement and compose myself.
“All right, I can work with that,” I say. “Close your eyes.”
“You’re not going to tickle me, are you? I’m not crazy about that either.”
“Just do it.”
Viola pinches her eyes tight.
“Now, imagine that somebody has just put a piping-hot apple pie under your nose. It’s fresh out of the oven.”
Viola squirms.
“Smell the crust, the steaming filling. Here’s a fork. Go on. Eat up. Take a big bite.”
She squishes her face and shakes her head vigorously. I can see the discomfort in her puckered lips.
“That’s what it would feel like if I tried to step into an apartment without being asked,” I explain.
“Oh, that is awful.” Viola
reopens her eyes. “And if you’re invited?”
I clap my hands together. “I’m in like a pig at a pie-eating contest.”
Viola considers what I’ve told her.
“Well, it’s simple enough, then,” she declares after a moment. “We just need to get Hetty to invite you inside.”
Viola and I stand in the middle of my rooftop. She looks me up and down in my wisp form. I try to stand up straight, smoothing my vest and straightening my hood self-consciously.
“We want Hetty to let you in, but she won’t be able to see you, right?” she asks. “That could be a problem.”
“I can make her, if I try really hard. Although I usually avoid that.” I shift my feet under Viola’s gaze. “Most people aren’t all that eager to invite a creepy-looking wisp into their homes.”
“Hmm, I see what you mean,” she says, which makes me even less comfortable. She didn’t have to agree so fast. “Maybe I could try instead?” she offers.
I put my hands on my hips. “Who’s the Grotesque here? This is my Domain. You wouldn’t possibly know what to look for once you were inside.”
“Sorry,” she says, backing down. “I was just trying to be helpful.”
Viola circles around me, tapping a finger on her chin. I feel like a mannequin on display. She gestures in the air, outlining my human form.
“Is this all we have to work with, or can you change into something a little…cuter?” she asks.
“I’m not a magician, Viola,” I say. “I can’t just shapeshift willy-nilly. I can take the shape of a person, but otherwise I tend to be rather limited by my stone form.”
“Another unwritten rule?” she asks, disappointed.
I glower and nod.
She glances over at my stone shell. I think my regal wings, strong haunches, and watchful eyes are all rather charming, but the look on Viola’s face tells me otherwise. “So what else you got?” she asks skeptically.
“Bat?”
“No,” she says flatly.
“Monkey?”
“As much as I’d love to see you peel a banana with your feet, that might look a bit out of place in the city.”
I think about it a bit more, then snap my fingers. “How about this?”
I contort my face, and my neck begins to stretch. My arms morph into two great capes of feathers and my nose stretches into a long beak. My feet lengthen into sharp talons.
Viola takes a step away in disgust as I stretch my enormous black wings with pride. Not bad for my first attempt at a vulture.
“That’s horrible!” she gasps. “Stop it. Change back.”
I strut around, bobbing my bald pink head. “If you knew how much I detest feathered creatures, you’d appreciate the effort,” I say.
“Seriously, Goyle, you’re hopeless. Can’t you come up with anything warm and fuzzy?”
I cluck my black bird tongue and think some more. I wrack my memory for something I can pull off in somewhat-convincing fashion. Then it hits me. I recall a pet that was quite fashionable during the time of my Maker. It should do the trick.
The vulture begins to shrink. I replace its wings and talons with four short legs. The long beak retracts until it becomes a stubby, wet nose. My feathers are now a coat of trim black fur, highlighted by a nice patch of white around my muzzle and on my round, pettable tummy. My body has the dimensions of a stocky little barrel.
I blink my huge brown eyes at Viola.
“Roundhead,” I say, with a smile that reveals a chipped canine. “These days, you’d call me a Boston terrier.”
Viola pauses and looks me over. She doesn’t jump with enthusiasm, but at least she’s not disgusted.
“So what do you think?” I ask. I turn around, flash my rump, and wag my curly little tail.
She sighs and offers a reluctant nod. “Well, have you ever heard the expression so ugly it’s cute? I’d say you nailed it.”
“Pastrophobia,” I say as I trot around the roof, trying to get comfortable with my four new legs.
“What?” Viola asks. She’s sitting cross-legged, her violin case in her lap.
“Pastrophobia,” I repeat, impressed with myself for having remembered the term. “That’s what you have.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asks. There’s an impatience in her voice as she watches me circle her.
“Pastrophobia is the fear of pies and baked goods,” I say.
“You’re making that word up.”
I shake my head, my terrier jowls jiggling. “Nope.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“The library. It’s been around as long as I have.”
“You do a lot of reading?” she asks, surprised.
“I prefer comics. But ’92 was a particularly quiet year. I started memorizing the dictionary to pass the time. Made it through the Es, Gs, Is, and Ps.”
“You didn’t start in alphabetical order?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.
She just shakes her head.
“The library’s a great place,” I add. “There used to be some imps in the cooking section.”
I still remember their strange honey-and-sugar taste to this day. The Twins insisted they were fairies. Or guardian angels, not that I believe in such things. I smack my lips at the memory.
“Used to be,” I emphasize.
“Goyle, you’ve been at this for an hour. Don’t you think it’s about time you find your way down to Hetty’s apartment?”
“This form takes some getting used to,” I say. “I’m not going to make a very convincing dog if I accidentally start walking on two legs. Besides, I can’t very well go gallivanting around the halls like some lost puppy.”
I cock my head and give her a wink of my round eye. “Gallivant. Do you like that one? It means to travel or roam about for fun.”
“Fascinating,” Viola says without enthusiasm.
“I need to try tomorrow when I can find Hetty by herself,” I explain. “Her mother will just complicate things. Hetty sits in the courtyard every day after school. She doesn’t do much. Just sketches in a notebook or stares at the walls for hours until her mother gets home.” I pause. “It’s almost like she doesn’t want to be in the apartment alone.”
“Tomorrow?” Viola asks, unfolding her legs. “What if the Netherkin come tonight?”
I stop, stand upright on my hind legs, and cross my forepaws. “What are you saying? That I’m stalling?”
“No, of course not,” she says, and looks away. I see her fidget with the clasps of the violin case. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I was just trying to be helpful….”
Viola offers a small smile. I return a sarcastic but not unkind grin that reveals a hint of teeth.
“Goyle,” Viola says, “even as a dog I can see the little scar over your eye. And your tooth is still chipped.” She glances back at my shell, which mirrors the old injuries. “How did it happen?”
I close my mouth and drop back down onto all fours. “Just a little tumble—a long time ago,” I say, tight-lipped. I run my tongue along the broken canine.
That memory I’ve struggled so long to forget has come crashing back again. I notice that my short tail has involuntarily slumped between my legs. I quickly shake the pesky thing to life.
“Nothing serious,” I fib.
Viola studies my stubby face, as if deciding whether or not to believe me. I don’t think she does.
“Well, I guess I should get going,” she says, slowly pushing herself to her feet. Maybe she’s noticed my sudden change in mood.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I agree—probably too quickly. I wonder if I was supposed to stop her. “I mean, you never know when someone might wander up and wonder what you’re doing here. Where are you off to?”
She adjusts her wool cap and picks up the violin case.
“I’ve got a rehearsal. Nearly forgot all about it.”
“On a Sunday?”
“We’ve got a f
all concert coming up.” There’s another adjustment of her cap.
“Oh,” I say. “Maybe I could come listen?”
“Yeah, maybe,” she says, peering out over the rooftops. “I’ll let you know.” She moves to leave, then hesitates. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, Goyle. Don’t put off checking the apartment for too long. It could be really important.”
Before I can get testy again, or explain that I know a thing or two about minding my wards, she hurries off, exiting by the neighboring roof.
I sigh and sit on my haunches, scratching an itch behind my ear with one of my hind legs. Viola’s questions may have soured my mood, but now that she’s gone, I’m not relieved by the solitude. I run my long pink tongue over my chipped tooth again. It’s not that I’m vain—just a little sensitive about it. Viola couldn’t possibly have known why.
And I suppose I didn’t have to lie.
The Twins and I never lied to one another. Even if we wanted to, it’s tough to keep secrets when you’ve been sitting around the same building for a hundred years—everyone always knows what you’re doing and where to find you.
I pad to the edge of my roof and drop down beside my stone shell. I stare out at the skyline. A black-hooded predator is perched atop the glass tower on Boylston Street. Below it, a fat gray pigeon flutters leisurely through the air. In the blink of an eye, the predator dives straight down, wings pinned at its sides. The pigeon explodes in midair, feathers fluttering like snowfall as the peregrine falcon returns to its perch high above.
As you know, I’m no fan of feathered creatures. But maybe these falcons weren’t the worst addition to our rooftops.
I cast my eyes toward a different row of buildings in the shadow of the tower. Shorter and older, they predate the metal mountains that have grown up around them.
Those buildings are part of another memory. The one I’ve tried so hard to forget.
The recollection remains distant, but now that it’s back, it gnaws and haunts me worse than the bite of any Netherkin.
