Necessary Monsters

by Richard A. Kirk

  Moss had not visited the house on Fleurent Drain since his escape from Brickscold. Regardless, he decided that this was where he would begin his search for Memoria. However remote, a chance existed that she might have come back to the house at some point in the intervening years. From a walkway he considered the familiar shapes, the peaks and chimneys, the ink-black shadow of the house on the water. Though the house was technically still the property of John Machine, a lawyer paid its taxes from account set up by Moss's mother. John had never been declared dead.

  The canal was just as he had remembered, water choked with lilies, and air that vibrated with a ceaseless amphibian chorus. From a distance, the house seemed in reasonable condition, considering that it had sat empty for years. The shutters were intact. The roof was only missing a few tiles. Moss's mother had named the house Insomnia—she had found no rest there. The house's real name, Fleurent, was still legible on the pillars that Moss had passed through to enter the property.

  Moss came to the end of the walkway and picked his way through the untended garden to the house. A welcome breeze stirred the air as he knocked on the door. He waited, but there was no response. It was not all pantomime for any observers that might happen by. He half expected squatters. Jiggling the handle, he found it locked. The key had been lost years ago. Turning, he looked out at the yard where a column of insects, illuminated in the setting sun, swirled above the weeds. The first bats of the evening made crazy stitches over the canal.

  At the back of the house Moss forced his way through an overgrown forsythia bush to a bay window. Years of neglect had left the glass murky. He cleaned a patch with his shirt cuff, dampened with saliva, until he could see a room on the other side. It was lit a watery green by the last of the sun's rays. He could make out a long table covered with books. Curious, Moss worked himself between the branches and the window, hoping for a clearer view through the next pane. Instead he found the glass broken. It looked as though it been that way for some time. Dirt and mildew had accumulated along the cracks, the putty had fallen away, and the sill on the other side was weathered. A dagger of glass pulled easily away from the frame. He set it on the ground and tried another. Soon he had cleared an opening large enough to crawl through. Moments later, he stood in the parlor, feeling like an intruder in his childhood home. It was the room where many years ago he had found his mother lying on her side on a couch, still holding a tea towel, its corner dipped in arsenic.

  "Hello?" His voice rang in the empty room. As before, there was no answer. He walked to the antique dining table where his mother had once sat to do the household accounts, and the secret accounts she maintained for John. Her chair was pushed against the wall. He sat on it, taking comfort in its contours as he looked around. Somebody had been using the room, recently. The books, stacked haphazardly on the table and floor, were relatively free of dust. Rolled charts and maps leaned against the walls. Moss stood and walked around the table to where a large map had been laid out. Its corners were prevented from curling by the same large trilobites that his mother had used for paperweights, a rare and inexplicable gift from John. Moss examined the map of Nightjar Island. It was hand-labeled and difficult to read in the failing light. The abandoned city of Absentia followed a section of the coast and had been hand-annotated in pencil. The interior of the island was relatively unmarked, an expanse of stained yellow paper broken by lines meant to indicate forest. "Here be monsters," said Moss. He picked a book at random from a nearby stack. Its subject was celestial impacts, as was the one beneath it, and the one beneath that. He shook his head, perplexed.

  Moss left the room and entered the hall. It led to a foyer and a staircase. Forgotten details jumped out at him, the long ornate carpet with a bald path down the center, a painting of the City of Steps from the vantage point of the sea, and a storybook mouse-hole in the wainscoting. He was about to look into the dining room where he had eaten countless meals, when he heard a sound like rustling paper from the top floor.

  "Is someone there?" His voice was flat in the dead air. The sound was repeated. Moss climbed the stairs. His feet remembered and avoided the worst of the creaky steps. At the top he followed the noise to a door at the end of the corridor. He rapped on the wood. When there was no answer he opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Inside, he was greeted by fluttering wings as Luna moths settled on his clothing. Trays of black walnut leaves were spread on a table beneath a shuttered window. Under the leaves lay the cocoons of Actias luna. Several moths had recently emerged. Amazed, he was tempted to feel their quivering wings but knew better. Instead, he unlatched and pushed out the shutters. The sound of a thousand trilling frogs filled the room. Sensing their freedom, the moths flew into the evening and vanished from sight. Moss took a glass atomizer from the window ledge and misted the trays of leaves. His hand was trembling. Raising Luna moths had been Memoria's hobby as a child. When he was finished spraying the leaves he returned the bottle and looked down at the canal. A strange figure stood at the edge looking into the water where pulsing fireflies and bats skimmed the surface. Moss pulled back far enough that he could watch without being observed. It took him a moment to realize that what he was seeing was a girl sitting on the back of an enormous black dog. After a few minutes she meandered along the canal wall and vanished among the weeds.

  THE MAN WITH THE GLASS PIN

  Moss pulled an oversized atlas from a shelf in Taxali's secondhand bookshop and thumped it down on a table. The shop assistant at the front desk shot him a caustic look, seemed about to speak, but then returned to counting money. An untidy stack of similar volumes sat to Moss's left. Most had damaged bindings and loose leaves. Some had ship's names printed on the covers and were filled with marginalia describing things like water depth and cartographic coordinates. He opened the cover and felt the tickle of leather dust in his nose. The strange child he had seen the previous evening occupied his thoughts, and he was unable to pick which book he wanted to buy. He turned the pages without registering their content.

  She was gone by the time he had made his way back through the house. He had lingered at the canal's edge until the sky was dark and the moon lit the water. He had followed in the direction he thought the girl had gone, but found only footprints. He gave up when the darkness made it impossible to see any additional evidence.

  The presence of the Luna moths was a far more compelling sign that Memoria might be alive than the fox pendant had been. He tried to imagine a world that once again included Memoria, but could not feel the reality of it. What he believed about Memoria and his role in her death was a scar on his mind. And then there was the girl and her dog. What was he to make of this severe straight-backed child, so unlike the young Memoria, glimpsed for a few seconds in poor light? Why had she been alone near the abandoned house late in the evening? Moss's thoughts had been circular for hours, with little to build upon.

  "He's not coming down," said the clerk, whose name was Croaker. "It was half past five when he came in. Right langered he was. He won't be in a fit state until this afternoon, and then he'll just want the company of his bloody parrot. You're shite out of luck, my friend."

  "I just came for a book," said Moss, not looking up.

  "Oh, my mistake, yeah," said Croaker, rolling his eyes.

  Moss sighed, and slumped into an armchair that was blanketed in cat hair. The book was heavy in his lap. He was damned edgy. His left eye felt as though there was a grain of sand under the upper lid. No amount of rubbing would dislodge it. A muscle twitched under his right eye, the result of lying awake for most of the night. Other than Moss, the bookshop was empty of customers. He had arrived early enough to watch Croaker unlock the door and follow him in. He preferred Taxali's bookshop to Seaforth's apartment. Taxali's book-crowded rooms were less imposing than his employer's. They were smaller, and the jammed shelves absorbed sound. He felt at home among the piled books, where a mottled cat named Mouse patrolled in an unhurried fashion. Judge Seaforth detested cats. M
oss took grim satisfaction in laying his cat-hair-covered coat across the purple velvet of the man's settee. He drummed his fingers on the chair arm. Exasperated, he closed the atlas, rubbed his eyes again. He chose another atlas he had set aside earlier.

  He approached the cluttered counter. Annoyed, Croaker emerged like a moray eel from around the reef of an antique cash register. When he saw the book that Moss held, his pupils sharpened.

  "Ahhh, a first edition of The Golden World Traveler," he said. "I wasn't aware we had it. You do know that it was published pre-war, I suppose?"

  "Yes," said Moss. His stomach grumbled. He was anxious to leave. "Do you have a bag? It's raining."

  "Mm." The man fished beneath the counter while Moss looked at the shelves wedged with books behind him. The old joke was that the books held the building up. Remove them, and it would collapse. Behind Moss, the shop door opened allowing in a gust of damp air and the hiss of rain that had come overnight. The cat, Mouse, which Moss had not noticed, stirred on the counter near his hand.

  "It's just that many of the place names on the map of Nightjar Island will be incorrect," said the shop assistant, taking the book from Moss's hands. Moss was more interested in the older names than those imposed by the surveyors that had followed the military withdrawal. The name changes had been salt in the wounds to those who had been evicted from their homes. Moss had decided not to remove the books and charts from Fleurent Drain, and risk startling Memoria, if indeed she was the one using them. In buying an atlas, Moss hoped to glean some clue to the intruder's interest in the place.

  "I understand, thank you." Moss watched the man as he fussed. Croaker had been correct in his assumption. Moss had hoped to see Oliver. It was not unusual for the man to crawl home at dawn. He was an inveterate womanizer. Moss had hoped to encounter him before he staggered to bed. He had some pointed questions about Oliver's connection to Lamb. Now that Oliver had made it to his bed, he would be comatose for hours.

  Croaker opened the cover of the book and inserted a bookmark, thumbing through the pages as he did so. His eyes widened. "Look, I rest my case, Nightjar Island is still pictured as it was before access was forbidden. See all the little roads and towns, so pretty. I'm sure that the island's not so pretty now. Lovely endpapers though, and you just don't see typographic decisions like this any more. A lost art really." He ran his fingers along the edges of the book boards. "I'm afraid this won't be a great deal of use to you. Are you sure I can't interest you in something, ah, more practical?" He closed the book. A puff of air ruffled the cat's fur.

  "I'm fine with this," said Moss, and passed the man a crumpled bill. With his lips pursed, Croaker slid the book into the bag with his ink-stained hand. He shoved it at Moss.

  "Well there you are then. I certainly hope you appreciate it." Moss took the book, shaking his head. He had just turned away when he felt a touch on his arm. A heavy man in a camel overcoat swept around him and grasped his hand before Moss could react.

  "Gale. My name is J. Hart Gale. Unless I've made an unpardonable error, you're the teacher hired by Habich Seaforth. Yes, no?" The man looked Moss up and down. His watery, pink eyes were surrounded with folds as soft as petals. A small mouth, nested in a full salt and pepper beard, was filled with crooked teeth.

  "Hired by his solicitor actually, but yes, that's right," said Moss. "I work for Judge Seaforth."

  "I see you've bought an atlas! Is it for the children?" Gale clapped his hands together.

  "Do you know the family?" said Moss, taken aback.

  "Yes, I do indeed. The judge is a dear friend."

  "Then you'll know that the children are—" began Moss.

  "Out of town, of course, how stupid of me." He slapped his forehead, leaving a red mark on the freckled skin. "They always accompany Habich to the country. It's all right for some, I suppose." He indicated the book with his hand. "You'll have bought it for when they return to their lessons."

  "That's right, Mr. Gale." Moss paused, unsure what to say next. "Well, it was nice meeting you, but if you'll excuse me, I was just leaving." Gale frowned, his forehead pleating.

  "Before you go," he said, moving between Moss and the door, "there's one thing I wonder if you might just help me with?"

  "What's that?"

  "Well, this is a bit awkward, but Habich, dear, forgetful fellow that he is, was to leave me a book. I'm a collector, you see, a bit of a bibliophile, and he acquired it on my behalf. We were to meet before he left so that he could give it to me, but well, you know how it goes. Last-minute things and all that."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Gale, but I'm sure you'll understand I can't just give you a book from his collection without permission. I've only just met you and I don't have any way of reaching him. No offense." Moss edged toward the door. He only succeeded in moving that much closer to Gale.

  "I would be disappointed if you did," roared Gale, laughing. "Good lord! But happily I have a receipt from Habich himself, which should authorize the exchange. If I'd known there was any chance of running into you today I'd have had it with me. I did call last night and you were out."

  "I suppose it might be all right, in that case. When were you thinking?" Moss was twitchy with rising suspicion. Gale seemed oblivious, or chose to ignore it.

  "Is tomorrow evening too soon? Say seven?"

  "That would be fine, Mr. Gale. What's the book? I'll try to have it ready."

  "It's called The Songbirds of Nightjar Island. Here, let me write it down for you. Habich is mad about books on birds." Gale produced a tortoiseshell fountain pen with a deft sleight of hand and inscribed the title of the book on Moss's shopping bag in perfect copperplate. Moss used the distraction to center himself. He focused on a glass pin piercing the man's lapel, a tiny ruby, like a drop of blood, affixed with a gold clasp. "Now then." The pen vanished into Gale's overcoat. "We are all set. Good day to you, Mr.? I'm terribly sorry, I didn't catch the name."

  "Woods," said Moss, taking his hand. "Joseph Woods." Moss shot a glance at Croaker, but the man was busy arranging a shelf of erotica behind the counter, humming and moving his head from side to side like a simpleton.

  "Tomorrow night then," shouted Gale. With a tight smile, Moss left the shop with the bag under his arm.

  The rain dwindled to an acrid mist. Moss did not go straight home. To walk off the unease of the encounter, he tucked the book under his arm and traveled several blocks east to the vast staircase that gave the city its name. Carved from the limestone cliffs through some unimaginable feat of ancient engineering, the steps formed the city's bulwark. At the foot of the steps lay the Irridian Sea. To either side, the steps ran for miles, vanishing into the mist. Moss came here often. He took the air into his lungs. Moisture settled on his face, cooling his burning skin. The vast sense of space allowed him to feel anonymous as people rushed past, focused on their errands, heedless of another soul staring into the grey.

  Was it a coincidence that Gale would ask for that particular book? According to the Deed of Gift Moss had found in Seaforth's desk, the book had been given to the museum six months ago. Moss felt his stomach constrict. He had to play the character. He would meet with Gale at the apartment and recall that his employer had donated the book in question. Hopefully that would be the end of the matter. If not, it might flush out any ulterior motive Gale might have.

  Moss left the Steps and entered the pedestrian traffic around the Cloth Hall. His eyes swept over the people in the square, watching for the tattooed woman. With the uncanny ability of the human eye to pick a familiar face out of hundreds of others, Moss found himself staring at Gale who stood about two hundred feet away. The other man was not looking at him but Moss was sure that he had turned his face away at that very moment.

  Moss worked his way around the edge of the square to a dilapidated telephone booth. He stepped inside and pulled the door shut, blocking out the street noise. The enclosed space reeked like a latrine. Hypodermic needles littered the floor. The plastic receiver dangled on a stretched
cord like a fetus. Moss averted his eyes. He pulled out a red pen and looked at the writing that covered every plane of the booth. Choosing a spot with a clear patch, he drew a small bird and put five dots above its head. Moss pocketed the pen and left. Leaving the sign was near hopeless. It had been months since he had seen Irridis, but he needed to talk.

  AN EMPTY MAP

  "Why's the map so empty at the top?" asked Andrew. The morning sunlight fell across the boy, his armchair, and the heavy atlas open on his lap. Two days had passed since Moss bought the book from Taxali's bookshop. He had spent long hours in the Central Library studying everything he could find on Nightjar Island and celestial impacts. The most fascinating account was under his nose, which he had discovered at 2 a.m.

  Ten thousand years ago, an asteroid exploded in the atmosphere over the Irridian Sea. The largest remaining fragment ended its journey in the heart of the island that would later be known as Nightjar. The crater was almost eight miles in circumference. The impact flattened and burned the forest to the island's ragged coastlines and obliterated all life. Beneath the crater, ancient limestone voids collapsed, revealing the island's bones to the stars.

  Over the centuries, the ruined island was reshaped into a much different place, smoothed by the elements and the returning forest. Many species of birds returned to the island. Nine and a half thousand years after the cataclysm, the first human explorers, a cabal of women, found the epicenter. To their surprise, a small island had been formed there, surrounded by a dark swamp. They called the island within the island Little Eye and declared it a sacred place, the spiritual home of their sisterhood.