Creeping Jenny

by Jeff Noon

  This brought a smile to Teddy’s lips, and he said, “I hate all the saints equally, and all that they make people do, in the name of belief.”

  “Why don’t you leave then? Leave Hoxley. Move away, find–”

  Teddy raised his arms in a sudden movement, flinging them wide, and he shouted at the top of his voice – a primitive, wordless cry. It echoed around the valley causing a grouse to take off in fright from the moor. In the dim light, with the parts of the crashed airplane around him, he looked like a pilot lamenting the breaking of his wings.

  Neither man spoke until the cry had faded away completely, and then Teddy said, “What were you doing at the cottage? It’s not your place.”

  “I know that.”

  Nyquist realised that one wrong word might send the young man running off again, and this time there would be no catching him.

  “I was looking for someone. And I thought they might live there.”

  “Who?”

  “My father. George.”

  He watched for a strong reaction, but the young man only scowled. “I call him Mr Nyquist. Or sir. As befits a man of his standing, and intellect.”

  “So you’ve been looking after the place?”

  Teddy’s face lit up. “Cleaning, tidying. And as soon as the weather clears up, I’ll start on the roof, to stop those leaks.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “For when he comes back.”

  “You think he might?”

  Now worry took over his features. “I know he will.”

  “Are you sure, Teddy? Are you positive?”

  “He promised me. He promised me!”

  Nyquist let the promise ring out, empty or well-meant. He felt shivery inside, an after-effect of the fight and the blow to the head, and the cold.

  “Let’s go back to the cottage. I’m freezing, and my head aches, and there’s blood inside my mask.”

  “I’m sorry,” the young man answered. “I thought you’d come to inspect the cottage, or something. To take away Mr Nyquist’s possessions.”

  “I think you knew exactly who I was, Teddy, right from the start, from day one. And I think you were jealous. Is that it?”

  “No.”

  His face said otherwise. Nyquist started to put it together: “So you’re the person who broke into my room, on my first night in the village.”

  “I didn’t break in. The door was open.”

  “So what were you looking for?”

  “I’d already heard about you, we all had. I knew your name.”

  “That gave you a shock, I imagine.”

  The young man nodded. “At first I thought it was him – the real Mr Nyquist. I thought he’d come back for me. But then I saw you on the green that night, after we all went outside, on Saint Meade’s day. And I knew, I just knew, that you were here for no good purpose, that you would take him away, if you could.”

  “And now? Do you still think that?”

  Teddy hesitated. “I think you’re as lost as I am, and as sad.”

  Nyquist felt a sting of remorse. It turned quickly to anger.

  “Tell me one thing, kid. Why in the name of hell did you stitch up my father’s mouth, on the photograph?”

  The question brought a strange reaction. Teddy started to shake, and to sway from side to side. His face was taken over by a series of nervous tics. Seeing this, Nyquist took a step forward. But the action only emboldened the young man. “It’s called Birdbeck tarn,” he said, gesturing to the pool. There was longing in his voice. And for a moment, it looked as though he might go in, that he might actually step into the water. It couldn’t be that deep, if the plane’s propeller was lodged in the rocky bed, but it was deep enough to drown in, and cold, cold and dark. The blood would freeze.

  Nyquist held out a hand. “It’s alright, Teddy. I’m not coming any closer.”

  “Good. Thank you. Don’t do that.”

  “We should get back. It’s going to rain again. Is that your bicycle at the cottage?”

  Teddy nodded, but he made no attempt at compliance: he stood his ground.

  Nyquist pressed at his mask, forcing the blood to seep down, away from his eyes. He moved his hand onto the wound on the side of his head; it felt pulpy, but not too bad.

  “When did you meet Mr Nyquist?” he asked.

  “Three months and two days ago.”

  “Early September?”

  “Yes. I was cycling out this way, to visit the crash site. It’s my favorite place, when I want to get away from people. But when I got to the crest of Hawley Ridge, I saw a figure moving about down below, gathering bits of metal from the plane wreck. Then he walked down to the cottage. I was curious, because the house had been empty for more than a year. It was pretty much uninhabitable.”

  “So you went down to meet him?”

  “No. Not that day. But half a week later I came back and I lay in the grass and I spied on him. I’d brought a pair of binoculars with me. I saw him working in the back garden, making the first of his machines from the pieces of metal that he’d collected.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “That he might be a spy, an enemy of the people, or a criminal on the run. That he was building a weapon of some kind.”

  “What were you going to do, apprehend him?”

  “No. Join him.”

  “And was he any of those things? A spy? A criminal?”

  Teddy looked away over the hill, past the wreckage of the plane, out to where the sky met the land, far away, pathless, snow-peaked.

  “I don’t think you know him,” he said, when he’d turned back. “You don’t know him, not like I do.”

  “I’ll agree with you there.”

  The admittance seemed to calm the young man, and he relaxed his arms and his stance, and he actually took a step closer to Nyquist.

  “Two days later I plucked up the courage to walk down to the cottage and to speak with him.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Everything! Oh, everything. So many things. I’d never met anyone like this before. The people of Hoxley… well, you’ve met them, you know what they’re like.”

  Nyquist gestured for him to carry on.

  “I couldn’t stop listening to him, his stories. The places he’d been, his travels.”

  This was painful to hear, as though this young man had stolen Nyquist’s life, in some way. He felt his teeth grinding together, and he tried to relax.

  Teddy carried on. “He taught me about the machines he was making in the garden.”

  “The sculptures?”

  “Not sculptures, no. Machines of communication.”

  “Communicating with whom?”

  “People hidden, people lost, the heavens themselves. Messages from beyond. He told me he was looking for a spirit, one in particular.”

  “Don’t tell me, his dead wife?”

  The young man nodded in agreement. “He said that she lived on in the air, and all he had to do was gather her scattered atoms together, to make her whole once more.”

  Nyquist cursed. He had heard all this before, when he was a lad. The madness of his father’s various schemes and séances, and how young Johnny would get dragged into the process.

  “He killed her, you know? Did he tell you that? No, of course he didn’t. He killed her in a car accident.”

  Teddy looked distraught at this news. “That’s not true–”

  Nyquist cut him off. “What about Sadler?” he asked. “Len Sadler. Did you see him at the cottage?”

  It was a welcome change of subject. “Yes, I saw him hanging around once, but I stayed hidden until he’d gone, the interfering bastard.”

  “Sadler told me that my father didn’t speak much.”

  Teddy looked positively gleeful at this. “Well there it is, you see! He preferred me. He liked to talk to me.”

  “You wanted Mr Nyquist all to yourself?”

  “I didn’t want other people talking to him, not eve
n my sister. Or Val. So I didn’t tell anybody in the village about him. And that’s how he wanted it. He wished for seclusion.”

  “Did he tell you where he’d come from?”

  “He told me stories of a city of light and dark, of the sky never seen – the sun and the moon, never seen – of streets filled with lamps and lanterns and gas flames, so many of them! It sounded like a dream.”

  “I was born in that place,” Nyquist told him. “It’s called Dayzone.”

  “Yes, of course I’ve heard of it. One part of it is called Dusk.”

  “That’s right. It’s filled with mist, endless mist.”

  Teddy nodded. “Mr Nyquist talked about the dusklands, and how he’d lived there for a while.”

  “He ran away into the dusk, when I was a lad. And he never came back.”

  “Yes, he mentioned… Mr Nyquist mentioned a son… somebody lost…”

  Again, the pain struck home, like a needle. One jab, another. Pain, then hope.

  “Why did he come here, to Hoxley?” Nyquist asked. “Did he tell you?”

  “He was drawn here.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t say. I’m not allowed to.”

  “Teddy. Speak to me.”

  Nyquist reached forward and the young man swayed back in response, and the balance point between them shifted.

  “I’ve told you before. Stay away!”

  “I’m not… I’m not moving. Look. Teddy. Look at me.”

  The young man moved toward the pool, his feet sinking in the newly formed mud at the bank. He stared into the depths as he spoke: “One day Mr Nyquist stepped into the water. This is what he did. One step, two steps, right out into the center. I saw this from the ridge, up there, and I shouted down at him, as loud as I could. But he acted as though he couldn’t hear me. And then he lowered himself into the pool completely. And he sank down below the surface. I saw it all.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To return. To go back, back home.”

  “What happened? You’re not… you’re not saying he drowned, are you? Teddy?”

  “I ran down and tried to pull him out, but… but he struggled against me and he slipped away, and the water was dark, darker than it should be, and I couldn’t find him. I searched, and searched. I held my breath and sank down again and again, and I looked everywhere for him.”

  “But you saved him, didn’t you? You found him, and you dragged him free?”

  “Yes. Yes. I saved him. His hand reached out for mine and I held on tightly, I pulled him to the bank. He was sobbing, sobbing. He kept saying…”

  “Yes? What did he say? Teddy!”

  “That he was stranded. Stranded in life. That is what he said.”

  Teddy was shaking. He took another step and now the water seeped around the soles of his shoes.

  “Teddy! Look at me. This way, lad. That’s it, that’s it.” Nyquist had to keep him talking, to keep him from acting on impulse. “When did this happen? When did you last see my father?”

  Teddy wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand. “At the end of the month. September 27th. I will always remember. He was worried all the time, see, that was the problem. Mr Nyquist was scared that he’d be found out. That they’d discover where he was.”

  “Who was looking for him?”

  “He didn’t say. He wouldn’t tell me. But he was fearful, I could see that. And I was worried too, see, that Len Sadler might tell tales.”

  “I don’t think he did, lad, as far as I know.”

  Teddy bit at his lip. “Whoever it was, they came for him. And he had to run, to find somewhere else to hide out. Or else they took him away.” His hands beat at his sides. “I don’t know which it was. I don’t know. But the next time I came out here… he was gone. Just the empty cottage. A few belongings.”

  “You haven’t seen him since then?”

  The young man shook his head. He looked worried.

  “He might not return, Teddy. Believe me.”

  “He will. I think he will. He has to.”

  It was a simple statement of truth, and Nyquist saw it as such. There was no argument against it. He said in hope of compliance, “Teddy. I’m going to walk back down to the cottage now, and try to get warm. Because I’m suffering out here, I’m freezing, and my head hurts from where you hit me. And I need to get back to the village. Doctor Higgs will be driving back this way sometime soon. I’m going to wait for her on the road. I need her to look at my injuries. And I need to get this mask off.” He paused, to give all this a chance to sink in.

  And then he asked, “Will you come with me?”

  The young man hesitated. He moved away from the pool and turned toward Nyquist. He spoke calmly, as though reciting a speech.

  “I stitched up your father’s mouth on the photograph so as not to allow him to speak.”

  “It was an act of magic?”

  “Yes. And by these means he wouldn’t be able to tell you the secret.”

  “Which secret?”

  “The one he pledged me to keep, to keep hidden, in here.” He pressed at his heart. “It will never be revealed, not to anyone.”

  Nyquist could no longer control himself. He stepped forward. “Teddy… I need to know everything. I have to find my father.”

  “No, no. He doesn’t belong to you.”

  “What did he say?”

  Now they stood together on the edge of the pool. Nyquist held the other man by the upper arms, face to face.

  “Tell me!”

  Teddy’s voice took on a trancelike effect, devoid of emotion. “I was born and raised here in Hoxley-on-the-Hale. I will live and die here.” He was creating his place in the world, one fact at a time. “My dad rots in prison. My mum is a drunkard. My sister waits only for marriage. Next week, I will be twenty years old.”

  There was no struggle in the young man, no attempt to escape.

  “My name used to be Edward Patrick Fairclough.”

  And too late, Nyquist remembered Becca’s story of her brother and the new name given to him.

  “Sylvia of the Woods has spoken. She has renamed me. I am Born to Follow. And by that phrase shall I be known and remembered. I am baptized!”

  And with that he twisted out of Nyquist’s grasp and plunged into the water of the pool, his legs making awkward, heavy strides. Nyquist was pulled with him, clinging onto the young man’s hood in some vain hope of rescue.

  Into the depths they fell, one then the other, rolling over and over.

  Water soon filled Nyquist’s overcoat, dragging him down. His hands hit bottom and his fingers dug into silt and pebbles, gaining purchase.

  His eyes opened and saw only the cloud of silt rising through the darkness: the breath of a monster.

  All sound was cut off except for a booming noise in the distance.

  His own heart, amplified.

  Teddy was close by, another object, struggling, struggling for life, for death, whichever proved strongest.

  With a great effort Nyquist reached out in the dark and groped blindly until his hand grabbed hold of something sturdy and sharp and he clung to it for safety, and then he pushed upwards to let his head break through the surface of the pool, where he sucked in a huge gulp of air. He was holding onto the blade of the propeller. Excalibur! He looked around, this way and that, but there was no sign of the other man. “Teddy, Teddy!” Dirt clogged his mouth and throat: dirt and grit and black water, weeds and insects. “Teddy!” He got to his feet and stood up. The water came up to his lower chest. Yet the surface was calm and shiny and as darkly hewn as before, with no sign at all of the recent disturbance.

  Nyquist’s voice rang out over the hills.

  Strangely, the cold had not yet hit him, and yet his body was shivering. Voices were screaming in his head, the loudest of them urging him to return to the bank and to climb out onto dry land. Instead he ducked down under the water again and clung to the stones below, the weeds, the ro
ots of ancient trees, pulling himself along, and this time all was calm and quiet and barely understandable, otherworldly, a dreaming realm. The water was warm and soothing. It had a bluish tinge, with silver particles floating within it. Magic lived here, submerged, waiting. Nyquist felt his mask slip away from his face. He saw coins and animal bones and jewels amid the pebbles and shards of the pool’s bed, and the blade of a dagger inscribed with runes, and small machine parts from an airplane, nuts and bolts, and objects wrapped in ribbon, a lost and broken clock showing the correct time of day, his own Edmund Grey mask floating by, gently suspended, and the painted head of a doll, a pair of flying goggles, bones, buttons, a die, a skull, and most enticing of all a mirror framed in wood, its glass surface uppermost, briefly reflecting his movement, his progress, his face, no, not his face, but the face of his father, old and wise and smiling, and by now even the cold was dissipating from Nyquist’s body and blood, and he felt completely at peace, the cloud of silt parting before him as he searched, and searched again until he found in the semi-darkness a hand, a hand reaching out for his and taking hold, entwined.

  TENDRILS

  The saints looked down upon them. Saint Alice and her brother Edmund looked down on the two men and smiled at their struggles, and bade them good progress. The rain stayed away and the skies cleared over King’s Grave and the wind dropped to a whisper. They fell into the cottage and gathered their wits and banged their arms around themselves for warmth and comfort. Nyquist pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around Teddy’s body. He took a cotton sheet for himself. “I’ll make a fire,” Teddy said, his teeth chattering. But Nyquist said no, they had to keep moving, to get to the road and to pray they weren’t too late. He picked up the birdwatching guide and took one more look at his father’s belongings, and then they set off once more. Teddy wanted to take his bicycle. “No. Leave it.” Nyquist forced the young man to walk ahead, for he would know the quickest and the surest way. And so it was. They reached the road and waited there for just ten minutes, no more, before a car came into view along the road. Dusk colored the air, and a sudden quiet fell over the land as the Morris Minor pulled up. Doctor Higgs greeted them both happily, until she saw the state they were in. And then her professional nature took over; she bundled Teddy in the back seat, and Nyquist in the front, and she set off without a word being said. Back at the surgery she washed the blood off Nyquist’s face and attended to his wound, wrapping a bandage around his head. Both men had to strip themselves of their clothes, which were hung up to dry. Now they sat in front of a roaring fire, wearing dressing gowns, their feet resting in bowls of hot water. Nyquist drank whiskey, Teddy drank tea. The doctor sat at her desk, smoking her pipe and reading this week’s copy of The Lady. She was still wearing her Edmund Grey mask. Every so often she would look up and mutter something under her breath.