Little Agnes and the Ghosts of Kelpie Wharf

by Stella Drexler

inventors! I require your attention post haste for a most spectacular demonstration!”

  She turned towards the makeshift stage where her father spoke into a megaphone, drawing the attention of the sailors, pirates and vendors around them. Dr Nimrod Crowley was an impressive figure. At least, the gulpy fishing townsfolk seemed to think so. They clapped and cheered like vagabonds at a nobbling contest. The doctor was arrayed in sparkling white, and his thick, dark hair struck out at odd angles. He wore dark lenses over his eyes, which gave the curious impression that the man was blind, though Agnes knew her father could see rather better than the townsfolk suspected or the ladies would have been slightly more inclined to adorn themselves in less vulnerable raiment.

  Dr. Crowley lifted hands swathed in thick, bright blue rubber gloves, quieting the crowd. He grinned, and his huge, perfect white teeth glinted in the sunlight. “I present, for your appreciation and admiration, the Revolutionary Mechanical Aquatic Life Demodulator and Seizure Apparatus!”

  The crowd cheered as Dr Crowley swept a large, white sheet from the apparatus, which resembled a large, patchwork brass ball on a tall, metal stand. It was attached at the end to a long length of rope. The gulpy townsfolk cheered and applauded, though Agnes was sure they had absolutely no idea what the revolutionary dingus even did. She had seen her father's demonstrations before, and she knew the brass ball would open up, forming a large sort of claw that would scoop up the unsuspecting aquatic life unlucky enough to be detected by the demodulator.

  So boring.

  “Imagine, my prestigious friends, never again having to spend days dragging the ocean with old-fashioned, outdated nets! With my marvellous new invention, you will never have to wonder if you are in lucrative waters again!”

  Agnes rolled her eyes. He'd practised this speech dozens of times. It was rubbish.

  “Now, you may sail carelessly while this clever device senses your catch and scoops it up for you!”

  He sounded like an utter fool. Agnes knew the good, simple folk of Port Enshus would hardly understand words like demodulator, seizure apparatus, applied scientific theory or good hygiene. Nevertheless, it was quite appalling to witness her father stooping to their common, unwashed, fishy-smelling level.

  “Come on, Vic,” she ordered sourly. “This exposition is about as interesting as listening to a lecture on the care of common household rodents without the satisfaction of listening to methods of extermination. Let's go see what sorts of trouble we can get into in the rest of the town.”

  “Plebeians,” Vic moaned and shambled after her.

  Port Enshus was a small village. Very small. Nearly everyone was packed into the tiny town square with the Fish Foolery, Concussion Sphere and Nimrod Crowley's marvellous invention. Around the square, vendors hawked steaming, fishy-smelling food and trinkets made from shining, multi-coloured seashells. It was a quaint little village, despite the bad smell. The people there seemed quite happy, really. It as though the sun shone brightly upon their smiling faces, but there was no sun here in this gloomy town. There was only the salty fog, the whistling of the sea breeze from the wharf and the cheerful shouts and laughter of the honourable seamen and the unsavoury pirates.

  The townsfolk gaped at Vic as he shambled beside her along the dark, drear main thoroughfare. He held his mottled, re-animated head high, and Agnes ignored the townsfolk pointedly so they would understand how impolite they were being. Most people were horrified by Vic, but they had the decency to avert their eyes and keep from belting out their alarm.

  Most of the shops along the thoroughfare were closed for the exposition, as their proprietors and shop men gathered around the square, selling their wares to whomever might pay them any attention. Only one of the battered, sea-worn shops was noisy with voices and laughter. Agnes poked her head into the small, crowded tavern. Many men and women gathered together or in small groups, sipping steins of ale and grog.

  “Minor,” Vic moaned.

  Agnes ignored him. She pushed inside the dreary, weather-worn wooden tavern and strode up to the bar where a young man with a very long black beard was serving mugs of mead. He lifted a thick, bushy eyebrow at her. “What'll ye have, lass?”

  She slapped a hand down on the bar. “Grog.” She didn't really know what it was, but it sounded very salty and piratey.

  He eyed her suspiciously. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve,” she replied proudly.

  “Oh. Right then.” He slammed a stein of thick, dark liquid in front of her.

  “Bad choice,” Vic argued.

  She ignored him and tipped the liquid into her mouth. She spat it out in disgust. “Ugh!”

  The men and women sitting around her at the bar laughed heartily. She did not like being laughed at, but she liked this grog even less. “How about a nice cider, eh, lass?” the publican suggested.

  She nodded and sipped the sweet cider gratefully. She wasn't ready for pirate drinks. Vic followed her into the crowd gathered in the tavern. They weren't seamen, pirates or sailors. All of those were at the expo. Agnes wondered how many of these people actually did an honest day's work. To their credit, they only seemed reasonably horrified by Vic. Anyone with any sense would be, but there was no reason to behave as though her companion was some sort of monster. He was rather politer than most people, living or dead.

  “Who's your friend, little one?” a rapscallion in a ratty suit asked as she passed a table of similarly ratty rapscallions.

  “This is Vic,” Agnes replied cheerfully.

  “Never seen anything like him. Is he dangerous?” a woman with long, chestnut brown hair whose terribly crooked, yellowing teeth marred her great beauty.

  “I made him in my basement,” she explained. “He's not dangerous.”

  The rapscallions looked at each other in slight alarm. “He looks pretty dangerous.”

  “Meek,” Vic moaned insistently.

  “Hear that? He's just a re-animated clockwork cadaver. He can't even bite properly.”

  “Last time I saw something like him was on Kelpie Wharf,” an old, wizened man in a very dark suit announced in a low, wheezing sort of voice.

  “Oh, Luther, none of that,” the publican complained. “You didn't see anything on Kelpie Wharf.”

  “I did.”

  “You didn't.”

  “I did!”

  “You didn't!”

  “I did. I did! I DID! And it was right horrible, I tell you!”

  Now this was interesting. “What's Kelpie Wharf?” Agnes asked.

  Luther grinned through blackened, rotting teeth. “Well, the lassie wants to know about the Wharf. Come, child, sit down beside me, and I'll tell you a tale that'll spook you good and proper.”

  “I love scary stories!” Agnes kicked out the chair beside Luther and plopped down keenly. Vic lowered himself into the other chair, his clockwork limbs whirring and ticking with each movement.

  The rapscallions rolled their eyes, but they leaned forward to listen to Luther's tale. They'd heard it before, but the grog was strong, and Luther's tales were always worth listening to.

  “Well, dearie, you are in for a treat.” Luther's beady dark eyes glittered. “One night, when I was just a young man, as I was walking along the wharf, I saw something so terrifying, I have never forgotten, not for a moment of my life, even as I forgot my wife's and children's names.”

  Agnes scoffed. “You forgot your wife and children's names?”

  “I must have done. I don't remember them.”

  “Luther, you old lusher. You ain't never had a wife and children!” the publican growled.

  “I did, too!”

  “You did not!”

  “I did, too! I just forgot them, like I said.” He nodded earnestly at Agnes.

  “What did you see on the wharf?” she prodded.

  “Ah, yes, that. Well, I was just a young man, as I said, a sailor. Back in those days, I was a right brilliant fisherman. Any ship I sailed upon would come home with a full
hold and enough food to feed the village for weeks. I tell you, I was brilliant.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”

  “Braggart,” Vic moaned.

  Luther lifted his chin indignantly. “Well, it's true, you know. Anyway, one night I was walking along the wharf. My ship had gone out without me days before, you see, for I had fallen ill.”

  “A terrible fever he had, mind,” one of the rapscallions added. “Delirium.”

  “I wasn't delirious! I was right proper in my senses, Daniel. You pipe down.” Luther turned back to Agnes. “Right, then, I was walking along the wharf when I heard a sort of eerie song.”

  “A song? Thought you said you heard a whistle,” the yellow-toothed woman interjected.

  “I do not require your helpful commentary, Elaine,” Luther snapped. “It was a song. A sort of melody lilting on the salty sea air.”

  Agnes was not impressed. “Was it a Siren?”

  “A what—a what? A Siren? What is that?”

  “Don't you dregs ever read books? I bet the pirates know about Sirens, and they can't hardly even spell their own names.”

  Luther and the rapscallions looked indignant at this, but they were too embarrassed to argue. They didn't read a lot of books in Port Enshus. “It wasn't a Siren. It was a woman.”

  “Sirens are women. They rise up from the ocean and lure men in with their songs and their beauty and then they devour their souls like bangers. I love bangers.” She eyed Luther suspiciously. “Did they devour your soul?”

  “No! No, it wasn't a Siren! It was a woman. She was standing at the