by Valija Zinck
The little shop had a sign in the door—it wasn’t opening for another hour. Well, that was OK—Penelope needed time to sabotage the postboxes. Beside the postbox right outside the shop, there was a transparent display case on the wall containing the community bulletin, the opening times of the town hall, and a map of the village. A red arrow on the map said, You Are Here, and the other arrows showed the locations of the primary school, church, picnic area, and so on. The map also revealed that Plasow Road had a public toilet, New Lane had a war memorial, and—Penelope couldn’t believe her luck—Pond Place and Rose Street each had a postbox. She marched off.
“Wall Street” would have been a better name than “Rose Street,” thought Penelope, as she passed the fifth stone wall as tall as a man. People around here obviously didn’t like anyone looking into their yards, which was helpful for Penelope, as she didn’t want people looking out from their yards and seeing her either. Otherwise they’d have seen a brown-haired girl unscrewing a giant tube of superglue, smearing the contents hastily into the letter slot, and firmly holding the flap on it. They would have seen the girl rattle the flap experimentally, the flap refusing to budge, and the girl smiling in satisfaction and triumphantly slipping away.
Well, Mr. Gardener wouldn’t be posting any letters in the Rose Street postbox today, at any rate—and half an hour later, Penelope had seen to it that he wouldn’t get anywhere with the Pond Place postbox either, or the one at the post office.
Penelope stood in the village square on one leg. Then on tiptoe. Then on the other leg. She was bored. When would this stupid shop finally open? Surely it had been well over an hour since she’d read the sign! How long was she going to have to stand around in this square until her father came—or until anyone came at all? There probably weren’t any customers in this Blackslough anyway, just walls and distrustful women feeding chickens.
“Practicing to be a dancer when you grow up, are you?”
Penelope jumped. A man with a mustache was leaning his bike against the wall of the shop.
“No … I … I’m just bored.” Penelope’s face reddened. She hadn’t heard the man approaching.
“Bored—hmph! Wish I had time to be bored,” the man muttered. A key clinked in his hand. He opened the bars on the door of the shop and disappeared inside. Now we’re in business, thought Penelope. The post office is open! The minute the first customer comes, full concentration.
The first customer was an old lady with a walking stick. She was shuffling so slowly across the square that Penelope had plenty of time to observe her. Well, this obviously wasn’t her father. She was a woman, for one thing—and besides, she was at least ninety, if not a hundred. She disappeared into the shop and emerged after a while with a newspaper and a small bag of sweets. Next came a mother with twins in a twin stroller, and then a bright red sports car drove up. A lady with short light blond hair stepped out, her stiletto heels clacking on the pavement as she tottered up to the postbox. She tried to open the flap, realized it was stuck, and disappeared into the shop.
Penelope’s stomach rumbled. She was about to fish her second cheese roll out of her backpack when the woman in the high-heeled shoes emerged from the shop. Her phone was ringing. The woman was about the same age as Penelope’s mother. Her red-painted fingernails gleamed in the sunlight as she pulled her phone out of her handbag. She glanced briefly at Penelope, then typed something into her phone before climbing back into her car and roaring off down the street.
Penelope’s stomach suddenly plummeted as a possibility popped into her head: What if her father didn’t turn up in person to post the letter? What if he’d sent his new lady friend instead? “Holy swamp cow! I’m such an idiot!” she said out loud to the empty square. Why hadn’t she gone into the shop and watched to see who posted a gray envelope? If the blond lady had been the new Mrs. Gardener, posting a letter on behalf of her husband, then this whole trip had been a waste of time …
Her stomach growled again. Penelope fished out the second cheese roll, unwrapped it, and chewed it slowly. Between bites, her tongue clicked furiously. Her father’s letter all those years ago had said that he’d met a woman who was “the same as him”—in which case … Penelope sighed in relief, brushing a strand of brown hair out of her face. “It couldn’t have been the stiletto woman, because I didn’t feel anything. No shivers across the back of my neck, no chills, nothing whatsoever,” she murmured to herself. Phew, I can relax again, she thought. I’m just going to have to be patient.
The Blackslough church clock struck twelve, and the midday sun beat down on the village square. Penelope sat in the inadequate shade of a maple tree, her eyes closed, feeling tired and heavy. Everything in her wanted to just lie down and go to sleep, right here on the paving stones. If her father didn’t turn up soon, she was likely to sleep right through his arrival, despite any neck shivers!
* * *
Voices woke Penelope from a doze.
“A Coke, I’m allowed Coke now.”
“Big deal. I’ve been allowed it for ages, you baby.”
“I’m getting some sour snakes.”
Running sandals on the road, laughter and shouting, colorful rucksacks, younger children tugging and shoving each other, and a teacher in a pale linen dress … Penelope watched through half-open eyes, as if through a haze. Well, a school class definitely can’t be my father, so I don’t need to go into the shop just yet, she thought blurrily, letting her eyes close again.
Whether she had heard the squealing tires first, or the car door closing, or whether the first thing she noticed was the fleeting tremor over her back of her neck and the shiver down her spine, Penelope could not say. Someone like me, someone like me … the words were beating out a rhythm in her head and her eyes snapped open for real.
Someone like me!
She jumped up. There he was, right in front of her!
Penelope recognized the person like her immediately. It wasn’t exactly difficult: He was holding a familiar gray envelope. He was climbing out of a large silver car and wearing a smart suit. The T-shirt beneath his suit jacket was pale violet, and a black cloth was tied tightly around his head. Penelope guessed he was hiding red hair beneath the turban. He was approaching the postbox with a strutting gait like a cockerel’s, reaching into his jacket pocket. He removed a spectacle case, flicked it open, and perched a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses on his nose. Where have I seen them before? Penelope wondered, finding the sunglasses oddly familiar. He swept past Penelope and her heart leapt. She stared at his back and tried it out, mouthing the word “Dad.” But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit, it didn’t work somehow. Besides, she really didn’t want to call him by that name, not when he’d sent them such vile letters.
Her father had arrived at the postbox and was trying to post the gray letter. He tugged at the flap but, of course, it was stuck.
“Dratted piece of rubbish! It’s not working!” he spat, and went into the shop. Penelope followed.
It was deafeningly noisy, packed with the class of young schoolchildren Penelope had heard outside. The man who might be Penelope’s father joined the line at the counter.
“Dad.” Penelope tried the word out again, but it rolled off the man as if he was a cold, slippery rock.
It’s not him! The thought shot through her head, firm and true. It can’t be! No, it simply can’t be! The fact that he’s got a gray envelope in his hand doesn’t mean a thing. Lots of people might send their post in envelopes like that. The gray envelope over there definitely isn’t our one. Penelope started to feel a little calmer. The man in the gray suit was simply someone of her own kind who happened to also be posting a gray envelope from Blackslough today. That was it. Yes, exactly. That had to be it.
If only I could see if the letter’s got our address on it, then I’d know for sure! But that was impossible, as the man in the gray suit was walking up to the counter at that very moment and passing the letter over to the shopkeeper. Penelope would have needed eye
s on stalks to be able to read the sticker on the envelope—or, even better, eyes on flexible telescopic rods. Although …
Behind what’s behind, always lies what’s before. You need the below, if above you wish to soar. The words resounded through her head as if from a long way off. Hex videris, hex videris.
A blinding flash shot through Penelope. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself squealing aloud. She felt something dissolving inside her, or something separating, she couldn’t be sure which of the two it was. The thing, whatever it was, seeped out of her and slid through a stream of air right through the students, invisible, moving farther and farther forward toward the counter. It drifted weightlessly under the man’s gray soles, moved through them and into his feet, floated up his legs, then through his upper body, then through his neck, and finally into his head. Here it swirled gently back and forth, slowed its pace and finally settled behind the man’s eyes.
All of a sudden, Penelope could see the man’s blue-veined hand as clearly as if it was her own. She could see his hand holding the envelope, she could see the sticker with To Lucia and Penelope Gardener on it, and she could see the waiting face of the mustachioed shopkeeper behind the counter, as if she was standing directly opposite him.
The shopkeeper accepted the letter and popped it in a tray next to the counter. Penelope started to feel dizzy. She wanted to go back to her own eyes, her own body. She’d seen the envelope now, after all—but she couldn’t break free, something was holding her, pulling her in. A dark place, a musty smell, greed, money …
* * *
“Aren’t you feeling well?” The voice of the teacher in the linen dress broke through to her. She was leaning over Penelope’s body and yet it was as if her voice were drifting down from far away. “Hey, are you OK?” The teacher touched Penelope on the shoulder, and when she didn’t respond, shook her gently. Penelope felt the shaking, but she had to stay enveloped in that musty smell and find out what it meant … it felt important … she had to understand …
No! She didn’t have to find out anything—not like this. She couldn’t stay away from her body any longer; she had to return immediately. Otherwise, she knew instinctively, she would lose herself in another person’s eyes.
Sssssssssssssskkkk! Violently, Penelope tore the “something” out of the man who might be her father. It jumped back into her own body, rough and fast. She coughed, her eyes flying open. Her head jerked uncontrollably to the side at the impact. She raised a hand and wiped her mouth.
“Are your parents here?” the teacher asked. “Or can I call someone for you?” Her face showed signs of relief that Penelope was awake, but she continued to frown in concern. Schoolchildren crowded around Penelope, curiously.
“Uh … thanks, but I’m OK,” she stammered to the teacher, not really understanding what had happened. At that moment, the man at the counter turned around. He yanked off his sunglasses and raked his eyes across the small shop, a haunted expression on his face. His gaze ran over the teacher, Penelope, and the other children, focusing on each for a fraction of a second. His expression became one of incomprehension. His narrow eyes were gray and cold, the color of a dead fish. No, those weren’t the eyes Penelope knew from her old black-and-white photo!
The fish-eyed man’s lips moved slightly. His eyes scanned the crowd furiously once more, and finally came to rest on Penelope. For a moment, he hesitated, as if wondering if he was thinking the right thing; then he pushed his way through the children toward her … and grabbed the red-haired boy standing behind her by the arm. The boy gave a shout.
“What do you think you’re doing? Let go of my student at once!” The teacher planted herself in front of the man, but he merely tightened his grip on the red-haired boy’s arm. The boy had turned very pale. Penelope sat still, her heart in her mouth. She could tell from the lack of tingling that the red-haired boy wasn’t magical at all—she guessed that while all magical people had red hair, not all red-haired people were magical! But why didn’t the man realize the little boy was ordinary?
“I know it was you,” the man growled, frowning. “It must have been, although you’ve hidden it somehow. How dare you? I’ll show you how it feels …”
“You will not show anyone anything in here, Mr. Seller. Please leave my shop immediately,” the shopkeeper shouted from the counter.
The fish-eyed man blinked.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Seller? Let go of that child immediately and leave my shop at once, or I will call the police!”
The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and made his way through the terrified schoolchildren.
Seller was still glaring at the red-haired boy, but slowly his grip relaxed and he let go. “It was a mix-up,” he growled suddenly, glancing around the room once more and shoving his way outside.
Penelope wished she could stay there safely in the shop, with the teacher, the shopkeeper, and all the children, but she knew she had to follow that guy. Right away. He had the wrong eyes, and he was called Seller, not Gardener. But he had the right letter, so he must have some connection to her father.
Outside, Seller was hurrying to his car. Penelope ducked behind a row of parked cars and watched him reverse from his parking space and drive across the square. She ran after him as fast as she could—but unfortunately that was not very fast, because the combination of her dyed, leaden hair and completing the Hex videris spell had totally exhausted her. The heaviness within her felt even heavier.
Luckily, a huge truck was blocking the silver car’s exit from the square. Once she had caught up, it was easy for her to follow the car at a trot while the slow-moving truck trundled along in front of it. But the truck turned off a short distance afterward, and the engine of the silver car roared. It sped away, leaving Penelope following breathlessly.
“Oh, road! Please, road, I need to stay on that fish-eyed guy’s tail!” she cried. “Please help me quickly, it won’t be far.”
The road didn’t reply, and Penelope stamped on the road. “I know, I know—you have your own laws, and all of that … but if I don’t get behind him right away, then … then … then …” She sank down onto the road. “Please,” she whispered, her lips almost touching the road. “Why won’t you help me?”
“Spend a lot of time talking to the ground, do you?” A gangly boy wearing green sneakers brought his skateboard to a halt right next to Penelope’s head. She looked up at him, feeling a little foolish.
“I’ve lost something.”
“Money? Earring? Lipstick?” asked the boy, with a crooked grin.
“A car.” Penelope stood up.
“Losin’ a car’s no biggie. Losin’ a board would be a biggie.”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion.” Penelope had a thought. “You don’t happen to know where a Mr. Seller lives, do you?” she asked. It was a small village, after all, and if it was anything like hers, then everyone knew everyone.
The grin on the boy’s face vanished abruptly.
“That weirdo? Why are you asking? D’you know him or something?”
“No, but perhaps I’ll be able to get to know him, if you tell me where he lives.” Penelope tried to make her voice sound as casual as possible.
“He lives on Rose Street, in the very last house, next to this empty piece of land that’s covered in weeds. But look, I’m telling you, I wouldn’t want to get to know that guy—he’s not quite right in the head. There’s something rotten about him and the other guy in that house. If I was you …”
“You’re not me, though,” said Penelope. “And now excuse me, please, I’ve got to get going.” She turned away—but suddenly it dawned on her what the boy had just said. The fish-eyed man lived with “the other guy”—that could be her father. Maybe he didn’t bring his gray letters to the postbox himself, but had Mr. Fish-Eyes do it for him. She stopped and turned back to the skater boy.
“You said this Mr. Seller lives with another one like him. Does that person have red hair, by any cha
nce?”
“Nah, it’s not really any color—it’s sort of colorless,” said the boy.
“How do you mean? Has he got gray hair? A sort of ash gray?” asked Penelope, her heart racing.
“Yeah, sort of—you could call it a dirty gray, I s’pose. Whatever. Gotta go.” The boy got onto his skateboard. “Good luck with those freaks. Perhaps they’ll be a bit chattier than the ground.” He skated off.
* * *
Penelope walked along the walls of Rose Street. At least she knew where she was going now, so she could afford to catch her breath and collect her thoughts. But it didn’t matter, really: She was so excited that her heart was beating wildly, and her legs were longing to run in spite of their heaviness. She kept up a brisk pace and passed all the walls. Now she was crossing the overgrown plot of land the boy had described. Dark ivy grew over dank woodpiles, old barrels, and the remains of a rotten caravan. Stinging nettles, rusty stovepipes, small animal bones, cobwebs … she shuddered, walking faster.
Zuck! Zuck! As she approached the wall at the end of the wasteland, she felt two tremors on the back of her neck, tingling down her spine. It was a fleeting sensation, and very light, yet Penelope immediately sensed that there wasn’t just one person of her kind around here: There were two. She could sense one person quite clearly—that was Seller—but the other was gentle, quiet. In spite of that, Penelope noticed that this second connection was completely different. It was familiar. It felt like a part of herself. “Dad,” she murmured, and this time the word felt right.
Penelope shook her head, cross with the pang of longing and hope she had felt as she spoke the word. She wasn’t just here to meet her father; she was here to tell him to stop insulting them! She had to keep that in mind.
The wall surrounding the last house on the street was even higher than the previous one. It had nails and glass shards sticking out of the top, and Penelope could also see coils of barbed wire.
