Stefan Bachman - The Peculiar

It was not very long before the two women were quite merry in the other room. Every so often, a burst of giggling would erupt, and the voices would become so loud that Bartholomew could hear every word.

“Did you see she’s planted roses?” Mother was saying, and he heard wood straining as one of them leaned back in her chair. “Roses, Aggy! As if she wants to make that ugly yard all beautified .” She laughed, a trifle bitterly. “They won’t grow, you know. The dirt’s rotten out here with the factories going day and night, and even if it weren’t, roses won’t help that wretched house a bit. Not that one. She’d have been better off making jam out of the hips if she insists on buying such frivolousnesses in the first place. Or tea.” Her voice became wistful. “Rose-hip tea does taste lovely. . ”

Mrs. Skinner made an incoherent sound of consolation. “I wouldn’t know, Betsy, but I wager it doesn’t even compare to yours. Why, it warms my bones, it does. Every time.”

Bartholomew could almost see Mother preening at the words, trying to be dainty, trying to be prim, flapping her work-worn hands as if they were the soft white fingers of a gentlewoman. “Nonsense, Aggy. But do have some more, won’t you? There now, mind you don’t snort it up when I tell you what Mr. Trimwick did last-”

The voices dropped low again. Bartholomew could hear nothing but a murmur through the wall. He sank to his knees and scooted silently across the floor, feeling in the dark for Hettie. He found her at the far end of the room. She was crouched under the window, playing silently with her doll. Its name was Pumpkin and it had a checkered handkerchief for a dress. It had a checkered handkerchief for a head, too, and handkerchief hands and feet. It was really nothing but checkered handkerchief.

“How does he look, Hettie?” Bartholomew’s voice was the tiniest whisper. Mrs. Skinner mustn’t hear them. Mother had probably told her they were asleep. “Hettie, what’s the raggedy man like?”

“Raggedy,” she said, and danced her handkerchief into a different corner. Apparently she was not about to forgive him for leaving her under the stairs.

“ Shhh. Keep quiet, will you? Look, Het, I’m sorry. I already said I was, and I shouldn’t have run off like that. Please tell me?”

She eyed him from under her branches. He could practically hear the cogs whirring inside her head, debating whether to ignore him and give him what he deserved, or to enjoy the satisfaction of telling him something he desperately wanted to know.

“He doesn’t stand straight,” she said after a while. “He’s all crooked and dark, and he’s got a hat on his head with a popped top. I can never see much of him, and it sounds like he has bugs in his throat when he breathes, and. .” She was having trouble putting it into words. “And the shadows-they follow him about.”

No petal wings, then. Not nice at all. What a fool he’d been. “Oh. All right. Did he tell you anything? What are his songs about?”

Even in the dark Bartholomew could see her gaze go hard and flat. “I’m not going to talk about those,” she said. She turned away again and hugged her doll to her cheek, rocking it like a baby.

Bartholomew felt a horrible guilt at that. This was his fault. The faery and all its tricks. And Hettie was the one suffering for it, more than him. The guilt turned to anger.

“Well, did he tell you who he was? Did the little beast tell you anything at all?”

Too late he realized he had said it louder than he had wanted to. It was quiet on the other side of the door. He heard Mother clear her throat.

Mrs. Skinner spoke. “How are your children, Betsy?” Was Bartholomew imagining it, or did her voice hold an unpleasant edge? “Mary says your boy’s been up in the attic an awful lot lately. And nobody’s seen nothin’ of the girl all summer.”

“They’ve been ill,” Mother said sharply. For a long moment no one spoke. Then the cork popped again and there was a trickling sound, and Bartholomew could tell from Mother’s voice that she was smiling. “But it’s naught to fret about. They’ll be up and running in no time. Now, let’s hear about you. Business has been right fair lately, if I’m not mistaken?”

Bartholomew let his breath out slowly. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. That was good, he thought. Agnes Skinner loved nothing more than to talk about her “business.”

“Ah, one can’t complain is all I say. Though there was a tender morsel slipped right through my fingers a few weeks back.” Mrs. Skinner sighed. “All in purple velvets she was, and weighted half to the ground with gemstones. I wanted to bag her on her way out, but she never came. I s’pose someone else got her first.”

Mother must have answered with something funny because the two women started laughing. Then the conversation was flowing again, drowning out all other sounds.

Hettie touched his arm. “He asked me a heap-load of questions,” she whispered. “The raggedy man did. About you and me and Mummy, and who our father was. And when I didn’t want to answer him anymore and pretended to be asleep, he just stood there and watched me. He stands so still in the dark. He just stands and stands until I can’t bear it.”

“And Het, he is a faery, isn’t he?”

“Well, what d’you suppose he is! Mummy locks the door every night, and the hobgoblin downstairs bolts the door to the alley, but the raggedy man still gets in. He puts his finger into the keyholes, see, and the locks spring open, just like that.” Hettie wasn’t playing with her doll anymore. She was sitting very still, staring at Bartholomew. “I don’t like him, Barthy. I don’t like the way he watches me, all bent over, and I don’t like his songs. Last night I fell asleep while he sang, and I had the most frightfullest dream.” Her black eyes were glistening, wet.

“It’s all right,” Bartholomew said gently, crawling next to her and putting his arm around her. “It was only a nightmare. You know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Hettie buried her head in his shirt. “It didn’t feel like a nightmare, Barthy. It felt real . I dreamed I was lying all alone in the passage outside our door, and someone had nailed my branches to the floorboards. I called and called for Mummy and you, but no one heard. The house was empty. And then I saw that all the spiders were scurrying out of the walls, and the birds and bats were flying out, too. I couldn’t see what they were running from, but I heard it, coming up through the house toward me with such an awful squeaking and chattering. I turned my head and asked a beetle that was racing by what everyone was running from. The beetle said, ‘The Rat King. The Rat King is coming.’ And then it ran on and left me there.” Hettie took a breath. “You know the raggedy man goes to your room afterward. After he’s sang to me.”

Bartholomew shivered. He hadn’t known that. He waited for her to say more, but she only closed her eyes and nestled against him. He sat looking down at her for a few minutes. Then he too curled up, and pulling his old blanket around them both, tried to sleep.

It was very late by the time the sounds of departure came from the other room. The voices became firm and businesslike in farewell, the flat door slammed, and the treads groaned as Mrs. Skinner tramped back downstairs. For a few minutes Bartholomew was afraid Mother would forget to unlock the door and he would have to wait even longer to put his plan into action. But once Mrs. Skinner’s footsteps had echoed down Old Crow Alley and another door had slammed in the night, Mother came and looked in on them.

Hettie had fallen asleep in Bartholomew’s lap. She was rolled up in a ball. Her twiggy hair was all that showed, and it looked as if a clump of shrubbery had sprouted out of her clothes. Bartholomew pretended to be asleep, too. He heard Mother take a few steps into the room. He made his breathing low and regular, and wondered what sort of expression was on her face.