Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

It was one more thing she loved about her.

Honeychile stood mesmerized in front of a giant painting called Massacre of the Innocents , by an artist called Rubens. Infants were being stomped and slaughtered and she wondered why on Earth it was happening and who the hell had let it. She actually became furious. She wanted to enter the roiling, chaotic, color-saturated image and intervene, but felt a persistent tug at her shirt—Zelda was saying it was lunchtime and they had to go, because everyone was making their way toward the cafeteria.

After the teachers’ head count, Honeychile seized the moment and told Zelda to follow her to the bathroom—

And suddenly, they were outside in the bright sun.

With the efficiency of a soldier in a military operation, Honeychile hailed a cab, yanking in her startled BFF. She handed the driver a slip of paper. As he punched it into his GPS, Zelda, pale as a ghost, kept saying Oh my God under her breath. She was numb, afraid, titillated. They were in the taxi for seven minutes but to Zelda it felt like a century. Honeychile gave the man money and leapt out, not waiting for change. Zelda was paralyzed until her friend shouted, “Come on!”

When she caught up, Honeychile was standing stock-still, staring up at the stone church. She took off again and Zelda followed her through the portico.

“What is this?” she said. “Where are we?”

Honeychile was oblivious, pausing again at the stone arch of a hallway of rooms before dashing forward again. An odd-looking young man in a loud tie and threadbare, short-sleeved shirt waylaid them as she entered the corridor.

“I’m sorry, but this is a private event.”

“This is not private!” said Honeychile. “This is a public space .”

“You can’t come in. It’s by invitation only.”

“And who the fuck are you?” she said, while Zelda nervously hung back.

“I’m Bumble. And I’m the sentry, for your information .”

“Well, buzz off, Bumble—” She tried moving past him but he blocked her way. “You cannot do that!” said Honeychile, outraged.

“What is going on ?” whispered Zelda, terrified. “Honeychile, we are trespassing . We could get arrested!”

“We are not trespassing! Stop being such a wuss! We have every right to be here and Bumblebee here knows it.”

She flung a look of utter contempt at the sentry, who grimaced. There was no way he was going to let this child get the better of him. They literally began to scuffle—with a shocked Zelda attempting to wrestle her friend away—when a door to one of the rooms of the corridor opened and a woman appeared.

“It’s all right, Bumble,” she said coolly to the flustered, resolute young man. “I’ll take care of it.”

He begged off. When she looked at Honeychile, the Porter’s features softened but she couldn’t shake a residue of surprise.

“He said I wasn’t invited,” said the girl. “But you said I was , in the dream . I’m Honeychile Devonshire and I’m invited!”

“Yes, you are. And I’m so glad you found your way.”

Zelda muttered, What the fuck? —soft enough not to offend.

“The Meeting’s nearly over,” said Annie. “But you’re welcome to join us.”

Honeychile triumphantly walked toward the open door before turning to her BFF. “Come on .” Now it was Annie’s turn to block entry. Honeychile instinctively knew the formidable woman wasn’t to be trifled with; there would be no tussle, as with the short-sleeved boy.

“What’s the matter?” asked Honeychile.

“I’m afraid your friend has to wait here.”

“What do you mean? She’s with me.”

“Bumble was correct in saying that the Meeting is by invitation only. You’re invited but your friend is not.”

“If she can’t come, then I won’t .”

“That’s up to you.”

She continued with her tantrum but Annie was unyielding.

Well, this was certainly a new wrinkle. The world was playing by haywire rules now, of which several indicators gave proof. In the Porter’s experience, landlords were never younger than, say, twenty (a rarity, at that; the oldest had been seventy-three). But the one who called herself Honeychile couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Far more disconcerting was that she was the same ungainly child Annie had been grappling with on the train! The children in the cabins were always in the form they’d been in at the time of their death; that one of them would show up in this world, in that same form, without a landlord’s loaned body, was incomprehensible. The queerest thing of all was that Annie had been expecting her—which was the reason she’d changed the time of the Meeting to lunch hour. She didn’t have a real understanding of why, but realized now it was to accommodate the girl’s school-day schedule.

The question remained:

Was she a murdered child? Or an adult, recently deceased?

The whole little melodrama was baffling, yet Annie knew from experience there was nothing to do but acquiesce. And better the prideful, stubborn girl huff away than make a further scene. A troublesome thought intruded—that the Meeting and its location were no longer secure.

“Come on, Zelda,” snarled Honeychile. “We’re going back!”

(And they did, arriving unnoticed just as the students were finishing lunch. The girls had hardly been away thirty minutes.)

While the others at the Meeting had timidly remained in their seats, frightened by the loud voices outside, Maya crept to the doorway to see what was going on. The feisty, peculiar-looking interloper captivated her in the same manner as Dabba Doo. Annie watched the diminutive girl sprint away, tagged after by her bewildered friend. Then, like a mother, the Porter straightened Bumble’s tie and thanked him, apologizing for the visitor’s rudeness.

“She’ll get her manners back in time,” she said.

The sentry was already over it, prideful about having faithfully discharged his duties. “She better!” he said, with a snort.

Annie turned to see Maya standing in the door. She smiled and held out an arm, shepherding her in.

As the Meeting resumed, Annie’s thoughts played lightly over the eventful hour. It had only been at the last minute, leaving the SRO, that she’d had the impulse to prepare a Guide for the “angry girl” from the train. (She had visited her every night in the cabin for a week now, and there was only marginal improvement in her rebellious behavior.) Finally, Annie was forced to shove the coaster with the address of the Divine Child Parish into the pocket of Honeychile’s robe. The Porter wouldn’t have been surprised if she turned out to be a mirage or an aberration, disappearing one night from the train as mysteriously as she had arrived—so obviously a part of “haywire” and all. She hadn’t really expected her to ever make it to the Meeting… but if she did, Annie never imagined the girl herself would come, in that body, that train body , and not in the form of whatever adult would be hosting her. The children from the other side simply couldn’t exist in this world without that protective shell.

If the girl wasn’t a child of the train and if she wasn’t a landlord—meaning, not dead—how had it been possible for her to board? The Porters were the only living ones allowed. What was she, then? With that haunting, recurrent thought, an unexpected voice rose from Annie’s depths to thoroughly confuse her:

She’s a mutation, neither landlord nor child. Some sort of hybrid —