The Beasts of Upton Puddle (6 page)

“Manticore,” whispered Joe, not taking his eyes from the wonder before him.

The beast unfolded a wing and scratched its rump.

“Is it—?”

“Dangerous? Oh, goodness me, it's positively lethal. How do you think this happened?”

Still unable to tear his gaze from the creature, Joe was vaguely aware of Mrs. Merrynether lifting her bandaged arm. He took a step back from the enclosure and could feel the old woman's stare tunneling into the side of his head, scrutinizing him.

An unexpected euphoria flooded through Joe like ice water.

“How are you feeling?” the old woman said.

Joe's attempt at an answer erupted in the form of a delirious chuckle.

“Well, good. I'm pleased to see you aren't disappointed. I reacted much the same way when I saw my first . . . beastie.”

Joe finally turned his attention away from the manticore. “You mean there are more of these?”

“Well, I certainly hope so. I wouldn't want Cornelius to be nursed back to health to spend the rest of his life in solitude.”

“But didn't you say it was dangerous? How are you supposed to help something like that? It's got claws bigger than a bear's. How come it didn't kill you?”

Mrs. Merrynether walked to the enclosure. Her good arm reached through the bars. Looking away from the creature to stare confidently at Joe, she patted, stroked, and scratched the beast's side.

The singing noise gargled from somewhere inside the manticore as it unfurled a wing to expose more of its underside and receive Mrs. Merrynether's affection.

“Ah, well, that's the question, isn't it, Joseph? Do you remember why you came to me in the first place?”

“I found an injured badger.”

“Yes, but what convinced you
I
could help?”

“I found your name mentioned in Mr. Wheeler's
veterinary directory.”

“Go on.” She turned back to the manticore.

“Something about the Merrynether Technique.”

“Exactly,” she said, selecting a large chunk of meat from the grass and waving it near the beast's jaws. “And I suppose a curious boy like you wants to know exactly what that is, don't you? Care to have a guess?”

Joe thought for a moment as he watched the creature lift its head and test the meat with its leathery tongue. It raised its huge paw and, with a tenderness that surprised Joe, gently pushed Mrs. Merrynether's arm aside. The beast and its keeper stared at each other through the bars. The look in the animal's eyes was more than an instinctual plea for help, and Mrs. Merrynether's expression revealed something deeper than sympathy. There was a profound understanding between them.

“Are you . . . Can you read its thoughts?”

“No.” She seemed distant, distracted. “But you're very close. You might call it a heightened gift of empathy. I have a finely tuned instinct when it comes to diagnosing illnesses. Sometimes, on a good day like today . . . I can feel what
they
feel.”

Joe stayed silent, watching the strange connection between woman and beast.

“Cornelius is dying.” She sighed, withdrawing from the enclosure. “He has a powerful poison in his bloodstream that seems to be increasing in volume every day, and I have no idea where it's coming from.”

“Perhaps it's the food?”

“No. That was our first thought, but his diet has been thoroughly tested. It isn't that.”

“I wish I could help.”

Mrs. Merrynether smiled ruefully. “Cornelius may be beyond our help.” She lifted her chin, forcing a wider smile. “But next week I have a very special guest coming, and I will most certainly need your help then.”

Joe opened his mouth to ask the first of a long list of questions, but he was distracted by a tall, stooping shadow emerging from the far end of the vault. It spoke with a slight German accent as it strolled toward them. “This is the fourth time in a week, Ronnie. We will have to find a new place for the wine, or we will have none left by . . . Oh, I am so sorry, I did not realize you had company.”

Joe gawped at the man who appeared from the shadows. At least seven feet high and burly enough to bulge through his long, black overcoat, he dwarfed Mrs. Merrynether like a vulture looming over a shrew. In one hand he held a bucket filled with scraps of meat, and in the other was a large wooden chair carved into the form of interlocking swans.

Immediately after the man made eye contact with Joe, his pockmarked face twisted into an expression of alarm, as if he had just remembered something terrible. The bucket crashed to the floor, spilling its morbid contents onto the concrete, and the man shrank away, fumbling for
the hood at the back of his coat. It took several painstaking seconds for him to cover his aged features but not before Joe saw why he tried to hide them. One side of the man's face looked raw and scarred, horribly disfigured by what must have been a fire.

“Oh, Heinrich, forgive me, I should have warned you. This is Joseph Copper—the boy I told you about?”

Heinrich had stepped back into the shadows, one hand desperately holding the hood across his face, the other hand still clutching the chair. “Joseph Copper?”

“Yes. Or you can call me Joe.” Joe edged forward. “It's all right . . . I saw you. And I don't mind. Honestly.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Do you mind me asking what happened?” Joe cursed his curiosity for the hundredth time. That was not the wisest thing to ask under the circumstances.

“It was a very long time ago . . . I—”

“He was trapped in a . . . in a forest fire,” Mrs. Merrynether blurted.

“A forest fire? Was it Ringwood Forest?”

“No.” Mrs. Merrynether turned quickly to the cowering man, who tentatively lowered his hood while staring apprehensively at Joe. “What was it you were saying, Heinrich? The wine? We're running out?”

“Yes. It must be Lilly again.”

“Lilly?” asked Joe. “The person who was shouting at Redwar earlier?”

“Yes, that's him,” said Mrs. Merrynether. “He escaped about a week ago, and he's been causing havoc every day since then. Stealing wine, teasing Cornelius, shouting at night—”

“Making chairs,” Heinrich interrupted.

“Making chairs?” Mrs. Merrynether balked.

“Yes.” The huge German lifted the chair for her to see. “Making chairs.”

She squinted at it. “Goodness me! Where did that come from?”

“I think it's been made from one of the old wine racks.”

“That little . . . Heinrich, are you quite sure you locked his cage door? It wouldn't be the first—”

“I swear it wasn't me! He must have picked the lock.”

“And how did he do that, hmm?”

“Perhaps he made himself a key?” Joe offered, feeling the sickly guilt stir little circles in his gut.

Mrs. Merrynether released a deep sigh and turned back to the manticore. “Well, however it happened, it's history now. What matters is Cornelius. Unless I find an antidote to the toxin in his blood, I don't believe he'll last another week.”

“I cannot believe it.” Heinrich shook his head. “He is so young.” He set the chair in front of the enclosure.

“How old is he?” Joe asked.

“Sixteen in human years; eight in manticore years,” Mrs. Merrynether answered, sitting in the chair.

“How do you know?”

“Several ways. Manticores grow a second set of teeth in their fifth year; plus there are subtle changes to their markings. And I'm also told that you can tell their exact age by their tails.”

“Their tails?”

“Yes. See the tip of his tail there?” She pointed. “Manticores are ferocious carnivores, and they shoot those quills at their prey to capture them. And, much like domestic cats, they're obsessed by routine, so they feed according to a precise schedule. One kill every three months as soon as they're able, which is not long after they're born.”

“I get it. So you can tell how old they are by counting how many quills they have.”

“Exactly, yes, but it's an arduous task. There are so many.”

“Can you get Cornelius to show me his tail?”

Mrs. Merrynether reached in and gently patted Cornelius's side. He lifted his head to look at her. A moment later, Joe saw the barbed tail suspended just behind the bars. The spikes jutted out in complicated clumps pointing in all directions.

“How old did you say Cornelius is?”

“Sixteen.”

“And how many quills are they born with?”

“Six hundred.”

“He has five hundred ninety-eight. That would make him six months old.”

“That's not possible. Manticores don't have any black markings on their hide until a year. And anyway, how could you know that? You looked at his tail for only a few seconds.”

“I have a way with numbers. I can see things quicker and work things out in my head faster than most people.” Joe looked at the floor. “It gets me in trouble at school sometimes.”

“The boy could be right, Ronnie. Those barbs are poisonous. What if Cornelius is sick because he has not fired enough of his quills?”

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Merrynether, snapping her fingers and jumping out of the chair. “That's it, isn't it?”

She stared again into the manticore's eyes. “Don't worry, Cornelius. I know just what to do. Heinrich? Bring me my notepad. It's time for Joseph's next shopping list.”

Reginald Bacon forced a smile that was more like a grimace, as though he'd just eaten a slug and pretended to like it. He spoke with a hoarse voice as he leaned over the counter. “I'm very sorry, Joe, but we're all out of meat today. There's no steak, no beef, no lamb, no chicken, no pork, not even any fish. It's all gone.”

Joe smiled back at the shopkeeper, unable to keep himself from counting how many unshaved follicles greyed his haggard face.

“Mr. Bacon?” yelled a girl from the stockroom behind him. “Angus won't help me with the eggs.”

“Not touchin' no eggs, sir,” squawked a boy. “They gots spit on 'em.”

Mr. Bacon sucked in a long breath as if through a straw and clamped his eyes shut. Joe guessed he was counting to ten. “Excuse me a moment, would you, Joe? We've had a . . . disturbance this morning, and those two are about as much use as a pair of solar-powered foghorns.”

Mr. Bacon turned to exit through the back door and collided with a spiky-haired teen in dark blue overalls.

“Sorry, sir,” said the boy, clutching a hair dryer and a soggy black book. “I found this under the fridge. Soaked in milk, it was. Tried to dry it out with this hair dryer, but it's gone a bit—”

“Oh, for the love of . . . Put it down, Angus, and help Jennie with those eggs, would you? We've got a customer, and I need to get everything in order before the next delivery. And don't forget the police will be here in half an hour too.”

“Told you, sir. Ain't touching them eggs.” Angus leaned closer. “We reckons that monster licked 'em.”

“I don't care if the thing laid them, boy. Just put them in the larder, sweep the yard, and get that stock check done.”

“But—”

“No buts, Angus. Just get back in there and earn your pay.”

Angus slumped and shuffled back through the door.

Mr. Bacon drew another labored breath, turned to Joe, and opened his mouth. A cacophony of clattering pans, accompanied by a thunder of falling boxes, stopped him. He shut his eyes again as twin screams followed.

“Sunday staff,” he whispered apologetically to Joe. “I'll be back in a moment. Don't go anywhere. I'm sure there's—”

Crash!

“Some other—”

Boom!

“Items on—”

More screams.

“That list I can help you with.”

Mr. Bacon rushed out the back, yelling as he went.

Joe took another look at the crumpled paper in his hand.

“A lightbulb without a filament?” Joe mused. “Why?”

Mr. Bacon's voice exploded from the stockroom. “Are you holding what I think you're holding? Because if you are, Angus, you'd better get rid of it right now before I—”

“Don't shout at him,” protested the girl's voice. “You know how it affects his acne.”

“Not there, boy! In the bin outside!”

Joe flinched as the sound of smashing crockery drowned out the boy's whining response.

The shopkeeper returned to the counter, shaking his head. “So sorry. Been a bit of a stressful morning, and
Angus has a habit of bringing out the worst in me at times like this.”

“Should I come back a bit later?”

“No, no! There's not much more they can break out back, so it'll probably all calm down in a couple of minutes anyway.”

“So what happened? Was there an accident or something? Angus was talking about a monster.”

“Monster, me granny!” Mr. Bacon scoffed. “Everyone's been blaming the Beast of Upton Puddle for everything these past few weeks. Nope, I reckon it was a breakin—a rather bad one too. We got here this morning to open up shop, and the stockroom was a right mess—like a tornado had hit the place. Door was ripped clean off its hinges.”

“They must have been pretty strong to do that.”

“Well, Angus swears blind he saw the Beast. Says a huge hairy man or a bear was running up the path toward the forest with a big lamb chop in its mouth, and then it jumped into a big hole. Got a big imagination, that boy, and he's as thick as a duck plucker's wick. Last summer he thought he saw aliens in the oven, until he remembered he was baking gingerbread men in there.”