The Peculiars (6 page)

One last passenger remained on the steps, ready to disembark. It was the marshal. His hand resting on the doorway, he scanned the dispersing passengers. Even from a distance, Lena could feel his eyes fasten on her. He stroked his mustache and then, nodding, descended the steps to the platform. Marshal and platform disappeared behind a cloud of steam as the train crept out of the station.

Lena turned away, glad to be blocked from his view. She smiled at the puzzled station worker. “I beg your pardon. I mistook you for someone else.”

The woman nodded toward the station house. “I suspect your ride’s waiting inside for you. If he’s still here, the train being so late.” She picked up her broom and returned to work.

But Lena, clutching her plaid bag, walked briskly away from the station toward the road winding up the hill. Gaslights dimly lit the deserted streets. If she could manage to follow the route to Miss Brett’s as she remembered it from her map and didn’t let the darkness confound her, she should be fine.

Lena recalled Jimson’s face. He had looked sad and maybe a little angry at being dismissed so easily. It gave her a pang, but it couldn’t be helped. She had waited too long for this journey to begin. Deep inside, a small seed of excitement was stirring, beginning to sprout.

Happy that she’d packed light, Lena trudged uphill. The grand train station was at the base of the town, near the harbor. Few of the roads in Knob Knoster were straight; most were hilly, and all led to the harbor, one winding way or another. From the look of things, it was a town that closed up early. No lights shone from the windows of shops or restaurants, but a warm glow shone in windows of the clapboard houses. They were not aligned in straight rows like the houses at home but were perched at strange angles along the street to gain the best view of the harbor. It looked to Lena as though a giant
had tossed them about like random dice. Most were tall and narrow, wearing widow’s walks like crowns.

The wind whistled in Lena’s ears, and for once she was glad of her gloves. The small pools of light from the lamps did little to make her way easier. She reminded herself repeatedly that this was a great adventure that she was starting on. Being afraid never aided in any adventure that she had read about, and she had read all the adventures she could find in her library. It was an advantage of being a librarian’s child—there was never any shortage of books.

The cobbled streets were uneven, and more than once she stumbled over a raised cobble or on the crumbling edge of the wooden walk. And all the while the sea remained her constant companion. It chortled and murmured, beckoning to her as she trudged along.

Her memory of the map led her correctly at last to Miss Brett’s on Thistlewaite Street. Number 22 was a long-legged house with a small bay window facing the street, an iron gate, and a front porch large enough for one chair. A brass plaque by the door read
MISS BRETT’S FOR WOMEN
. Before ringing the bell, Lena reached inside her waistcoat, the green velvet one she had received for her birthday, the one that matched her topcoat, and made sure that the money she still had left was safe.

The woman who answered the bell showed no surprise to see a young girl alone on her step well after nine at night. She stood ramrod straight and had a porcelain face and a hooked
nose that gave her a patrician air. Lena was a great observer of noses, and this one was worth remembering.

“I’m Lena Mattacascar, and I’d like a room, please.”

The woman stepped aside so Lena could come in and closed the door behind her before speaking. She held out her hand. “Lila Brett. I’ve a room available for the rest of this week, but I’m full up after that. You do have money, don’t you?” And without pausing for answer, she continued, “I provide breakfast every morning at seven a.m. Hot chocolate and biscuits every night. You don’t have any men with you, do you?”

After reassuring Miss Brett that there were no men at all in her life and that she did have money, Lena was shown to a small room near the top of the house, a room that didn’t look like the setting for the start of a great adventure. It was plain and sparsely furnished, with an iron bedstead, a pine wardrobe, and a single chair. But Lena had read enough books to know that adventures could start in the oddest of places. She removed her gloves and unlaced her boots, pulling her feet free. The soft, fleshy soles were sore, as they often were. It seemed nothing could toughen them up—not massages and not walking barefoot, which only bruised the tender skin. Her feet had stopped growing when she was twelve years old, but still they were longer than the feet of most men, and narrow as a girl’s wrists. Lena’s toes had always reminded her of wrinkled caterpillars. If only she could wiggle them as easily as other people could, she might be able to relieve the stiffness, but only the first joint moved; the rest were as unyielding as
rusty hinges. Lena hobbled to the window and slid it open. The sound and scent of the sea crashed in. She unpinned her remaining money and her father’s letter from her chemise. If only she had kept everything there all along rather than in her bag, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would make discreet inquiries. Perhaps she still had enough money to hire a guide into Scree, someone who was not afraid of Peculiars.

DEEP BOOMS AND SHARP CRIES. STRANGE SOUNDS ERUPTED IN
Lena’s dreams. She bolted up from her bed, heart hammering, and found herself in a strange room filled with gray light. A cool, thick fog had crept in through the window and with it the lonely boom of a foghorn warning ships off the rocky coast of Knob Knoster. Hungry gulls screamed and squabbled for breakfast, and Lena realized that if she didn’t hurry, she would miss hers. Miss Brett had said seven a.m. With no time to bind her hair in a braid, she ran her tortoiseshell comb through the knots and pulled on a pair of pale thin gloves.

She was the last guest to arrive in the small dining room. There was only one seat empty, next to an old lady with a horn in her ear, which suited Lena fine. Perhaps there would be little conversation about her hands. As expected, no one else in the breakfast room was wearing gloves for the meal. Lena hoped that the pale color she chose would draw little attention
and that anyone who did notice would be too polite to remark on them.

At the next table, Lena recognized her companion from the train—the lady with the firm jaw and red poppies on her hat. She was wearing the same hat, Lena noticed, not even removing it for the meal, as would have been proper. The woman next to her, the one Lena had seen at the station, shared the same thick profile. A pink carnation blossomed on the front of her stiff black dress. Lena smiled at the ladies in recognition, but they were too engaged in conversation to notice her.

The china teacups were delicate, covered with a pattern of blue forget-me-nots. Lena reached a trembling hand for the teapot. Her fingers wrapped around the thin handle. With practiced concentration she maneuvered the teapot with only one hand, steadying her cup with the other. Her long fingers made it much too easy to drop one of the tiny cups. By the time she had poured her tea and reached for a roll, a thin trickle of sweat had run between her shoulder blades.

“It’s the fog, Mrs. Fetiscue.” Poppy Hat’s voice carried across the room. “It would drive anyone mad.” She lowered her voice. “It’s a cover for evil.”

“Once,” her companion replied, “the fog didn’t lift for three weeks. Imagine that, Mrs. Fortinbras. You couldn’t hardly tell if it were day or night. That’s when the lot of them came slinking over the border. Killed a family in their own beds and then disappeared back to where they come from.”

“Evil, Mrs. Fetiscue, pure evil. I don’t know how a God-fearing woman like yourself could have lived here so long.”

“You know, sister, that ever since our husbands died—God rest their souls—I’ve counted you as my closest friend and ally. It’s how I’ve bore living in this heathen place.”

Mrs. Fortinbras leaned across the table and patted her sister’s hand. “There is no friend like a sister, Mrs. Fetiscue. I’m glad to have been some encouragement.”

By now everyone in the room was listening. Miss Brett entered from the kitchen carrying a steaming tray of eggs. “The fog is natural to all sea towns.”

“It’s wicked!” declared Mrs. Fetiscue. “People do things under the cover of darkness they would never do in the light of day. Fog provides them the same benefit.”

Mrs. Fortinbras nodded so vehemently that her poppies shook.

“Are you saying the people of Knoster are wicked?” Miss Brett set the tray of eggs down with a thump.

“No more than the average. But living so close to the borders of a land thick with heathens . . .” Mrs. Fortinbras’s voice trailed off, but the point was clear. “My sister and I are traveling into Scree to convert the heathens. We’ll have to get used to such things.”

Miss Brett peered down the length of her nose.

Lena couldn’t help herself. “Do you believe there are Peculiars in Scree?” she asked.

“Oh, there are Peculiars, all right. But we won’t be
concerning ourselves with them, dear. Peculiars do not have souls. Nothing to convert.”

The rest of breakfast continued with subdued conversation. As soon as she could politely escape the dining room, Lena fled. A strange hollowness had filled her at the missionary’s words. Perhaps this is how it feels to be soulless, she thought. Could one feel a soul? Lena concentrated very hard, focusing her attention on her rib cage. Surely that was where the soul would be encased. Nothing, except the anxious fluttering of her heart.

Lena tried to put her unease aside. It was time to be businesslike, time to focus on the reasons she had stopped in Knoster. She drew a thick shawl over her fitted jacket and took her second-best purse out of her luggage—the first-best having been the one lost on the train. As she prepared to leave, she had two purposes in mind. The first was to stand on the shore and touch the sea. The second purpose required more courage: Find a reliable guide into Scree, one whom she could afford now that her circumstances were considerably reduced.

All roads in Knoster wound down to the harbor. Foghorns beckoned, and Lena kept a good pace, although thick fog still obscured most of the view. Tall, crooked houses brooded like ghosts over the cobbled streets. Miss Brett had predicted the fog would burn off before noon and then Lena would be able to see some of the glories of Knob Knoster. The promise of a steam carousel near the boardwalk quickened Lena’s steps.

Once Knoster had hopes of becoming the major port city in the West. Trade boats arrived from across the sea. Whalers set forth on the spumy waves, and a fishing fleet flourished. Miss Brett’s father once owned a large fishing boat with a crew of twenty. But it had proved difficult to transport the necessary supplies for a town into Knoster. Train tunnels had not yet been excavated through the basalt cliffs, forcing the price of goods higher. And then there had always been the rumors.

As the coastal town mushroomed, news of its superior harbor drew investors despite the high cost of supplies. But then animals began to disappear: a merchant’s horse, the dairy farmer’s best milk cow, neighbors’ dogs. Then a handful of the new citizens of Knoster gave credence to rumors about the wild lands to the north. Old stories of Peculiars resurfaced, and with the rumors fear blew in like a persistent wind. People saw Peculiars in every misfortune. The final blow came when the Whittlestone Mining Company withdrew its plans for a base of operations in Knoster. The new and still fragile economy collapsed. Houses were sold cheap, farms abandoned. Only the hardiest people remained, along with a few eccentrics who found that the isolation of Knoster suited them.

Now only a small fleet of fishing boats and whalers remained, and every year their numbers grew smaller. The weather and tides were too capricious to allow them to compete with those from more southerly ports.

The town had a faded glamour. The opera house, still the largest building in town and the only one made out of brick,
had once offered performances by the likes of Ida Fincher, the Western Star. It was now reduced to a glorified grange, advertising town hall meetings and displaying a tattered poster for a salon steam carousel known as the Pleasure Dome. On the poster, men, women, and children rode on painted wooden ponies or pigs while others glided in gold-leaf gondolas circling a carousel organ. Lena stared at the poster for a long time. She had always dreamed of riding a carousel pony.

Like the poster, everything in Knoster had grown tattered with time. Nothing could stand up against the relentless salt wind. That wind was stirring now. Lena watched the fog swirl in tendrils across the sky. The dampness made her hair curl, and beads of moisture clung like tears to her lashes. Her anticipation quickened with her pace. She had never been to a beach before. As she wound her way down the hill, the train station appeared suddenly on her left, and she heard more distinctly the slap of water and the roar of waves. Dark pilings pierced the fog, and she set them as guideposts to the harbor. Suddenly, the sidewalk ended and stone crunched beneath her feet.