Читать книгу The Luck Uglies - Paul Durham, Paul Durham - Страница 9

THE O’CHANTERS’ cottage was the largest on Mud Puddle Lane, which is not to say that it was big or fancy, just that it had three rooms instead of two, and an attic Rye wasn’t allowed in any more, ever since the time she fell through the ceiling and nearly crushed her sister. It also had a secret workshop Rye wasn’t supposed to know about, but did.

Mud Puddle Lane was on the northernmost side of town, which made for a long walk to Market Street and The Willow’s Wares. It had a view of the salt bogs and, from the roof where Rye kept her pigeon coop, you could see the edge of Beyond the Shale, where towering, centuries-old pine trees swayed in the winds. Mud Puddle Lane was the one village street outside the town’s protective walls. An accident had destroyed its section of wall many years before and, for one reason or another, it was never rebuilt. Rye’s mother wasn’t a fan of walls anyway.

Many people wouldn’t appreciate a view of the bogs, and most would prefer to live as far away from the forest’s edge as possible. Mud Puddle Lane was known to be the first stop for any hungry beast that might crawl, slither or lurch from the trees. Bog Noblins were the most vile and malicious of the lot. Their jagged teeth and claws dripped with a disease, making their bites poisonous. Three heads taller than a full-grown man, with bulging, runny eyes and lice infested, red-orange hair in all the wrong places, they could bury themselves deep in the bogs and mudflats during the coldest days of winter and go months without eating. Unfortunately for Drowning, with spring came the hungry season.

Rye was too young to remember the last time a Bog Noblin ran loose in the village, but she’d heard the tales. It had begun with the disappearance of a few reclusive woodsmen and stray travellers – easily written off as a hungry bear or pack of wolves on the prowl. The livestock on remote farms went next, followed by the farmers themselves. Then the village children began to disappear. In some parts of town – all of them. None were ever seen again.

Luckily, that was all long ago. Nevertheless, once, after some implausible stories from her best friend, Folly Flood, Rye couldn’t help but ask, “Mama, what about Beyond the Shale? Shouldn’t we worry about monsters?”

To which Abby O’Chanter had replied, “Riley, have you ever seen a monster come out of the forest?”

“Well, no.”

“There you go,” Abby had said. Then, she’d added with a wink, “Besides, if one did, wouldn’t you rather be the first to see it coming?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rye had said. And that had been the end of those worries.

Still, that night at supper, Rye wasn’t feeling particularly thrilled about where they lived, or anything else for that matter. She sat with her mother and her little sister Lottie at the big table by the fireplace, picking at the fleshy white meat in the cracked shells on her plate. Her place setting was remarkably tidy. Typically, when Rye was hungry, the table and floor looked like a pantry raided by squirrels.

“Sea bugs again?” Rye said. “I wish we could have something else.”

Sea bugs washed ashore in piles each morning. They were brown and grey until you threw them into a boiling pot, then they screamed, turned red and fought with each other to escape. Rye felt no gratitude towards the deranged person who had first strolled along the sand and eaten one.

“Cackle fruit!” exclaimed Lottie, banging her spoon on the table. Rye wondered if Lottie would outgrow the banging – and the yelling and fussing – when she turned three. That was coming soon, but not soon enough.

“Eggs are for morning,” Abby said. “Besides, something’s been troubling the hens. They haven’t laid all week.”

“Uh-oh,” said Lottie, bending her head over the big claw on her plate. As she pecked at it, her nest of red hair bounced and coarse strands flew out in all directions like a barn fire. Her hair was nothing like Rye’s, which was brown and chopped short above her shoulders, or their mother’s, which fell long, thick and black down her back.

“As for you,” Abby said, pointing a spoon at Rye, “be thankful we have sea bugs and bread. You know we can’t afford to eat beef or chicken every night.”

“Well, we could …” Rye mumbled.

“And what do you mean by that?”

Rye bit her lip. “Nothing.”

Abby always seemed to know when something was weighing on Rye’s mind. Rather than cuff her, or warn her not to talk back, Abby usually tried to help. It wasn’t easy being Rye. Abby seemed to know that.

“What is it, Riley? You’ve been upset all day.”

“It’s just … the Constable. He lied to us today. You knew he was making up laws and you didn’t say anything.”

Her mother nodded.

“Why not?” Rye said. “You let him treat us like we’re stupid.”

“Me no stupid, me Lottie,” Lottie said. She made an angry face and pounded her fist on the table.

“Of course, Lottie,” Abby said and patted her red tuft.

Abby looked back at Rye. “The Laws of Longchance, Riley. You know that we – women, girls – we’re not supposed to know those things. We’re not supposed to know how to read or write.”

Unless you were a Daughter of Longchance, Rye thought, in which case none of those laws applied. Her mother had told her that there were other places where girls and women could do anything they wanted. Abby had grown up in one of those places. When Rye asked why they couldn’t move there, Abby told her it was complicated. When she asked again, Abby said there were worse things than not being allowed to read or write. The third time, Abby sent her down to catch the basement wirry under The Willow’s Wares.

“Those are stupid laws,” Rye grumbled now, her ears turning pink.

“They are stupid, old-fashioned, terrible laws that need to be changed,” Abby agreed. “And, as you know, I refuse to follow them—”

“L-O-T …” Lottie began, spelling her name. Abby pointed to her as if to say, see.

“But,” Abby said, “that does not mean we should flaunt it. No good can come of letting the Constable or anyone else like him know what we do and do not know.”

“But they took our coins.”

“It’s for Assessment, Riley. The fines are pooled for the good of the village,” Abby said, without conviction.

It seemed to Rye that the ‘good of the village’ seldom spilled over on to Mud Puddle Lane. They couldn’t even get street lamps after dark like every other part of town.

“It’s just a few silver shims, Riley. It could be much worse. Remember why the Constable came to the shop in the first place.”

Rye crossed her arms. Her mother had a point.

“Now, enough of this talk in front of your sister,” Abby said.

“Fine. But if I eat another bite of this sea bug I’m going to grow claws.”

Rye frowned at the ugly, beady-eyed head staring at her from her plate.

“So be it,” Abby said. “Give it to Shady.”

Nightshade Fur Bottom O’Chanter was the thick ball of black fur curled up by the fireplace. Everyone called him Shady for short. He slept so close to the fire that Rye worried an ember would jump from the flame and set his bushy tail alight. Rolled up like that, you might easily mistake him for a bear cub, but Shady was in fact a cat, the largest and furriest anyone had ever seen. His fur was such a thick, luxurious black that he shone like velvet, and he was as warm as a wool blanket when he curled up on the girls’ laps on a winter night. Shady didn’t know his own strength, and sometimes, when he got too excited, had a tendency to play a little rough. All the O’Chanters had the scars to prove it.

“Shady go outside?” Lottie asked.

Shady opened a big yellow eye at the sound of that, peeking out from his fur as if he understood what the littlest O’Chanter had said.

“No, no, Lottie,” Abby said, wagging a finger. “House Rule Number Two. Shady must never go outside.”

“Why? Cats go play,” Lottie said.

Which was true. Most cats roamed the streets and alleys of the village, skulking through the night, hunting all sorts of vermin.

“Too dangerous,” Abby said. “No, no.”

“No, no, no,” Lottie said, wagging a finger at Shady who, foiled again, stretched and slunk off into the shadows.

“That’s right, girls. Now, what’s the rule? Say it with me,” Abby said. And they did.

House Rule Number Two: He may run and he may hide, but Shady must never go outside.

“Good,” Abby said. “Shady, get your whiskers out of there.” She pushed his fluffy face away from her glass.

They all raised their drinks for the nightly toast.

“Welcome what tomorrow brings us,” Abby said.

Abby drank cranberry wine out of her favourite goblet. Rye and Lottie drank from smaller matching ones, leaving big goat milk moustaches over their lips.

Getting Lottie O’Chanter to bed each night was no easy task. It took a lot of screaming and temper tantrums, and that was just from their mother. Finally, Lottie pulled on her nightdress and clambered into the bed she shared with Rye in their small room at the back of the house. She would never agree to sleep if she knew Rye was staying up, so Rye had to change into her own nightdress, climb into bed, and pretend she was going to sleep too.

Abby leaned over and kissed each of her girls goodnight.

“Mona, Mona,” Lottie said, thrusting forward the worn doll she slept with every night. Mona Monster was a little pink hobgoblin with red polka dots. Abby had stitched it herself and stuffed it with straw straight after Lottie was born. Mona and Lottie had been inseparable ever since.

Abby kissed Mona on her toothy pink lips. “Bedtime, Lottie.”

Lottie made Rye kiss Mona too.

“Now get some sleep,” Abby said. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Lottie chomped her teeth and clutched the thin leather choker round her neck. A silver dragonfly charm and some runestones were strung on the black leather strand.

Lottie touched her finger to an identical choker round her mother’s neck. Abby smiled.

“Yes, I have one too,” Abby said.

Rye also wore a matching choker. They were usually well hidden under the clothes the O’Chanter girls wore during the day. Even Shady had a similar collar. The chokers were the subject of yet another House Rule.

House Rule Number Four: Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O’Chanters’ rune.

“Cherish it with your heart,” Abby had told Rye many times. “It carries the luck of the O’Chanters and our ancestors. It will keep you safe when times are darkest.”

“Time for sleep,” Abby whispered now, gently folding Lottie’s arms round Mona Monster.

Abby leaned over and whispered in Riley’s ear, “I need to tend to some things outside. You listen for Lottie.”

“OK, Mama,” Rye said, and Abby blew out the beeswax candles. The room glowed from the light of the fireplace.

It took quite a bit of tossing and turning, a little foot in Rye’s belly and a round bottom in her face before Lottie finally fell asleep. Rye slipped from under the covers and went into the main room of their cottage, where she sat by the hearth on the sweet-smelling herbs and grasses that her mother spread over the floorboards to keep the insects away.

Shady settled in her lap and Rye rubbed his big ears, covered with tufts of fur inside and out. These quiet times – sitting alone when Lottie was sleeping and Abby was off catching up with one task or another – were the hardest for her. Abby had been taking care of the girls by herself for as long as Rye could remember. Rye had no memories of her father. Abby said he was a soldier for the Earl. Ten years ago he had marched off with the army into Beyond the Shale. For a few months there’d been messages and letters, and then, one day, they stopped. Abby never said more about it, but Rye was old enough to know what that meant.

Lottie was a different story. Nobody seemed to know who her father was. Nobody except their mother that is – and she wasn’t telling.

The girls and the shop were a lot for anyone to handle alone, and Rye worried about her mother. Abby had been spending a lot of time out of the house at night. Maybe the night air helped clear her head. Rye knew Abby didn’t like her venturing outdoors after dark, but Rye thought her mother might appreciate the company. She kissed Shady and placed him on the floor.

“You smell like wine,” she said, wiping his whiskers. “Stay here.”

She put on her cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She creaked the door open and peeked outside. In a neighbourhood of drab, grey houses, their shiny purple door always stood out. It was etched with a carving of a dragonfly that changed colour as the sun hit it at different times of the day. The dragonfly was black now, the street dark except for light from the thinnest sliver of moon.

“Stay here, Shady,” she said again and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare wake up Lottie.”

Rye carefully closed the door and slipped behind her house. Their goat and hens were asleep in their pens. In the distance, the bogs came to life as vapour rose off the water like ghosts. Her mother wasn’t back there either.

Rye was about to climb the ladder to her pigeon coop to see if she had any messages. Rye and Folly had taught the pigeons to fly back and forth between their houses and sometimes they wrote messages and tied them to the birds’ feet. But something stopped her in her tracks. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Someone was already on the roof.

She stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder and pressed herself against the side of the house. She looked up again. The figure was in a cloak like hers. It was her mother. She was staring at the forest Beyond the Shale. She was perfectly still. It was like she was watching … waiting for something.

Abby didn’t seem to see her. Rye held her breath as she tiptoed back towards the house, slow and easy. Then there was a loud, terrible sound. Rye jumped and looked for a place to hide. The sound was far away but not far enough. It was a cross between the shriek of a wild animal and the wail of a baby. She looked up. Her mother had heard it too. Abby leaned forward ever so slightly, looking through the mist, but remained in place.

The sound again. It felt like a thousand insects running up Rye’s spine. She scrambled inside as fast as she could and slammed the door behind her.