Fiendish Deeds (5 page)

“Who’s there?” the creature shrieked in a human voice, whirling around. It was an old woman, they now saw, wearing a black coat wrapped up in a filthy shawl, her long gray hair tangled with bits of leaves and twig, and her blazing eyes darting in their deep sockets as they scoured the foliage for intruders. Clenched in her dirty fingers was a long, gleaming knife.

And she’d spotted them.

O
h, hello, children!” said the old woman. “You scared me half out of my rubber boots!” She had a pleasant lilting voice with a strong accent and wore a friendly if somewhat gnarly-looking smile.

“So sorry,” said Joy from a prone position. She clamped a hand on Fizz and reattached his collar, making sure to adjust it one hole tighter. Over her shoulder, Byron peeked out from the safety of the petrified stump as Joy smiled back. “We were just wondering where all the beautiful singing was coming from.”

“Oh my! Or what the heck was making such an awful racket, more likely,” chuckled the old woman. She folded the knife and dropped it along with some freshly cut herbs into a pocket on the front of her skirt. “How embarrassing! I don’t usually have an audience for my little operas, you know.” A tufted eyebrow suddenly arched in surprise. “Is that a froggy you’ve got there on a leash?”

“His name is Fizz,” said Joy, brushing dirt from the front of her coat as she stood. “He thinks he’s a bulldog,” she added, gingerly making her way down the muddy slope to the clearing.

“I see. That explains his curious barking then. And the spikes on his collar.”

Joy shrugged. “We’ve learned it’s better just to humor him,” she said as Byron arrived, crashing painfully into her back.

“What are your names, bambini?”

“I’m Joy, and this is my brother, Byron.”

“Joy, how pretty. And Byron, what a strong name. Do you know what it means?” she asked Byron, who shook his head as he stared back mistrustfully. “
Bear
. Of course, you look more like a chubby teddy at the moment, but in time, I am sure you will be just as noble and powerful…. You may call me Madame Portia,” she said with a flourishing bow.

“Pleased to meet you,” replied Joy with an unintended curtsey. The old woman did look surprisingly regal, despite her considerable filthiness.

Byron, meanwhile, continued to stare at her suspiciously. He’d read the fairy tales, and such chumminess usually meant a kid-size oven was preheating somewhere nearby.

“And what wonders might life have in store for you? Let me see.” Madame Portia took one of Joy’s hands and turned her palm up. “How unconventional you are, my dear! It says here that you are smart, inquisitive, and romantic,” she said, tracing a line with a dirty nail. “And the strong fork here to the Mount of Venus suggests you have a penchant for musical and literary pursuits—that may lead to celebrity…. But here it warns not to give into temptation, otherwise everything will be lost.”

The old woman released her hand, which now felt unusually hot, Joy noticed.

“And as for you, young man,” continued Madame Portia as she unwrapped Byron’s tight fist, “it says here you are noble, courageous, and loyal, and will also have a lot of adventures. And look,” she added with a giggle, “it says here you are quite the little love bird!”

Byron snatched back his hand, glowering.

“You both have very long life lines. Which means you should live to be a hundred at least.”

“Cool,” said Joy.

“And so, tell me, you’ve come today to enjoy one of the most beautiful sphagnum peat moss bogs in the whole world, have you?”

“Yes, we have,” answered Joy. “It’s nice here.”

“Nice?” squawked Madame Portia in horror. “What a pitiful word—‘nice.’ Natural forces both incredible and mysterious have colluded to create an impossible haven of life within an extraordinary cathedral of death, and you remark, ‘It’s nice.’” The old woman’s face twisted with disgust.

“I am sorry,” said Joy carefully.

“Don’t worry about it,” Madame Portia replied casually. “Now come quick! I want to show you something
too cute
!” The old woman took off at speed, shawl flapping. Joy followed as fast as she could, towing Byron’s dead weight behind her. They finally caught up at the edge of a rusty brown pool.

“See him?” whispered Madame Portia, pointing. A few feet away, a large dark shape moved through the water like some armored aquatic monster.

“Yeah!” answered Joy, trying to contain her volume despite her considerable excitement. “What is it?” she asked, adjusting Byron’s head slightly so he could see.

“Why, that’s Ernesto!”

“Ernesto?” Joy repeated.

“The most spectacular snapping turtle in the bog! Ernesto’s very shy, so you are very lucky to see him. But you’d be less lucky to encounter him on land—he is quite a tough customer. He weighs at least seventy-five pounds!”

Joy clamped a hand over Fizz’s eyes, just in case he thought of trying his luck.

“This is a very rare and precious ecosystem, you know,” Madame Portia said, leaning over. Byron recoiled from her sharp breath, which smelled like a stiff breeze blowing across a field of sodden weeds. “Do you know what other unusual creatures make their homes inside?”

Joy’s eyes widened hopefully. “Monsters?”

Madame Portia let out a birdlike shriek. Ernesto vanished with a splash. “You have quite the imagination, young lady,” she said laughing. Then her expression turned serious. “To most creatures
we
are the monsters, you know. Monsters who destroy their beautiful homes to make shopping malls and parking lots and golf courses. Monsters who turn a spring rain into toxic acid, and a summer breeze into poisonous smog.”

Joy agreed. A hundred years ago, E. A. Peugeot had said the same thing—that the most dangerous monster of all was humankind. But she bit her lip in frustration as Madame Portia changed the subject.

“My husband, Ludwig, rest his soul, was a famous naturalist,” said Madame Portia. “He spent his life studying the bog, publishing many articles on its native flora and fauna. That’s why we built our home here, to be close to his work.”

“You live
here
?” asked Joy in disbelief. “In the bog?”

“You don’t believe me? Come and see for yourself. I think I may even have a few gingerbread cookies somewhere for you.”

“Sure,” said Joy. Byron flashed her a look of alarm.

They followed Madame Portia along an uneven trail. Joy happily imagined Dr. Ingram hobbling across the same scene, his wound black and bubbling as Dickson’s awful screams were suddenly silenced by the sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones. She glanced over her shoulder at the dark, tangled woods, shivering deliciously to imagine the possibility that something hellish was stalking them at this very moment.

Meanwhile, Byron was lost in dark thoughts of his own, which he was most certainly not enjoying. Did Hansel feel this way, he wondered, holding Gretel’s hand as the witch led them deeper into the forest? He realized that he wasn’t sure what he was more afraid of: a hideous death at the hands of some geriatric cannibal, or the embarrassment of suddenly taking off screaming. But if the climactic moment should come anyway, would he finally define himself as the little hero of the story, or just something juicy to be slow-roasted with onions and carrots?

“Here, bambini!” exclaimed Madame Portia, stopping suddenly. “I want to show you a few meat-eating monsters!” The children skidded to a halt. Byron leaped back into a defensive posture. “No need to be afraid, young man!” said Madame Portia. “That is, unless you are a silly little insect with a sweet tooth.”

“What are they called?” asked Joy, crouching beside the ghostly patch of tubular plants. “And why should bugs be afraid of them?”

“They are
Sarracenia illuminus
. The throats of these elegant fellows are coated with nectar, you see. When a little bug climbs inside for a taste, tiny hairs draw it down to be digested.” Madame Portia beamed. “A wonderful sugarcoated death.”

“Wow,” said Joy, looking closer at the mint green veins running up their length. “It’s so beautiful—almost electric!”

“You should see
Sarracenia illuminus
at night—how she glows! It’s one of the many inhabitants of this bog documented by my late husband, the great and talented Ludwig Zweig. To my great regret, many of his most astounding discoveries were never published before he died! The world is so much the more ignorant as a result!”

“Can’t you publish his research yourself?” suggested Joy.

“That’s the thing. For all Ludwig was a man of science, he was not only quite disorganized but more than a bit superstitious—both qualities I am sure I only encouraged, I’m afraid. Anyway, he developed this fear of photocopiers, which he believed could somehow ‘collate a person’s soul’ as he put it, so he never made copies of his research,” explained Madame Portia. “Now most of his notes are gone and I have no idea where he sent them off to! I can only hope that someone will still come to investigate his latest incredible specimen. What if people think he is just some kook and they toss out his life’s work?”

“What kind of incredible specimen?” demanded Joy, unable to check her excitement. “A creature of some sort?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say, bambina!” said Madame Portia. “Not before someone comes to verify Ludwig’s discovery, that is. Otherwise some charlatan is sure to steal the credit!” Madame Portia grabbed Joy by the shoulders. “I beg you, child, never speak of this to anyone!”

Joy chewed her lips in frustration. Was it the bog fiend Madame Portia was talking about? Here she was, so close to finding out the truth! But the old woman wasn’t budging. Joy would have to try a different approach—getting her to give away the location of its den.

“Madame Portia,” said Joy lightly, as if changing the subject. “I was wondering if you could tell us how to identify different types of mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms? There must be hundreds of species in the bog alone….”

“What about poisonous ones? Where might you find some around here?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go fooling around like that, little miss. Some of them are very dangerous!”

“But—”

“No buts—I won’t be party to a death by mushroom. Remember,” chided Madame Portia with a wagging finger, “we are in a sphagnum bog, not your corner grocery. My advice is to pick some up at a supermarket like everybody else. You can find all sorts of fancy ones these days: portobello, oyster, shiitake, you name it.” They began walking again, Joy squirming in frustration as Madame Portia marveled aloud at all the amazing varieties of lettuce now available. “Anyway, here were are. Home sweet home.”

Joy and Byron both gasped.

Standing on stilts above a black lake was a cigar-shaped structure covered in moss. Brass portholes lined its exterior and a shingled tower rose from the roof. All over, stringy vegetation dangled from what appeared to be rusty scientific instruments. Madame Portia’s house looked for all the world like a washed-up submarine from some ancient but technologically underestimated civilization.

“Impressive, si? Ludwig built it. He was good with his hands—and they were oh so strong,” said Madame Portia wistfully. “He was once a submariner, you know. That is, until a depth charge sunk his vessel, and his career, when he was just sixteen. Which is also why he was deaf in one ear—he was sleeping with one side of his head pressed up against the hull when the charge went off, the poor darling. Anyway, he could never live in a wooden box after that, not after roaming the great big Atlantic in such a cozy metal tube, he said.

“But it’s too much work for me now. I suppose it won’t fall down, at least until I am nice and comfortably dead. Now come on, children, come inside….”

Curiosity even got the better of Byron, so he followed Joy and Madame Portia up a swaying gangway leading to the tower. As the old woman swung open the heavy door, there was the sound of scuffling, and the children spotted something scurry out of view as they entered.

“You’ll have to excuse the rats—I’m having trouble keeping them out lately,” said Madame Portia. “I think they are getting in through Ludwig’s old scuba tube,” she added, pointing to a shaft located rather precariously in the center of the living room. On one side, Joy saw a ladder descending into the darkness. “Did I mention Ludwig was a keen diver?”

“A scuba diver?” asked Joy, surprised. “In the bog?”

“Oh, yes. Much of his research was performed underwater in fact, so he could observe its inhabitants up close. The pond below us is quite deep in spots, with many remarkable specimens, not to mention old relics.”

“Relics?” asked Joy. “What kind of relics?”

“Oh, the bog has swallowed up all manner of things over the centuries, even an entire railway stop that once stood at the foot of Spooking Hill. And many little objects, just like this,” said Madame Portia, handing Joy something from an ornately carved desk.

“A pen?”

“An antique stylograph pen, actually,” she answered. “Ludwig found it right out there, poking out of the muck on the bottom of the pond.”

Joy’s eyes lit up. The onyx pen had a gold-plated snake curling around its cap. “Cool!” she exclaimed.

“You like it? You can keep it.”

“Really?”

“Of course! Ludwig fished many such things from the black depths of our backyard. I am glad to be rid of the clutter, frankly.”

“Thank you so much!” said Joy gratefully. She squeezed it to detect the faint hum of its previous owner. Who could have used such a distinctive thing, and how did it end up in a blood-sucking swamp?