Freaks

Little Pilchton-on-Sea, August 1851

Sheba gazed through her tiny window to the seaside view beyond. It was a beautiful summer morning. The sounds of the beach drifted in and she closed her eyes to hear them better. Children splashing and laughing. The cries of gulls. She could smell the tang of fresh seaweed. Her mind drifted down to the sand and pebbles below. She could almost feel the waves lapping around her toes and the sun on her face, almost taste the salt on her lips.

But such things were not meant for her, and dreaming about them only made it worse. Sheba gave a deep sigh and ran her ivory comb through her chestnut brown curls, taking out the tangles. She always took great care of her locks, brushing and combing to keep them shining. Everyone said she had a lovely head of hair.

And face of hair. And hands of hair.

In fact, she was covered from head to foot.

It wasn't all the same, of course. Her face and body had a fine, fair coating that might be mistaken for tanned skin, from a distance. She could even pass for normal in a crowd, if it wasn't for her other peculiarities.

Her eyes were a deep amber color; in a certain light they even seemed to have an orange glow. She had a pink, hairless nose — like a puppy — and small, sharp white teeth. Her hands were tipped with nails that looked more than a little like claws. But when she was frightened or angry or excited, her nose puckered into a snout, her eyes flashed, her skin bristled, and she had even been known to growl. “Sheba the Wolfgirl” was what everyone called her then, and she hated it beyond all hatred.

The hair and teeth were the first things people noticed, but they weren't the most interesting. She was actually an exceptional girl. Her sense of smell was prodigious; she could follow a trail like a bloodhound and read scents like the pages of a book. She had learnt the mechanics of a range of locks, and was able to open almost anything with a couple of old hairpins she had scavenged on the pier. And by the age of five she had taught herself to read from scraps of newspaper and chalk billboards. She would have read much more, but it was quite difficult to pop into the local library when you were covered in thick fur and worked as an exhibit in a seaside freak show. And that was where she had spent every waking moment of every long day for as long as she could remember.

Grunchgirdle's World of Curiosities perched at the end of the rickety Little Pilchton pier, like a jackdaw on a branch. Mr. Grunchgirdle, the owner, was a rheumy, skinny old man with the aroma of a long-dead trout. Besides Sheba, the other attractions were a stuffed squirrel with a carp's tail sewn where its legs should be (“the world's only true mermaid!”) and a two-headed lamb called Flossy. They were all crammed into a one-roomed shack no bigger than a large cupboard and made even smaller by their cages, where they slept, ate, and (very rarely) washed.

It was a poor place to call home, and Sheba spent many hours wondering how she had ended up here. There had been a workhouse before, where Grunchgirdle had bought her, but of the time beyond that . . . Her mind was empty of conscious memories, except for the merest hints that sometimes fluttered by like a thread on the wind. She sometimes thought she remembered running through a white house, the air hot around her yet cool marble beneath her bare feet, but there were no real answers.

If only there was someone who could tell her something about her past. For all she knew, she could be the Crown Princess of Mongolia, the daughter of a rich and magnificent king. Or maybe a hair-covered parent just like her. Perhaps then she wouldn't feel so desperately different.

Just to be somebody's daughter would be nice.

When Sheba had finished grooming, she carefully put her comb inside the ebony box that held all her belongings: hairpins, some crumpled pamphlets, and a sea-worn limpet shell someone had once dropped on the shack floor. As for the box itself, Sheba had no idea where it had come from, only that it had always been hers. She was sure Grunchgirdle wouldn't have given it to her — the only things she got from him were insults and the occasional slap — which meant it must have been from her previous life. Was it something that belonged to her mother perhaps? Or a gift from a loving relative? Many nights she lay awake, tracing the carved flowers on its lid with her fingers and wondering. Delicate flowers, with five narrow petals, like stars.

Flossy raised one of his heads from the sorry pile of straw he lay on and gave a weak bleat. He didn't appear to be in the best of health, but that was hardly surprising. Lambs were meant to be out frolicking and gamboling, not waiting in a dim shack for customers that never appeared. If the poor creature didn't get some fresh air soon, he wouldn't be long for this world.

Grunchgirdle had spent the last of his money on Flossy a year ago in an attempt to turn around his dire fortunes. But no one visited Little Pilchton anymore. People wanted to travel to places that had railways or fast coach routes. The tiny town barely had a road, only a collection of massive potholes linked together by smaller potholes. He could have bought a seven-headed purple tiger and been no better off.

Sheba offered Flossy a handful of oats, but he just sniffed at them and gave her a dismal look. She patted one of his heads. She would be very sorry if he died. He was the closest thing she had to company. The stuffed mermaid wasn't very inspiring, Grunchgirdle treated Sheba little better than an animal, and of course the members of the public — whenever they turned up — just stood and gawked at her. Or ran out of the room screaming.