The Best of Penny Dread Tales (21 page)

Before she could fire, the creatures’ voices sneered in her head. “You would kill us when the men of this land would do the same to you? You think we wouldn’t notice? The way you protected her? The way you looked at her?”

“No,” Hazel whispered, the sound jerked from her lips. “No. She’s my friend.”

“She’ll think you’re a monster like me, once she learns of your desires. She’ll run from you like she ran from me.”

“No.” But what if it was true? What if Dulcinea despised her?

“You think you hunt monsters? You are a monster.” The sibilant hiss of the words tore through her lassitude, giving her strength. She might be a monster, but she fought monsters for a living.

“I don’t eat people.” Hazel fired, once, twice. The recoil nearly dislocated her shoulder without the power of her armor to dampen it. The muzzle flared as she fired again. The creatures turned toward her, their distended jaws open, their shrieking laughter cutting through her like knives.

“She’ll think you’re a monster.” The creatures laughed, a gurgling, bubbling sound through the holes in their chests.

She aimed one last time. Two more shots.

Blood black as sin spurted from the creatures’ heads, the impact of the bullets tearing their skulls apart. Dulcinea screamed and tore her hands from theirs. Mutilated, half of their faces missing, they still clawed at her. Hazel slumped to the ground, worn out. They wouldn’t stop until their corpses were burnt and their ashes scattered to the winds.

With wide eyes, Dulcinea looked at the creatures before her, her eyes wide with memory. Hazel forced the words free. “Remember, Dulcinea. Remember your mother’s songs.”

Haunted, the girl looked at her for a moment, before turning her gaze to the creatures that fought against death, slowly rejuvenating before her. She folded her hands in front of her and closed her eyes.

“Duérmete mi niña, duérmete mi sol, duérmete cariña, de mi corazón.” Dulcinea’s voice was high and sweet, soothing the lloronas’ gurgling shrieks. “Esta niña linda, que nació de día, quiere que la iglesia, por la Virgen María.”

The creatures screeched louder as she completed the simple round. After the last words echoed through the cave, one of them, Hazel thought it might have been Sarah, fell to its knees and keened.

“Duérmete mi niña,” Dulcinea walked around to the other side of the fire, continuing the round, “duérmete mi sol, duérmete cariña,” she held out her hands to the monsters, “de mi corazón.”

Both of the creatures turned to her like hounds on a scent. Slowly, as she continued singing, they inched towards her, ignoring the fire. “Esta niña linda, que nació de …”

The creatures followed Dulcinea’s voice, crawling and scraping into the fire. The flames licked up their bodies, burning blue when it touched their blood. Kneeling, Dulcinea lowered her voice, almost murmuring the words,
“…
 quiere que la iglesia, por la Virgen María.”

The fire consumed the lloronas, burning them until they could no longer make a sound. The flames burned blue, and then green, dying out as they ate the final scraps of bone and ash. When there was only dust left, Dulcinea stopped singing. In the absence of the comforting sound, Hazel felt like crying.

With an effort, Hazel rolled up to a sitting position and looked around. The creature had torn the battery pack off, but if the safety detachment had worked, it might still be undamaged. If she could get to it, she could repair it. Then she could leave. The creatures were right. There was no point. Compared to Dulcinea, she was a monster.

***

With Dulcinea’s help, she was able to get her exoskeleton back together. She avoided the girl’s gaze. She had heard what the creatures had said. She had to know. Hazel was surprised that she hadn’t left already.

Then she remembered the once-men. They would still be outside, and without the control of their mistresses, they would fall apart, but it could take days, if not a week. They needed to be dealt with.

Hazel shrugged her shoulders to settle the battery pack in its place. She would have to take it all apart later to repair it, but for now it would serve. Reloading her Schofields, she glanced at Dulcinea. “We’ll need to take care of the once-men. Do you have a song for that?”

“I think … I think so.” Dulcinea smiled tentatively. “You’ll be with me?”

“Always.” The word left Hazel’s lips before she could stop it. Wasn’t this what she had wanted all these years? To find the friend her family had wronged? It was just … She firmed her lips. “Let’s go.”

They slowly walked up the short ascent to the mouth of the cave. Night had fallen further, deepening toward midnight. The moon still illuminated the desert floor where the once-men shambled between the scrubby plants.

Hazel unholstered her Schofields and waited. After a moment, she turned to Dulcinea. “If you’re going to do something, I would suggest you start now, before they smell us.”

Dulcinea swallowed and nodded. She folded her hands in front of her and closed her eyes, taking her time. Hazel shook her head slightly as she watched the once men sniff the air. There wasn’t time, but Hazel knew she couldn’t force the girl to remember. Cocking the hammers back on her revolvers, she interposed herself between the creatures and the girl. She would have to reload at least twice, three times if she wasn’t lucky.

“A … a los niños que duermen, Dios los bendice, a las madres que velan, Dios las asiste.” Dulcinea’s voice, hesitant at first, grew and resonated through the desert. “Duérmete niño, duérmete niño, duérmete niño, arrú arrú …”

The last turned into a lonely sound that echoed like a coyote howl off the mesas in the distance. The topography of the desert bowl conspired to amplify the girl’s soprano. She opened her arms, holding them out to the once-men who turned toward them.

“A … a los niños que duermen …” Hazel fired, once. “Dios los bendice
 …”
twice. “A las madres que velan,” headshot. “Dios las asiste,” headshot.

“Duérmete niño, duérmete niño, duérmete niño, arrú arrú …” Hazel emptied her revolvers into the crowd of once-men. As she reloaded, she glanced up and saw the creatures falling, one by one. The lullaby, cascading from Dulcinea’s lips, sent them to their final rest. Even the ones nearest to them collapsed, their drive for human flesh quelled by the song.

The song was over. The once-men littered the desert, their arms flung toward Dulcinea and Hazel. They would not stir again. Hazel holstered her revolvers. “Come on.”

***

The hour passed beyond midnight and into the earliest morning as they rode back to Cibola. Dulcinea held onto Hazel, shivering in the cold desert wind. Sensing Hazel’s mood, Rocinante didn’t tarry but rather allowed himself to be encouraged to a canter that ate up the desert sands beneath his hooves.

Silent, the empty windows of the town watched them reproachfully as they returned to the saloon. A light in the window greeted them, and Hazel glanced at Dulcinea warily. Who would be waiting for them?

She dismounted and helped Dulcinea down from Rocinante’s broad back. Dulcinea took her hand, shaking her head as Hazel flipped the snaps off her holsters. “Juan.”

Hazel nodded, remembering, but she didn’t let her hand off her gun. “We don’t know if they got to him too. We have to make sure that the curse has been lifted.”

Pushing the doors aside, Hazel led the way into the saloon. Dulcinea refused to let go of her hand, so she used the contact to keep the girl behind her. With her other hand, she pulled one of her revolvers, holding it close to her chest, half hidden behind her tattered duster. “Juan?”

The bartender stepped out from the kitchen, a shotgun in his hands. He trained it at Hazel, his eyes dark. “Did you kill them?”

“I did.” Hazel met his gaze.

“Did you burn their corpses?”

“Yes.”

After a moment, Juan lowered the shotgun. “I thought that no one would come, that no one would be able to save us from them. And the niña?”

“I’m safe, Juan.” Dulcinea stepped out from behind Hazel. “She saved me.”

Juan put down his shotgun and walked to embrace the girl. “Mi corazón. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

“I think she would be.” Dulcinea’s smile lit up her face. She turned to Hazel. “Please, accept my thanks and what hospitality I can provide.”

“I …” Seeing Dulcinea’s hopeful expression, Hazel discarded half-formed thoughts of leaving in the night, of riding away, as far away as she could. There would be time to run away later, once she was sure her armor was intact.

Dulcinea led her up to one of the rooms and leaned against the doorway. “What you did to save my mother and I … I owe you for tonight as well.”

“I did what I had to,” Hazel said, taking off her exoskeleton piece by piece. She didn’t care if Dulcinea saw any more. She couldn’t be any more of a monster than she already was.

“You think I listened to them, don’t you.”

“Of course you did.” Hazel placed each part of her armor on the bed next to her, as neat as a skeleton.

“I don’t … you’re not a monster.”

Hazel shrugged out of the harness that supported the battery and swung it around to examine it. “Look at me and tell me that.”

“You’re not a monster.” Dulcinea came and knelt next to Hazel, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Not for your armor, not for your legs, not for your heart.”

“Do you remember?” Hazel looked away, her hands tightening on the straps. “Do you remember anything?”

Dulcinea helped her place the harness to the side and took her hands. Looking up into her face, she smiled hesitantly. “No. But if you’d like … if you would like to tell me about it, I would.…Would you stay and tell me the stories?”

“Stay here?” Hazel looked at her. “You would want me to stay?”

Hazel could feel Dulcinea’s heart thumping through the pulse in her palms. “There are still stories to tell. And I think I’d like to make this an inn. With the town growing …”

Hazel’s heart pounded in the silence as she trailed off. She dared not interrupt.

After a moment, Dulcinea continued, looking down. “We could … we might have use of a marshal. You haven’t claimed the bounty yet. And I would hope … maybe we can make some more stories.” Dulcinea hesitantly reached forward and brushed a strand of hair out of Hazel’s eyes. Her fingers brushed lightly against Hazel’s cheek.

Hazel took her hand and met her eyes. She had not expected this. Not here. She had expected to find her friend at some point, maybe. That she would be happy to merely know that she was alive and well. And now … She smiled, vulnerable yet hopeful. “I would love to.”

***

Industrial Melanism

Aaron Spriggs

“My Gravitationally Propelled Articulated Cleansing Coil don’t have to be fed, clothed, housed, or rescued,” Salesman said. He was overweight, and his clothes were disheveled, making for a poor first impression.

“Not now. I’m un-stucking an apprentice,” Master Sweep said, shoving past Salesman.

Stuck in the chimney, Apprentice Sweep had gotten careless in his hurry. He just wanted time to wash the trees and wasn’t thinking about the task at hand. Now, his knees were pressed into his chest and he couldn’t move, barely able to breathe, arms stretched out above him, and the bricks taking their pound of flesh from four sides of his body. All the apprentices learned how to crawl up the inside of a chimney, inching their way up like a caterpillar, pressing their back against one wall and leveraging hands and knees and elbows against the other surfaces.

Careless climbers brought their knees up too high, or they got tired and let their bodies’ slump down too far. Getting wedged was serious in the compressed space, which was usually only slightly wider than their shoulders.

Master Sweep stood on the lawn, ordering his cadre of apprentices about. Young boys, soot stained every one of them, were on the roof and in the house, working. It was bad form to have a lad stuck in the chimney. Hurt productivity for the day.

A small boy brought a bundle of clothes to Master Sweep. “Master Sweep, sir, here’s his clothes. They was folded all neat and left by the fireplace.”

“Well, put ’em back. He’ll need ’em again once we’ve got ’im out of the chimney.”

Salesman stepped up again to continue his sales pitch. “Here’s my little darlin’ right here, Master Sweep.” He held forth his cleaning apparatus. It was a metal spring two feet long covered in thick warthog bristles. The spring, or coil, had small, articulated points along its entire length, allowing for slight movement while maintaining a general spring-like shape. One end of the coil enlarged and contained the clockwork mechanism which, when wound, caused small twitches and jerks of the entire coil.

Holding it for Master Sweep to see, Salesman pressed on with his commercial. “You wind it here,” and he indicated with a grubby forefinger the winding key, “and then you drop it down the chimney from the roof. The little rascal does the rest of the work on its own.”

“I said not now, and I meant not now,” Master Sweep said.

“But the lads know what they’re about, Master Sweep, sir, and they ain’t got the knowing you do for improvements; innovations,” Salesman said. His smile didn’t waver.

Apprentice was having a harder and harder time drawing a breath, and spots were floating about in the chimney with him, though truth be told, he figured they were only in his eyes. They were the first things he’d seen in several hours.

He missed cleaning the trees. After cleaning chimneys all day, it was nice to sneak into the park with his scrub brush and pail of water and clean something living, and work while standing up, clothed, breathing fresh air.

Many chimneys were so small the chimney sweeps had to remove some or all of their clothing to fit. It didn’t do well to have buckles or buttons snag on brick or sloppy mortar. Sometimes the boys just needed that much less size to fit, plain and simple.

When Apprentice Sweep had to remove his clothing, it reminded him of seeing insects molt. He shed his outer layer, exposing a new layer, just like a caterpillar. Apprentice Sweep would neatly fold his shed clothing and leave the bundle sitting by the fireplace, under the cloth shroud which protected the house from soot billowing everywhere as he cleaned.

“Master Sweep!” one of the boys on the roof hollered down to him. “Master Sweep, he’s not grabbin’ the rope no longer.”

“Is Apprentice still awake in there?” Master Sweep asked.

“Don’t know. Still can’t see him, but the rope he had grabbed, he ain’t grabbin’ no more.”

“Sprinkle a little water down on him and see if he says anything.”

Scrubbing the trees, returning them to their pale grey color, almost white, that’s what Apprentice enjoyed. The coal dust permanently stained the cracks in his skin, especially his hands and around his fingernails. He liked it though, on himself; made him look like a statue of sorts. But the trees, they shouldn’t be soot stained. So, on days he got five or six chimneys cleaned, he’d race back to the workhouse and get his pail of water and come to the park.

A young boy, one of the youngest, came out of the house and approached Master Sweep and Salesman. “Sir, poking him with needles doesn’t get him to complain no more.”

“Well then, stop poking him. It isn’t helping him, now is it?” Master Sweep said.

“No sir, Master Sweep, it isn’t.” The boy went back inside.

“How old was he?” asked Salesman, indicating the lad which had just left.

“Probably six. That’s about the earliest I can apprentice ’em. Any younger and they’re too weak to do any damn good scrubbin’, but they do fit in there good at that age.”

“And you get seven years out of each of ’em before they’re old enough to quit?” Salesman asked.

“Yep, seven or eight, sometimes nine. Most of ’em don’t count so good.” Master Sweep winked at Salesman. “But by then they’re starting to get too big to fit in the chimney. Most flues are only nine by twelve.”

“True that, true that. Nine by nine, some. And that’s why my Cleansing Coil is better than any apprentice. It can fit—”

“Leave off,” Master Sweep said and turned to his scattered apprentices. “Hey! Get the mason chisel and hammer. We may need to go in through the chimney wall for this ’un.”

It was funny, scrubbing the trees, having the coal black water run down his arms, collect at his elbows, and soak his coat. The water rarely reached his armpits. While scrubbing, every once in a while, a sneaky moth would get flushed off the tree. Most of the moths where dark and speckled and hid on the tree in plain sight. Sometimes, though, Apprentice noticed pale grey, almost white, moths, but they stood out and were easy to see; at least, they were easy to see before he scrubbed the tree. After cleaning the tree, they blended in on the clean bark.

Sometimes Apprentice felt like the black peppered moth after crawling out of a chimney, soot covered and blending in with all the coal dust.

Mallet and chisel in hand, one of the older boys was suspended off the roof by ropes, to the point where they thought Apprentice was stuck inside the chimney. He had just started chiseling.

“That’s the way; good lad.” Master Sweep was still directing from the lawn. A small crowd from the neighborhood had gathered, but, being English, they kept a respectful distance and stood on the other side of the iron fencing.

“So, Master Sweep, would you care to give my Cleansing Coil a try tomorrow?” Salesman asked.

“Perhaps, but I don’t see how it gets the corners clean.”

“With its twitching and such, and long bristles. It reaches all the corners the whole length of the chimney.”

“An’ what does it do when a bit of scrapin’ is needed?” Master Sweep asked. “The apprentices take a scrub brush an’ a scraper for the pitch. What abou’ the pitch?”

“Um, well, my Cleansing Coil is easy and fast, and can be used more frequently than a boy, so the pitch won’t have time to build up into no hard resin,” Salesman said. He smiled large, proud of himself for thinking of that on the spot.

One day, while Apprentice scrubbed, he saw two gentlemen collecting butterflies. They had sweep nets, killing jars, pins, and cork boards. Dressed fine, their speech was musical to Apprentice’s ears, even if he didn’t understand all the fancy wordings.

“And see here, this pale pigmentation is pre-industrialization,” Sideburns said.

“Good show. Yes. We need more of those to complete the range,” White-gloves said.

“This post-industrial coloration, or, as you’ve so cleverly termed, ‘Industrial Melanism’ is going to be all anyone is talking about. But tell me again, they are not being dyed by the soot, correct?” Sideburns asked.

“Quite right, old chap. It appears individual moths come in two varieties in their population; the black morphotype and a white morphotype. Before all the soot in the air, the white morphotype was dominant while the black morphotype was easily eaten by birds.”

“Yes, yes, I see that now. But now, the trees are soot covered and their bark is black,” Sideburns said.

“Yes, you’ve got it. Now that the trees are black, the minority morphotype has become the dominant individual in the population, and the white peppered moth has become the staple in birds’ diets around here,” White-gloves said.

“I’m through, Master Sweep!” the apprentice called down as he handed the brick to another boy.

“Good job. How’s Apprentice doing?” Master Sweep asked.

“He’s not moving, sir!” The boy had his arm buried to his shoulder in the whole he had just made. “I’m shaking his head but he’s limp!”

“Keep at it then! Make the whole large enough to get him out,” Master Sweep said.

“What do you do if Apprentice is dead?” Salesman asked.

“We’ve got to get him out alive or dead. Can’t go around leaving dead boys stuck in chimneys, now can we?”

“It’s a harsh life for ones so young, in’it?” Salesman said.

“It’s a harsh life all over, in’it? Somes die by the cough. Their lungs can’t take all the dust. Some get stuck and can’t breathe. Every once in a while, a chimney fire ain’t out and the pitch catches and burns ’em to death, but that don’t happen all too often. Most though, most put in their time, and make it to journeyman.”

Industrial Melanism
meant stained sooty black. Apprentice knew that much from their fancy talk. Once he was done apprenticing, putting in his time, he hoped to join the navy or dirigible brigades. Apprentice wondered if his ‘industrial melanism’ would clean off well enough to make him look proper while in uniform. White gloves would hide his marbled hands, and uniforms were cleaned and pressed, but what about his face? Was he stained for life?

“That’s it then.” Master Sweep and Salesman watched the constables haul off Apprentice’s body. It looked smaller, being so still. The rest of the apprentices were quiet; a rare moment in their lives.

“Bring your Cleansing Coil around tomorrow and we’ll have a crack at it. You know, Salesman, I can get 9d a bushel for my soot. That thing better clean as well as my boys can.”

“Oh, it will Master Sweep, it will,” Salesman said, smiling and nodding.

One of the older apprentices, scowling, approached the two men. “What of us, Master Sweep?”

“What of you?”

“If you go and get these fuzzy springs doing our jobs, how are we to eat? We still owe you years of work?” His thin arms were folded across his narrow chest.

“Have no fear, and don’t give me none of that smart talk. I knows what’s best. Who’s the Master Sweep here?”

“You are, sir.” The boy looked down, not making eye contact, but he didn’t unfold his arms.

“Now, if you were to use yer head for somethin’ other than holding a hat, think on this. Who’s going to lower these coils down into the chimney? Hmm? An’ who’s going to collect the soot when all’s said and done?”

The apprentice looked back up, his arms sliding to his sides.

“I still needs me my apprentices. Now get back to the workhouse and get our supper ready, this day’s been longer than most.”

“Shorter for some us, Master Sweep,” the apprentice said, running off.

***