The Order of Odd-Fish (30 page)

“There.” Fiona leaned back and nodded. Then she came down the ladder. “I’m finished. It’s my best so far…. Want to see what I’ve done?”

Jo came around and looked.

She couldn’t help it—she gasped. Fiona smiled with silent triumph.

It had Jo’s eyes.

“I think it’s a good addition, don’t you?” said Fiona. She came over to Jo and looked at the sculpture with her. “Kind of brings it all together, doesn’t it? Makes it make sense?”

The eyes were definitely her own. And the head—Fiona had resculpted the monster’s face in such a way that it now bore a resemblance to Jo’s own. It was hideous to see, like a mirror of herself in hell.

Fiona grabbed Jo’s arm. Jo struggled to get away, but Fiona forced her into the corner, pushing herself against her. Jo tried to scream, but Fiona roughly covered her mouth, murmuring: “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone until after I’ve killed you. At the Dome of Doom. I’m going to kill you, Ichthala.”

“I’m not—”

Fiona bit Jo’s earlobe, hard.

“Oww! What’s wrong with you?” Jo touched her fingers to her ears. They came away bloody.

Fiona smiled, blood on her teeth. “Now I know it’s true.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” shouted Jo, backing away.

“I saw the way you looked at those eyes!” said Fiona. “
I know it’s you!
And I’m the one who’s going to destroy you!”

“Fiona, stop, I—”

“No! Shut up! Stop lying!” Fiona opened a drawer and took out Jo’s manuscript; Jo gave an involuntary shriek. “I know
everything
!”

“That’s mine!” shouted Jo, running at Fiona. “You stole it!
That’s mine!
”

Fiona opened the furnace doors, and before Jo could stop her, she tossed the manuscript into the furnace. It burned up instantaneously, and the room filled with a powerful exhalation of heat.

Jo stopped in her tracks.

“Now get out of here,” said Fiona.

Jo couldn’t move. Fiona shouted and lunged, and only then did Jo snap out of her shock, scrambling toward the door. Fiona was still walking toward her, her eyes filled with hatred. Jo ran out of the studio, stumbling down the hallway. She heard nothing but the blasting moan of the furnace. She backed away blindly down the dark hallway, pain stabbing through her ear, not knowing where she was going.

A butler showed her to her room.

Jo couldn’t sleep. At any moment she expected Fiona to slip into her room and do something terrible to her. Her head was spinning, too many frantic thoughts bubbling and boiling to even come close to sleep, but she needed sleep badly, and morning was fast approaching. She finally fell into a thin and dream-wracked doze; it felt as if she had only been asleep for a minute when someone banged on her door.

“Everyone up. It’s Desolation Day.”

Jo couldn’t tell what time it was. There was no day or night outside her window, just the underground courtyard and its glittering tree. It could have been morning or afternoon—she didn’t know. She was exhausted and disoriented, and everything seemed painfully vivid and yet unreal.

A cockroach butler entered the room and laid out some clothes for her to wear.

“What time is it?” said Jo.

“Four in the morning.”

“Go away. I need to sleep.”

“No sleeping in today,” said the butler sternly. “Get up and put these on.”

Jo looked at the unfamiliar clothes the butler had laid out. “Get me my own clothes. I don’t want these.”

“You have to wear these.”

“I want my own clothes. That’s an order, butler!”

The cockroach withdrew without another word. Jo was astonished. A butler had never disobeyed her before. She had nothing else to wear, so she reluctantly put the clothes on: a long gray dress with a gray veil. She was so bleary and muddled that only after a minute did she realize it was the costume of a Silent Sister.

Butlers swept through all the rooms, forcing everyone out of the lodge and into the courtyard. There were about two dozen people under the metallic tree, all dressed as Silent Sisters. Jo couldn’t tell who was who. Nobody spoke. A lit candle was handed to her. Soon everyone had candles. A line formed and began to climb the staircase through the tree.

Where was Fiona? Jo ached to see a familiar face, or any face. But there were nothing but blank veils everywhere. She stumbled to the back of the procession. Wax dripped from her candle onto her dress. She could hardly see what was happening through her gauzy veil.

The procession trudged through the tunnels of Snoodsbottom. Everywhere Jo looked, everyone was dressed as a Silent Sister and holding a candle. There was no sound but the shuffling echo of footsteps and the rustle of skirts.

The procession exited the gate of Snoodsbottom into a gray, drizzly morning. Jo looked up and down the streets in astonished fright—
everyone
in Eldritch City was dressed as a Silent Sister. Dozens of lines of Silent Sisters shuffled around the mountain, all headed to the same place. Jo nearly dropped her candle when she realized that everyone was going to Hazelwood’s Row.

Jo didn’t know why they were going there, she didn’t want to know—she wanted more than anything to turn back, but she couldn’t fight the crowd, and she too was swept up and pushed into the abandoned neighborhood. She staggered in a daze through the forbidden streets, blasted of all buildings—nothing but grave after grave in a field of colorless ash.

Up until now everyone had been silent. But now Jo heard crying everywhere. The processions broke up, and the ghostly mourners drifted from grave to grave, setting down their candles, falling to their knees, and softly weeping. It felt like the entire city was in tears.

Then Jo saw the pit where her parents’ house used to be. Nobody else had come near it. She walked to it, queasily and unsteadily, and looked down.

Far at the bottom, she could see the smashed remains of a house.

She stared at it numbly. She didn’t know what she was feeling—a mix of confusion and horror and guilt and underneath it all, wrapping her up and clutching her from every side, panic that any second she would be found out, and then…

Jo now heard a different kind of wailing—not a human sobbing, but a tuneless hooting of wind, the noise of unearthly flutes. Figures were slowly moving through the crowd, blowing long, twisty pipes. It sounded like the crying of thousands of women swept up high into a windy sky, every moment louder and more inhuman, rising and falling in atonal scales.

Something new had appeared.

It was Fiona’s sculpture. The twenty-foot idol looked even more savage and garish in the gray dawn than it had in Fiona’s studio. Its harsh colors had nothing to do with the morning light; it was so bright and terrifying that it seemed to put the universe out of joint, like something pasted into reality from elsewhere.

The crowd rushed toward the Ichthala, their shouts fighting the screaming of the flutes. Jo was caught up in a crush of sweaty veiled bodies, all pressing toward the idol. She couldn’t control where she was going, the flutes wailed so cacophonously she almost couldn’t hear the mob, and she was pushed ever closer to the idol, even though she wanted nothing more than to get away from it. The idol swayed and lurched, threatening at any moment to topple onto the crowd, but Jo couldn’t stop being pushed toward it, and she couldn’t look away from its staring eyes. But the eyes were not vicious or cruel. They looked helpless.

The shrieking flutes became unbearable. Jo’s brain throbbed. The mob was in a frenzy. Something horrible was about to happen. And no matter how loud anyone yelled, there was no noise but that from the intolerable pipes.

The mob attacked the idol. The thing swayed dangerously, dipping and tilting left and right, as hands tore at it, veiled figures climbed up it, and rocks flew at it from all directions, punching holes in its skin. A creamy blood was trickling out. The crowd parted as the idol swung toward them and the shrieking flutes blasted ever higher. Jo was pushed closer—

The idol fell.

Jo cried out as the eyes rushed at her and it crashed, exploding with milk.

She shrank back in shock. The idol was filled with some kind of milky liquid, now gurgling out of its cracks and holes. Her face was spattered with the bitter white juice. Everyone was tearing the idol apart, kicking and bashing it, sucking the milk on their hands and knees, veils ripped off. Jo had seen countless festivals in Eldritch City, but never anything like this.

Through the crowd she glimpsed Sir Festus raising a shard of the Ichthala to his mouth, sipping the last bit of milk. Dame Myra was licking it off her fingers. Daphne and Maurice were slurping puddles of milk on the street. Everywhere she looked, everyone was doing it—the Odd-Fish, the Wormbeards, people she knew from the street, strangers.

Someone tapped her shoulder.

It was Ian. He was smiling, his lips smeared with milk. He had a bowl in his hands.

“Have some!” he said.

Jo felt sick. She took the bowl from Ian.

“Go on, drink up!” said Ian, smiling with strange forcefulness.

She drank. But as soon as Ian was gone, she spat the milk out on the sidewalk and sat on the ground. She was too weak to do anything else. She had never felt more alone.

T
HE
rain stopped as suddenly as if someone had switched it off. Almost immediately vegetation sprang out of hiding, wriggling through cracks and breaking out of the soil, spreading like fire throughout the city. The city became alarmingly lush, covered in wet green leaves, exploding with ferns and lurid tropical flowers, smothered in ivy, creepers, and weeds. The days were sunny but humid, and the smell of damp soil was everywhere. The rainy season was over.

Eldritch City celebrated its Founders’ Festival a week after Desolation Day. There were rides, games, concerts, freaks, and parades, and the mountain was tangled up in the looping tracks of a roller coaster roaring through all the neighborhoods. Everyone dragged out of storage their traditional floats for the Founders’ Festival parade. The knights, squires, and butlers of the Odd-Fish rode on the creaky, centuries-old Odd-Fish float, waving to the crowds. The only knights missing were Sir Oliver, Colonel Korsakov, and Aunt Lily; they still hadn’t returned.

Jo was miserable. The gruesome rituals of Desolation Day, the threat of the Belgian Prankster, her upcoming duel with Fiona—all of it seethed inside like a wildly boiling soup. She stood on the float, smiling and waving emptily. The awakening city, with its sunny days and flourishing plants and jubilant festival, was so contrary to her mood that Jo felt it was mocking her. Even the warm sun on her skin and the fresh air in her lungs felt wrong to her. She felt numb. Her anxiety had hit such an unsustainable pitch that it had slid into a deadened calm.

The parade was a disorderly throng of elephants, dancing bears, marching bands, acrobats, clowns, tigers, dancers, balloons, and floats. The police shot off dazzling, colorful muskets, the mayor rode a wild rhinoceros, and eelmen hauled about obscene-looking giant vegetables, shrieking and clicking in their incomprehensible language. Exotic animals were brought in from far countries, including a brontosaurus that only days ago had been contentedly munching leaves in a distant swamp; the huge beast now lumbered amiably down the street, not noticing the chaos it caused every time it flicked its tail, sending people sprawling and tents crashing to the ground.

Everyone dressed up for the parade, but the cockroaches had pulled out all the stops. Sefino sported white velvet trousers lined with gold braid, furry pink boots, a puffy blouse, and a sombrero covered in hundreds of blinking electronic lights.

“You’re probably going to compliment my ensemble,” said Sefino to Jo. “And I understand that at times like this, words may fail you.”

Jo said, “What do the lights on your sombrero run on?”

“Secrets, I must have my secrets,” smiled Sefino, waggling his finger. “Originally there was also a model train that continuously circled around the brim, but I decided that was a bit much.”

“Restraint,” said Jo.

“Exactly,”
said Sefino. “Artful restraint is my hallmark. Though I don’t rule out including the train in the future. Chug chug chug,” he said thoughtfully. “Chug chug chug. Hmmm.”

“Look, there’s Chatterbox!” said Jo.

Sefino swiveled his head around. The centipede journalist was strolling down the boulevard.

“Listen, Jo,” whispered Sefino urgently. “The other butlers and I have something planned. After tonight, Chatterbox will never be able to ignore us again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only this. We have planned a spectacle for tonight so scandalous, so shocking, so
brazen
that Chatterbox will be forced to write about it. Look for me on the front page tomorrow, Jo. I say no more.”

“I hope it’s nothing obscene.”

“Er…I say no more.” Sefino held his breath; then, unable to stop himself, shouted: “Do you hear me, Chatterbox? I say no more!”

Chatterbox turned. “Oh! Good afternoon, Sefino.”

“I say no more!” said Sefino. “Pry as you might, Chatterbox, use all your subtle skills to wangle the secret from me—none shall avail you! I say no more!”

Chatterbox looked pityingly at Sefino. “I told you, from now on I will only print about you that which is strictly newsworthy.” He bowed to Jo. “Your zealous advocate, Miss Larouche, has seen to that.”

“Newsworthy!”
hooted Sefino. “You’ll find tonight will be more than
newsworthy,
Chatterbox. Sharpen your pencil, oil your typewriter, perform whatever foul rituals you newspapermen must do before your ‘big scoop,’ as you would have it—tonight’s escapade will be truly historic.”

“My dear Sefino, I only write you fellows up if you make royal asses of yourselves. Lately you have behaved merely like silly asses.”

“Well, Chatterbox, I promise you,” said Sefino with rising passion, “tonight we shall make such
spectacular
asses of ourselves that—”

“Oh look,” said Chatterbox. “Something shiny on the ground.”

“That we shall—”

“Excuse me, I am absorbed in watching this shiny piece of paper. It is fascinating. Do you know, I think it will continue to fascinate me until you go away? Yes…for just about that long.”

Chatterbox watched the shiny bit of paper intently. A breeze disturbed it, and Chatterbox clapped his hands in delight. “What a perfectly charming piece of shiny paper!” he exclaimed. He looked up. “You’re still here?”

“I say no more, Chatterbox,” growled Sefino. “Just remember—
I say no more!
”

“If only,” sighed Chatterbox.

The parade ended, and the squires scrambled off the float, eager to get to the festival. Sir Alasdair called after them, “Remember, everyone meet behind the main stage at nine o’clock! I need you all for my urk-ack concert!”

Jo felt the festival’s pull. Ever since Desolation Day, Fiona’s threat to expose her at the duel, to kill her, had choked Jo with a paralyzing dread. Sometimes she could barely think of anything else. She needed something to distract her. And if what Fiona said was true—if the duel was the end of life as she knew it—Jo wanted at least to enjoy her last days of Eldritch City.

Jo ran over to Ian, Dugan, and Nora, then met up with Audrey. Together they plunged into the madness, passing so many surprising sights that Jo’s head was constantly turning. There were the normal rides—Ferris wheels, tilt-a-whirls, and carousels—but there were also terrifying contraptions that shook and spun and flipped screaming people so carelessly and violently that it seemed certain someone would die. Jo wanted to go on all of them. Freaks slunk in the darkness between the tents and rides—a man whose body was covered with eyes leered at them, and a woman’s long, slithering beard pinched Dugan’s bottom. They watched twelve-foot-tall puppets reenacting stories from Eldritch City mythology, and took boat rides through slimy tunnels, where hideous creatures leaped out at them and they shrieked with laughter and fright. There were cages where they fought trained pterodactyls with wooden swords, and they took a submarine ride under the bay and saw brilliant fish and sunken ships and ruins from thousands of years ago. Surrounded by her friends, entranced by the festival, Jo almost forgot her anxieties.

But a strange thing happened at every ride or show or booth they visited. As soon as the ticket taker saw Jo’s group, he immediately waved them in, even if there was a long line. And if they tried to pay, the attendant would always say, “Compliments of the house, Miss Larouche,” or “Your money’s no good here, Mr. Barrows,” or “Go right on in, Miss McGunn.”

Finally, Ian planted his feet and refused to move. “What’s going on here?”

“What do you mean?” said the attendant nervously.

“Why do we get to skip every line? Why do we never have to pay?”

“Ah…” The attendant cleared his throat. “We can’t all have friends in high places, can we?”

“What friends?” said Ian.

The attendant’s face paled. “Ha, ha…the gentleman likes his joke.”

“I’m not joking! Who is it?”

“Well…ah…you see…er…
Oona Looch,
” whispered the attendant fiercely, and pushed a stunned Ian past the line and into the tent. Inside, the attendant snapped, “It’s not enough we have to answer to her beck and call—you have to make it difficult? Why don’t you pipe down, kid?”

Ian looked shocked. “Oona Looch is doing all this for me?”

“Well, hoo-whee. The little sweetheart can put two and two together.”

“But I don’t want special treatment!”

“Listen, kid, I’m just doing my job. If Oona Looch’s people saw you had to wait in line at my ride—well, I’d have some unpleasant explaining to do. So cool it, loverboy, and enjoy the favor.”

Ian stopped complaining. But he wasn’t happy about it. Nor was he happy as Nora and Audrey speculated on how Ian might one day repay Oona Looch’s favors.

The sun sank behind the trees and the sky darkened, but the festival went on. Soon every neighborhood blazed with colorful lights, and the mountain twinkled like a Christmas ornament floating in a black sea.

It was almost time for Sir Alasdair’s urk-ack concert. Most of the Odd-Fish had gathered backstage, and Sir Alasdair was giving them final instructions. A sweaty man by nature, Sir Alasdair was particularly damp tonight in anticipation of his performance. He was also, to Jo’s alarm, wearing nothing but a golden swimsuit, “to make it easier for me to insert myself in the urk-ack,” he explained, his gut spilling over his swimsuit shamelessly.

“Keep the urk-ack calm,” said Sir Alasdair. “Stroke him, reassure him. It’d be a pity if he panicked in the middle of the second movement and ran amok in the audience. Frankly, I’m afraid he might feel uncomfortable in front of so many people.”

Jo said, “You know, it might also make him feel uncomfortable to have a naked man inside him, pinching his internal organs.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” said Sir Alasdair.

In moments the curtain would open. Dame Isabel was onstage, introducing Sir Alasdair. The squires massaged the urk-ack, which grunted and shifted its huge bulk restlessly. Jo felt herself getting all twisty and tense, even though all she had to do was keep the urk-ack calm.

She hoped Sir Alasdair’s concert was a success. Sir Alasdair wasn’t Jo’s favorite knight, but she was impressed by how hard he had practiced for this show. Far from the ridiculous farts and burps he’d forced out of the urk-ack at first, Sir Alasdair could now coax tones from the worm that, if not beautiful, were at least interesting.

Sir Alasdair nervously peeked through the curtain. “Lots of people,” he whispered. “Looks like the whole city is out there.”

Sir Festus took him by the shoulders. “Alasdair, you’ll do splendidly.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Alasdair.

The audience was applauding as Dame Isabel came backstage and said, “Okay, Alasdair! This is it!” She kissed him, the curtains rose, and then Sir Alasdair stood before all of Eldritch City, bowing as the audience clapped and hooted.

Sir Alasdair gave a final bow, and then he pointed to the urk-ack. The urk-ack gurgled and obediently opened its mouth. Sir Alasdair put one foot into the monster’s jaws, swung the other around, and then wriggled down its throat. The audience murmured curiously. Sir Alasdair yanked the urk-ack’s tonsils, and the worm’s mouth closed. For a moment nothing happened; the audience held its breath.

Then the music started.

Jo was startled at how good it was. She’d thought she had heard what Sir Alasdair was working on, but now she realized she’d only heard him play one part of his song at a time. Tonight Sir Alasdair was playing every part at once, weaving them together intricately, a dozen melodies flirting and tangling and combining and diverging again, so precisely and marvelously that it was difficult to believe the music was grunts and snorts forced out of a giant worm.

It was a clear night, warm and slightly breezy, and Jo could smell the salty tinge of the ocean, the greasy aromas of carnival food, the oily reek of the rides, and the chemical tang of the lubricant Sir Alasdair had smeared on himself. She was exhausted after a long day of running around the carnival, trying out all the rides, watching the shows, and gorging herself on weird foods. Sir Alasdair’s music was beautiful and distant, but also strangely sad. Jo closed her eyes and let it wash over her. She didn’t want it to end.

Someone screamed above. Jo looked up, startled. Something was falling from the rafters—a dirty ball of arms and legs and tattered scraps. It fell on the stage with a thump and immediately sprang up, limping about, waving its arms and shouting, “Stop the show! Stop the show!”

Spooked, the urk-ack reared up, knocked down the squires, and vomited out Sir Alasdair, who bounced across the stage like a blob of pink putty. The urk-ack gave a mighty squeal and broke free of the squires, bolting off the stage in panic. The Odd-Fish, shouting and running, tried to bring the urk-ack back under control, but it had gone berserk.

Jo was left alone on the stage with the ragged man. He was wild-eyed, with long gray-black hair and a scraggly beard. His once-white suit was dirty and yellowed, and he was waving around a chipped teapot, yelling, “Stop everything! I’m taking over this show! Nobody move! This teapot is a bomb! Why,
I’m
a bomb—of musical talent! This is my moment of triumph! Tonight you shall all experience MY MUSICAL!”