“The Letter”
It was the officer on his dawn patrol through the merchant sector that discovered the broken window and the body inside. Had he truly been the first on the scene, Mrs. Talquin’s pale parchment may have been discarded along with her pale body—burnt up with the corpse and sparing the Talquin children the events unfolding before them. But, when the officer arrived there was no note: only a woman—as lovely as she was dead—hanging from the chandelier with a mangled, dripping arm. For Mrs. Talquin had made her deals with the darker edges of luck. And Fortune still had an allegiance to its flow from parent to offspring. What Mrs. Talquin had determined to send downstream to her children would be dutifully delivered.
So as luck would have it, when the docks of Bastion Landing drifted unconsciously into the early morning hours—before even the sun dared to make an appearance—a certain, shriveled creature emerged from whatever dark hole she called home and noticed the moon glinting off the shattered window of the palace of lights. Smacking her lips in glee, Q’villia hobbled toward opportunity, heaved her old body over the edges of glass and—tiptoeing through the shards—helped herself to what artifacts she could carry. Bent with age and scavenging, the little vulture made two trips back and forth across the floor of the shop before she noticed she was not alone.
The chords of crystal let out a snicker as the wind stirred the chandelier, making Q’villia drop her collection of goods and scuttled behind the counter. But realizing she was yet alone, she began muttering all manner of curses to herself and painfully reclaimed her treasures from the ground. As she reached for the candelabrum that had rolled to the base of a tipped-over ladder, she twisted her neck to direct some choice slurs at the ceiling fixture that had frightened her. And she saw the feet.
Q’villia’s jagged eyes followed the frozen toes up an ivory figure draped in the murky green ribbons of what once may have been a dress. Dark locks of what once may have been hair flopped kelp-like across what once may have been a face, and something that may once have been an electric and terrified woman listed a little to the left in the wind drifting through the shop.
Q’villia peered at the peculiarity but could not make out the face behind the curtain of dry hair. She smacked her cracked lips:
“Hmph, hussy,” she croaked. “Simpler ways to go, you know. Wealthy folk always making a spectacle of they-selves.”
Her shoulders rocked from side to side as she limped toward the body, despising all its inches. Then her fading eyes fell upon the note tucked in the creature’s dead hand. Well-acquainted with the intricacies of corpses, Q’villia knew what wealth of information could be contained in final letters. It was not uncommon to find upon the cadavers of sailors and seafarers the scribbling of a map or a soppy letter signed to someone who would pay a hefty sum to know the last words of their dearest.
Morning was quickly approaching and the sky was a dangerous blue, but Q’villia, seizing her reserves of gumption and greed, plucked a lamp lighter from the displays and with trembling hands tried to pry the paper from the hanging woman.
Age had not treated Q’villia’s body well and the work of slipping the crumpled paper from its cage of fingers proved to be a greater task than Q’villia could readily manage. But age had not killed her will. With a grunt, she heaved her body forward and swung the pole through the air.
Her first attempt was a loud failure. The lighting stick flew past its target and carried Q’villia to the ground. Her ancient body slapped the floor with enough force to still any man or woman her age, but fury rallied her faculties. Huffing, she seized the lighting stick from the floor, gathered herself, and this time leaped vertically, jabbing the hooked end of the lighting stick upward and catching one of the fingers above her. The hook held for only a moment before slipping off the hardened digit, clattering to the ground beside the puffing Q’villia.
Yanking her hair out of her face, Q’villia again snatched her pike and crawled to the ladder on the ground beside her. She heaved it to its feet and collapsed for a moment on the first step, lungs pitching. Her eyes never left the dead hand valiantly defending the note from the thief. When Q’villia’s breath reached a manageable pace, she took to the ladder, crawling up one step and another and another. Then stopped. The next stair had been broken during its earlier collapse, and Q’villia was forced to continue her operations alongside the woman’s shin.
Her positioning was less than ideal. The ladder was too far away to have a direct shot at the woman’s hand and on the wrong side of her body. As Q’villia reached with the lighting stick, she had to keep one hand on the ladder and swat blindly for the note. She swung once. The pole swung far too high but caught hold of something. Q’villia giggled with glee and tugged, nearly losing her balance. A horrible noise ripped through the dead shop and, when Q’villia brought the lighting stick back to herself, caught on the hook was a knot of bloody hair. She grimaced and looked to the newly revealed face of her victim and froze.
“Be damned… the missus Talquin? Took my advice too seriously, again, I see,” Q’villia flicked the tangle of brown locks from the pole and smacked her lips. “And this your last will and testament then, dearie? Fish King’ll pay a good fortune to get his hands on this, I think.”
She swung again and the pole found its mark—struck Mrs. Talquin’s grip with an ugly crunch. Q’villia cursed and tried again. The pole swung back and forth, hacking away at Mrs. Talquin like the hands of Time itself. Another two knuckles snapped victoriously but the fingers did not relent.
“Let go, little lady,” Q’villia hissed and swung again. She missed the hand and the pole kept arcing upward until the hook of the lighting stick caught flesh. Q’villia nearly toppled off the ladder but managed to hold on, dangling out in the air with one hand on the ladder and one clutched on the lighting stick, which had lodged itself in Mrs. Talquin’s forearm.
Before Q’villia even had time to dip into her wealth of profanity, another sound rattled the little shop: the pattering of footsteps in the merchant streets. The city was waking. And soon there would be no time for notes.
Breath quickening, Q’villia tried to free the tool. Hanging out over the floor, she could not lift the stick upward without falling off the ladder, and if she let go, she would have to reposition her ladder to reach the pole again. There was no way out but down.
“Apologies, my beauty,” she grunted and yanked the stick toward the floor.
The air was rent with the sound and smell of tearing flesh. Q’villia clung to the step as her shoulder collided with the side of the ladder. She moaned, readjusting her footing and her grip. Somewhere outside, a door opened and closed. Choruses of “good mornings” trickled in. Q’villia’s eyes flicked to the pile of treasures at the base of the ladder then made one last and desperate attempt at Mrs. Talquin.
And she did not fail. The hook managed this time to slip into the curled fist and pierced the slip of paper inside. Q’villia gritted her teeth, steeled her body, and leaped from the ladder. The entire chandelier shuddered and groaned as Q’villia tugged on the stick. As she fell to the floor, the lighting stick pried the dead fingers open. Pole, crone and letter all tumbled to the floor in a heap beneath the chandelier.
Q’villia lay dazed, sucking shallow breaths. Her ears flooded with a steady ringing. Her right side ached where it had struck the base of the candelabrum she had left at the foot of the ladder. Eyes scrunched against the pain, her hands groped blindly for the note. Fingers grazed the neck of the lighting stick; following the shaft, arrived at the crumbled prize. She carefully peeled the paper. A cackle wheezed its way through her throat, but as she opened her dried lips to set it free, something dripped into her mouth.
Coughing and sputtering, Q’villia wheeled onto her side. Another drip on the back of her neck inspired her to pull herself to her feet. The sound of her own hacking pierced the ringing that was lifting from her ears. And the echo of footsteps was perilously loud.
Tucking the note into her shriveled bosom, Q’villia scurried about the base of the ladder gathering as much of her spoils as she dared. And as she made one last attempt for the candelabrum beneath the chandelier, a spot of red appeared upon her withered hand. It stared at her for a moment before it was joined by another. Then two more.
Q’villia’s gaze rode an invisible path up the ivory feet, up the stiff pillar of human flesh wrapped in ivy dress, up the crown of tangled hair and the frozen eyes glancing down. Up into the haughty crystal gold of the chandelier—so aristocratic in its judgment of the world that it made Q’villia whimper. Then she noticed Mrs. Talquin’s arm weeping great red tears onto the floor of the lighting shop. A fissure from elbow to wrist sucked at the air, drooling blood down the body, splattered blood along the edge of the columnar body, dripping steadily from the fingers of the ripped-open hand.
The wind pulled through the shop window and all the little hanging crystals snickered at the sight of the women hanging below them. The open hand of the filial reached for Mrs. Talquin, who reached for Q’villia, who reached for the candelabrum, who reached for the window and the footsteps rounded the corner.
“Good doing business with you, little lady,” Q’villia croaked and, snatching the candelabrum from the floor, scrambled through the window with her spoils. She tumbled into the street, just as the Oceanic Guard officer rounded the corner. Both froze for a moment—each in jolted alarm. Q’villia regained herself first, scurried across the cobblestone lane, and dove into her spaces below the docks before the Guard could even cry out.
Meanwhile, morning sunlight flared its brilliant rainbow off the collections of trinkets in the windows of the lighting shop. Even the shattered window gained a boyish revelry in the glow of dawn—joyously inviting the shell-shocked officer into the ruined store. The chandelier let out a glorious laugh, beckoning all to see the hanging fixture that had been added to its collection in the middle of the night. And all the light flashed cruel and bright upon the docks of Bastion Landing.
Down below the docks—away from rays of arrogant, apathetic light—shriveled hands unwrapped a bloodstained scrap of hard-won paper. Thin lips smacked in the gloom of fractured dawn that barely cut the dripping darkness in the drainage tunnel. But it was sufficient for the bulbous eyes that scanned a late mother’s letter to her children.
“Stupid tart” she hissed, “Who’d pay anything for this?”
Cunning Q’villia had plenty of time while seeking the Talquin’s new whereabouts to concoct a way to market the wretched note. Quotable lines about “mother’s love” and “final wishes” and other sweet nothings that tempt the hearts of the left-behind punctuated her pitch of the woman’s last words. After tracking the family through her various dastardly connections—primarily, the child gangs—Q’villia was surprised to find that Mr. Talquin and his children had taken refuge in the slums of Stormhenge. And when she discovered that the same father had made his children orphans, she found herself almost unable to carry out her abominable transaction. Almost.
As Q’villia hobbled out of the slums, she could not drown out the sounds of soft weeping echoing behind her as the little blonde girl added new stains to the bloody parchment—purchased for a day’s worth of food and the shoes on her feet.
Cinza’s eight-year-old hands, weak from cradling her brother all through the night, trembled as she read:
Kieran, my son,
I do not have the strength to stay any longer.
Protect Cinza. Cruel as she is, you must not blame her.
You were born to battle the devil in our house.
Cinza, feed the baby.
The Talquin's story continues in the upcoming serial: "The House of the Flying Fish."