laughter.
Miss Flees stood just so for a moment longer, then, apparently satisfied, bent back to what it was she’d been I doing before the ruckus started in the attic. Jack wondered what that was. She hunched over a big galvanised tub, looking intently at something within it. Peebles stared along with her, sticking the end of a spoon into the tub and jerking it back out, his shoulders shaking with what must have been suppressed giggles. Miss Flees stood up and stepped across I to lock the door. In the tub, swimming in lazy circles, was the thing from the ocean, the existence of which had kindled such a ruckus earlier that afternoon.
Jack squinted down at the creature. It looked oddly unlike a fish in the gaslight of the kitchen – fleshy and pink and with fins that might as easily be arms – as if it had been built by someone intending to make a human being, then forgetting halfway through and trying to make a fish instead and winding up with heaven knew what. It seemed vaguely possible, now that Jack looked at the creature, that MacWilt’s anger on the dock had been born out of fear, that it hadn’t merely been a reaction to an insult. Jack waved his arm at his two friends, shushing them past a finger in order to keep them quiet. Helen joined him and Skeezix followed, stepping along in slow, enormous steps, his arms held out from his sides, fingers waggling, as if he were mugging the part of a secretive conspirator in a particularly gaudy stage production. He seemed about to burst over his own antics, so Helen gave him a look to shut him up. She had more at stake, after all, than Jack and Skeezix had.
Miss Flees folded open the top of a little bloodstained cloth bag, reached in, and pulled out the chicken parts that Peebles had fetched back from the alley. She seemed half repulsed by them, as if she did not entirely want to do what she was doing. Peebles watched in fascination. He offered the creature in the tub a spoon again. The spoon was jerked out of his hand, and Miss Flees hissed at him. Then the two of them tried to snatch it back out of the bucket, reaching in furtively and pulling their hands back as if they were trying to pick something up off a hot griddle.
Miss Flees finally came up with the spoon; glaring at Peebles, she set it out of reach on the sink. She dimmed the gaslight and lit a half dozen candles that were little more than heaps of black wax. A moaning began – an incantation of some sort. Jack listened. It sounded at first like the wind blowing under the eaves, drifting on the darkness. It was Miss Flees. She stood with her eyes closed, intoning what must have been a song. Then she picked up the sugar bowl, pinched out a heap of sugar, and emptied a trail of it on the kitchen floor in the shape of a circle. She laid the chicken entrails in the centre of the circle and the five black candles at even intervals around the perimeter, chanting all the time. Peebles watched from his stool.
It seemed fearfully dark to Jack all of a sudden. He could hear the wind lashing at the trees out in the night and the rain pattering on the shingles. For a moment he felt as if he were floating above the vent, hovering there with darkness all around him. He forced himself to look at Skeezix, who stood transfixed beside him, his face bent into a curious mixture of fear and curiosity and disgust.
Miss Flees gathered up a scraping of the wax that ran off one of the soft candles, rolled it in sugar, then dragged it across the entrails, which were sticky with half-dried blood. She dropped the marble-sized pellet in the tub. There was a splashing and the noise of the creature slurping against the surface of the water – then silence. Her chanting continued without pause as she prepared another glob of wax. This time, though, she laid the sugary ball on the slats of the table and handed something to Peebles, who didn’t seem to want it, whatever it was. Peebles shook his head. Miss Flees shook hers back at him, but
Miss Flees stood just so for a moment longer, then, apparently satisfied, bent back to what it was she’d been I doing before the ruckus started in the attic. Jack wondered what that was. She hunched over a big galvanised tub, looking intently at something within it. Peebles stared along with her, sticking the end of a spoon into the tub and jerking it back out, his shoulders shaking with what must have been suppressed giggles. Miss Flees stood up and stepped across I to lock the door. In the tub, swimming in lazy circles, was the thing from the ocean, the existence of which had kindled such a ruckus earlier that afternoon.
Jack squinted down at the creature. It looked oddly unlike a fish in the gaslight of the kitchen – fleshy and pink and with fins that might as easily be arms – as if it had been built by someone intending to make a human being, then forgetting halfway through and trying to make a fish instead and winding up with heaven knew what. It seemed vaguely possible, now that Jack looked at the creature, that MacWilt’s anger on the dock had been born out of fear, that it hadn’t merely been a reaction to an insult. Jack waved his arm at his two friends, shushing them past a finger in order to keep them quiet. Helen joined him and Skeezix followed, stepping along in slow, enormous steps, his arms held out from his sides, fingers waggling, as if he were mugging the part of a secretive conspirator in a particularly gaudy stage production. He seemed about to burst over his own antics, so Helen gave him a look to shut him up. She had more at stake, after all, than Jack and Skeezix had.
Miss Flees folded open the top of a little bloodstained cloth bag, reached in, and pulled out the chicken parts that Peebles had fetched back from the alley. She seemed half repulsed by them, as if she did not entirely want to do what she was doing. Peebles watched in fascination. He offered the creature in the tub a spoon again. The spoon was jerked out of his hand, and Miss Flees hissed at him. Then the two of them tried to snatch it back out of the bucket, reaching in furtively and pulling their hands back as if they were trying to pick something up off a hot griddle.
Miss Flees finally came up with the spoon; glaring at Peebles, she set it out of reach on the sink. She dimmed the gaslight and lit a half dozen candles that were little more than heaps of black wax. A moaning began – an incantation of some sort. Jack listened. It sounded at first like the wind blowing under the eaves, drifting on the darkness. It was Miss Flees. She stood with her eyes closed, intoning what must have been a song. Then she picked up the sugar bowl, pinched out a heap of sugar, and emptied a trail of it on the kitchen floor in the shape of a circle. She laid the chicken entrails in the centre of the circle and the five black candles at even intervals around the perimeter, chanting all the time. Peebles watched from his stool.
It seemed fearfully dark to Jack all of a sudden. He could hear the wind lashing at the trees out in the night and the rain pattering on the shingles. For a moment he felt as if he were floating above the vent, hovering there with darkness all around him. He forced himself to look at Skeezix, who stood transfixed beside him, his face bent into a curious mixture of fear and curiosity and disgust.
Miss Flees gathered up a scraping of the wax that ran off one of the soft candles, rolled it in sugar, then dragged it across the entrails, which were sticky with half-dried blood. She dropped the marble-sized pellet in the tub. There was a splashing and the noise of the creature slurping against the surface of the water – then silence. Her chanting continued without pause as she prepared another glob of wax. This time, though, she laid the sugary ball on the slats of the table and handed something to Peebles, who didn’t seem to want it, whatever it was. Peebles shook his head. Miss Flees shook hers back at him, but
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