Love Among Gremlins

Beginning Chapters Rewrite

Chapter 1

A night wind blew rudely through the streets of Permley township, lacing the rows of two-

story stone and brick houses and rattling their mullioned windows. Buckets in yards turned over

from the blasts. Horses shifted restively in their stalls. The gale came due east and combed the

moonlit treetops of Permley forest, whose fringe enfolded the far edge of town like the arms of a

gloating peddler. The woods housed unfriendly things lately. It was easy to imagine the wind

itself sprung from those depths.

Up the cobblestone streets of the town moved a lone figure. He gripped his coat closed and

held down his tricorn hat with the other hand. Wool leggings wrapped his silk stockings. Every

other house he stopped and checked the copper plaque addresses against a scrap of paper he held.

Several times he sadly shook his head and kept going.

Finally, he reached his destination. Glowering over the ordeal, he shook clasped hands high

in what appeared to be a prayer of sarcastic thanks. This caused his hat to fly free and roll away.

“This wind is a bruiser,” he murmured and hurried to recover it.

A matron saw him from her doorway, where she was pouring the contents of a chamber pot

into her flower bed and hugging her aproned frame against the cold. “Oh!” she cried. “It’s

uncommon brisk out!”

“Agreed,” the man muttered.

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He returned slowly to the house, enduring the same slaps of nature. In the spectral moon

shadows, he reflected that if anyone or anything stepped lightly in the alleys and meant mischief,

you would never hear it. What he did hear now was a moaning that blended with the wind and

was almost indiscernible. Twice it was punctuated with screams. Gooseflesh raced on his skin.

Now that sound stood out.

When he reached the same house again, the scream rang clearly from the second floor. “Of

course,” he breathed. Dark thoughts oppressed him and he shook them off. He was a

professional.

He rapped firmly on the door. After a moment, the lock rattled. A wizened man in nightcap

and casual attire of vest and breeches opened the door. His eyes looked sunken from more than

age. “Yes?”

“My name is Roger Tellman,” the man said, and thrust out a hand. “I’m the dentist.”

“Oh!” The man stepped quickly back, as though to admit royalty. “She’s upstairs.”

“So I hear.”

He entered a small antechamber with the usual apparel for his home country of Boravia. A

small bronze statue stood on a stand of the national hero and founder, Damon, face grim with

resolve, physique muscled. A large chalice sat on the other side as a nod to the Chalice

priesthoods reclusive in their temples. Roger hoped that they would stay there. A mirror rose on

the wall for the occupants to check their appearance, comb and tidy, and then head out for

hopefully good transactions. Sprigs of grain and herbs lay at its base, which were pleas for

prosperity and fertility.

Roger followed his host to the stairs going up. The man held a lamp and with candles

burning in sconces, the interior was lit ochre. Roger stepped over a child’s toy. He climbed a

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few steps past family portraits, and saw something odd. A streak of flour slashed diagonal on the

wall like blood from a falling victim. His nerves that refused to be soothed jangled again.

Rattles came from within the walls. He told himself it was hard to be sure of the noise with the

creaking planks.

The woman’s wails continued, rising and falling in torment. To steady himself, Roger tried

to place the octaves. He knew that a high C was in there somewhere.

When they reached the top landing, the cries stopped. She must be catching her breath,

Roger thought. Just then he heard a grumble of anathemas behind him. He spun and saw nothing

but a dark upstairs hall.

“What was that?” he demanded.

His host shrugged, but his eyes were evasive. The dentist got uncomfortable inklings.

A coughing began. His patient hacked herself weary for several seconds. His eyes widened,

realizing that she was also ill and wondering if he was up to this, even with his high purpose. He

reminded himself of the treasures tucked in his dental kit, of all that he had planned for years,

and the crucial contact who lay stretched out behind the door. Possibly incubated with the

plague.

Following through wasn’t easy. After the Deathly Bumps from last fall and the Galloping

Hives from spring cut a swath out of Boravia’s population, he felt peril at some of his dental

visits. He had chosen this vocation, though, and worked hard to earn it.

A bang came from behind him.

More unintelligible complaining.

Roger asked, “Is there…someone else here?”

“Just us,” his host quavered, in a cracking voice.

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“Then what was that noise?”

The man shook his head like he didn’t know. He gave a forced smile.

Roger frowned and said, “Show me in.”

He entered a pale green sitting room festooned in shadows. A single lamp on a table

revealed a young woman in a maid’s uniform stretched on a worn chaise lounge. Tight black

curls poked out from under her bonnet cap. She held a balled rag to her mouth and her eyes were

ringed red from crying. Her knees were slightly hitched up under her skirt as she doubled over

from pain. Old bookcases, chairs, a travel globe, and a fanciful portrait of the Boravian prince

took up space. A long oval mirror was stationed by the window, partly tilted on a stand. It

reflected Roger’s slim figure, wavy brown hair to his shoulders, and intent grey eyes.

“This is my daughter, Deena,” the old man breathed. “Please do something.”

Roger nodded. The setting was serene enough to proceed. It was a haven for someone, and

he prayed that was his clients. He removed his coat and hat, found a seat, and set his kit on an

end table. He laid out tools. His hands barely trembled.

“My dear,” he said softly, “how are you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut against pain.

With the accoutrements in the room, he expected the gentle odors of aging paper and wood.

Instead, he smelled bacon and pepper paste. Unsettling. His gaze flitted over the walls, looking

for telltale holes. He didn’t like the way the shadows in the corners faded to the unknown.

Infinity had tunnels.

“I will leave you to your work,” his host whispered, and retreated.

“Excuse me, no!” Roger said. “I insist on at least one more source of light. My trade is

crude at times, but let’s not be ridiculous. Over there.” He pointed at a small cabinet.

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“All right…I’ll give you this one.” The man set his lamp on the furniture and exited, closing

the door. Roger heard him bump into objects and exclaim. The man fumbled his way down the

hall.

Abruptly, the patient heaved and coughed, hands dropping to her chest. Spasms wracked her

body like a bellows. Roger felt a droplet of spittle on his cheeks, then two, three. He imagined

contagions doing a dance of fairies around his head. He wiped his face and scooted closer.

Selecting a dental pick and small mirror, he leaned in.

The woman pressed the rag against her mouth, sealing it. Her eyes shone with terror.

“My dear,” he said, “your father is paying a price to have this work done. I need to see the

problem.” He did not mention that the price was a modest one, very modest. That might expose

awkward motives.

Reluctantly, she removed the rag. Roger angled his mirror, then shifted the lamp for better

lighting. He probed gently at the teeth with a pick. As he reached the first bicuspid, he heard

scuttling behind a couch. A throw rug on the floor shifted slightly. He distinctly heard the

phrase “Like a fop!” snarled.

Something responded, “Pretty!”

Wind beat the shutters and swallowed sounds. It was hard to be sure. Roger started to sweat.

Now he felt self-conscious of his dress, his satin vest and silk shirt. Many harangued him for

having airs, but he had his vanity. He opened his mouth to comment, and the woman said,

“Doctor…will it hurt?”

“No more than usual,” he said.

She whimpered.

He said, “Tell me…are we alone?”

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Deena only stared at him. He imagined her slowly sinking into an emotional, physical, and

possibly spiritual shock. “Never mind,” he muttered. He probed more teeth.

At the first lower molar, she jerked and howled. The spasm knocked his pick into the roof of

her mouth, piercing it slightly. She vibrated on the couch. He expected lava to come spewing

out. Peering closer, he saw an abscess around a yellowing tooth specked with gray. The decay

was evident.

“There’s the villain,” he murmured.

He leaned back for his tools and strapped on a peerglass, a small magnifier placed over one

eye. It was a darling aid for a dentist, except that it stuck out two inches. He moved the viewer

closer to her lips. Now he saw the molar in fine detail, and he made quick mental notes.

“Oh please,” she pleaded, “do something for the pain.”

“Coming right up. Never fear.”

He took a pestle and mortar and quickly ground lem leaf into a paste. The narcotic sedative

acted as an excellent anesthetic when applied topically. He gave it a minute to release its oils

and reach full potency, using the time to finish inspecting the mouth.

Something rattled.

It might be the shutters.

In all, he saw two more cavities. One lay on the inside of an incisor, another on the third

molar. All came from the left side of her mouth and needed attention. Pain might radiate from

any of those spots.

This job might take hours.

He swabbed sweat off his face and bent for a closer look at the problem incisor. Inches

separated their faces. The woman suddenly brayed with coughs. Phlegm and spittle went all

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directions. Roger sat back, expecting that he now had a film of fluids on his face. He imagined

himself in death agonies from disease, perhaps in a nearby infirmary hut weeks from now. This

might be his last operation.

Better make it a good one.

“My dear, you should that cough checked,” he said. He fought the tremor in his voice.

“So…sorry,” she gasped. “Everyone from the castle’s coming down with it. A dozen people

abed. Up at Cormley Castle…I work at Cormley Castle, you know.” Her pride shone through

her distress.

Roger did know, but he said nothing. Why reveal the reason he was willing to make a house

call at night, instead of the day when she was busy at her shift?

“Well, well,” he said comfortably. “Home of Boravia’s regent. You probably serve soup to

ambassadors. A prize position for you!” He waited for her violent seizures to ebb into mild fits.

“I suppose the baroness sympathized with your teeth issues. Her own are legendary.”

“She…doesn’t talk about it. She won’t, and no one makes her,” the woman said stubbornly.

“Do you…know her well?”

But the girl was coughing again. Lightly, lightly, Roger lectured himself. Step lightly. No

need to alarm the frightened patient with queries about the wife of the regent. You might trip

over the threshold from small talk into espionage. He silenced himself on the topic of the

baroness, who was the dream client of any dentist, and for someone with aspirations like his,

practically a necessity.

The lem leaf must be ready. He thought of how the sedative might quiet the coughs, as well.

Taking a small brush, he lifted the mortar close to her mouth. Gently, he dabbed the herb on the

affected area. He sat back and waited for the numbness to set in.

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His patient closed her eyes a few beats.

The room went still. The wind moaned outside.

Then she screamed like she was stabbed.

Her eyes flung open and rolled to all corners. Her back arched.

Roger stared at her with wide eyes. What in the name of Damon? He looked at the mortar in

his hand and saw that the mash was greenish, not brown, as lem leaf would be. He put it next his

nose and sniffed.

Pepper paste.

Of a strong variety, if his stinging nostrils were any indication. Someone or something had

switched solutions on him. Quickly, he inserted a towel into her mouth and wiped off the stuff,

but the acids had already sunk in. She writhed around and bit his hand twice in what he hoped

was an involuntary reflex. He wildly looked around for the actual anesthetic and couldn’t find it.

Not on the table, not on the shelves. He checked the floor and finally bent double to look under

the table. Nothing but dust and grit there. Except that he thought he saw ember eyes returning

his gaze from the shadows.

He stood and summoned a stout heart. He rolled up his sleeves. There was nothing for it: he

would have to do this without anesthetic. As quick as possible. The pepper would stop hurting

soon, but without action, it looked like she might not survive her toothache.

“My dear…Deena…I must ask you to be brave. We are sabotaged. In the wells of every

woman lies great strength…a germ of power…that you can draw on. Please do so now.

Quickly, now!” He grimaced at his choice of words.

She mewled, but calmed somewhat. He seized a dental bracket and eyed the dimensions of

her mouth. He adjusted screws and jammed it in there to brace her mouth open. Hurriedly, full

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of longing to quell her pain, he raised his hand crank drill. He aimed it at the problem tooth and

the bracket set the bit stationary. She began to tilt and sway.

“Deena…please…surely, in the castle, you see duchesses come and go. Ever so fine, never

flagging. Well, you can be your own duchess. There is a great noble inside of you--trust me, it

is so! Set the pretenders at court back on their heels, and make your own way! For now, like a

duchess, think of dignity. It will…hopefully pull you through…shame in the right place can…

well…”

The woman squinted, as though struggling to grasp assurances so stuffed with social theory.

She went calm a few seconds, thinking and panting, and then another storm came. Roger cursed

and decided he could only plow through. Her relief was his only hope. He must fix the tooth.

With her convulsions, it was like an infantry charge through a blizzard. He pressed his drill

against the tooth and partially sat on her torso to blunt the worst shudders.

Over several minutes, he turned the drill crank. Fast, slow, fast, slow. He took shallow

breaths with intense concentration.

Tooth decay and enamel shaved off. Her hands flew around. Her cap popped off. A couple

times she scratched his face and yanked at his shirt. He squirted a skin of water in her mouth

during pauses, and she spit some on him. Then he was back to work.

Mutters and yips came from recesses of the room. Comments issued from the shadows—

about his finery, bad soup, and flowers in spring. The commotion of the operation triggered

unknown agents to a berserk pitch. He heard a patter around his feet like herding rats.

The decay was cleared out. He withdrew the drill and bracket, and saw the exposed nerve.

Quickly, he filed an ivory implant to fit. He uncapped glue and removing the bracket, he dabbed

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it on the exposed area as Deena lay flat, panting with fatigue. Roger homed in on the dental

hole, doing delicate work.

Something tugged at his breeches.

He felt his waistband slip. It went down an inch, then two. He realized some vile thing tried

to expose his nakedness. He struggled to remember if he had undergarments on and couldn’t.

There was no time! Quickly, he grabbed his breeches with one hand and inserted the filling with

the other. He screwed up his courage as far as it would go. Doing the operation one-handed was

highly inadvisable.

As was surgery among vermin.

The implant was in. He pressed the filling several times to secure it. Deena seemed to relax.

More tugs came from his breeches, aggressive ones. He spun with ferocity and scanned the

floor.

Too slow. He only heard a scratchy scattering. Dark shapes vanished under couches and

tables. He thought he saw a flash of a corset and lace and a long, dirty stocking. It disappeared

into darkness like a slurping tongue. Sighing, he wiped blood off his hands.

“My dear, I think that tooth is the worst one. There’s more, but let us pause. I will come

back in a moment and talk about what we can do.”

Blearily, through tears, she nodded. By her slack posture he saw that the worst of the pain

was gone. He turned his attention elsewhere.

Those fiends. He was furious. He left the room and gently closed the door. At the far end of

the upstairs hall, his host sat up in his bedroom, watching through an open doorway. Even in

lamplight, the man’s face was ghastly pale. Roger marched straight at him.

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“You have an infestation!” Roger accused. “You never said you had gremlins! Judging by

their numbers, it might be a colony! Sir, that is not handsome of you!”

The father raised sad, defenseless eyes to him. He said haltingly, “You would not have come

if I said something. She was in such pain. And besides…I thought they were happy with our

table scraps. I even dug out Deena’s old toys to placate them. But lately, the pantry…my

slippers…the dog’s tail…they’re acting belligerent!”

“Not unheard of!” Roger hissed with disgust. He wiped his mouth savagely with his shirt

sleeve. He tried to think of everything he had heard about gremlins. “Tell me…do you have any

potatoes? Squash? That kind of thing?”

“I think so. In the cellar, but I think they might be moldy. We tend towards biscuit in this

house. Why?”

“I have heard, by those in a position to know, that gremlins are crazy about tubers. Mold

may be a plus. Mr. Gerfrow, if you want me to finish with your daughter, we need a distraction

for your distraction. Lead me to your potatoes.” They descended the stairs and Roger casually

added, “Any sour milk? Or milk about to turn?”

“I think so.”

In the kitchen, they drew out a large ceramic bowl and concocted a feast for gremlins. Roger

diced ten moldy potatoes with fat shoots into the bowl and his host smell-tested three bottles of

milk from a box of ice salts. He winced at the worst one and handed it to Roger. Holding his

breath, Roger doused his tubers.

“All right. This might do it,” he breathed.

In the sitting room, he set the bowl next to a couch. For his own comfort, he hid it in

shadows, to quell the temptation to turn and stare at the monkey-bodied beasties. The vision

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might haunt him enough to affect his work. Then he sat down next to Deena. She stared at him

anxiously, but acted calm. The pain was better.

“Well, my dear,” he said. “We have choices to make. You have two cavities left to conquer,

and I have nothing to numb you. My lem leaf has gone missing, and I only used that because I

was out of yisha nectar. In a month, perhaps, I will be back this way from Hamden, and can

finish. Or we can do it all now.”

“Now, sir, for the love of Damon. In a week, the pain might return. If it does, I will drown

myself in the moat of Cormley Castle. It is quite wide, you know.”

“Yes. I heard. All right then.”

He raised a dental pick, paused, and commenced. After probing, he inserted the bracket

again and began with his drill. Deena shuddered and grimaced. Sometimes she contorted and

moaned. Her howls began a symphony to accompany Roger’s work, rising and falling like the

roar of seashore waves. A couple times, she grabbed the knobbed frame of the couch, or the

edge of a bookshelf to brace herself, her eyes squeezed shut. Once she blindly grabbed Roger’s

face and held his nose tightly to battle through. Roger breathed through his mouth.

It took over an hour, regrettably, to seal the other two spots. Roger launched into his dentist

palaver to distract his patients, to better themselves and the situation. Certain authors stirred him

about great things to be done in the world and he urged Deena about her personal potential, her

rights as a citizen, and the Age of Progress incipient. When she was holding his nose, the lecture

came out in a nasal tone.

She gave most of his lofty thoughts a blank stare. He was used to it. He admired her courage

as she fought through so much pain. It was a pluck he aspired to himself.

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Through it all, the gremlins tried to assail Roger—tried, but couldn’t. Several times, he

heard things scuttle across the floor, only to veer towards the bowl and splash in. Their mad

appetites undid them. One slurped busily and croaked, “So beautiful…”

And it was done. Roger wiped down blood spatter with a towel. He dabbed sweat off

himself and pointed Deena toward the mirror, She viewed the changes from all side and timidly

thanked him.

“It is nothing,” Roger said. “I’m glad to be of service.”

The silence after refrains of howling was deafening. Roger gathered his kit together and put

his coat and hat back on. He doffed it gallantly towards Deena as he left, but she wasn’t looking

his way. She was turned on her side, resting. He worried briefly about her danger from gremlins,

but figured that some armistice must exist between them if they occupied the same house.

Hoped, anyway.

Gerfrow met him in the hall. “How did it go?” he breathed.

“It’s a boy!” Roger joked, weary.

“Huh?”

“She came through all right,” he said, clasping the man’s shoulder. He did not pursue the

allusion to the howls of childbirth. Gerfrow was muddled by this crisis. He dolefully counted

out capis to pay Roger, who accepted them and said farewell.

______

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The night was calmer when Roger emerged. The wind blew in fickle gusts and he walked

through pockets of warm and cold. It still batted him at times. Only a handful of window

candles burned down the streets he walked through. He watched the mosaic of shadow patterns

in the cobblestones underfoot as he listened to the rustling trees. He heard his own labored

breaths and realized he was panting.

Outside a brewers, he sat on an empty barrel, trying to recover himself. What had just

happened? Lunacy! He understood that the gremlins had fled mountain homes and struggled in

some heroic wilderness plight, but he thought they set up shop in the woods. Did they invade

towns now? That was new.

He trudged to the outskirts of Permley and started across a field of scrub. A mile away sat a

barn he had claimed as a shelter by right of holes in security. The farmer wallowed in a post-

harvest drunk and his wife had a lover. Neither had vigilance for midnight squeaks in the barn,

creeping, and alarmed neighs. Besides, it was only a couple nights in their hay.

Keep it cheap.

He had his reasons. He thought of his ambitions and walked without seeing a moment. Then

he grabbed his chest. Quickly, he fished out his dental kit and opened it up. He fumbled with a

clasp and opened up a secret pocket. He pulled out three stones.

They were still there.

It only just occurred to him the gremlins might have gotten his treasure while he worked on

Deena. They seemed to get everything else.

In the moonlight, he peered with pleasure at one ruby, one diamond, and one emerald. His

working capital. Each gem took one year of extra jobs, privation, and saving to buy, along with

quality clothing. The bounty of three years lay in his hand.

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He put them back and quickened his pace. It was as though he ran from something. There

were so many things to escape from—poverty and mean circumstances, a life of mediocrity,

dead fathers. Fathers melted into a gelatinous mass, a pile of blood and tissue.

Things like that.

He left the field and reached a dirt road. It forked, with one lane going over a hill. He took

the road heading up.

At the crest, he peered south towards Cormley Castle. Torches flickered on its ramparts and

he imagined he saw moonlight shine off the moat, though it was probably too far off. Within the

castle rested the regent Baron Debralter and his wife, the Baroness Cynthia Debralter. Even now

she probably breathed fitfully through her blemished, infamous teeth. Roger swayed in

something like a love swoon.

He studied the high walls of Cormley Castle. Sometimes he fantasized of using his skills as

the son and helper of a mason and disassembling the walls stone by stone so he could at last gain

access to the baroness. He wanted her to be the first to benefit from his radical new service.

His jewels told the story: he dreamed of putting gems in teeth. To make cavities beautiful.

To help the suffering triumph over adversity, starting with their mouth.

His years as a stripling mason stamped him with the need for more. Days of harsh, dirty

labor with mere minutes of artistry. There was the low pay and surly peers. It felt blank of

future to him.

His father’s bad luck seemed to confirm his feelings. Watching what the Chalice priests did

do his father sealed his desperation and he ran from masonry. He couldn’t forgive them, sorry,

and chased a dream.

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He noticed all the grey and ruined teeth among his fellow masons, and saw demand for a

good dentist. He leapt to learn that trade, but decided to be a dentist with a twist. Pulled teeth

and plugs were not enough. He wanted something new, brilliant, that exceeded the pay ceiling

of dentistry. Something that paid for finer things. A villa might be nice.

He stood fast against the wind, mesmerized by his present plan. The baroness was not only

wife to the regent, she had a lovely singing voice. On rare occasions, she charmed whole courts

with her arias. Her open, operatic mouth was the best advertisement a dentist visionary could

hope for.

He stood motionless, a statue of desire in tortured moonlight.

Then he slumped.

The odds were so long.

He resumed walking, thinking of the steps in his plan. Deena was a maid for the buttery, the

baker, and the dining parlor. She had other food-related tasks on staff in the castle. When

Gerfrow solicited Roger’s services, he jumped at the chance. Tomorrow, Roger had an

afternoon appointment to fix the teeth of a maid who handled the bedsheets.

Surely some of those sheets were Cynthia’s! He hoped that the work he did for her servants

would reach her ears and make her curious. Tractable.

Closer and closer. Roger moved in stages like an infantry on campaign. He took hills and

trenches in the form of maids and butlers, staking ever more territory until finally he had his

prize. He reminded himself not to plant a flag in the mouth of the baroness, if he ever got her

business.

What a dream, though.

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He saw the dark outlines of the barn ahead. He crept closer and glanced at the farmstead.

Only a tiny glow from a ground floor window shone, which might be for the farmer splayed

drunk in his chair, or his wife in some egregious betrayal, or both. Roger wouldn’t it past the

stupors of the farmer.

He sensed that his path was clear and walked on mincing feet up to the rear door. He pulled

it open. Honks and bleats greeted him.

“Hello, neighbors,” he whispered.

He made his way up a ladder to a favorite loft and bedded down. He pulled clumps of hay

over himself and settled in. He called out in a low voice, “Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen!”

A cow mooed.

Chapter 2

Roger woke with a third party brushing his face. He grunted and opened his eyes. A goat

was licking something out of Roger’s hair as the creature’s own facial hair did a job on Roger’s

cheeks.

“Greetings, goatee,” Roger said.

He buried himself back in the hay, trying to catch the last snatches of sumptuous slumber.

He heard the goat actively munching and smiled at nature taking its course. The living

demanded nutriment. Vital processed pushed forward.

In his half-sleep, he thought of how goats did not like grass hay, and pictured the ruminant

eating alfalfa, constable cordons, and ladies’ bell skirts.

None of which were in the loft.

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The goat crunched hard on something. It complained. Roger lazily wondered how the thing

got up to the loft in the first place and what that meant for anything he might have hidden up

there.

His eyes opened wide. He rose and leapt, attacking the goat with both hands. The creature

had a tome in his jaws and Roger wrestled it free. The goat feinted to get away. As he fled to a

plank ledge, Roger examined the book with large bite marks in it.

It was Seasons Of Society, by Daniel Tomps. A ripping read! The book was part of his trove

of daring writings. He pored over the damaged pages, and saw that the goat had eaten the

passages on Important Steps to guard against Political Storms, with special attention to Sleet and

Drizzle.

“I know that bit pretty well,” Roger muttered.

Not so bad. He fumbled through the hay for the rest of his property. Soon he held the other

two books. There was Musings On Benign Revolution, with Verses Attached, by Sir Rollo, and

What We Say Today, by Fellow Traveler—an author with a pseudonym he loved.

Relief flooded through them. He had to speechify today, and these were important source

material. Without them, he did not see his big dream going forward. Public speeches helped

him solicit paying sponsors, and though he knew most of the writings verbatim, you might forget

anything under the pressure of curious gazes.

He patted around for his travel bag. It was hidden under hay in the corner. Carefully, he set

the books inside with other miscellaneous and went to the ladder. Spears of dawn light shot

between wall planks.

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Excellent, he thought. During harvest, he would be in peril, but the farmer wouldn’t awake

for another hour. He climbed down and made his way out, with plaintive sounds from a few

animals. Skirting behind bushes, he found his way to the road.

Now he walked towards the cemetery. Permley had a most excellent one. It was a

smattering of gravestones and plots on a small hill among bent, twisted elms and oaks. A

wrought iron fence enclosed only half of the grounds, as though public funds had run out or

interest waned. That made him chuckle. A few monuments reared for people of means, usually

topped with a stone chalice.

And one unfinished sepulcher.

It gaped open on one side. From what Roger understood, a prosperous miller had

commissioned it and died a week after it started, rushing the deadline. Fights over the legacy

ensued and the builders dropped it when payments stopped. The miller ended up buried on the

backside of a garden.

Leaning slabs within it created crevices. Roger found the structure a haven to stow his best

outfits. All two of them.

He whistled down the lane. He saw the brow of the cemetery hill and his spirits rose. Soon,

he would be dressed fine as a noble. The fine clothes drew crowds, which he needed.

The strap of the sack pulled at his shoulder with each stride. He thought of the books and

found himself looking forward to the speech. So strange: what began as a stunt for cash became

a calling. He knew of his gift for oratory from the lively response of listeners since his

childhood. He dutifully ignored beatings he received from ruffians who wanted him quiet. So

he decided to put his gift on display, speaking to market crowds, in an effort to lure sponsors.

Terry Freitag 19

And it worked. He got solicited for funeral wakes and fraternal orders. Once he mediated

between a constable and a prison escapee up in a tree. The best job was a month teaching

rhetoric to a noble’s son. This chatter thing yielded extra cash.

It also led to prestige. People asked his opinion, and gave him social invites and free meals.

He gained the funds to buy his gems and an occasional pin, coat, or cuff link, even if it took

years. It was a chance for greater things.

He got the most attention from fiery passages. Thus the writings of agitators resting under

his armpit. Over time, however, he found himself persuaded. These radicals knew how to stir a

stew. The books opened a world he never knew as a mason, or even a dentist. The potential of a

person really was boundless. You could have what you want, often during your lifetime. The

time for social upheaval was now.

It lit a fire in him.

At the cemetery he circled the fence. Glancing around, he went to his sepulcher. The half

chiseled window relief looked undisturbed. The chalice meant for the pediment sat by the base.

Straw for birds’ nests and dead leaves lined the bowl. Roger approached the dark interior.

“Hello?” he called inside. “Anybody dead?”

Visions from last night hit him. He listened hard for gremlin grumbling, but there was no

sound. If he had known Permley was crawling in gremlins, he might have put his clothes

elsewhere.

Only a day left on this stay, though. He entered and straining behind a slanted slab of stone,

he pulled a velvet coat off a hook lodged there. Other pieces of finery followed.

In the dark, he hurriedly changed. He transformed and exited ten minutes later. “Behold,”

he said, and spread his arms, laughing. “I am Roger Tellman, upstart dentist!”

Terry Freitag 20

He hoisted his books sack and headed for town. Music from the Triador pipes arias came to

his mind and his feet fell into a rhythm. Every dozen steps he might kick out. To vagrant eyes,

it looked like a nervous affliction.

The patches of forest and verdant hills of Hargrove County went by. Chill morning air filled

his lungs with new hope.

Permley was waking up as he entered it. He doffed his hat at tradesmen and scowling clerks

pinching their chins over ledgers and came to the center plaza.

Carts and stalls were already erected, and sheep bleated in makeshift pens. Roger walked

past vendors still wiping the sleepy from their eyes. One looked for the crate to sit on and almost

missed. Roger gauged the size of the crowd and decided to wait an hour. It would not do to

spend his best efforts on early comers.

He sat on the same barrel from last night and opened up the Tomps book. He went over

passages, mouthing some of the words. Fiery maxims leapt out of long turgid proofs that were

hard to decipher. They made it all worthwhile, those sudden rhetorical shrieks. Roger switched

to Sir Rollo and could feel his blood heating up as he read.

The sun cleared the rooftops on an almost cloudless day. The cheery light chased away

gloom about the night before. The interference of the gremlins didn’t seem to matter. It was just

a hiccup on life’s journey.

The plaza filled up and the hurried feints of barter and sales began. Roger thought, must be

around a hundred people. As usual, his attire attracted stares and surmises from women. People

gave him a berth and one paunchy man even bowed. Roger bowed back. He had no desire to

distance people, only to shake them up.

Terry Freitag 21

At an inner cue, Roger went to a stall of produce and picked out a shiny apple and lemon. He

handed the fri to a woman in wool dress and winked as he bit into the apple. Ducking into an

alley between an inn and a smithy, he gargled lemon juice with doses from his water skin.

Time to speak.

His nerves started to sing. He marched back to a central monument. It was a defaced statue

of Count Cormley looking pleased with himself. Around the figure was a fallow flowerbed with

a stone wall. Roger hopped up on the wall.

“Attention, citizens of Permley!” he called. “If I can bend your ear for a moment, I will

enrich your soul.”

Many turned to him. In view of his regal clothes, some acted leery of being cited for

something. He looked like some kind of authority. Others ignored him, as though they’d heard

this tune before. Jugglers and performers often passed through to perform for a pittance, and he

might be one of those.

“It would not do to buy a plow and leave, and ignore your future!” Roger said. “You will

become the mule who pulls the plow through your fields and miss the reasons you are alive.

Yes, I say reasons in the plural, for each of you has a great purpose. A miller can be a general.

A maid can be a sage. But you must till your soul as well as your field.”

A score of people watched him. Most gave glassy stares at the concepts. A few lit up,

though, seeming to see something unseen. Some were walking as they listened, and tripped into

others, apologizing. A handful of vendors looked irritated, having much to sell and seeing their

customers waylaid.

“You cannot just plod through life,” Roger went on. “Your mind must be turned on. Would

you hold up a lamp in a darkened room and not light the thing? Don’t be a fool! Use books as

Terry Freitag 22

your tinder and light that lamp. Then life will be a room well-lit, and you’ll know where to sit

and where to write your letters.”

“I’m no fool!” called a carter massaging his foot.

Another heckled, “Will I know where to sleep too? Will my wife sweep the floor of my life,

even if I spill beer on it?”

“Have you asked her?” Roger snapped. He swayed in his oratory, and sidled on the stone

wall. “Do your manners win her willingness? Beware a sleeping, snoring mind. As you learn,

your manners are refined. You become a diplomat of better things.”

The heckler squealed at the mention of refined manners. He pranced in an effete way, and

even Roger laughed. The crowd saw his good humor and seemed to listen more. He urged them

to ask more questions about society and dig deeper.

“Are you meant for your present place?” he asked. “If you are a clerk, are you good with

figures? Is your back end sore from sitting? Do you fashion clothes and yet are color blind?

Well, find the place you are meant for!”

A little girl in a wool frock and cap drifted close to him. She pointed and said, “I like your

shoes!”

“Thank you, my dear!” he said. “Poultian leather. Cured in the sun, stitched by masters.

These are the fine things that wait if you will only prepare.”

She drew closer and when he stood still a moment, she caressed his right foot. He told her

that this was not a petting pen, and she should seek him out later, so she backed up. As he

moved on to questions of social class and the barriers in life, she moved with him. She imitated

his foot movements, which had a musicality to them. The audience giggled at Roger’s fan. It

was a quaint puppet charade. Roger kept his gaze on the people.

Terry Freitag 23

“Nobles have the fine things. But what is a noble?” he asked. “A man performs in battle and

he gets a fief. He expands his fief and gets a title. In time the children are born, drooling just

like the poor infant in the hut. But there is a difference between them, oh yes: food and tutors.

Plenty for the body, plenty for the mind. Their clothing fools your eyes. But what difference do

these make?” he asked, pinching his coat and drawing it wide. “You see a noble before you, but

I’ll tell you what you should see—a dentist!”

Listeners recoiled. A few made the sign of the Chalice.

“It is true, my fellow citizens,” Roger declared, “but I saw opportunities. I worked and

trained my mind. And so can you! Soon you rise, floating, and bump your head against

something called class. Station! It is a rough ceiling to keep you down. But what is class, but

an accretion of advantages over time, like layers of sand at the sea shore after the tide has gone

out?” He silently thanked Sir Rollo for the phrase.

He saw puzzled looks, since Boravian was a landlocked nation, and most had never seen the

sea. He also saw a few nobles in the market crowd, who did not dignify him with a glance. He

wondered how long that would last.

“And isn’t it in our blood to strive?” he demanded. “Didn’t Damon strive when his children

were poisoned and make himself learn? Didn’t he ask questions and come to discover the

Sunshine Juice with which the priests fill their Chalice and perform their duties? Boravians were

meant to ask questions and go on…big quests.”

He drew in a breath, his eloquence ebbing. He was breaching taboo after taboo. First, he

challenged social class and then he cited the lore of Damon, which was the Chalice priests’

jealous province. What came next, call out the mayor? He bit his lip and thought over his

words.

Terry Freitag 24

And the girl still mimicked his movements. Smiling, he trotted from one end of the wall to

the other. She did it too. He kicked out his legs once or twice, and so did she.

The crowd laughed. It broke up the tension. He did a merry dance, trying not to slip, and

lifted his hat three times. The girl shrieked and spun around until she collapsed in contentment.

“Dance, citizens of Permley!” Roger shouted. “I tell you, dance! Move your bodies against

anything that traps it. If you want to move from Permley to Parr, and from there to Amelade,

and from there all the way to Hamden, why not? Go wherever you belong!”

Roger got his first glare from a noble. Tenant farming was a major part of life here, but he

couldn’t help his opinions. So many indentured themselves just to eat.

It wasn’t right. How much he could to about it now? This was always the problem: seeing

how far to go. He looked at his sack of books, which looked pretty measly at the moment. He

would dive into the sayings of Tomps. Yes, that was it.

“There are seasons,” he croaked, “of change. You do not plant in winter, or harvest at night.

So when you are trying to make a change—“

He heard a commotion on his left, coming from a block of shops. A woman wailed, and a

man spoke in staccato barks.

“Who?” someone implored. “Who?”

“It’s Madame Duella!” came a gruff voice. “Torn in half! I’d know her toes anywhere!”

“Are you sure?”

Several people rushed in that direction. Others trailed behind, curious. Even the little girl,

who made a pretty heap at Roger’s feet, left.

Terry Freitag 25

And Roger didn’t mind the change. “A good half-hour,” he breathed, and stepped down

from the stone wall. He had done all he could. Hopefully, he had planted seeds of change, and

displayed his ability for any sponsors.

He gathered up his things. While some town folk still watched him, he sensed that they were

distracted. He sat and swigged from his skin of water. It was almost empty. He would need a

trip to a brook outside town to refill it.

Quietly, he pulled out a book. Sitting on the wall of the dead flowerbed, he began to read,

making himself available for any curious person.

This new disaster sucked all the attention away. People continued to issue that way, saying,

“I can’t believe it!” and “she always kept to herself!”

Roger furrowed his brow, acting interested in his book. He felt irritated. In rural parts, there

was always some catastrophe going on. It was hard to perpetrate any scheme. If it wasn’t a crop

failure, it was a child falling down a brick well. He wished that country folk could just be

more…available. Too many troubles here. Queasy thoughts of gremlins fluttered in, but he

shook them off.

After several minutes alone, he put the book away and rose, sighing. He bought a meat roll

at a stand and ate it. He checked the meager funds in his sack of coins and thought, this project

costs me more than it pays. He decided to take a walk outside town before his afternoon

appointment to fix the teeth of the maid Lucy. At least there was more to his plan, to attend to

this minder of bedsheets at Cormley Castle.

In their conversation, the girl seemed alert and worthy. He was glad to do a service for

someone like that. And help himself at the same time.

Terry Freitag 26

He started out on the road, plotting his itinerary. Perhaps he should go back to the sepulcher

and change into plainer clothes before his job. It made sense.

As he reached an outer lane, someone called, “Sir! Great sir!”

He turned around. He could not ignore a summons worded like that. “Yes?”

A burly man in wool breeches, vest, and bag hat trotted up. He looked somber. “I am Derba,

a smithy in this town. I had a favor to ask, really…on the part of the town.”

Roger straightened. He was a little spent from his speech and last night’s ordeal, but he must

take opportunities. “Go on.”

“Well…we’ve just lost one of our own, Madame Duella. She was an invalid widow in the

town, and while she was comfortable with the revenue from her dead husband’s mills, we all

looked after her. Her passing strikes us in the heart.”

“You want me to…retrieve her fillings?” Roger asked, paling. With valuable material

sometimes used, he had been asked that before. He adjusted his cuffs, waiting.

“No. We see that you have a magic with words. We hoped you could speak at her wake.

Give a pearly touch to her life’s story. Things not so easy for us.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, my time here is very short. I leave tomorrow at the latest. My trade takes

me all over.”

“We will pay you! We can take up a collection, or her own property…it would mean so

much.”

Roger stared at a verge of trees, thinking. He had done funeral wakes before, only just now

he had an itch to get away from Hargrove County. The events of the previous night rattled him.

Terry Freitag 27

This was why he did extra, though, wasn’t it? He must be steely, and these people needed

help. “I will need to know more about her. If you would write up a synopsis of her life, I can

add those touches you want. And deliver them.”

“Her death was sudden. She is still in the street.” He gestured as though to lead Roger there.

“Very well.”

Roger followed the man, feeling anxious. If the circumstances of her death had pathos, he

must capture it for his audience. It might express all she meant as a person. And he spent

another hour looking like a noble. There were worse penalties than that.

He cleared his throat. “What was her cause of death?”

“We aren’t sure. We only know what shape she was in.”

“Oh? And what was that?” During the commotion, he had been busy. He hadn’t heard

details.

“Not good,” Derba said simply.

Roger didn’t ask further. He turned the subject to Derba’s job and life in these parts. Things

were good with the Baron Debralter’s promotion to regent and the business from Cormley

Castle. Many chafed at their dependence on the man, but it was better than poverty. There was

the problem of two missing girls in recent months. That had many going on searches and

soliciting the court, and coming back with news. Of course, there was the matter of the gremlins,

who left signs of occupying Permley Forest. Some suspected them of kidnapping the girls, but

the townsfolk had no evidence.

“The truth is,” Derba said, “the gremlins seem emboldened. Granther’s birddog came back

from a go fetch with a pumpkin over his head. Mr. Denton had his pigs’ tails tied together with

Terry Freitag 28

lady’s lace, which made them squeal no end. It’s mischief, I tell you. Unnatural. But we cannot

prove they do crimes. Until now, with the widow…maybe. It may change everything.”

“Oh? Really? Why?” Roger tried to keep a screech out of his voice. He felt suddenly

hysterical, and made himself calm down.

“You’ll see.”

“The fact is, I encountered gremlins last night. At Mr. Gerfro’s house, and it was most

unsettling. My dear fellow, they are in town. They walk among you.”

“Well, isn’t that something,” Derba said softly. He looked at his feet as he walked, hands

folded. “Of course, we can’t force Gerfro if he chooses to keep pets.”

“What?”

“Sir, we are coming up on the scene.”

The backs of citizens blocked a lane in the Permley outskirts. Modest shops and an inn

occupied the area. Derba pushed through the bystanders and led Roger to an opening in front of

a place called Matilda’s Fine Stationary. Two officials grimly talked to each other in front of the

corpse.

Or the part that was here. Two legs leaned upright against the shop’s front door, severed

above the hips. They were dressed in the spotted pantaloons of a court jester. An oval of viscera

stuck out the waistband and bits of gore and blood spill speckled the front door. It was as though

the legs waited impatiently for the place to open, like they ripped themselves free of the owner to

beat the crowds.

Roger gagged. He heard someone say, “She was waiting for that new pink writing paper.

She talked about it for a week.”

“How…” Roger gasped, “…how do you know this is Madame Tuella?”

Terry Freitag 29

“The toes,” Derba said. “Two missing on her left foot, from gangrene. The rest of the

toenails were painted. By nurse Connie over there.”

Roger noticed a young woman in cape and brown dress looking grave. She rested her hand

on a unkempt man who knelt on the ground, rocking back and forth. He clasped his hands and

sobbed. Derba explained, “The nephew.”

“Oh, auntie!” the man cried. “Oh, oh! Too soon! You didn’t deserve this…”

Others tried to comfort him, but he ignored them. Roger turned to Derba and said, “Sir…this

is unworkable. I must have the whole body. It is very…strange to give a eulogy for a pair of

legs. I’m not sure I can do that.”

Derba nodded. He went to the officials and introduced Roger. He said, “This is Constable

Pitt and the lawyer Mr. Loezman. They are trying to get at the facts, and appreciate any help

from keen minds. Connie confirmed that the pants are not the Madame’s, that her appearance

was changed. They are too… festive…for her.”

“Which makes you suspect the gremlins,” Roger asked.

“Possibly,” Loezman said, “but the legs were separated with some force. Gremlins are small.

Perhaps they only tampered with the corpse. A crime, but not murder.”

“What an end for her!” the nephew was wailing. “Oh, auntie! Half the woman she used to

be!”

Derba explained to the officials how Roger meant to speak at the wake. He shared Roger’s

objections to the condition of the widow and they pondered solutions. Roger felt relieved that he

might get out of this job. Staring at the maimed legs made him sick. The way they were

propped up like a piece of theater—he felt a headache coming on.

From the edge of the crowd, someone cried, “We found the other part!”

Terry Freitag 30

Heads turned. Roger had a sinking feeling. The constable called the man forward, who was

a carter from out in the wheat fields. The man wrung his cap in his hands and with wide eyes,

said, “We found her out by Boman’s Stump. By the road to the old tannery. She’s not in an

ordinary state.” He swallowed.

“Onward!” called Constable Pitt, waving the carter to lead. The man brought the officials

onto another road, in a party including Roger and Derba. Loezman urged Connie and the

nephew to go.

After a hundred yards, Pitt turned to the others and said, “Please, people of Permley, go back

to your work. All must labor and eat and sleep. This will be handled, and in due course, we will

share our findings. Please!”

Most onlookers peeled off and went back to their daily tasks. Around ten people obstinately

kept going, insisting that they had a right to know the truth. Roger couldn’t argue with that, but

as he walked along, he wanted to bolt into a field and vanish, not very interested in the outcome.

This was more than he bargained for.

He felt obligated, though, and plodded along next to Derba. He tried to keep manageable his

dread at Permley and its intrigue. Child disappearances and gremlins—no thanks.

Constable Pitt said to Connie, “Please, nurse, remind me: how did her last days go? There

are things we must look at.”

“Oh…well…she told me in the last week that many nights she awoke to high pitched cries

that were, I suppose you would call it, falsetto. It unsettled her. Grumpy mutters came from the

corners of her room that bid her come into the streets. In the dead of night. She said she could

naught but follow. I told her not to!”

“Gremlins,” Pitt said. “Ghastly.”

Terry Freitag 31

“It would seem so,” Loezman said. “But the creatures are small.”

They debated the evidence and Roger tried to listen in. Despite his aversion, he wondered

keenly who had done something so awful. Besides, he had to give the eulogy.

The nephew kept wailing, making it hard to hear. He wouldn’t be quiet about Madame

Duella’s many virtues, her love of Poultian porcelain cups, or her proverbs on cooking pie.

“Here she is, here she is!” the carter cried.

Roger saw a dark shape through the dust rising from the lane. They came closer and at a

turnoff, sure enough, there was the midriff of a prim, composed woman. She sprouted out of the

ground from her waist, like she was kindred to the stalks of wheat in the fields next to her. Her

bluish arm raised high a stiff hand like she begged for a ride, and Roger saw that it had been

splinted that way. Her nightgown draped her shoulders and puddled around her in the dirt.

“Unnatural!” Pitt hissed.

The group came to a stop. The officials studied her and the nephew fell to his knees again,

mourning violently. Connie patted him and whispered.

Roger fought his gorge. His headache pounded. The widow’s glassy dead eyes squinted,

like she watched the wagon traffic that usually went by here. Her lips shut tight in peremptory

disapproval within hollow cheeks. She reared up stiff and reticent as a maiden at a grange dance

with no takers.

The officials noted the splint and the strange posture. They decided gremlins were definitely

involved somehow. Somewhere.

“It is fact,” Loezman declared.

“Oh, auntie!” the nephew cried. “Half…the woman…you used to be…”

“Be brave!” Connie urged.

Terry Freitag 32

Roger felt embroiled and wanted out. This day began so promising, and now it fell apart. He

still had a dental appointment in the afternoon. He had to get back to the sepulcher and change,

he had to wash his tools, and he had to find the woodman’s cottage where the daughter lived.

How could he get himself together with all these ill strokes of fortune?

Cavities to fix, a headache, and a bisected widow.

Wonderful.

Chapter 3

Roger headed for his dental appointment in the late afternoon, when he understood the girl

would be at her parent’s home. One Lucy Whitsun returned from the castle with the bedsheets

tended, and he would relieve her pain.

He walked along the road, early autumn sun lending a glow to plumes of dust. His head

hung low. Here he hoped to get close to the baroness, and wanted to feel like a conquering

general about to take another beachhead. Instead, he felt agitated.

His clammy hands shook. He wiped them compulsively on his breeches. If only he could

get through the operation. His anxiety worsened when he reached his landmark, the barn of Gent

Sebasee, which marked the turn to the Whitsun household. As he angled west, he saw severed

chicken heads lining the barn wall in a pattern, right beside the upper loft port.

They spelled out the Boravian word for “Hi!”

Gremlins.

He grimaced. Your career path got complicated when you added queer beasties. Almost

intolerable. He wanted to flee from Hargrove County back to his flat in Hamden, the nation’s

Terry Freitag 33

capitol. He had patients to mind there, too, beyond his gambit here for the baroness. He also

cherished a lady love in that city, or the dream of one. Wouldn’t it be a delight to see her face?

Like a cool breeze in unflinching desert heat.

The cottage rose on a hill by the Permley woods. His aching feet could rest, but he only

thought about how close it was to the forest. Lucy’s father was a woodsman, it made sense, but

such proximity was like dancing on a precipice. The woods were dangerous.

He turned onto the grass and finding a stump, he sat and reflected. Usually, he liked a verve

in his demeanor, quick wit and words for scared patients. Now he felt weak from the gremlin

torment last night, and the bisected widow this morning.

He had insisted the townspeople hold the wake tomorrow. Not for a fortune would he stay

longer. They said that was not enough time to prepare the body, pour the right oils and say the

right prayers, and spruce Madame Duella like a holiday fowl. Even after her mutilation, they

still wanted a viewing.

Roger shook his head. Strong stomachs out here.

Too bad, he told them. Tomorrow, or give your own speech.

He pulled out his dental kit and checked his tools. It was a habit. The secret pocket opened

slightly and he pulled out his ruby. He admired its glint in daylight.

He felt knocked off course. The woes of these people made his heart quail. How could you

care about dreams of profit when gremlins ran riot? When widows were cut in half?

You couldn’t.

He got an idea.

“I’ll do it,” he breathed.

Terry Freitag 34

He decided to offer Lucy a ruby filling for no extra charge. Insane, after his years of effort,

but the generosity made his spirits lift. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone, he was part of a cause. Yes.

It was like when he read the commentary of Fellow Traveler on the Tentacles of Commonwealth

—how everyone depended on others, and needed to give.

“Up, Mr. Tellman,” he said. “Let’s go give a gift.” He walked towards the cottage feeling

better.

Loud voices came from inside. He knocked on the door. After a pause, Duard the

woodsman opened up. He squinted at Roger like he was an invader.

“What’s the matter here?” he demanded.

“Greetings, I’m Roger Tellman, a dentist. I had an appointment to work on Lucy.

Something about an impacted molar.”

Duard laughed harshly. Roger smelled alcohol. Duard said, “You’ll have a fine adventure

doing that, I’ll wager. She’s not here. Makes it difficult.”

“Oh. She hasn’t returned from the castle yet?”

“No! She’s not here. She’s vanished to the winds two days ago, as becomes common

hereabouts. She would be number four in Hargrove since last year.” He grew suddenly maudlin.

The expression on his face cracked like dry earth.

“Number four! What a way to talk of your own daughter,” a female voice said. “You never

cared, much as you talk.”

“I do care, Gitr,” Duard pleaded. “What should I do? I tried to get a search party, but no one

wants to go into the woods.”

Terry Freitag 35

Roger felt nauseous. His whole body quivered. He abruptly needed to sit again. “I’m sorry

to hear that,” he rasped. “Excuse me, could I trouble you for a chair? And a glass of water? It’s

been a long journey.”

Duard stepped back, like he had no reason to help or harm anyone just then. His face was

vacant, with mouth open and jaw low slung. “Well, enter then.”

Roger moved to the dining table. He quickly sat, afraid to show how weak he felt. Strange

plagues swept through Boravia. What could a dentist do about it? He felt his own version of

Duard’s torpor.

Gitr brought him a cup of water, glaring. Roger sipped slowly on his queasy stomach.

Duard polished off a tankard of ale. He stared out the window like dark legions waited

beyond it. Gitr returned to some bread dough she was pounding.

“Gone two days now,” she chided Duard. “Your own daughter, the delight of your eyes.

And you sitting in here like one of her dolls, or as stiff as. You know she likes the Petals Lagoon

in the Permley Woods. Who knows, she might have taken a fall. Rolling around, screaming

with a broken bone.”

“Of a certainty,” Duard said bitterly. “Just as like, Lucy ran off with Kirifo and Debra, those

other two gone for months now. I heard them talking of opportunities once in Sebasee’s orchard.

They came back for Lucy. Runaways. Many girls going by bit and bit, who knows where. In

other counties, too, from what I hear.”

Roger stayed quiet and sipped. He eavesdropped on the tragedy of others and felt mute on

their plight. A dog licked his shoes from under the table.

Terry Freitag 36

He peeked down at a Boravian Retriever with a fine copper mane. He stroked the pet, bent

awkwardly, and thought of how he too had heard of girls disappearing, but it was a recent thing.

When your soul was taut pursuing your dream, it left no room to cure the problems of the nation.

He worried about Lucy, now, and whether she was safe. Had she run afoul of gremlins? Or

if she went after “opportunities”, who would fix her teeth? Did they have dentists in that far-off

place?

“Well, I must do something,” Duard drunkenly muttered. He looked with regret at his empty

tankard.

“And far past time!” Gitr scolded. She pounded a huge dent in the dough.

“I’m sorry, dentist, but I go to my fate,” Duard said softly. “It is time I searched the Petals

Lagoon. Here you came this far and have not fixed anything.”

Roger frowned. Why did Duard word it that way?

Abruptly, Roger said, “Sir, I will go with you! Two are better than one.”

“Well…I have my dog.”

“Yes, but…three are better than two,” Roger said lamely.

“True.”

Duard heaved himself up. He hoisted his belt and went towards a back room. The dog under

the table loped after his master. Roger rose and tried to follow with dignity.

His head was spinning. Why did he go into the woods, after what he had been through?

Lunacy! Only the generous impulse over the ruby filling also prompted him to tail the

woodsman, and not let him perish alone. He called himself melodramatic, but it didn’t feel that

way. This gesture felt important.

Terry Freitag 37

Gitr called, “And while you’re in the woods, get my wire whisk! Eggs haven’t mixed right

since it went.”

“Yes, Gitr, I’ll do it,” Duard said glumly.

In a back room, he put on a light coat, full brim hat, and boots. Roger waited for him to

finish, feeling puzzled. He asked, “What did she mean, get her wire whisk? Why would that be

in the woods?”

Duard eyed Roger, like the dentist didn’t understand much. “Gremlins,” he said simply.

“What?”

Duard walked towards his barn. He said, “Lately, the whisk, two ladles, and a rolling pin

have gone missing. Around here, we all know what that means.” Roger’s astonishment amused

him. “Oh yes. And worse than that.”

In the barn, he snatched an axe off its rack. A horse fidgeted in her stall, and goats darted

from a trap door pen. One adult sheep bleated and cringed at the far end of a pile of straw. Her

coat was spotted purple from some disgusting prank with dye. Roger watched her lambs trundle

after her.

“Oh yes,” Duard said, watching Roger. “One day, her ram was found in pieces in our

kitchen. Mutilated. The ribs, haunches, skull, and hooves stacked like stairs up to a high

cupboard. Inside, we found an overturned cookie jar. Two cookies missing.

“I got there at the last moment. I heard things running into the woods, moaning. Sounded

very sorry for themselves.”

Roger said nothing.

Duard continued, “That was a week ago. Lucy loved that ram, and maybe that made her run

off. I don’t know. But I must try and find her. Or we do, dentist.” He clapped a hand on

Terry Freitag 38

Roger’s shoulder. “I’ve looked everywhere but the woods, searched tirelessly. Gitr keeps on

about the Petals Lagoon, though, and she’s right.”

He noticed Roger’s agitation, how twitches crossed his face in an orchestral blizzard. He

patted his dog and said, “Looks like Dirk will have to be the brave one.”

He hoisted his axe and they headed out across a scraggly back field. Dirk trotted along

happily, oblivious to things that trouble men. Ahead rose a wall of beeches and hemlocks. Old

oaks reared in places like great leafy knobs over the forest roof.

Early evening light bronzed the leafage. A light breeze blew, and over the rustle, Roger

seemed to hear a singing from deep in the forest. Silvery sopranos made him shiver.

“How far is the Petals Lagoon?” he asked tremulously.

“A ways off,” Duard said. “We’ll make it there before nightfall, but not back. It’s all right,

the path is wide and well-marked. And the moon is fat.”

Roger worried the singing might be the vanished girls turned into a ghostly choir. He knew

that in the last year, every strata of society suffered a loss—from the magnate’s princess to the

scullery maid. Chalice priests who studied the matter guessed a hundred total for the nation, or

so they told the Hamden Court. Four gone in one region, though—that was severe. It never

mattered much to Roger until now.

He questioned Duard about the other girls, any reports or news. The woodsman made short

replies. Roger thought acidly, he’s walking now and can’t be bothered. Dirk darted after smells

and always came back to Duard’s side, who stroked his scruff. “Don’t worry, it will be all right,

old boy,” Duard told his dog.

That’s a long guess, Roger brooded. “Why do they call it the Petals Lagoon?” he asked.

“Many unlike flowers grow on the banks. They leave a carpet of petals that strike the eye.”

Terry Freitag 39

He didn’t embellish. Roger watched shadows fleck the tunnel of foliage. Soon they would

grow deep and black.

Duard said, “I remember last year when the gremlins came down from their native habitat in

the mountains. The first corsets and hat pins were stolen from Permley.. Why can’t they keep to

themselves? Some horrid event must have pushed them.” He went silent.

“It troubles you…” Roger prompted.

“Why shouldn’t it? Parents worry they steal our girls for hard labor. Press them to burrow

their warrens or play mannequin when they alter cuffs and waists to fit their puny frames. A

farmer found writing on a tree trunk that girl flesh is the tastiest of all. What does that suggest?”

Roger didn’t answer. Perhaps Lucy was stew at that very moment.

They went down a dip in the road. Duard explained it was the first of three on the journey.

The tunnel narrowed, and brambles and branches grabbed at their clothes. The forest dimmed

from ebbing daylight. Shadows became phantom personalities like shapes in clouds.

The path widened again. Roger saw something hanging from a tree, up ahead and to his

right. He prayed that it wasn’t the corpse of Lucy. One carcass today was plenty.

Coming closer, they saw a pair of dun breeches. The hems were gnawed and the crotch torn

out. They hung limply from the branch and appeared to be rejected in anger.

“By the Chalice…” Duard muttered.

Further on, they saw stockings to match. The pair draped a hemlock like voluminous worms.

Duard slowed up. Roger urged him on. They must face this enigma squarely.

A hundred feet on, three more sets of breeches hung like lanterns with ill-advised shades.

They were savaged beyond repair. Some gremlin raiding party was positively grieved over their

Terry Freitag 40

haul. Then came purple satin leggings, obviously from an aristocrat. No class or gender escaped

the onslaught.

Roger fought his revulsion. He muttered, “What is going on with this plague of pants?”

Duard drew his axe from a loop at his waist and began to jog. “Lucy?” he cried. “Lucy, are

you out there?”

“Wait!” Roger called.

He sped up also. Branches clawed at his face and arms. The foliage closed in and out with

an almost peristaltic motion. The two crested the rise and went down a second dip. Roger saw a

big black blot up ahead. They both slowed down.

Roger’s eyes took a moment to adjust. He now saw scores of pants hanging from trees.

Maybe hundreds. Stockings also, ghostly in the evening dim, as though an entire army had gone

for a dip in a stream and forgotten to return. Roger shook his head in puzzlement.

What did it mean? Was it an adorned entrance to a gremlin colony? The strangeness

perturbed him. This went beyond finicky fashion into the realms of menace. His willed his

body not to quiver. And he seemed to hear singing again.

“Think of the girls…” Duard whispered.

He moved ahead, knuckles white around his axe. Roger pictured the girls corralled with rope

in some dank hole. Kept alive by moldy berries and broth. He followed Duard, his pulse

hammering in his ears. He crept a dozen steps.

They saw the girdle at the same time. It hung among the pants in anthropoid elegance.

Roger edged up to its ghostly white shape. He noted the lace in the armholes, the vain

narrowness at the waist, the flirtation in the design. The blood drained from his face.

“I heard…” Duard rasped. “…I heard…”

Terry Freitag 41

“Yes,” Roger said. “So did I.”

The girdle was an honored costume for a gremlin leader, who was a kind of queen bee to the

hive. This garment signaled the heart of the colony. The leader could not be far. The clothing

loomed over Roger like a talisman of blackest portent.

Suddenly, the woodsman ran the other way. Dirk galloped along side him.

“Duard!” Roger hissed. “Duard!”

He froze an instant, then followed. This was not his campaign. He wondered how a stealth

siege of Baroness Debralter’s teeth led him to the deepest recesses of gremlin territory. Life

played jokes on him.

He barely saw the outline of Duard and Dirk. They were maybe twenty feet ahead. He tried

to catch up, feeling vulnerable alone. His dread swelled to a size he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t

explain until the underbrush muttered, “He’s got good legs!”

“I’ve got better!” something retorted.

“Like a crab’s…” another croaked from the trees.

“Hey!” one protested at the insult.

No!

Roger pumped his arms furiously.

The last time he heard such things, he was working on an incisor. The foliage widened as

large as a temple nave. Roger called, “Duard… Duard…”, feeling like a child about to wet

himself.

A monkey shape darted in front of the woodsman. Duard tripped and went sprawling end

over end. Blood spurted as he accidently sliced himself with the axe.

Terry Freitag 42

Dirk barked and leapt around. Still running, Roger almost hit Duard as he tried to rise. The

forest path exploded in monkey shapes. Furtive things harassed them with blows, epithets, and

bad odors. Roger tried to help Duard, and then he was gagging on the unwashed foot of some

creature.

The gremlins piled on him with cockroach fervor. Roger clawed his way through a tar pit of

bad attitude. They wrestled him down.

The velvet trim of his coat unraveled, his buttons popped off. The creatures molested and

removed the best of his outfit. He lay on the forest floor and realized that if he stayed down,

he’d die from the stench. Garbage laced with manure, topped with mold. De jour.

He saw Duard swinging his awe. The woodsman batted gremlins into the bushes, which they

treated as a game. They howled with pleasure at every arc through the air, like it was a free ride.

Dirk got the worst of it. The gremlins gnawed on ears, haunches, underbelly. The dog

fought back, rending outfits, and gremlin hides, and dirty flouncy dresses that didn’t even really

fit. He whined and looked overwhelmed.

Enraged, Roger pulled himself up against the massive weight. Lumps of twenty and thirty

pounds peppered him. Spindly, stringy arms choked his throat. A hand strayed to the hat which

he tried holding tight, lifted it, and seemed to test it for overall comeliness.

Roger bucked violently and shook the creature off. His oppressor flew in somersaults

through twilight air. He rushed to help the dog, who was now mewling, but could not get at him.

Dirk seemed to dissolve like a bug under a wave of army ants. A gremlin in a sergeant’s jacket

and eyeliner tore a chunk out of his hide. It chewed moodily and spit the clump out. “This one’s

got mange!” it muttered.

“So do I!” warned a fellow, who wore a grain sack with epaulets.

Terry Freitag 43

“But I never ate you!”

“You tried!”

Enough! Roger reddened at their baiting banter. He drew a dental pick and a moote’s claw

from his kit and started swinging. He slashed and jabbed the storm of gremlins, drawing blood.

Together with Duard, he stood for Boravians and mankind. He clove away at the attackers like

sickle and wheat.

Duard connected again and again. Warty limbs went flying. Ichor flowed, spattering them

with a garbage smell. Cross-dressing vermin fell out, complaining about unseemly tears in their

garments. Roger plowed his way through to Dirk, and grabbed the gremlins in fistfuls, hurling

them aside. The dog got free and wobbled to a stand. Bite marks and divots in his fur covered

him like polka dots on a clown suit. He growled and snapped with his snout at fresh gremlin

forces.

They came from all corners of the forest. Several covered Duard now, and Roger took on

passengers again. They tangled him like vines of ivy. The things chewed at his neck, poked his

eyes, and clawed his shirt and coat ragged. His hat was long gone. Gremlins on his arm

impaired his swings with pick and claw.

The latest wave came with egg beaters, basters, and wine bottle cork screws. Roger guessed

blearily that this was a kitchen detachment of sorts. In the fog of bodies, he saw Duard react.

“The wire whisk, dentist! I see it!” He dove at an assailant and they went down in a juggernaut

tumble. With a great effort, Duard tore it free.

“I’ve got it, Gitr…” he rasped.

Terry Freitag 44

“Not for long!” a tall gremlin announced, all of four a half feet. He loomed over Duard in

scarlet pajamas, holding a coat rack with sharpened tips in both hands. He raised it high like a

halberd.

Roger leapt, targeting his exposed midriff. He stabbed the creature in the chest, drawing a

shriek. “Out of order!” the thing protested, gurgling ichor. In the same motion, Roger snatched

Duard’s hand and yanked. The woodsman staggered to his feet, unbalanced by clinging things.

“Can you run?” Roger asked hoarsely.

Duard nodded. He clutched the wire whisk close like a gold statuette. Together, they flew

on feet of fear. Roger raced with all the speed he had, his body singing its fatigue. Gremlins still

clung, but the vibrations shook them off like unwanted fat pounds.

He single mindedly tore down the forest path, daring night to fall a second too soon. Nature

traded sun for moonlight in foreboding inches, so he pushed harder. He stumbled in dirt pockets

and over roots in the path, but never fell.

He saw with relief that Duard kept pace. They were getting away. The vermin peeled off as

they departed the colony, reluctant to leave their own turf. Roger concentrated on nothing but

running.

He went for ten minutes, fifteen. He felt heavier and heavier, and feared that exhaustion

might doom him after all. So strange to be so heavy. He looked down, and saw Dirk looking up

at him. To his surprise, the creature filled his outstretched arms.

He was carrying the dog.

Terry Freitag 45

Chapter 4

Previous Chapter. Introduction to Paul Breckman and Anderton. He mull the woes of his

town with Theo and gets accosted by a local matriarch with a missing child. They pursue

answers with a mob in tow.

Chapter 5

Previous Chapter. Paul and the mob encounter a phantom in the trees. She makes quick

work of her attackers and eludes them, traveling to Paul’s backyard in surreal hundred foot hops.

Paul discovers at the last moment her eerie resemblance to his daughter Gwen.

Chapter 6

Days after the incident in Permley woods, Roger found himself safely within the walls of his

apartment in Hamden. The familiar place strengthened him as he woke in the morning. He rose

and hardboiled an egg, gulping it in the grotto light of leaded window panes. Pasting jam on a

dry bun, he savored a routine that told him gremlins belonged to another universe. Except for

nervous glances at crevices and high surfaces, shadows and blind corners, he felt his old

confidence.

Today he had local patients to attend, and looked forward to it. He could polish teeth and

examine and prescribe. He embraced anything ordinary, though it hurt to feel kicked out of his

Terry Freitag 46

Permley dream. He still wanted to coax the baroness lovingly to his dental pick, but those hopes

went dark. He must return to his old rounds, even if his blood flowed from a heart of sand.

Living without a dream was just living.

He sunk into the cozy chaos of his room. His portmanteau lay flung open, his coat, books,

and jars of supplies occupied chairs. His table was strewn with balled laundry, a copy of the

day’s news bulletin, and implements of his trade. They fanned out like weapons at the ready.

He picked up the bulletin as he munched. It was the news rag called The Hamden

Watchman. The top banner said that the prince was ill. Bumps on his face rose that same said

were red, and others purple. Roger read closely, warming to plights that were not his own. It

was like a blessed escape. He read how the prince’s illness evoked the fatal disease of his

parents five years ago, which some blamed on poisoning.

Roger licked jam off his fingers. Of course, foreign agents were suspected in that long ago

crisis. But so were a class of Boravian nobles called the Eminents, who drew their lineage from

high sources and chafed to be ruled. Nothing was ever proven. The Baron Debralter rose to be

regent from writ in the royal will.

The article reported that the court doctor had purged the prince with deep forest herbs. No

connection was drawn to the illness. The writer celebrated how the doctor was “close at hand”

when trouble stirred.

So fortunate.

“Or unfortunate…” Roger murmured. “Does anybody smell a suspect? Anyone?”

He shook his head. Such a blinkered people. He would love to drag them out of their daze

into the blazing light of reason. He murmured and made noises as he read.

Terry Freitag 47

It felt good to get frothy over politics. So cathartic. It was like rooting for a boxer in a

match. He almost threw some punches at the air.

He thought of how a sick prince reflected on the baron. The boy was his special care, and

Roger knew the Eminents still schemed and caused trouble. The regent had fights on his hand.

An article further down only confirmed it. The banner read, “Thousands Embrace Desert

Paradise.” It appeared that the Eminents raised a city in the Boravian desert, south of the

Crackipern Mountains.

So they raised their own public works! Was it a snub of the court? They laid streets and

shops in a place called Dinniver. It drew on limestone deposits and a hot springs. The nobles

lured settlers like flies from all over Boravia, using ad flyers and peppy hirelings.

“People always go in for a warm bath,” Roger mumbled. He wiped crumbs off his lap. “If

only they worked for their dreams instead of nursing aches and pains…”

Insiders credited a Count Spilon for the city. Roger raised an eyebrow. Mainly he knew of

the man from his cruelty and hillocks of fat. But Spilon was an Emiment of Eminents, a leader

among them. And the Eminents were the upper class of the upper class. The sub-group of rich

claimed descent from the reputed founder of Boravia, Damon, that quasi-divine, quasi-caring,

always robust man from centuries back who led his clan of troubled travelers over the

Crackipern Mountains and founded a village that became Hamden. The fabled hero was an

obsession with the elites. Scraps of lore told his story, scraps whose meaning they fought over.

To Roger, Damon was quasi-real and doubly boring.

How good it felt to sneer at them. Roger felt his old assertive self. The gremlins had not

scarred him forever.

Terry Freitag 48

He hummed as he read along. A passage near the bottom made him pause. “Slave labor..?”

he read. Some claimed the Eminents built the city with imported slaves.

Roger whistled. Slave labor flouted a taboo all over their continent of Constanland. It put

the court at risk. Spilon thrust his jowly chin out at the regent.

Roger left off political intrigue and scanned other parts of the paper. He read of festivals

taking place in coming days, and a new shipment of silver and porcelain wares from Poulti. He

looked over the ads. One showed a siphon that drew ill humors out of any body cavity, with

detachable nozzles. “Rinse after using”, read the caption.

Roger snorted. He drew out his stylus and wrote notes in the paper margins.

An ad near the bottom froze him. It declared “MASONS WANTED” for a month’s work in

eastern Boravia. It referred interested parties to an “M. Turniviche” at 158 Sun Crooken St.

Roger’s writing hand trembled. He licked dry lips. M. Turniviche had worked with his

father on masonry jobs and even bedded in their hovel years ago. Notably, the two worked

together on a temple of the Chalice Priests. His father had met the spidery hermits and gone on

to cataclysm and his speedy demise. Roger pounded back the memories. His father’s decline

did not matter just now, but his acquaintance with M. Turniviche did.

He knew the man headed special tasks for the Baron Debralter, husband of Roger’s dream

client. And masonry was something Roger could do.

Perhaps there was another way into Cormley Castle. He could forget his creeping siege of

maids and servants. Roger felt his dream resurrect, lifting him like a warm tide.

A new chance to get at the baroness.

Terry Freitag 49

Could he go back to Hargrove County so soon? Roger pinched his chin and pondered. If he

was housed in the castle, he thought he could. That furnished some protection between him

and…problem elements.

He suddenly felt giddy. He decided to postpone his appointments once more and pulled

mason tools out of his closet. He polished them off. Hammer, chisel, file, pick, rags. Then extra

rags. He laughed at how basic they were compared to his dental tools.

Then he went out into the street and found an errand boy. Urchins gambled with agate dice

outside a tavern and he recognized an older boy, a moptop, lanky one who favored deer hide

vests and called himself Brian of Kern Canal, which was the trollop and vagrants’ sewer that ran

along the north end of Hamden.

Why the boy wanted to affix such a blight to his name Roger did not know. He liked the

boy’s ready smile and quick movements, though. The boy radiated honesty among misfits.

“My good man,” Roger said, approaching. He clapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I need

hasty word sent to my clients. I’m a dentist in a hurry, the worst kind. Could you take them a

message from me?” He pressed three capis into Brian’s palm.

The boy stroked the coins with his thumb. He seemed awed by their sparkle. “I don’t see

why not,” Brian said. “You just handed me a week’s worth of dinner. What shall I say to who?”

Roger grinned. He liked it when things moved quickly. He told Brian to tell one Albert

Fandy in Hilltop Lane that Roger must postpone his appointment, and to suck on lem leaf for his

abcess until Roger’s return.

Could be months, Roger thought. Great enterprises require great sacrifice. This time it could

be someone else’s sacrifice.

Terry Freitag 50

Then he told Brian to skip five blocks over to a Lady Willoughby in the street of rug weavers

and say the ivory implants were ordered but delayed. Chew on the left side of her mouth until he

came back.

“Should I mention your stellar success with the Duke Darby after his rickets?” Brian asked

cheerfully. “ Or tell them to gargle at every quarter moon?”

Startled, Roger laughed, pleased with this one. This Brian could improvise. A man with a

ready lie had a bright future.

He told Brian to embellish as the spirits led, but vowed summary execution if he returned to

find the task undone. Then he hurried towards Sun Crooken St.

He found the street quickly. He counted addresses and stopped. Two blocks up was a

shopfront guarded by Boravian soldiers with muskets. They stood stiffly in their blue and gold

uniform, with breeches, stockings, broadcoats, and banana-shaped hats. Roger guessed that this

was the place.

He entered a dim chamber with one lamp. A clerk sat at a flimsy desk flanked by brawny

men with wool trousers, dirty linen shirts, and frowns. Roger couldn’t count their scars and felt

intimidated. Besides pounding rock, they could double as persuasive muscle.

Roger tendered an old guild card and gave references of expert masons. The clerk took his

name. He told Roger a list of the hired would show up in tomorrow’s bulletin.

“That’s not good enough!” Roger snapped. All he had gone through heated his brain. He

placed pensive hands on the desk. “I know Mr. Turniviche personally. He will vouch for me.”

If he remembers me, Roger thought.

“He’s out,” the clerk said. “Can’t be reached.”

Terry Freitag 51

“I’ll wait!” Roger announced. With no chairs by the walls, he went over and sat on a sack of

old corn meal. The other masons looked puzzled by his manner and luckily, did not interfere.

An hour passed. The sack beneath him shifted strangely. He feared maggots were crawling

in the grain and tried not to think about it, silently hoping that they would not find a way up his

breeches. He might erupt in a frenzied dance that was hard to explain. Other men came and

went as the day went on, putting in their names.

M. Turniviche finally arrived. He shambled in, looking tired and a little defeated. Roger

observed more growths on his face than he remembered, which covered it like a surge of

toadstools in damp climate. The manager quizzed his clerk about applicants and grunted at what

he heard. The clerk nodded towards Roger.

Roger sprung to his feet and thrust out his hand. “Mr. Turniviche, you will remember me!

I’m little Tellman, the son of James. You were a guest at our house.”

The manager squinted at Roger like he was spying for game bird in deep thicket. He seemed

to absorb Roger’s clean attire, bounteous brown hair, sharp features, and keen grey eyes that

missed little. According to one friend, Roger only missed what was absolutely essential to know.

The man shook Roger’s hand. “I thought that you went into the teeth business. You said that

the mouth does more in a month than the hammer in a thousand years. Your mouth sure did.”

“I do everything. I helped my father.”

“Yes. You worked quick. When you weren’t telling everyone what needed to be done. And

who needed to change. Shouldn’t you be drilling a tooth right now?”

“Cavities are slow this year. I need extra work.”

“Putting a rock man with a teeth man…” the man said dubiously. “Could lead to a rock in

the teeth.”

Terry Freitag 52

“I’m sure I can handle your assignment.”

The man looked loathe to fight the gale-force wind Roger was capable of being. He gave

Roger a doubtful look and said, “All right, I’ll put you on the team.” He beckoned and Roger

came, opening his arms, expecting a hug.

Turniviche only offered a sealed missive from a pile. He saw Roger’s hands wide, and

frowned, seeming to regret his decision already.

Flustered, Roger dropped his hands. The manager said, “Here are the job specifications:

client, location, and scope. You will show them to no one, share them with no one. If you do,

we will put you in jail. Meet at the Triplets Gate tomorrow morning at seven.”

Roger took the packet, bowed soberly, and left. Heart thumping, he walked down Sun

Crooken and rounded a turn. He tore off the seal and read the order. He flushed with happiness.

The job was perfect. Apparently, the Baron Debralter suffered from a flooded basement at

Cormley Castle. Leakage came from that huge moat. Roger remembered his patient Deena

mentioned ailments among the staff. It might be a mildew problem. The baron wanted the leaks

sealed to protect his stored valuables, and he commissioned a team of masons to do it.

That put Roger right in range of the baroness. Soldier, aim your musket! He cantered along

the street. He leapt and clicked his heels. He had a day to pack and dream of a great future.

If he left Hamden so soon, though, he must steal a glimpse of his favorite girl. Many times,

around noon, a woman with brilliant smile and blinding gold curls graced Brubreck Square, in

the center of Hamden. For months, he had noticed her, smiled and admired. His uncertain

prospects and a cheap flat kept him from introducing himself.

She looked noble, what could he offer her? He was only half way to the stars. He felt

wedged between a tawdry past and a great future.

Terry Freitag 53

Still, he could look, and dream. Every vision needed desires like nutmeat, and she was his.

He whistled as he walked to Brubreck Square. Finding a spot at the fountain, he sat. And

waited.

Within an hour, she arrived. She was attended by two ladies, and looked radiant in the early

autumn sun. Roger marveled. Her blonde curls looked fine enough to dissolve under the touch.

The whiteness of her teeth and the droll dance of her mouth amazed him. It formed curious

curves as she chatted. Her expression flowed from smiles to smirks to pure shock. All the while

she kept up goodwill for friends and acquaintances.

After his debacle with the gremlins, he almost went to her. A near brush with death made

you shed caution. He couldn’t quite, though. The baroness was in reach…kind of. A stroke of

fortune must be near.

His doubts pressed his chest back like a hand. No, he must wait for better augers to meet her,

and calculate.

Reluctantly, he watched her go.

He went home to pack.

______

The next morning, at the dawn touch of grey, Roger sat bolt upright. His dun work breeches

and jacket were already on. His neckpiece was tied. Ready to go! He laughed and got up to

brush his shoulder-length hair in a mirror, a little vain about his appearance even on a dirty job.

Terry Freitag 54

Humming, he tucked his box of jeweled fillings under a loose floorboard and draped a nappy rug

over it.

Commotion came from the street. Perhaps people crowded in to see him off, anxious for a

word from him now that he was on his way up.

He smiled at his ridiculous thoughts. My, he was merry today. That girl had him electrified.

Just a peek shot energy into his veins. He hooked on his work satchel and hauled his

portmanteau down the stairs.

Outside, citizens wandered with worried looks, like refugees after war. Some huddled in

furtive groups.

“I know you’re sad to see me go,” Roger whispered, dismayed, “but I’ll be back before you

know it.”

Had there been an invasion?

He clenched his teeth. The outside world was a nuisance. Foreign tyrants could not stop his

future fame. Never! He stopped a brewer with stained hands who was walking by and asked

about the trouble.

“It’s the prince,” the man said, with a tragic hitch in his throat. “He’s kidnapped. Vanished.”

“At least he didn’t die…” Roger said.

“What?”

“From the illness.”

The brewer scowled as though he might report Roger.

“Nothing…” Roger muttered.

Terry Freitag 55

He stared blankly at a hosiery across the street and tried to think of what this event meant to

him. He wasn’t sure. First, the prince was sick, then he was kidnapped. The boy needed to get

his life together.

Feeling subdued, Roger walked towards the Triplets Gate. He thought over the situation. A

kidnapping meant greater security at the castle, couriers scurrying, a purge. Bloodbaths in the

inner chambers of Castle Cormley. Horrors played in his mind. His wrist ached as he lugged his

case. It might not be the best time to besiege the privacy of the baroness. Should he abandon his

plan?

Roger doubled his resolve. He felt very determined, even as his face went pale.

At the gate, he located the wagon train of masons. A retinue of armed guards attended them,

patting their restless horses. The mood was grim, the sword close. Roger showed his work order

to a foreman.

Before long, Turniviche stepped up to speak. “All right, men, glad to see you here. Only

two absent, and they can stay that way. Now. The events of last night mean more eyes on you,

but I hired you for your professionalism. Keep steady and no harm befalls you. The work is to

go forward. Our baron has many priceless items at risk in his basement. We have two weeks.

You will be inspected coming and going, so take nothing out, not even to clean. If you are a

schemer with greedy hands, you die. Understood? No games with the baron!”

A few men hurrahed. Turniviche told them to get settled into the wagons. It was two days

ride to the castle.

Roger climbed into the last wagon, invisible chains dragging at his limbs. If you are a

schemer, you die! Teacher, he thought weakly, what if I scheme like I breathe?

He settled in, and the wagon departed.

Terry Freitag 56

Now he was worried.

Chapter 7

Previous chapter. Roger starts in the moldy basement of Cormley Castle and works his way

up to the boudoir of the baroness. He pursues his dream by derring do. Along the way, he learns

of the baron’s strife with the Eminents with greater depth. He achieves a treasured sighting of

the Cynthia’s awful teeth, but decides against an immediate introduction.

Chapter 8

Previous chapter. Excited by his success at Cormley Castle and the rescue of the prince, and

with the mason job done, Roger returns to Brubreck Fountain for another glimpse of his beloved.

The sight of gallows victims cows him, but he perseveres and sees the girl. Falls in the fountain.

Her suitor leads him to the palace doctor.

Chapter 9

Previous chapter. Drugged by the doctor, Roger awakens in a roomful of corpses. He

manages to escape into the halls of Hamden Palace only to encounter Thomas, the nephew of the

baroness during the evening of the prince’s return party. He lures Thomas into his escapades,

who promises an introduction.

Terry Freitag 57

Chapter 10

Previous chapter. Introduction to Baronness Cynthia. A peek into her psychology, her

relationships at court, and her unique challenges. Thomas tracks her down and presents Roger as

an option in her needs for a castle doctor.

Chapter 11

Previous chapter. Introduction to the spies Almya and Drury. They conspire at the border

and narrowly avoid capture by the great Eminent Spilon. Wideview and longview of Boravia’s

challenges as a nation.

NOTE: for purposes of efficiency and pacing, the whole interview with Tim Sumpter is

omitted. His story arc doesn’t begin until half way through the second book, so that conversation

will occur in a modified form late in this book or early in the second book. Also, I took out

details of the masons’ journey to Cormley Castle.

Terry Freitag 58