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THE SCATTERSMITH

  by David James Kane

  Copyright 2013

 

  Copyright David James Kane 2013

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

  For my wife and sons.

  Table of Contents

  About the Blackgum

  Chapter 1 - Snakes in my Mouth

  Chapter 2 - Pumpkin Gutted

  Chapter 3 - The Old Man and the Fee

  Chapter 4 - Trunk Call

  Chapter 5 - Testing Times

  Chapter 6 - The Brother of Death

  Chapter 7 - New Attractions

  Chapter 8 - Dream Team

  Chapter 9 - Fisticuffs and the Ferine

  Chapter 10 - Crab Date

  Chapter 11 - Building Bridges

  Chapter 12 - Dashed Plans

  Chapter 13 - Scrambled Lines

  Chapter 14 - Spectre in the Hole

  Chapter 15 - Crouchers

  Chapter 16 - Heel and Toe

  Chapter 17 - Barn Trance

  Chapter 18 - Man Witch

  Chapter 19 - Pact Off

  Chapter 20 - All the Way Home

  Chapter 21 - Games to Play with One Red Witch

  Chapter 22 - Return to Ender

  Chapter 23 - Mea Culprit

  Chapter 24 - Scattersmith

  ABOUT THE BLACKGUM

  Even if you know a lot about monsters, you probably haven't heard of the Blackgum.

  Since stone tools and flint-fire, they've stalked us; and probably long before then. Some have not adapted to our new cities, or our germs or guns or phone cameras, and lurk in the shadows of country lanes and the outskirts of towns.

  Others have retreated completely to wild space: coiled underground, crouched low in scrub, burrowing deep under desert dunes, soaring overhead behind thick banks of cloud, or slithering through reefs and the wrecks of old ships. They are near-forgotten abominations, half mad with hunger, feeding off twisted memories of ancient glories.

  But most modern Blackgum favour disguise over exile. They have learned to hide in plain sight amongst us. Right beneath our noses.

  An urban Blackgum wears deodorant and shaves its legs - in some cases, its flanks and back too - to fit in with us. Some wear tailored suits or dresses or, in more casual settings like the shopping centre, swan about in jeans and T-shirts embossed with witty quips from blockbusting movies. Some of the Blackgum - those that don't wither in sunlight - hold down honest day jobs, pay their rent and put their kids through school. Some even volunteer at Christmas, ladling out fare at local soup kitchens. They look just like you or me, or your mum or dad.

  They might even be your mum or dad.

  Even the most careful Blackgum can't hide forever. Its lumps and bumps can be covered by huge blouses and voluminous track pants. Its demonic pupils can be cloaked by contacts or designer sunglasses. Clammy skin and horrid stinks can be sprayed over with fake tans and vats of perfume. But a Blackgum has to drop its human mask when called to battle or to feed. And the Blackgum do not munch on hamburgers and chips.

  How do I know this?

  In most countries, experts identify the cursed brats at birth. These unlucky kids are abducted from their parents and drilled in secret facilities for years by disciplined, wise men and women who train them in the many ways and methods of the Blackgum.

  Not for me. I stumbled on my first Blackgum by accident, and was lucky to survive. My apprenticeship, if you want to call it that, came later and lasted just over a week. My teacher, to put it mildly, was offbeat and unreliable. A tad flighty, even.

  Amongst the few lay-people who know of the Blackgum, most dismiss them as fables: scary stories made up by scheming parents to teach kids of yore dubious lessons of life, like the health benefits of doing what you are told. Less ignorant folk, including some who've devoted their lives to the study, think the Blackgum existed once, but are extinct, like dinosaurs and tape decks. The Blackgum like it this way. It's much easier to hunt if no one's looking out for you.

  My kind fights the Blackgum. We have never been many and are now hopelessly few. Most obscure of all, however, are the Blackgum masters. Pray you never cross paths with one: you won't survive the introduction.

  This is the story of how I discovered the Blackgum and what it cost me. Let me start at the beginning. I'd just woken up in the kitchen of my Aunt Bea's house.

  With snakes in my mouth!

  1. SNAKES IN MY MOUTH

  I sniffed in the stink of cheap detergent and an old roast lamb. Then I opened my eyes.

  From the freezer handle of Aunt Bea's ancient fridge, my warped reflection snarled back at me. My enormous forehead, sharp white teeth and pointy chin leered out of the chrome like a rabid alien caged in a hall of mirrors. As my mouth flew open to scream, three luridly coloured, drooping snake tails flopped against my chin.

  The lights were off, but moonlight streamed through the window and glinted off the wet sink. Of more immediate relevance, the snakes defied my urgent attempts to spit them out and clung on desperately, affixed to the underside of my chin like three old wads of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a school desk.

  I whipsawed the back of my hand across my stinging lips and finally dislodged the sticky serpents. The three writhing snakes plopped onto the floor half a metre from my bare feet and twitched menacingly. I flung myself back against the kitchen wall. One of Aunt Bea's prized mock-medieval tapestries bounced off its hook, smashed onto my forehead, glanced off my shoulder, and clattered onto the tiled floor, nearly decapitating one of the snakes. It didn't move.

  I cursed and rubbed my head, then hunkered down to inspect the serpents. I groaned: they were just lollies, my favourite sugar asps! I licked my lips and winced at their sharp sherbet residue. Shaking my head, I walked over to switch on the light, but suddenly froze.

  Heavy feet stomped overhead, tramped quickly down the stairs and shuffled up the hallway. The dining room door crashed open. The shuffling became louder and more abrasive, like mops raking a gravel trap.

  The kitchen door swung open. I jumped. An ancient hand, splotched with moles, curled around the door and scrabbled at the wall, flicking on the light switch with a plastic clack.

  Aunt Bea stepped into the room, squint-scowling at me under the harsh fluorescent lights that ran across the ceiling. At five foot flat, she was shorter than me. Swathed in Uncle Gerry's blue dressing gown, she seemed to have shrunk. Bright green slippers, modelled on clogs, adorned her feet. Atop her head sat a crotched pilgrim bonnet that covered all but the fringe of her wiry, silver-black hair. Aunt Bea's face was round and pink, and carpeted in light fuzz, like a plum's, which she normally buried in make-up. She brandished Uncle Gerry's old walking stick like a sword.

  "What on earth is going on, boy?" said Aunt Bea. She always called me 'boy', as though there were hundreds of us living under Sub Rosa's roof, and she couldn't reasonably be expected to remember all of our names. "I thought you were rats. Oh, my Bayeux!" she said, shaking her stick at the shattered tapestry frame on the floor. "You have to stop being so careless."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I -"

  "Just what were you doing down here in the depths of the night anyway?" Aunt Bea interrupted. "Midnight snacking? I hope you haven't woken my poor Katy! I've got a Council meeting on the Beltway tomorrow. If I'm not at my best, the whole town could perish. Is that what you want? A Councilor too tired to protect Quakehaven and her people from oblivion?"

  "I doubt it very much, Beatrice," said a gentle, calm voice from the other side of the kitch
en. "Patrick did say he was sorry."

  Mum joined us in the middle of the room. Her bedroom - a converted conservatory off the back of the main house - adjoined the kitchen through the walk-in larder. She lent down and ruffled my hair, massaging the tender lump that puffed out of my forehead like an ignition switch. "Nightmares again?" She looked worried.

  "I don't remember," I said embarrassed, gesturing vaguely down at the half-chewed carcasses on the floor. "I woke up suddenly downstairs and -"

  "What in heaven's name are those?" shrieked Aunt Bea, wiggling her stick at the sweets.

  Mum giggled. I joined in. It was hard not to. Dad used to call her laugh 'infectious', like a disease, but a good one. Aunt Bea glowered at us, and I tried to stop.

  "It's amazing what the young Patrick Lee can discover when he is on one of his sleepwalking escapades," said Mum, smiling. "I only bought these today, and you can't have seen them before bed. I thought they'd be safe, hidden beneath the teaspoons!"

  Crinkled with mirth, Mum's freckled face and gleaming green eyes lit up the room. She was taller and leaner than her sister, with an open, oval face that nestled within a mane of uncontrollable, red ringlets that broke combs. Despite the cold, she wore a simple black nightie and no slippers. She went over to the sink, grabbed some Ajax and a dish cloth and bent down to clean up my mess.

  "While you two giggling gerties stand around cackling at each other," huffed Aunt Bea, "I'm going to bed. You should see Doctor Vassel about the boy, Bridget. Some of us have to work tomorrow and we can't be woken up every time the boy goes walkabout. He's liable to climb into my bed one of these days."

  I shuddered. As much as I loved my aunt, somehow snakes weren't as frightening as the idea of lying in bed with Aunt Bea in the dark. Mum winked at me, mischievously, and I fought the urge to laugh again. Without another word, Aunt Bea tapped her walking stick sternly on the floor, turned around and clomped dramatically out of the kitchen back the way she had come.

  "Sorry, Beatrice," called Mum down the hall. "Reg thinks it's just a phase he'll grow out of. Goodnight!"

  As Mum rejoined me in the kitchen, I grabbed her hands. "Don't be sorry, Mum," I said. "It's not your fault - I'm the one with the problem."

  "Don't be silly, Paddy," she said. "You can't help sleepwalking, and it's hardly a problem."

  I looked down at the floor, which was now spotless. Mum was an amazing cleaner. I hadn't seen her scrub up the snakes.

  "Aunt Bea isn't angry with you," Mum said. "She's just tired. Us oldies get grouchy when we're tired. And she's still not used to having people around after all those years alone."

  Uncle Gerry passed away about eight years ago. I was too young to remember him properly, though I had vague memories of bouncing up and down on his enormous belly while he bellowed German beer songs from his favourite armchair in the reading room.

  Mum lent over for a hug. She seemed surprised at how little she had to bend down. We hugged and, for a minute, it was like things were back to normal. When we let go, we both had tears in our eyes, though I blinked mine away quickly.

  Mother and son, together in the kitchen. It was the perfect, TV special moment. Then I glanced over Mum's right shoulder and saw them: two, red and silver wings the size of guitars flapping against the window above the sink.

  Each scarlet wing had a large black dot at its centre, with acute silver markings like furrowed brows. The black dots dilated slowly. The wings flapped once, like a taunting wink, and then faded into the black of night.