Clemency Pogue Read online

  “Hey. Whoa. Deny a fish water before you take a child’s fear from a hobgoblin. Clip a dove’s wings or a human’s thumbs. Poop in my breakfast, I won’t complain, but don’t deny me a child’s fear. I’m a hobgoblin, Clem.”

  Chaphesmeeso seemed honestly hurt. The sick child seemed okay, really. She had gone back to sleep, was even smiling slightly.

  “Well.” Clem thought a moment. “I guess. I guess you can scare children, just don’t scare any of the children who I’m trying to help.”

  “Done and done. Stick a fork in it, it comes out clean. I won’t scare any children you’ve already scarred.” Chaphesmeeso smiled, relieved.

  Clem looked again at the sleeping child. Had her ear gotten even redder? She looked over at the grandmother, a wrinkled gray luminary of hope. Oh, dear, thought Clem.

  Chaphesmeeso looked at her expectantly.

  “I’m stumped,” said Clem. It was final. It was like a great sinking. She had pushed a child off the edge of a ship, and then thrown the life preserver over the other side.

  “Well.” Chaphesmeeso looked encouragingly at her. “Every stump is another pile of logs.”

  “What does that mean?” Clem said.

  “I don’t know, I was just trying to cheer you up.”

  “You talk a lot of trash. But thanks.” Clem looked at the child. This was hopeless. But if she let herself sink, it meant even more children with their heads below water. Okay. Keep moving. She turned to Chaphesmeeso.

  “Let’s go,” she said. Keep moving.

  “And leave this poor waif with an earful of pixie and pea?”

  “Yep. That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.” Clem moved across the room, toward the door. Chaphesmeeso followed.

  The grandmother’s eyebrows drooped like the eaves of a thatched roof. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to form words. Come back. Help my child. Don’t go. She only made a small noise in the back of her throat, a sad, hope-flying-away sound, like a kitten dropped from a great height would make on the way down.

  Clemency and her hobgoblin walked out into the cold. A little snow blew through the door and settled on the floor.

  Chapter 6

  “OKAY, WHO’S NEXT?” Clemency said. “Line ’em up, I’ll knock down the less stable ones.”

  “Well. In Salt Lake City there’s a child just opposite this last one. Something fell out of his head. He stuck it under his pillow to exchange it for money, and when the Tooth Fairy arrived, you smote her dead. Young Jeffrey woke to find his tooth had bedded down with the fairy who had come to take it away. He’ll have to say bye-bye to that bouncy ball that four bits would have bought.”

  “Tooth removal.” Clem narrowed her eyes. “It’s not even attached to his head anymore? I can do tooth removal.”

  The snow was falling thicker. Clem took one last look at the small, warm, disappointed cabin. Keep moving, she thought.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  She lifted the hobgoblin by his ears and braced herself. She was ready for it this time, the changing gravity, the rushing dirt, the explosion of earth, and then the glaring blue overwhelming sky of Utah.

  Jeffrey lived in one of a cluster of homes and lawns that looked as if it had dropped from a great height, and spread like an egg on a griddle. The streets were wide and straight and stretched beyond the vanishing point.

  “Hard to suss which of these things he lives in,” Chaphesmeeso said, rubbing his helmet and squinting at the nearly identical suburban houses.

  His tunnel opened in the earth a few feet from a great green mailbox. Large white letters stretching across its side read, JEFFREY’S PARENTS.

  “What about that?” Clemency asked, pointing at the mailbox and the house beyond.

  “What about what?” Chaphesmeeso asked.

  “The mailbox says Jeffrey lives here.”

  “You understand the secret language of mailboxes?” Genuinely impressed, the hobgoblin flopped one of his rabbit ears against the side of the box, listening intently. “I didn’t even hear it talking.”

  “No, no, it’s written on the side.” Clemency pointed at the letters.

  “Ah, scribble talk.” He pulled his ear away from the mailbox, grimacing. “I can’t read, none of us can. Reading’s human magic.”

  Clemency and Chaphesmeeso walked around the side of the house, wedged open a window, and crawled into the den.

  By any hero’s standards, their tooth removal adventure was a cakewalk. Girl and hobgoblin were delayed slightly when Chaphesmeeso found a full-length mirror and demanded five minutes to practice scary faces. One of his faces was so well performed that Clem peed a little.

  Jeffrey was gone, at school. They found the tooth under his tear-stained pillow, sure enough with the dead fairy lying next to it. Clem was struck by a now familiar pang of guilt.

  “All I need is the fairy’s name to bring her back to life?” she asked.

  “That’s all,” Chaphesmeeso confirmed.

  “But…that’s easy.” A glimmer of hope afflicted young Clem. She looked at the fairy, lying as if merely asleep on the tear-damp linens, and said, “I do believe in the Tooth Fairy, I do.”

  At those words, with the suddenness of a summer storm, with a flash like inspiration, nothing happened. The Tooth Fairy stayed dead.

  “Why didn’t that work?” Clemency asked.

  “Is your name ‘Fairy-Murdering, Hobgoblin-Enslaving, Globetrotting Tailor of Burlap Pants’?” Chaphesmeeso asked.

  “No,” Clem said, fairly certain.

  “Right. It’s your job description. Just like ‘Tooth Fairy’ is her job description.” He hooked a gnarled thumb at the fairy’s lifeless form.

  Clemency nodded. Without the Tooth Fairy’s true name, she couldn’t return her life. But at least could see that the fairy’s work was done.

  Jeffrey’s tooth was a minuscule little nub, even by baby-tooth standards. Clem picked up the tiny ivory nugget and examined it. A silver-filled cavity dully gleamed in the afternoon light.

  “Please, allow me,” said Chaphesmeeso, holding out a rough orangutan-like palm.

  Clem handed him the tooth, and he threw back his head and popped it down his gullet like a headache remedy. His Adam’s apple bobbed cartoonishly as he swallowed.

  What do I want? thought Clem, He’s a hobgoblin.

  She patted her burlap pants pockets and found them empty.

  “Do you have any change?” she asked the hobgoblin.

  “A pile of coins in a hobgoblin’s pocket is a mouthful of candy before you can say ‘diabetes.’”

  “Hmm.” Clem looked around. It would be wrong to take Jeffrey’s own money to put under his pillow. (Clem had become a staunch moralist after her seventh murder.) She walked out of Jeffrey’s and into the living room, and thrust her hands under the cushions of the glaring yellow sofa.

  She shortly found three quarters, four dimes, six nickels, one wheat penny, and two normal ones. She returned to Jeffrey’s room to find Chaphesmeeso drawing dirty cartoons on a book report that Jeffrey would probably overlook and his teacher probably would not.

  Clemency dropped the change onto the linens under Jeffrey’s pillow. Chaphesmeeso grinned at her.

  “Mine the sofa for change?” he asked. “I’ll tell you a secret. The Tooth Fairy does the same thing.”

  “Who knew?” Clemency picked up the fairy delicately by one foot, holding her between pointer and thumb. The fairy looked peaceful. She was a lovely little creature with skin the color of vanilla taffy.

  “Do we bury her?” Clem asked.

  The hobgoblin finished his cartoon with wriggly lines that indicated motion, and hobbled over to where Clemency stood with her victim.

  “Again, allow me.” He held out a palm.

  Clem looked at him for a moment, remembering how he swallowed the tooth.

  “Nnnno,” she said.

  Chaphesmeeso inhaled sharply. “I am shocked,” he said in a dull tone. “Horrified and shocked and discombobul
ated. Does your diseased brain touch your spinal cord? How could you think I would eat so lovely a creature? I’m a hobgoblin. I’ve got appearances to keep up. A reputation of an appetite for toads and snails, worm heads and guppy tails. Only the uglier puppy dogs. A fairy? Bah.” Chaphesmeeso leaned forward meaningfully. “I know of a secret and sacred fairy burial ground that is very close by. If you would be so kind as to allow me, I will see that this fairy’s soul will find a resting place at the end of her long, tiring journey.” Again he held out his palm, nodded slightly.

  Clemency, a little ashamed, gently lay the fairy in his gourd-skinned palm. Chaphesmeeso, in a slow, solemn pace, left the room, leaving Clemency standing over Jeffrey’s rumpled bed. She decided to write Jeffrey a note from the Tooth Fairy, explaining the fairy’s tardiness.

  She found pen and paper and began: Sorry about being late, but you’re not the only kid losing teeth. You see, there was a hockey tournament on the other side of the country, and…She stopped, realized that Jeffrey had probably found the real Tooth Fairy’s body, and there was little she could do but hope that a dollar forty-eight would ease and dull his mind. She tossed the note in the trash can.

  A great flush emanated from down the hall, water rushing out of a big old toilet with a tank like a battle ship. Chaphesmeeso walked back into the room wiping his hands against each other.

  “Done and done,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  CLEMENCY WAS FEELING BETTER. Despite Chaphesmeeso’s growing cruelty, she had solved Jeffrey’s problem. She felt she could do this. She could make up for some of the problems she had caused.

  “Who’s next?”

  “Ah,” began the hobgoblin in a deep, breathy voice. “Young love. Young love adds color to the cheeks, but that color must come from the brain, which grows decidedly dim. Young love is like ice cream, it’s not so healthy but it sure tastes good, and you better lick it up right after it’s scooped, or it becomes a sticky, sickly sweet mess. And nobody likes rum raisin young love.” Chaphesmeeso nodded knowingly.

  “And young lovers are like doves, romanticized and quite lovely, but basically just albino pigeons. They’re not so smart. A little American boy vacationing in Brazil met a local girl who took his heart away. Now he’s trying to write her a letter to get it back. I guess the missing heart has reduced the blood flow to his brain, because his love letter is the worst thing ever written. A Fairy of Love and Tenderness was trying to open the only book that the boy owns, to show him what good love poetry is like, when she was killed by your misbelief and mashed between the pages.”

  Clemency thought a moment. Love was not quite her territory, but she supposed she could find her way through it if she had a map. She lifted the hobgoblin by his ears.

  Chapter 8

  THE YOUNG BOY in love sat under a tree atop a mountain that smelled of cloves and sweat. Clemency started up the hill toward him, Chaphesmeeso stayed put at the lip of the tunnel leading to Jeffrey’s backyard.

  “Come on.” Clem nodded her head toward the love-struck fool.

  “Mmmmm, no. I know I’ve said it before, and you must be getting tired by now, but I’m a hobgoblin. Love is brimstone. Sentiment is sulfur. Probably the only thing more frightening than fire.”

  “You’re afraid of fire?” Clemency asked.

  “Yeah, a cave troll once mistook me for a marshmallow.” Chaphesmeeso rubbed his head and grimaced at the unpleasant memory.

  “Did he try to toast you?” Clemency asked.

  “No, I was explaining why I’m afraid of love. I’d rather not talk about it. Listen, I’ll just wait here, maybe occupy myself by frightening some rabbits or monkeys. You know my name. When you’re done, just call it out and I’ll have no choice but to come running.”

  “Oh.” Clemency looked at her ugly little companion. He seemed honestly frightened by the proximity of sentiment. She felt a pang of pity pong against the inside of her chest. “Well, I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

  Clemency turned and walked quickly up to the young boy, who jumped when he saw Clem approach, scrambling to cover a sheet of loose-leaf he had been scribbling on with a pencil.

  “Whatcha got there?” Clem asked, trying to sound confident and friendly.

  “Oh, um, nothing.” The boy spoke with an urgency learned by much grade school teasing.

  Clem sat down on the ground near him.

  “My name’s Clemency,” she said.

  “I’m, uh, Noah,” said the boy, and made a weird, silent single chuckle.

  He’s terrified of girls, realized Clem. Maybe one bit him when he was younger.

  “How do you do, Noah.”

  “How do,” he said, gritting his teeth slightly.

  Looking at the terrified, love-struck boy, probably a year her senior, but shrunk to almost nothing by his anxiety and affection, Clemency realized that this was going to be pretty painful, no matter what. She would get it over as quickly as possible.

  “Okay, Noah. I’m gonna be straight with you.” She needed a story. “You and whatser-name are meant to be. Venus, the goddess of love, sent me here to help you with that poem you’re writing. It’s a stinker and we both know it. How about you hand it over and we’ll talk.”

  Noah looked at her. His mouth opened slightly, hurt. Maybe calling his poem a “stinker” had not been so hot an idea. Clemency put out her hand and nodded reassuringly.

  “Hand it over, Noah.”

  Noah took a deep breath and gave her the crumpled sheet of paper. Smudges and eraser marks bruised the lined surface as if it had been strafed by fighter planes. Through the wreckage, however, could be discerned a poem:

  TO: Becky. FROM: Noah.

  Your face is a little gold bell

  I hang in the chamber of my heart.

  Your face is a little gold bell,

  And your tongue is the clapper part.

  Your voice makes that little bell tinkle,

  Tinkle inside of me.

  Now there’s tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

  Where my blood is supposed to be!

  “Oh.” Clem felt that old sinking feeling. “Oh, Noah.”

  He mistook her words for breathlessness at the poem’s beauty.

  “Can’t you hear it?” he said. “Becky Becky…tinkle tinkle…Becky Becky…”

  “Oh, good grief,” Clemency said. Where to begin? Noah, give up. Grow up and hope you fall in love with somebody illiterate. Or, Noah, the world can always use another priest. Or, Noah, love is not for everybody. Maybe you should try data entry. This was hopeless. She looked again at the poem, as she would have looked at a hamster with a tumor. Hopeless.

  “I was thinking”—Noah was gaining some confidence—“I was thinking maybe I should spell ‘bell’ like the French word for beautiful. Wouldn’t that be clever?”

  “Oh.” Clemency tried to think of something to say. “Your spelling is really right on.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Noah. “I’m a good speller. I like your pants.”

  “I made them myself.” Clemency was like a two-thirds-inflated beach ball that someone had tried to bounce. She sat with her bottom third flattened, feeling weak and hopeless.

  Wait: the book. Clemency remembered Chaphesmeeso had said something about a book. Maybe it had some good ideas about poetry in it.

  “Do you have any books with you?” Clemency asked.

  “Just a Bible,” said Noah.

  “Good grief,” said Clem. Hooooope Lessssss sounded in her head like a foghorn. She looked to Noah’s right and saw the Bible nestled between the great gnarled roots of the ancient tree. She picked it up.

  Between the pages, about a third of the way through, were ten little pale, rose-colored nuggets, like two side-by-side rows of pink mushrooms the size of pin heads.

  Horror dawned on Clemency. They were the fingers of the Fairy of Love and Tenderness, sticking out where she was smashed between the pages. She held up the Bible like it was a sandwich she intended to take a bite out of with her e
yes.

  There were black specks on the fairy’s knuckles. Clemency squinted and brought the book closer to her face. The black specks spread slightly as her eyes focused and, there, a letter written on each finger:

  T W I T T.

  Next hand: A M O R E.

  Twittamore. Clemency thought, Twittamore?

  She opened the Bible and saw the fairy splayed spread-eagle across the pages, a little flattened, her wings out like a preserved butterfly. The top of the page read, “The Song of Solomon.” She read a little bit. It did not even rhyme. Bang up job, Solomon, she thought.

  Noah leaned forward, to see what she was looking at, and Clemency slammed the book, feeling like she should keep the dead fairy a secret.

  Twittamore. It hit her like a flash. (She had never been hit by a flash, but she could assume.) “Twittamore” must be the fairy’s name.

  She cracked open the book and peered in at the little creature. Noah leaned forward again, and Clemency gave him a firm shove.

  “Sit back a second,” she said. “I’m trying to help.”

  She looked at the fairy, which lay across the words: “Thy teeth as a flock of sheep, which come up from the washing.” Was this what the fairy was trying for? Good luck, Noah.

  She leaned in close to the book and whispered between the pages that cradled the fairy:

  “I do believe in Twittamore. I do.”

  The fairy sat upright like the spring of a mousetrap and struck her head against the page above her. She flinched and covered her head with her hands. She buzzed out of the Bible frantically, bouncing off Clemency’s cheek.

  Clem reeled, dropping the book, which Noah dove forward to catch. Twittamore rebounded off Clemency’s face and came to stability, floating about an arm’s length from her reanimator.

  She swooped down to hover just outside Clemency’s ear canal, and buzzed a sound that Clem could not translate but understood deep in her head, in a voice drenched with subtle sweetness: “Thank you.”