called Mrs. Wells from the open door. The children ran up. “What on earth are you doing out in the rain without your ponchos?” she asked as they climbed in among the groceries. “Please don’t tell me you were in that bog again, Joy Wells….”
“We didn’t go in that far,” answered Joy, her hair now dark and dripping. Byron didn’t comment, having already opened a box of crackers and stuffed his mouth full.
“It’s much too dangerous to go in at all,” said Mrs. Wells crossly. “I thought we’d talked about this already. If you want to play in the woods, we have a perfectly fine park in town.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Now, let’s get you both home before you get pneumonia,” said Mrs. Wells, stomping the gas. The car shot up the crooked road as streams of rainwater rushed down to meet them. “I still can’t believe you forgot your new ponchos on such a day,” she said disapprovingly.
CHAPTER 6
I t always came in the dead of night. The dreaded visitor. Phipps would wake with a start at its first feathery touch, then feel its crushing weight bearing down on his chest.
It was Death—its relentless approach. At the darkest hour, just when his limbs felt lightest, his eyes would suddenly snap open.
He was going to die.
So what, he scoffed. Everyone is going to die. And it did make him smile to think that in a world so unfair, there was one great equalizer—that it would all vanish one day like a puff of smoke for everyone.
But no, he remembered, dying wasn’t the issue. The issue was vanishing without a trace, having made no mark on the world. Quickly forgotten even by the few who’d known him. He would toss and turn as the room turned a gloomy blue that recalled the many gray dawns he’d spent in Spooking Cemetery.
At which point, he would throw off the covers and stomp to the shower. Then, rinsing soap and fatigue from his stinging eyes, he would begin plotting again. Plotting against fate.
And so the morning had begun again. It was time to pay another visit to the bog, he decided, as he knotted his tie.
Phipps hadn’t been back since that terrible afternoon. He had gone to see the old couple to ask them to be reasonable. He’d intended to tell them that the mayor had authorized a nice check to help with moving expenses. He’d meant to point out that there were many other fetid habitats around where a quaint little hermit couple could live.
But somehow it didn’t go that way.
He’d approached undetected, finding the old man alone, sketching some sad-looking weed against a backdrop of bog water. The old man had been whistling to himself, a tuneless torrent of notes that refused to conform itself to any sort of musical phrase. He’d seemed completely at ease, without a care in the world.
The cacophony had been enough to ignite a flare of anger in Phipps. Why was he even indulging this lunatic? He had tried diplomacy before and it had failed. It was now time to make the old coot squirm on the point of a hook.
“Gottfried Leibniz!” he had called out cheerfully, emerging from the trees.
The old man jumped with fright. His notebook landed with a splash in front of him.
“Oh dear, I made you drop your drawing,” Phipps said, strolling up with a smirk. “I hadn’t meant to startle you. I was just remarking what an interesting name you provided me, even if it was false.”
The old man’s eyes blazed with anger as he retrieved his notebook, which was a complete sodden mess. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I’m just here for a scholarly chat. Did you know who Gottfried Leibniz was? Of course you did, as I can tell you’re an educated man. Living like a pig in a swamp, I might add, but I’m sure you worked long and hard for that privilege.
“I, on the other hand, went to music school,” he continued, “where I also worked hard but unfortunately didn’t learn anything of any use—except how to use a library, that is.
“Which is where I learned that Gottfried Leibniz was
“We didn’t go in that far,” answered Joy, her hair now dark and dripping. Byron didn’t comment, having already opened a box of crackers and stuffed his mouth full.
“It’s much too dangerous to go in at all,” said Mrs. Wells crossly. “I thought we’d talked about this already. If you want to play in the woods, we have a perfectly fine park in town.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Now, let’s get you both home before you get pneumonia,” said Mrs. Wells, stomping the gas. The car shot up the crooked road as streams of rainwater rushed down to meet them. “I still can’t believe you forgot your new ponchos on such a day,” she said disapprovingly.
CHAPTER 6
I t always came in the dead of night. The dreaded visitor. Phipps would wake with a start at its first feathery touch, then feel its crushing weight bearing down on his chest.
It was Death—its relentless approach. At the darkest hour, just when his limbs felt lightest, his eyes would suddenly snap open.
He was going to die.
So what, he scoffed. Everyone is going to die. And it did make him smile to think that in a world so unfair, there was one great equalizer—that it would all vanish one day like a puff of smoke for everyone.
But no, he remembered, dying wasn’t the issue. The issue was vanishing without a trace, having made no mark on the world. Quickly forgotten even by the few who’d known him. He would toss and turn as the room turned a gloomy blue that recalled the many gray dawns he’d spent in Spooking Cemetery.
At which point, he would throw off the covers and stomp to the shower. Then, rinsing soap and fatigue from his stinging eyes, he would begin plotting again. Plotting against fate.
And so the morning had begun again. It was time to pay another visit to the bog, he decided, as he knotted his tie.
Phipps hadn’t been back since that terrible afternoon. He had gone to see the old couple to ask them to be reasonable. He’d intended to tell them that the mayor had authorized a nice check to help with moving expenses. He’d meant to point out that there were many other fetid habitats around where a quaint little hermit couple could live.
But somehow it didn’t go that way.
He’d approached undetected, finding the old man alone, sketching some sad-looking weed against a backdrop of bog water. The old man had been whistling to himself, a tuneless torrent of notes that refused to conform itself to any sort of musical phrase. He’d seemed completely at ease, without a care in the world.
The cacophony had been enough to ignite a flare of anger in Phipps. Why was he even indulging this lunatic? He had tried diplomacy before and it had failed. It was now time to make the old coot squirm on the point of a hook.
“Gottfried Leibniz!” he had called out cheerfully, emerging from the trees.
The old man jumped with fright. His notebook landed with a splash in front of him.
“Oh dear, I made you drop your drawing,” Phipps said, strolling up with a smirk. “I hadn’t meant to startle you. I was just remarking what an interesting name you provided me, even if it was false.”
The old man’s eyes blazed with anger as he retrieved his notebook, which was a complete sodden mess. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I’m just here for a scholarly chat. Did you know who Gottfried Leibniz was? Of course you did, as I can tell you’re an educated man. Living like a pig in a swamp, I might add, but I’m sure you worked long and hard for that privilege.
“I, on the other hand, went to music school,” he continued, “where I also worked hard but unfortunately didn’t learn anything of any use—except how to use a library, that is.
“Which is where I learned that Gottfried Leibniz was
Similar Books
