Context

In this world, there are being with enlightened consciousnesses and those with unenlightened consciousnesses. Enlightened animals are distinguished from "common" animals and live alongside humans. The unenlightened equivalent for humans are faeries, which have evolved into a wonderfully diverse species yet they can also be environmentally destructive and carriers of disease. As a result, the monitoring of faerie populations and culling them to protect against trophic cascade is integral to this society...

One

We are in need of a gardener. That had been the request. We are looking for someone young, hardy, a good listener, quick learner.

Preferably quiet, doesn’t snore.

They would sleep in the attic, Simon. I don’t care if they snore or not.

Well, I do.

Young, hardy, good listener, quick learner who doesn’t snore. My grandmother thought I matched the request well enough. I might joke and say she wanted to be rid of me as fast as she could; no longer having to feed a growing, teenage boy would alleviate the grocery bill. I was fifteen, after all. But I don’t know how she thought it a fine idea to send her grandson and only living relative to live with, and apprentice under the Abbertons. There were many other more respected occupations to explore: blacksmithing, farming, the printing press, doctor, alchemist, even wood working, many jobs that weren’t associated with the Abbertons. The name alone could make any respectable person in our village raise their eyebrows, at least anyone who didn’t live under a rock. Everyone here knew who the Abbertons were.

“Oh Norman, you’ll addle what you’ve got between your ears if you listen to prattle and rumors,” my grandmother would say whenever I brought them up.

“Everyone knows how they hardly leave their house,” I had tried to tell her one last time as she pushed my suitcase into my hand. “Their house on that god-awful hill. They had it built there on purpose, they must have, to keep people away. And the smoke from their chimney, I swear, it looks green sometimes. And you can smell it, even from the village. Smells like… well, I don’t know. Funny.”

“I told them you were a quiet boy, Norman.”

I sighed. “You’re really alright with sending me off to live with nostrum brewers?”

“Norman Taylor! Gossip is what that is! Gossip, and you know what the good book says about gossip!”

I fell quiet and looked away, out the window where I could see the buggy waiting for me. A stern-looking, brown speckled salamander in a vest and trousers sat in the driver’s bench, thumbing the reins with seeming impatience.

My grandmother noticed my quietness, or rather, my demeanor. She huffed a sigh of her own from her bosom and threw her hands up a little at me. “What else would you rather do?”

I didn’t answer. I had stopped answering that question as of late.

“You’re fifteen, Norman. You’ve finished school.”

“I know.”

“You need an apprenticeship.”

“I know.”

“And rightly, if I may be frank with you, you weren’t looking.”

That part wasn’t true.

She straightened my corduroy jacket on me before taking my arms in her hold. “Norman,” she said, “look at me.”

I turned my face to look at her.

“You know I’m doing this for you. I’m doing all that I can for you. You know that, don’t you?”

I did know.

My meager luggage of one suitcase was loaded in the back of the buggy, and I climbed into the seat beside the salamander.

“Write to me, Norman,” my grandmother called from the stoop.

“I will.”

The salamander glanced at me sideways with a stoney expression, but I suppose I couldn’t blame him; he knew where I was headed after all. I only ducked my head as the buggy lurched forward and the form of my waving grandmother fell far behind me.

Instead of watching the hills and the streams that I had seen a million times before pass me by, I craned my neck toward the sky. I could see a small flock of birds riding the gentle gusts. Swifts, from the shape of their tail feathers. I watched them for a while, taking mental note of how their little bodies rose and swerved, of how their wings beat.

The salamander said nothing at first, leaving me to sit in silence with my hands in my lap and my head tilted back, watching the birds. I was content for the ride to stay that way, but alas, my amphibious driver addressed me.

“Was this arrangement your idea or your grandmother’s?”

“My grandmother’s,” I answered.

The salamander let out a low, “Mmm,” and thumbed the reins in his hands some more. “I wouldn’t send any of my children to live with nostrum brewers. You know they get up to some strange things up there, don’t you, lad?”

“I’ve heard.”

“Mmm.”

The ride continued on until I was carried to my destination, or at least the foot of it. I was dropped off at the bottom of the aforementioned hill. It was a steep, grassy thing with a rocky, yellow-tan road that wound up and around at an incline too steep for the horse to manage, not that my shoes would fare much better, but the driver was unwilling to attempt the climb. I, on the other hand, had no choice.

As I stood staring up at my impending hike, the salamander handed me my suitcase and let out a puff. “I don’t know exactly what business you’ve got with the Abbertons—you’re only a boy, aren’t you?” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Well… I won’t ask. But if you ever… need help, here.” He held out a small card, which I took. It was a telephone number. The salamander nodded at it and climbed back up into the buggy without a word, driving off.

With my suitcase bumping against my thigh every step I took, I trudged up the gravel, feeling the rocks slide under my soles and praying I didn’t slip and fall all the way back down. It was a grueling task under the late spring sun in a corduroy jacket, but at last, the incline leveled as I reached the top, though not before I was thoroughly doused in my own sweat.

For a hermit house, the Abberton abode was much nicer than I had thought it would be. Where I had envisioned a sagging, decrepit structure with shuttered windows, covered in shrubs and lichen and in desperate need for a fresh coat of paint there was a whitewashed cottage with shutters thrown open to the morning sun. The shrubs that did creep along the side of the house were tamed by a trellis and covered in full, pink blossoms, and the verge rimming the porch was trimmed.

And there they were, sitting on the loveseat that swung in the shade. Josephine and Simon Abberton, the children of the late Edgar Abberton, who was probably a nostrum brewer, so many in the village—and I suppose myself as well—believed. Josephine was fanning herself with a folding fan while Simon sipped some iced beverage from a glass. The siblings turned to see me when I appeared over the rise of the hill, huffing and puffing. “Who is that?” I could hear Simon ask his sister.

Josephine craned her neck at me in examination. “Are you the Taylor boy?” she called to me.

Unable to manage words through my panting, I could only nod.

She stood up. “You’re a bit late. You were to arrive at eleven. It’s almost ten past, but you’re here.” She waved me over, and shambling on aching legs, I complied. “Is that all you’ve brought with you?” she asked, gesturing at my suitcase. When I nodded again, the siblings glanced at each other to share a look that I took to mean that they were pleasantly surprised.

“Few possessions. Travels light,” Simon murmured.

“Mm.”

“Less clutter.”

“Mm hm.” Josephine held her folded fan to her chest before waving it at her brother. “I’m sure you’re well aware, but I am Josephine Abberton. This is my brother, Simon. To you, we are Ms. and Mr. Abberton, and you will refer to us as ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir.’ Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” I panted.

The siblings exchanged that pleased look again.

“Boy of few words. Quick learner.”

“Mm.”

“Just what we asked for.”

“Mm hm.”

Josephine narrowed an eye at me, looking me up and down. “I suppose it would be a bit cruel to put you to work today, wouldn’t it? Perhaps once you’ve settled in your room, you could wash yourself. Yes, I think that would be best.” She waved her hand for me again as she opened the front door. “Come along.”

The tour was swift and brief. Josephine led me through the rooms so quickly—the foyer, the sitting room, the kitchen, the bathroom—that I barely had time to absorb anything about them, let alone look for perhaps a contraption hidden behind a curtain or anything else suspicious. I squinted at the wallpaper surrounding the fireplace in search of stains, perhaps from green smoke.

Josephine turned, beckoning for me to keep up with her. “And finally, your room,” she said, stopping before a narrow flight of stairs. “We’ve cleaned out and furnished the attic for you. You’ll find it at the top.”

I looked up the stairs; they collided with the ceiling beneath a trapdoor.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then I’ll let you get acquainted with your room and wash up. If you need anything, you’ll find me on the porch.” With that, she turned and left.

Up the winding stairs I climbed, each step creaking under my weight until I had to crouch, my head knocking against the trapdoor, I pushed it up and open. The attic was small, and the edges of the room were slanted at the angle of the roof. Still, it was not cramped; it was plenty spacious for my needs. My provided furnishings consisted of a bed and quilt, a chest for my things, a chair and desk, a bedside set of drawers, and a little oil lamp. I let my suitcase drop to the floor and looked briefly about the space before hobbling to the single window, which I found to overlook the back of the house, providing a perfect view of the garden.

It was a decently sized plot of bushes, shrubs, and furrows of other low-lying plants that I couldn’t identify, all enclosed by a white picket fence. Vines snaked up trellises, and some kind of fruit blossomed on the stalk inside wire cages. It was something of a maze, with grassy pathways winding about and around the various groupings of plants, some nearly lost from sight for overhanging greenery that grew out and over so that the pathways were quite narrow. There was, at least, a rather large grove at the center that seemed as if it could be for hosting garden parties or something of the like, but the only décor or furniture to be found in it was a small fountain of a Grecian statue off to the side while the rest of the grove was left empty.

From what I had seen of the house, there was nothing to indicate that the property was that of a family of nostrum brewers, though I confess I had no idea what that might even look like. Perhaps strange contraptions, like boilers or large kettles with pipes running all over the place in crazy angles. Bizarre ingredients and colored glass bottles. I couldn’t even detect any strange smells in the air. It all seemed frustratingly normal. I hadn’t wanted to work for nostrum brewers, truly, but nostrum brewers would at least have been more interesting than hermits who simply needed their garden tended to. Was my apprenticeship simply going to be trimming the verge? It was a disheartening thought.

I pulled the card the salamander had handed me from my jacket pocket, looking at the little line of numbers this way and that before tossing it into the wastebasket beside the desk.

I should have felt relief, but I pulled a fresh change of clothes from my suitcase and trudged back down to the bathroom for my shower in a warped state of disappointment.

When I returned downstairs, my body cleansed of sweat and my still-wet hair slicked back by a comb, I could hear muted conversation from the porch as I approached the front door. Two shadowy forms shifted in the nearest window, hazy through the curtains.

“I don’t think it’ll be much of a problem, Josie.”

“You never really think anything will be much of a problem until it is. He’s from the village, who knows what he’s heard?”

“So what if he has ears? Did you see the boy? Absolutely bland. No character, troublesome or otherwise, to worry about.”

I pursed my lips at the comment.

“It’s those kinds of people that surprise you, Simon. Don’t be so quick to judge the boy by his appearance. Demeanor can be misleading, and even people of intelligence will listen to and believe what less intelligent others say.”

“Are you truly that worried? I think you’re overdoing it.”

“You always think I’m overdoing it until you realize I’m not. It’s not easy work, Simon. Or safe. Father was hard on us because of it. You know that very well. Truly, there’s a reason we’ve never sought after apprentices. Do you think it’ll be so easy to train another, one who isn’t in the family? Who doesn’t understand? I think not.”

“Then hope he’s a quick learner like you asked for.”

There was a huff. “If anything goes wrong, it’ll be your fault. This was your idea, after all.”

I turned the knob and pulled the door open. The two turned to see me as if they had been waiting for me, as if nothing had happened. “Ah, you’ve cleaned up,” said Josephine. “Good. Now. A matter of business.” She plucked up a piece of paper from a nearby table and held it out to me. “I’ll need you to sign at the bottom there.”

I looked at the page, which was completely covered in text. I saw no signature line at the bottom. “Where?”

“The other side.”

I flipped the page to find yet more text as well as the aforementioned signature line. It was a contract. I was fully prepared to stand there for as long as it took to read the entire thing; always read the fine print, my grandmother told me, and the whole thing was certainly in fine print. And, when you were about to be pledging your services to people like the Abbertons, you could never be too careful. 

After a moment, Josephine realized what I was doing. “Here, here, I’ll summarize it for you,” she said, holding out a hand for the paper.

“That’s alright, ma’am. I can read it.”

“I know you can, but we’ll be here all day if you do.”

“Then why did you make it so long?” Simon asked. “When you write something up like that, it’s meant to be read.”

“I was concise as I could be.”

“It really is alright, ma’am,” I said again, hoping to spare her the nuisance of reading it aloud for me.

“Norman, just hand me the contract.”

I handed her the contract.

She gave it a brisk shake to straighten it. “So, in short, for the duration of your apprenticeship, you’re expected not to roughhouse during work, to never to use any ingredients or tools without clear, expressed permission, to never share any information without prior permission, or for that manner, do anything without permission, to complete all duties you’ll be tasked with in a timely and efficient manner—which may include but is not limited to: weed pulling, watering, harvesting, errand running, handling dangerous flora and other ingredients, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera—to clean up after yourself if you make a mess or a mistake, and, of course, to be courteous and respectful at all times. There are other things, but I suppose they all fall into those general categories. Do you understand?”

I wished she would hand me back the contract so that I could read it myself, but it seemed that by relinquishing it into her hands, I had relinquished it all together. I was going to ask for it back to read for myself, just to make sure, but I could see doing so coming across as an insult to her. Her demanding stare almost seemed like it was challenging me to ask for it, and I failed.

“I understand.”

“Good.” Josephine placed the paper on the railing and produced a pen from her sleeve, handing it to me. “Sign here.”

I took the pen and stood at the railing, looking down at the blank line. I felt caught somehow, trapped between the contract and the hill, between the garden and Josephine who stood over me, waiting for me to sign. It was nearly impossible to back away from the contract, from her. Not without being a coward, but there was no way I could win. I was a coward if I backed away, a coward if I signed. I could not bring myself to offend or insult Josephine Abberton, not only because I didn’t wish to be rude, but because I feared what she might do if I did.

I placed the metal nib to the blank and signed my name: Norman Taylor.

The instant the nib left the page, Josephine snatched up the paper. “Excellent. We have that out of the way, then.” She folded it and took back her pen. “It’s about noon now. I assume you’re hungry.”

“I could eat,” I confessed.

“There are jams and scones somewhere in the kitchen. You can help yourself to those for starters, if you’d like.”

I gave her a nod just as my gut finally gave me its first pinch. After the trek up the hill, I was surprised it hadn’t come sooner.  “Thank you, ma’am.”

Josephine nodded back and sat down on the loveseat, fanning herself. “Bring them out here once you’ve found them. I’d like one myself.”

It struck me as odd that Josephine would allow me the unproctored freedom to search the kitchen. I had only gotten there about an hour ago, and though I had just signed a contract, she clearly wasn’t the most trusting; I had just signed a contract, after all, and I didn’t think it was merely a formality. But Josephine seemed to be in a somewhat testy mood, one that would no doubt deem guiding me through her kitchen to be a bother. And as the new helping hand of the Abbertons, I did not want to be a bother.

The kitchen was homey. Small, albeit, but homey. There was a gas stove, a sink with a growing pile of dishes in it, and a little window framed by milky curtains pinstriped in blue. In the center of the room was a wooden table of lovely craftsmanship accompanied by three cushioned chairs. Upon my initial scan of the space, however, there were no jars of jam or plates of scones to be seen. I considered returning to the porch to ask where they were, but I quickly reconsidered.

With no small amount of unease, I opened cabinets and cupboards, ducked my head under counters and peered onto shelves from the tip of my toes. I found crackers, olives, canned beets, a loaf of rye, bottles of gin, and all manner of food items that I was not looking for. I then checked the pantry in the narrow hall. Here, the contents of the Abbertons’ kitchen took a questionable turn. Pickled eggs aren’t all that bad. I’ve had one or two myself; if the brine is good and the eggs are left in long enough to soak it in, they’re quite flavorful. But pickled duck’s feet (or what I assumed to be duck’s feet) struck me as being an odd commodity, as did the bottled seaweed, the jars of grubs, and the dried scraps of skin. Was that skin?

I could feel the first hints of adrenaline begin to course through my veins. If they were nostrum makers, of course they wouldn’t have all their tools and ingredients on display. They had to know the village was thick with rumors about them. It would be imprudent, stupid, even, to leave everything out for me to ogle at; they would have hidden everything. I rummaged deeper through the pantry, and each curiosity I found fanned the flame of my intrigue harder than the last. I found maggot-eaten roots, bug wings, and the smallest worms I had ever seen. Upon closer examination, I found that they were, in fact, not worms, but tiny, delicate fingers.

The pinnacle of my findings, however, was the last thing I had ever expected to see in anyone’s pantry, low on the list in even a nostrum brewer’s pantry: a tall bottle filled with a filthy, sludge-colored brine that looked like pond water, in which floated the body of a grotesque sprite. Its skin had wrinkled and pruned until it looked as if it could slough right off the naked, diminutive form. Twig-thin arms were crossed over a gaunt chest that was nearly no more than ribs. Jammed behind it were a pair of translucent dragonfly wings. Its little, upturned nose was scrunched, puffy lids swollen shut, and its mouth hung open, contorted into some silent, drowned scream, or as if it had eaten some horrible tasting food.

I held the bottle in my hands as the physical sensations that accompany horror and disbelief overtook me. Tension in the chest, heat in the face, the ache of facial muscles pulling themselves into an unpleasant expression. Probably akin to the one on the dead sprite’s face if I had to guess. 

I had heard of faeries. Only ever heard of them, though. Never actually seen one, a real one. I heard few ever got to. They were dangerous things, I was always told. Yet ever since my elementary years, I had always wanted to see one, even just one, even if it was dangerous. And though it was dead, I finally held my unlikely, unexpected first in my hands. I wanted to look away, away from the horrid little corpse and its horrid little face, but my eyes refused to tear themselves away. It was horrid, but gar, at fifteen, it was the most riveting thing I had ever seen.

I wondered how the Abbertons had gotten ahold of the sprite, of everything I had found in the pantry—the fingers, the wings, the skin. They could not be for eating! The handling of faerie parts was a business under close executive scrutiny, and only those in educational and certified alchemy fields were allowed to have them, wealthy collectors of oddities being an exception. Had they come by it through smugglers? Dealers? Fellow nostrum brewers with ingredients to sell?

“It can’t take that long to find some scones,” Josephine called. I heard her footsteps approach.

Panic crashed down upon me. I looked for some place to put the bottle, a drawer, a box, a pocket, my trousers, even, anywhere but where I had found it, the most reasonable spot, but when that thought finally occurred to me, she was already standing over me.

Josephine was a striking woman. She had bright red hair and stood at a looming height, and these traits combined with her cold-fire eyes and harsh stare gave her an intimidating demeanor, one that I felt impressed deeply on my being in that moment. It was as if her eyes could assess every fear in you and draw it out, like blood. You could feel the prick of some invisible needle and the pull as what you would hide in silence was sucked out of your veins to your shame. Her gaze dropped to the bottle in my hands. “That isn’t jam, Norman.”

“…I know,” I managed to squeeze out.

“Then what are you doing with it?”

I looked at the sprite, it’s scrunched up face. My mouth hung open, but my throat went dry. Another wave of heat rushed to my cheeks, and I was keenly aware of it. There was no way that I could rescue myself; I just wanted her to say whatever she thought I was thinking, and whether she was right or not, I would say she was just to end the discomfort, but I could only guess that she knew very well what I wanted. By her sole mercy, I was granted my escape.

Josephine swiped the bottle out of my grasp and placed it back on its shelf in the pantry before closing the door. She walked over to a cabinet and reached into it to pull something out, placing it in my open hands still curved around where the bottle had once been. It was a jar of dark red jam. “I think that would pair better with scones, don’t you?”

The more I looked at the jam, the more unreal the pickled sprite seemed, growing more and more distant in my mind as if awakening from a dream. I watched as Josephine strolled over to another cabinet I hadn’t checked and pulled out a plate of scones. She finally looked back over at me when I had failed to say anything after a minute. “I asked for someone who doesn’t talk much, not someone who doesn’t talk at all. What’s with that look on your face? Don’t tell me that’s the first time you’ve seen one.”

“It is—was. It was, ma’am.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve never seen one before? Not even a dead one? You didn’t dissect one in school?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then what do they have you cutting open in schools?”

“…Worms. And things. Fish. Baby pigs.”

“Pigs?” She was unimpressed. “Change sweeps fast through the village, doesn’t it? As does other things.” With a small breath, she set the plate of scones down on the table. “I’m not sure what the latest speculations are. They seem to change every season; I’ve given up on trying to keep up with them.” She turned to me again. “What is it you were hoping to find when you took this apprenticeship? I know we are no popular characters in the village.”

I couldn’t tell if it was a rhetorical question or not.

“Did you hear me, Norman? Am I speaking too softly?” she asked, louder, voice stern.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then why aren’t you answering? Cat got your tongue?”

“No, ma’am. I-I’m here because my grandmother wanted me to. To take the apprenticeship, I mean.”

“Oh? Then perhaps you’re acting in your grandmother’s interest.”

“No, ma’am! She has nothing to do with the rumors. She doesn’t like gossip.”

Josephine narrowed her eyes at me and pursed her lips, contemplating whether to believe me or not. Finally, she took a step towards me. “Nosing around is just as unflattering as starting rumors, and those two things collide more often than not.” She came to a stop before me, once again looking down at me with that steely gaze. “The people who like to speculate are the people who know nothing at all and don’t want to know. You all talk of the Abbertons, speaking ill of us, and you know nothing at all. That behavior will not be tolerated here. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand, ma’am.”

“There is no speculation here. There is no snooping. If you have questions about anything, you come to me. You ask me.”

I saw a somberness in her eyes that I had not ever expected to see in taking a job as a gardener. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have thought the look to be unbefitting of the situation, but this was no ordinary woman; it was evident in every little thing about her, from the way she stood tall, straight, eyes unwavering, penetrating and cold yet smoldering; from the way the air around her fell still, time holding its breath as it waited for her to speak; from the way her hush dared me to challenge her, resounding with silent thunder that brought me to the all at once frightening, humiliating, and infuriating realization that I lacked the courage to do so.

“Do you understand, Norman?” she asked me again.

I understood.

We ate jam and scones on the porch. She spoke of the weather and of news she had seen in the paper. Simon made quips in between sips of his iced beverage which she rebuffed, and I sat mostly in silence and said very little. I was a quiet boy after all, a good listener, a quick learner, and I had learned very quickly that dutiful silence was the key to weathering my time with the Abbertons.

About the Author

I attempted to write my first book at nine years old. I was heavily inspired by the author of Swordbird, Nany Yi Fan, who was eleven when her book was published. If she could get published so young, maybe I could, too (obviously my writing sucked, but it got me started). At fourteen, I started a gothic horror book that is now currently sitting in its completed 8th draft, thanks to years of stubbornness and not understanding why I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning it but rolling with it because it kept me writing. However, I realized that what I hoped would be my debut novel, though some of my best work, didn’t make for a good debut, so I had to pivot, leading me to this story. This setting has been a concept I've had for a while, but a novel writing class I took a couple semesters ago prompted me to write the first couple chapters of it. Something that's frustrated me is seeing writing advice online for how to create the "perfect" protagonist, but it's just a formula to make the same kind of character over and over again. To push back against that, I wanted to write a protagonist who could be deemed as "passive" or “unengaged” and still make his narrative compelling. That's my challenge with this project. I wrote it in first person to allow insight into a character who thinks and observes more than acts (at least at the start) to show that he is, in fact, engaged, just mentally. However, Josephine is also an important character, as she is both Norman’s mentor and antagonist, as well as his foil. The relationship between these two characters is another element I want to play keen attention to developing, as I want each to bring out a lot from the other. I don't have much of this manuscript, only a couple chapters, but I know I want to focus heavily on Norman's growth as he learns to find his voice and stand his ground while also learning from his elders and recognizing the flaws in his idealistic worldview. I hope the audience will come to root for Norman’s growth.

Cover design made using Canva design tools.