INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1) Page 5

  Hedwig was not Bonn’s first nanny. The first one was a fresh blonde optimist, just graduated from Brown. An energetic French major, Misty attempted to involve Bonn in linguistic exercises, croquet, and calisthenics. Bonn grasped French quickly. He became conversational in just a few days. Misty quit shortly after.

  “He isn’t right,” Misty reported, “He wants to know how to say things in French that are not—well—they’re wrong!”

  Troy smirked.

  What could a two-year-old ask that would cause such upset?

  “What things?” Troy asked.

  “Dark things,” Misty said earnestly.

  Misty was unwilling to repeat Bonn’s “dark things,” and when Troy pressed her, she left.

  Had they chosen her too hastily?

  Raquel attempted to direct the toddler herself for a week, but found it arduous and stifling. Troy decided to pull out the stops—they’d hire a professional. Troy made some calls and arranged for an English nanny.

  Tillie achieved her rectangular shape in only sixty-two years. She arrived promptly on the hour she promised, straight from Brixton. If Tillie carried an umbrella, one would think she was prepared to audition for the role of Mary Poppins, if Mary Poppins wore a men’s forty-six-long tweed jacket over her frock. Tillie was physically intimidating. She smelled of lemon furniture polish and mothballs. Her neck didn’t articulate. Her nose looked broken. She bent stiffly at the waist to address her new ward and displayed an armored plate of a forehead between her wide set eyes.

  “We’ll get along fine now, won’t we, Bonn.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  To Troy Tillie looked like a massive architectural clock with two dials for eyes: one set to London time, one to New York. Tillie reported she typically kept a diary to mark daily occurrences, progress with lessons, bowel habits, and developmental benchmarks. “Is that acceptable, Mr. Maddox?”

  Troy had no doubts that Tillie would provide steady order for their son. She lasted a year. The year wasn’t kind to Tillie. She shook a bit as she recounted some observations of Bonn. She wanted to give comprehensive, quarterly accounts of Bonn’s progress, but Raquel consistently put her off and her journal of observations was missing. Tillie insisted the family seek out professional input from a physician for their child. She couldn’t put her finger on the precise problem, she just knew—he was off. Troy was disappointed. Tillie seemed suddenly addled and disorganized. While she prattled on, Troy observed his son quietly turning the pages of a large book: An Illustrated Field Guide to Birds of Papua New Guinea. He shook his head.

  Bonn was fine.

  He just needed more structure.

  No one told him to look through the book. The boy had pulled it from the shelf himself.

  Bonn re-shelved the book and chose another—a hardbound copy containing pictures of Egyptian scrolls. Troy glanced at the title: Book of the Dead. The interior designer watched for collectable, rare books. She charged Troy a modest finder’s fee. This particular book arrived recently—part of a retired archeology professor’s collection. Troy rarely found time to flip though his books himself, so he was glad Bonn found some use in them. Bonn stopped on a page with a depiction of a bipedal creature named “Opet.” The caption described how Opet—goddess of the hippos—was burning some incense. The goddess didn’t look like a hippo, more like a bipedal hyena sporting a bridal veil.

  It was something a child might draw.

  It explained why Bonn liked it—surely he wasn’t reading yet.

  He was just a good-natured boy who loved books.

  There were no kids in the neighborhood for him to play with, or he’d be out there now, running through a sprinkler, or building a fort…

  Troy was sure of it.

  Frau Hedwig took over two weeks later. The diminutive German could have been fifty, or eighty. She insisted they call her “Frau.” She wore thick square glasses with chunky black plastic frames. Her arms seemed much longer than her legs, and she suffered from kyphosis. Despite this, she seemed able to uncurl herself at will, a fiddle-head fern seeking sunlight. She extended her long arms like multi-jointed cranes to reach things even Troy could not. She steered Bonn with her long fingers. She tapped adjustments in his direction like a sheepdog nipped its flock. Frau Hedwig’s neck was noteworthy—it stretched out almost horizontally. Her smallish head swiveled slowly at the end of it, like a tortoise pondering each direction carefully before committing to action. Hedwig was previously assigned to a family who perished in a fire while she was out to the grocer.

  Raquel was tired of hiring replacements, so she asked some screening questions. “Are you emotionally ready to commit to another assignment, Frau Hedwig?”

  Frau Hedwig appeared amused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “How long did you care for the kids?” Raquel pressed.

  “Five years.” Hedwig replied stonily. She wasn’t a sensitive soul.

  Frau Hedwig stuck. Determined to check on the welfare of the nanny weekly in case she became inclined to flee, Troy often asked, “How are things?” or “Doing well, Fraulein?”

  The odd woman consistently answered with the same clipped affirmative, “Ja,” and then batted Bonn back and forth in front of her like a hockey puck she had utter control of. It truth, Frau Hedwig was terrified of the child and drank vodka throughout the day to cope with the stressors of the job. Frau Hedwig and Bonn quickly reached an unspoken understanding: Bonn expected Frau Hedwig to play bulwark when a parent was around, but she let him have free rein when each momentary scrutiny ceased. She performed the essential functions a nanny should. She bought the child underwear as he outgrew them—and similar tasks, but Bonn was naturally fastidious. There wasn’t much to do. He really just needed someone to enable the idea of normalcy, though none existed. Sometimes Bonn stole into Hedwig’s room at night to watch her sleep. She’d flick an eye open and see the Alp there. He wouldn’t touch her—talk to her—interact with her in any way. He just stood there.

  Watching.

  Her mother warned Hedwig of “Alps” when she was a child—but now she knew … the elf-like demons who visited in the night? Who could freeze or crush you—paralyze you with fear—play tricks, drink your blood if they wished to?

  They were real.

  He didn’t wear a hat …

  But maybe in the New World it wasn’t required of them.

  Hedwig remained quiet in regard to this oddity. She was paid very well after all. She learned to act as though she were asleep while she kept an eye out for the little wraith. One night she drifted off, exhausted. She slept soundly until she sensed movement—a small figure returned a pair of her shoes to a bottom drawer of her wardrobe.

  It was the Alp.

  He padded over to stare at her for a few seconds. She squinted at him through fear-shrouded lids. Although she couldn’t see clearly without her glasses, she recognized his movements. He picked up her glasses and looked through them toward the moon. He breathed on the lenses to fog them up, then polished them with the sleeve of his pajama top before creeping out. Fearful to inspect the shoes that very moment, Frau Hedwig lay awake wondering what the demon wanted with them. In the morning she found that the sole of her right shoe had been worked loose at the toe—a razor blade glued into the cavity.

  Sharp edge out—a weapon.

  She was afraid not to wear them. If this was an Alp-gift, she needed to acknowledge it. Frau Hedwig placed a broomstick under her pillow to ward him off, and that night when she removed her weaponized clogs, she planned to put the heels against the bed frame with the toes facing the door.

  A sign, Old World as it may be, to leave her alone.

  She wished she remembered more about Alps—living with one seemed foolhardy. The elf-demon seemed to ignore the shoes as the day progressed, but that night he was back. The shadowy figure ignored the broomstick, as Hedwig feared he would, and seemed not to notice the shoes placed to keep him away. The tiny devil crept toward her, just inches from
her face. Frau Hedwig’s heart thumped in her throat. Nearer still. Suddenly, he waved his hand in her face. Frau Hedwig shrieked. She braced herself to be frozen, crushed, bit, or worse.

  “Can you get me a small stepladder? So I can reach things myself?” Hedwig opened her eyes.

  She wasn’t dead.

  “Yes. Of course,” Hedwig managed. Her creepy, quiet visitor nodded. The deal was done. The trade was accepted. Hedwig lay awake for the longest time. If the boy wasn’t an Alp, it would be even more frightening—

  But for an Alp, he was quite nice.

  Hedwig knew about Raquel’s indiscretions. The men arrived like hungry bulls: wide-eyed and optimistic. Raquel broke them. Each lover that slunk off appeared more spooked, rawer than the last. The Alp’s mother was not particular about her daytime lovers. Most days pickup trucks parked upon the cobblestones in front of the carriage house, but an occasional sedan delivered her daily ration. Hedwig knew a fuse was lit—she just didn’t know which of the freaks was the bomb. Raquel didn’t ask Hedwig to keep secrets, nor did she share Hedwig’s. Raquel knew about the drinking. Many things went unspoken. The undercurrent of malice never stopped flowing. The riptide just changed directions.

  One day Raquel—in a creative mood—poured some of Hedwig’s vodka on a light purple pillowcase. She wrung the wet cloth into a tight cone and managed to corkscrew about a third of her invention up a man’s anus before he decided it wasn’t just kinky.

  “Stop! Holy shit—quit that! That hurts like hell!” Hedwig heard the plea for help from the kitchen. Raquel’s victim escaped to the bathroom a defeated lavender-tailed donkey and pulled the contraption out too fast.

  Terrified and wounded, nauseated and distraught, the opportunistic misadventurer mistook Raquel’s bidet for a toilet and threw up into it. Each bout of retching activated the motion sensor, which sent a jet of water forcefully up his nose. The retching and drowning sounds coming from her bathroom aroused Raquel more than when the accountant was in bed with her. After an adequate orgasm, she went to his aid. Raquel sprinkled sugar on his prolapsed rectum, which eventually made it slither back home.

  Hedwig watched the big sedan speed away. She wished Raquel would find one that was reliable. One that could handle her.

  One day, that woman will bring ruin to us all.

  ~Morel Day

  In the summer Alvar took Henna into the forest. They explored, learned about the world from each other, and collected wild food. Lightning had started a fire the past spring. Several acres of nearby forest burned before the wind died down, and the fire burned out near a brook. Henna didn’t know why their walks led them through the charred area every few days—it all seemed dead except for some wildflowers. One day Alvar stopped as they walked through the burn. “Ah. I smell something delicious.” Henna looked back to the lush and bushy green living forest.

  Did the wind shift?

  She started back for the forest, but Alvar bent to brush at the ash with his hands. When he stood he held a mushroom with what looked like a brain on top. Some mushrooms, like Boletus were delicious, but this one didn’t even look edible. “It doesn’t look good, Grandpa.”

  Alvar smiled. “You can’t tell which mushrooms are delicious by how they look.” Alvar held the mushroom to his nose. “These only come a year after a fire—today is a morel day.” Henna and Alvar left the ashy clearing with baskets and pockets brimming with the treasures. To Henna’s young mind, the mushrooms looked as though they were made of ash. Henna felt desperate for answers—life came in so many forms—mycelium, fungal spores, nutrients, even fire led to life. Alvar seemed to know everything about nature. He showed her how to test a mushroom if she wasn’t sure about it. She tried it first on a honey mushroom. Henna minced up a bit of it with her front teeth and felt for the sting on the tip of her tongue.

  She didn’t feel one.

  Next she tried a fly agaric, which she knew was toxic. The raffish red-and-white flesh stung just as Alvar promised it would. She spit it out and rinsed her mouth. “All mushrooms should be cooked,” Alvar explained. “A person could eat a raw morel, but without heat to break down the chitin, there’s no nutritional value in one.” A similar looking mushroom, the false morel Gyromitra esculenta, could prove fatal if eaten raw—but was commonly eaten cooked. Alvar picked a Gyromitra. He held it next to a morel for Henna to see the difference. “If you choose to eat them, it is best to boil them for five minutes, change the water out, then boil them a second time before rinsing and frying them. I think it’s too much bother.”

  Henna was a sponge for information. The girl even learned from the land as she sifted through the ash.

  To wildflowers, the ash was as important as rain.

  She picked chamomile, bluebells, and other familiar flowers. Henna recited the Latin name of each as her bouquet grew. Though Alvar couldn’t see the vibrant yellows and blues, he could smell them—even the ones Henna couldn’t. To Alvar, smell was more powerful than his remaining senses. He could remember by smell. Henna chirped with excitement. She brought unknown plants to him. He gave her interesting facts about each to help her remember it. Alvar seemed amazed at what Henna could retain. She seemed hungry for knowledge and refused simple explanations to her questions. Soon, he would realize he was giving the young girl college-level botany lectures.

  Alvar began a new lesson. “All things are interconnected—” One dissertation rolled into the next. They covered parasites, symbiosis, osmosis—even the Krebs cycle. Henna was euphoric with new knowledge. Her exceptional mind filed each fact with effortless proficiency. As they left the blackened forest she brought him a new discovery: white flowers that stood in a tuft of green stalks. To Henna the stalks looked like chives.

  “Ah,” Alvar said wistfully—he could smell the paperwhites well. “Narcissus papyraceous. Six petals. Sweet to smell one, yet fetid in great numbers. They don’t normally grow here.” Alvar spoke slowly, struck by the memory of Nappi bursting into the house with a fist full of the smelly flowers. “Your mother’s favorite when she was a girl. I used to plant bulbs along the brook just to remind me of her. The French used it as an antispasmodic and it’s a strong hallucinogen. It must not be ingested directly. ‘Narcissus’ is Latin for narcissist—one who loves themselves to the exclusion of most things.”

  Henna stood straight and raised her arms like flower petals. Mortimer peered at the girl quizzically. With great drama she narrated for Mortimer. “The paperwhite waved to the lion-like dog. The flower’s weight tore at itself for its tender nature against the brutal breeze, the terrible pull of the sun, the gentle nudges of the moon. Radiant sepals guarded the nestled ovule tucked both with and within style, deep inside—by sun, and soil, and season: ‘Here is an egg you cannot have.’” Henna paused to weave about, then stretched her arms back up, high above her head. She unrolled her fingers from tight fists one at a time, as though each wished to show its reverence to the sun, yet was willing to wait its turn to do so. “Anthers quivered quiet apologies to humming visitors from the ends of brittle filaments: ‘Too late, you too, too late. Next year. Same time, but a moment earlier and I’ll reward your momentum with a meal.’ Pipettes celebrated the sun’s chemical cocktail—intent? To woo and to placate. From what? From damage done by a passing passerine: I’m OK! Ok. Ok? No. Not enough. I’m—perfect. With its sweet stink it begged the dog—‘Please look at me. Please see that I’m beautiful, but never touch. Look now, before I’ve turned to soil again.’”

  Mortimer chuffed and wagged to applaud Henna’s performance, then sniffed about, as though he believed there really was an egg.

  Alvar laughed. Henna was brilliant. He appeared to marvel at her genius—scientific, artistic—and so much like her mother.

  ~The Gifted

  Bonn got a dog for his ninth birthday. It was a small celebration. Since Bonn didn’t eat cake, Raquel asked Frau Hedwig to make vanilla cupcakes with vanilla frosting. Raquel was in a monochromatic phase. She would eat the confections. Tha
t week she was in love with all things white. Troy rolled his eyes when he saw the mundane baked goods. Raquel got defensive. “Why shouldn’t they be white? Bonn won’t care.”

  Hedwig lit a candle and handed Bonn one of the treats. Troy sang “Happy Birthday” distractedly while Raquel instructed Hedwig to release the retriever. The soft yellow dog burst into the room. He saw the boy holding the cupcake and sat at perfect attention. Troy poured himself a scotch. “You should name him.”

  Bonn frowned at the dog. “This is a full grown dog. Doesn’t he already have a name?”

  Troy took a drink and tried to recall the dog’s name. “Puppies are too messy—this dog is a show dog. I’m sure he knows some tricks. Life here will be a vacation compared to the rigors of standing correctly and letting people pat his balls down to make certain he actually has two—I’ll bet he’d like to forget that life—why don’t you give him a new name to celebrate his freedom?” Bonn looked into the retriever’s face. He was a good-looking dog. The retriever’s eyes flicked from Bonn’s cupcake to his face and back. He seemed to want a bite.

  “He’ll respond to anything you call him. Dogs aren’t very smart, Son. You can call him ‘Bacon’ if you want to. You just have to say it with the right tone.”

  Raquel glared at the candle. It burned down quickly and might drip on something.

  Also, it wasn’t white. Hedwig had punctured the pretty cake with a horrible yellow and blue striped candle. She glared at Hedwig next. She’d been very specific—the candle should be white.

  Hedwig ignored her, so Raquel glowered at Troy. She couldn’t tell him how to dress, of course, but he should wear more white. To Raquel, Troy’s teal pinstripe looked so gaudy. If she could, she’d paint the whole world white. She needed a snort. She wanted to coat everything in cocaine—it might make things better. They were all so selfish. Bonn wanted a puppy, Troy probably still wanted Audra. Maybe if she ate the cupcake herself, took a snort, lifted her white skirt for the world and spun like a ballerina, and shot clean, crisp whiteness from her bowels and womb everything would be better.