A Natural History of Hell: Stories (17 page)

“No, what is the process by which they’re created? Do you understand?”

“I might.”

“I intend to manufacture fairies. I want to make the household fairies, the ones that help with chores and play mischievous fun on their adopted families. There’s a need for them in the city. Playthings for the wealthy, helpmates for the poor.”

“A fairy’s a living thing,” she said. “These aren’t brass hinges we’re discussing.”

“I’ve done my research. I know they won’t thrive in an environment of iron and smoke. My plan is for an organic process, beginning with the libban.”

Tima Loorie laughed loud, flashing her one tooth. “You’re barmy, Mr. Benett,” she said. “A fairy factory?”

“I’m also wealthy enough to make you wealthy as well. I’ve brought a substantial amount of capital with me, and it is now locked away in the safe at the Green Dog.

“How much of the filthy soft have you brought?” She poured him a cup of tea.

“Two hundred pounds, if you have the answer I’m looking for,” he said and took a sip.

“Drink up and I’ll take you to a fairy circle. It’ll be easier to explain.”

He finished his tea and they left the cottage. As they moved into the trees, the boy followed them. Tima turned to Benett and said, “The boy can’t go.”

“Jennings, there, is my protection.”

“From a hundred-year-old woman?”

“Go back and guard the cottage,” he said to the boy.

Tima was none too fast on her feet, but she inched ever deeper into the forest. It seemed that the dial of the day moved with the speed of Benett’s mind, passing them. It seemed they went far but walked little. As they strode through morning and afternoon, she spoke intermittently, dispensing fairy knowledge. He jotted it all down in his notebook.

“The fairies you spoke of, household fairies, hobs, goblins, they’re of the earth, a mix of dirt and the freed crux of a corpse’s being. This seed sprouts into the fruiting body. Like here,” she said and pointed at the ground.

Benett looked away from his notes. It was late afternoon and the forest was filling with shadow. They stood on a particularly shaded byway, beneath a giant oak. He followed Tima’s direction and looked down to see a circle of strange mushrooms growing out of the forest floor. They were pale like a toad’s belly, with brown spots, and their heads were large fleshy globes. He watched as Tima bent over and picked one of them. She handed it to him. “
Glasfearballas
, they’re called.” He took it from her.

“A fairy factory,” she said.

In the dim light of the path, it appeared to him that there was something moving inside the globe of the mushroom. He brought it closer for a better look, and with a whisper, it suddenly burst open, spewing a black powder at his face. In an instant, he lost his balance and dropped to his knees, coughing. When he blinked to clear his eyes, he went blind. “Help me,” he managed to choke out.

“There is no money in the safe at the Green Dog, is there?” he heard her say. “Be honest or I’ll let you die.”

He shook his head and began to drool uncontrollably.

“For that, you shall have your wish.”

Benett managed one more strangled “Help,” and a moment after there was a loud bang. His sight returned at once and he found himself sitting at the table in Tima Loorie’s cottage. It was late morning. The door was open and the boy stood in the entrance holding the derringer aimed forward. A trail of smoke issued from the short barrel of the gun.

“How did I get back here?” he said to Jennings.

“You never left, sir. A few minutes went by and you called for help. I come through the door, sir, and this rabbit I shot come running at me.”

“A rabbit?” said Benett. He stood and moved around from behind the table to see the boy’s kill. A large gray rabbit lay on the floor with a trickle of blood coming from its blasted face. “Where’s the crone?”

“She must have gone out the back,” said Jennings.

“She put something in the tea, no doubt, the hag.” Benett reached for his jacket pocket and retrieved his notebook. Opening it, he frantically flipped through the pages and found he’d recorded every word Tima Loorie had spoken on their journey through the dream day. He snapped shut the book. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Well done,” said the boy. By that afternoon, they were in the carriage, heading back toward the city.

After his journey to the wild, the master of Whitethorn secreted himself away for months only to emerge in late August for a business meeting with Thrashner. Benett had the collateral for the factory, but he needed Thrashner’s powerful connections both political and local to make its construction move at the rapid pace he desired. The meeting took place on the gruff old industrialist’s veranda, beneath the summer stars. Benett arrived promptly at seven. The night was stifling save for an occasional breeze rolling through the back gardens. “All right, Benett,” said Thrashner when both men were seated, “you know I don’t like a lot of dither. Cut through and let’s get to the meat of it.”

“I aim to construct a new type of factory, and I need you to help me grease the palm of government so I don’t get tripped up by deeds and inspections. My plan would also benefit from the availability of some of your private work crews.”

“Not impossible, by any means,” said Thrashner. “But what are you making, and what’s in it for me?”

“What I’ll be making is fairies.”

“Did you say fairies?”

“You asked the question at the industrialist’s soiree months ago, ‘What do people want?’ I’ve determined they want fairies.”

“I’m not a good man for a joke, Benett. I’d have thought you’d known that by now.”

“No joke. I’ve studied the process. It starts with fresh corpses.”

“Benett, are you having some sort of episode of hysterics? You look pale.”

“Fresh corpses, not left to lie past the dawn following their moment of demise. We need the heads.”

Thrashner’s eyes widened. He smoothed his mustache. “Corpses! Where does one acquire corpses for manufacture?”

“Believe me sir, deals can be made with the morgues, etc. Out of a sense of morality, so that all’s on the up and up, we’d only use those without close kin. The lonely dead.”

“So your factory will run on the remains of the lonely dead?”

“No, we will burn their heads to release the libban, which we will gather through a vacuum sitting at the vaulted ceiling of the libban silo.”

“Libban?” asked Thrashner.

“The soul or seed of the dead. A kernel of life that flies off once the head pops open in a fire.”

“I believe I may have heard the term.”

“Of course you have,” said Benett. “The libban are gathered up at the top of the silo and then pushed through a tube into a chamber where they are blasted with the powdered dirt of the earth. This mix of spirit and dust is then spewed out across the fruiting vats of the factory, wherein will grow large, globe-headed mushrooms. When they succeed to a certain plumpness, these fungi will burst and fairies will be born.”

“You’ve gone ’round the bend, Bennet. You’re completely off your chump.”

“We use the dirt because we’re making hobs and goblins, brownies, household fairies that help with chores. It’s not that people need fairies, Thrashner, it’s that they want them.”

“Even if you could make them, how do you intend to sell them?” The old man laughed at himself for not having thrown Benett out.

“When they burst forth from the mushrooms, they’re invisible—the natural fairy state. Then comes my secret technique of gathering them up and capturing them individually in colored glass balls. These are sold to the public, and they are instructed to take them home and smash them on the kitchen floor, which will release the hobs into their homes.”

Thrashner leaned across the table that separated them. He facetiously whispered, “What is the secret?”

Benett also leaned in. “The secret is, there are no fairies.”

“You mean you’re selling humbug?” Thrashner smiled from ear to ear.

Benett nodded. “That’s why the process must be both gruesome and a tad mysterious. The better the show on that end, the more empty glass balls we can sell to the hopeful.”

“A moment ago, I was certain you were mad, but now I’m certain you’re a genius.”

“We’ll need a good artist. The advertisements will be important. Once we fill every house with a hob, we’ll start turning out sylphs. I’ve envisioned a demon that I’m sure will catch on with those who consider themselves naughty. The skeptics, of course, will scowl, but I predict it will be all the rage.

“The factory will cost money, as will the fruiting vats and the mushrooms. I thought we’d make the latter out of rubber and paint them. Have two or three automated ones that burst and spew black powder on cue. We’ll give tours of the factory once a week and charge a few coins. A hoax the customer will long to have perpetrated upon him.”

“The appearance of industry and yet the manufacture of nothing,” said Thrashner, closing his eyes in delight.

By the time Benett left Thrashner’s veranda, he had the old man’s agreement of political and labor support but also a promise of cash for a share in the enterprise. After a year of work, Benett’s scheme was beginning to take shape. He felt so good, he gave an order to the Jennings lad to troll the city streets for a pretty, young dolly mop for hire. “Be courteous, boy,” he reminded the driver. “We must respect how these women have turned themselves into factories.”

Down by the waterfront, the carriage slowed to a crawl. Benett slid back the glass of the window and leaned out. Up ahead a few feet, standing to the side of the cobblestone lane beneath a dim gas lamp, was a young woman with her blond hair in barley curls. He quickly checked the condition of her clothing, which let him know how long she’d been on the street plying her trade. When he decided he could live with their degree of shabbiness, he said, “Young miss, would you like a ride?”

“Where will you take me?” she asked.

He noticed she was wearing boots without socks and this put him off, but her face was lovely. “I’m inviting you to my mansion to drink champagne and to celebrate.”

“A party?” she said.

“Of course,” said Benett and did his best to smile. “Come now.”

She nodded and stepped toward the carriage. Jennings held the horses still for her to get in. As the girl was getting situated on the bench next to Benett, he banged on the ceiling of the cab five times to indicate to the driver to go as fast as possible. “What’s your name, miss?” he said. The horses lurched forward and threw the passengers together. Gas lamps seemed to fly past the windows, and the racket of the wheels on the stones was hellish.

“My name is Tima Loorie,” she said.

“What?” said Benett, and put his hand behind his ear to hear her better.

She pulled him to her and brought her face close to his as if expecting a kiss. Benett acquiesced and opened his mouth in preparation. He waited for her lips to touch his, and then she spit directly into his mouth. He was paralyzed with astonishment, and before he could utter a groan, he felt the thing slide down his throat with the heft of an oyster, tasting of bile and rot.

“Tima Loorie,” she shouted.

This time he heard her and lunged, brandishing the stick, but with one graceful move she opened the carriage door and leaped out. Benett managed to close the door and bang on the ceiling once for Jennings to stop. When the horses came to a halt, he called up to the boy, “Head slowly back the way we’ve come. The fool girl jumped out. We need to find her.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy.

“And Jennings, have you got the derringer?”

“In my pocket and loaded.”

They drove slowly back along the streets they’d galloped through, but saw no one. Eventually, Benett had to satisfy himself with the idea that the carriage was moving so fast that she’d no doubt broken her neck in the fall. He finally signaled for Jennings to head back to Whitethorn. The moment he got into his study, he downed three quick glasses of whisky in hopes it might kill the witch’s scurvy spit he could feel swimming in his stomach. That night he needed no further driving in the carriage to sleep. He fell into utter darkness, fully clothed, in the chair by the window.

He woke late the next morning, unusual for him, yet still felt exhausted. Using a hand mirror, he gazed upon the dark circles surrounding his eyes, his pale complexion. His gut was in a turmoil, and every time he thought back to the spit, he grew nauseous. He went to his bedchamber and got beneath the counterpane, pulling it up to his chin. Farting and shivering, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the phrase “fruiting body” repeated in his thoughts in the voice of Tima Loorie. At noon, the elder Jennings came in to deliver a message that had just been brought by Thrashner’s man, Binsel.

My Good Benett,

I’ve been up and at work early today on the fairy enterprise. Drinks at my place this afternoon at 3:00 with Lord Smith. He’ll take our money in the long run, but he’ll want us to grovel a bit in his presence. We can’t do anything without him on board. I’ve invited a few others so as not to make the scene too awkward.

Your Partner In Manufacture,

Thrashner

He needed both Jennings and Jennings to pull him out of bed and get him into his formal attire. He said little but belched profusely, and the father and son, one on each arm, led him to the carriage. In the fresh air, he felt a bit better and managed to get into his seat by himself.

“Shall I accompany you?” asked the elder Jennings.

“Don’t be a fool. The boy will take me.”

Only moments after pulling away from Whitethorn, Benett grew worse. Waves of nausea and difficulty breathing through his nose. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew. For a moment, it felt as if he was bleeding, and he looked into the folded handkerchief to check. What he found there wasn’t the red stain he feared, but a tiny green man, struggling to be free. The creature scurried across the expanse of material and then leaped to Benett’s knee. He felt the thing land and brought his fist down, but too late. It had already hopped into the shadows below. For over a quarter mile, Benett stamped his feet around the floor, hoping to crush the thing he’d convinced himself was an insect.

The affair at Thrashner’s was crowded with important people who no doubt sensed palm-greasing in the offing. Benett struggled from room to room, meeting the highwaymen of the aristocracy. The most difficult thing for him was smiling. His guts were twisting like a pin wheel, and the sweat was pouring off him. Before he’d yet run into Thrashner, Bensil handed him a brandy and introduced him to Lord and Lady Smith.

Benett knew he needed to rise to the occasion, so he stretched his smile another agonizing jot and took a sip of his drink to seem debonair. “A pleasure to meet you both,” he said. The brandy set fire to his insides.

“Likewise,” said Lord Smith, a stately man whose eyes barely opened. “Lady Smith and I would like you to do us a courtesy, if you would. To the gathering today my dear lady has brought a new dish she has invented. She’s a culinary expert, of course, you know. In the French tradition. She’d like you to have a taste and give her your unmitigated opinion.”