Page 14 of Disenchanted
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The area known as Misty Bottoms rested at the southern-most tip of Arcady near the border. It was situated on the Conger River and was usually bathed in a mist rising off the turgid waters. Some days, the mist could be so thick, one could not see two footsteps ahead. The Bottoms was such a twisted warren of lanes and narrow alleys, it would be quite easy to get lost in the fog, even for those familiar with the area.
This afternoon, nothing but the usual grey pall hung over the Bottoms. I made my way down Eel Splitch Lane, past a row of defeated-looking cottages, their windows boarded over to avoid paying the extra tax; many of them with their thatched roofs appearing in danger of collapse. I wrinkled my nose at the foul odor that permeated the air here, something that smelled like a combination of rotting fish and boiled cabbage. The stench was even worse in the winter when the cottage dwellers burned peat made from the compressed dung of mountain elks, otherwise known in the vulgar parlance as “frap.”
Mal assured me that the Bottoms dwellers grew accustomed to the smell after a while. It saddened me that anyone should have to become used to living in such dismal conditions. I wasterrified to think that someday my family and I might well end up here— or somewhere even worse.
As miserable as the Bottoms were, at least these folk still had a roof over their heads. The king’s council had passed an edict making it illegal to be homeless. As King August had decreed, “It only makes the good citizens of our kingdom uncomfortable to look at beggars, and truly if these miscreants had been more industrious and thriftier, they would not have ended up in such a sorry state.”
Consequently, vagrants were rounded up by the Border Scutcheons and exiled out into the swampland and unchartered forest beyond the river. What ultimately became of these wretched individuals no one knew.
As I followed the twists of the lane, the smell of fish grew stronger, the closer I got to the river. I stifled a shriek when something large and black skittered past my skirt. I tried to imagine it was nothing more than a scrawny cat.
The lane was largely empty at this hour of day. Folks in the Bottoms tended to retire to their homes well before dark and bolt their doors. What individuals I passed looked as worn and ragged as their homes. A few gave me sidelong hostile glares but for the most part, kept their heads down.
I did the same until I chanced upon someone I knew. My stomach knotted at the sight of the hunch-backed man with pointy features and a dandelion shock of white hair. He ran a small curio shop and was known as a purchaser of goods, especially from those desperate to acquire funds. I had had occasion to visit his establishment far too often, not a happy memory, but I forced a stiff smile to my lips.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fugitate.”
He responded with a grunt. “Shop is closed for today, miss. So, if you are bringing me something to sell—”
“I am not.”
He grunted again and brushed past me. I never took Withypole Fugitate’s surliness amiss because I knew the reason for it. Mal believed that Withypole was one of the fairy folks. Most of them had been driven out of the kingdom a long time ago by the king’s harsh regulations regarding the practice of magic and his ruinous tax on wings. Those few who stubbornly chose to remain were at pains to disguise these prominent appendages. Fugitate did so by crushing his into a sack and making it appear as if he had a hump beneath his shirt. I knew nothing about what it would be like to have wings, but I suspected that being obliged to compress them must be rather painful. Hence Fugitate’s constant state of ill humor.
I quickened my steps, turning down another lane, up an alley and cutting across a narrow field where the burned out remains of several cottages stood. It was a longer and more roundabout route Mal had shown me to avoid going past the Winking Goblin, a dark, smoky tavern that tended to be frequented by some rather rough characters.
The next thoroughfare was wide enough that it almost merited the name of street. It was in fact called Rock Gunnel Street and Mal’s place was in the middle of it, tucked between a chandlery and an old house whose upper stories were built in such crooked fashion, it resembled a layer cake constructed by a drunken pastry chef.
Mal’s shop was constructed of weather-worn clapboards and had a dingy bow window and green door. A sign creaking on rusty chains hung from the upper story. The placard depicted a predatory bird with spread wings and hook talons. Painted beneath was the shop’s name, THE HAWK’S NEST.
I told Mal that the name sounded more suited to a den of thieves, and he ought to think of a more respectable moniker for an herbalist’s shop. Mal only laughed and replied that respectability had never been of great concern to Hawkridges.
Extreme poverty was not the only thing that drove people to live in Misty Bottoms. Some chose to settle here for murkier reasons. The heavy mists, the maze of lanes and the proximity to the border made it an ideal location for those engaged in activities that would not bear scrutiny by the law. My friend Mal fell into this category.
A CLOSED sign hung in the shop’s window, but I ignored it, hammering loudly on the door. As I did so, I had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. I knocked again while looking nervously around me.
“Rrreow.”
A low growl caused me to glance down into the yellow eyes of Mal’s sleek black cat. This creature had taken a marked dislike to me. It glared at me, arched its back and hissed. I hissed right back at it and started to knock again when the shop’s door swung open.
“Can’t you read? The sign says—” Mal snapped, then broke into a broad grin. “Ella, what an agreeable surprise.”
I was likewise surprised, but I cannot say I found it agreeable. My friend Mal was a lean man of medium height and possessed of a rangy, almost catlike grace. His face was one of sharp, hard angles, softened by a pair of melting chocolate eyes. He had a wicked smile that I suspected had been more than one maiden’s undoing, despite his receding hairline. As usual, he wore a stained apron over his breeches and an open-necked shirt.
He was also wearing a thick black wig styled into a pompadour.
I just stood there gaping at him, until Mal reached up and smoothed back a dark wave from his brow. He gave a self-conscious chuckle and asked, “Well, what do you think? Do you like it?”
“No,” I said bluntly. “It looks like you scalped that wretched cat of yours and stuck it on your head.”
Mal’s hand dropped back to his side, and he scowled at me. “I have told you a hundred times. Ebony is not my cat. She belongs to the witch next door.”
Mal was not being insulting when he referred to his neighbor thus. Delphine really was a witch, although most likely an unlicensed one.
“If that cat doesn’t belong to you, perhaps you ought to tell her that.”
The cat had insinuated itself between us, rubbing up against Mal’s legs and purring. Before he could prevent her, the cat bolted past him into the shop. Mal swore and tore off after her, leaving me to follow and close the door behind me.
