All hat, no dragon

     As they passed alleyways, the stragglers would avert their eyes and quicken their pace. It was time for the dark cloaks to come out.

     They glided out of every street, emerging from the gloom with bowed heads and steepled fingers, avoiding the pools of light around gas lamps as one might sidestep muddy puddles. Rippling cloaks, sweeping capes and billowing robes roamed the town, purple-trimmed, red-lined or pitch black. Any unfortunate intruder would be revealed in a second, for they all flocked in the same direction: the entrance of the catacombs.

     The hoods filed steadily down the dirt path that meandered between headstones, imperturbable, until they reached the tall, weathered marble gate. There, before being allowed through, they greeted their fellows with elaborate gestures and hushed declamations in Ancient Altadorian tongue.

     "Lorem ipsum dolor - would you kindly, perchance, watch your step?"

     "I am terribly sorry, Madam, I simply cannot see a thing from beneath this hood!"

     "Oh, dear Prudence, is that you?"

     "Penelope? How fortunate am I to chance upon you here!"

     "And how are we feeling tonight?"

     "Much better, thank you. I had the grandchildren over for tea just yesterday, they are doing simply marvelous."

     "Very nice, dear. Excuse me for a moment, will you."

     The first hooded figure completed her chant and flashed a pendant at the cloaks guarding the doorway. She and her group were ushered into the pleasantly musty, dimly lit tunnel.

      "Now, Prudence, before I forget, since you missed last week's meeting, you must remember to bring a few implements for next Friday," said Penelope, a grizzled Elephante, pulling her long braid of salt-and-pepper hair out of her hood. "A pocket-watch, two candles, a tuft of fur from an enemy's head, and a sprig of parsley should do." She gestured. "And this is my niece, Natalie."

     The Cybunny by her side nodded, smiling mildly under her hood. "Charmed to meet you. It has been ages since my last visit. Aunt Penny is graciously hosting me in the city for this occasion."

     "I'm sure you will have a grand time, dearie! We might even run into a few people your age." Prudence, an elderly Bruce, pushed back her hood and craned her neck to watch her step as they started down the stairs. "What about for tonight, Penelope? Was there anything that we needed to bring?"

     "Oh, nothing at all, the... Tea Club is taking care of it all."

     "The... Tea Club? I see." Prudence was cut short when a Zombie Ghost - that might, perhaps, have been a Ghost Zombie - drifted through the door ahead of them. The Bruce let out a tiny shriek and clutched at her chest.

     "I'm afraid we've spilled some curses in here, Aunt Penny," the apparition said sheepishly. "You'll need to go right down to the thirty-sixth."

     "We shall. You would do well to clean up quickly, then, or else you might miss the start of the festivities!"

      Penelope about-faced and led the group to a heavy door that Natalie and she had to push together. A Globilol peered at them from a stack of fresh-looking bones; without pause, Penelope threw a scrap of Catacombs bacon into the corner of the room, and the oversized Petpet immediately slithered after it, clearing the way.

     Several more floors down, the hooded group stopped abruptly - with a bit of a pile-up at the back - as a long shadow loomed ahead of them.

      "Braaaains?" A zombie poked its head around the corner.

      Penelope marched on and took the zombie gently by the shoulder. "Down this way, and turn left," she enunciated, pointing emphatically in the right direction.

     "Braaaains."

     "Indeed."

     "I cannot fathom how I might have found the way without you, Penelope," said Prudence, brushing cobwebs off her cloak. The tunnels had progressed from musty to downright filthy, the many identical doors almost indistinguishable from the walls.

     "I am certain that you would have run into someone eventually," said Penelope, waving at a procession of banjo players who were filing through the next door.

     Another corridor led them down a slope and around a bend. The tunnels came to an end. A parchment-yellow glow filtered from beneath the final door. Penelope gave another password - "Warm Spinach Croissant" - and the door swung open. "Do come in," said the Elephante, beckoning Natalie into a huge chamber.

     Far above their heads, a long, drooping banner announced, in spiky black letters: "Annual Neighbourhood Tea." Candles hung from chandeliers and drifted lazily across the room of their own accord, sometimes followed by jack-o-lanterns.

     As soon as they had reached the chamber, all of the hooded figures tossed open their robes, revealing perfectly fashionable evening attire. Gems glinted from between the vicious-looking spikes of antique jewellery; Dragonbud flowers snapped their teeth from suits' buttonholes and attempted to chew on the silk cravats above them. Robes and stoles were kept so that guests could be identified by their societies' colours, but all of their cloaks were stored in a vast cloakroom almost as large as the banquet hall itself.

     "We made it with just a little time to spare," Penelope said once they had hung up their cloaks. "Ladies, may I remind you to steer clear of the Fibercraft Guild."

     "The Fibercraft Guild?" said one of the guests who had followed her in. "I would have expected you to warn us about the Wraith Redemption Ring."

      Penelope shook her head. "Always stay in the good graces of people who expertly wield knitting needles."

     "Aunt Penny! Glad that you could make it." A be-monocled Quiggle gave her a little bow. "Will you be hosting a little ghostly interview with us tonight?"

      "Only during meetings, Gustave. You are welcome to join our society."

     "I would be delighted to join your ranks - in the future, perhaps." He leaned in. "Inter-order relations are still a little tense after that nasty business with the Knights of Nox. We had better wait it out."

     The various members of underground societies had gathered along the tables that lined the room. They watched the entrance expectantly as their conversations began to slow.

      Two more guests walked in at a brisk pace, tidying themselves up. A smaller hooded figure practically toppled in, took stock of her surroundings and dashed into the cloakroom.

      "Almost witching hour," Prudence was saying. "Lady Eaves has always been so punctual."

     "I cannot wait to hear her play the organ once more," Natalie chimed in suddenly.

     "I am simply dying to know what hat Lady Eaves will unveil for us this year," added a Krawk near them, whose elaborate costume and dark makeup identified her as a member of the Siblinghood of Vira Admirers. "Have you any idea of what it will look like, Aunt Penny?"

     "I would wager on a Spyder theme."

     "How exciting," said the Krawk, "and how very fitting for her. If it isn't too much of a secret, what spirit did you contact for this information?"

     "None, dear girl, but the spirit of the haberdasher's apprentice, who was still trembling from the sight of those critters when I went in to order my own hat."

     The towering clock in the corner began to toll its twelve chimes. A chill wind swept through the room and most of the candles went out. Guests quickly shushed each other. After some rustling and a slam, the room fell silent.

      The door opened into darkness. A tall, slender Gelert was briefly silhouetted in the opening by a flash of light. A second later, thunder rattled through the room.

      ("Will she ever explain how she makes that happen underground," hissed a guest, who was immediately shushed by several more.)

      The flames of the candles flickered back to life little by little, their glow somewhat colder than before. The Halloween Gelert on the threshold stood with her hands clasped modestly. She was cloaked only by her long hair, which was the same colour as a Crokabek's plumage, and shrouded in a floor-length black dress, so tight around the ankles that it seemed impossible to walk in it without tripping. She had with her, as expected, an uncommonly large hatbox.

     Her wispy voice filled the chamber. "Clubs, circles, societies, covens, courts and orders of Neovia. On behalf of the Eaves family, I welcome you, once again, to haunt the abyss of our Vaults with us."

     Lady Eaves glided into the room to the sound of very hushed applause. She set her hatbox in the cloakroom before making her way to the organ that dominated the banquet hall. She seated herself and began to adjust the music bench and score. All eyes were riveted on her.

      The short figure who had arrived last came out of the cloakroom and made a beeline for Penelope.

     "There you are, Pamela!" she whispered.

     "Aunt Penny, I think I saw -"

     "What is it?"

      The young Acara shuffled nervously out of Penelope's welcoming embrace, eyeing the people around them. "Later, perhaps."

      Penelope squeezed her shoulder. "No one here believes it was your fault, my girl. The Knights of Nox must learn not to leave their treasured relics lying about, and one cannot fault a Gelatinous Non-Cube for glorping about its business."

     Lady Eaves raised her hands and lowered them towards the keys. There was a bang and a deafening roar.

     A great head burst through the door and thrashed furiously on the end of its long neck. Guests screamed and began to back away, but the dragon silenced them with another roar. They were left to tremble, frozen in place.

     "Mortals! You have gone too far." Smoke and sparks underlined the dragon's every word. "You have betrayed our neighbourly understanding. You have dug into my hoard like vermin while I was absent and absconded with my treasure.

     "No one shall exit this chamber until my property is returned," added the dragon, its voice easily rumbling over the guests' shocked gasps. "I shall guard the passage myself. Should you fail to return what is mine at the end of the hour, I shall unleash my fiery breath upon you all where you stand, and take back my treasure for myself."

     The announcement was met with dead silence.

     Lady Eaves' thin voice drifted over the crowd. "So we are all trapped here, in the same fatal predicament." With a serene smile, she crossed her hands. "How dreadfully tragic."

     Time went on. The baby grew up in quite the usual way. He was a happy, healthy child with four arms and two legs. He had large dark eyes, soft green skin, and two antennae. By all accounts, he appeared to be a Ruki, a green one; though in the early years his face was often so covered in dirt from the sooty city streets that you could barely see the colour underneath.

     Oh, but Old Bob did right by the boy! Scarcely a soul could deny that. He fed him and clothed him, washed him when necessary, gave him the best practical education this side of Neovia could boast. Bob taught him his manners and when to use them: when to say please and thank you, when to say pardon me and when to shove right on through. Bob taught him to read and write as best he could, and, perhaps most importantly, Bob taught the boy arithmetic. He taught him how to add and subtract advantageously; how to divide into equal parts, always leaving some leftover in the right quarters; and, best of all, how to multiply. Everyone knows the most essential thing to learn about sums from the very beginning is how to multiply them, so they may get bigger, and bigger, and BIGGER...

     Ah, but I suppose I’ve gone off on a tangent! I haven’t even told you the boy — our worthy protagonist’s — name. Well, Reader, it is a bit of a story to tell. I may have neglected to mention that on the blanket in which the child was wrapped, embroidered in thin blue thread, was the name Jenkins. Whether this was a first name, a last name, or the name of the company that sewed the blanket, no man could say. Even so, as the closest thing to a piece of identification the child had, it seemed only natural that the lad should take Jenkins as his name.

     As it was soon broadcast far and wide that Old Bob Thompken had taken in a little boy, the child was often referred to, in the gossip of the streets, as simply Thompken’s boy, or Thompken’s Jenkins. Over the years this appellation stuck and became so habitual that the apostrophe was all but lost. If you were to ask the boy his name now, while he was in a truthful mood, he would almost surely tell you Thompkens Jenkins.

     And so Thompkens Jenkins we shall call him.

     The sun crept over the chimney tops, diffusing its pale rays among the smog clouds that perpetually choked the Neovian sky during the hot weeks of midsummer. Merchants’ caravans clattered over the cobblestone streets, as choked with people as the sky with smog. Pedlars cried out proclaiming their wares, Whinnies whinnied, shoppers called one to another over the din. It was market day, and from every house, from the squalid dwelling places of Succotash Street to the mansions of Calabrese Court, Neopians of all walks of life flocked to the town square, to buy, to sell, or simply to catch their bit of the action.

     Market day was one of the only days of the month on which Neovia’s rich and poor could be seen rubbing elbows in the streets. Those who stood near the luxury cloth stall on this particular market day were in for a real treat, as they were about to see rich and poor in closer proximity than ever before.

     “Matilda! Hurry on and carry my purse!”

     A rather heavyset pink Uni spilled, rather than stepped, out of her chaise, and steered herself like a woman on a mission (though hopefully not an urgent one, as her pace was rather slow) towards the aforementioned stall. Her lady’s maid, a skittish-looking faerie Lenny, tripped along behind her, somehow taking four steps to the Uni’s every one.

     “My stars! Why do they insist on setting this stall farther away from the road every month?”

     The Uni stopped to recover her breath, giving her servant time to catch up (though I’m sure this was not her intention, as she hadn’t looked behind her once). She smoothed her dress, which was of very fine blue silk that couldn’t possibly be made smoother, and adjusted her necklace which had slid to one side. It glimmered in the steely sunshine, radiant sapphires, and diamonds — or something very near them, at least.

     Having sufficiently composed herself and regained her bearings, the Uni was proceeding with new vigour towards her destination when she was arrested in her tracks by a body pressed flush against her own.

     “Mum!” cried the body, “I’ve found you at last!”

     The Uni screamed. Her lady’s maid screamed. Matilda seemed to consider hitting the interloper over the head with the purse she carried, but as she wasn’t sure whether this effort would be rewarded or condemned (for it was the lady’s purse), she instead employed herself by running around in circles, flapping her wings madly, and crying, “Help!”

     “How could you do it, Mum?” the clinging body wailed. “You left me out in the cold, helpless, with not a penny to me name! What kinda cruel, unnatural mother could desert her own child?” With this, the body, which the Uni could now see was a young boy of some sort, proceeded to weep. He clung harder. “How many months ‘ave I been wand’rin’ these streets? How many months ‘ave I been starvin’, pinin’ away not only from want of a bit to eat but from a dearth of a mother’s love!” He sobbed wildly into the Uni’s dress.

     A crowd was beginning to gather now. They stared and halloo’d and gaped at the spectacle of the reunited mother and son. The Uni made a last infuriated effort to save herself. “This little ragamuffin is not my son!!

     “That’s what you always said, Mum!”

     The boy held on for a minute longer, two arms around the Uni’s neck, two arms around her ample middle. Suddenly he looked up, as if in realization of something. “You’re not my mother!”

     The crowd gasped. The Uni moaned aloud. Matilda the lady’s maid was insensible.

     “My mother sure ain't no Uni. Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am.”

     “Inconvenience!” The Uni blew steam from her nostrils and ears. “You accost me in public with your wild accusations, then dare apologize for the inconvenience??”

     “Truly I am sorry, ma’am.” The Ruki started to cry again. “I thought you were me mother, honest! I haven’t seen me Mum in so long...” And he wiped his eyes with his soot-blackened hand and grimy sleeve.

     The crowd gave up a general murmur of sympathy. As big tears continued to wash the little lad’s grubby face, and the Uni stood aware that all eyes were on her and that she had a public image to upkeep, the wealthy lady put on her best consoling voice and begrudgingly tossed a ten Neopoint note at the little beggar. “Use this to procure yourself a bit to eat, as you say it,” she grunted hatefully.

     The Ruki’s face lit up. “Why, thank you kindly, ma’am!” And then the unthinkable happened — the Ruki actually pressed his dirty face against the Uni’s own, and kissed it!

     The crowd seemed divided between hysteria and amusement. The Uni may have fainted at this point, but Thompkens Jenkins never knew, as he was already off down the street.

     The steel grey sun, now high in the sky, glinted off the sapphire-diamond necklace as its new owner melted into the throng.

     Robert Thompken’s shop was a truly wondrous sight to behold. From the outside, it appeared a simple grey brick building, with some mismatched bricks squeezed in at odd angles where the original ones had fallen out. From the inside it was the same square room with whitewashed walls, covered up in much the same way as Thompkens Jenkins’ skin, except instead of only dirt, the walls were covered with the most multifarious assortment of items imaginable: whole legs of cured meat hanging from hooks; used clothes and “new rags” pegged on a clothesline; pots, pans, forks, and knives dangling at precarious angles; yesterday’s newspapers on a wall-mounted shelf labelled The Archives.

     By the checkout counter was the Featured Item Stand, its contents rotated every other day. Today it displayed a set of fine china, in perfect condition save a few chinks in the glass and dark stains in the bottoms of the cups. Inside one cup was a tag bearing the slogan “Easily Washed Out.”

     Turn your eyes a little over to the left, and you’ll see a blue Lutari at the checkout counter. He has just put down a can of paint, some paint brushes, and a string of black licorice. He stands there rubbing his scalp under his hat, waiting to be served.

     “This all for today, Mr. Brackenreid?”

     “‘Tis all, Thom. Paintin’ a table at home. Me wife’s been on me about it for donkey’s years, but I never could bring meself around to it. Thought today, Saturday as bein’ a half-holiday, it might be a good time to get off me bum and appease the lady.”

     Thom did some quick calculations with a pen and paper, biting the tip of the pen as he was wont to do. “That’ll be fourteen Neopoints, sir.”

     “Fourteen?” The Lutari lifted his hat and scratched his head again, fixed his spectacles (for he had bumped them during this action), and looked down at his prospective purchases. “Fourteen Neopoints for a can of paint, some paint brushes, and a licorice stick? By my calca-lations should be nine.”

     “Yes,” said Thompkens Jenkins slowly. “But that’s before accountin’ for the Chicken Tax.”

     Mr. Brackenreid blinked. “Chicken Tax?”

     “Why, of course! Didn’t you hear? There’s a grain shortage in Meridell right now.”

     Mr. Brackenreid massaged his scalp harder. He seemed to be trying to discern what grain in Meridell had to do with him, but he said nothing.

     “Meridell is where all the layin’ chickens are, Gobblers and Wibreths and the like. Without even enough grain to sustain ‘emselves, naturally the poor gals ‘aven’t been doin’ a lot of layin’, as you’ll understand, Mr. Brackenreid.”

     “Uh, of course,” the blue Lutari spluttered. “But, excuse me for askin’ Thom — I’m just a poor labourer, as ye know — what do chickens not layin’ eggs have anythin’ to do with paint?”

     “Why, didn’t you know, Mr. Brackenreid? Eggshell is a primary ingredient in paint!”

     “It is?”

     “Yes! Well, this paint. Ahem!” As Thompkens Jenkins cleared his throat, a myriad of little bells jingled as the shop door swung open. Thom continued with renewed ardour, “It is the sworn duty of every person sellin’ eggs or egg-based products to charge a Chicken Tax, of a particular percentage, for every item sold. All money collected goes di-rectly to the Save the Chickens Foundation, a strictly charitable organization devoted to the plantin’ of grain in Meridell, as well as fundin’ alternative sources of chicken feed.”

     The blue Lutari still wore a flummoxed expression. The Chicken’s Greatest Advocate had no choice but to pour out his soul to the hesitant contributor. “Oh, Mr. Brackenreid! Imagine the poor creatures, out there wastin’ away to nothin’! Their once glossy coats now faded and wretched, their majestic cokadoodledoos no more than pitiful, hungry clucks! The poor chickens!” For the second time that day, the Ruki wiped hot tears from his eyes.

     “The poor chickens,” Mr. Brackenreid echoed weakly, as his eyes, too, began to fill with tears.

     “But we won’t let the poor gals starve to death, will we Mr. Brackenreid!” Thompkens Jenkins pounded the counter with a tightly clenched fist and a most impassioned look on his young face. “With every contribution you make, via the Chicken Tax, you may be savin’ a helpless creature’s life!”

     “Here here!” Mr. Brackenreid slammed the desk in chorus.

     “Enjoy your paint, sir! With each stroke of the brush, remember the countless poultry souls your money has gone to help.”

     “Aye! We’ll save the chickens, every last one of ‘em!”

     “Have a great day!”

     As Mr. Brackenreid left the shop, Old Bob Thompken himself strode out of the corner where he had stashed himself through Thom’s monologue. “A Chicken Tax!” He boomed his roaring, jolly laugh. “That’s brilliant, lad! Why didn’t I think o’ that myself?” He delivered his protégé a good-natured clap on the back, which sent Thom rolling over the counter.

     “I blew it though, Bub,” said Thom, straightening his hat knocked askew. “I coulda told ‘im the paint brush bristles were made of chicken feathers and taxed ‘im for that too!”

     “Ah well, we’ll get him next time,” the rainbow Tonu chuckled.

     One thing I may not have mentioned about Bob Thompken, Reader, is that, for all he was treacherous, traitorous, deceitful and duplicitous, he was really a jolly, good-humoured sort of fellow. He had a boisterous laugh that could spark mirth in a heart of stone; in fact, it was probably the shopkeep’s racy jokes and crazy tales that kept customers coming back, as well as his merchandise.

     “And so my dear lad, how was the market today?” Bob asked with keen interest as he bustled about his premises.

     “I made friends with a proper wealthy lady. She gave me this!” Thom grinned as he pulled the nobbled necklace from a hidden pocket in his breeches, and held it to the light for Bob to see.

     “Crikey!” Old Bob’s rainbow eyebrows shot up high. “She gave it to you, you say? That’s one kindhearted swell you had the fortune to meet. Those’re hard to come by, they are.”

     “She gave me this too,” Thom slipped the ten Neopoint note from his pocket and waved it in Bob’s face.

     “Ten Neopoints? That’s nice, but a bit superfluous after the necklace, wouldn’t you think?”

     “She’s a rich toff,” scoffed Thom, “Superfluous is probably her middle name. Cecilia Superfluous Supercilious Yorke!” Thom stood himself straight and puffed out his chest, raised his voice several octaves and took some dainty steps forward, in proper wealthy lady style.

     “You’d be almost convincin’ if you looked a mite prettier,” Bob guffawed.

     Thompkens Jenkins marched up to a tin of dentifrice, boldly removed the lid (though it was merchandise), and smeared some of the pink substance on his cheeks for blush. “This little ragamuffin is not my son!” he shrieked his best Uni lady imitation. “My son is fat and slow and smells of roses!”

     “Is that what she said to you?” Old Bob beamed.

     “That or some such.” Thom muttered as he slinked his way towards the door, scrubbing his cheeks as he went. “I’m gonna take this necklace to Maude. I’ll be back in a trice.”

     “Maude? Why can’t we sell it here?”

     “Maude’ll be able to tell us if it’s real or not!” expounded Thom. “Besides, if the coppers were to come in here and catch you with a hot necklace, you’d be up a gum tree.”

     “So it’s hot, is it!” Bob descried. “You lied to me, lad?”

     “Of course, Bub! I learned from the best.”

     Bob caught the boy’s head, tousled it, and rubbed the rest of the pink off with his sleeve. “‘At’s me boy.”

     Released from his surrogate father’s grip, Thom took off like the deuce in search of his friend Maude.

To be continued…