Placeholder Igon Everto (Philomena)

[Ignotus Everto]

------------------------------

[Philomena]

Winter 58, 512
Row Houses, Sailor's Row, Zeltiva
-------------------------

"Mus'er Mackerly?"

Minnie spoke the words cautiously, softly. The man's stare had the vacancy of the blind, but the habitual movement of those long used to sight. His eyes were a cloud of cataracts, which explained this. Minnie smiled, knowing the fellow wouldn't see it anyway, but thinking perhaps it would change the color of her voice.

"Oo's 'at 'en? Goody Burrows? You 'ave m'porridge, 'en?"

Minnie had a wooden bowl of kelp porridge in her hand. The maid had been only too happy to give it to her, frankly. Mister Benjamin Mackerly, from the look of his modest but well-kept and comfortably furnished row house had earned many things in his life. Clearly the love and loyalty of his servants was not one. But then, none of the multitude of people Minnie had spoken to to arrive here this morning would, Minnie though, be surprised to learn this. Many respectful, but onto a singly affectionate thing was said of Benny Mackerly.

"'ere's your porridge 'en, Mus'er. Beaut'ful morning, anny it?"

"Beau'ful? Och! Demmed winters every year, they make m'legs stiffer. Damn 'aving children. You know, I worked my arse off t'get my sonny a place in the Guild, proper, eh? Eh? No fisher-work for my littl'un, 'at's what I said! And now? Demmed moneybags, 'e leaves me 'ere to live m'golden years in a deemed draughty row-house!" the old man spit unceremoniously, a great greenish wad of phlegm that splattered across Minnie's boot.

She forced the smile, harder, and sat by the man's old chair, taking the porridge spoon and lifting it to the man's lips, slowly, like feeding Gypa, just like that... when he was little, when she weaned him from the wet-nurse. So early, she knew it was not right, but she wanted to child near, more often, she wanted the child to be resting against her own breast, not the hired teat of the old washerwoman. She'd spooned the thin arrowroot and cassava into the child's mouth held tight to her, and crooned songs to him...

No. No, Minnie Lefting. Not now. Not now.

"Aye, these rowers, they are a sight, eh?" her slang was dated, but she thought this, perhaps, might help her here, make him think of olden things, "Dunny make a girl think on the ol' 'ouses, the ol' fisher district. Them 'ouses, built right up nuppy the cassernors, they were tight things, tight as a good-tarred keel, eh?"

The man smacked at the gruel. Half of it ran down his lip into his thin beard. Minnie scraped it out with her spoon as delicately as she could.

"Aye, they were! They dunny know 'ow to build an 'ouse no more. 'at's as the ol' 'ouses, they were built by shipwrights? These new ones? 'alf the labor in 'em is 'em squint-eyed foreign refugees. Why Old Bitch Maria woulder given 'em 'sir own quarter is a mystery on me!"

"But, strange 'at, some of 'em 'ousel ain't even lived in, is they?"

"Them's 'ouses built by old rights, them is! That's why! None o' this namby-cock o' deeds and landlords. A feller had an 'ouse as 'ad 'ad his family name on it for eight generations. Some on 'em righ' back to the baddy ol' days."

"Yes..." she said irritably, chasing the man's old lips with another spoonful, "On'y, some of 'em families they ain roun' n'more, non?"

"Some o' 'em. It's the demmed University folks, you ask me, sucking the demmed ci'y dry to dress up in petchin' mummer-cloaks and silk stockings, leave the 'ard-working folks 'ungry."

"All of 'em? What about the Evertos?"

She frowned. Minnie was not a liar. She'd been sure to avoid lying to the man the whole time. And throwing the name in, she worried she sounded unnatural. She KNEW she sounded unnatural. The man was quiet a moment.

"Everto. 'at's a name I hae naw heared in a long time."

Minnie grew a little pale, and cleared her throat. Her black-hand was pulsing painfully, cradled around the wooden bowl, the bruises from her encounter with her son just green enough now to swell beneath the skin. She lifted the spoon to the man's lips, and said nothing.

//Just shut up, now Minnie. Just shut up. Just feed the man his lunch and be gone with ye.//

The man took the proferred bit, and then said, in a low, grating voice, "Aye. Th'ain' naw Evertos lef'. But I would nae live in 'at 'ouse if it were plated in gold."

"You... knew the Evertos?"

"I knew the littlest 'un, Igon. Little whelp 'e were. Coul' nae hack a fishing life. We were boys at the same time. He were at the winch a dark winderly night when we were at fishing, and 'e were such a worsted, 'e busted off the winch on the nets. We were 'ungry for a month saving to repair it! Everto."

"Did he 'ave nae friends 'en?"

"Friends? No boy 'roun' the nibberhood woulda touched him. The whelp duffed it ever'time he stepped on a plank. 'ad some bitch-of-a-girl with a puffery name what hung round him, but that were all. And 'en, there were the fire, an' 'e were gone."

"The fire?"

"Och..." the man shuddered, "Och, that fire... that fire, it burned hot, it did, it were like nae fire I'd seen. Took Danny wi 'it."

"Danny Sultifer?"

"Aye... Danny."

The man's eyes wheeled around the room.

"Wait, now, 'oo by Rhysol's arse might you be, 'en? You ain no Goody Burrows, are you, 'en?"

"Ma'er Mackerly, now, hush. Goody Burrows, she were tired. An' I jus' wan'ed ter talk at ye, thassal."

The man seethed a moment, but grew silent, his eyes dark and silent. He finished his meal, Minnie saying nothing else. Minnie stood at the end, shaking, in pain and confusion and fear, and the man said soft and cruel, "You bend down 'ere close, mussy, afore you go. Mine eyes want ter see 'oo 'as been asking questions of me."

Minnie, frightened and blushed, and leaned in close. The man was clearly just as unaware of the sight of her as before, but perhaps it was the nearness of the warmth of her that tipped him off. He reared his throat and spit hard in her face, a great sticky mixture of the phlegm of torn and ancient lungs, and the spittle of a freshly fed mouth.

"'ere you are, you perch-bedded hussy, you slut of the gutter. You go on, an' you spit that right back at your Igon Everto, where'er he be, you tell him 'e ain't gunny scare me so easy. 'e wants me, 'e knows jus' where ter come for me."

Minnie stood, taking the tail of her ascot and wiped as much of the spittle from her face as the thing fabric would absorb, and murmured, very soft, "Sorry ter be disturbing you, 'en."

[Ignotus Everto]

Benjamin Mackerly was not a happy men when Philomena took her leave. His food was not sitting well with him, some whore had snuck into his house, probably snuck off with a candlestick, and he was tired! A nap would do well, he decided. Yes, a nap would be perfect.

"Petchin' nosy wenches an' moochers..." he muttered irritably to no one in particular as he grasped the edge of the table and slowly pulled himself to his feet. His strength wasn't what it used to be. Petch, nothing was what it used to be. And he was so, petching, tired. "'Oo's she think she is, askin' questions..."

"Who indeed?" a man's voice answered.

Benjamin crashed to the floor in a mess of flailing limbs and swearwords, the chair skidding across the ground to land with a crack on its side.

"'Oo're you?" the old sailor demanded, creaking up from the floor and rubbing his sore behind.

"Oh, you know who I am, Ben." the stranger replied. Benjamin felt gloved fingers curl around his wrist and yank him unceremoniously to his feet, and shuddered. They were a human's fingers, that was for certain, but the flesh was ice cold. "The little canary..." the fingers' owner snarled into his before sending him stumbling back with a shove on the chest. "Don't you remember him?"

Ben blinked twice, a habit that had long since lost its usefulness. "Igon?" he gasped, "You're dead. You can't not be dead! You were a little bitch as a boy, 'ow are you not dead?!"

"Still as stupid as ever, I see." Ignotus retorted, occupying himself by casually examining his own fingernails. "Don't you know what a Nuit is?"

"Oh... I see." Benjamin said, a grim smile on his face. "You wen' an' turned yourself into a mons'er."

Pain flowered from Ben's temple as a cane cracked across it, sending him tumbling to earth again. "You will address your progeny's master with respect." the Nuit hissed. Benjamin spat before responding, a streak of red mixed in with the phlegm now. It was the metallic taste in his mouth that alerted him to blood. The iron in his mouth and the trickling feeling running down his scalp, matting the scant hair on his head.

"'Ow'd you get in?"
"I have my methods."

It was easy. Incredibly easy, in fact. All he did was shroud himself in a veil of unimportance- Just another body- to divert attention away from himself. Getting in was almost as easy. Widening the hairline crack in his soul professor Azarov made to detach his head and hand, all he had to do was take hold of the doorknob from the inside and turn.

"Igon-"
"Don't call me that!"
He hated the name Igon. Igon was a fisher's boy. An asthmatic who was only good for taking up space and snapping up food. He was so much more now...
"I am Ignotus Everto, Trident Knight of Zeltiva, wizard among mummers, immortal-"
"Shut the petch up!" Benjamin spat from the ground. "Whatever name y'take, you're still the Everto boy!"

For a chime, there was silence. Then old Ben felt something of a most curious texture fall on his face. A glove, by the feel of it. "Do you feel that, Benny?" Ignotus said, "That's silk. I bought it with pocket change. I could buy this entire row house with what I earn in a year."

Ben groped clumsily for the glove, but before he could get his fingers around it, it flew into the air, seemingly of its own accord. "What have you accomplished? Nothing. You're exactly the same as I left you. Oh, your son got lucky- My charity has improved this city, and so we are more generous- but you're still a pathetic sea dog. Only..." the glove slid onto Ignotus' hand, and a grin onto his face. "You're toothless now."

A kick to the stomach. "How does it feel, Ben?!" Ignotus jeered over his groans, "How does it feel to be the weak?! To be helpless in the face of your own destruction?!"
"Igon..." Benjamin gasped.
"I told you not to call me that!"
"Ig..." he swallowed, his breath catching in his lungs like an overfilled skin corked too soon. "Ignotus... I'm sorry. We were angry. You can un'erstan', can't you? You're angry now. We were jus' boys. We didn'..."

"Didn't what?" Ignotus demanded as he started to circle the panting senior, "Mean to hurt me? That's horse shyke."
"I called 'em off y-"
"After I was well bruised, because you feared for your own neck, not mine."

Hush. Ten ticks later, "I'm sorry fer what happened, Igon. Say wha' you will!.." he barked before Ignotus could start again, "But your name's still Igon. I'm sorry we did 'is to you. But you don' 'ave to make our mistakes. Jus' walk away. Y'said it yourself. You're successful, make a good livin', an' people like you. Dunno why,"
he chuckled halfheartedly, and when he got cold silence in return, stopped abruptly and carried on, "But they do. What I'm tryin' to say is 'at you can be a great man. Don' throw it away on an ol' grudge." Another swallow. "What do you say?"

A chime passed without response. Two chimes. Five. Finally, Benjamin quietly inquired, "... Igon?"
A blinding pain in his stomach met him. He felt like his guts were turning to boiling soup- Which, in a sense, they were. Ignotus was standing over him, his left arm limp, astral hand in the former fisher's abdomen. Res was pouring out into his stomach and transmuting into fire. When the Wave Guards inevitably came, they would declare he died of ulcers, and hit his head on the chair. Ignotus would make sure of that. Wisps of smoke rose dolefully from Benjamin's mouth as his body started to go numb... And then he felt breath cold as frost tickle his ear, and Ignotus spoke.

"No."

His mind was starting to cloud, and he thought he made out shapes in the distance. "You will burn, Benjamin, as David did. A shame another fire won't do- Goody Burrows would be oh-so-worried if the house went.- But you will burn nonetheless."

The sound of floorboards creaking alerted Ben that Ignotus was straightening up, and their decreasing volume told him that he was walking away. "It... It was you..." he wheezed. "I knew... Wasn' naw ordinary fire..."

A cold chuckle came from the door. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Benjamin. I'm not just the Trident Knight of Zeltiva. I'm soon going to be its lord and master!" a gleeful giggle fell from his lips as the door creaked open. "A shame you won't live to see it... I've got big plans, Benjamin. The boys would be proud of me."

Ignotus slammed the door the same time Dira took the sailor's soul.

[Philomena]

Minnie waited a few days - the last thing she wished to do was to be seen around the house. He was an old fuster, the old man, and none was going to think, perhaps, too hard about how he'd died. Minnie wondered miserably if she HAD killed him. He was old, he was, and she had fed him with a plague hand wrapped around his bowl. Had that plague infected him and killed him? That quickly? Was that possible? She stayed away for three days. Then, quietly asked around - not at the house, but in the neighborhood, and heard the rumors.

"I 'eard, 'is stomach were as grey and cooked as overcooked seal meat."

"Odd 'at was! The old bugger 'ad 'at heart what beat like a thumb-cocker, and the great tumor under his arm, and what is it what takes him? An upset tummy1"

"Och… I dunny believe it. You ask me? Summat pissed in his tea, if you know what I mean."

The other woman laughed, and smacked the first playfully with the flat of her hand on the buttock as they walked, "Petcher! Don't be nasty about the dead, 'en."

Minnie had heard the same more than once. She had even seen the man's corpse, slipping quietly into the shop of her old acquaintance the undertaker (an undertaker has remarkably interesting records on the deaths of people one is looking for after all). It had smelled… strange. His mouth smelled like stew and vomit.

She did not know this sort of magic. Heat? Like the fellows that tossed fire around in the East Wing? Did it work like that? She had read on hypnotism as best she could over the last months, but fire magic, she could only guess at. Poetic references, like the Lurkistrata, with its famous:

And he pressed the fire from his hands,
Until his eyes were clouded thick
With blood.

But mostly, nothing. But she knew. The man had even spoken of one of the other boys dying by fire, hadn't he? A strange fire? It was the murder man, she was sure of it. And that meant he must be following her, stalking her.

It was time to rebalance the scales.

She went up quietly to the university, set a note to her afternoon's student, that she would come to him later in the evening for their course. She flitted about town, depositing things here and there, speaking here to a fisherman, there to a tired old Wave Guard, here to an archivist at the Guild, and there to the Librarian. And then, quietly, as the night set in, she went to the door of the Ignotus house.

She had avoided it, steadfastly. She did not see what she could learn by looking at it, and she saw many things she could lose by being seen near it. So tonight, as she came by, she shook a little. She dressed flamboyantly, a bright red cravat around her throat, a black lace dress, long gloves, her hideous mackintosh, her boots laced high and tight, her satchel bouncing on her hip. She leaned heavily on her black walking stick. And she slipped quietly to the door - but then, how quietly can one slip? Neighbors peered at her, people frowned, muttered behind their hands. Some knew of her - she was a face in the streets by the harbor, with all her research, and to some of the poor, even a sort of backhanded point of pride: aye, she was queer, aye she was ugly, aye she was clumsy, but she was theirs, a child of the back-alleys risen to a professor-ship at the university. If that little scrap of a bitch could make it in the Uni, then how high and mighty were the old silk-stockings anyway?

Minnie came to the lintel of Iggy's house then, and reaching in her bag, she took a note, bound with a bit of twine into a flat bundle, a hammer, and a pin. Then it was she realized - how the devil was she to pound it in with one hand. A woman came up from the street at that, and half bowed.

"'fessor LEfting, eh?"

"Goody, musses, please, I ain s'high as my stockings suggest."

The woman grinned at this, and nodded, "Goody Lefting. What's all 'is?"

"Just… leaving a note."

"A note? For 'oo?"

"House's owner. He is in the city, you know."

She left it at that. But the woman grinned now, a gap-toothed smile, and said, "Yer looking like you might 'ave some trouble 'ere."

And without another word, the stout woman took the note from Minnie's hand, the hammer, the nail, and set it high on the lintel - higher than Minnie could have even reached - and pounded the nail home, quickly, deftly. She gave the hammer back to Minnie who smiled, "Blessing on you, musses."

"Goody Palterhuss. Pleasure ter meet yer."

Minnie smiled, "Can I pay yer for yer trouble?"

The woman smiled, and spit on the ground. An outsider might have thought it scorn, but one who grew up here would recognize - she spit sideways, away from Minnie, that was a sign of respect, a sort of oath on the mouth, "Naught on it, Good Lefting. Naught on it."

The note, of course, was 'undisturbed' by the end of the night, but had in actuality been read and recited throughout the neighborhood, a piece of the lore of the place.

"Mr. Everto -

I fear you did not leave me an address at our dinner engagement, so I hope this reaches you promptly, as I know how embarrassing a missive on one's lintel can be if left too long.

I believe we, perhaps, have some business to discuss, on the matter of a bit India Ink. The weather looks lovely for tomorrow. I will be rowing out on the bay where the fisherman go. Perhaps you could row out your own boat, and we could chat? I get nervous of tipping when others share my boat, you know, but if we row out far enough, you and I, we should be able to chat without fouling each other's anchors.

Sincerely yours,

Dr. Philomena Lefting,
Department of Literature, West Wing
Zeltiva University"

The sky hung low and dark - any sailor would recognize it - a coming squall. IT would probably arrive the next day.