The Scattersmith

By David James Kane

Paddy Lee, a mollycoddled sleepwalker, mopes about in a backwater town. But then the soul-gorging Blackgum lay siege and begin to pick off his schoolmates and loved ones. Only an irritable moth-mage and Platto - his attack-calculator and semi-smartphone - will stand with Paddy to oppose oblivion. And the Blackgum strikes aren’t random. To save his family and his town, the distracted daydreamer must concentrate long enough to unmask and confront the most fearsome monster of all: the Zealtor.

For Paddy Lee is a Scattersmith. Though he’d rather wait for his life to come out on DVD.

A plot-driven tale told with wit, the novel features an unstable world of Forgers (creators/discoverers), Ferine (wild beasts/plants), Passengers (couch potato-drones), Witches (priests of lapsed gods), Helpers (object-spirits), and an eccentric supporting cast, including a gluttonous French horn, a multi-headbanging Giant, a guard budgie, a lovesick pinball machine, a school of psychotic piranha-stamps, a poltergeist-puddle, a plesiosaur, Manticore twins and a bullmop.

If you like Darren Shan, Derek Landy, Eoin Colfer and Daniel Handler, check out The Scattersmith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David James Kane
• Release date: Dec 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301635085

David James Kane

I was born in an old gold mining town in Victoria, Australia. I grew up listening to ghost stories around school campfires, and started to write my own in second grade to scare my sisters. Senseless!Years later, on the other side of the world, I took a job at an investment bank. There, I learned a lot about monsters - and not the pretty-pouting-perfumed vamps and well-groomed werewolves you read about or see on screens.My horror stories have been published all over the place, including in Agog! Ripping Reads and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine Best of Horror 2. Reviewers have described my work as "clean and tight, the protagonists nicely formed, and some of the descriptions truly terrific...gruesome in the casual way of Clive Barker's Everville" (Angela Slatter, Australian SpecFic in Focus) and as "mixing elements of horror, action and science-fiction...[with] beautifully realised battle scenes and an interesting internal battle within the hero's mind...an interesting and original take on the monster hunter genre" (Mark Smith-Briggs, Horrorscope).So let me tell you the truth about real monsters...

Book preview

THE SCATTERSMITH

by David James Kane

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition

Copyright David James Kane 2013

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

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For my wife and sons.

Table of Contents

About the Blackgum

Chapter 1 - Snakes in my Mouth

Chapter 2 - Pumpkin Gutted

Chapter 3 - The Old Man and the Fee

Chapter 4 - Trunk Call

Chapter 5 - Testing Times

Chapter 6 - The Brother of Death

Chapter 7 - New Attractions

Chapter 8 - Dream Team

Chapter 9 - Fisticuffs and the Ferine

Chapter 10 - Crab Date

Chapter 11 - Building Bridges

Chapter 12 - Dashed Plans

Chapter 13 - Scrambled Lines

Chapter 14 - Spectre in the Hole

Chapter 15 - Crouchers

Chapter 16 - Heel and Toe

Chapter 17 - Barn Trance

Chapter 18 - Man Witch

Chapter 19 - Pact Off

Chapter 20 - All the Way Home

Chapter 21 - Games to Play with One Red Witch

Chapter 22 - Return to Ender

Chapter 23 - Mea Culprit

Chapter 24 - Scattersmith

ABOUT THE BLACKGUM

Even if you know a lot about monsters, you probably haven't heard of the Blackgum.

Since stone tools and flint-fire, they've stalked us; and probably long before then. Some have not adapted to our new cities, or our germs or guns or phone cameras, and lurk in the shadows of country lanes and the outskirts of towns.

Others have retreated completely to wild space: coiled underground, crouched low in scrub, burrowing deep under desert dunes, soaring overhead behind thick banks of cloud, or slithering through reefs and the wrecks of old ships. They are near-forgotten abominations, half mad with hunger, feeding off twisted memories of ancient glories.

But most modern Blackgum favour disguise over exile. They have learned to hide in plain sight amongst us. Right beneath our noses.

An urban Blackgum wears deodorant and shaves its legs - in some cases, its flanks and back too - to fit in with us. Some wear tailored suits or dresses or, in more casual settings like the shopping centre, swan about in jeans and T-shirts embossed with witty quips from blockbusting movies. Some of the Blackgum - those that don't wither in sunlight - hold down honest day jobs, pay their rent and put their kids through school. Some even volunteer at Christmas, ladling out fare at local soup kitchens. They look just like you or me, or your mum or dad.

They might even be your mum or dad.

Even the most careful Blackgum can't hide forever. Its lumps and bumps can be covered by huge blouses and voluminous track pants. Its demonic pupils can be cloaked by contacts or designer sunglasses. Clammy skin and horrid stinks can be sprayed over with fake tans and vats of perfume. But a Blackgum has to drop its human mask when called to battle or to feed. And the Blackgum do not munch on hamburgers and chips.

How do I know this?

In most countries, experts identify the cursed brats at birth. These unlucky kids are abducted from their parents and drilled in secret facilities for years by disciplined, wise men and women who train them in the many ways and methods of the Blackgum.

Not for me. I stumbled on my first Blackgum by accident, and was lucky to survive. My apprenticeship, if you want to call it that, came later and lasted just over a week. My teacher, to put it mildly, was offbeat and unreliable. A tad flighty, even.

Amongst the few lay-people who know of the Blackgum, most dismiss them as fables: scary stories made up by scheming parents to teach kids of yore dubious lessons of life, like the health benefits of doing what you are told. Less ignorant folk, including some who've devoted their lives to the study, think the Blackgum existed once, but are extinct, like dinosaurs and tape decks. The Blackgum like it this way. It's much easier to hunt if no one's looking out for you.

My kind fights the Blackgum. We have never been many and are now hopelessly few. Most obscure of all, however, are the Blackgum masters. Pray you never cross paths with one: you won't survive the introduction.

This is the story of how I discovered the Blackgum and what it cost me. Let me start at the beginning. I'd just woken up in the kitchen of my Aunt Bea's house.

With snakes in my mouth!

1. SNAKES IN MY MOUTH

I sniffed in the stink of cheap detergent and an old roast lamb. Then I opened my eyes.

From the freezer handle of Aunt Bea's ancient fridge, my warped reflection snarled back at me. My enormous forehead, sharp white teeth and pointy chin leered out of the chrome like a rabid alien caged in a hall of mirrors. As my mouth flew open to scream, three luridly coloured, drooping snake tails flopped against my chin.

The lights were off, but moonlight streamed through the window and glinted off the wet sink. Of more immediate relevance, the snakes defied my urgent attempts to spit them out and clung on desperately, affixed to the underside of my chin like three old wads of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a school desk.

I whipsawed the back of my hand across my stinging lips and finally dislodged the sticky serpents. The three writhing snakes plopped onto the floor half a metre from my bare feet and twitched menacingly. I flung myself back against the kitchen wall. One of Aunt Bea's prized mock-medieval tapestries bounced off its hook, smashed onto my forehead, glanced off my shoulder, and clattered onto the tiled floor, nearly decapitating one of the snakes. It didn't move.

I cursed and rubbed my head, then hunkered down to inspect the serpents. I groaned: they were just lollies, my favourite sugar asps! I licked my lips and winced at their sharp sherbet residue. Shaking my head, I walked over to switch on the light, but suddenly froze.

Heavy feet stomped overhead, tramped quickly down the stairs and shuffled up the hallway. The dining room door crashed open. The shuffling became louder and more abrasive, like mops raking a gravel trap.

The kitchen door swung open. I jumped. An ancient hand, splotched with moles, curled around the door and scrabbled at the wall, flicking on the light switch with a plastic clack.

Aunt Bea stepped into the room, squint-scowling at me under the harsh fluorescent lights that ran across the ceiling. At five foot flat, she was shorter than me. Swathed in Uncle Gerry's blue dressing gown, she seemed to have shrunk. Bright green slippers, modelled on clogs, adorned her feet. Atop her head sat a crotched pilgrim bonnet that covered all but the fringe of her wiry, silver-black hair. Aunt Bea's face was round and pink, and carpeted in light fuzz, like a plum's, which she normally buried in make-up. She brandished Uncle Gerry's old walking stick like a sword.

What on earth is going on, boy? said Aunt Bea. She always called me 'boy', as though there were hundreds of us living under Sub Rosa's roof, and she couldn't reasonably be expected to remember all of our names. "I thought you were rats. Oh, my Bayeux! she said, shaking her stick at the shattered tapestry frame on the floor. You have to stop being so careless."

I'm sorry, I said. I -

Just what were you doing down here in the depths of the night anyway? Aunt Bea interrupted. Midnight snacking? I hope you haven't woken my poor Katy! I've got a Council meeting on the Beltway tomorrow. If I'm not at my best, the whole town could perish. Is that what you want? A Councilor too tired to protect Quakehaven and her people from oblivion?

I doubt it very much, Beatrice, said a gentle, calm voice from the other side of the kitchen. Patrick did say he was sorry.

Mum joined us in the middle of the room. Her bedroom - a converted conservatory off the back of the main house - adjoined the kitchen through the walk-in larder. She lent down and ruffled my hair, massaging the tender lump that puffed out of my forehead like an ignition switch. Nightmares again? She looked worried.

I don't remember, I said embarrassed, gesturing vaguely down at the half-chewed carcasses on the floor. I woke up suddenly downstairs and -

What in heaven's name are those? shrieked Aunt Bea, wiggling her stick at the sweets.

Mum giggled. I joined in. It was hard not to. Dad used to call her laugh 'infectious', like a disease, but a good one. Aunt Bea glowered at us, and I tried to stop.

It's amazing what the young Patrick Lee can discover when he is on one of his sleepwalking escapades, said Mum, smiling. I only bought these today, and you can't have seen them before bed. I thought they'd be safe, hidden beneath the teaspoons!

Crinkled with mirth, Mum's freckled face and gleaming green eyes lit up the room. She was taller and leaner than her sister, with an open, oval face that nestled within a mane of uncontrollable, red ringlets that broke combs. Despite the cold, she wore a simple black nightie and no slippers. She went over to the sink, grabbed some Ajax and a dish cloth and bent down to clean up my mess.

While you two giggling gerties stand around cackling at each other, huffed Aunt Bea, "I'm going to bed. You should see Doctor Vassel about the boy, Bridget. Some of us have to work tomorrow and we can't be woken up every time the boy goes walkabout. He's liable to climb into my bed one of these days."

I shuddered. As much as I loved my aunt, somehow snakes weren't as frightening as the idea of lying in bed with Aunt Bea in the dark. Mum winked at me, mischievously, and I fought the urge to laugh again. Without another word, Aunt Bea tapped her walking stick sternly on the floor, turned around and clomped dramatically out of the kitchen back the way she had come.

Sorry, Beatrice, called Mum down the hall. Reg thinks it's just a phase he'll grow out of. Goodnight!

As Mum rejoined me in the kitchen, I grabbed her hands. Don't be sorry, Mum, I said. It's not your fault - I'm the one with the problem.

Don't be silly, Paddy, she said. You can't help sleepwalking, and it's hardly a problem.

I looked down at the floor, which was now spotless. Mum was an amazing cleaner. I hadn't seen her scrub up the snakes.

Aunt Bea isn't angry with you, Mum said. She's just tired. Us oldies get grouchy when we're tired. And she's still not used to having people around after all those years alone.

Uncle Gerry passed away about eight years ago. I was too young to remember him properly, though I had vague memories of bouncing up and down on his enormous belly while he bellowed German beer songs from his favourite armchair in the reading room.

Mum lent over for a hug. She seemed surprised at how little she had to bend down. We hugged and, for a minute, it was like things were back to normal. When we let go, we both had tears in our eyes, though I blinked mine away quickly.

Mother and son, together in the kitchen. It was the perfect, TV special moment. Then I glanced over Mum's right shoulder and saw them: two, red and silver wings the size of guitars flapping against the window above the sink.

Each scarlet wing had a large black dot at its centre, with acute silver markings like furrowed brows. The black dots dilated slowly. The wings flapped once, like a taunting wink, and then faded into the black of night.

###

I waited a few minutes for the wings to reappear. They didn't. My spine was as stiff as a skateboard. I bear-hugged Mum protectively, keeping my eyes on the window behind her. She laughed, pushed me back, gently, and rested her hands on my shoulders.

What's wrong? she asked, her eyebrows raised in tiny tents of bemusement.

Nothing, I said. Just cold. That wasn't a total lie. Sub Rosa, originally a school, had high ceilings and large windows that almost forced the heat out. It was like an icebox in winter.

Mum eyed me up and down dubiously. Are you sure that's all it is? she asked.

Yeah, I said, studying the fine cracks in the paint near the cornice of the wall. And I'm real tired.

Really tired, corrected Mum. Once an English teacher, always an English teacher! You'd better get off to bed, she continued. We're going to go and see Dr Vassel tomorrow, just to check you're OK. I want my number one baby-boy to stay healthy. It was easy to be her number one when I was an only child!

Mum guided me out of the kitchen into the hall, then kissed me goodnight and went back through the kitchen towards her room. I ascended the stairs, entered my room, and leapt into bed, rubbing my frozen feet together as I dug under the covers.

My head twittered with thoughts. I lay flat on my back and stared up at Uncle Gerry's old chandelier. A streetlight shone through the boughs of the giant pomegranate tree that framed my window. A rainbow of colours refracted from the chandelier's crystal teardrops and splashed unevenly onto the white walls, like a toddler's finger painting.

I turned onto my side and propped my head up on my arm, surveying my bedroom. Uncle Gerry and Aunt Bea had never had kids, and my room - a small classroom during Quakehaven's gold rush in the 1850s - had been dedicated to housing my uncle's impressive stamp and coin collections. It still did: two floor safes dominated the room, planted on either side of the wall beneath the window like guards.

The safe on the left was bronze, and stacked full of antique coins. The one on my right was silver and full of leather folios of rare stamps. Or so Aunt Bea told me - she kept the safe combinations to herself. Probably thought I'd hawk the coins for a console and some games, if I had the codes. I must admit I would have been sorely tempted!

Aunt Bea didn't like changes to Sub Rosa, especially to Uncle Gerry's rooms. After he'd passed away, the house had become a museum to his stuff. It took weeks for Mum to persuade my aunt to let us lug up a spare bed and an old oak wardrobe with no doors from the backyard shed. Reluctantly, she'd also let me put up a few family photos and one of my Dad's favourite posters: Tobor the Great, a classic robot movie from the 1950s.

Just after I started school at Quakehaven Public, Mum had gone out and picked up a second hand folding card table, a rickety chair and a battered desk lamp at a garage sale. Miraculously, the card table fit perfectly between the safes, and functioned as my desk. The rest of my possessions - clothes, school stuff, old CDs, a travel clock, and a couple of Dad's trashy horror novels stashed under my bed - The Beastbreaker and Ghostgurgler - looked like a pile of random objects plonked temporarily in someone else's room. More than a year after I'd moved in, this was still close to the truth.

I fell back onto my pillow, closed my eyes, and sucked my bottom lip, puzzled: why had I had lied to Mum about the wings in the garden? For all I knew, there was a crazed puppeteer squatting in the backyard. A normal son would have raised the alarm and called the police.

For some reason, however, I knew the display was for my benefit and mine alone. The wings belonged to something much more special than a creative burglar or confused performance artist - I was sure of it. Or I may have imagined the whole thing: it wasn't a giant leap to go from sleepwalking to moonlight hallucinations! Either way, I didn't want Mum to worry. She had enough on her plate.

###

Usually, I don't remember my dreams and the next morning was no different. I woke up at nine o'clock, exhausted, with the sun in my eyes. I'd forgotten to pull down the blinds, or to turn on my alarm!

I lunged out of bed and started to throw on my school uniform. It wasn't until I was pulling on my itchy school-jumper that I remembered it was Saturday! I smacked my forehead with the heel of my palm, then sat down on my bed, wincing. I'd also forgotten the lump on my head, where the falling tapestry had thwacked me.

Saturday! A whole weekend ahead. No chores. No homework. Two days of completely free time, watching TV and playing computer games. The best kind of weekend - at least for someone living in Sub Rosa.

Aunt Bea wouldn't allow TV or computer games in Sub Rosa, much less the Internet. She said they rotted your brain and that boys my age should be out climbing trees, fishing Lake Ebb, playing cops and robbers in the backyard, or shooting marbles on the pavement, and all the other 'adventures' boys did back in her day. In my first six months in Quakehaven, I dabbled with the whole country lad thing, and had the scars to prove it. But like most of the other kids in my class - country or not - I preferred DVDs and computer games any day.

Despite the temptation to smuggle in contraband games, I obeyed Aunt Bea's house rules. Sub Rosa was hers, after all, and I was already risking enough with Dad's horror novels under my bed. It didn't matter too much: my best friend, Mark, had all the latest stuff at his house; more games than you could play in a lifetime. And, when he wasn't in the mood to have me over, Mum was happy to slip me a few dollars to play the old games at Arcadia, down near Lake Ebb.

Excited, I brushed valiantly at the most obnoxious kinks in my hair, imagining alien explosions and dying stars played out on Mark's giant flat screen TV with 6-way surround sound. It wasn't until I accidentally brushed the lump on my head for the third time that I remembered my appointment with Doctor Vassel.

Ugh! Vassel was OK. But I'm not a fan of any doctor, and I've seen enough of them to have good reason! When I was born, there were 'complications'. The way Dad told it, I got stuck and tried to come out of Mum, bum first. It sounded funny, but Mum and I almost didn't make it. It's why I don't have any brothers or sisters. It was also why they thought that sometimes I daydream too much and sleepwalk. Not enough oxygen to the brain at birth. Like I was brain damaged!

I shook myself out of my daydream about daydreams, pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt and my favourite jersey, and set off for the kitchen for breakfast. Aunt Bea would be at her Council meeting, probably lecturing some poor newcomers on what colours they were allowed to paint their house to keep in line with the town's heritage. Mum usually slept late on Saturdays, which meant I had the house to myself for a while.

I bounded down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, enjoying the outraged squeaks of the wooden planks. I stomped into the hall and blew a kiss at Katy.

Katy stared back at me disapprovingly from behind the bars of her black lacquered cage, but didn't squawk. She was finally getting used to me.

Katy was my Aunt's budgerigar, a kind of tiny parrot, covered in green and yellow feathers. Over the years, Aunt Bea had several budgies, all called Katy. Aunt Bea liked to think of each Katy as her guard-budgie - an early warning system for intruders. The current Katy, however, was old and slept most of the time, except when she was gnawing on cuttlefish, her favourite snack.

I danced down the hall, belting out a prehistoric Bruce Springsteen song Dad had made me listen to in his car 100 times. Just outside the dining room, however, my voice faltered. Doc Vassel and Aunt Bea were whispering to each other in the doorway, ignoring my stupid racket. The doctor had his back to me, but, as I approached them, I saw the worry lines etched onto Aunt Bea's face.

My stomach convulsed like a school of anxious eels. What's going on? I yelped, terrified. Is Mum OK?

Of course, boy, said Aunt Bea, turning to me and smiling indulgently. I'd seen that smile before: far too many teeth glinting between dry, stretched lips turned up at the corners, her eyes just a little wide and earnest. Tell tale signs she was fibbing.

Where's Mum?

She's sl-sl-sleeping, Patrick, said Doc Vassel, turning around and waggling his long fleshy fingers at me like pink, headless toothbrushes. I've gi-gi-given her something to help her s-sleep. She's exhausted.

Not surprising, either, said Aunt Bea. Paddy had her up all night with midnight sleep-snacking. My face flushed with a red-hot lava flow of embarrassment.

I do-do-don't think Patrick's sl-sleepwalking had anything to do with it at all, Mrs Logs-st-ston, disagreed the doctor, stooping down to check the lump on my head. He straightened his back slowly, like an over-polite doorman completing a bow. I scanned his face for news, but he was hard to read, perhaps because his face was so far away. At six foot five, Doc Vassel loomed over us like a redwood. Patrick: she's n-not tired. Or n-not j-just tired. It's more like her nerves. Nervous exhaustion. Do you-you know what I mean by that?

I nodded. Six months after Dad's funeral, Mum started getting sick like that. She stopped eating and spent most nights watching the home shopping channel in bed. At first, she missed one or two days of work a week. She was a popular teacher, so the school cut her some slack. But, after a month, she stopped going to work altogether and the school found a replacement.

I didn't tell anyone about her condition. It was my fault for not taking better care of her and I was too ashamed. News got out, though, when we fell behind on our bills and the Bank tried to take our apartment away.

My old teacher, Mrs Jax, was a friend of Mum's from university and was married to a teller at the Bank. She knew that Mum had been sacked and noticed my crinkled shirts. I hate ironing! She also heard the kids teasing me for having no Dad and a crazy Mum. It's hard to keep secrets in the playground for long.

Mrs Jax rang my aunt. Aunt Bea flew into town like a level five hurricane. The way Mum told it, my aunt stormed into the Bank and shouted at the manager until he started to cry. Then she went up to the school and gave the principal a serve. She hired two men with a truck to pack up a few personal items in our apartment the day we were scheduled to be evicted and, before we even knew what was happening, she swept us all back to Quakehaven in her wake.

That was all a bit over a year ago. Sometimes, I forgot how much we owed Aunt Bea.

There was a loud bang in the kitchen. Aunt Bea, Doc Vassel and I walked down the hall to investigate. When we got to the kitchen, Mr Fisk, the local handyman, looked down on us like zoo exhibits. He had reframed Aunt Bea's tapestry and nailed it back onto the wall.

Mr Fisk's presence wasn't all that surprising: he popped by every week or so to use Aunt Bea's Council computer to print receipts and bills for his odd jobs around town. In return, he helped repair things in Sub Rosa. Mr Fisk was Quakehaven's prime gossip. As always, he was using his job to eavesdrop.

Sounds like your Mum needs some rest, Paddy, said Mr Fisk, jumping down from a rusted steel stepladder. He had the tonsured scalp of a monk and layers of love handles slopped over his thin belt, giving him the appearance of a beige beanbag stuffed into a dustbin. His watery-blue eyes captured the cheeky excitement of a disoriented piglet. Don't you have to get ready for the party, anyway?

Mark's party! In the confusion, I had forgotten my best friend's birthday!

I'll drop you over to Mark's, if you want, Mr Fisk said. I'm on my way there, anyway.

Aunt Bea flashed her fake smile again: An excellent idea, Balder. Thank you. A good place for the boy to indulge that sweet tooth of his during waking hours. And I need to get to my meeting. You won't believe what the Dixons want to do to their bathroom, she said, with disgust. Such lovely original features and they want to destroy the tiles to install hot water!

The idea of showering without hot water during a Quakehaven winter was enough to make my knees knock in sympathy with the Dixons. No wonder Mrs Dixon, my teacher, always looked so miserable!

I looked my aunt in the eye. I want to stay and look after Mum.

Don't w-worry, P-P-P-lad, said the doctor. Your mother will be sleeping soundly for hours now, and I'm going to stay and watch her to make sure she sleeps. You've got an impressive bump on your head, but no serious damage. Go to the party and have fun.

Reluctantly, I followed Mr Fisk out to his van, which was parked across the driveway. Aren't you a bit underdressed for the party? he asked, stashing the ladder into the back of the van and closing the hatch.

Nope, I answered. These clothes are fine.

But it's fancy dress, isn't it? asked Mr Fisk, opening the driver's door.

Only for the total nerds, I chuckled. Mark told almost all the kids to dress normal. The fancy dress idea was a prank for the -

The passenger door slid open. I gasped. A grinning pumpkin sat on the far left passenger seat reading an old book emblazoned with hieroglyphs.

"Hi Paddy. Long time, no