The Dark Issue 29: The Dark, #29

By Darcie Little Badger, Angela Slatter, Davide Camparsi and Maria Dahvana Headley

Each month The Dark brings you the best in dark fantasy and horror! Edited by award winning editors Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Sean Wallace and brought to you by Prime Books, this issue includes two all-new stories and two reprints:

“The Whalebone Parrot” by Darcie Little Badger
“Neither Time Nor Tears” by Angela Slatter (reprint)
“The Weirdo” by Davide Camparsi
“Mr. Doornail” by Maria Dahvana Headley (reprint)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prime Books
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386681915

Book preview

THE DARK

Issue 29 • October 2017

The Whalebone Parrot by Darcie Little Badger

Neither Time Nor Tears by Angela Slatter

The Weirdo by Davide Camparsi (translated by Michael Colbert)

Mr. Doornail by Maria Dahvana Headley

Cover Art: Running with the Demon by Tomislav Tikulin

ISSN 2332-4392.

Edited by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Sean Wallace.

Cover design by Garry Nurrish.

Copyright © 2017 by Prime Books.

www.thedarkmagazine.com

The Whalebone Parrot

by Darcie Little Badger

[Emily Riddell’s Journal]

June 26th 18–– A.D.

Today, on a teetering skiff, I reached Whalebone Island. Mister Franklin crosses the inlet twice a month to deliver mail and supplies. In three years, he has never seen Loretta’s face. She hides behind a veil.

Why?

Squeezed to near-transparency between the distant sky and sea, Whalebone Island resembled a mirage. Gulls and smaller seabirds—Emily did not know what to call them, since she had never lived near the ocean before—cavorted around the smudge of land. Sir, have you ever been attacked by a whale? she asked.

They avoid the island. The obstinate wind unraveled Franklin’s voice, and it took a moment for Emily to collect its threads.

But I thought . . .  She sniffled and wiped wind-drawn tears from her cheek. "Well, why is the island called Whalebone?"

The answer might frighten you.

It cannot be worse than the bible. Jonah was swallowed by a fish!

Yawning mouths haunted Emily’s dreams. Eventually, unfailingly, they devoured her. During the worst nightmares, she survived mastication, and her ragdoll body tumbled down a gullet. If pressed, Emily might attribute the recurring nightmares to childhood trauma. As an eight-year-old, she witnessed a mouse slip, kicking, into a snake’s mouth. She tried to rescue it, but the reptile thrashed with bruising violence and escaped into the brush. How long was its stomach? How far would the mouse struggle before it succumbed to crushing darkness and gradual digestion? The questions had haunted her for six years.

The land breeze mixed Franklin’s laughter with gull screams until Emily’s ears could not separate one from the other. Fair enough, he said. When they discovered the island, its beaches were a tangle of enormous bones. The explorers counted enough for eighteen giants, and—not sure I believe this part, but many do—some were even bigger than sulphur-bottom whales.

How did that happen?

If you ask me? The same current that throws ships against the island stranded a family of whales.

A whole family . . .  Emily flushed, as if a geyser had erupted in the cavity behind her eyes, nose, and cheeks. Moved by nausea, she bent over and vomited into the gray Atlantic, heaving in tune with the rolling water. Between sky and sea, the island bobbed, dizzying. There glinted a faraway pillar of white—was it a piece of poor, dead whale jutting from the beach?—but another burst of vomiting wiped the figure from sight. Emily waited until her stomach calmed before crumpling on the passenger bench.

Don’t lie down, Franklin said. Just makes it worse.

I may die!

It passes. He scrutinized Emily from her yellow bonnet to tightly laced boots. What are you doing here?

The Forresters employed me as a nursemaid.

Odd choice. Do you know Missus Forrester well?

Not especially. It was only a partial lie; Loretta’s married name still sounded like it belonged to a stranger. When Emily was summoned to the island, Loretta asked her to be discreet. Tell nobody that we are sisters.

Excuse me, Emily said. I feel sick again.

Even after they docked, she swayed, as if her blood sloshed with the ocean. Franklin proffered his hand; his calloused, steadying grip felt familiar. Emily recalled a sense of unbalance, a comforting presence. Perhaps a man—her father or an uncle?—taught her to walk. Thank you, she said. Up that way?

Stairs had been chiseled into the incline between the beach and elevated meadow. As if summoned, a woman in white stepped onto the granite landing. Although her face was hidden by a lace veil, Emily recognized the willowy shape and unflagging straight posture.

Thank you, Franklin! Loretta called. That low, lilting voice had given Emily a thousand stories, a thousand admonishments, and a hundred thousand tender endearments. Albert and I can manage the rest.

As the skiff broke away from land, the sisters met in the middle of the staircase. I missed you! Emily cried. Let me see your face!

Loretta turned away from the sea and lifted her veil. Have three years changed me? she asked.

Well . . .  Loretta’s skin, once richer than dark amber, was sallow. She must rarely sun it. The new look complemented Whalebone Island, as dreary a place as any. Its grasses, brush, and scraggly trees were wind-stooped and stunted by their inhospitable lot. Emily wondered if the island, with time, would leech the color from her cheeks, too.

Why do you cover your face? she asked.

Because I hate the way they stare.

Who?

Everyone but you, Darling. Loretta smiled. Let’s hurry home. A surprise is waiting.

The suitcases were light, but Emily carried both. She had lugged them between so many train cars and carriages, they felt like vestigial limbs. Upon the upper landing, she dawdled to appreciate the view. Amidst the battered meadow grasses were a gray saltbox house, vegetable gardens, sumac trees, and, on a stone summit, the white Whalebone lighthouse.

A thin man with a hatbox in his arms came toward Loretta and her. He had laughter-creased, animated eyes, a spattering of freckles across his cheeks, and hair the color of ripe wheat.

That’s my Albert, Loretta said.

Hello, Ladies! He stopped in front of them. Emily, will you trade a present for your parcels? The box wiggled, and its lid popped ajar. A button-tiny pink nose poked out.

Kitten! Emily dropped her luggage and lifted the red shorthair from its blanket-lined hatbox. As the cat rubbed its cheek against hers, the silver bell on its blue ribbon collar rang. I love him! she said. Oh, thank you!

What should we name the little tiger? Albert asked.

I like ‘Łitsóóye,’ because his eyes are so yellow!

Emily! Loretta exclaimed. What kind of choice is that? Think of something else.

Why? Is Missus Mary hiding in the bushes with her paddle?

No. Nevertheless, behave. We speak English around company. Loretta picked up the hatbox lid and marched up the path. "His name is William."

From the distant garden trilled a little bell, and Emily wondered if a second cat lived among the sumac trees.

That’s very clever, Albert said, with the fierce cheeriness of a peacemaker. Like Prince William of Orange.

Do you hear that sound, Mister Forrester?

It’s the parrot. Please call me Albert.

There are parrots here?

Just one, he said. "Lonely creature. It has