Oebalus Pugnax 3/7

Before the fire that had irreversibly altered her world, Celestia's life had typically been calm. The most momentous panic she could recall was when she had jostled a full jar of marmalade from its place on the pantry shelf. As she had been standing dazedly beside the pile of sticky, quickly spreading jam and glass mixture, Celestia had heard the resident nurse (a cruel, pinched-faced woman) trundling down the hall toward the kitchen. She knew the feeling of frigid fear and apprehension, the knowledge that there was nowhere to run. The feeling wasn't new, but now even the grown-ups seemed paralyzed and uncertain. She could tell by the way Holmes sat tensely beside her, and the way Watson kept turning around to sneak a peek out the back window of their rented coach. What was wrong?

"This place is definitely a prime location for a hijacking," Holmes remarked after several minutes of strained silence. They were on a muddy, deeply rutted road that bordered one of the few remaining moors near London. There had not been a person or house for a kilometer or so.

"Their coach is speeding up," Watson reported tersely. "Now they are coming abreast of us! Now -!"

Celestia was highly unprepared for what happened next. The carriage jolted abruptly to one side and made a worrisome splintering sound.

"Why, they are trying to overturn us!" Watson exclaimed.

"I'm involved in more than one delicate case right now," Holmes murmured thoughtfully, "but none that would inspire an enemy to such lengths." Celestia admired his ability to keep calm in such a stressful, bouncy situation.  "The only one I can imagine going this far is Sir-"

Once again, the cab shuddered violently. Holmes, sensing impending danger, pulled Celestia into his lap. "Hold on, Miss Westing," he cautioned, as the vehicles clashed one final time. The sudden impact sent their coach careening over the edge of the road and tumbling down an incline. For a few long, chaotic seconds, the inside of the coach was utter, wild confusion. Holmes lost hold of Celestia and she tumbled around in the carriage. Wood creaked, window panes shattered, and fabric tore. On the fourth roll, Celestia was catapulted through a broken window. She hit the ground with a solid thud and lay there for several seconds trying to get her breath back. Then, slowly, she sat up.

Celestia was in the middle of a chilly, damp sea of grass. A dozen feet away from her there was a dark mass which must have been the pulverized cab. Two people were running in her direction, and at first she was overjoyed, as she thought it was Holmes and Watson, but she realized the voices were different. They sounded younger and less kind. Before she could react, one of the men had lifted her under the armpits and was studying her at arm's length.

"Is this the one? She doesn't look too bright," he called to the other man.

~ ❧ ~

Celestia's captor was quickly joined by his accomplice. Both of the men were tall and lanky, but other than that, they bore little resemblance to each other. The one holding Celestia had shoulder-length silver hair in a ponytail, a cyan scarf that flapped around his knees, and a dark coat with tails and purple lining. On his head was perched a tall stovepipe hat.

The man standing beside him was harder to see, but Celestia could tell that he wore a dapper vest over shirtsleeves. He was delicately repositioning his bowler hat, which had become unstable from his run down the embankment.

The second man's face was too blurry to see, but she could tell he was smiling by his voice as he spoke. "Child," he announced theatrically, "you are fallen victim to the ruthless and highly notorious Boots Brothers. Shake in your shoes! For the viselike grip which you are experiencing belongs to none other than Anya Boots, while the voice reciting this fear-inspiring speech belongs to..." he paused to build tension, "...O. Boots."

"I don't think you are making much of an impression on her," Anya reported, noting Celestia's blank stare. "I think she may be teched in the head."

"What a vulgar, un-modern expression," O. retorted. "It is more enlightened and politically correct to call such an individual 'dim-witted', 'slow', or 'mentally retarded'. And if that's the case, why would we be ordered to capture her?"

"Well, she fits the description," Anya mused. "Young female child. Light hair. Blue-" he was unable to continue, as someone had slammed his top hat in forcefully with a carriage running board, which had adverse effects to the head beneath it. Anya toppled backward, releasing Celestia onto the ground.

"I'm sure we can settle this without further violence," O. quavered.

"You should have thought about that before running us off the road and leaving us for dead," Watson spat angrily.

"My friend has a distinctly relevant point," Holmes agreed, rising from the tall grass. Celestia rushed over to him and gave him a relieved hug.

O. Boots backed up slowly, then grabbed Anya and dragged him rapidly away into the barren moor.

"Aren't we going to capture them?" Watson queried.

"My intuition tells me that we will see those two again," Holmes answered. "Right now, I think we should get Miss Westing to safety." He picked her up, and only then did Celestia notice the long grass he had attached to his hat band. Seeing her surprise, Holmes chuckled. "The grass makes us harder to see," he explained. Celestia did not like the way it looked, so she carefully picked each strand out.

"The child is truly helpless," Watson commented. "Why do you think those men tried to kidnap her?"

"I have a few hypotheses," Holmes muttered obscurely. "Unfortunately, none of my theories are pleasant."

~ ❧ ~

After rescuing Celestia from the clutches of the Boots brothers, a scene in which he had played an exceptionally heroic role, Watson told of how they had waited for at least an hour for someone to come down the decrepit road, every tense second watching for O. Boots to return for revenge.

"Was Anya killed?" Beetle asked, wide-eyed.

"Can't be certain," Watson answered mysteriously.

It was a thrilling tale, and though Celestia couldn't understand the words, the story-teller's diction was so entertaining that, though she was exhausted, she couldn't go to sleep until he had finished. Soon it was dark outside, and the tale had been told extensively. Celestia was given a few crackers and sent to bed on the sofa.

"Probably she should have a more fortifying dinner," Watson remarked, "but I am not a pediatrician." After Beetle had excused himself to his own apartment, the two men smoked a while, oblivious to the effects of second-hand smoke on young children. Celestia slept peacefully.

"I wonder why she was attacked today," Watson mused.

"Unsettling, isn't it?" Holmes agreed. "I have a notion or two, but as you know well, I'm not keen to show my hand before I have played it."

"Do you think those two were members of - "

"Can't be showing my hand, now," Holmes cut him off. "I think it's time for bed."

The next morning dawned cold and smoggy. The occupants of 221B awoke late, and were not terribly ambitious after the harrowing events of the previous day. Beetle delivered breakfast at eight, along with the customary armload of morning papers for Holmes to look over. Watson entreated him to play with Celestia and keep her out of trouble, so he fetched a heavy book from his room and two abandoned kittens he had recently rescued.

Celestia was still not quite awake - grey weather always made her drowsy - so she was content to sit and hold the kittens on her lap. Holmes and Watson began their routine of scrutinizing the papers for interesting occurrences when Watson suddenly remembered something.

"Holmes, you sent out a telegram yesterday as we came into town. I was too tired to think much of it then, but now I wonder - what was it about?"

Instead of answering him directly, Holmes announced, "There is a most peculiar article here in the Times."

“A new case?" Beetle asked hopefully.

“'Researchers at Oxford University are now theorizing,''' Holmes read, ignoring Beetle, '''that humans may be lingering longer in the childhood phase of their lives before graduating into adulthood. After studies of domestic dogs indicated that canines retained puppy-like traits, such as floppy ears and juvenile behavior, corresponding to the amount of time they had been domesticated, researcher Sirius White noticed corresponding behaviors in his students. Oxford students in the past were mostly independent, but within seven generations, based on student registers, they gradually began depending more on parents for tuition. Other domestic behaviors include immature actions, lack of foresight, marrying older, continued dependence on others, disinterest in procuring jobs, and participation in frivolous, unproductive activities. These behaviors, White states, used to be apparent in students aged fifteen to twenty-two, but now remain until students are nearing their thirties. White deduces that lack of danger, responsibility, and pressure to take care of young are 'domesticating' young people and causing them to act younger than their ages.'''

“I'd agree with that,” Watson stated. “I work with doctors fresh from school sometimes, and you'll never see a more incapable lot!”

“Well, though I'm not an expert,” Holmes countered, “I immediately see three flaws in the honorable Professor White's reasoning. First, he and you are looking at these young people from your older point of view. If you were younger, would you be so harsh on them? Surely you've done at least one or two 'frivolous, unproductive activities' when you were young.

“Secondly, although I appreciate White's facts procured from the registers, he neglects to take changing economies and culture into account. In the past, young men usually enlisted in the army directly after school, which definitely had the effect of un-domesticating them. Also, the economy has gotten slightly worse in the past seven generations, which would make it harder for a young person to hold a job.

“Finally, there are plenty of living, breathing examples of bright, mature young people along with the late bloomers. I present to you an example -”

Right on cue, there was a firm knock on the apartment door.

~ ❧ ~

Beetle leapt into action immediately, slamming his book, vaulting from the couch, and rushing toward the door. Mrs. Hudson would be back tomorrow, but today it was his job to admit visitors.

He was halfway to the door when it slowly creaked open.

Given yesterday's attack, Beetle and Watson were already on high alert. Together with the fact that it was customary to be shown in, the two of them were suspicious of the visitor. Beetle groped in his pocket for a penknife, while Watson jumped to his feet, assuming a pugilistic pose he had learned years ago in public school.

The guest entered Holmes' flat slowly and non-threateningly. Ignoring the questioning, hostile stares of Watson and Beetle, he addressed Holmes directly. "I received your telegram, sir," he began. "What can I do for you?"

"Watson, Beetle, at ease," Holmes commanded affably. "This is Signor Leo Raphael, an irreplaceable source of information on everything, the crime world being his specialty."

"In that case, you must have contacted him about the Swine's Dozen," Beetle deducted. "Please, take a seat." He motioned to the sofa.

"I prefer to stand," Signor Raphael declined politely. "The Swine's Dozen crime ring is rife with subterfuge," he reported to Holmes, "and the brothers you mentioned, Anya and Oliver Boots, are the only members I know much about. They are from Poland and have been convicted of several petty crimes. A woman who uses several aliases, best known as the Black Widow, may be working for the gang, but she also could be independent. Also affiliated with the group is a tanned, weaselly man, who I believe is the enforcer. Numerous crimes are attributed to the group, and a man named Sir William is connected to a few of those crimes. That is the extent of my information."

"Fascinating," Holmes remarked, "and validating also. What about my second request?"

"I have a contact in the city who is skilled at witness protection, and I have made the necessary arrangements. I'd like to get out of here quickly. It's not safe for me to be seen here." Raphael crossed the room and stood in front of Celestia. "Let us go, Miss Westing," he commanded. Celestia blinked listlessly, still embroiled in her dreary thoughts. "Why don't you get your things together?" When she was still unresponsive, he knelt down in front of her. "Miss Westing?" He asked awkwardly. He wasn't used to dealing with children. They made him nervous.

When it was impossible to ignore the newcomer, Celestia examined him skeptically. The man before her was tall, young, and unnaturally pale. He wore a plain, dark suit and smelled discreetly of wintergreen. His light blond hair was in need of a trim, and his green eyes were watchful and alert. He was obviously trying to communicate with her, but what could he want?

"We really need to go, Miss Westing. It isn't safe here." Raphael turned to Holmes. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked. Celestia's blank, sad stare unnerved him.

"Try taking her hand," Holmes advised, "and in the event that that doesn't work, carry her. When all else fails, grab her collar and drag her."

After a quick inspection, Celestia ignored the stranger, hoping he would go away. She returned to her annoyed, grouchy thoughts.

Change, she had decided, was one of the most annoying things she had experienced. Changes she was accustomed to were bad enough, such as the annual changing of her nurse, or when a gardener had come over monthly to tend and prune the plants and trees. It made her sad when she ran into the garden to find the trees bleeding sap. There had always been differences in the rules of the new nurse and the garden before and after work, and she had made it clear that she did not approve. But lately, change had become chaotic and unpredictable, and it was driving her crazy! Her house was gone! She was being cared for by men who obviously had no idea what they were doing! They had not given her a single bath! And who was this new bloke?! Was he trustworthy? Evil? There was really no way of telling. Even her clothes were unfamiliar, she thought grumpily. Her old, dirty nightgown had been discarded at the asylum, so now even her clothing, a scratchy orange and brown uniform, was strange to her. The only thing that hadn't changed, she realized, was herself, and she was entirely out-of-place in this unfamiliar, confounding world. She frowned angrily.

Signor Raphael, already wary of her odd air, assumed she was glaring at him. This is going to be an interesting day, he decided, offering the grumpy-looking child his hand.

Fortunately, Celestia was willing to stand up from the sofa.

"What?" Beetle asked, startled. "Where are you taking her?"

"To a safe place,” Raphael answered curtly. He led Celestia toward the door. "Doesn't she have any possessions to bring with her?"

"None at all," Holmes answered, shaking his head. "Please take good care of her."

"Certainly," Raphael assured him. Together they walked through the door, down the stairs, and out into the street. They made their way for several blocks in silence before Celestia stopped and refused to move. She had a stitch in her side, and it was cold and damp. People were supposed to stay inside in such weather!

Frantically, Celestia motioned at a cab.

"Sorry, I am lacking in funds just now," Raphael apologized. Celestia shot him such a poisonous look that he took a step back. "Such venom for one so small," he marveled. "Will I have to drag you as Mr. Holmes advised?"

Celestia turned away, then flounced down on the cold cobblestones and pouted. A silent battle of wills ensued. Celestia waited for Raphael to cave in and buy a ride while he waited for her to get cold.

In the end, Raphael had more patience and compromised with a piggy-back ride. It was the first time Celestia had ridden on someone's shoulders, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. When he wasn't looking, she cheerfully knocked the hats from people passing by.

~ ❧ ~

It was dark by the time they reached their destination. Celestia was tired, bored, and sore, but Signor Raphael didn't seem any worse for the wear after the long trek down miles of city streets. He was still striding purposefully when they reached the appointed avenue. It was a cozy, tranquil residential area. Most of the inhabitants ran small family shops or worked nearby in this sleepy little community. The old street was lined with quaint, two-story apartment buildings, which were already mostly dark at this time of evening. The dwellings were in need of a good re-plastering, but there were fresh flowers growing in the window boxes. Few people took the trouble to lock their doors.

There was only one person still lingering in the street.

Raphael approached cautiously. "Password?"

"No one realizes who I really am," the stranger recited.

"I haven't felt this friendless 'til now," continued Raphael.

"And if I need somebody to come along,"

"Who will comfort me and preserve my strength?"

"Good. Were you followed?"

Raphael set Celestia down carefully. "Of course I wasn't followed! Who do you think I am?"

Celestia stepped closer and viewed the stranger in the waning light. She was a girl of average height, wearing a light blue working class dress. Her face was hidden by the cowl of a short cloak, and the only distinguishing feature Celestia could make out was a long amber braid that fell almost halfway to her knees. Nobody would remember seeing her on the street. "It's good to hear from you," she remarked in a quiet, easily forgettable voice. "There were more rumors that you had died."

"You should be used to those by now," Raphael answered. "This is your new charge, Miss Westing."

The girl smiled at Celestia, though she was too far away to see it. "How about her first name? This one can't very well go around calling a little girl by her surname."

"It is unknown, and I think she is mute. Time is of the essence," he explained, looking at his watch, "and according to my client, she is an in-demand witness." He paused. "What's with the 'this one' business? Have you been associating with Kenny again? He's always getting you into trouble."

"Well, he just left to go back home, so you needn't worry."

"I'm not in the habit of worrying," Raphael countered. "See you later." After hugging the girl briefly and tousling Celestia's hair, he faded away down the darkening street.

"All right, let's find you a safe place, Witness," the girl said, taking Celestia's hand. "Maybe I could call you that, though it wouldn't be very covert to name a witness 'Witness' now, would it? Anyway, you can call me - " She stopped suddenly, listening to a sound Celestia couldn't hear. "Did you hear that? We had better leave." She pulled the little girl urgently down the sidewalk.

Then Celestia heard the sound; a very soft creeeeak...

From above them came a hideous splintering sound that seemed totally out of place in the peaceful-looking street. Celestia looked up, straight into a shower of glass. Fortunately, she closed her eyes in time and avoided any cuts. A dark shape descended from the broken window onto the cobblestones in front of them, and Celestia realized that the glass was the least of her worries.

"Heh... heh... heh..." it gasped.

"Stay behind me," the girl commanded a nearly hyperventilating Celestia.

~ ❧ ~

The dark shape dominated the street, filling it with an ominous presence. "Heh... heh... heh..."

A loud voice boomed theatrically from the broken window above them. "We meet again, you annoying little whelp! As you can see, my brother has lost much of the little eloquence he formerly possessed, but, I assure you, his physical strength is wholly unabated. And for assurance of victory, I invited a few friends!"

Shadowy outlines appeared from doorways and alleys along the street. Celestia was too afraid to move, but the other girl lost no time in rushing at the man who had jumped from the window. She judged him to be the biggest threat.

"Heh... heh - wait... what do you think you... are doing... child?" Under his hood, Anya's crazed grin faded into a psychotic frown.

Celestia turned around and ran. Hearing O. Boots' familiar voice had unnerved her, then Anya's disconcerting behavior had caused her to lose her courage altogether. It was dark out and she had no idea where she was going. Something loomed up in front of her, and an instant later she collided with a lamppost. She stumbled away, dizzy and sporting a bloody nose. Standing still for a moment, she listened to the sounds of battle. The girl was talking to someone over the noise.

"Hey!" Celestia heard the girl shout. "Did Leo send you? I'm doing fine here by myself!" Then a few minutes later: "Shrouuud! I was starting to have fun! And you just end up killing everyone! Go away."

Something white brushed up against Celestia suddenly. She tumbled aside and fell against a pyramid of barrels, nearly knocking over the whole stack. When she had gotten her wits back, she crawled into one of the bottom barrels and tried to breathe silently through her mouth.

Gradually, the street quieted down. Someone in a second story flat opened his window to complain about the noise. Soon the plain girl was alone in the street, surrounded by puddles of blood but, fortunately, no bodies. Only then did she recall her objective. "Witness!" She called into the pitch-dark street. "Hey, Miss Westing, you can come out now!" Frantically, she spun this way and that, alarmed at the thought of a little kid lost and alone.

A helpful policeman, alerted by the sound, waddled up to her. "It's past curfew, miss," he informed her.

"I'm looking for a little girl," she explained quickly. Together they searched the entire street in vain. Celestia had decided there was no reason to trust these people and stayed put. What if they were in league with the Boots Brothers? The barrel was a very uncomfortable place to sleep, but she was worn out by a long day.

 Celestia dozed. She was periodically awakened by the tromp of the policeman's boots or the quiet steps of the girl's shoes as they walked past her hiding place. Finally, at about four in the morning, they gave up. Only then did Celestia notice some particularly chilling draughts in the barrel. An hour later, she fervently wished for a blanket, and by the time watery light cast deep shadows in the street she was questioning her decision to stay hidden.

~ ❧ ~

Celestia slept fitfully in the barrel, trying to focus on the tiny spot of warmth created in the floor by her body, instead of the cold, relentless moisture coming from the large opening. Gradually, she became aware of sounds on the street. Factory workers were heading to work, women were heading to morning market to buy food for the day, and the few businesses in the neighborhood were opening. Several people commented on the commotion from the night before, but other than that, the morning went on as usual.

Once it was light outside and getting steadily warmer, Celestia tried to think of a plan. Her options were slim at best. She could try finding her way back to Holmes' flat or her old house, but she had no idea which direction to go. Or she could trust a stranger to take her in, but given her luck so far, it would be risky. Finally, she decided to live in the barrel and subsist on crumbs or other things that fell on the ground. Perhaps, if the pickings were disappointing, she could eat the cockroaches sharing the barrel with her.

Her final decision was immediately nullified when she heard someone unstacking the pile of barrels. In a matter of minutes, they were near her new home. The person tried to pick up her barrel, then dropped it, unprepared for its nonconforming weight.

"Hunh...?" Celestia heard a man grunt. He reached inside and pulled her out by her arm.

"Whose child is this?!" he demanded in a gruff shout. People gathered around, observing Celestia.

"I've never laid eyes on her, Mr. Hobbes," a round, matronly woman trilled, "but it is doubtful that she's a street gamin, for observe her attire. That is a school uniform she is wearing, but not in any colors I know."

"Orange and brown," scoffed another mother. "What school would ever choose such a horrid combination?"

"She doesn't look like anyone I've seen around here," commented a lawyer, already late for work. "Perhaps someone could take her to the Oakwood Seminary for Girls."

This seemed to be the general sentiment. The crowd rapidly dispersed and people hurried to get back on schedule. Everyone but one greying woman. She limped timidly over to where Celestia was standing, the tavern owner keeping his hand firmly on the little girl's shoulder so she could not run away. "Excuse me," she said politely. "I would be happy to look after the girl for a while."

"I've heard that Oakwood is very good at finding lost children’s families, Magra," the towering man replied cautiously. Celestia tested the man's grip by pulling away slightly. Yes, he was still holding on tightly.

"And I've heard they hire young girls out as indentured servants," the woman answered factually. Still, the man seemed unconvinced. He was not certain that the woman could properly care for a child, given her reputation.

She seemed to guess what he was thinking. "As I've already affirmed countless times, Mr. Hobbes, I'm an herbalist, not a witch! I'm not going to turn the little girl into a cat, I only want to help her. You can see that she's unwell in the head. Orphanages have no help for mentally ill children!"

The tavern keeper relented. Magra was normally shy, which only fed the rumors that she practiced the dark arts. If she cared enough to stand up to him, who was he to say no? Reluctantly, he stepped back and let her take Celestia's hand. “If I hear of anything odd, she goes to Oakwood,” he cautioned.

"Come along," Magra said. "I think you will like my house. And maybe... I can help you get better."

~ ❧ ~

Magra led Celestia to her house, the modest ground floor of a small apartment building. The second level was still for rent. Everyone had heard that a witch lived in the first story.

While Magra prepared a bath, Celestia took the opportunity to explore her new home. She had some time, because the apartment didn't have a hot water tap. Magra had to heat buckets on the stove, then pour them into the tub, which made it a long, sweaty, difficult job.

Celestia scouted the main floor. She found a large kitchen, one bedroom, a child's room with twin beds, a small sitting room, and a bathroom. Though she searched extensively, Celestia could not find a dining room.

Aside from the colorful array of braided rugs showcased on the floor, the remarkable thing about Magra's house was the sheer amount of dried plants hanging from every inch of ceiling beam. They were in varying states of freshness, and some draped nearly to the floor. In places, they were so thick that they brushed Celestia's shoulders on either side, almost like rustly, overgrown garden. Several of them smelled good. Curiously, Celestia put one in her mouth just as Magra came into the room to tell her the bath was ready.

"Ack! Acky, get that out of your mouth!" Celestia found that Magra was easy to communicate with. It was so obvious what she wanted, unlike many of the other people Celestia had been living with. It would do to make a good impression, so she spit out the herb.

"Good. Now come take your bath." Magra led her to the steaming tub. Celestia undressed and stepped in carefully. It was the first time she could remember voluntarily getting herself wet. For the first time in her life, she felt really dirty, and was surprised how the hot water – which she normally despised - soothed her sore body.

While Celestia splashed happily in the tub, Magra found her some old clothes that her grown daughters used to wear. She extracted the reluctant Celestia from the tub and helped her into a faded, old-smelling dress in a long outdated style.

So far, Celestia had felt affable enough towards Magra. She seemed like an excellent guardian for the time being, and she definitely knew more about children than her previous caretakers. Celestia was more docile than usual from severe exhaustion, but when Magra began 'treating' her, Celestia drew the line and rebelled.

"I've heard turpentine can help some disaffected children," Magra explained cheerfully while she filled a teaspoon with a strong smelling liquid. "Drink this, then this water." Still smiling brightly, she forced the stuff down Celestia's throat. Celestia glowered at the woman. "And now, here is an elixir from India that is said to improve mental acuity."

By the time the treatment was over, Celestia was in a foul mood, and Magra decided that she must be tired. She made Celestia take a nap in the long-unused but often-dusted nursery.

As Celestia drifted off, she heard Magra whistling happily as she chopped onions for soup. The living arrangement was only mildly disagreeable, the little girl decided as her eyes closed.

~ ❧ ~