Flopping back on her pillow, Tannaby idly speculated why people were so sure that it was a taxidermist who now lived there. She was thankful that it was quiet again, but was not yet awake enough to wonder, why trumpets?
Depending on which of them was asked, the two oldest local residents vaguely remembered that the building’s previous occupants had been either the Jirlings or the Faards, though neither of these families featured in the official archives.
The house had remained unoccupied and largely undisturbed for many years. To Snoak’s early artisans durability was a primary objective. Locks had proved secure, shuttered windows had resisted generations of target practice. It was only to be expected that over time the outer walls had attracted a scattering of daubs and glyphs.
Some were clearly declarations of one kind or another: ‘MIG & PEL 4EVR’, ‘Vux Sux!’, ‘Rillis is a Trud!!!’ On the side of the house overlooking Narpin’s Way, a faded scarlet scrawl exhorted ‘VOTE GUMBANULAS’, but only dedicated historians knew or cared why that candidate had opted to withdraw her nomination prior to a long-forgotten local election.
Some of the more recent graffiti reflected a certain moral laxity, although the artwork seemed to be increasingly sophisticated, and it was suspected that art students from Sparagulan College were probably responsible. When another curt but decorative inscription appeared above the main doorway most people either ignored it, or risked an offended glance while secretly admiring the design. It was quite some time before anyone considered the possibility that it might signify new ownership of Old Greenhaddock House, or even more improbably, the arrival of a new business enterprise.
In an impromptu tribute to the season, Ebby Blates, assiduous spare-time milliner, had created, mainly from garden detritus, another well-crafted, colourful head-topping. Among its principal constituents were fallen sycamore leaves, lightly sprayed with a protective varnish, and a quantity of mixed plumage, hinting at hasty escapes from thwarted predators by pigeons, magpies, and possibly a seagull. The whole had a delicate helical structure reminiscent of a mediaeval attempt to devise a flying machine. Its aerodynamic properties were accidentally confirmed on her way to collect the boys from school, when at the gusty junction of Narpin’s Way and Brangdurp Street it suddenly lifted from her head, and pursued an erratically oblique flight, settling on the shoulder-high hedge of a large private house.
Having retrieved her hat (thankfully undamaged), and being by nature inquisitive, Ebby peered down the path at the front door, a sturdily built oak structure with ornamental clasps. Above it was a sign which she thought was frankly rather rude. She hurried on to the school.
It was not until evening, after Gerrit and Ursen were in bed, that Ebby, treating herself (unwisely) to a late-night seafood snack, abruptly recalled that disturbing sign. It was hardly a traditional house name. Who on earth would want to have ‘STUFF IT’ adorning the entrance to their home, even in decorative lettering? No-one, unless…
By the next day her guesswork had matured into an established fact. Incautiously. she tested it on the boys at breakfast, and could hardly refrain from passing it on to other employees and a number of equally gossipy customers at the Multimart. Before long it had become part of what is generally called the conventional wisdom, a term which may not have originated in Snoak. Those with any interest in the matter came to accept that the sign above the door of Old Greenhaddock House indicated that it was the home of a reclusive taxidermist.
At school Gerrit and Ursen unwittingly helped to spread this urban legend. They had acquired, through inheritance or osmosis, their mother’s propensity for spontaneous elaboration.
“Our ma says there’s this ol’ man that goes out at night c’llectin’ birds an’ foxes.”
“Yeah, an’ he steals people’s pets—real ones, like proper dogs, not those para-things—”
“—an’ cats—”
“An’ cats. An’ guinea-pigs, an’ mice, an’ lizards—”
“—an’ snakes—”
“—an’ snakes. He takes ‘em back to that big Greenhaggot house up the road an’ poisons ‘em ‘til they’re dead.”
“Then he slits ‘em open like this…”
There followed a dramatic demonstration with an imaginary blade, accompanied by enthusiastic sound effects. The more squeamish among the listeners would leave, but none would easily rid themselves of the unwanted images in their heads.
Her friends became concerned. She pleaded tiredness when invited out and seemed distracted and peevish when any of them visited the flat. Tannaby’s decision to free herself from that claustrophobic office was like an awakening from hibernation. Her leaving had not caused much of a bureaucratic ripple; there had been some token expressions of regret, and fleeting sympathetic smiles which hinted at wistful envy. As she made her way home she was relieved, if unsurprised, to realise that no-one had suggested a celebratory office party.
Disoriented at first, she pottered idly about the flat, re-arranging things, daydreaming, tidying absentmindedly, snacking at random. Gradually a degree of pragmatism began to return. It was still light. She decided to go shopping. The sense of freedom was exhilarating. Out of habit Tannaby found herself heading for the Multimart, but an alluring waft of aromas drew her steps towards the friendly hubbub of the open-air market, which until now she had never had the time to sample properly. Summoning a glidecart from the nearest stand she made her way to the first of the many tempting stalls.
Back at the flat she surveyed the emptied contents of the glidecart, neatly displayed like trophies on the kitchen table. The glidecart itself was outside the front door, awaiting retrieval by a council magpod.
On the table were two impressive goose eggs, purchased in the nick of time from Fel, a woman of about her own age, who had explained that she needed to get back to her proper work of restoring furniture. Tannaby would have liked to chat longer, but considerately thanked her, and moved on to another stall. Next to the eggs was a reconstructed ziggurat of nuts – a reduced model of one of the careful symmetries which graced the stall of Pindo Arrik. Beside this lay a small elliptical slab of Black Lattons cheese, the waxed wrapping masking its sweet pungency, and an assortment of fruit and vegetables from the Whissit Fields suntunnels. She had also treated herself to the lacy greenery of a potted fern, already in place at her kitchen window. The remaining item was a book.
“You can park it just behind the door.”
Tannaby turned towards the source of this gruff suggestion. Between two squat towers of books rising from a far table she could just discern an eye, which she presumed was the Eye of Morg. Or at least one of the eyes of Morg, she corrected herself, striving to control a sudden absurd flight of fancy, and remembering to call “Thank you!” in the direction of the unseen owner of the voice as she followed his advice.
She paused to survey the shelves, reflecting on the centuries of development it had taken to produce the thousands of neat blocks of printed paper in this precious repository. Most of the bindings were older than she was. Some probably predated her grandparents, though here and there a sensitised cover demanded attention, blinking with pulsar-like insistence, or cycling more subtly through a pattern of visual inducements.
Below a recessed ceiling light, a row of burnished antique leather spines gleamed dustily. Craning her neck, Tannaby could just make out the stamped gilt lettering on each book: ‘WADRIL’S COMPENDIUM’. A chair squeaked. Like an affable bear, Morg emerged from his occlusion and joined her in gazing up at them.
“Ah, The Compendium! Over three hundred years old, they are. Not quite a complete set, but nonetheless as rare as anything you’re likely to see.”
His tone sounded almost reverential.
“They look splendid, but I know nothing about them,” she admitted. She hesitated, about to ask What do they compend? but was unsure whether this verb existed. Morg forestalled her.
“You are probably wondering how much they are worth. The truth is, I cannot bring myself to put a price on them. They once belonged to a rather eccentric, very determined collector. His widow generously gifted them to me many years ago, and the thought of parting with them for something as banal as money seems quite immoral.”
Morg paused, lost in private reminiscence, before resuming. “The full title is, A Descriptive Compendium of Things Fleeting and Remote, intended for the Guidance of Cautious Travellers. Very few complete sets survive. Originally each volume contained between five and eight beautiful but rather enigmatic hand-coloured illustrations, which unscrupulous vandals were wont to remove and sell on to art collectors. The text itself has long been a subject of controversy. It purports to be a series of acute observations, but is it in fact an early example of satirical fiction? Well, it keeps the academics occupied, for which I’m sure both we and they are thankful. You don’t happen to be one, I trust?”
“Oh, no. I’m a market an—” She checked herself, and said simply, “I’m just a visitor to the market.” She glanced back up at the Compendium. “But I was wondering, who…”
“Who was Elver Wadril? Ah, there’s another contentious issue.” Morg smiled. “There have been several attempts at biography, of course, but in a sense they too might be regarded as fictitious, since they are largely based on clues discovered in the text. Given the absence of any absolutely reliable historical records, even the author’s gender is open to question.”
“How intriguing,” murmured Tannaby, who relished a mystery. She gestured at the expanse of books surrounding them. “It must be fascinating working in such a wonderful repository.”
Morg responded with a wordless grunt, which she later came to recognise as his expression of amused satisfaction. In truth he was touched by her sincerity. Though nothing further was said on that occasion, for the briefest of moments each of them inwardly pictured her working there, both finding the idea oddly appealing.
Tannaby browsed happily for a further twenty minutes or so, and left having selected the book which now graced her kitchen table: a well-thumbed stout copy of ‘Snoak: Legends and Legacies’ by Gulven Kurge. She looked forward to the unaccustomed luxury of reading it in bed, though when the time came she was already asleep before reaching the end of the first page.
Fel’s entire patiently-hoarded savings were not nearly enough to cover the cost of the house, but a last-minute reprieve came in the form of combined loans from indulgent relatives who knew how long she had dreamed of having the space and independence to make a living from her upholstery skills, and to fulfil at last her childhood yearning to keep geese. As a result she had been able to use the first few months making herself reasonably comfortable, setting up the workroom, preparing the back yard, and seeking out equipment and accessories, before turning her attention to soliciting custom. Paying off the debts would take time, but she trusted in her abilities.
Fel switched off all but one of the workroom lights and went out into the yard to refill the water bucket for the geese, before persuading them to return to their shed by the simple routine of walking forward with out-stretched arms. They were so much more biddable at night, and far less raucous than when they were released in the mornings into their grassy enclosure, sounding like the straggling remnants of an undisciplined brass band. So far there had been no complaints from any neighbours, but from time to time, being of a practical turn of mind, she seriously considered how, without causing distress, one might effectively soundproof a goose.