AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Very pleased to meet you. I am Charlotte—” she began, but Branwell would not let her be the one who spoke for them. He was the one who’d come back to life not fifteen minutes ago. Whenever he got sick at home, Aunt Elizabeth and Tabitha made a tremendous fuss with hot water bottles and tinctures and sweets and kisses. It only stood to reason that they should all make an extra-tremendous fuss now. After all, when you rose from the grave in England, people tended to make whole religions out of you. He would do the talking. It was only logic.
“I am Branwell,” he cut in, “and these are my sisters, Anne, Emily, and Charlotte. I’m dash honored to make your acquaintance, sirs, and, er, so’re they.”
Charlotte ignored him. She had questions, and when Charlotte had questions she could hardly bear to breathe until she got her answers. “And where were you born, Captain Bravey? Was your father a military man?”
“How kind of you to take an interest in little old blockheaded me, young lady!” the Captain said with a delighted blush. “But I’m afraid my story is rather dull. No different from any other soldier, really. My full name is Reader Rootstock Bravey. I was born in the village of Boxwickham, a little, dark place in the county of Shoppeshire. Do not feel in the least shamed if you’ve not heard of it! There’s nothing to see there at all. A bit of velvet land, a pleasant enough river on the north side of town to keep brigands out, and the whole lot surrounded by sturdy, impenetrable woods that quite block out the sun. I never knew my father, only my eleven brothers, whom you see before you. Sometimes, I think I remember our old dad. In my dreams I see an aged fellow with a white mustache and spectacles, forever with a wood-chisel in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, with a Northern accent and a musty smell about him—wood oils and lacquer and sap. But then I wake up and think I am the silliest of Captains, dreaming about fathers and paintbrushes when there is work to be done!”
He means the toy shop in Leeds, Charlotte thought furiously. And the wooden box they all came in, that Father gave to Bran at Christmas! He doesn’t know that’s what he means, but he means it anyhow.
Emily caught on to Charlotte’s game and played her turn. “And where did you get your marvelous name?” she asked brightly.
“And were you named after an un
cle or a famous warrior?” Anne put in her and.
Bravey looked puzzled. He scratched the short, barky hair beneath his helmet. “Do you know, I never thought about it! I suppose I always thought it made plenty of sense, as I am quite brave. Perhaps the old man with the paintbrush gave it to me. Perhaps I am not so silly after all.”
It was all Anne could do not to shout: No, he didn’t! No, he didn’t! I named you that because you had such a stern look on your face when we took you out of the box! I named you! Me!
“Dash splendid Valise you’ve got here,” coughed Corporal Cheeky, feeling that the conversation had become a trifle too personal for his taste. He hoisted his ankle up on one knee and rested back on the sofa with a long nail wedged between his teeth like a toothpick. “So many of them don’t bother to set a proper table these days. Labor disputes, you know.”
Cheeky had a long burn across one cheek where Bran had left him too close to the candle.
Captain Bravey looked up round the walls and buttresses. “You’ll have to excuse the Corporal; he’s got a mouth like poison ivy.” He slapped the lad’s cockily crossed leg back onto the floor. “Do you want to cause a strike? Do try to behave like an oak and not a weed, boy!”
One of the tapestries began to shiver and quiver above the soap-brick mantel. The woven picture of spotted dogs chasing after a fox and a unicorn unfurled its ribbons and gloves and shawls and leather and wooden hairbrush handles and thimbles and knitting needles into an enormous face and neck and chest. It was the wise, old, beaked head of a turtle, only it had a snail’s kindly, soft antennae, too. They could see half its shell poking out of the wall as well, pearly and spiraled like a snail, but plated and patchworked like a turtle. It stared down at them like the strangest hunting trophy. The two sorts of animals who carry their houses on their back like the loveliest of suitcases, crushed into one creature.
“It’s my first day on the job,” said the turtle-snail-beast. When he opened his mouth, they could see a soft, black, wool stocking-tongue moving. “I wanted to do well.”
NINE
The Tragical Romance
of Baggage and People, or the Romantical Tragedy of People and Grog
Emily blushed and looked down at her kneecaps. She couldn’t meet the beast’s eyes. They were made out of two pence she had hidden away long ago, so that no matter what happened in the unguessable future of School and Governessing and Being Grown, she could cling to the reassuring idea that she had some money of her own, however little. She’d never breathed a word, and now they would all know she had hoarded something for herself and not for them all. But no one seemed to notice, so Emily quickly stopped noticing, too.
“Noble luggage!” cried Leftenant Gravey to the turtley snail on the wall. “May all the blessings of the Genii be upon you!”
The snail-turtle inclined his head politely, but did not reply.
“Not even one word for old Gravey; how do you like that?” The Leftenant grumbled quietly to himself. “I will hold a grudge, I will. I’m going to hold it and feed it and water it and pet it and tell it it’s a good grudge. That’ll show the old bag.”
“The Genii?” Branwell scrunched up his nose.
Warrant Officer Goody grimaced. “It’s like I always say, no one’s got any respect for religion nowadays. The gods of Glass Town skip a few centuries between visits and suddenly everyone’s an Anglican having a little picnic of a Sunday instead of repentin’ like they ought. Now, me, I do six sets of repentin’ every morning before chow. Twenty push-ups, repent. Twenty more, repent again. And look at me! Handsome, eh? That’s the repentin’.”
Crashey glared at Goody. He continued in a louder voice. “Most munificabulous bindles! We are most grateful for your . . . salvatervention? Intervupption?” Crashey was a brave sort, but he couldn’t manage to keep his vocabulary any tidier than his closet. Long words were such naughty little hoodlums, always running away from him instead of staying put and making him look good like they were supposed to. “For thou hast-ed save-ed our trousers and hem-ed our bacon! It’s a good job you did; the war will just ruin your afternoon, I tell you what.”
“Why are you talking to it like that?” said Branwell, to paper over everything he wanted to say instead. “It’s only Charlotte’s and Em’s old knockabout suitcases, really.”
“I sat on one and popped its hinges last year,” admitted Anne guiltily. She twisted her fingers together.
Bran pressed on, feeling bolder now that Anne had backed him up. “I daresay anything that got itself to Glass Town would grow some sort of magic! But they’re just bags and you’re talking to Em’s underthings like they’re the King of Spain!”
The wooden soldiers gasped and spluttered, covering their mouths and hearts and ears with their hands.
“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” pleaded Quartermaster Hay Man, quite the stoutest of them round the belly.
