Grotti's New Song by Rev DiCerto
Wolfgang Mysen had lived in Silence for a long time – longer than anyone else. If anyone asked him, he would tell them that he’d been there for twenty-five years, having arrived on a ship as a young man. He looked old enough to pass for fifty; his hair was thin on top and gray, combed over awkwardly as some men did, and his chops were more white than brown, and he wore small, round spectacles.
The truth was that Mister Mysen had been a resident of Silence now for some three hundred years, having arrived from parts north and east. At least the ship part of his account was true. He kept to himself, running his tiny shop. From the time when his trade had been called “leech” or “alchemist” – though these days a man in his line of work was referred to as an “apothecary” – he’d been doing the same general work, at first overseas and now in Silence.
Silence was out of the way enough for his purposes. He liked a town where it could be generally known that a witch dwelt, and yet precious little would ever be done about it. And his business did as well as any in the tiny seaside town; there was always a need in a places such as Silence for a painkiller or a remedy for the flux or the ague, or something stronger – a poison, a love potion, or even a curse. He and the witch were on friendly terms, and he suspected that the witch had long ago marked him for what he truly was, more or less, just as he had marked the witch.
As today was a Friday, he closed up his shop at six p.m., locking the front door and dousing the lamps and placing a small “closed” sign in the front window. He walked past shelves filled with stoppered, smoked-glass bottles, boxes of powder, and bins of herbs, and into his workroom.
He lit a lamp and looked over his darling. The contraption sprawled across the floor of the room, occupying more than half of it. A vast flywheel, nearly as tall as Mysen himself, stood just this side of her. To his right was a great furnace, empty of coal or any other fuel – and, truly, as Mysen intended to run her, unneeded – and cold. In honor of another perfect machine he’d known a lifetime ago – literally – he had named her Grotti.
Silence was a peculiar town. A man could be killed in the street on the point of a sword or at the end of a pistol if he was unwary. The Royal Mayor held his indifferent sway from a manor house on an island in the midst of the river Nettles. An inquisitor pried into the affairs of those who let their private dealings be known to the general public – not that many of the locals were unwise enough to let their doings be known. But a machine like Mysen’s steam engine would look outlandish to any of the townsfolk, despite the steam-powered ships that occasionally passed on the river.
He gently caressed the green-painted, convex side of the massive engine, grinning to himself. There was no need for coal in Silence, with no other engines to feed. But his darling, she would be fed. Lovely Grotti would have her power, and tonight, Mysen thought, might just be the night she got it. He hummed to himself, wondering just who it would be.
Mysen had plans for Grotti. This contraption of his, which he’d bought from a merchant off a ship three years ago and had been delivered piece by piece over six months, was going to make him rich. Soon enough, there would be a new song rising from his shining new Grotti: a song as sweet and sad as that of the former Grotti had been. She would run the mill, for starters, just as soon as Mysen could convince Goodman Aud Miller to sell.
The man had become ill some months ago. Mysen had sold the medicines to Goody Miller, Aud’s wife, for several weeks. Then she’d stopped coming in, so either Aud was well now, or he was dead. Mysen was certain he was dead. You couldn’t be in Mysen’s profession – his true profession, not the one on his shingle – without having a feel for these matters, and a knack for finding out such things. Of late the mill had been running only at night, and Mysen knew what that meant. The witch hadn’t talked, when Mysen asked about Aud, but Mysen had a feeling that soon enough Goody Miller’s stoic mien would crack, and she’d be ready to accept Mysen’s offer. And after the mill, there were a dozen applications to which Mysen could put his engine, or others like her. All he needed was the right power source, something – someone – strong and tireless. He rapped once, hopefully, against the hulk, and went out into the mist, headed for The Eye of the Storm.
* * *
Mysen turned and surveyed The Eye over his hot bowl of stew. He saw just the usual company, unfortunately. A few tars, a few members of the crew of that pirate, Evangeline. Neither the Hag nor the witch was anywhere to be seen. He saw no one likely to suit his need, until the door opened and Franklyn Frederick stumbled in.
Frankie was young, at least compared to Mysen – not that anyone in Silence could possibly be old compared to him. He was in his late twenties, and had grown up in the town. He still did odd jobs; Mysen occasionally paid him to sweep out the front room of his shop. He was on the chubby side, and on the hapless side, and on the broke side. He also considered himself a bit of a ladies’ man, at which thought some of Silence’s folk laughed, while others, and the younger and more innocent of the women among them, accepted it with a degree of gullibility. Tonight he looked particularly flustered. He moved toward the bar in a walk that was almost a stagger, calling out in a ragged voice for a pint of Hag’s Blood. When Mystery served him, he leaned against a post and stared out toward the door with darting eyes.
Mysen grinned. Frankie wouldn’t do all on his own, but he might provide a start. “Franklyn Frederick!” he called, waving the young man toward himself. “Would you care to join me?”
Frankie stepped uneasily over to the table and sat down. “Good evening, Mister Mysen.”
Mysen gave Frankie the once-over. “You look to be in quite a state, Frankie,” he said. “Is everything alright?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Frankie.
“Why don’t you have a bowl of stew?” Mysen asked, affecting his broadest grin. “I’ve had a long day. You can tell me your troubles. A man my age has plenty of time to listen to a young man’s tales.”
Frankie eyed Mysen’s bowl uncomfortably. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I’ll just drink as we talk, if it’s alright with you.”
“Suit yourself,” Mysen said. “But you can still tell me what vexes you so.”
Frankie swallowed and looked from left to right as if to be sure he wasn’t being watched. “I’ve got woman troubles,” he said.
Mysen laughed. “If only I’d your troubles.”
“I can understand your saying so, sir, but still, trouble is trouble.”
“So who’s the lady?”
“Ladies, actually.”
Again Mysen laughed. This was rich. “Ladies, then! Oh, to be young. So what’s happened, boy?”
“You recall that privateer that came in a couple of weeks back? The one with the lady captain?”
“I do at that.”
“Well, two of the crew were women. Fannie and Maddie. Big girls, and strong, but pretty for all that. I had a spot of Hag’s Blood with them two nights back. And don’t you know, they came home with me.”
Mysen’s eyebrow arched. “Both of them? Freddie, you’re a braggart!” An idea had come to him, perfect in every way. He knew the two young giantesses indeed. How could he not have thought of them?
Freddie’s face blanched. “I wish I was bragging,” he said. “At first it was all pleasure. But Mister Mysen, these women, they’re like none I’ve ever known. They never grow tired! And their appetites – I’ve never seen the like! I only escaped an hour since, saying I needed to buy bread. For all I know they’re still in my room waiting for me!”
They never grow tired, Frankie had said. Perfect! “Ah, the joys of youth,” said Mysen.
“No! Mister Mysen, they’ll be the death of me!”
“Well, in that case –”
Frankie’s face went even paler, and Mysen turned to see what he was looking at. The two pirate women were standing at the doorway of The Eye. They were dressed as sailors, but their hair, long and golden, was loose and hung down over their coats. They were as tall as any man in the village, and beautiful, with smooth skin and bright, green eyes. They might have been sisters. Clearly they had seen Frankie, and were looking at him eagerly.
“Hide me, Mister Mysen!” Frankie pleaded.
“It’s a bit late for that,” Mysen said. “But I can help you.”
The two women stepped up to the table. Behind them Mysen saw Mystery pass by, looking with contempt on the two young giantesses. Good, thought Mysen. Then there’ll be no interest from that quarter.
“Frankie,” said the girl on the left, who was somewhat shorter than the other but broader and bustier. “Here you are! We’ve been waiting so long for your return!”
Frankie swallowed hard, clearly unable to speak. He looked exhausted. Eyeing the two giantesses, Mysen thought to himself that there were far worse ways for a man to die. Either way, tonight was not Frankie’s night for that. He stood.
“Ladies,” he said. “I am Wolfgang Mysen, the town apothecary. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“A pleasure, Mister Mysen,” said the taller of the two, never taking her eyes off of Freddie. “I’m Maddie. This is my sister, Fannie.”
“Ladies,” said Mysen, “may I invite the two of you – and Mister Frederick as well – back to my shop? I have a thing or two there that will serve quite well to revive the spirits of Mister Frederick and yourselves. And, should I be so bold as to suggest such a thing, of myself. An apothecary’s trade can be the fountain of youth, in some regards.”
At this Maddie turned and looked Mysen over. Whether she liked what she saw or not he could not tell, but she licked her lips. Clearly the thought of Frankie’s spirits – or his libido – being revived held a great appeal for her. Fannie looked no less intrigued. “We’d be happy to,” Maddie said. “Frankie?”
Frankie looked to Mysen desperately. Mysen nodded. “Come on, son,” he said. “It’ll be just the thing to set you right.”
* * *
The four of them sat at the counter in the front room of Mysen’s shop. He’d brought out a bottle of wine, the best that could have been had either for money or at sword-point when he’d been young. It was half gone now, and all three of his guests were quite merry. Mysen himself had had only a drop, though he’d raised his glass as often as the rest. He found he quite liked Fannie and Maddie – not that he could tell which was which at this point, and he guessed that neither could Freddie.
The taller of the two giantesses turned to Mysen. “Well, Mister Mysen,” she said. “I wonder if you could tell me what is this restorative you’ve mentioned? We two have an interest in Frankie here, but he’s a bit tuckered out.”
“Certainly, my dear. It’s an herbal tincture from my homeland. I have it just here.” Mysen lifted a bottle of green smoked glass and removed the glass stopper. The girl leaned forward to sniff at the bottle’s neck.
“That does smell good,” she said. “How does it work?”
“I put it in your drinks, and in Mister Frederick’s,” Mysen said. “Also in my own. I’ve heard from Frankie that you two possess above-average hungers, and I figure that two might sate those better than one alone. As an old man, I’d be happy of anything I could get,” he added with what he hoped was a sorrowful look.
The girls looked at each other for a moment, and a mischievous grin crossed their faces. The shorter one turned back to Mysen. “Very well, Mister Mysen. We’ll give it a try, so long as it will return the steel to poor Frankie’s shaft.”
“Oh, it will indeed,” said Mysen.
He tipped a few drops of the tincture into each glass, including his own, then raised his glass and looked over the rim. Frankie was looking at him with wide-eyed terror, but the two girls were already gulping down their wine. Mysen shook his head from side to side subtly. He and Frankie held their glasses to their mouths. Mysen didn’t drink, and he hoped Frankie was wise enough not to, either.
The giantesses placed their glasses on the table and looked up at the two men. There was a smile on each lovely face. “That was delicious,” said the taller.
“Indeed it was,” said Mysen, placing his half-full glass on the table. Frankie did the same. The girls never looked at the glasses or the table. Good, thought Mysen. “It’s a bit public out here,” he said. “Shall we go into the back?”
The women stood. “Yes, let’s,” said the shorter one.
Mysen led them through the door into the workroom. All three of his guests stopped short just within the doorway as he lit the oil lamp by the door, in awe of the contraption laid out before them.
Frankie turned and looked at Mysen. “What is it?” he asked in a whisper.
“She’s just a tool, Frankie,” said Mysen. “But I’ve plans for her. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Frankie stood in awe for a moment before replying, “I’m no judge, Mister Mysen. I’ve never seen her like.”
“Ladies?” Mysen asked. “What do you think of my lovely Grotti?”
The giantesses turned slowly to face him. Their eyes were vacant, their mouths slack. Their arms hung loosely by their sides. A wisp of hair had fallen across the face of the taller girl, but she took no heed of it.
Frankie turned to Mysen. “Dear Lord, sir! What’s happened to them?”
Mysen chuckled. “Don’t worry, Frankie,” he said. “It’ll only last a few minutes. But you wanted to be free of them, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Frankie. “They wouldn’t let me rest long enough to speak a prayer. But I don’t wish them dead!”
“Don’t worry, son. They won’t be.” Mysen picked up the ash staff, three feet long, carved with letters no man or woman of Silence could ever have read, and stained with years’ worth of blood, that lay on the table beside the door to the front room. He stepped up to the women. “But I’m afraid those lithesome bodies will have to go.” He chanted a few words – words that had been ancient when the townsfolk of Silence were painting themselves blue and sacrificing boars to the spirits of the land – and he waved the staff over the giantesses’ heads.
“Mister Mysen!” Frankie cried. “What’s become of them? I can see clear through them!”
It was true. Fannie and Maddie had gone quite translucent. Mysen lifted a small silver chain from the table and affixed it to a fitting on Grotti’s side, then looped it around the feet of the now incorporeal women. Their eyes suddenly grew aware; but even as they did, the chain became as translucent as the women, and it split and caught each by the ankle.
“How could you?” said the shorter girl.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” Mysen said, “but you’ve work to do. Now climb in.”
They looked as though they wanted to resist; their eyes flashed with anger, and the sinews in their necks strained, but nevertheless they turned slowly around to face the steam engine. Then first the shorter and next the taller of the two lifted a foot, stepped through the green-painted side of the engine, and vanished inside.
At Mysen’s side Frankie was ashen. Mysen took him by the arm and pulled him into the front room. He lifted the bottle of tincture that sat on the counter amid the half-full and the empty wine glasses and placed it off to one side. Then he reached under the counter and took out a rolled-up sheet of paper: a sale contract. Wine wouldn’t do for Goody Miller, Mysen thought. Maybe tea, or even cider. Just a drop of the tincture would do; it would only take a moment to get her to sign.
He turned back to Frankie. “Now you know what I can do,” he said. “So keep your mouth shut. I’m sure you realize you would speak of me and my doings at your peril. Frankie, you owe me now.”
Frankie nodded, pale-faced.
“It won’t cost you much,” Mysen continued. “Tomorrow, I want you to bring Goody Miller by. Tell her I need to speak with her about her account. Then our business together is finished.”
Again Frankie nodded.
“Now go get some sleep, son,” Mysen said.
Frankie turned and walked numbly out the door of the shop.
Tea will do nicely, Mysen thought, turning his mind to the next day. Goody will like that. He took three teacups out from below his counter. He could take care of Frankie any time after tomorrow, if need be.
He walked back into the workroom and stood facing his beloved Grotti. She’d have to be shut down to be moved into the mill, he realized, but no sense in not running her until then. He threw a lever and the massive steam engine chugged into life, powered by the large women, Fanny and Maddie.
In his mind he could hear them groaning. And as the engine gained speed and chugged ever harder, he became aware that, just like a lifetime of his ago, his two enthralled giantesses were singing as they worked, a song that would have no end.
The truth was that Mister Mysen had been a resident of Silence now for some three hundred years, having arrived from parts north and east. At least the ship part of his account was true. He kept to himself, running his tiny shop. From the time when his trade had been called “leech” or “alchemist” – though these days a man in his line of work was referred to as an “apothecary” – he’d been doing the same general work, at first overseas and now in Silence.
Silence was out of the way enough for his purposes. He liked a town where it could be generally known that a witch dwelt, and yet precious little would ever be done about it. And his business did as well as any in the tiny seaside town; there was always a need in a places such as Silence for a painkiller or a remedy for the flux or the ague, or something stronger – a poison, a love potion, or even a curse. He and the witch were on friendly terms, and he suspected that the witch had long ago marked him for what he truly was, more or less, just as he had marked the witch.
As today was a Friday, he closed up his shop at six p.m., locking the front door and dousing the lamps and placing a small “closed” sign in the front window. He walked past shelves filled with stoppered, smoked-glass bottles, boxes of powder, and bins of herbs, and into his workroom.
He lit a lamp and looked over his darling. The contraption sprawled across the floor of the room, occupying more than half of it. A vast flywheel, nearly as tall as Mysen himself, stood just this side of her. To his right was a great furnace, empty of coal or any other fuel – and, truly, as Mysen intended to run her, unneeded – and cold. In honor of another perfect machine he’d known a lifetime ago – literally – he had named her Grotti.
Silence was a peculiar town. A man could be killed in the street on the point of a sword or at the end of a pistol if he was unwary. The Royal Mayor held his indifferent sway from a manor house on an island in the midst of the river Nettles. An inquisitor pried into the affairs of those who let their private dealings be known to the general public – not that many of the locals were unwise enough to let their doings be known. But a machine like Mysen’s steam engine would look outlandish to any of the townsfolk, despite the steam-powered ships that occasionally passed on the river.
He gently caressed the green-painted, convex side of the massive engine, grinning to himself. There was no need for coal in Silence, with no other engines to feed. But his darling, she would be fed. Lovely Grotti would have her power, and tonight, Mysen thought, might just be the night she got it. He hummed to himself, wondering just who it would be.
Mysen had plans for Grotti. This contraption of his, which he’d bought from a merchant off a ship three years ago and had been delivered piece by piece over six months, was going to make him rich. Soon enough, there would be a new song rising from his shining new Grotti: a song as sweet and sad as that of the former Grotti had been. She would run the mill, for starters, just as soon as Mysen could convince Goodman Aud Miller to sell.
The man had become ill some months ago. Mysen had sold the medicines to Goody Miller, Aud’s wife, for several weeks. Then she’d stopped coming in, so either Aud was well now, or he was dead. Mysen was certain he was dead. You couldn’t be in Mysen’s profession – his true profession, not the one on his shingle – without having a feel for these matters, and a knack for finding out such things. Of late the mill had been running only at night, and Mysen knew what that meant. The witch hadn’t talked, when Mysen asked about Aud, but Mysen had a feeling that soon enough Goody Miller’s stoic mien would crack, and she’d be ready to accept Mysen’s offer. And after the mill, there were a dozen applications to which Mysen could put his engine, or others like her. All he needed was the right power source, something – someone – strong and tireless. He rapped once, hopefully, against the hulk, and went out into the mist, headed for The Eye of the Storm.
* * *
Mysen turned and surveyed The Eye over his hot bowl of stew. He saw just the usual company, unfortunately. A few tars, a few members of the crew of that pirate, Evangeline. Neither the Hag nor the witch was anywhere to be seen. He saw no one likely to suit his need, until the door opened and Franklyn Frederick stumbled in.
Frankie was young, at least compared to Mysen – not that anyone in Silence could possibly be old compared to him. He was in his late twenties, and had grown up in the town. He still did odd jobs; Mysen occasionally paid him to sweep out the front room of his shop. He was on the chubby side, and on the hapless side, and on the broke side. He also considered himself a bit of a ladies’ man, at which thought some of Silence’s folk laughed, while others, and the younger and more innocent of the women among them, accepted it with a degree of gullibility. Tonight he looked particularly flustered. He moved toward the bar in a walk that was almost a stagger, calling out in a ragged voice for a pint of Hag’s Blood. When Mystery served him, he leaned against a post and stared out toward the door with darting eyes.
Mysen grinned. Frankie wouldn’t do all on his own, but he might provide a start. “Franklyn Frederick!” he called, waving the young man toward himself. “Would you care to join me?”
Frankie stepped uneasily over to the table and sat down. “Good evening, Mister Mysen.”
Mysen gave Frankie the once-over. “You look to be in quite a state, Frankie,” he said. “Is everything alright?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Frankie.
“Why don’t you have a bowl of stew?” Mysen asked, affecting his broadest grin. “I’ve had a long day. You can tell me your troubles. A man my age has plenty of time to listen to a young man’s tales.”
Frankie eyed Mysen’s bowl uncomfortably. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I’ll just drink as we talk, if it’s alright with you.”
“Suit yourself,” Mysen said. “But you can still tell me what vexes you so.”
Frankie swallowed and looked from left to right as if to be sure he wasn’t being watched. “I’ve got woman troubles,” he said.
Mysen laughed. “If only I’d your troubles.”
“I can understand your saying so, sir, but still, trouble is trouble.”
“So who’s the lady?”
“Ladies, actually.”
Again Mysen laughed. This was rich. “Ladies, then! Oh, to be young. So what’s happened, boy?”
“You recall that privateer that came in a couple of weeks back? The one with the lady captain?”
“I do at that.”
“Well, two of the crew were women. Fannie and Maddie. Big girls, and strong, but pretty for all that. I had a spot of Hag’s Blood with them two nights back. And don’t you know, they came home with me.”
Mysen’s eyebrow arched. “Both of them? Freddie, you’re a braggart!” An idea had come to him, perfect in every way. He knew the two young giantesses indeed. How could he not have thought of them?
Freddie’s face blanched. “I wish I was bragging,” he said. “At first it was all pleasure. But Mister Mysen, these women, they’re like none I’ve ever known. They never grow tired! And their appetites – I’ve never seen the like! I only escaped an hour since, saying I needed to buy bread. For all I know they’re still in my room waiting for me!”
They never grow tired, Frankie had said. Perfect! “Ah, the joys of youth,” said Mysen.
“No! Mister Mysen, they’ll be the death of me!”
“Well, in that case –”
Frankie’s face went even paler, and Mysen turned to see what he was looking at. The two pirate women were standing at the doorway of The Eye. They were dressed as sailors, but their hair, long and golden, was loose and hung down over their coats. They were as tall as any man in the village, and beautiful, with smooth skin and bright, green eyes. They might have been sisters. Clearly they had seen Frankie, and were looking at him eagerly.
“Hide me, Mister Mysen!” Frankie pleaded.
“It’s a bit late for that,” Mysen said. “But I can help you.”
The two women stepped up to the table. Behind them Mysen saw Mystery pass by, looking with contempt on the two young giantesses. Good, thought Mysen. Then there’ll be no interest from that quarter.
“Frankie,” said the girl on the left, who was somewhat shorter than the other but broader and bustier. “Here you are! We’ve been waiting so long for your return!”
Frankie swallowed hard, clearly unable to speak. He looked exhausted. Eyeing the two giantesses, Mysen thought to himself that there were far worse ways for a man to die. Either way, tonight was not Frankie’s night for that. He stood.
“Ladies,” he said. “I am Wolfgang Mysen, the town apothecary. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“A pleasure, Mister Mysen,” said the taller of the two, never taking her eyes off of Freddie. “I’m Maddie. This is my sister, Fannie.”
“Ladies,” said Mysen, “may I invite the two of you – and Mister Frederick as well – back to my shop? I have a thing or two there that will serve quite well to revive the spirits of Mister Frederick and yourselves. And, should I be so bold as to suggest such a thing, of myself. An apothecary’s trade can be the fountain of youth, in some regards.”
At this Maddie turned and looked Mysen over. Whether she liked what she saw or not he could not tell, but she licked her lips. Clearly the thought of Frankie’s spirits – or his libido – being revived held a great appeal for her. Fannie looked no less intrigued. “We’d be happy to,” Maddie said. “Frankie?”
Frankie looked to Mysen desperately. Mysen nodded. “Come on, son,” he said. “It’ll be just the thing to set you right.”
* * *
The four of them sat at the counter in the front room of Mysen’s shop. He’d brought out a bottle of wine, the best that could have been had either for money or at sword-point when he’d been young. It was half gone now, and all three of his guests were quite merry. Mysen himself had had only a drop, though he’d raised his glass as often as the rest. He found he quite liked Fannie and Maddie – not that he could tell which was which at this point, and he guessed that neither could Freddie.
The taller of the two giantesses turned to Mysen. “Well, Mister Mysen,” she said. “I wonder if you could tell me what is this restorative you’ve mentioned? We two have an interest in Frankie here, but he’s a bit tuckered out.”
“Certainly, my dear. It’s an herbal tincture from my homeland. I have it just here.” Mysen lifted a bottle of green smoked glass and removed the glass stopper. The girl leaned forward to sniff at the bottle’s neck.
“That does smell good,” she said. “How does it work?”
“I put it in your drinks, and in Mister Frederick’s,” Mysen said. “Also in my own. I’ve heard from Frankie that you two possess above-average hungers, and I figure that two might sate those better than one alone. As an old man, I’d be happy of anything I could get,” he added with what he hoped was a sorrowful look.
The girls looked at each other for a moment, and a mischievous grin crossed their faces. The shorter one turned back to Mysen. “Very well, Mister Mysen. We’ll give it a try, so long as it will return the steel to poor Frankie’s shaft.”
“Oh, it will indeed,” said Mysen.
He tipped a few drops of the tincture into each glass, including his own, then raised his glass and looked over the rim. Frankie was looking at him with wide-eyed terror, but the two girls were already gulping down their wine. Mysen shook his head from side to side subtly. He and Frankie held their glasses to their mouths. Mysen didn’t drink, and he hoped Frankie was wise enough not to, either.
The giantesses placed their glasses on the table and looked up at the two men. There was a smile on each lovely face. “That was delicious,” said the taller.
“Indeed it was,” said Mysen, placing his half-full glass on the table. Frankie did the same. The girls never looked at the glasses or the table. Good, thought Mysen. “It’s a bit public out here,” he said. “Shall we go into the back?”
The women stood. “Yes, let’s,” said the shorter one.
Mysen led them through the door into the workroom. All three of his guests stopped short just within the doorway as he lit the oil lamp by the door, in awe of the contraption laid out before them.
Frankie turned and looked at Mysen. “What is it?” he asked in a whisper.
“She’s just a tool, Frankie,” said Mysen. “But I’ve plans for her. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Frankie stood in awe for a moment before replying, “I’m no judge, Mister Mysen. I’ve never seen her like.”
“Ladies?” Mysen asked. “What do you think of my lovely Grotti?”
The giantesses turned slowly to face him. Their eyes were vacant, their mouths slack. Their arms hung loosely by their sides. A wisp of hair had fallen across the face of the taller girl, but she took no heed of it.
Frankie turned to Mysen. “Dear Lord, sir! What’s happened to them?”
Mysen chuckled. “Don’t worry, Frankie,” he said. “It’ll only last a few minutes. But you wanted to be free of them, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Frankie. “They wouldn’t let me rest long enough to speak a prayer. But I don’t wish them dead!”
“Don’t worry, son. They won’t be.” Mysen picked up the ash staff, three feet long, carved with letters no man or woman of Silence could ever have read, and stained with years’ worth of blood, that lay on the table beside the door to the front room. He stepped up to the women. “But I’m afraid those lithesome bodies will have to go.” He chanted a few words – words that had been ancient when the townsfolk of Silence were painting themselves blue and sacrificing boars to the spirits of the land – and he waved the staff over the giantesses’ heads.
“Mister Mysen!” Frankie cried. “What’s become of them? I can see clear through them!”
It was true. Fannie and Maddie had gone quite translucent. Mysen lifted a small silver chain from the table and affixed it to a fitting on Grotti’s side, then looped it around the feet of the now incorporeal women. Their eyes suddenly grew aware; but even as they did, the chain became as translucent as the women, and it split and caught each by the ankle.
“How could you?” said the shorter girl.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” Mysen said, “but you’ve work to do. Now climb in.”
They looked as though they wanted to resist; their eyes flashed with anger, and the sinews in their necks strained, but nevertheless they turned slowly around to face the steam engine. Then first the shorter and next the taller of the two lifted a foot, stepped through the green-painted side of the engine, and vanished inside.
At Mysen’s side Frankie was ashen. Mysen took him by the arm and pulled him into the front room. He lifted the bottle of tincture that sat on the counter amid the half-full and the empty wine glasses and placed it off to one side. Then he reached under the counter and took out a rolled-up sheet of paper: a sale contract. Wine wouldn’t do for Goody Miller, Mysen thought. Maybe tea, or even cider. Just a drop of the tincture would do; it would only take a moment to get her to sign.
He turned back to Frankie. “Now you know what I can do,” he said. “So keep your mouth shut. I’m sure you realize you would speak of me and my doings at your peril. Frankie, you owe me now.”
Frankie nodded, pale-faced.
“It won’t cost you much,” Mysen continued. “Tomorrow, I want you to bring Goody Miller by. Tell her I need to speak with her about her account. Then our business together is finished.”
Again Frankie nodded.
“Now go get some sleep, son,” Mysen said.
Frankie turned and walked numbly out the door of the shop.
Tea will do nicely, Mysen thought, turning his mind to the next day. Goody will like that. He took three teacups out from below his counter. He could take care of Frankie any time after tomorrow, if need be.
He walked back into the workroom and stood facing his beloved Grotti. She’d have to be shut down to be moved into the mill, he realized, but no sense in not running her until then. He threw a lever and the massive steam engine chugged into life, powered by the large women, Fanny and Maddie.
In his mind he could hear them groaning. And as the engine gained speed and chugged ever harder, he became aware that, just like a lifetime of his ago, his two enthralled giantesses were singing as they worked, a song that would have no end.