Chapter Text
It was dusk. It was raining. An autopod vehicle rolled slowly to a stop along the muddy street and the trunk popped open. Portia Smith jumped out of the passenger side with her small case and quickly jumped under the street awning. Her mother exited the driver side, quickly grabbed a large suitcase from the trunk, and dashed across the street to the door of a rundown inn. The trunk closed smoothly by itself. Empty of its passengers, the autopod continued on its way with a soft whine.
"Portia!" her mother called, opening the inn door. "Come on." Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared inside at a slant as the suitcase bumped on her hip.
Portia stood in the gloom, dry under the awning, gazing at the building in the last dregs of sunlight. She squinted through the rain at the only identifying sign on the building. An old weathered plank of wood with a carved picture hung from a post. It looked like it was the head of a pig? A large drop of rainwater fell from the awning and landed with a splat on her black hair. She looked down at the thick layer of mud on the street and then at her as yet clean shoes. With a deep sigh, she ducked her head and ran.
As she opened the door, a grey and white cat walked past her feet saying " 'Scuse me. Gotta go out for a bit."
"OK," then remembering the weather she added, "Careful, it's raining pretty hard. You'll get soaked."
"Don't worry, I know a few tricks to stay dry. I hate getting wet. I'll be back later." He side stepped around her to hug the wall and hurried off.
Most normal people would have thought talking with a cat to be most strange, but to Portia, it was perfectly normal. However, she had never told anyone about this; she just had the feeling that people might think she was odd, and she didn't want that.
"Did you say something Portia?"
"Oh . . . er . . . nothing Mum. I just said it's raining pretty hard now."
"Well come all the way in and close the door." She flapped her hands in a come hither manner. "Close the door. It's warmer and cheerier in here with a bit of a fire going."
'Here' was the public room of the inn, and the meager fire in the fireplace didn't look like it was capable of providing much heat, but at least the room was dry. Well, dry except for one leaky spot on the ceiling that was dripping into a wooden pail. A lamp hung over a well worn bartop; the only other light was provided by a single candle at a table where two people sat in shadows. There were no other customers.
She wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell? Cows or goats or something?"
"Never mind that now. Go on upstairs. The rooms on the second floor are for guests. I already put my suitcase in the first room on the third floor; yours is the second door on the left."
As Portia remained still and staring around with a wrinkled nose, her mother gave her a gentle nudge on the shoulder. "Go on."
Portia walked past the near end of the bar and up a dim flight of stairs to the next floor landing, which was entirely in darkness. There was some light coming down from the floor above, so she continued towards the flickering light and reached the third floor landing. There, an old oil lamp was hanging on the wall from a big rusty nail. It produced a lot of smoke and a little light.
She gently pushed the first door open and saw her mother's belongings. She closed the door and moved to the next one. She pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch. After reaching further and feeling nothing on the wall, she remembered her holophone. Turning on her holophone gave a dim light. She could see the outline of a bed, and a little table and chair under a window, but there was not even a table lamp anywhere.
So, leaving her case on the floor in the doorway, she went back downstairs.
"Um . . . there's no light."
Her mother, Mrs. Smith, was talking to a sleepy-eyed, unshaven man behind the bar. "Portia, this is your Uncle Duncan. He's not really your uncle. He was your," her voice wavered, " . . . your father's cousin."
"Hello," Portia said. Duncan gave her a sideways look but didn't say anything.
Portia quickly repeated her statement to her mother about the lack of a light in her room.
"Oh. That's right. Here," said her mother, as she retrieved an old oil lamp from behind the bar. She lit the wick and said, "Take this."
Back in her room, the lamp cast long shadows. She placed it on the little table, and then put her head right up against the window glass to peer down at the muddy street in both directions. The rain had stopped and a hole in the clouds allowed for a little moonlight.
She had just sat down on the wooden chair at the table and closed her eyes for a brief moment when she heard a tapping on the window. The grey and white cat was outside, tapping on the glass with a paw. He said, "Let me in".
She opened the window and closed it, as he seated himself on the table top. "Thank you."
His underbelly was mostly white; a big splotch of grey marked his head and shoulders and most of his back. His tail was all grey. He started to clean his fur by licking his front paws.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Smokey."
"Oh. My name's Portia. Portia Smith."
"Very pleased to meet you Portia." Smokey started to clean the fur on his head by licking his paws and running his forepaws over his head and ears. Smokey seemed to act like it was perfectly normal to have a conversation with an eleven year old girl.
"Um, you're not the reason for the smell downstairs are you?"
He instantly stopped and stared at her with big green eyes. "Certainly not! That's goats that is. Do I smell like a stinky goat?"
"No. Of course not. You don't smell at all." She started to stroke him from head to tail, which caused him to sit up straighter and half close his eyes.
"So why are you staying at the Hog's Head?" asked Smokey.
"Oh is that what this place is called?" Portia stopped petting and sat up a little straighter herself. "Well I guess we have nowhere else to go. My aunt used to own it but she died. My mum inherited it . . . when my dad died."
"Oh . . . I'm sorry . . . well . . . welcome," said Smokey.
The AI agent on her holophone spoke up in a mild voice, "Ten percent charge remaining. Please charge me."
Portia looked at all four walls in her room, but she couldn't see an electrical outlet anywhere. She even looked under the bed.
"Mum," implored Portia, as she burst into the public room with a horrified look on her face, "there's no outlet in my room. I can't charge my holophone!"
"We'll just have to share dear," her mother replied.
"You mean I have to charge it in your room?" she said, her voice getting higher to match the rising disbelief on her face.
"Well dear I don't think there is one in my room either. I mean we'll have to share an outlet somewhere else in the inn."
Portia set off to look in a few rooms but was back in moments. "I can't find any outlets! I don't think this place has electricity!" She was really starting to look a little wild with worry.
"It must have electricity. The television plugs in."
"What's a television?"
"It's what they had before holovision."
"Huh?"
Portia looked up, and sure enough, there was a television plugged into a single outlet in a plastic box, mounted high up on the wall. The television was big, bulky and had a bulging glass screen that showed two-dimensional moving pictures. It was nothing like a holovision. It didn't project a 3D scene that a person could view from any angle. It was one of those old tube televisions that you saw in really old shows and must have been a hundred years old. Sparking sounds came from inside it. It was showing a football game on its pitiful screen, and everytime a player scored a goal, a wisp of smoke shot out of the top of it.
She went back up to her room feeling very dejected indeed. She sat down on the rough bed in her room and stared down at her holophone. She flopped back on the bed, closed her eyes, and held a hand over her face. She felt numb. Her mother poked her head into the room.
"Did you find an outlet?"
"Yeah, but it's up high behind the television and I can't unplug the television," moaned Portia.
"Well why don't you take a nice relaxing bath? You'll feel better . . . with the viewing and funeral, and then the long ride here, it's been a very long day," her mother suggested. "I think I'll lie down for a bit, I'm getting a terrible headache."
"Maybe . . . I guess so . . . "
After lying morosely for about ten more minutes, Portia sat up, gathered some clothes and lit an oil lamp. I can't believe I know how to light an oil lamp, she thought numbly. She went down the hall to the bathroom, placed her clean clothes on a small wooden chair, closed the door, and locked it with a big rusty key.
"Eww. What's that foul stench?" she said in a low voice to herself. She held the lamp higher to see more of the bathroom; there was mold on some of the walls, the ceiling was peeling, and the tub was rusting in spots. Some green fungus, growing low down in one corner, seemed to be the likely source of the smell as it seemed to get stronger as she approached and peered down; she quickly stood up and backed away.
She balanced the lamp on the edge of the tub; it was only then that she realized there was only a single tap that, when turned on, ran cold water into the tub. She went to find her mother.
"Mum, there's no hot water tap for the bath!" she stated wide eyed.
"Oh yes I forgot to tell you, you're going to have to heat a pot of water on the fire and tip it in."
Portia stared for a moment, blinked a couple times in disbelief, then turned away and headed to the kitchen.
It took a long time for the water to boil. She lugged the pot upstairs and tipped it in to mix with the cold water in the bath. Slowly she lowered herself into the water. She held her breath and gritted her teeth, but neither helped much. The water was still cold and after splashing it over herself for a few minutes she could stand it no longer.
Shivering, covered in goose bumps, and not caring if she was any cleaner, she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel. She just stood there, shivering. To her great and sudden surprise, the door opened with a click. Grabbing her towel tightly with a frightened squeak, she turned around. Her eyes wide as saucers, she saw, not a person, but closer to the floor, Smokey, who was poking his head into the room.
"Smokey! Don't do that!" She stepped over and pushed the door shut; the back half of Smokey barely finished slipping into the room before it closed. She turned the key and locked it again.
"What are you doing?" Smokey asked.
"Taking a bath," Portia said. "Or kind of . . . trying . . . " she muttered, and she turned back to face the chair holding her clothes.
Smokey looked in alarm from her to the tub. "In water?" he said increduously.
"Yes. Very cold water . . . for the last time ever . . . "
She picked up a piece of clothing; she shrieked and threw it to the floor. She scrambled into the tub, splashing water everywhere while somehow managing to hold onto the towel and stood in the relative safety of the iron tub.
"What was that? Was that a rat?" she whispered.
"That's just Fred," said Smokey calmly.
"What? Fred? It was a rat under my clothes!" Her heart was pounding.
"Yeah, that's Fred. Don't worry about him."
"But you're a cat! Don't you eat rats? Catch him and get him out of here!"
Smokey looked a little amused and said, "Nah. Fred's OK. He lives here too."
"Where is he? Where did he go?"
"I think he ran out through a crack in the wall."
She remained in the tub while trying to shine the light into each corner for closer inspection. Her heart rate was lessening.
"He's definitely not here," Smokey reassured her.
It took Portia all of about three seconds to step out of the tub, dress, unlock the door, and skip back to her room where she sat on her bed with her feet off the floor and her arms holding her legs close to her chest. She was damp and shivering.
She huddled under a blanket and slowly warmed up. She closed her eyes for a moment and never noticed as she passed into sleep.
Outside, across the street and under the awning, four pairs of lamplike eyes stared unblinkingly up at the little oil flame in the window. Tux, Sunshine, Maddy and Sir Boofhead sat there with their tails curled around themselves, talking quietly amongst themselves.
"The poor little thing," commiserated Sunshine. "So tiny and thin. She looked exhausted. And to come to such a place as this." She shook her head slowly.
"Poor both of them if they're the new owners," chimed in Sir Boofhead.
. . .
Portia woke up. She didn't remember falling asleep, and now she stared around the dark room wondering where she was. "Oh. The Hog's Head," she sighed. She shivered a little under the thin blanket. The room really was dark, as the clouds were blocking what little moonlight there was, but the window was the brightest thing in the room. Holding the blanket tightly around herself, she shuffled over to the window and took another look outside. No stars were visible.
As she stood there half-asleep, someone screamed. It made her break out in goose bumps all over. She was fully awake now. The scream came again although only half as loud this time; it was followed by some grumbly moaning sounds and what sounded like footsteps on the ceiling above her.
What was that all about? Maybe it had been more of a screech than a scream? The footsteps continued; Portia stood stock-still, staring up and imagining that she was following the footsteps with her eyes. No more screams occured for some minutes.
Portia padded back to the dark shadow that was her bed and sat down. And then stood right back up. She had sat on something! It was a pair of fluffy ear muffs that had appeared! She put them on. Not only did they block out noises like footsteps but they were cozy warm too. She yawned. She lay back down, curled up on her side, and was asleep in moments.
Without any curtains on her window, Portia woke to a bright morning sun. Downstairs, she found her mother in the kitchen, with dark sleep circles under her eyes, looking over an old ledger book. Duncan was also up early, and he was just removing a kettle of steaming hot water from the fire.
"Is that a book made with paper?" Portia asked her mother with a look of astonishment.
"Yes."
"What's it about? It looks like it's hand written."
"It's the accounts book."
"Huh?"
"It shows if the inn is making any money." She let out a big sigh.
"Oh. Is it making a lot of money?"
"No. In fact it owes a lot of money. Even though your father owned half, he let his sister -- your aunt -- manage it, and I'm afraid she let it go into a lot of debt."
Duncan poured some coffee into a stained mug for himself and a colourful teacup on a saucer. Duncan shot Portia a nasty look and picked up the teacup and saucer as if daring her to take it from him. He disappeared out the back door, and when he returned moments later, he was no longer carrying the teacup or the saucer. With a grumpy look at her, he picked up his mug and slouched out into the bar.
"Coffee. Coffee. Coffee."
No one else heard this, but Portia thought, That's a weird voice. It's coming from outside.
The kitchen had a back door to an alley, and stifling another yawn, she went outside. There, a grey striped tabby cat was lapping at the teacup sitting on the saucer on the ground.
It stopped lapping, stuck its tongue out a little and inhaled cool air. "Ow. Hot. Hot. Hot! Wow. I think I've burnt my tongue." It whined and ran around.
"Wait for it to cool silly," Portia said.
"That's the second time this month," the cat said as it approached the teacup and started to blow on it. After a few blows, he took another couple laps. "Yeow!" it lisped, jumping back and shaking his head.
Just then Smokey appeared rolling his eyes in symbolic resignation. "Boofy does this ALL the time. Just can't wait."
Near the back door were a couple of rubbish bins and one of them was making a noise. She startled as she took off the lid and it fell over on its side. "There's something in there!" she squeaked.
Smokey peeked in. "Looks like a baby raccoon."
"What? It can't be! Raccoons live in America."
Smokey shrugged. "Probably just a very large rat," he said with an unconcerned air. Sir Boofhead, the tabby cat, was blowing on the coffee and taking a tentative sip.
"What's it doing here?" Portia said as she eyed the rubbish bin. Smokey shrugged again.
"I'm going back inside. This place just keeps getting weirder." She went back inside the kitchen. As the back door was closing she heard Smokey calling out cheekily, "See you tomorrow when you burn your tongue again."
In the kitchen her mother was cradling a warm mug of tea and staring at the book.
"Why do they put teacups of coffee outside?" she asked her mother.
"I think it's just what your Great Auntie Flo did for years. When she got too old, Duncan started doing it for her."
"Well it's weird. There's a cat trying to drink from it."
"Yes dear." But her mother didn't seem to be paying much attention.
"Mum?"
"Yes dear?"
"I really miss Dad."
"I do too. Very much." Her mother looked up at Portia with a great sadness in her eyes.
Her sad eyes dipped back down to the accounts book, and with a deep sigh, she continued, "I'm going to have to find a job as soon as possible. If we don't pay some of this debt we may lose even this place."
"I can help. I could get a job."
"No. Portia you're much too young," her mother replied. "But maybe you could help around here. Help spruce the place up, goodness knows it needs it."
"OK Mum."
Her mother continued, "I noticed a lot of dirt out front when we arrived, why don't you sweep out there? Ask Duncan where the brooms are kept. I'm going to go to that big grocery store and apply for a job."
"Yeah right," Portia muttered under her breath, firmly thinking to herself she would not bother asking grumpy Uncle Duncan for anything.
After some breakfast, her mother left for the grocery store, and Portia began looking for a broom to sweep the front of the inn. She glanced around the kitchen, but there was no corner that held even a grungy old mop. She wandered out into the bar. Duncan was standing behind the bar just staring at nothing and doing nothing. She gave him a cautious glance and skirted around him.
She went into the hall, and under the stairs was a closet. Peeking into the cramped dimness she saw a few spiders, a feather duster, and two brooms leaning against the wall. She grabbed a broom, shook a spider from it, which scuttled further into the closet, and brought it into the light. It looked like it was made of twigs! Oh well, she thought. It'll work.
As she exited the hall, her holophone chose that moment to murmur, "Power down." She took it out of her pocket and looked at it forlornly. Then she looked up and saw the television was off. With a furtive glance at the lethargic Duncan she dashed upstairs and grabbed her charger. She stood on a bar stool and unplugged the television. Happy to see the holophone charging, she got down and picked up the broom.
Out on the street front, she swished it around. The dirt rose up into clouds of dust, but she couldn't seem to get the dirt and debris to actually sweep in any direction. This was made more difficult because the twigs on the head of the broom were bent from a long time of the broom leaning against a wall. She tried holding the broom at an angle, but it made no difference. Finally, tired of coughing and rubbing dust from her eyes, she gave up.
Duncan was sitting on the customer side of the bar drinking now from a different mug. The tingling sound of a bell rang out in the silence. What was that?
"That'll be Mum," griped Duncan. Portia continued to the hall. "Go see what she wants."
Portia paused. "What?"
"Go see what Mum wants."
"Who? Me?" asked Portia.
"Yeah." He took a drink.
"You mean Great Auntie Flo?"
"Yeah."
"But . . . umm . . . I doubt she even knows who I am."
"Doesn't matter."
She stared at him. The bell tinkled again.
He looked up and glared at her. "Go on."
"I don't even know where she is . . . " Portia stammered.
"Fourth floor," he grunted. And that was all she got from him as he went back to his drink.
She shoved the broom into the closet and headed up the stairs.
It was a good thing no one was staying at the inn because Portia had no idea what room her great aunt might be in. She walked up to the top of the stairs and knocked on each door until she found a non-empty room. It didn't take long. A door very nearly directly above her own room was closed, and a dim light peeked underneath into the dark corridor.
She knocked timidly. No answer. Letting out a tense breath and telling herself to relax, she knocked again, louder this time.
"What?" called an elderly woman's voice.
"Auntie Flo?"
"What?"
"Can I come in?"
"Come in. Don't just stand outside. I can't hear."
Portia turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a little. She tried to peer in without entering.
"Umm, Auntie Flo?"
"What? I can't see you!"
Portia opened the door fully and stepped into the room. It was a large room. The curtains were closed but two fiery torches hung brazenly on a wall, and a bright fire was roaring and warming the room nicely. The room was really hot, and the room smelled of body odor and sweat. Great Aunt Flo turned out to be a thin but tall woman with florid skin, sitting in an armchair near the fireplace. She had teeth like a horse, (and breath to match if Portia had to guess), and greasy unwashed hair, but surprisingly didn't look much like Duncan who was fat with beady little eyes. Her eyes rolled around, and her adam's apple bounced up and down her skinny neck as she spoke.
"Who are you?" she squawked at Portia.
"I'm Portia, Your . . . well you're my great aunt."
Great Aunt Flo stared at her. "What do you want?" As Portia stumbled to say anything quickly, she added, "Come on. Hurry up. I haven't got all day."
"Umm, well you rang the bell and I was sent up to see what you needed."
Great Aunt Flo squinted her eyes. "Who sent you?"
"Uncle Duncan."
Great Aunt Flo snorted. "That lazy lump," she muttered to herself.
But then she looked back at Portia, "So he's got you doing his dirty work has he?" She gave Portia an appraising look and took in the dust in her hair and grimey marks on her face where she had rubbed it with her sleeves. "Though it looks like you're not afraid of getting dirty. I like that. You're no namby pamby."
"So . . . " Portia began.
"What 'cha say your name was?"
"Portia."
"And you're my niece you say?"
"Yes . . . well great niece I guess."
"Darren's daughter?" Flo enquired.
"Yes but he died in a car accident," Portia mumbled.
There followed a long awkward silence; Flo seemed to be staring out the window or at least at the window since the curtains were closed.
"I used to read the news every day," Flo reminisced. "They'd fly right through the window into my lap." Flo looked at Portia. "They haven't done that for years now. I wonder why?"
Portia was feeling distinctly uncomfortable just standing here and listening to the insane ramblings of an old woman. No wonder Duncan didn't want to come up here.
"Do you read?" she barked at Portia.
"Erm, not much I guess," answered Portia.
"Like books?"
"Not really."
Great Aunt Flo leaned back in her armchair. Head lolling slightly to one side. "I used to love to read. In the sitting room . . . that was my favourite," she reminisced to the ceiling. "Sometimes he'd pop up in the fire and tell me things."
As her aunt's mind waffled along random tangents, Portia looked around the room. There was a large dresser with a layer of dust on top, a large mahogany wardrobe in the corner with gold handles, a stack of old hardcover books on a bedside table, and a marble mantel holding numerous photos in silver frames. On a small table next to the chair was a tiny silver bell. She was brought out of her reverie by her great aunt addressing her loudly.
"My cardigan! Little girl! Do you hear me? I said my cardigan!"
"Huh?"
"My cardigan!" Great Aunt Flo was pointing a long bony finger in the rough vicinity of the corner wardrobe. "My red cardigan. Before I freeze to death!"
How anyone could freeze to death in this room Portia surely couldn't imagine, as it felt quite hot and stuffy. She opened the wardrobe and saw long dresses in floral patterns, long dark hooded cloaks, various multi-coloured blouses, and a few pairs of slacks or trousers all hanging neatly from hangers. There was even a bright green, tartan patterned vest that had to be the ugliest piece of clothing she'd ever seen. And right in the middle of the wardrobe was a scarlet red cardigan. She took it off the hanger and rounded to face Great Aunt Flo who waved her closer with both hands.
When Portia gave it to her, she didn't put it on, she just draped it across her chest and slouched down a little further in the big armchair. Up close, her great aunt smelled worse and Portia stepped away to the window. She moved a curtain to peek outside but closed it rapidly as Great Aunt Flo let out a wild shriek. Once closed, her great aunt made no more noise.
Portia had had quite enough. She dashed out and closed the door quietly. "If we do get any customers, I sure hope they don't meet her or they certainly won't ever come back," she whispered to herself. "Oh yeah, and she can get her own cardigans from now on instead of getting me to climb all those floors . . . "