Date: Fri, 24 Oct 1997 11:01:06 MDT From: Robyn Meta Herrington Subject: SUB: CONTEST: Correction: Terrible Twins The author emailed me late yesterday afternoon, asking that I put this corrected version out. Which I have done. Robyn =================================================================== The Terrible Twins (c) People usually avoided Cynthia Barry but she didn't mind. She led a very private life, content behind dusty grey net curtains in her cottage on the edge of the village. She pursued her hobby alone these days. Taxidermy was Cynthia's passion. Before his death some years ago, her twin brother Jimmy taught her all the tricks of the trade. The twins' predilection for stuffing things was well known, and generally regarded as somewhat macabre. Cynthia was often seen carrying home carcasses of birds that she had picked up in hedgerows, or foxes found lifeless by the road in the rural areas outside the small town. Now an elderly woman, she spent her time working on her allotment, growing her own vegetables and fruit, or going for solitary walks through quiet wooded areas and parks, looking for specimens. Her reclusive lifestyle often aroused suspicion and her jumping gait and furtive manner would make people nervous if they ever passed her in a lonely place. On October 31, Halloween, Mrs Tweed, chairwoman of the parish council, met Cynthia in the lane as she was coming back from her allotment a little before dusk. "Hello Cynthia", she said cheerfully, "How's your allotment going?" "Not so bad, my vegetables are particularly good this year." Cynthia replied hoarsely. "I'm on way to supervise refreshments at the village junior school. It's the village Halloween fireworks and bonfire celebrations", she told Cynthia. Mrs Tweed made light of the villagers speculations, that the twins had something to hide, that Cynthia Barry looked after what ever it was in memory of her beloved brother. "Got some old stuff to burn." Mrs Tweed shuddered slightly as she realised what Cynthia meant. The parish council had tried to stop the twins from having their bonfires on the allotment - not because they objected to bonfires, but because of what they burnt. The sickly, sweetish smell of flesh burning could travel for miles on a cold Halloween night. The committee agreed, although the twins hobby caused personal objections, they were not causing anybody harm, the carcasses once skinned had to be disposed of somehow. "Oh! I must dash. If you change your mind, the fun starts at eight o'clock." At the rear of her cottage, Cynthia dragged a large sack towards the wheelbarrow where she already had deposited her dead carcasses and a huge sprawling old sack hung heavily over the side. As she lifted the sack and dumped her load, someone emerged from her kitchen door. "Hi. The front door was open so I just walked in," said the intruder. Cynthia eyed the new comer nervously. She had seen her before, several days ago a jogger, who had taken up residence in a tent in the woods. "You're one of the terrible twins," the skinny girl said. "You stuff dead animals they say." Cynthia didn't answer, but observed her with suspicion. She went back into the kitchen. Cynthia followed, locking the door carefully behind her. The uninvited visitor sauntered casually into the small study next the kitchen. The room was not a study but a forest floor of sawdust, huge dried branches, a smell of pinewoods transformed the room into a forest clearing. Flocked together were birds carefully placed on branches. A number of posed figures of stuffed animals surrounded by imitation grass, which Cynthia and her brother Jimmy had spent years putting together. "These are good," the skinny girl remarked. "Fond of animals, are you? Funny way of showing it." She inspected them touching the exhibits, to Cynthia's obvious distress. "A lot of these exhibits are protected species. Heron Badgers. And hawks," she said. "Such good look finding these kinds of bodies just lying around the woods?" Cynthia remained quiet. "Or maybe you didn't just find them? You've got a huge collection of rare species here. Must have been tempting to go out and set a few traps? I'd have been tempted myself, rather than wait around forever to find a badger's body. Only trouble is trapping protected species is illegal in England, isn't it? What's the fine for killing a hawk, these days? Could be upward of two thousand quid, or so I've heard. Suppose I reported my little suspicions to the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, say..." "Oh, please don't!" cried Cynthia involuntarily, and then realised that her outburst was a clear admission of her guilt. The young girl smiled at her. "So what's it worth for me not to squeal, then, grandma?" "I don't have any money. I'm a pensioner." "Oh. Come on now. You must have a little tucked away." It was cold in the unheated room and the jogger pushed past her unhappy host back into the kitchen. Unless you've been spending your money on drink?" she remarked, reprovingly. There was a vodka bottle standing on the working surface near the sink. She picked it up haughtily and unscrewed the cap, grinning unpleasantly at Cynthia. "Come on, how much is it worth for me to keep my mouth shut? Or I will report you, old girl. I'm cheaper than the fines." She prepared to take a swig. "All right," Cynthia said, her eyes on the bottle the girl held. "You win." Several hours later, as Cynthia struggled along the path toward the allotments with her heavy wheelbarrow Mrs Tweed came hurrying along the road again clutching a pile of biscuit tins to her bosom. Forgot the sausage rolls," she panted as she drew up beside her. She glanced curiously down at what lay in the wheelbarrow. "Oh, you've got the carcasses." She peered a little closer at the bundled figures in the wheelbarrow, obscured by the smaller plastic sack and its contents." Why not bring them along to our bonfire?" "No, I'll have my own bonfire, thank you, said Cynthia. "Yes. Well. Have an enjoyable evening." Mrs Tweed raced off, relieved that the wind had changed direction, now her house would be upwind from the smell of the fire. Cynthia fire crackled loudly as dried dead branches from the nearby woods built into a huge blaze. The allotment deserted, she slowly heaved the heavy bundles on to the roaring fire. The plastic burned away first, the contents more slowly. Finally, she hoisted up the wheelbarrow, the contents rolled out onto the fire. She stood back and watched. A splendid bonfire, more than fitting for a Halloween night. Occasionally feeding the flames with petrol. All the time dragging more branches onto the fire, feeding the flames. It took a long time for carcasses to burn. But, she had plenty of time. She waited, collecting all the bones. She dumped them into a cistern of acid she and Jimmy always kept in their allotment-shed to dissolve left over bones. She must go home and tidy up the mess in her kitchen. She really must remember to transfer the bleach into a marked container. It wasn't safe to leave it in a Vodka bottle anymore. But, it did have its uses on this occasion. With a large stick she pushed a charring human hand back into the middle of the fire. Robyn Herrington,Editor rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca InfoServe www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin New Currents in Teaching and Technology Communications Media MacKimmie Library University of Calgary Ph: 220-3716 (temporary) == Inter tormentia latitia == ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*--------------------------------