By Jaclyn Hark
Jojo the long-eared jerboa was terrible at serving tea. No matter how carefully he carried the porcelain pot across the floor, his uneven gate always caused sloshing onto the fine oriental rug. The slow, wobbly progress was painful to watch, yet impossible to look away from. So, Victor Black—owner and sole curse-breaker of Rookerton Abbey, sanctuary for the cursed and downtrodden—placed his quill into its inkstand and resigned himself to patient observation.
The unusual creature resembled a blend of several more reasonable animals. He had the face of a mouse, legs of a kangaroo, and ears of a rabbit. Built slightly larger than the typical jerboa, he propped his particularly long ears on either side of the crockery to keep it from sliding off his back.
An ornate clock ticked away the minutes as the burdened rodent made its way towards the thick, clubbed foot of Victor’s mahogany desk.
“You know, I would be happy to meet you halfway,” Victor said in his most forbearing tone.
Jojo’s beady eyes narrowed. He sniffed. He continued.
When Victor finally reached down and claimed the pot, Jojo turned and bolted in massive leaps back to the door to repeat the process with the necessary cup and saucer.
Victor sighed. He had far too much to do today for such distractions. He removed his quill from its stand… and came precariously close to losing his patience when it came out dry. Filling the inkwell was another of Jojo’s duties.
No matter. He had his own methods for such occasions. There were benefits to his magic being so intertwined with the house itself. Victor stuck out his tongue, wetted the pen’s tip, and tasted the tang of ink. He dipped the stylus again, this time in his right ear, and out it came, fully saturated. Now he was ready to resume his important work.
As always, Victor had a mystery to solve and a loophole to exploit. He’d made little progress on this case, as he was missing some vital information. Specifically, the exact words used to curse his client.
Victor was eager to find the loophole to release this particular client, who had been a resident for several weeks. The other guests were growing vocal in their complaints, and he really couldn’t blame them.
Curse aside, Holt Knoop was too outspoken to be considered good company. He had a voice that carried through walls and was almost always engaged in saying something better left unsaid. He took great pleasure in pointing out the deficiencies of others while remaining stubbornly obtuse of his own.
Holt used to answer to the title “Holt the Heckler.” Until he inevitably heckled the wrong person, voicing loudly that the woman dining next to him wore more face paint than every combined portrait in the Louvre.
The next thing he knew, his nose was in his soup. Holt the Heckler became Molting Holt, cursed to suffer his body parts falling off at random intervals. They re-attached, but the effect was disconcerting at best. It was extremely difficult to hold a conversation with someone whose ear was sliding down his face.
Often, the wording of a witch’s curse was the best clue to understand how to break it. Of course, Holt had not paid much attention to the muttering woman he had offended until he was inhaling split pea broth. So, cursed and still obnoxious, Holt had traveled from town to town, staying until he was cast out for suspected leprosy. Then he found the Abbey.
On Victor’s desk was a massive pile of newspapers. He hoped that this might be a favorite curse for the witch involved. Perhaps if he found another such victim, that unfortunate wretch might have had the sense to listen to the spell.
“Alright then, what terms shall we search?” he asked himself. He often questioned himself aloud—partially because he rarely had anyone else to consult, and partially because he always agreed with his answers.
“Leprosy. Limbs. Decapitation,” he uttered as he wrote. “Dismember. Fall apart. Disarm.”
He paused at ‘disarm’ to chuckle at the literal application. Then he began to scan the papers for the listed words.
Nothing.
Next paper.
Nothing.
Next.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!
He rubbed his bleary eyes. A small squeak at his ankle called his attention. Jojo had returned, balancing a teacup between his ears. He looked up at Victor with wide, worried eyes. His hands, at the ends of his stubby arms, were clutched together as if in prayer. Victor softened and smiled.
“Very good, Jojo. You always know when I need to refuel with a spot of oolong.”
Uninvited, Jojo jumped onto Victor’s lap, then sprung from thigh to desk. He analyzed the list of words, then thoroughly sniffed the tower of newspapers.
To Victor’s knowledge, Jojo could not read. Yet the creature likely had secrets still unrevealed. There must have been a reason the witch that Victor freed Jojo from had kept him—aside from his cuteness and love of tea.
Jojo hopped to the top of the paper stack and began kicking furiously. His skinny legs rapidly beat aside page after page. Then he stopped.
He sniffed.
He squeaked.
Victor leaned forward to read what had captured Jojo’s attention. A blurb from a French paper described a small town where terrified children told tales of a man’s arm falling off. The man had chased the poor children, who only escaped because he also lost a leg in the pursuit. The villagers, most of whom thought this an elaborate prank, called him L’homme Démembré… the Dismembered Man.
Now that was a lead. Victor looked at Jojo with new respect. Perhaps the problem wasn’t Jojo’s inability to serve tea with reasonable efficiency, or the reliability of his memory to fill inkwells. Perhaps the problem was Victor’s assumption that a small creature would do best with small work.
“Jojo,” Victor said, petting him with his forefinger. “I think you just earned a promotion.”
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What a fun title, mystery, and protagonist!
Super cute and entertaining story. Can’t wait to hear more!