The Glas s Town Game

“Fine. All of us. And we’ve made a fine job of it now!”

“What? Who?” Branwell looked about for the voice, but it had come from nowhere.

“We’re not alone!” snapped Emily guiltily. She cursed herself. She should have spoken up sooner.

“Brunty,” cried Anne, and pointed toward the heavy book with its long, mysterious title lying propped up on the couch and tied down with hair ribbons and wool yarn. “It says ‘scurrilous’ right on the cover! That means he’s a sneak. He’s in there . . . waiting. I don’t want a sneak to know our business, do you?”

“But I do know it,” the book said smugly. “I know it all, now. Whisper, whisper, who likes the whispering game? Why, I do! I do so awfully.”

The book of Brunty began to unfold. But it could not quite manage it. Charlotte and Emily had tied it too tight for that. He settled for getting his wide face and his ribbon nose out of the top of the great tome and stared them all down as though they were in his house, and not the other way round.

“Perhaps I might even be of some help, if you mean to start your careers as thieves. I have rather an interest in grog myself. And I do love a good heist.”

“But you’re wicked!” sneered Anne. “Everyone says so—even you say so, on your own cover! You’re going to prison, and only the very worst go to prison.”

“You mustn’t believe everything you read, my dear. And anyway, it’s terrifically freeing to be wicked. There’s only one way to be good—the straight and the narrow! But there’s a thousand and four ways to be wicked, each longer and wider than the last. And if you want to do something wicked to Glass Town, why then, I am your servant!”

Branwell’s eyes sparkled. “What did you do, then? It must have been something top drawer.”

Brunty shrugged silkily. “Stole. Spied. Lied. Brawled. The usual bits of fun. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard something you oughtn’t, or said something you shouldn’t, or pinched someone you needn’t, or taken something you wanted while no one was looking.” The children blushed like four guilty roses. “Well, little ones, when you do these things at home and get yourself caught, you get sent to bed without supper. But when you get nabbed doing them for your country, they serve you up for supper and go to their beds with full consciences. It’s no different to swipe a bit of cheese from your father’s table than to swipe a bit of cheese from the enemy’s table. Better, actually, since your father never did a thing to harm you, and you took his cheese anyhow. I’m just the same as you. I was you before you were you.”

“But you’re very sorry? And you won’t do it again?” asked Anne hopefully.

“Not particularly. And I shall certainly do it again, and worse, and better, and more, and oftener. My story is written—why apologize for the plot? Now, let us return to our plot.”

“We haven’t got any plot with you, sir,” sniffed Charlotte.

“Oh, yes you have, young lady. I know your secret, after all. Never whisper in the presence of a master spy, you giggling dolls.”

Branwell squared his shoulders. Finally, the truth was loose. The Magazine Man had heard them say they invented the world. That’s why he was being so nice all of a sudden. The only people who invent worlds are gods, and you had to be nice to gods. He prepared himself for worship. “And what’s our secret, then?”

Brunty unfolded one newspaper-leg out from the bottom of his book body and stretched it luxuriously. They heard a knee pop. “You’re mad. Every one of you. Mad as mutton. Mad as mittens. Mad as a mink in a straightjacket.”

“We are NOT,” hissed Emily. She could feel the blood beating in her fists.

“I don’t mind mad! Not in the least! What would the world be without the mad? Tedious and tawdry and plodding without a cliffhanger or a twist to its name. Oh, Glass Town is full of prejudice and snobbery, but in Gondal, we do not make a fuss about whether one’s head is on straight, or whether one has a head at all. But even we would call children who think the whole universe is made up of their toys and dreams and games quite barmy. Let me go and I will be your dog, your sweet little Gondalier hound, bringing you grog in a barrel round his neck for the price of a pat and a treat.”

“W . . . what treat?” Anne said softly.

“Anne!” cried a shocked Charlotte. “We do not make bargains with villains!”

“But he’s our villain! He can’t be all bad if we made him! We made wonderful creatures.”

“I don’t remember making a Brunty at all! Unless he’s one of Bran’s,” mused Emily.

Charlotte kept mum. She had dreamed once of a man made of books. She had thought then how lovely it would be to know a person who could be read like a story, known and loved like a perfect ending. She had not thought how books can hide their meaning, withhold their secrets, lie better and longer than any human person. Brunty was not Bran’s. He was hers. And he was a beast.

Branwell smiled tightly. He made a smart little bow. “We shall never do anything that makes Napoleon’s man happy,” he announced loyally.

“Oh, Bran!” exclaimed Emily. And she looked at him with such admiration and surprise that Branwell felt quite out of breath with it. Yes, that, that! His heart crowed. That’s respect, that is. He wanted to gobble it up like hot cake. He cleared his throat and deepened his voice a bit. “It’s all well and good to play Welly and Boney, Em, but we are still Englishmen, in the end.”

“Are you now?” crooned Brunty. “Pray tell, what matters that in Glass Town? Come on, boy, we’ll make you a Prince in Gondal. You and I want the same thing, after all. Just a bit of grog to keep our bellies warm.”

Bran and his sisters shook their heads.

“It’s . . . it’s no good if we have to be villains to get it. We’d never be able to look our mother in the eye,” whispered Anne.

“Fine,” sneered Brunty. His face changed in an instant, from friendly and coaxing and open to furious and cruel and hard. “Then I needn’t bother keeping up the niceties. I’ve had to listen to you swooning and sighing for hours! I thought it would be the death of me. Oh, isn’t Glass Town grand! Oh, isn’t the Duke handsome! Look at all the pretty red houses! Aren’t they precious? NO! Glass Town is hell, those pretty houses shelter demons, the Duke is the devil himself, and if, somehow, beyond all reason, you really brought all them to life, then you are the cause of all my misfortunes and I hate you like brimstone. Once I am free, I shall have you all chucked, pulped, and remaindered for the glory of Gondal and Bonaparte. Or perhaps I’ll just feed you to Marengo. I do so hate loose plotlines. And a gaggle of violent little madmen in shabby clothes and shabbier accents has no place in any respectable tale. I shall enjoy seeing you—”