Many said the nursery of Wool's Orphanage its worst room. Sixteen wooden cots, all of the same cheap make, were tightly regimented in four even rows. Though outnumbered by their charges, the nurses of Wool's were all poor London girls who grew up during the Great Slump, and held stubbornly to the principle that no infant should be prioritised over another. Consequently the infants knew that screeching was an effective means of gaining the attention of their custodians, even if they had to persist in it for hours; their screams resonated through Wool's Orphanage every hour of every day.
At night, when the lights were off and the curtains were drawn, the only source of light for the wrathful infants was the dim handheld lamp of whichever nurse was to guide them through to the morning. One night, a new nurse, an energetic, pink-cheeked young country girl who fervently wished to 'do some good' for the nation's most deprived, was given this responsibility. Most nurses made the rounds with their lamp once every hour; this lively new stewardess went every fifteen minutes.
Whenever she made the rounds, the young nurse would pause before one particular cot—that of the gypsy twins. Tom Marvolo Riddle and Mary Metis Riddle were their names, and they were as strange as they were called; for they were the only infants who shared a cot, and the only who cried less than toddlers. These facts were regarded as ill omens by many of the orphanage's wardens, and the young nurse was among their number; and upon seeing the ominous infants, an idea struck her. She disentangled little Tom from the covetous grasp of little Mary, to remove him from her cot. Mary started a terrible cry. Tom, who had also broken into wailing, was then placed in a vacant cot in a corner of the room. Telling herself that she had done him and his sister some good, the young nurse left the room.
Not long after she left, the nurse's stomach began to turn. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The orphanage had become quiet. It was never this quiet—in fact, it was never quiet at all. Slowly, as though she was being stalked by a predator sensitive to the finest motions, the nurse put down her canteen of hot water and quietly rose to return to the nursery. As she tiptoed she heard nothing but the increasingly loud throbbing of her heart.
With a quivering hand she opened the door. The hinges groaned with an accusing creakiness. Armed with nothing but her lamp, the young nurse went in.
In his new cot, little Tom stood upright, still, and silent, holding the rails with an eerie firmness, staring directly at the threshold of the door. Staring back, the nurse gasped, but no noise came from her mouth. Her head began to ache. Her vision went blurry. She stumbled and quickly grabbed the railing of a nearby cot, waking a baby to cry. Then, she clutched her head, for the ache therein had intensified terribly, as though a hot needle was burrowing through her skull like a flesh-worm. She screamed but—again—no noise came from her mouth. She started panting—it was becoming hard to breathe—she had never had a headache so awful—so hot and heavy as though someone was pressing her forehead against a kettle—against a furnace—against the centre of Earth—
Madly pounding her temples in a futile effort to dispel her headache, the nurse sprinted to little Tom's cot. Panting like a suffocating dog, she picked him up and made haste to return him to his sister, who upon being reunited with her infernal consort, jerked her jittery infant arms to hug him with possessiveness. Were it not for the time and place and the souls involved, this gesture would have perhaps been endearing. But the nurse did not see it; her headache had suddenly cleared, and she took advantage of this little mercy to flee the orphanage in the dead of the night.
The little orphans ventured to a calm seaside in the countryside, their merry giggles echoing as they caught a glimpse of the ocean for the very first time. The day was cloudy, yet the rain stayed away, and they had the whole beach to explore. There were hardly any city visitors around, and the local folks were timid.
Mary and Tom were just seven years old, with wild, black hair crowning their pale, lovely faces adorned with mischievous grins. The other orphans knew to give them space, like songbirds knew to yield to crows. They did as they pleased without any obstacles.
Tom had brought along a woven straw basket, not filled with food or drink, but with a mess of bits and bobs. There were smooth stones shaped by the relentless touch of water, leaves from countless trees, flowers displaying every hue and various stages of decay, and fragments from a broken beer bottle. To those unaware, these objects might have seemed like a pile of kerbside waste, but to the twins, they represented a grand notion: what belonged to one, belonged to both. They gazed at the vast and mysterious sea.
"It goes on and on and on," said Mary, stretching her arms out like she could touch the faraway line. "It goes on forever! D'you reckon there are monsters in it?"
"Aye," replied Tom, with a nod. "But monsters ain't only in water, they're on land, in the clouds, and everywhere besides. They just hide from us."
"Why are they hiding?" asked Mary, looking confused. "They shouldn't be so scared."
"'Cause to them, we're the monsters. They're proper scared of us," Tom said with a wise smile.
"I still wanna see one," said Mary.
"Nah, they're not worth seeing, Mary. The North Sea ain't as big as the Blue Sea, where the monsters are proper huge and terrorous."
"The Blue Sea? You're making up tales, Tom!"
"I ain't! I saw it in a piccie book."
"Piccie books are for silly babies!"
"They ain't!"
"Are!"
"Ain't!"
"Alright, suppose they ain't," said Mary with a sigh.
"They ain't," Tom agreed. "The Blue Sea is way over on the other side of England, and one day, daddy's gonna come pick us up and take us there. He'll show us everything and take us everywhere."
"What if the Blue Sea monsters gobble daddy up?" asked Mary, suddenly serious.
Tom put his arm around his sister's shoulder and pulled her close. "They won't, Mary. I'll protect him."
Hand in hand, the twins rose from the bench and descended towards the shore. Arriving at the water's edge, they held seashells to their ears, listening intently to the soft whispers of the slumbering earth. Any shells that whispered particularly true were placed delicately into their basket. On the western edge of the beach, a few rocks, covered in velvety moss, emerged from the sea, just big enough for the twins' tiny feet to hop merrily from one to another. As they reached the farthest rocks, they crouched low, peering into the gap between the outermost crag and its neighbour. They discovered delightful miniature ponds teeming with tiny white fish, darting to and fro. Unable to resist, Mary dipped her finger into the water, finding the fish as shiny as pebbles and thinking them as soft as tissue-paper. She simply had to touch them, but they quickly darted away.
"Sssumansss," hissed a voice, sibilant and unfamiliar to their ears.
Startled, Mary clutched Tom's hand in consternation and they both spun around to face the source of the sound.
"A s-s-snake!" Mary exclaimed, snatching poor little Tom's arm in fright.
Right behind them slithered a snake, indeed! It stood tall, swaying its body from side to side, just like a slender blade of grass dancing in the breeze. Not longer than a grown-up's arm and not wider than little Tom's thumb, its skin had a gentle brown colour, like weathered copper. Irregular black stripes adorned its body, giving it a rather harmless appearance.
"Humansss," it hissed again, lifting its body high.
"Humans?" Mary asked. "Yeah, that's us."
"Sssmall humansss," the snake hissed. "By the rocksss."
"It knows we're small," Mary cautiously whispered to Tom. "Can you understand us, snake?"
"Yesss, human. You ssspeak well."
"Are you The Devil?" Mary asked, her countenance a blend of impish cheekiness and earnest curiosity.
"Devil?" The snake hissed with sibilant confusion. "I am a sssmall snake. You are sssmall humanss. The big oness are gone."
"A snake told Eve to eat the bad apple," Mary explained instructively. "But you ain't that snake. You're just a little kid snake."
"Sssmall, yess," the snake said.
"Where are your parents?" Tom asked.
"The wingsss took them," the snake replied.
"Wings?" Mary wondered, scrunching up her face. "You mean eagles? They said there might be some here, but we ain't saw none."
"Your parents got eaten by them," Tom said solemnly. "You're like us, no parents."
Mary looked from the snake to Tom, as if to compare the two. Then, she reached a decision.
"Don't worry, snake," she said with a cheeky smile. "We'll take care of you."
Tom wasn't particularly keen on having a pet, whether it be a snake or any other creature. But being the good brother he was, he went along with his sister's wish. He carefully nestled the snake in his basket, making sure it had a cozy spot among the rounded stones and dried flowers.
The snake went with the twins back to London, and they were unashamed before the other orphans with it. Mary named her (for she was a girl-snake) Metis, after her own enigmatic middle name. And so, the serpent Metis found a new home in the bustling hive of London. Gone were the days of dodging the sharp talons of eagles and fighting for scraps of food with other reptiles. In the East End of that great capital, she found peace and plenty, for the only birds to be seen were plump pigeons, who were not exactly threatening.
As autumn descended upon the orphanage, so too did the rain, drenching the grounds and bringing with it a plethora of slugs that slithered across the pathways. These slimy creatures became a delight to Metis, much like smoked sausages were to the orphans. The twins spent hours capturing as many slugs as they could, placing them in a jar, and then releasing them before the snake, who struck fear into the little molluscan souls before devouring them whole.
Before the New Year, Metis had doubled in size and weight, and Tom was convinced she would soon be able to hunt rats. But her time with the twins was not to last.
It all came crashing down three weeks before their birthday. As they approached the lunch table, Metis draped across Tom's shoulders, they discovered their usual seats at the far end, from where the other children normally keep their distance, occupied by a new orphan. Isaac Booth, a sturdy teenager with a lopsided smile and a bulky build, had dared to claim their throne. He was surrounded by a group of smaller boys, whose expressions revealed a mixture of fear and excitement. It was a mutiny.
Booth, the usurper, greeted them with an affected tone, "Why, bless my soul! The Riddles have arrived!" Tom could feel the condescension dripping from his words. "I've heard tales of you, but I must confess, I'm skeptical. Go on then, do sit with us. Make yourselves at ease!
Tom, however, was not one to be trifled with. He stood his ground and looked Booth straight in the eye. "Clear off from our seats," he hissed.
Booth smirked. "Your seats? Your seats, who says? Mrs. Cole? King George 'imself? Or is it Ramsay MacDonald who's given you such a prerogative?"
"What a nuisance," Tom hissed at Metis. "I will have to hurt him."
"Let him be. Sssit elssewhere," warned Metis.
Not understanding snake-speech, the boys surrounding Booth gasped and murmured and pointed at Metis, clearly interpreting her counsel to Tom as a threat to them. Booth, however, sat unfazed.
"So it's true," he marvelled. "You really can chat with snakes. S'pose they were right in saying you're right diabolical."
"That I am," proclaimed Tom, "so clear off our seats!"
A tense silence hung in the air as Tom and Booth stared each other down, both daring the other to make a move. Then, to everyone's surprise, Booth cracked a smile and said, "Alright then, Riddle. The seats are yours."
Booth turned and made his way towards the exit, seemingly to retreat from the dining hall. But just as he was about to step out, he spun around and punched Tom square in the face. Chaos erupted as Metis, like a coiled spring, leapt from Mary's arms and struck Booth in the face. The older boy retaliated by throwing Metis to the ground and stomping on her, leaving her motionless on the floor. Mary, thinking her beloved snake was dead, let out a piercing scream. But just as suddenly, Metis sprang back to life and slithered out of the room.
"Metis!" cried Mary as she raced after her snake.
Tom tried to follow, but Booth pushed him back to the ground, knocking his head and filling his mouth with the taste of blood. Furious, Tom leapt up, and, with all his might, bit Booth's arm. The older boy screamed in pain but quickly retaliated with a punch that sent Tom to the ground unconscious.
The next few days passed in a blur for Tom, as the events of that fateful day replayed over and over in his mind.
As winter's chill swept through London, Tom was grateful for the abundance of ice that could be gathered with ease. For he had need of it to soothe the bruises that adorned his flesh, bruises inflicted in a battle that had elevated his already-fearsome reputation among the other orphans. They whispered of the bite mark he had left upon Booth's arm; they said it was cursed, that it hardly faded as it should have.
Tom could not revel in his triumph, for Booth had concealed the evidence of their altercation beneath a veil of somber fabric. While his own body bore bruises, the physical pain paled in comparison to the ache within his heart, a result of Metis's absence, which paled in comparison to the anguish of his sister. Mary wept uncontrollably—and Tom, a clever child though he may be, could find no words to soothe her. He nonetheless tried.
With his little arms, he cradled Mary's soft body as she cried, her sorrow reverberating through him. "We gave her food and a proper home," he reminded her, "she ain't gonna leave us."
But Mary's sobs persisted, and she mournfully declared, "No, she's dead. Dead, in some dirty gutter or squashed by a motor on the road."
He had been scared Mary would turn her anger on him, blame him for their snake scarpering. But she wasn't angry, not one bit—and thus he felt a sudden love blossom in him for his sister. For, while at times she while at times she could be petulantly girlish, they were all each other had, and neither made it difficult for the other to maintain this bond—they were as instinctive as a pair of laces that were ultimately from the same strand. And, as much as he wished to believe otherwise, it was probable that Metis had indeed met her demise. Though the snake had fled following Booth's brutal stamping, she had not returned, and it was conceivable that the injuries she had sustained had sealed her fate.
"Metis may be gone forever," Tom admitted, "but we'll make Booth pay for what he's done."
Isaac Booth would not have suspected the twins of any designs against him, as for the following days and then weeks, they steered clear out of his way. He and his lackeys freely occupied the dining room's leftmost seats, and some of the more daring among them wanted him to provoke the Riddles even further. Although he dryly told them he had no desire to get bitten again, the truth was he had become intensely afraid of Tom Riddle. The scar on his arm, though largely faded, was to be permanent. Riddle's teeth penetrated so far into his skin that it was disfigured forever. Moreover, often he had terrible nightmares from which he awoke covered in sweat, to discover his scar in searing pain, as though it was freshly bitten.
Indeed, the activity of the Riddle twins was subtle enough that it went unnoticed not just by Booth, but all the orphans. In their room, in the lowest drawer of their cabinet, a doll was being assembled. Chicken bones, chewed to the bone, made its skeleton; Metis' skin made its skin (the snake had moulted five times since coming to London; the twins kept each of her wilted exoskeletons in a jar) and, most importantly, Isaac Booth's hair decorated its head. This they were able to retrieve after the older boy took his weekly shower on Wednesdays.
The Lamb, as the twins had taken to calling the doll, was completed in a little over a month. Glue, rubber bands, and wet newspaper enfleshed it to the full. Arranged on the floor before the twins' little shared bed, it was the size of a large baby with an exceptionally small head, and exceptionally many hairs in many strange places.
It would be a day of ceremony. On the windowsill, beneath the clear blue sky, was a small mound of breadcrumbs, like a tiny anthill. It was the first point in a trail of crumbs that went deep into the Riddles' bedroom. The same unassuming pigeon that dined there every morning had no cause to suspect that its hosts would show anything less to it than their usual hospitality, and indeed for the past two weeks, it had come to familiarise itself with the touch of their human hands—they had stroked and even held it.
Like two sides of a broken ancient marble archway, the twins towered over the pigeon from either side and watched it approach The Lamb.
Tom's wide eyes followed the form of his sister, who stalked her prey slowly, moving with such quietness that it seemed time itself had slowed down. In her hand was a screwdriver that had been sharpened against the whetstone in the kitchen.
Then, she struck. Mary impaled the pigeon's neck from nape through throat. She carved a great bloody aperture through its back in one motion for good measure. Then, she dipped her fingers into its mangled carcass to engulf them with blood, and painted a red circle around The Lamb. It was through pure intuition that they chose the circle; the orphanage had once made an excursion to St. Paul's, and the twins were struck by the geometrical perfection of the underside of the apse—they agreed that the circle had a power the cross did not. Circles occurred in nature; crosses did not.
The twins stood up in synchrony to behold their work. Mary gestured her bloody hand at Tom to complete the last step of their ceremony.
"You do it," Tom told his sister. "Metis was closer to you."
Mary inclined her head, then took a step forward and, with great vehemence, lifted her right foot high into the air, just to bring it down upon The Lamb with a stomp that reduced it to a flattened mess upon the ground. A shrill scream echoed through the halls of the orphanage, ringing out into the streets and into the ears of every Londoner who happened to be nearby. Yet, as suddenly as the cry began, it was silenced, replaced by the sounds of rushing footsteps and hushed whispers, as the orphans within and without the building hastened to the source of the disturbance. Tom and Mary followed the throng. Upon their arrival, they were met with a ghastly sight, one that would forever haunt the memories of most of those who beheld it.
Like a marionette cast aside, Isaac Booth lay crumpled upon the floor, his body disfigured and covered in blood and splinters from the shattered remains of the chair he had been sitting in moments prior. Blood oozed from wounds that had no explanation, soaking the fabric of his clothes, and his legs, from the thighs down, were crushed such that they almost resembled a mass of poorly mashed pumpkins. Even the senior nurses, who had witnessed such horrors in the past that they might have given veterans of war pause, could not help but be horrified at the gruesome scene before them. Behind the faces of the dozen terrified orphans, a small smile played at the corners of Mary's lips, her dark and delicate eyes sparkling with a joy that would have appeared innocent and charming, were the circumstances different. Tom gazed at her with adoration.