The Bone Magician

by F. E. Higgins

  Mr Belding attempted to regain his composure. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and smoothed his hair down on his head. He spoke haltingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sybil, for saying those things I did. Please do not leave me to regret my harsh words for the rest of my life. I beg of you, tell me that you forgive me.’

  I had not thought it possible for a three-day-old corpse to smile warmly, but Sybil, as deeply moved by this entreaty as I was, did just that. She reached up to touch her poor Henry on the cheek.

  ‘I forgive you,’ she said and then lay back on the cushion. The young man was once again in the throes of uncontrollable weeping and Mr Pantagus threw a rather concerned look at Juno. She pulled gently at Mr Belding’s sle eve.

  ‘It is over, we must go,’ she said quietly yet firmly. ‘It is foolhardy to stay any longer. If we are found—’

  ‘Of course,’ he said and hiccuped.

  Mr Pantagus opened the door and fresh cold air rushed in. Juno pushed Mr Belding towards Mr Pantagus, who pulled him through the door. She made as if to follow but suddenly stopped in her tracks, crossed over to the bench and stared right into my unblinking eyes. She was so close I could see an eyelash on her cheek. She smelt of juniper, I remember, but then she was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  A Good Profession

  Juno stood at the tiny window that allowed the daylight into her room.

  ‘Not that there is much daylight in this city,’ she thought mournfully as she looked out at the purple and grey skies. Urbs Umida had been shrouded in night for hours now. The moon came out from behind the clouds intermittently but took cover again quickly, as if even she couldn’t bear to look down on the city below. It was snowing again. Juno was aware of a whistling breeze from the badly fitting window so she closed the shutters and pulled down the wooden batten that kept them secure. Now the only light in the room came from the fire that glowed beside the bed and the two candles on opposite walls.

  She took off her cloak and hung it on a nail in the back of the door, then went to the fire and held her trembling hands out to the flame. Several times she made as if to move but didn’t, until suddenly, impulsively, she dropped to the floor, reached under the bed and pulled out a small brown leather trunk. She fumbled with the buckles, but before she could open them a knock at the door made her jump. Guiltily, she pushed the trunk back before calling out, ‘Come in.’

  An old man looked around the door. His pallor was grey and his eyes were ringed with darkness.

  ‘Benedict,’ exclaimed Juno, ‘you look terrible.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ he said and laughed wheezily as he came to the fire and sat down on the chair. ‘It’s those stairs,’ he said. ‘They’ll be the death of me.’

  ‘Perhaps I can give you something. I have many remedies . . .’

  Benedict’s eyes darted over to the bed where the corner of the trunk was showing and he raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you but no,’ he said. ‘There is no remedy for what ails me; there is no cure for the passing of time. And you, you rely on them too much.’

  ‘Don’t scold,’ began Juno, but Benedict was seized by a coughing fit and spoke no more until it had passed.

  ‘The weather has worsened.’

  Juno smiled. ‘Is that why you came up here? To talk about the weather?’

  ‘No. It’s something else. Something important.’

  ‘I think I know,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I am not a well man, Juno. The time has come for me to stop all this travelling. It is beyond me. I have saved some money, enough for me to live reasonably well, and I have some for you too.’

  Juno shook her head. ‘I do not want your money.’

  ‘It is not mine,’ he said. ‘It is ours. You have earned it as much as I have, if not more.’ He laughed. ‘After all, where would I, Benedict Pantagus, humble Bone Magician and Corpse Raiser, be without my assistant?’

  Juno was about to argue, but Benedict silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘You could stay with me, of course,’ he said, but Juno could tell from his voice that he didn’t think she should. ‘You are still young, though. You should leave this dreadful place.’

  ‘But what of Madame de Bona?’

  ‘Take her with you,’ said Benedict. ‘She has served you well. It is a good profession. You can find someone else to help you.’

  ‘A good profession?’ said Juno with a short laugh. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Do you not?’ Benedict looked hurt.

  ‘It’s not you,’ said Juno hurriedly. ‘It’s me. Our performances have been as successful as ever. These Urbs Umidians seem to have an insatiable appetite for Madame de Bona’s predictions. It’s just sometimes . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  Benedict nodded his head. ‘I do understand. It’s not an easy life, but don’t forget, we, you, are giving these people something that is important to them.’

  ‘But some of them are suffering,’ said Juno. ‘They ask questions that pain them.’

  ‘And we take away their pain.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Do they not go away happy?’

  Juno chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘Yes, and sixpence lighter. Money they can ill afford.’

  Benedict looked at her and spoke softly. ‘People need relief, in whatever form. Sometimes I wonder how you will ever survive – you have such a soft heart.’

  ‘I don’t think it is soft to be fair,’ Juno retorted, a little stung, not by his words but by the fact that he was closer to the truth than he knew.

  ‘We have had this conversation before,’ said Benedict with finality. ‘We are neither tricksters nor pickpockets on the street. At least we give them something for their pennies.’

  Juno remained silent. Benedict eyed her carefully for a moment. ‘You know, Juno, I think you have other matters on your mind.’

  ‘Perhaps I have,’ she admitted. ‘And I think maybe it is time I paid more attention to them.’

  Benedict rose and took her hand in his. His knuckles were red and swollen and there were high spots of colour on his cheeks. ‘If that is what you wish I shall not stop you. Maybe I won’t be with you, but at least let me help you. Take the money.’

  Juno smiled. ‘You have done enough. It was you who saved me from this city in the first place.’

  ‘And I could say the same about you. No matter. Think about what I said. You do not have to give up; it’s your choice. Just consider it carefully before you make a decision.’

  Juno nodded. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I shall be fine after I have rested,’ said Benedict, deliberately misinterpreting her question. He went to the door and looked at her with a critical eye. ‘You should get some rest too. This city, it drains you.’

  He left and Juno turned back to the fire. Benedict had only told her what she already knew. He needed rest and good food and somewhere to stay for the winter. He wouldn’t find anywhere better than Mrs Hoadswood’s lodging house. But the thought of staying in Urbs Umida made Juno’s blood run cold.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said determinedly.

  She stood thus for some time deep in thought. In truth, Madame de Bona’s performances were not so bad – certainly they could be considered entertainment – but the secretive corpse raisings, that was different. They made her very uncomfortable. She had not wanted to do Sybil’s, but Benedict had persuaded her. She remembered the boy they had drugged. It was never her intention to hurt anyone. She couldn’t get his eyes out of her head, one green, one brown.

  She began to pace the room. A terrible struggle started up in her head. She took out the trunk again and placed it in front of the fire. She went so far as to unbuckle the straps, then she stood up and walked away, but her eyes never left it. At last with a cry of anguish she returned to it and flipped open the lid with shaking hands and took a deep breath as she surveyed the array of packets and pots within.

  There were terracotta jars and waxed cotton bags, stoppered glass bottl
es, soft leather pouches and corked amphorae. She ran her fingers over the contents then took out a small wooden pestle and mortar. Working quickly with a practised hand, she sprinkled powder from one bag and crumbled leaves from another into the mortar. Next, she carefully added three drops of amber liquid and pounded the mixture into a paste. She scraped the paste on to a small burner and hooked it over the fire. Then she lay back on her bed and inhaled the sweetness and drifted off into aromatic dreams.

  Chapter Eight

  A Watery End

  Harry Etcham was proud to be an ordinary Urbs Umidian, born and bred south of the Foedus, and well used to the smells and the filth and the ways of the southerners. He lived as many others did, surviving on his wits, his native cunning and the odd – very odd – spell of honest labour. At the end of the day, he liked to take a drink or three in the nearest tavern, more often than not the Nimble Finger, which tells you as much about him as you need to know. Earlier that evening, on the recommendation of his friends and to satisfy his own curiosity, Harry decided to see the Gluttonous Beast for himself. After all, he had had what he considered a very successful day. Not only had he found two onions and a carrot that were still edible (by his standards), which he would add to his stew later that evening, but he had also managed to steal eight pennies from a blind beggar’s hat. He was feeling quite merry even without a drink inside him.

  Now he stood ponderously in front of the notice that was pinned to the wall. He proceeded to read what he could and understood enough of it to be confident that he was neither of bad heart nor frail constitution. As stated the Beast’s owner was seated close by on a chair, so he pressed sixpence into the man’s hand and descended the stairs behind the curtain.

  The smell that assailed him was almost choking and was certainly a match for the Foedus. Harry searched his pockets in vain for a handkerchief to hold up to his large nose but eventually resorted to his collar. The cellar was poorly lit, but by the time he had reached the last step his eyes had adjusted to the dark. No more than three feet in front of him there was a barred cage. In the far corner he could make out a large shapeless figure. He listened carefully and could hear grunting and chewing and tearing and spitting. Then came a loud wet sneeze. To his disgust he felt droplets of spit, and he didn’t dare think what else, spraying his face.

  As he watched and listened he became aware that he wasn’t alone in the room. Down one side of the cage, near the back, stood a man. He deduced this from the silhouette of his hat, for he was dressed in dark clothing and was quite formless and unidentifiable. His head was against the bars and he seemed to be whispering to the creature. Harry could not make out what he was saying, so he went closer but tripped over a stick and fell against the cage with a ringing thud. The mysterious figure started, and immediately hurried, head down, to the stairs, acknowledging Harry neither with a tip of his hat nor a greeting.

  Slightly disconcerted by the man’s rapid exit, Harry turned his attention once more to the cage. He could see him – there was no doubt in his mind that it wasn’t a beast of the female persuasion – a little better now, but the Beast was oblivious to his presence and continued his grisly repast.

  ‘Hey,’ said Harry half-heartedly. He hadn’t paid sixpence for this. ‘Hey,’ he said more loudly. Still no response. He was looking on the ground for something with which to poke the creature when the Beast suddenly moved at lightning speed from the back of the cage to the front and threw himself up against the bars. Harry found himself face to face with arguably the most grotesque creature he had ever set eyes upon. Living in Urbs Umida and moving in the circles he did, Harry had seen more than his fair share of ugly creatures, but this surpassed them all.

  The Gluttonous Beast opened his cavernous mouth and roared. His teeth were brown and yellow and spit dripped over his lower lip. His face was covered in hair and his eyes were bloodshot with huge pupils. One of his hairy hands – or were they paws? Harry couldn’t tell and he wasn’t much interested right then – had a tight grip on Harry’s collar.

  ‘Aaaarrrgh!’ yelled Harry as he twisted around and ripped off his coat and ran for his life up the stairs. He rushed through the curtain while the man on the chair opened one eye and watched him go with a barely concealed smirk. Rudy Idolice had seen all this before and it was good for business.

  Outside on the Bridge, Harry stumbled across the pavement, only just keeping his balance by planting one foot heavily in the gutter. His foot sank ankle-deep in the thick sludge. He swore when he saw the state of his boot and then again as he felt the chill of the freezing water seeping in between the split seams and his laces. To add insult to injury a cart drove by at a tremendous pace, the spinning wheels spattering him with filth. He gritted his teeth and flapped his shirt and trouser legs in a futile attempt to clean himself up.

  He was sweating heavily and his stomach felt as if it was tying itself in a knot that was going to prove hard to undo. His head was filled with the sounds of the Beast. The slurping and belching, the crunching of bones. And the smell! ‘By God,’ he expostulated softly, and immediately his breath clouded around him. ‘That was some hellish stink.’

  The last time Harry had smelt something quite so repugnant was some years ago when for three high summer days and nights the air in the city had stilled and the river had almost curdled.

  He set off for home with that curious gait peculiar to all Urbs Umidians, instinctively mindful as they were of the crooked slabs and potholes underfoot. At least it wasn’t snowing, he thought, and as he walked he was haunted with visions of what he had just seen. He breathed in a lungful of cold night air. ‘Lord above,’ was all he could say, over and over. To think that some people went to see the Beast again and again. ‘How?’ he wondered. ‘Why?’ But already he was considering it too. Could the Beast really have been so horrific? Perhaps he might go back, in a week or so, a few days maybe, just to see if his mind wasn’t playing tricks . . .

  With his head down into the sharp wind, Harry didn’t notice the man stepping out from an alley and falling in beside him.

  ‘So you’ve seen it then?’ asked the man.

  Startled, Harry stopped and looked up, but the moon chose that very moment to hide behind the snow clouds, and the next street lamp was some distance away, so the figure beside him was as a shadow against a wall.

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘The Beast,’ hissed his new companion.

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, and it was a relief to say it out loud. ‘I have seen the Gluttonous Beast.’ He felt as if he had just confessed to a priest. At least he imagined that was what it felt like, having not seen the inside of a church for twenty years.

  ‘And what of him?’

  Harry frowned. ‘Such an ugly creature, put me right off my food he has.’

  ‘Tell me this,’ said the man. ‘What is it about the Beast that makes you want to see him?’

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, walking again. ‘I can’t say what it is exactly. But it’s like with all ugliness, you want to look away but you can’t.’

  ‘Can’t?’ queried the stranger.

  ‘It’s very difficult,’ said Harry, almost apologetically. ‘Why do you ask?’

  The man seemed not to hear. ‘Do you think the Beast should be on display?’

  ‘Why not?’ replied Harry, by now a little confused and slightly uneasy. It wasn’t often a complete stranger in the City would strike up a conversation. Usually they would say ‘Give me your money’ in a threatening way. Under other circumstances – that is, Harry not being in shock after a difficult experience – he probably would have run away.‘What else can someone, something, like the Gluttonous Beast do?’ he said. ‘Didn’t God put such creatures on earth for our amusement? It’s a reminder to us all to thank the Lord it ain’t us. Poor wretches.’ For a nonreligious man, Harry seemed unusually preoccupied with God at this moment.

  ‘Do you think this creature wishes to be stared upon?’

  Harry was growing tired of this inquisi
tion. ‘People needs their entertainment, you know. I paid money to see the Beast and that’s what I saw. Anyhow, I’m on my way home, so I’ll bid you goodnight.’

  The man chose that moment to step in front of Harry, blocking his way. Harry, exasperated and a little frightened, turned into the short lane on his right that sloped down to the river. He walked quickly, but he knew the man was following; he could hear footsteps crunching in the icy snow and at the same time a strange high-pitched whirring noise. Harry turned around, his back to the river, and challenged the oncoming stranger.

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘You’ve told me all I want to know,’ he said, again ignoring the question, ‘and I thank you for your time.’ Then, before Harry knew what was happening, his pursuer thrust a short stick at his portly stomach. Harry felt a sudden shock of pain explode through his body, causing him to leap backwards, stunned and breathless, clutching at his chest. He heard the whirring noise again.

  ‘What’s – going – on?’ he gasped.

  ‘Nothing you’ll ever know about,’ came the reply.

  Harry felt another shocking blow and fell on to the wall, his head dangling over the water. He could hear and smell the Foedus below. In one swift movement the man shoved something into Harry’s waistcoat pocket and then he felt strong hands gripping him around his ankles and he was lifted over the edge. His last thought was ‘What’s that in my pocket?’ for it wasn’t a carrot or an onion. Then the water parted like a tear in cheap fabric only to close over him, the gash mended invisibly, and he sank into oblivion.

  Chapter Nine