The Curse of Salamander Street

by G. P. Taylor

  As the sunset faded into the black of night, a bright star hung beneath the moon. With every yard the trees gave way to tall grass and deer shrub. Tufts of thick heather gripped the peat between the washed-out paths. A craggy outcrop lined with veins of pyrite glistened at the top of the peak, held for the last thousand years by the twisted roots of a stumped tree.

  Beadle looked behind for the last time, certain the beast had gone, then cast an eye upwards at the star. Far to the north he could make out the thin wisps of chimney smoke that spiralled up from the alum works. The glow of the burning slag was crescented against the black of the sky. It was a place of darkness and desolation, of smouldering mounds of stinking slag – a dark factory where the cries of children went unnoticed. The alum works were a cluster of houses that gripped the steep cliff, a debtors’ prison where Demurral was the master. He thought of Raphah and how he had been held captive and the boy he had healed of his deafness.

  ‘Never see that place again and so be it,’ he said, as if it were the ending to an answered prayer. ‘Never again …’

  With a firm arm he planted his staff against the shale path and tottered on, chortling a merry song as he forgot the night-beast. The lane fell away to the undulating vale that continued until it faded into darkness. Scattered across this dark veldt were the lights of farmsteads that glowed like warm candles against the night. As he strode on, he imagined every hearth: in his mind he could smell the morrow bread cooking in the black oven pots hung over the flames of a hot fire, and he saw the faces of the children gathered in straw beds and wrapped like sleeping butterflies, their tired eyes gently resting in the soft warm glimmers of fading embers. Beadle felt even more alone, friendless and miserable. The more he thought of what joys were entertained before the fires of the distant houses, the more his heart ached.

  ‘Bless the lot of them,’ he exclaimed as he lifted his dreg-leg over the stile that crossed from lane to field. ‘Should have asked him to come. Shown him the way. Demurral would never find us, not now. Too busy licking his wounds like an old cat.’

  The lane picked its way from field to field. A large solitary oak sprouted from a mound of stones in the centre of a pasture, standing above the terrain like an island.

  Beadle picked his way under the cover of its branches and sat facing the south as he tried to count the lights of the houses below. Instinctively he pulled his cloak about himself and, turning up the collar of his coat, snuggled down for the night. The mist rolled down from the high peak like dragon’s breath. His eyes shut, he twitched his nose, picked a hair from his ear and slept on, unaware that he now rested on an island above the fog.

  There was no warning as a heifer screamed as if it fought to the death. Beadle woke suddenly and looked about, unsure if he dreamt what he had heard. He listened hard as the night again fell silent and the sea of fog swelled back and forth like a rolling tide. There was not a sound.

  He breathed heavily, panting in alarm as his eyes searched for what had made such a deathly sound.

  ‘I’m armed!’ he shouted, his empty words echoing across the land.

  It was then that it came, rising silently from the mist as it crawled upon a moss-covered heel-stone and licked the cow-blood from its lips. The beast turned to Beadle and raised an eyebrow, staring through glowing eyes that cast a red light upon him. It growled as it slowly chewed a fragment of skin that it had ripped from the heifer.

  ‘You’ll not get far with me,’ Beadle shouted nervously, pointing his staff towards the creature.

  The beast jumped from the stone into the fog. Beadle could see the blaze of its eyes glimmering as it circled the old burial mound from which the oak had sprouted. It stopped momentarily and looked up, its head just above the crest of the mist. It barked eerily, then ducked beneath the mist and slowly crawled towards the mound.

  Beadle stood his ground, back to the oak, staff in hand. His fingers trembled as he tightened his lips across his teeth and waited for what he knew would soon come. And then the creature climbed from the fog and sat before him. It stared at him and gave what he thought was a half-smile. The ponderings and fears from Beadle’s childhood leapt through his mind as one by one each of his fingers froze in fear. Every story that he had heard of the creature churned in his head, and the words of the teller were now again in his ears. ‘No one can survive the beast,’ he heard the voice say as it repeated its warning: ‘Once it sees you – done for …’

  The beast growled and barked as it stood before him with blazing eyes. Beadle waited, ready to make one valiant wallop with the stick, knowing he did not want to die without a fight.

  ‘Give me the staff,’ a soft, dark voice said by his side.

  ‘Raphah?’ Beadle asked as the beast growled in discontent.

  ‘You are not a hard man to follow and I never take no for an answer,’ Raphah replied quietly. ‘Friends shall always be friends no matter what … Give me the staff.’

  Beadle handed him the oak staff as Raphah stepped before him.

  ‘Go, creature. Leave this world be and do no more harm.’

  The beast snarled and bared its teeth like an old dog as it clawed the air, about to attack.

  ‘Very well,’ Raphah said as he held the staff towards the beast. ‘So be it.’

  The mound began to shake and every limb of the oak tree started to tremble. Mud and stone quivered beneath their feet as a power welled up from the earth through Raphah and into the staff. The beast stared at Raphah. In that instant, the staff began to shine and glisten. What bark was left turned quickly into scales as the staff was transformed to a spitting serpent that danced back and forth in Raphah’s hands.

  ‘Take him!’ Raphah shouted as he threw the serpent towards the beast.

  Beadle screamed and buried his head in his hands and huddled deeper in his coat as the sound of the attack burst through the night air. The creature shrieked at the edge of hearing as the snake took it by the throat and wrapped itself around its limbs and choked from it what life it had left. It writhed and tore at the beast, falling into the mist. The creature screeched as the snake pulsed venom into its veins with every bite.

  ‘Is it gone?’ Beadle asked as Raphah sat by his side and cradled the man in his arms.

  ‘Soon,’ he replied.

  There was a final ear-splitting howl that shook the trees and swirled the crows from a far-away roost to circle the moon. The beast shook the snake from its neck and turned and ran into the night. Then all was silent. Raphah stood, picked the staff from the ground and handed it to Beadle, who cowered by the oak tree. He held it in his hands and looked at the dry wood. A single scale was all that remained of the snake – that, and the faintest outline of a serpent’s head in the grain of the wood.

  ‘It has gone,’ Raphah said.

  ‘But will it be back?’ Beadle asked warily, sure the beast would return.

  ‘Where it has gone, it will not stay forever.’

  ‘What was it?’ Beadle asked.

  ‘A Diakka – a creature created through magic, sent by an old friend to haunt me.’ Raphah smiled.

  ‘The oak staff – was it transformed by magic?’

  ‘No,’ Raphah said. ‘By a power that we can all know.’ He sat next to Beadle and held his hand. Together they looked out across the vale towards the lights of the castle and the sea beyond.

  ‘Will Demurral follow?’ Raphah asked.

  ‘He will,’ Beadle said. ‘He will not be content until we are all dead.’

  ‘Then we find Thomas and Kate and live or die together.’

  ‘The Magenta will be in Rotherhithe by the morning,’ Beadle said, as if he knew the lad’s thoughts. ‘It’ll take us four days if we travel fast enough. We could get to London before Demurral.’

  ‘Us?’ Raphah asked.

  ‘Best we travel together, lad. Can’t have you coming to any harm.’ Beadle laughed. ‘After all, that golden statue you carried must be worth a pretty penny.’

  ‘The Keruvim?’ Raph
ah asked.

  ‘The golden creature that Demurral had.’

  ‘It’s lost,’ Raphah said as Beadle began to dream by his side. ‘Dropped from the ship and given to the depths. It was my task to return the Keruvim to my homeland. Now it is gone – but I will wait for a sign. There is a power, Beadle, that speaks through the rising of the sun and the dew upon a blade of grass. Soon it will reveal what I am to do. One thing is certain: as long as Demurral has breath he will seek us all. His desire is to see me dead and my spirit captured to be used as trinkets of divination. I know it will not be long before I see him again.’

  The Great Chain of Being

  THE morning breeze carried the chimes of St Martin’s clock down the Thames. The water to the east of London Bridge was crowded with ships of every size. It was as if every vessel in the known world had sought sanctuary as close to the broken and battered tower of St Paul’s as they could berth. From the bridge of the Magenta, Jacob Crane peered into the growing dawn through a long, brass telescope. He rested his arms upon the side of the ship as he bent his knee and strained his back to direct the heavy lens back and forth along the quayside.

  He had not slept but had paced the deck as he had watched the Lupercal burn her way towards Woolwich. The ship had turned on the tide as smoke and fog had twisted together and then, when the blazing magazine had exploded, it had quickly sunk. As the first light of dawn had come upon him, he had tried to rid his mind of the thought that somehow the disease from the ship had survived the pyre and was somewhere in the world of waking men. Crane cast his eye to the entrance of Billingsgate Dock and shouted for the Magenta to be turned to starboard and eased slowly into its awaiting, stinking birth.

  The whole of London appeared to crowd the quayside. Beggars, barons and mountebanks jostled and tugged as cutpurses snatched moneybags and fob chains and ran into the throng of the morning market. The barking of mad dogs echoed through Darkhouse Lane and on to Lyon Quay as the Militia fired musket shot after musket shot, in the way they had done every morning since the coming of the comet, in a vain attempt to quell the madness that gripped every dog in the city. Packs of these discarded creatures had stalked the graveyards, digging into the ground and dragging bits of corpses through streets. So crammed were the burial grounds and so shoddily had the bodies been interred that many were just given a loose covering of earth. In the panic to leave the city when the comet had come many of the dead had just been left in the street. These became a veritable feast for the howling gangs of dishevelled and mis-matched dogs that ran with each other.

  Looking up at the Customs House, Crane envied the row upon row of silent white statues on the marble façade. Their blank white eyes now stared down upon the mob. There at the height was old-grey-beard, God himself, universe in hand and the world as a footstool. To his right was the sun and stretching into the distance, chiselled and smoothed in stone, was the great chain of being that captured every creature and beast in the order they were created. A week ago, Crane would have scoffed at the mention of such a creator; now his mind was torn in two with the possibility that such a being could exist.

  As the Magenta heaved to and came to rest against the oiled hay bags and fenders that hung from the side of the quay like dead, tarred pigs, it creaked and groaned and the keel shuddered. Its sea-worn timbers rasped and twisted against each other, as if the ship were but a bobbing carcass of misshapen ribs and broken bones.

  From below the mottled deck, Kate and Thomas peered upon the teeming quay. Neither had seen so many people. Everywhere they looked was a mass of staring faces. The voices of the crowd gabbled like Christmas turkeys ready for slaughter. The stink of the street oozed over the side of the quay as if it were a pall of smog, carrying its stench to the very depths of the ship.

  ‘We did it, Kate. We got away from Demurral. I’m sure he won’t find us here,’ Thomas said with an excited smile. ‘I’ve never been further than Runswisk Bay – and now, Kate, we’re in London, the capital of the world.’

  Kate laughed as she saw the look in his eyes. Gone was the melancholy of the ship, the distant looks and hidden despair. Thomas had returned to her life and as the sounds of the city filled her ears she felt that all was well. With one hand she twisted her hair into a knot and slipped it beneath her triangular hat as she pulled the brim to her ears. ‘I wish Raphah were here. He’d know what to do. Less than a week since he was taken. Do you ever think of him?’ she asked.

  ‘Every minute of every day,’ Thomas replied softly as they stared from the hatch to the deck. ‘He’ll be well. It’ll take more than the stopping of the heart to take the life from him. Raphah may be gone to the depths, but it’s as if he’s not dead. Funny, really. I felt the same when my father drowned. Always thought he’d walk through the door one day, the same as before he’d left. Still …’ He paused and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Maybe not on this earth but one day, I think, we’ll see him, face to face …’

  Without any command being given, a thin gangway was pushed from the quay and down upon the deck. Kate could see three men dressed like clerics waiting for the ship to be tied to the pier. They gripped each other in close conversation. The tallest held a parchment writ wrapped in a red silk ribbon, clutching it as if it contained the secret of life itself.

  Crane gave no attention to these men but checked each line and rope with a careful eye and shouted out a list of commands as if he were a babbling madman. In turn, the three men scrutinised his every action. Crane knew they were not country parsons. From their garb it was obvious that they were in the pay of the King. He knew also, as if this were written upon the lines of their faces, that they came with malcontent.

  The smallest, weasel-faced cleric was noting down every word Crane spoke as if the Captain was dictating the mass. When the ship had been finally secured Crane folded his arms and leant back against the rails, smiling to himself.

  It was then that the tallest man, holding the writ, set off at a trot down the gangway and onto the ship. Kate and Thomas watched on as Crane bristled, seeing the men step one by one from land to his ship.

  Crane detested clerics. He had met so many and realised that they were more often than not the third son of a minor aristocrat who could only find them a living in the Church. To him, they were men who did not know their master nor ever would, and Crane would give them no more time than he would to wipe the foul of dogs from his boots. ‘Is it not the custom to ask for permission to come aboard?’ Crane asked as he stepped towards them.

  ‘Depends who owns the ship,’ chirped the smallest man from his gin-ruddied face.

  ‘This vessel is mine, always was and always will be,’ Crane answered as he took a rope-peg from the rail and held it as if he were about to knock an eighth bell from the man and beat him with it. ‘Anyway, clerks, no matter how holy their orders, are not welcome here.’

  ‘Clerks on high orders and not holy ones,’ replied the writ-carrier caustically as he side-stepped Crane and walked towards the mast. ‘Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and whatever is left to whoever you want,’ he said, and all three started to giggle and laugh like cackling children.

  ‘I’ll have no games here,’ Crane shouted, holding the rope-peg like a club. ‘Tell me what tax you enforce and then be gone.’

  ‘MILITIA!’ shouted the cleric as he took a hammer from his robes and nailed the parchment to the mast.

  Above Crane’s head, the crowd parted as a row of brightly clad militia stepped forward and lined the quayside. Each man pointed his musket towards Crane’s head and took aim.

  ‘I advise you, Captain Jacob Crane, not to resist what we do,’ said the tallest cleric. ‘We have it on the highest authority that you are remiss in your duties.’

  ‘In fact you are found out by sin,’ chivvied another as he turned his hat rim with long bony fingers.

  ‘What have I done that brings a legion of red-coats and three halfwits to my cabin door?’ Crane asked quietly as he nodded to Kate and Thomas to keep under co
ver.

  ‘Payments and debts for docking in the port of Whitby, leaving without the payment of the aforesaid monies, the carrying of goods without a certificate and … abduction of children.’ The tall cleric spoke smugly and preened an eyebrow with his licked fingers.

  ‘For any writ you need a complainant. I know no one who would complain against me in those parts,’ Crane replied.

  ‘The Crown is your accuser and Parson Demurral is our witness. Are you acquainted with him of whom we speak?’

  Crane shuddered at the words. ‘Dogs, rats, slugs and priests – I know them all in the order of their creation, and you take his word over mine?’ He walked to the mast and read the charges nailed upon it.

  ‘See for yourself, my dear, unfortunate fellow,’ the cleric said through pinched cheeks as he tapped the writ with his finger. ‘You have twenty-one days to pay the Crown the sum of two thousand guineas and return the children you took from Demurral’s care, or the ship will be lost.’ The cleric spoke in one breath and then paused. ‘In the meantime, I would be grateful if you take your belongings and vacate the ship.’ He paused momentarily and looked about him as if he had just remembered something important. ‘We also seek a thief, Mister Crane. An Ethio, who has stolen an item of great value. For him and the gold we will search your – or should I say, our – ship. Guards, see that Crane and his men are gone at once and if they refuse I give you permission to kill them where they stand.’

  The cleric wrung his hands together, then wiped them on the front of his long black cassock. It was as if he tried to brush away the grime of what he did. Crane eyed the Militia as one by one they marched on to the Magenta until they outnumbered the crew.

  ‘Two thousand guineas?’ he asked. ‘What makes you think I can’t just pay you now and have you off the ship?’