by G. P. Taylor
‘New lad,’ Smutt said his voice wavering as he spoke. ‘Galphus told me to show him the factory – top to bottom.’ Smutt put his hand to his face to hide the bruise.
‘Someone smack you, did they?’ asked the Druggle mockingly.
‘He fell, brush hit him in the face,’ Thomas said as he stepped towards the Druggle and held out his hand. ‘I’m Thomas, a new apprentice, Mister Galphus picked me himself.’
The Druggle stepped back and looked at him. He was older than Thomas and taller, with the first fledge of hair growing on his face. His chin was blistered with a deep red pox that broke the skin like the surface of the September moon.
‘New apprentice, eh? What would you like to apprentice for, my lad?’ the Druggle asked. ‘Sweeping, like young Smutty?’
‘To be a Druggle, that’s all I want, for that’s the best there is,’ Thomas replied mellifluously.
‘So it is, so it is,’ said the young Druggle as he stared at him. ‘Shall we let them pass?’ he asked his companion, who smiled a toothless smile but had not the wits to answer such a complicated question. The Druggle waited for a moment. His eyes fixed sharply on Thomas. He looked him up and down slowly, as if he took in everything about the lad. ‘On your way – I’ll see you later.’
‘They know,’ Thomas said as they walked off as calmly as they could, fearing to look back. ‘I could tell by how he stared at me so.’
‘He does it to us all – it’s in his nature. A dangerous creature and a vile bully. He was a Mohawk before he came here. His family fell on hard times. Father lost all their money – a gambler, so I hear. Galphus paid five pounds for him, cheap at the price.’ Smutt scoffed in a low voice for fear the words would carry far.
‘And how much did Galphus pay for you?’ Thomas asked.
‘I was given to him. Not worth a penny. Hate it here, but it’s home. One day want to run, another want to stay and another wish myself dead. Better here than on the outside, some would say. All them wars and fighting, things falling from the sky, earthquakes and misery. Galphus tells us at prayers. I saw the sun once. It burnt my eyes. Prefer the dark, better for you. Hides many things.’
‘But you’ll come with me?’ Thomas asked again, unsure if Smutt would follow him to the outside.
‘Half my head tells me to stay – if I was an honest lad, which I’m not. Don’t know what to do. See what happens when I get to the window. Take a look and see, eh?’
Smutt took him higher. They very soon left the uppermost floor of the factory and began to spiral higher and higher as they walked the steps to a tower. Thomas could hear the wind beating against the side and shivering through the shingles. The noise of the hammering faded with each step. Every window had been painted black, and some had been boarded shut. On every landing was a small candle set beneath a glass hood. They cast long shadows as they approached and then were cast as giants upon the ceiling as they went by. Smutt didn’t say a word. He kept his head down and his face motionless. Thomas could hear his breathlessness as they walked the stairs together.
Eventually they came to the top of the tower. Here was a room with no doors. To one side was a tall window that nearly came to the floor. Like a thin door it was locked with a bolt and bracket. The glass was blackened, all except for a small square which had been etched away by eager hands seeking the outside world. Smutt saw Thomas looking at the scraped paint.
‘Some come here to see the world. Makes ’em sick for it. A bad thing, I says – best forget and just work until the day you move on.’
‘How do we get out?’ Thomas asked as he looked for a way of escape.
‘The key. Simple, really, had it with me all the time, didn’t know until last week,’ Smutt replied.
Thomas peered through the scraping. It was a black, dark night. The sky blew a London gale that blotted out the sky yet did not move the thick smog.
‘There,’ Smutt said, taking the key from the brass ring and putting it in the lock and opening the window. ‘A few feet below is a roof, beyond that the alley and further still the river. Freedom, Thomas.’
‘How do we get down?’ Thomas asked.
‘Just hang from the ledge and let yourself drop. I’ll keep watch, then follow on.’ Smutt tried to be convincing, looking Thomas in the eyes for the briefest of glances. ‘Do it quickly – the Druggles will come and check this place and we have to be gone.’
Smutt seemed agitated and his voice trembled. Thomas looked from the open window into the pitch night. He could hear the distant cries of the town. Far to the east a ship’s bell rang out. In the fog-driven dark he could see nothing but the raven black. Thomas looked below. It was as if he stared into nothing. The mist whirled thickly about the tower.
‘You sure about the roof?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Trust me, it’s just a short drop – you won’t feel a thing,’ muttered Smutt as he looked away.
‘Then you go first, I’ll follow you,’ Thomas said, and he pushed him towards the window.
Smutt panicked, his eyes flashing to the lamp and then to the stairs. Thomas could see he had set his mind to run.
‘Give me the key,’ Thomas demanded. He snatched it from the lock and threw it through the open window. There was no sound of it clattering to the roof. ‘One … two … three … four … five … six … seven,’ he counted and just as the last word left his lips the faint sound of metal dashing against stone echoed through the mist. Smutt held his breath, knowing his malevolence to be discovered.
‘It was a way out of this place,’ Smutt snapped in panic as he saw the look of anger upon Thomas’s face.
‘It was a way to my death – you tricked me, Smutt.’
‘Tricked yourself – should have let me beat you. Things would’ve been different. Never be beaten, that’s what Galphus says. You knocked me to the ground once, but I would have listened as the ground swallowed you up.’ Smutt spoke like a resentful old man, his face contorted with bitterness. ‘Let me pass, boy. I’ve shown you the way out – now go. If you dare,’ he taunted.
‘Then I go alone.’ There was a crack of the wrist as all that burnt in Thomas’s heart exploded through his fist, knocking Smutt from his feet yet again. Thomas stood over him and kicked him in the chest with the tip of his boot. Smutt’s head lolled across the wooden boards, limp at the neck. He moaned, not knowing where he was or what had happened. ‘Could have been so different, Smutt,’ Thomas said as he snatched the brass ring and keys from his belt and ran off down the stairs, hoping to find a way to escape.
Vere-Adeptus
BEADLE followed Lady Tanville as she ran up the steps from the cave, along the passageway and through the oak panel to the inn. There was a sound of barking hounds and a frantic pounding at the great door. Beadle and Lady Tanville hid quickly beneath the stairway as he slid the panel back into place to seal their escape from the passageway. With long, nimble fingers she took a vial of milk from her bag and extinguished the flames of the Glory Hand. She looked at Beadle with his ruffled hair and wild eyes that spoke of years of misery and gave him a half-smile.
‘The spell is gone, they will soon hear,’ she said as the sound of the banging grew louder and the dogs barking more insistent. The noise chilled her spirit, reminding her of a white stag that had had its life torn from it by a pack of her father’s dogs.
‘Quickly,’ screamed a voice from above as the barefoot innkeeper ran the length of the corridor and stumbled down the stairs. ‘Are we robbed?’ he shouted, half-sleeping, the dreams still running through his mind. He got to the door and fumbled with the lock. Tanville wrapped the Glory Hand within the folds of her cloak.
The door opened and in spilled the night mists. Hounds leapt into the hall looking for food and a place by the fire. They stank of heath and moor as they shook the mud from their backs and shivered with contentment. The bugler stepped within and grabbed the innkeeper by the shoulders, shaking him as if he were a rag doll.
‘To see it, to see it!’ he screamed as he shook the man even m
ore. ‘Carsington is made well. The madness … Gone …’
The innkeeper dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back as if he had been given dire news. ‘Carsington – well?’
‘Tonight on Galilee Rocks I saw it with my own eyes. They are coming now, here,’ he babbled quickly.
‘Who comes here?’ the innkeeper asked as the hall filled with the barking of hounds.
‘Carsington and the Ethio that was with me.’ The bugler stared with his wide eyes as if he couldn’t believe his own words. ‘It’s true, they follow on. I shot Mad Cassy in the leg as he screamed from the rocks. I went to finish him off but the lad got there first. He took the madness away and if I dare to speak, he’s as sane as you …’
‘But what of the inn? I took it from him. It belongs to Carsington,’ said the innkeeper.
The man had just finished his words when the doors opened. Raphah stood before them, drenched with the storm, his hair dripping with sweat and rain. He smiled when he saw Beadle by the fire. ‘All is well,’ he said as he pulled Carsington in from the night and walked him to the fireside. A second dark figure followed on, skulking into the room like a scolded dog that edged the walls and kept out of sight. Barghast held his hand tightly to his side as blood trickled from his fingers. ‘Bring sage, water and cloth, he is injured,’ Raphah shouted to the innkeeper.
Soon the Black Shuck had come to life, as from every corner of the inn came people to stare at Carsington. Raphah sat the man by the fire and pulled the rotting fabric from his leg. It covered the wound of a musket ball that had split the skin. The man didn’t speak, his eyes glaring at the fireplace and looking about the room. He hunched himself, as if he were unsure of his surroundings and the people who stared at him.
The innkeeper brought Raphah all he had asked for and sat and stared at the man. Taking a pair of shears, Raphah began to trim back the hair from the man’s face. It hung in thick clumps, matted by dirt. From its midst stared two bright eyes. Slowly his face began to appear. Soon he looked like a man and not the beast that had plagued the moors.
‘So long,’ he said, breathing the words. ‘So different.’
‘What did he do to you?’ the innkeeper asked.
‘He spoke words and held him by the throat, I saw it all, everything,’ said the bugler as he enacted the deliverance. ‘Raving one minute, like a lamb the next. The sky burst open and it was gone.’
‘Truly healed?’ the innkeeper asked again as he wiped his hands upon his nightshirt.
‘Truly,’ said the man.
‘Then you know this house.’
‘Well, I know it is mine.’ Carsington stopped and looked at the innkeeper. ‘From the look of the place, you have kept a better house than I.’
‘Then it shall be yours again, for I took it in your madness and gave you nothing,’ said the innkeeper. ‘I watched you eat grass and thought only of my gain.’
‘We were once friends and will be again,’ said Carsington as he held out his hand. ‘I have back my wits and the Shuck.’
‘And what of Barghast?’ Lady Chilnam asked as she warmed herself.
Barghast sat against the far wall clutching his hand. The innkeeper took Carsington up the stairs and smiled at Raphah. ‘We have a lot to be thankful for,’ he said as they went.
Barghast sniffed and gave a sly look. He wanted not to talk and held his gaze to the distant fire.
‘We thought you to be dead,’ Tanville said as she saw his wounded hand. ‘There was a madness in the storm – we all saw it …’
‘I saw nothing – fell in the dark, that is all. Woke in the ditch and then heard the hounds coming from the hills. There was no beast, only dogs and pigs.’
‘And your hand – it’s damaged?’ she asked.
‘A slight wound from the fall. A night’s sleep and it will be gone,’ Barghast mumbled.
There was a clatter of fat feet from above as Bragg and Ergott chased along the corridor.
‘What is this? What is this?’ Bragg shouted as if to wake the dead. ‘Barghast alive?’
‘Very much so,’ echoed Ergott, wand in hand. ‘Survived the moor and only a scratch, the maid has just left my room and …’
They stopped at the landing and looked down at Barghast.
‘Never thought … Never thought I’d see him again,’ wailed Bragg as he held in his belly with the rope of his night coat. He turned and looked at Raphah. ‘And you, sadly more life than a Rotherhithe cat,’ he scolded as he walked down the stairs, flanked by Ergott. ‘To think, Mister Ergott, we worried ourselves to sleep over Barghast. I thought you had been taken by a beast on the moor, Barghast – the least you could have done was to be eaten by it.’
‘There was no beast. Your eyes cheated you,’ Barghast growled. ‘I was the one lost, not you, remember that.’
‘And I was the one who nearly lost my life in that carriage.’
‘All is well and everyone is safe.’ Raphah shouted. ‘Is it not time for you all to sleep?’
‘The Ethio has elected himself our leader, one miracle and he becomes the saviour. Whatever next, Mister Ergott?’ Bragg said as he pulled the cord of his coat even tighter.
‘The boy’s right. Best we all sleep. Goodnight, Mister Bragg, and may your money be as comfortable to sleep on as the fat on your backside.’ Barghast got up from his seat and crossed the room to sit by the fire. ‘Sleeping here, Beadle?’
Beadle looked at Raphah. ‘They have nowhere for us to sleep, so I pitched myself here. Good supply of logs and I did have a cloak for a blanket,’ he said as he chomped his lips and made a sound like a horse.
Lady Tanville laughed and held the cloak tightly. ‘I’ll bring you blankets and some food,’ she said, and she followed Ergott and Bragg up the stairs.
The three sat in silence, Barghast staring at the flames and Beadle trying to doze. Raphah stared at a cobweb that floated on an updraft. His mind thought of Africa and his heart called him home. Fulfil your desires, his father had said the night he left the village. He searched his heart,, knowing no more what he really wanted. The night he had set off he had known so clearly what he had to do. He touched the golden Keruvim with his fingertips and felt its power filling his bones. It was as if it spoke to him, gave him strength and made straight every path. Now he sat alone. He was tired, empty and far away, and all he knew was that he wanted to see the faces of Thomas and Kate. As with everything he knew he could not strive to find them, but circumstances themselves would lead him onwards.
‘Here,’ said Tanville as she carried a bundle of thick woollen blankets and dumped them on the floor by the fire. ‘I’ll leave you to the night. The driver said there will be little chance of comfort on the roads, so sleep well.’
‘That’s if we sleep at all,’ Barghast replied as she walked away. ‘There’s more to her than can be seen at night,’ he said in a whisper as she turned the landing of the stairs. ‘She runs from something. I knew her grandfather well.’
‘For a man who can seem so young, you have lived such a long time,’ Raphah said.
‘Is this the time for honesty or does the game continue?’ Barghast asked.
‘My father told me to be honest but only trust a man when he had saved your life. I trust no living thing. We are all fallen from goodness and our hearts can turn on a silver coin.’
‘So when will you trust me to tell you a story?’ Barghast asked.
‘It is the night and a time for stories. Beadle sleeps and I have no need for that distraction. I would be cheered by a lullaby.’
Barghast moved closer and wrapped himself in a blanket as he threw another log onto the fire. He looked to Raphah and then to Beadle and listened intently to the sounds of the house. Barghast hesitated before he spoke, his eyes fixed to the fire. There was something about the lad that intrigued him. It lay deeper than his broad smile and bright eyes. Something shone from within him, something Barghast desired, and a look he had seen once before.
‘There’s an old legend of a
man who is cursed to live forever,’ Barghast said very slowly. He stooped towards Raphah, drawing him closer with each word. ‘He was once a moneylender, a wealthy man who in the eyes of the world had everything. On a dark Friday on the way to a hill of execution, soldiers were dragging a beggar to his death. In his poverty the beggar asked the man for water. He had the chance to help the beggar, but turned his face. All that was asked of him was one sip. Instead, he tipped the water to the ground at his feet. All the beggar said to the money-lender was, “I will go now, but you shall wait until I return and walk every path until you find me.” Little did the man know that the beggar was a king in disguise. On that day, at the time of the execution, the beggar cried out and then as the thunder roared he died. In his dying, he took away the power of death.
‘From the man, the beggar took the gift of dying. Years passed by, his family grew old and died; yet the man stayed the same. In anguish, he threw himself from a high cliff. Instead of finding death, his broken body healed itself. He threw himself into the sea and the water cast him to the shore, even though he had given up the will to live. Neither flame, nor frost or fire of hell could take his life.’ Barghast recounted the story slowly as he looked at the flames.
‘It was such a simple request – water for a beggar,’ Raphah said.
‘Simple, yes. But it was fear and not a lack of charity. To show the beggar any favour would have meant death. His captors would have seen to that.’
‘And what of the man now?’ Raphah asked.
‘He went in search of the beggar to ask his forgiveness and be set free. Upon every road he walks until he has trod all the paths of the earth … until the day the beggar returns. It is a futile search. Every road he has walked has led to despair and loneliness. The beggar is not to be found.’
‘Is not the beggar already here?’ Raphah asked.
‘You speak as if you know him.’
‘I think I have met the foolish moneylender,’ Raphah said as he took hold of Barghast’s hand. The skin was newly formed over the wound as if no injury had befallen him. ‘Your prophecy about your healing was truthful, though several hours too soon and before a night’s sleep.’
