Sweep: The Story of a Girl and Her Monster

by Jonathan Auxier

  Nan remembered how the Sweep had done the same thing for her when she was small. Even when there was little to say, he would say that, and then some. The Sweep’s words were the music of her childhood. It was probably the reason that, even though she could barely remember his face, she could still remember his voice.

  The dreams helped with that, too. Ever since Charlie had been “born,” her dreams of the Sweep had become more vivid and varied. And they didn’t feel like dreams anymore. They felt almost like memories—chapters of her life she had long since forgotten rising to the surface. Nan felt fairly certain that the dreams were somehow connected to Charlie. But any time she asked him about it, he seemed unable or unwilling to respond.

  Even with shelter, food remained a concern. And so once Nan felt strong enough, she decided to take Charlie climbing. She bought a new brush and scraper by pawning a vase from the captain’s den. Charlie was too big for her pocket, and so she made a sling for him that hung from her shoulder. “You’re nearly a month old,” she told him. “It’s time you saw something of the world.”

  Nan had at first been nervous to step back into a chimney—she was still recovering from the horrors of the nudge. But Charlie changed things somehow. She knew that if she acted afraid, then Charlie would notice and become afraid himself. “It’s easy as apples for folks like us,” she told him the first time she forced herself up into a flue. “We got soot in our veins.” And in saying this, it began to feel true.

  She kept to the West End—miles from where Crudd or any of the boys might spot her. She and Charlie swept houses up and down Paddington and Westminster and Kensington, singing for jobs as she had always done. The homes were large and beautiful, the streets lined with orange-leaved oaks. She kept Charlie in her sling while she climbed, and the two of them would talk the whole day through.

  With the cold days of November fast approaching, there was no shortage of work. Whenever customers asked the name of Nan’s master, she would tell them she worked for “the Captain.” This was a little joke between her and Charlie. Having no master meant she was regularly stiffed. But Nan didn’t mind, because she was able to sell the soot she collected to a dustman named Horace Nobbs, who paid a fair price and asked few questions. “How a little slip of a girl manages to bring in two bushels a day is beyond me,” he would often say.

  By the end of the month, the captain’s house was properly turned out, and they set to reorganizing. “We need to make this place our very own,” she explained. The house was so big that they could make a room for everything. They had a Tantrum Room (filled with cushions and pillows), a Dress-Up Room (full of capes, hats, and regalia), a Banging-Pots-and-Pans Room (self-explanatory), an Inventing Room, a Gauntlet (which was where Nan made mazes for Charlie to roll through), and a Rubbish Room (which they had to stop using because the smell of the food scraps became so bad).

  Nan named all the rooms except for one. Charlie had requested that he do one room all by himself.

  “Do not peek on it,” he said to her. “I want the room to be a surprise.” Nan had said he could use the attic, which was enormous and crammed full of unused furniture that she was too lazy to sort. Charlie spent several days working on his room. Nan would hear occasional crashing sounds as pieces of furniture tumbled down the staircase. She had no idea how a creature without arms and legs could move furniture. Perhaps Charlie was stronger than she realized.

  At last he came to her with an announcement. “I have finished with my room,” he said.

  Nan followed him up to the attic. The climb was difficult on account of the stairway being full of broken furniture. She opened the door and stepped inside and looked around.

  “What do you think?” Charlie asked.

  “I . . .” Nan did not know what to say. “It’s . . . enormous.”

  “I will call it ‘the Nothing Room,’ ” he said. “Because it is full of nothing.” This was true. Every piece of furniture and every trunk and every crate and cobweb was gone. All that remained was a grove of chimney stacks—stretching from floor to ceiling like brick tree trunks.

  Nan nodded. “That is a good name.” She hesitated. “What is it for?”

  Charlie took a deep breath. “For being quiet, and things like that.”

  Nan sat down next to him. “A Nothing Room is just what this house needed.”

  Charlie got so warm his head smoldered. He was that proud.

  Nan and Charlie stayed in the room all through the afternoon and into the night.

  Just being quiet, and things like that.

  BONFIRE NIGHT

  The late-autumn sky was a cauldron of swirling gray. There was a smell of ash and mischief in the air. Dead leaves danced across the streets like brittle phantoms. And everywhere Nan went, she heard the whispering words—

  Remember, remember, the fifth of November.

  Gunpowder, treason, and plot!

  “What did you say?” Charlie asked, rolling closer.

  Nan must have been muttering the song under her breath. “It’s an old rhyme to remember Bonfire Night,” she said. “That’s the name of a holiday.”

  “A holly-day?” Charlie said.

  “Holidays are special times when folks dance and sing and play games and eat big meals.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “We do a lot of holly-days.”

  Nan pulled on her coat and grabbed the torn bed curtain she had been using as a muffler. “A long time ago there was a guy named Fox, and he tried to blow up the king with gunpowder, but they caught him. And now folks celebrate every year by setting off fireworks.”

  Charlie’s eyes widened. “I do like fire.”

  “I know you do.” Nan tied the curtain around her neck. “And fireworks are even better.”

  Nan wanted to take Charlie out for Bonfire Night, but she needed a way to transport him. In recent weeks, he had grown too large to go climbing with her. He was nearly the size of a winter squash now, and heavy. Nan led him down the hallway. “I thought you could ride in this.” She brought out the old perambulator that she had found in a closet—it was frilly and powder blue and felt out of place in the home of a seafaring bachelor. It hinted at some mystery in the captain’s life that Nan could not quite piece together.

  “This is a pram,” Nan said. “Nannies use them to take babies out of doors.”

  Charlie looked up at the perambulator. “For babies?” He pushed his head against the back wheel. It squeaked. “I do not think I want to be in that.”

  “I can’t have you just tumbling down the street by yourself.” She patted the handle. “You’ll love it in here.”

  Charlie scooted back. “I am not a baby.”

  Nan rolled her eyes. “You’re certainly acting like one. Get in.”

  It turned out that pushing the pram over granite setts was much harder than Nan had anticipated. The nannies made it look so easy. It probably didn’t help that Nan’s pram had three bent wheels. And that Charlie was a lot heavier than a baby.

  “Is . . . ! walking . . . ! always . . . ! this . . . ! bumpy?” Charlie said.

  “Keep your voice down.” Nan grunted, forcing one of the back wheels out of a rut. “We don’t want anyone noticing you.”

  Not that folks were noticing much of anything. The city was alive with Bonfire Night preparations. There were apple sellers and turnip lanterns and soul cakes everywhere.

  A pack of children ran past Nan and Charlie. They had a sort of scarecrow on their shoulders made from rags and straw. It had a long mustache and large nose and a barrister’s wig.

  The scarecrow was a Bonfire Night tradition. Children collected donations from adults to pay for the evening’s celebration. “Who is that man they’re carrying?” Charlie asked. “I hope he does not fall.”

  “That’s the Guy—Guy Fox. It’s a doll. They made it to look like the man who tried to blow up the king. Tonight they’ll set him on fire.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “Like Roger set you on fire.”

&n
bsp; “Penny for the Guy, mum?” one of the boys said, holding out a cup. He must have thought Nan was older, on account of the pram. That or the fact that Nan had started taking regular baths.

  Nan gave the boy a penny. Ordinarily she would never have wasted money like that, but she was feeling magnanimous. However little she had, these children had less.

  Nan continued down Marylebone Street toward Portman Market. She glimpsed the top of Miss Mayhew’s Seminary—white smoke serenely rising from the stacks. Nan wondered about the teacher, Miss Bloom. She wondered if she would be out celebrating Bonfire Night, too.

  The market was teeming with every sort of person selling every sort of thing you could imagine—hay and onions and squashes and cut poppies and tin kettles and coffee and rags and fireworks and masks. “That’s what we’ve come for,” Nan said. “Masks.”

  She pulled the shade over the pram, keeping Charlie hidden from view, and perused the stalls.

  She found a burly man selling paper masks with long mustaches. “Guy masks! Guy masks! Two for a penny!” Nan paid the man and took two masks—one for her and one for Charlie.

  She pushed the pram over to an old woman selling fireworks out of an open crate. “Bangers! Roman candles! Catherine wheels! Red sizzlers!” she crowed. “What’s Bonfire Night without a little pop and shimmer! Shipped direct to you from the Far East!”

  Nan pointed to the side of a crate. “It says Dover.”

  “Well, that’s east, innit?” The woman showed a toothless smile. “Don’t worry where they come from, lovey. Think how a little set o’ sparklers will bring joy to your wee baby’s shining eyes.”

  Nan dug into her pocket. She had enough money to buy one firecracker. She let go of the pram and inspected the wares—dozens of poppers and rockets and fountains neatly resting in a bed of straw. She breathed in the flinty smell of gunpowder. Behind her, the shouts of the market filled the air to create a sort of song.

  “Oranges! Sweet oranges!”

  “Oi! You touch it, you buy it!”

  “Rabbits! Hampshire rabbits!”

  “. . . Tuppence, and not a farthing more.”

  “Coo, what a sweet little baby . . .”

  The last voice Nan recognized. It was the fireworks seller. And she was talking to Charlie. “Wait!” Nan spun around to see the woman reaching into the pram. “Don’t touch—!”

  “AHHHH!” The woman cut her off with a piercing shriek. She was pointing at the pram—hand shaking, eyes wide. “M-m-monster!”

  By now others in the market had taken notice and were crowding around the pram. Someone prodded one of the wheels with a broom handle, and the pram fell over with a crash. Charlie rolled out onto the street and everyone screamed.

  “Hello,” he said, righting himself. “I am Charlie.”

  There were new cries as more people leaped back in fear. One man fainted right on the spot. A few others held brooms and ladles out like weapons.

  “It’s hideous!”

  “Don’t touch it!”

  “Someone fetch the police!”

  “Charlie!” Nan shouted, trying to push through the crowd. And then “Leave him alone!”

  A burly fishmonger grabbed her by the arm. “Careful, girl! There’s a monster on the loose!” He thought he was protecting her. Nan fought against his grip. She caught a glimpse of Charlie in the middle of the street. He was staring at the angry faces, shifting one way and then another, his eyes wide with terror. Nervous trails of smoke were wafting from his body.

  “It’s burning like brimstone!”

  “It’s a demon!”

  “Someone fetch the priest!”

  A farmer took a swipe at him with a baling fork. Charlie rolled back, crying out in fear. “N-N-Nan?” he called, white smoke billowing from his head. Bits of loose straw crackled and burned beneath him. “Nan, why are these people trying to hurt me?” He bumped against one of the crates marked “Dover,” and Nan caught the sweet aroma of burning wood.

  “You’re scaring him!” she shouted, finally breaking free from the fishmonger’s grip. She sprinted toward Charlie. “Get back, before he—”

  POP!

  POP!

  POP!

  The entire crate of fireworks went off—red, yellow, silver, and blue sparks sprayed across the market, landing on stalls and carts. Horses reared and stampeded. Men and women staggered blindly through the sulfurous smoke, screaming for help. Nan dove behind a barrel of herrings and covered her ears from the explosions as more and more fireworks went off.

  At last the explosions stopped. People were yelling and sobbing along the street. Police whistles sounded in the distance.

  Nan knew she needed to get Charlie out of there before he was caught. She stifled a cough and pulled her muffler back over her mouth. The air was so thick she could scarcely see her own feet. “Charlie?” Her throat burned from smoke. “I’m coming!”

  Nan crawled toward what remained of the fireworks stall. By now the smoke had dissipated, revealing a husk of charred splinters. Scorch marks ran along the granite setts. “Charlie?” she shouted, throwing aside chunks of smoldering wreckage.

  But Charlie was gone.

  THE BELLS OF ST. FLORIAN

  Nan searched the area around the market for any sign of Charlie. Then she checked all of Marylebone and Westminster. She realized that Charlie would probably have rolled downhill, and so she traveled east—into the streets of her old life.

  The sun had long since set, and Bonfire Night was in full swing. The streets were now filled with masked revelers. This was one of only two days each year that the rich and the poor celebrated together. At nearly every corner she saw crowds burning Guys. Seeing the flaming effigies, she recalled her own experience in the seminary chimney. Suddenly Bonfire Night didn’t feel like a holiday at all.

  Nan passed a crowd gathered outside Mansion House, which was where the Lord Mayor lived. Men and women were shouting and waving torches—factory workers from the look of them. Labor riots like this seemed to be happening more and more in the city. Not that they changed anything. There was a crashing sound as someone threw a brick through one of the mansion windows. A whistle sounded and the policemen broke into the crowd with batons. Nan kept her head down and rushed along Lombard Street. She didn’t want to get caught up in the trouble.

  As Nan entered the East End, she put her Guy Fawkes mask over her head. Doubtless there were climbers about—someone who might recognize her. She checked the alleys. She checked the stoops. She checked every place she could think of, but there was no Charlie.

  “Chaaarrliieeee!” she called for the hundredth time. Her voice was raspy from shouting. She cursed herself. If she had been paying more attention, if she hadn’t strayed from the pram, Charlie would still be safe.

  She tried not to think about whether Charlie was hurt. She didn’t even know if he could be hurt. She had seen him fall from some pretty great heights without complaining, and fire didn’t burn him. She eyed the river. Bonfires along the south shore of the Thames reflected off its shifting surface. Could Charlie float?

  Bells across London struck ten o’clock. She took a deep breath and tried to think like Charlie. If she were lost, where would she go? She thought of him in the morning. He was always up with the bells, staring out the window that faced east.

  Nan had assumed he was looking toward the sunrise.

  But maybe he was looking at something else?

  She remembered Charlie before he was Charlie, back when he was just a lump of soot. She thought of how some mornings he managed to escape her pocket and roll to the window in Crudd’s coal bin—as though something were drawing him in that direction.

  Nan turned up her collar and walked down Whitechapel Road, toward her old home. She knew it was foolish. Even with a mask, any number of people might recognize her—including Crudd. The November wind had turned brittle and cold. She balled her fists in her pocket and wished she still had the Sweep’s hat. She wondered what had happened to it
after she escaped from the nudge. Perhaps it had burned in the fire.

  As she walked, she saw landmarks she had always known: the Matchstick, the Tower of London, London Hospital. They all looked smaller than she remembered.

  Finally Nan caught sight of St. Florian’s, rising up from the hill in the east. The church steeple cast a shadow over Tower Hamlets. She moved slowly, keeping in shadow. Fireworks echoed off distant streets, lighting the sky overhead.

  Nan searched along the outer gates of the church. She took off her mask and called, “Charlie?”

  She saw something moving in the darkness. “N-N-Nan?” a voice said.

  Nan ran toward the voice. “I’m here!” She found Charlie nestled beside one of the stone steps.

  “Is it really you?” His voice was so small.

  Nan collapsed to her knees and scooped him up in her arms. “I looked everywhere for you. You scared me half to death.” She felt tears in her eyes. “You’re shivering.”

  “I was very frightened,” he said. “But then I heard him.”

  Nan wiped her eyes. “Heard who?”

  “He was singing,” Charlie said. “He sang and sang, and I followed his singing, and it led me here. And then you came.”

  Nan looked up at St. Florian’s Church—huge and square like a castle. Skeleton trees stretched up from the grounds beyond like grasping hands. Nan had never been this close to the church before. She was afraid of what she might find. “You mean, you heard the bells,” she said.

  “No.” Charlie shook his self back and forth. “It was . . . He was singing.” He looked up at her. “It was the Sweep. Not out loud, but I could hear him.”

  Nan looked at Charlie, unsure how to answer. She took her muffler and wrapped it around him. She could feel his heartbeat racing against her own. “Come on,” she said. “I’m taking you home.”