by Robin Jarvis
“You’ll slave him straight into the grave, you old demon!” she had stormed. “Look at the poor lad, he’s almost done in. Give him food and let him rest.”
Her words may have had some effect on the alchemist for he became more generous with Will’s meals and the nocturnal vigils grew fewer. Will liked Molly enormously; she was the one bright ray that entered the dismal shop. Once, when Doctor Spittle was engrossed in the attic room, she and Will had spent half an hour chatting amiably. It was marvellous how she managed to put him at ease and he almost blurted out all his tragic history without realising. Luckily they were interrupted by another customer, yet for a long time afterwards Will found himself wondering if he could have trusted her. With so much treachery and deceit in the city it was odd that there should be someone like Molly. Perhaps next time he would tell her something of his past.
His footsteps echoed through the grim gloom. It was not far now. What a ghastly mission to be on. It was past midnight, all godly folk were in bed and only a few windows were still aglow. Along Paternoster Row he trailed, then down Warwick Lane until the high walls surrounding Ludgate came in view. Here he stopped, daunted by the gruesome and disgusting task that lay ahead. If only he could run, all he had to do was keep going through that gateway and not turn back. But the face of the alchemist flitted before his eyes and the words he had spoken before despatching the lad hissed in his ears once more.
“Should you decide to seize this chance and escape me, know that I shall not rest till all the devils of Hell have tormented you and fetched you back here.”
Will’s stomach turned over. He had to do this horrible thing and he bitterly regretted those hasty words he had spoken to Doctor Spittle that evening in the attic room. Yes, he could certainly go places the old man could not, but he had no idea that those rash promises would lead him down this dark and damning road. Quietly he prayed to God for courage and strength.
Ludgate prison was silent at this late hour. The narrow, barred windows were blind to both the night and the boy who ventured into the courtyard before them. Stealthily he tiptoed nearer, his attention fixed on that which had drawn him. There it was, the terrible structure which had taken the lives of so many men, women and children—the gallows!
Starkly it rose before the impregnable walls, an ugly black scaffold. It was a frightening and imposing threshold to death and there, swinging gently from the cross beam, was its most recent victim.
Will thanked the Lord that the moon was clouded this night, for if he had seen the face of that unfortunate man he would have surely died himself.
With his heart in his mouth he crept up, mounting the wooden stairs to the platform, until the fearsome apparition was within reach. The dark silhouette suspended above him cast a horror over his soul and he could not believe that he had actually come this far. The dead man’s feet were level with his chest and Will noticed with disgust that someone had stolen the corpse’s boots. He cursed the unknown thief then realised that he was no better. Doctor Spittle’s orders were clear and the boy knew what he must do. The alchemist had sent him out to fetch the hair from a hanged man’s head.
Shuddering, Will crossed to one of the main support beams and began to climb. Up he went, splinters from the rough wood jabbing into his palms and spiking his cheek, until he was high enough. From here he could reach out and... a trembling hand delved into his pocket and pulled out a pair of scissors.
“Forgive me, Lord,” he murmured, “I do not wish to harry the dead.” His shaking hand stretched towards the downcast head and the scissor blades opened. “Please sir,” he said, “do not haunt me for what I am about to do.”
Snip.
A lock of lank hair fell into his palm but at that moment the clouds drew away from the moon and the ghostly light fell directly upon the dead man’s face.
It was a terrifying mask of death: the tongue lolled from the bloodless lips and the skin was ashen grey. Yet what petrified Will the most were the man’s eyes. They bulged out of their sockets and were turned straight towards him in an accusing stare.
The boy screamed and fell from the beam, landing with a crash on the platform. The rope which held the man creaked and the shadows that danced over the hideous face made it look as though he were laughing. Will screamed again and in an instant lamps were lit in the windows of the prison.
“Who’s that out there?” called a guard.
“There’s someone messin’ about at the gallows—look!”
“Call the nightwatchman!”
“Catch the miserable little fiend!”
An answering call came from the other side of the courtyard as the alerted nightwatchman came running, wielding a stout cudgel in his fist.
Will scrambled from the stage but Arnold Strogget, the nightwatchman, had seen him. “Stop, in the name of the King!” he bawled. The boy took no notice and fled into the street. “Come back here you devil!” snarled Master Strogget and he chased after for all he was worth.
Down the narrow lanes Will ran and behind him he heard the grunts and fierce shrieks of the nightwatchman. A desperate terror was on the boy and he spurred himself on. But the conditions he had been forced to endure soon took their toll. He was tired, undernourished and his legs were weak. Realising that his strength was failing he searched for somewhere to hide. But the moonlight flooded every corner of the street, banishing the shadows and denying him refuge. With the blood thumping in his temples he turned a corner and saw his salvation.
There was the church of St Anne—but Will had eyes only for its graveyard. Into the wild forest of bushes and brambles he tore, leaping over tombs and diving under branches. Feverishly he wriggled into a dense clump of gorse then curled himself into a ball and held his breath.
He could hear the nightwatchman panting up the road. With any luck he would continue right past and not think to search the cemetery. But fortune was not smiling on Will that night, for as the man slowed down to catch his breath he gave thought to the cover the churchyard might give. He peered up the street just to make sure, then smiled. If the boy was still running he would surely be able to hear him. There was only one place he could be now. Arnold Strogget tapped his cudgel expectantly against the church wall and entered.
From his hiding place Will could hear him stride through the grass. He dared not move for he would give his position away and before he had crawled out of the gorse bush the man would be upon him. He was in a terrible state and with the shock of what he had just done still reeling in his head, the sweat which streamed down his face was icy cold.
A dreadful crashing sound made him cower even further into the gorse. The nightwatchman was sweeping his cudgel through the bushes as he advanced. Will sobbed from fear. Soon he would be discovered and dragged away to join that poor man on the gallows. His fingers closed about his own throat as if he could already feel the rope tighten round his neck. Still Master Strogget advanced, drawing nearer with every swipe and thrust.
Master Arnold liked to give felons a good bashing and he put all his might behind the swings of the cudgel. The thickets bowed before him and he grinned with pleasure—that perishing little ghoul deserved all he got. “Disturb the dead would yer?” he shouted at the undergrowth. I‘ll learn yer not to thieve. Break yer fingers for it I will.” And he lashed out even more viciously as if to demonstrate.
“AAAEEEOOOWWW!”
The nightwatchman froze. He had never heard a sound like that before. It was a horrid, shrill cry that screeched round the churchyard and curdled his blood.
“What was that?” he muttered.
“AAAEEEOOOWWW!!”
“Save us!” he stammered glancing nervously about him. “That does sound like nothing from this world.” Perhaps what he was chasing was not a person after all. What if some undead horror had wormed out of its cold grave to visit the living? “Steady Arnold,” he told himself, “don’t let your brain get overheated. Things like that don’t happen.” But he was woefully ill at ease and his flesh crawled. The graveyard
now appeared sinister and full of deep shadows where anything might be lurking. A breeze swayed the branches of a gnarled oak tree and the bushes all around began to rustle. The man clutched his cudgel with both hands. “Where are yer wits?” he asked himself. “’S only the wind, nought to be sceered of...”
“AAAEEEOOOWWW!”
That was it. With a final shriek Arnold Strogget leapt into the air and hurtled from the churchyard.
Still in his hiding place Will bit his lip—he wanted to get away too. The sound was nightmarish. Was it one of Doctor Spittle’s demons come to torment him? Bravely he waited till he was sure the nightwatchman had gone, then squirmed out of the gorse bush.
The high-pitched wail was sent up again and Will staggered through the thorns to escape the unseen monster. And then the cry changed. This time it was sorrowful and forlorn, sounding like an animal in pain.
Will halted. Should he find out what it was? If there was indeed some poor creature lying there in agony he could hardly ignore it. Hesitating, he moved towards the sound, hoping it was not a devil playing a trick to lure him into its den. One more plaintive whimper convinced him that it was not and he made for a great bramble thicket at the rear of the cemetery.
Kneeling on the damp ground he stared through the knotted twigs and his heart was moved to pity. For there, by an ornate tombstone, was Imelza—half dead with the cold and starvation. Alongside her were three kittens, but they looked as though the midwinter death had already claimed them. The ginger cat lifted her once lovely face and gazed unsteadily at the boy. One feeble mew was all she could manage before her head slumped onto her chest and her eyes closed.
“Poor puss,” Will tutted, “all alone with your little ones.” Glumly he sat back and for several minutes stared at the pathetic little group in silence. Then, before he realised what he was doing, he found himself dragging the brambles out of the way.
It was a difficult, painful task and his fingers bled from the sharp thorns. But at last a space was made wide enough for him to reach in. Holding the kittens in his cupped hands Will breathed his warm breath on them. They were all still alive—but only by the slenderest of threads. Gently he popped each one into his pockets then took the mother in his arms.
“Don’t you worry now,” he told her. “I can take you somewhere dry and warm tonight, though I don’t know what old Spittle will say.”
Imelza snuggled into the crook of his arm. The past week had been the worst she had ever experienced. Never had she been so hungry or so weak. The kittens seemed to have drained all her energy and she found hunting impossible. One puny mouse was all she had eaten in the last fortnight and no longer was she the fairest cat this side of the river. Now her once beautiful, well-defined features were pinched and careworn and her ribs showed through the fur.
She had finally given up all hope and was about to surrender herself to ‘He that walks in darkness’—that terrible presence which waits in the shadows and whom every cat knows it will meet one day. It was to this grim spirit that Imelza was calling, submitting her life to him, acknowledging his claim to her at last. This unearthly invitation was what the nightwatchman and Will had heard. But when Imelza had looked up to see the face of the dreaded one, she had beheld only that of a human child.
Sighing, she thanked whatever chance had brought him to her—people did have their uses after all.
Will stroked her softly and made his way out of the churchyard. Ludgate was buzzing like a stirred up wasps’ nest so he avoided the area and skirted round St Paul’s on his way back to the apothecary shop. All he had to do now was persuade the alchemist to let them stay.
The face of Doctor Spittle was pressed up against the window when Will arrived. It looked like a comical gargoyle but wisely Will did not laugh. The old man blinked when he saw the boy and scowled at the bundle in his arms. Hastily the face withdrew and he rushed to open the door and drag him inside.
“Where’ve you been?” he roared. “It’s taken you an age. Did you get it? What’s that you have there?”
Will answered the questions all at once in a rush of explanation. “I was chased by the nightwatchman, I had to hide, yes I’ve got it though I didn’t like doing it and this is a cat.”
“Well get rid of it!” snapped the old man. “Let me have the lock of hair.”
The boy placed Imelza on the sacking in front of the dying fire and, one by one, took the kittens from his pockets.
“More of the vermin?” squealed the alchemist, agitated to distraction. “Take them out of my shop at once!”
When all the kittens had been placed round their mother Will gave Doctor Spittle the hair he had cut from the dead man’s head. The old man snatched it greedily and gave it a tentative sniff. “You sure he didn’t have the smallpox?” he asked with a sudden suspicion. Will nodded and the alchemist almost skipped with glee.
“I want to keep them,” the boy said daringly. Doctor Spittle glared at him but quickly he carried on. “They’re cold and starving; they would have perished if they’d stayed outside one more night.”
“Better that than come in here stealing heat from my fire. Let them die. Put them in a sack and drown them in the Fleet.”
“I will not!”
The old man stepped forward, his eyes gleaming. “Defiance is it, my young dog? Well, we know what happens if you don’t obey me—don’t we?”
“But I thought you would be pleased,” Will cried.
Doctor Spittle stared at him confused. “Pleased? Why should I be pleased to have flea-bitten animals brought under my roof?”
“You’re a magician, aren’t you?”
“Alchemist—I’ve told you before.”
“Well, don’t they have familiars?”
There was a pause and the old man ran his fingers over his bald patch. “Here’s a notion,” he mumbled. “A familiar. Yes, all the greats possessed familiars—why not I? Interesting, I wonder if anyone has ever measured the intelligence of the feline. It would be fascinating to see how far I could train one.” He took a fresh look at the kittens and stooped to examine them. “This female won’t do, and as for the runt, I find his ugliness distasteful. I could never work with it—the nasty little leech. What have we here though? A fine specimen this is—see how much stronger the ginger kitten is? Yes I like him. There is some blue milk upstairs—they can have that. They will not sleep down here. I don’t want my customers tripping over them in the morning. They shall remain in the attic—I have my experiments to continue with tonight so I can keep an eye on them up there.” With that he scooped up the cats and ascended the staircase.
When he was alone Will sighed with relief. He understood the whims and vanities of Doctor Spittle enough by now to know how to get round him. At least the cats would be warm and fed tonight—he just hoped the old man wouldn’t get bored with them. What would happen when he realised a cat could not be trained in the magic arts? Yawning, he decided that this was a problem which he would have to solve some other time. At the moment he was far too tired to think any more. It had been an exhausting and perilous night for him and, as soon as he curled up on the sacking, the boy fell into a disturbed and fitful sleep.
5 - A Dragon in the Rags
The dawn was grey and cold; its dismal light poked through the diamond panes of the attic window and fanned across the cluttered room. Imelza opened one eye and took in her surroundings. She and her kittens lay by the hearth, where a pot bubbled over the fire and sent peculiar blue smoke up the chimney. For a while she was content merely to gaze at the cheering flames and be glad they were all still alive.
“So, you’re with us at last, madam,” came a voice behind her.
Imelza turned her head. Amid the bizarre clutter of the room she saw an old man and then she remembered, it was he who had fed her the previous night. The cat did not like the look of him. She had known enough humans to be able to tell which of them were trustworthy—this one appeared cruel and shifty. Warily she watched as he cackled and addressed
her once more.
“I hope you spent a pleasant night in my attic,” he said, “I have grand plans for that fine son of yours. He could be of the greatest use to me.” Doctor Spittle crouched beside her and reached down to stroke the ginger kitten.
Imelza eyed him with caution and her claws slid out in readiness. Her son struggled uncomfortably at the touch of the old man’s hand but he picked him up anyway. Imelza’s ears flattened against her skull and she hissed at the human to return her child.
“Tush, tush,” Doctor Spittle muttered, “I won’t harm him.” He stared at the kitten in his grubby hands then gave him back to his mother. “A remarkable youngster you have there, madam,” he told her, “but I must give him a name. A familiar must be called something dignified and noble. A character from legend perhaps, Zeus or Hermes? No, I always preferred the Roman gods—they were more vengeful and merciless.” A wide and toothy grin cracked his face as he clapped his hands together. “Aha!” he shrieked. “Henceforth your son shall be known as Jupiter! A fine and glorious name indeed.”
Imelza licked her son’s face and he raised his tawny eyes to her. She thought ‘Jupiter’ sounded ridiculous. Still it was not up to her to name her children. Cats are peculiar creatures, they never name their young. It is their belief that a kitten should choose its own when the time is right. They can go through life with a thousand titles but having only one true name. Gently Imelza purred into the small ginger ear which rubbed against her chin. “Jupiter will do for the present,” she whispered. Take it to please the human, so that he will give us food. When the winter is over we shall leave this place.”
Doctor Spittle studied them keenly, wondering what thoughts, if any, trickled through a cat’s mind. He congratulated himself on his choice of familiar—that one would grow up to be the strongest of the litter. The smile faded from his lips however when an ugly, black face reared over Imelza’s side. There was that puny little runt. Its head was too large for its sickly body to support, so it wavered and wobbled like some poisonous plant bending in the breeze. The alchemist pulled an unpleasant expression—it really should have been drowned or had its scrawny neck wrung.
