by G. P. Taylor
“Then you will not mind if we take from you anything that you are finding hard to carry?” A voice spoke firmly, and Malachi stared in horror at the three hooded figures in sacking masks who stood before him in the gloom.
“Stand and deliver!” the voice from the smallest figure whispered. The words were quickly followed by the click of a flintlock pistol.
The magician turned to face the muzzle of a gun pointed upwards at his head. “You are nothing but a boy, put that gun away and leave me be,” he scolded.
“Not one boy, but three men, out for the night and ready to kill. I suggest you give us anything that may make us go away and we will leave you with your life.” The smallest figure prodded a pistol into his stomach. “We want what you’ve got and quick,” he said briskly as the taller robber pushed Malachi to one side and looked at the cage.
“What do we have here?” the tall one asked, leaning over and rattling the gold bars. “A caged magpie ready for supper?”
Malachi noticed the dried bloodstain on the sleeve of his frock coat. “You are injured, my friend, and I am a man of medicine. Leave me be and I will help you.”
“Just a clip from a lucky man who was fated to eat the London dirt,” the robber replied, and again he rattled the cage. “I am strong enough and all he damaged was this highwayman’s pride.”
“Then fear not. I am Magnus Malachi, a pious man not concerned with money but the human heart. I have nothing to take, silver and gold are of no use to me.” Malachi spoke quickly, his lies falling easily from his lips.
“No money? Then what shall we take? Your cart is of no use to us.” The robber paused and looked at Tersias. “Why is he caged? Does he bite?”
“He . . . he has a disease.” Malachi thought feverishly. “I keep him caged so that the world will be safe. He went blind so quickly and now he can only speak. He’s quite mad, he says the strangest things.” Malachi twisted his beard with his fingers as he rambled.
“A poor old man out with a Bedlam boy, is that what you would have us believe? Who do you come to see on Thieving Lane?”
“No one . . . We are out for the night air, it helps me to sleep.” Malachi breathed deeply, sucking in a lungful of coal smoke and London smog that was tinged with the bitter taste of tanning acid. “The best air you can breathe.” He coughed. “A remedy for many a sickness.”
“And what of you?” the highwayman said softly as he shook the blind boy in his cage.
Tersias lifted his head from the safety of the blanket and opened his empty eyes. The robber gasped as he peered at the lifeless white gaze that fixed upon him.
The boy tried to smile at him, sensing him near as he held out a small frail hand. “We are as Mister Malachi says. He cares for me and gives me a home in this cage and a blanket for the cold.”
“Cage?” The robber turned to Malachi, pushing him against the wall. “Do you keep this child locked up like a thief, Mister Malachi?”
“Only when we are out, it is for his own good . . .”
“So what does he do for you that is so valuable? I can see that he is not kept for his own good.”
The magician thought for a while, studying each masked robber for some hidden clue as to their identity. “He’s an oracle, he speaks of things that are to come and I charge a sh-shilling,” Malachi stammered.
“So, where do you take this oracle on a dark night?” the highwayman asked as he prodded the thick blanket with his fingers, searching each fold.
“To a friend, a friend who lives in these parts,” Malachi replied cautiously. He slid his hand into his pocket and took hold of the golden guinea that he had kept for so long tucked away in the depths of his tattered frock coat.
“There is never a straight reply from you, is there, Malachi? I want an answer or my little friend will place the pistol up your nostril and cover the ground with your brains, if you have any.” The small thief pushed the flintlock towards Malachi’s head. “He doesn’t have a steady finger. The slightest tremor will set the lock and you will take a snort of the hottest snuff in London.”
“My friend’s name is Malpas—Lord Malpas, if you must know,” Malachi said reluctantly. He looked back along the street, hoping that someone would come from the inn or the fat old Warden would pass by.
The robber stepped back as if stung by the words. He looked at his friends, his hot breath steaming from the eyeholes of the sack mask. “And this Malpas, what business do you have with him?”
“A demonstration. He wants to know his future and little Tersias is the only oracle of his kind in the whole world. Tersias speaks the truth and many men will pay a fine price to hear the truth before they turn it into lies.”
“What things do you say, boy?” The robber stepped forward and spoke to Tersias through the gilded bars of his cage.
“I could give you a demonstration,” Malachi replied as he tried to edge his way between them. “I’m sure that among you there would be a shilling?”
“We will have a exhibition, but there’ll be no shilling.” The robber paused and looked at his two collaborators. ‘What do you say, our futures for his life?” The masked figures silently nodded. “Well, Malachi, it would appear that your generosity has saved your life. Our future for yours . . . but if we don’t believe you, then I will part your throat.” The robber pulled out a long, thin silver blade with his left hand and held it under Malachi’s nose. “This was a gift from a gentleman, sharper than any knife I have ever known. Pray that your oracle speaks the truth, or else his blind eyes will be witness to a murder so foul that he will never dare speak again.”
Malachi stared at the blade glinting before him. His eyes were drawn to the mystical symbols that were encrusted in the bright steel. It seemed that the snake that formed part of the hilt had shivered its silky scales and momentarily unfurled its long coils before freezing back into the solid metal.
“I think you will be pleased by what Tersias has to say to you, if not . . . astounded.”
“But not here,” the robber said, and he glanced to his friends and nodded for them to go ahead. “Follow them, they know a safe place and not too far from here, out of sight from the world. An ideal place to listen to your oracle . . . or cut your throat.”
Malachi walked on, pushing the handcart behind the two thieves as the other walked closely behind, the tip of the dagger sticking into the back of Malachi’s coat.
Tersias buried himself in his blanket. His ears began to burst with the sound of the wingbeats of the spirit, summoned by his unconscious thought from far away. In his mind he could see the creature rising from the black water of the great river, climbing from the foot of London Bridge as if its home was deep in the murky waters. Now he could plainly see the torn features of the creature, its long hair trailing through the night sky. Closer and closer it came as he was pushed through the night into Angel Court, then into the open night of St. James’s Field.
For the first time since he had felt the presence of the Wretchkin, Tersias began to fear the presence of the approaching creature. This beast wanted more than just to talk through him and conjure with human minds. There was an evil intent to its thoughts that left him feeling weak, as if the beast had sucked from him a heartbeat and a hope.
Tersias held his breath, fearful that the beast would consume him, entering his body never to leave.
“Now, Malachi, this is the place. Tell Tersias to be an oracle for us.”
“What is the desire of your heart? Is it something precise that you would like to enquire of him?” Malachi prodded Tersias with the long stick that he pulled from the side of the cart.
“Tersias, tell me . . . what life will I live? Will I die in bed or will the hangman have my clothes?” The robber laughed as he spoke.
Tersias heard the voice of the creature and spoke forth his words as it put its invisible hands upon the robber’s head and slowly stuck a long finger into his ear as if to feel his mind. “In the past he has stolen much and pleased himself, he has no co
ncern for the rope or anyone but himself. I can see the noose around his neck but not pulled tight enough to take his breath.” The creature stopped speaking momentarily and Tersias saw that its long thin fingers gently caressed the blade that the robber held in his hand. “This knife shall be your downfall—it is not yours and never shall be,” he repeated as the creature spoke. “Take it back to the fields where it was found and leave it by the well.”
“He speaks gibberish, gobbledygook and poppycock. I was given this knife fair and square. It’s mine to keep.”
Tersias ignored the robber’s protest as the beast spoke on. “There is one here who shall be taken from you. They shall be transformed and changed from the street. Their life shall be as a piece of jacaranda, rare and fragrant . . . unless a living grave consumes them and the locusts eat of their f lesh . . .”
“Stop! Words, stupid words,” the robber blurted out, and he pushed Malachi back with one arm. “You are lucky to leave here with your life. Go to your friend Malpas and lie for him, Tersias. May he take pity on your blindness and not decide to cut out your tongue as well.”
Tersias didn’t look up; in his mind he saw the beast take to its wings and fly off across the night sky.
“I won’t leave here empty-handed,” the robber ranted angrily. He grabbed the pistol and held it towards Malachi. “Empty your pockets and pray to whatever god you follow that you have enough gold to buy off my lead.”
Malachi groped for the guinea piece in his pocket. “I only have this and nothing else,” he said feebly. “This is nothing but a circus trick and I am a failed magician.” He got down on one knee, holding out a shaking palm with the coin trembling in the moonlight. “Have pity.”
“Take it!” the robber shouted to the smallest robber, who dashed forward and grabbed the golden guinea from Malachi’s palm. He checked its soundness by biting the metal through his hemp mask. “Good job it’s real or else I would blow you across this park and the geese could pick out your entrails. Now go, leave us be and don’t walk these streets again.”
Malachi grasped the cart with shaking hands and pulled Tersias back along the deserted track into Angel Court and towards Thieving Lane.
In the park the robbers huddled by the great oak that had looked over London for centuries. They watched Malachi struggle to pull the oracle along the track.
“A golden guinea, Maggot. Enough to keep us in beer and bread for a month,” Jonah said as he pulled the sweaty mask from his head. “Did you enjoy the chase?” he whispered to Tara as she unbuttoned the frock coat she had taken from Old Bunce.
“He knew about the knife,” she said as she pressed a piece of thick cloth into the opened and bleeding wound in Jonah’s arm.
“The boy knew many things and we got them for his guinea,” Jonah replied excitedly.
“Will you take it back as he said? I have a bad feeling there is more to that knife and the alabaster box than we will ever know.”
“You’re a worrier, Tara. Look what we got tonight. Soon we will have enough never to steal again. And we’ll have our own home, too.”
“Did you see his eyes?” Maggot interrupted. “He’s a boy, even younger than us. We can’t leave him as a slave to that old man, you don’t know what he’ll do to him. And if he can tell the future, then think of what he could do for us. He was right about the knife, he knew it was from Black Mary’s Well—how did he know that if he wasn’t an oracle?”
“Maggot’s right, Jonah,” said Tara. “We can’t leave him with that magician. A boy like that could tell us where all the money is hidden in the city. We’d know where the militia were hiding out and what was on every carriage.” She felt a coldness in her flesh, an icy embrace, the same as she had felt when she had opened the alabaster box.
Jonah turned the idea around in his mind. He was consumed by the desire to possess. He hated clawing in the dirt for every penny. He dreamt of being seated in a carriage like Lord Malpas, stopping outside the fine house he would live in with Tara and Maggot.
“A double dare!” he said, getting to his feet and brushing the dew from his breeches. “Follow them to Lord Malpas and kidnap the boy when they leave—and what’s more, we take whatever money Malachi fleeces from the good lord.”
VI
THE LOGICAL MISTER SKULLET
Vamana House had stood against rebellions and plagues, every stone shaped by bloodstained hands, every doorway forged in pain and misery. For three hundred years it had been the home of a Malpas. From the dwarf lord who first put stone on stone as a refuge for his thievery in the deep marshes that flanked the Thames to Pious John, who scourged himself every hour with a whip of coarse rats’ tails. Now, surrounded by houses, its land consumed as the marshes were drained, it was the town house of Lord Trigon Malpas. With its twin towers and slit windows the house grew like an old gnarled tree from the mud of Thieving Lane.
Skullet paused and listened to frantic banging before descending the wide flight of stairs that led downwards from the library overlooking the narrow street. His father had been the scullion to Trigon’s father. For every Malpas there had been a Skullet to comb their lice-ridden hair and polish their muddied boots. He had been born on the same day, at the exact minute as Lord Trigon Malpas.
From that day, Skullet had kept pace with the life of his master, watching him grow in riches and malevolence. He had endured many things as Lord Malpas had made his life in Parliament, puppeting the King, manipulating and spellbinding everyone on whom he cast his piercing black eyes.
Skullet took hold of the large iron handle on the oak door with both hands and pulled the door from its frame. There was a momentary pause as the tight seal was broken and the large door softly and silently glided open on the thick metal bands that hinged it to the stone wall.
The night air gushed in, flowing up and over the marble steps and into the hallway. There before him was Magnus Malachi, tightly clutching the hand of a small boy who cowered beneath him.
“Robbed!” Malachi shouted as he let go of the boy and waved his arms back and forth as if to beat away some unseen spirit. “Came out of the night, seven of them with knives and cutlass, pistol and blunderbuss. Never stood a chance, they took my money, all I had.” Malachi collapsed to the cold steps and sat snivelling with his face in his hands. “What shall I do?” he moaned through his fingers.
“You will get to your feet and come in,” Skullet said firmly. He took hold of Tersias by the collar and lifted him from the marble step and into the house. “Lord Malpas will not look kindly on your snivelling, he hates weakness and your moaning will have already disturbed his stomach.”
Malachi got to his feet, wiping his face with his sleeve as he pushed Tersias further into the hallway. He looked around at the fine oak panels that ran into the distant shadows, his eyes darting from the soot-darkened portrait of Trigon Malpas’s father to the shocking similarity of Mister Skullet. “A fine man,” Malachi said. “Lord Malpas?” he enquired meekly, pulling Tersias along behind.
“They are all Lord Malpas. Every generation. Not a single painting of anyone or anything else. Since the time of the great Lord Homuncule Malpas they have hung in this place. Every generation has always provided a male heir, not one single female was ever born . . . alive.”
Skullet stepped onto the stairway. “Let me tell you this, Mister Malachi. In this house there are rules that have to be obeyed. Never look Lord Malpas in the eyes, keep your gaze at his feet. Tonight you may answer directly, but do not ask any questions, Lord Malpas does not like questions. Do I make myself clear?” He lowered his voice to a whisper.
Malachi nodded in agreement as his eyes searched the faint details of the canvas that dominated the wall at the turn of the stairs. The flame of Skullet’s candle flashed shards of light against the image of Homuncule Malpas, clutching the severed head of a wolf. “Is this the founder of your fine dynasty?” Malachi asked, stepping back to look up at the painting that towered above them.
“There has been no
finer man than this,” Skullet said, and he raised the candle higher to illuminate the face that stared down at them. “He was a knave to the King. They were hunting in the deer park when they were attacked by a mad wolf. With two cuts from his dagger he beheaded the beast and saved the King’s life.”
“The hand that grips the dagger is bandaged?” Malachi questioned. The knife was familiar, he had stared at this blade before.
“Bitten by the wolf in its last breath of mortal life. A wound that never healed. Some say that the commingled blood drove him mad, and wolf blood has been in the family’s veins ever since. . . . Mention it not. Lord Malpas will not take well to it.” Tersias remained silent as Malachi led him along the landing towards the open library door.
“Wait,” Skullet ordered briskly as he stepped into the room and bowed his head. “Your guests have arrived, Lord Malpas.” Skullet turned to Malachi and nodded for him to enter.
“Malachi, Tersias . . . How wonderful for you to join me in our dowsing of the elements,” Malpas said excitedly as he stepped from the library ladder and opened his arms in welcome to his guests. “I often tell Skullet that we don’t have enough visitors. . . . But I never have the time or chance for such frivolity.” As he spoke, he twisted a small posy of red flowers in his hands. He smiled at Malachi and bade him to sit by the fire.
Malachi glanced at Skullet, confused by the warmth of the welcome as he obeyed Lord Malpas and sat by the large open fire, watching the glistening flames dance up the chimney. He held Tersias close by and brushed dust from the shoulders of his tattered coat that in such fine surroundings seemed even more ragged than before.
Scattered on the woven fire-rug were golden-tipped arrows that appeared to have been strewn purposefully across the floor. A long green shaft had settled across two purple darts that pointed to the door. Malpas noticed that Malachi was carefully studying the design.
