The Sword Bearer

by John White

  John hurried down the street to his grandmother's house. Squeezed against a high brick wall, it was the last house on the left. He opened the door shouting "Hello, Granma! I'm home!"

  But the house was in darkness. "That's funny. She must have gone to the shop for something," he murmured, groping his way forward into the blackness. "I wonder why she didn't leave the gas light on." His foot met something solid, and he pitched forward and fell for the second time that evening. He found himself lying on a cloth-covered mound. For a moment he did not move.

  "Granny?" he breathed at last. His hands groped along the clothing until his fingers found her cold face, and he gave a gasp of fear.

  "Granny!" Then louder, "Granny!" But there was neither sound nor movement. With a half sob, his panic mounting, he pushed himself up and carefully found his way over her and into the kitchen in search of the matchbox which she always kept on the mantlepiece above the fireplace. With shaking fingers he pulled a match from the box but immediately broke it in his eagerness to light it.

  Another match, fingers still shaking. Then the soft glow, the low hiss of the gas and a popping sound as the gas mande burst into light He turned and saw his grandmother, her skirt and legs in the kitchen where she had fallen at the entrance to the hallway and the rest of her beyond in the darkness.

  "Granny—you'll be all right, Granny. Don't worry, Granny, I'm going to get Mrs. Smith." He knelt beside her body, his own body shaking as he tried to shake hers. "Granny, it's me, John. You're all right now."

  He got up quickly and ran to the scullery. A flannel, that's what she needed, a wet flannel. That would make her come to.

  But the flannel didn't make her come to, and as he turned her head toward him, he was shocked to see her eyes were wide open and staring, staring fixedly beyond his shoulder. "Oh, no! No, Granny! You'll be all right I'll go and fetch Mrs. Smith. She'll know what to do. Just lie here a minute and wait"

  He ran into the foggy darkness to rap on the door of the next house. "Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith! Something's happened to me granma! Mrs. Smith! Hurry, Mrs. Smith!" He continued to knock at the door.

  " 'Ere, lad, what's tha' doin'? What's tha' makin' such a to-do about?"

  "It's me granma! She's lyin' in th' hallway! She's ill! Please come, Mrs. Smith."

  The tall lady wasted no time. She pushed past John and hurried into the hallway of his grandmother's house. A man's voice called from somewhere in the Smith's house. "Is she all right Elsie? What's 'appened?"

  John was standing in the corridor behind Mrs. Smith who was kneeling down by his grandmother. He could hear Mr.Smith's footsteps walking hurriedly from the one house to the other.

  "I think she's gone, 'Arold. I think she's gone. She must 'ave 'ad a stroke. Go an' fetch th' doctor. Tell 'im to come at once."

  The man turned and began to run down Pimblett's Place toward Ellor Street and the nearest doctor. John was still shaking as he watched Mrs. Smith pull the woolen shawl from around her shoulders and lay it gently across his grandmother's head and shoulders to hide the staring eyes.

  "Mrs. Smith!" John's voice was not working properly. "Is she—is she ... ?"

  Mrs. Smith rose to her feet and pulled him close to her, holding him against her warm body and rocking him gently from side to side. For a few moments she said nothing. Then, "It'll be all right. It'll be all right, young John. You see if it won't. You're goin' to be all right."

  But John knew, knew by what Mrs. Smith had not said as well as what she had already said. Gone meant "dead." His grandmother was dead and Mrs. Smith didn't want to tell him.

  His panic had left him, and he was strangely calm. His eyes were tearless and his mouth dry. He felt very, very wide awake, but at the same time felt as though nothing was quite real.

  He let himself be held by Mrs. Smith who seemed to be talking to herself as much as to him as she repeated endlessly, "It'll be all right, luv. It'll be all right."

  2

  * * *

  Troubled

  Sleep

  They sent John upstairs, not as a punishment but because they said, "It would be better that way." Mrs. Smith promised to bring him some hot cocoa later on. "An' there's a birthday cake on th' kitchen table. Just imagine! On your birthday, young John. Well, well! These things do 'appen. Don't cry, lad. Don't cry."

  Now though John did not feel in the least like crying, he was glad Mrs. Smith seemed to think he was. He knew he ought to cry. People in books always "wept piteously" when somebody died, and he felt guilty because he could not have wept piteous-ly even if he had tried. He tried to read a book but gave up. Grandma Wilson was dead. His mind could not grasp the idea. Nothing seemed real. What would happen to him? Would they let him stay in the house by himself? Why was he not crying? He felt only fidgety, restless and strange. The whole world was different, dreamlike.

  Absent-mindedly he pulled the string up over his head and began to fiddle with the gold ring and the gold locket. The ring was a heavy signet ring so worn that sometimes he thought the letters were not letters at all, but some sort of design. "It's a very old ring," his grandmother had told him. "I don't rightly know how old. It must be worth a lot of money, but I'll never sell it. An' don't you ever sell it, John Wilson, until you know what it's about. He owes you that much at least"

  Usually he enjoyed dreaming up adventures about both the ring and the locket but tonight something felt wrong about them. He frowned and tried to concentrate but found his thoughts flitting here and there, sometimes to Grandma Wilson, then to the mysterious sounds of busyness down below and then to what was to happen to him. Then his eyes widened and he stared with open-mouthed dismay at them. "She's dead—an' now I'll never know! She was going to tell me today!"

  Fingers of fear stole round his heart His mother and his father. Were they still alive? Where were they? How would he ever find them? He no longer felt like making up stories. He wanted the truth.

  He opened the locket and touched the lock of hair. Whose hair? And the soldier. Was this his father? And if he was, why was there no photo of his mother? Why, oh why had his grandmother not told him before? It was wicked to feel angry with someone who had just died, and he was shocked by the strange tumult inside him. He loved Grandma Wilson. He always had loved her, but why... ? His thoughts chased themselves in circles.

  They were interrupted by knocking at the front door. Footsteps hurried to open it and he heard Mrs. Smith say, "Come in, doctor. She'd gone when we found her. It was young John as really found her, but she was cold already." Their voices grew muffled as the kitchen door closed.

  There were other comings and goings. John kept listening but grew confused. Mrs. Smith was saying something about "washing her" and "laying her out," and he supposed that "her" meant his grandmother.

  Other phrases floated up from below. There was some talk about "the Methodist minister" and about "the lady almoner." John pricked up his ears when he heard someone say, "No. 'Is muther died when 'e was born, an' we don't know where th' father is. We don't even know if 'is father ever knew about 'im. They was married secretly but the old lady never did believe it, an' 'e was in Paris after the war. There was a rumor 'e was goin' to Canada. That's what the young couple wanted, but Mrs. Wilson lost contact with 'im. Έ was a right nice young feller. It's strange the old lady never took to 'im."

  So his mother was dead. John felt no grief, only that it seemed as though pieces of himself were being taken from him one by one so that he felt smaller and less real. His father never knew about him? The thought was terrifying. Would he be in Canada? Or still in Paris? In Canada probably. Deep within him he clung to the thought that his father was still alive. But if he was alive, and if John did find him, how would he convince him he was his son?

  Yet as the long minutes passed desperation hardened inside him. However long it took and however much it might cost, he would get to Canada. He stared at the faded brown picture, trying unnecessarily to memorize the thin features he already knew so well. Was it hi
s father? Somehow, somewhere he would find this man. Even if the man wasn't his father, he would know something about him.

  Other talk from below alarmed him even more. Words like "orphanage" and "someone will 'ave to look after 'im. Έ can't be let on 'is own. Oo's goin' to feed 'im?" made his stomach sink Clearly he would have to get away if he was going to Canada. But how? He knew he must not stay in Pendleton but must leave early the next morning. How he knew he could not have told you. But he knew. He had a father. His father was not in Paris. He would be in Canada. In any case Canada would be the first place to go.

  How much money did it take to get to Canada? He opened his small money box and counted his savings again. Two pounds, ten shillings and sixpence-ha'penny. That wouldn't get him far. It might not even get him as far as Liverpool. Maybe he could borrow from his friend Peter who had four pounds saved up. Would that be enough? Or could he get a job as a cabin boy on a ship bound for Canada?

  More words drifted up from below. "The minister said 'e would 'ave to come at eight-thirty tomorrow morning an' the almoner said it would be all right with 'er. They'll decide what's to be done with young John. Mrs. Wilson's all paid up for the burial. She paid regular into th' club, an' 'er account book is 'ere."

  John was having a problem breathing and his head ached. The loss of Grandma Wilson had begun to frighten him. Somehow he would have to make his escape early the next morning before the minister and the lady almoner arrived. The train would be best for Liverpool. If he could get to the station before they found out that he was gone ...

  Footsteps ascended the staircase and Mrs. Smith came through the door. "You must be really 'ungry, luv," she said kindly, setting a cup of steaming cocoa and a slice of his birthday cake beside him. "I can fry you some eggs an' bacon. What d'you want, lad? Is there something you'd really like?"

  She sat close beside him on the bed and put her arm round his shoulder. They had always been good friends. Her solidness and warmth comforted him, and he began to cry a little, tears rolling for the First time down his cheeks. He was glad he was normal enough to cry.

  "There, there," Mrs. Smith said soothingly. "Don't cry, lad. Somethin's goin' to 'appen. You're goin' to be all right."

  John told her he wasn't hungry.

  "But you must eat, lad. You 'ave to eat, y' know."

  "I'll eat the cake, Mrs. Smith. That'll be enough. I don't feel like eating."

  "That's fine, lad. You eat your cake, then. You're goin' to sleep in our 'ouse tonight. We're not goin' to leave you alone."

  Later it seemed strange to be in a double bed in the Smith's back bedroom. John sat up shivering. He would not go to sleep. What were lady almoners? What would the Methodist minister say? Determinedly he shook his head. No orphanage. Absolutely no orphanage. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He cried a little at the thought of running away without saying some sort of good-by to his grandmother. But his grandmother had gone. She hadn't said goodby. Was it wicked to feel like that? But then there came a more dreadful thought. Perhaps she had gone away because he was bad. He was neither clever nor tough. He was wicked. It was all his fault

  He was still fully dressed. His savings were tucked into the top pocket of his blazer, the pocket with the lion on it He got out of bed stil shivering and looked out of the window that looked down on the Smith's yard. He would stay up all night and creep away before the minister and the lady almoner came. He would go to Peter Shufflebotham's house. Peter would lend him money. Then he would go to Victoria Station and get a train for Liverpool.

  In spite of his best efforts he slept lying half across the chair by the window and half across the bed. But in his dream he thought he was still awake and staring through the window. The fog had cleared away and a full moon shone.

  John's eyes widened as he saw first a hand, than half an arm, then the top of a bowler-hatted head, and then the head and shoulders of a man climbing over the tall door of the Smith's tiny back yard. And as the man looked up at him John saw that it was Nicholas Slapfoot John's heart beat sickeningly. Old Nick, as everybody called him, heaved himself to the top of the door and swung first one clubfoot then the other over it, dropped into the yard and perched himself on top of the dustbin.

  Nicholas Slapfoot was feared by everyone in Pendleton. He lived in a hut in his scrapyard on the other side of the tall wall that blocked the end of Pimblett's Place. Every day he pulled his cart along the street shouting, "Any old iron? Any old iron! Rags and bottles and any old iron!" haggling with the neighbors for bits and pieces.

  Yet people feared him. Some people said he was very rich, but that he was a miser. It was said that one boy who once climbed into his yard never came back. And certainly boys who did go after lost balls told some pretty gruesome stories. Some boys' mothers went to the police. But the sergeant laughed at them and told them there was no such person as Nicholas Slapfoot, and there was certainly no scrapyard on the other side of the wall. All there was was the ruins of an old mill.

  John remembered Mrs. Smith talking about it. "The sergeant told 'em, 'Bring me a snapshot of 'im an' then I'll believe in this old Nick of yours.' A snapshot indeed! 'Ood ever 'eard the like! 'Ood 'av time and money to go round takin' snaps of Nicholas Slapfoot? If you ask me, 'im and the' police is in cahoots."

  John had his own reason to fear Old Nick. On his twelfth birthday John had accidentally kicked a brand new soccer ball over the wall and into the scrapyard. Peter had let him stand on his shoulders to help him climb the wall. He could not see the ball but neither was there any sign of Nicholas Slapfoot. Taking great care to avoid cutting himself on the broken glass that topped the wall, he eased his way over, turned round so that his back faced the scrapyard and let himself fall.

  But by the time he turned round Old Nick had appeared from nowhere. He was standing ten yards away, smiling. In one hand he held an iron crowbar, waving it gently. On the other hand he balanced John's ball which he extended tantalizingly. "Come an' get it, lad," he said. "Come on! Don't be frightened!"

  John eyed the ugly little man in his greasy black suit and his dirty red neckerchief. He glanced at the heavy boots with their three-inch soles. Old Nick was moving slowly toward him with the peculiar rolling gait he knew so well, smiling diabolically, his dark eyes gleaming.

  Out of the corner of his eye John spotted a heavy oil drum standing against the wall, only a yard to his right. Quickly he scrambled onto it and ignoring the broken glass on the top of the wall heaved himself up. With a roar of rage Nicholar Slapfoot dropped the ball and rushed toward him, the crowbar held high. John never saw the crowbar that flew like a bullet toward him. He was only aware of a tearing pain in his left shoulder, and of the ringing clatter the crowbar made when it fell to the ground.

  As he squirmed over the top, he cut his hands and tore his clothes. "I'll get you, John Wilson!" Old Nick shouted hoarsely. "I'm comin' to get you one of these days. Just you wait an' see!" John never saw his soccer ball again.

  His shoulder was badly bruised and the skin grazed. It was an injury that never healed but about which he said nothing to Grandma Wilson. And although he was the junior captain of gymnasium, from that day forward John frequendy had to clench his teeth to fight back the pain in his shoulder. His coordination remained superb. But his joy in exercising it was gone.

  And now in his dream (though as I told you John didn't know it was a dream) Nicholas Slapfoot was grinning evilly at him from the yard below. And though the window was closed, John could hear the words clearly when he spoke. "I'm comin' to get you tomorrow morning, young John." Suddenly the pain in his shoulder became almost unbearable.

  He woke, and as the pain subsided he struggled to sit up to make sure it was only a dream. The little back yard was still shrouded in fog. There was no sign either of a moon or of Old Nick "Thank goodness," John breathed. "This time I really will stay awake."

  But try as he might, he could not, and before long he was dreaming a dream that had haunted him for months, a dream of an island where an en
raged young dwarf killed another young dwarf and swam away from the island shouting, "Gold, I will have gold! I go to join the Mystery. Now I shall live forever and hoard more gold than any being who has ever lived."

  A voice in the sky cried, "Gold, gold for the Matmon Goldcoffin!"

  He hated the dream and struggled to wake. But his brain was sluggish and his limbs were wrapped in the bonds of sleep. So his dreams continued, taking him where he had never been before.

  3

  * * *

  John Makes

  a Dream Journey

  Whoomph! John crashed through a thicket to the ground. He was startled, shaken, but unhurt, and bewildered he rose to his feet.

  The night air flowed cool through his nostrils and into his lungs. A breeze washed his skin, the same breeze that made surrounding trees sigh to the clear moon above them. He was standing, feet firmly on the ground, at the edge of a forest glade.

  Mechanically he began to brush the earth and leaves from his clothes, but as he did so he stopped, startled. He had expected to feel his flannel blazer beneath his brushing fingers, but instead his hand encountered soft velvet He stared down in amazement at himself. He fingered the outer garment and said, "Just like a girl's gym slip without the pleats. Must be a costume of some sort." Around it was a leather belt. The moonlight made it difficult to determine the color. He thought it might have been light blue. Under it was a silk shirt, the sleeves of which were full and gathered at the wrists.

  His legs were bare, the lower legs encased in the crisscross thongs of his sandals. Most startling of all, a heavy bejeweled scabbard hung on his left side from the belt. Cautiously he fingered the hilt. There was a place to grip, encased in smooth leather. The rest of the hilt was jewel encrusted.