by Robin Jarvis
“Frog hair!” Henry disputed. “Its a trick. He’s still out there – soon as we peep out, he’ll ram us again.”
A remote bellowing proved that Adam was correct but Henry still clung to his doubts. “He might be throwing his voice,” he suggested.
His friend laughed, yet when he opened the door it was with every caution.
The wild boar had definitely departed, but the scene which met Adam’s eyes filled him with horror. The yard was a wreck. Every crate and chest had been smashed open, and the contents destroyed and mangled. Pieces of broken mechanicals lay strewn about the gravel like fallen soldiers after a bloody combat and Adam gazed at them guiltily. Old Scratch had thrown all his malignant savagery against them and they were beyond repairing.
“I’m to blame,” Adam berated himself. “I led him here. What am I going to tell Lord Richard?”
Emerging from the stables, Suet picked his way through the destruction and hastened to the piggery where he pressed his snout through the fence and squeaked piteously.
From the brick sty a low voice answered, accompanied by a similar squeal. Old Temperance came lumbering out, joined by Flitch. Suet hopped up and down with glee and the great sow ambled over to him, their noses meeting through the wooden rails.
Seeing them united, Adam smiled in spite of the devastation around him and gently lifted the piglet over the fence to place him with his family. Suet pressed lovingly against Old Temperance’s large bulk then ran joyful rings around Flitch.
“Glad that devil didn’t get the pair of you,” Adam said affectionately, then added with a pang of envy, “Must be nice to have a family.”
Leaving the mechanical pigs to their greetings, the boy returned to the workshop.
Henry had not bothered to look at the damage Old Scratch had inflicted in the yard and when Adam entered, he was sitting at his bench beneath two lanterns. The thing he had rescued from the oak tree was in his hands and he was examining it under the light. Staring over his shoulder, Adam uttered a gasp of wonder.
It was a beautiful necklace or collar, fashioned in a band of yellowish metal which was neither brass nor gold. Intricate designs snaked and writhed over its surface and many coloured stones were set about the rim, the largest of which was a polished blue gem the size of a blackbird’s egg. It was this smooth jewel that had first attracted Adam’s attention in the oak trees, for in its depths a bleak light was pulsing steadily. Neither boy had ever before seen its like and they stared at it in silence for several minutes.
“It’s lovely,” was all Adam murmured eventually.
Henry ran his fingers over the gleaming metal and touched the glimmering stone. “Must be worth a tidy sum,” he declared.
Adam agreed. “Pity it isn’t ours,” he said.
“Who says it isn’t?” Henry asked. “We found it. In truth, it was me who fetched it from the branches. I have a valid claim to it.”
Adam frowned at him. “You can’t have it!” he cried. “It belongs to the stranger.”
“Not no more. It’s mine and I’m keeping it. Earn me a few sovereigns, this will.”
But before he could bear the glittering thing to his secret hiding place, Henry was pushed off his stool. While he sprawled upon the floor, the collar was grabbed from his hand.
“Adam!” he bawled as the other boy ran from the workshop. “Come back, you thieving orphan! I hate you!”
Mistress Dritchly’s raw pastry features rumpled into a thoughtful expression. Her patient had shied away from the broth she had so wanted to give him and she was considering what other dish she could prepare.
The stranger regarded the three onlookers sadly. Apart from pointing and shaking his head, there was nothing else he could do to make them understand.
“My Lord,” Jack Flye began hesitantly, “could he not be one of the special ambassadors that I have heard tales of?”
Mistress Dritchly brightened at the remembrance. “Oh, I recollect them exceeding well,” she clucked. “Time was when they were always a-visiting, when the lands were first uplifted.”
Lord Richard leaned back in his chair. “Nay,” he said. “Those noble folk were not as our friend here.”
“True enough,” Mistress Dritchly agreed with an emphatic nod that sent her greying curls bobbing. “I ought to know, for did not my Edwin himself become great friends with one? It were they who taught the first masters of motive science. Learned a barn full of cog lore, Edwin did, from that gentleman.”
Lord Richard fingered his neat pointed beard. “For the first thirty or so years after the Beatification,” he said, “they guided and reassured all those of us who were fearful. Kindly mentors, they were.”
“What would we have done without them?” the woman sighed. “Showed us how to glean the proudflesh, and how to work the rind of the hide trees until it’s as supple as the best Spanish leather.
Chewing the end of a lock of hair which had strayed across his cheek, Jack eventually asked, “So where did they come from? What happened to them? No one ever really speaks of it.”
Mistress Dritchly tutted and, with a wobble of her plump pink cheeks, told him, “They would never say from whence they came, yet I and most others knew that they were doing Our Lord’s bidding. How they delighted in everything they did. Alas for the day which saw them depart. As abruptly as they appeared amongst us, they left. No word of farewell or explanation, they merely stopped a-visiting.”
She paused and dabbed at her eye. “Edwin missed his merry, clever friend. Bless me, but he conjured some fanciful notions. Reckoned that wherever those noble people hailed from, danger and trouble was brewing there. I told him that was a wicked thing to say, for how could there be any manner of strife in the divine province of Heaven?”
“You’re swift to populate every corner of the Almighty’s kingdom,” Lord Richard teased gently. “First the special ambassadors, now this fellow – a crowded place it must be.”
Jack let the hair fall from his mouth. “So they never returned? Not one?”
“None that I ever heard of,” Richard Wutton answered. “But they were a people apart from our guest, their features as unlike his as his are to our own.”
“Faces flat as smoothing irons,” Mistress Dritchly put in. “And foreheads like a proving loaf, but such lovely manners.”
She was prevented from saying any more by a sudden rush of footsteps as Adam came rushing into the house, hotly pursued by Henry.
“Give it back!” Henry demanded, but Adam raced up the stairs and came tumbling into the sickroom.
“What’s this?” Mistress Dritchly squalled in outrage. “I told you to be gone! Were you the cause of the din we heard afore outside? Impudent child! No supper shall you receive this night – you must learn and your belly groan.”
Under her barrage of complaint, the boy could not squeeze a word out, but Lord Richard observed the serious gleam in his eye and called the widow to silence.
“What is it, Cog Adam?” he asked.
The apprentice stepped forward and held out the gleaming object, even as Henry barged crossly into the room behind him.
“This, My Lord,” he said. “I believe it belongs to the stranger.”
There was no time for anyone to proclaim its beauty. As soon as the wounded figure saw what Adam grasped in his hand, he called out in a beguiling cry. It was so insistent that the boy did not wait for instruction from his master but hastened to the bedside and surrendered the collar immediately.
With his bandaged hands, the patient clumsily clasped the thing around his slender neck and touched the lesser stones in sequence. At once a sizzling noise came crackling from the blue gem and its glow flared, banishing the shadows and dimming the candle flames. Yet the glare lasted only a moment and, when it had dwindled, the stranger opened his thin mouth.
“My thanks to you,” a rich, melodious voice chimed from the heart of the flickering jewel. “I am called Brindle and I owe you my life.”
CHAPTER 3
The Balm Trader
The stunned silence which followed was swiftly swept aside by an eruption of spluttered words and exclaiming cries. Mistress Dritchly made a noise very like the bass squeals of Old Temperance, while Adam and Jack whooped with delight and Lord Richard gave a hearty cheer. Only Henry remained silent but none of the others noticed.
The patient regarded them with an amused glitter in the green horseshoe of his eye, until Lord Richard called for silence.
“At last,” he breathed, turning to his guest, “there can be understanding betwixt us.”
A smile formed in that scarred face. “The torc permits us to share a common speech,” the answer came. “I am thankful for its retrieval, yet I sense that this young pair have been at some pains to fetch it. Fear, freshly dispelled, clings to them still.”
The others looked at the two apprentices and Henry squirmed uncomfortably. Brindle stared at him most keenly until the boy felt sure that somehow the stranger knew what he had intended. Blushing, Henry looked at the floor.
“Now I may discover something of this interesting land and those who have saved me,” Brindle said.
Lord Richard introduced the visitor to each of them in turn then went on to describe what happened on the night they found him. Brindle listened gravely and, although he wished to know more of this place, he could see that his host was barely containing his own curiosity.
“Again I perceive how deeply I am within your debt,” he began. “A worthy people you are. There is so much you would ask of me and yet you forebear to perform the courtesies. Ask then, and I shall answer.”
Before Lord Richard could speak, Henry had overcome his awkwardness and piped up, “You really come from Heaven?”
“I am from the sphere of Iribia,” Brindle replied, much to Mistress Dritchly’s disappointment. “Are you unaware of its … fame? ’Tis a world renowned for its great beauty and fragrance. As a garden is my world, for it does boast the greatest species of plant and flower, more than anywhere I have ever visited.”
“Well it certainly sounds like paradise,” Mistress Dritchly said, her faith restored. “Now, my angel, you must eat a little. Not a crumb has passed your lips these three days gone.”
Brindle held up his hand and shook his head. “Do not think me unmindful of your good intention,” he assured her, “but I have received enough nourishment this day.”
“When?” the woman cried. “Has that lumpen Anne been feeding you when my back was turned?”
Her patient grinned. “Nay,” he vowed, indicating the jug of flowers at the bedside. “’Tis the way of my kind to find sustenance of a different sort. The blooms you have daily sweetened this chamber with have more than maintained my strength. I marvel at them for they are all new unto me.”
“You don’t eat at all?” she murmured in dejection. “Not even a morsel of marchpane?”
“Let him be, Mistress,” Lord Richard told her. “I should like to know how our friend came to be here and why his conveyance crashed into our firmament.”
The yellow eye narrowed and a pain that was not borne of his injuries etched into Brindle’s face.
“I am lost,” he said simply. “I am a balm merchant by trade, exchanging the rare perfumes of my home with other provinces. Returning thither, my night boat suffered a misadventure and the instruments of navigation were destroyed. For six weeks or more I have journeyed blind and without hope of aid.”
He paused and stared down at the coverlet. “Never have I known such a darkness in my life. A horror was with me always, for any moment might have spelled the end. I knew not where the vessel rushed me but collision was certain. Hourly, Death tapped at my shoulder and in my bleakest moments I came near to embracing Him.”
“Don’t speak of it,” Lord Richard said kindly.
“The good Lord delivered you to us,” Mistress Dritchly declared. “He has a way of caring for His own.”
“’Twould seem a power greater than chance watched over me,” Brindle agreed. “To have brought me safe to this unknown region and into such friendly hands.”
His voice trailed into silence and it was clear that fatigue was creeping over him. Mistress Dritchly decided that it was time for them all to leave. Her charge needed his rest and even Lord Richard dared not refuse her.
“God’s peace be upon you,” she whispered, closing the door behind her.
Wearily lowering himself back on to the pillows, Brindle reflected that he liked this unusual race. Not certain what to do with the candle flame, he left it burning and closed his eye. The scents of the room closed over him and, breathing deeply, the Iribian surrendered himself to them.
The next day dawned early for the apprentices. The wreckage that Old Scratch had left behind had to be cleared up and, surveying the damaged mechanicals, Lord Richard knew that the cost of replacing them would fall to him. He worried how he could possibly begin to afford it, as there was nothing left in Malmes-Wutton worth selling.
“That wild boar is becoming expensive,” he told himself, “not to mention hazardous. It should have been attended to years ago. It must be captured and stilled as soon as possible.”
He was in the yard, helping Adam and the others remove the last traces of Old Scratch’s violence, when a cart arrived bearing a fresh consignment of repair work. This time it was three broken ponies in desperate need of an overhaul, and a horse whose head was jammed upside down. The esquire who brought them was eager to look on the heavenly messenger, but Lord Richard politely refused the request, then hurried indoors to deny the man an opportunity to ask a second time.
In the sickroom Brindle awoke feeling much stronger. Mistress Dritchly removed several of his bandages and decided that it was time for the air to do its healing work upon his lesser wounds. The left eye, however, was still too inflamed and this she bound firmly with clean dressings.
Staring in fascination out of the window, Brindle shocked her by announcing his intention to rise from the bed and learn something of this unfamiliar land. Against her better judgement and with many shakes of her head, Mistress Dritchly brought him a jerkin and breeches of homespun.
Brindle accepted them thoughtfully, his nostrils quivering. “The nightshirt I wear,” he said. “It too belongs to the owner of these garments. An image of a large-hearted, blustering man adheres to them. His presence is close about you also … and yet.”
Mistress Dritchly gasped and her small eyes blinked the unexpected tears away. “My Edwin,” she breathed, glancing expectantly about the room. “You … you can see him? Here in this chamber?”
The Iribian hastily tried to explain.
“I see but an impression of him. A memory if you will. My perception is keener than yours and does not rely on sight alone. Were both my eyes blinded in the crash I would not consider myself impaired. An Iribian lives by scent; all other senses are but complements to it.”
“But how did’st you know what my Edwin looked like?” she asked in disbelief.
Holding up the jerkin, Brindle’s nostrils dilated. “Clothing remembers its wearer,” he answered. “How could it be otherwise? The traces of his moods seep into the weave. It recalls no anger, but agitation in abundance. The fermented juice which His Lordship drinks was not unknown to him, but he partook of it seldom. This man worked with his hands; metal, oil and timber – all passed through his fingers. Such is the testimony of his raiment. There is a deal more should you wish to hear it.”
Breaking off, he turned to Mistress Dritchly who was gazing sadly at the clothes with glistening eyes.
“The hues of his essence shade your being also. You were bonded with him, though the colours I discern are old and unrefreshed. Where is this man? Why has he been absent these many days?”
“Edwin was my husband,” she murmured thickly. “He has been dead nigh on two weeks now. God love him.”
Brindle returned the jerkin. “Then you must not cast his signature scent away,” he told her. “You are overly generous.”
The woman rubbed her nose. “No,” she insisted. “I keep his memory alive and bright in my heart; I don’t need his clothes to remind me of the years we had. You have them, my angel. Wear them with my blessing and Edwin’s also.”
The Iribian bowed. Then, gingerly, he pulled the unaccustomed apparel over his bruised and aching limbs. The arms of the jerkin were a little too short and the legs of the breeches did not reach his ankles, but around the waist there was plenty of cloth to spare. A tight belt gathered the excess and held it in place, while a pair of leather boots donated by Lord Richard completed the attire.
Peering into a small steel mirror hung on the wall, he saw for the first time the extent of the injuries to his face and looked away quickly.
“Don’t you trouble yourself over that,” his nurse said firmly. “Folk hereabouts have gazed on much worse of late. If they do stop and gawk at you, send them on to me and I’ll give them an aspect to match.”
Brindle moved away from the mirror and, standing by the window, set his eye roaming over the peculiar landscape outside. “What miracle is this place?” he asked, staring up at the arching buttresses of the leaded firmament. “This is no ordinary sphere.”
“Indeed it is not,” she replied proudly. “These are the uplifted isles. We were brought here by the grace of the Almighty and given understanding enough to dwell in His new and great design.”
The Iribian’s brow creased in confusion. “This is not the world of your birth?” he asked.
“Mercy, no!” Mistress Dritchly exclaimed. “That was a wicked place, brimming over with sin. We were saved from that by the Beatification and set here instead.”
Brindle was still bewildered but Lord Richard had entered and, hearing Mistress Dritchly’s words, rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “The character of Man has not changed a whit since that time,” he interrupted. “We are just as corrupt and iniquitous as before.”
Edwin’s widow opened her mouth to argue the matter, then remembered the number of tasks she had to accomplish that day. With a last simmering glance at Lord Richard, she removed herself to the kitchen.
