by Kate Forsyth
Van and Fairnette stared at Luka, utterly taken aback.
‘Well, why not?’ Luka said. ‘Your dad can make anything, he said so himself. Why not a new hand?’
‘A new hand? Made of iron?’ Van stared down at his stump, then gazed at Luka, his eyes beginning to shine.
‘We never thought of that,’ Fairnette said, her voice rising in excitement. ‘But . . . how? How could you . . .’
‘Attach it?’ Luka said, not realising Fairnette had paused out of tact. ‘I don’t know. Maybe make a leather cup that fits over the stump. With straps, perhaps, that you could tie about your shoulder to keep it in place.’
‘You could make it nice and soft with lamb’s wool inside,’ tender-hearted Emilia said.
‘Your father could make all sorts of different tools that could be screwed in and out,’ Luka went on. ‘You could even work in the forge one day if he found some way to attach a smith’s hammer to your stump.’
‘Could it work?’ Van whispered. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be like having my hand back again, but . . .’
‘Of course it would work,’ Luka said. ‘Why wouldn’t it?’
‘People would stare,’ Van said, in an agony of shyness.
‘Who cares?’ Luka said, dunking the scrubbing brush in the water again.
‘Heaps of people lost their hands during the war,’ Emilia said. ‘We saw crippled soldiers begging in Guildford. Some had lost an eye, or their whole arm. One we saw had even lost both legs. No one would think anything of you having only one hand, really they wouldn’t.’
‘They’d want to know who made your iron hand and then they’d come and beg your father to make one for them too,’ Sebastien said. ‘He’d make a fortune!’
Van began to look excited, but then he suddenly put one hand up to his scarred, hairless head, and the light went out of his eyes.
‘You know what,’ Emilia said. ‘If you wore a wig, no one would ever know you had scars underneath. All the fine gentlemen in France wear wigs now, the duke told us. They have to shave off all their own hair to fit it on their heads. Once the king comes back, wigs will be all the rage here too.’
‘You think so?’ Van rubbed at the thick, ugly scar above his maimed ear.
‘I know so,’ Emilia said confidently.
‘But where would I get a wig? They must cost a lot of money, if they’re for gentlemen to wear.’
‘I’ll give you my hair if you like,’ Emilia said, surprising them all. She put her hand up to her wild black curls. ‘The king wears a wig just like this when he rides back into London,’ she said dreamily. ‘People are cheering, girls are throwing roses, trumpets are blowing. And all the lords riding behind the king have long dark curls to their shoulders too. You would look just like the king.’
‘How do you know these things?’ Van whispered. ‘Are they true?’
Emilia nodded.
‘But how do you know?’
‘I just do,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the eye, you know.’
‘But would you really cut your hair off for me?’ Van sounded dazed.
‘We need your help,’ Emilia said. ‘And I don’t want you to force Luka to give you his monkey girl. Zizi belongs with him, it’d break her heart if he gave her away. But, if it’ll help you, I’ll gladly cut off all my hair to make you a wig.’
Luka stared at her, gratitude shining in his eyes, then gathered his little monkey close in his arms. She chattered away lovingly, patting his arm with her leathery paw.
‘But what could I do?’ Van said slowly. ‘Father has already said he’ll cut those keys for you.’
‘You could give us the lightning bolt charm,’ Emilia said.
There was a long silence.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Van said at last, in a strangled voice, his hand groping in his pocket.
‘Aye, you do,’ Emilia replied. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Of course you have the charm. We know your father doesn’t have it, we could see his neck was bare, and Luka says that your brother Stevo wasn’t wearing anything about his neck either. Yet we know that he pulled it off your father’s neck during their fight at the foundry. So where is it? I think you grabbed it that day. I think it flew off your father’s chain, and fell on the floor, and you bent to pick it up. I’ve noticed how often you put your hand into your pocket, fiddling with the things you have in there. I didn’t think anything of it at first. But I think you have the charm in there, and you touch it, for courage, like I touch mine.’
Van did not say anything for a moment, then he withdrew his hand from his pocket. He held a small piece of iron, forged into the jagged shape of a lightning bolt. He rubbed his thumb over it, then held it out to Emilia. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you before. I . . . I wanted it to be all mine. It’s got power, you know.’
‘I know,’ Emilia said.
She put up her hands and twisted her hair into a thick rope. ‘Can I have your knife?’ she said to Luka.
‘No, don’t cut your hair!’ Van cried. ‘You don’t need to.’ Then he looked at Luka. ‘And you don’t need to give me Zizi. I could never take her away from you. I’m sorry I said so. It’s just . . .’
‘But what can we give you then, in return for the charm?’ Emilia said, looking troubled.
‘You’ve already given it to me,’ Van said. He pursed up his lips and mimicked the call of the swallow, then said, ‘Whilst fishes have scales, and birds have feathers, I’ll do what I can for you . . .’
Emilia leapt up and flung her arms around his neck, kissing him on his cheek so he flushed scarlet. ‘Thank you, Van!’
She hung the lightning bolt charm on her bracelet. It swung to and fro, black as night, hard as hate, hot to the touch. A little shiver ran over her, half dread, half excitement.
‘Now to rescue our bear, and get on our way,’ she said. ‘Van, I need to make fire and smoke. Do you know how?’
He nodded, smiling broadly. ‘Indeed I do,’ he said.
Fire and Smoke
Night had fallen and all was dark, but torches planted all around the village square cast a flickering red light over the crowd gathered together in the street before the Gun Inn.
An improvised bearpit had been built with rough stakes in the centre of the green. Sweetheart sat in the middle, chained by the leg. She looked very sulky. She did not like the noise of the crowd, shouting and jeering as they drank beer and laid their bets. She did not like the smell of the half-starved dogs snapping and snarling in the back of a cart parked nearby. She was covered with cuts and bruises where she had been beaten with a stick, and her nose was very sore. Sweetheart just wanted to go home.
Excited children darted here and there among the crowd, so no one paid much attention to a couple of boys loitering near the dog cart, hoods drawn up over their heads against the evening chill. The owner of the fighting dogs was busy taking bets, and so he did not notice when the two boys surreptitiously dropped half-a-dozen lumps of meat into the dog cart, before creeping away. Soon the snarling died away as the dogs settled down to devour the meat. It did not take long for the powdered fishberries sprinkled on the meat to take effect. One by one the dogs lay down and put their heads on their paws, yawning and sighing. Some began to snore.
It was more difficult to reach Sweetheart. Luka had to clamber over the fence, first folding his coat over the sharp points of the stakes. Luckily a thick mist had begun to drift in over the town, and so no one saw him. He crept right up to Sweetheart, talking softly to her as he wrestled with the lock that chained her leg to the stake. He had practised all afternoon with the lock pick Fairnette’s father had made for him, but it was much more difficult to pick a lock in the dark and the mist, with a disgruntled six hundred pound bear growling and grumbling at the other end of the chain, than it was in the light of the day.
He gave the slender little hook another wriggle and suddenly the padlock clicked open. Luka was able to hastily unfasten it from the cha
in and creep away.
Shouting and jostling, the audience began to call for some action. The dog-man drank down his beer, and swaggered across to the cart. When he found his dogs snoozing, he cursed and began to lay about him with his whip. The dogs yelped, and staggered to their feet, and he dragged them from the cart towards the bearpit.
Sweetheart looked up as the crowd surged all round the circle of stakes, and growled. The dogman clambered over the fence, seized the chain that hung from the ring in Sweetheart’s nose and gave it a vicious yank. She yowled and put both paws to her nose. When he yanked it again and hit her with his whip, she rose high onto her hind paws and bellowed her displeasure. At once everyone cheered, and Sweetheart snarled and struck out with her paw. The dog-man ducked and backed hastily away, then drove his poor, thin, half-drugged dogs into the bearpit, lashing cruelly with his whip. With tails slunk between their legs, they staggered around, whining. Sweetheart, who was feeling very cross and out of sorts, growled at them. One or two snapped at her, but most of the dogs were simply too groggy to fight. One even lay down and went back to sleep.
‘Poor show!’ one man shouted. ‘What’s wrong with your dogs?’
‘What kind of bear-baiting is this?’
‘Tie some fireworks to their tails, that’ll get them jumping!’
Suddenly there was a loud bang and whoosh. Purplish smoke billowed up from the grass, and the smouldering flames in the torches shot high, spraying sparks everywhere. Everyone glanced around, startled.
Emilia stepped out of the smoke. She was dressed in her vivid gypsy skirt, with a gaudy scarf tied over her head, and big golden hoops in her ears. Her black curls hung in wild disarray down her back. She held her grandmother’s crystal ball in one hand. With the other she pointed three fingers at the startled crowd.
‘Curse the voices that cry for blood!’ she called. ‘Curse this town, which lives by fire and iron and death! May your foundry crumble to dust and ashes.’
The crowd stood still, shocked and afraid.
Emilia turned her gaze and her pointing fingers towards the dog-man, who cowered back. ‘Curse the hand that strikes a poor, dumb beast! May you feel the sting of the whip, the bite of the chain.’
He stumbled backwards, terrified. At once Sweetheart lunged forward, lashing out with her massive, sharp claws. Shrieking, the dog-man tumbled head over heels over one of his huge, pug-faced mastiffs, who snarled and snapped at him, closing his jaws over the screaming man’s hand. Blood spurted. The dog-man screamed. He managed to wrench his hand away, and went running out of the bearpit, still screaming. Excited by the smell of blood, the bigger, meaner dogs raced after him, howling and snarling. The crowd shrank back and let them through.
Emilia was as shocked as anyone. She certainly had not expected her curse to work, let alone so graphically. Her hand dropped, and sought the comfort of the charms hanging from her bracelet. Golden crown, silver horse, the sprig of rue, the cat’s eye shell . . .
‘Seize her!’ Coldham cried, striding out of the crowd, flanked by burly constables. He was grinning broadly. ‘We have her now!’
Emilia’s fingers touched the last of her charms, the unfamiliar serrated shape of the lightning bolt charm.
Her hand flashed up again. She pointed her three stiff fingers directly at the thief-taker, and cried, at the top of her voice, ‘And I curse you, Coldham. With fire you fought, and so with fire you shall be struck down!’
Luka and Sebastien, hidden in the crowd, at once threw more handfuls of saltpetre into the flickering flames of the torches, while Van, his hood drawn down over his face, ignited another of his smoke bombs. Again there was a loud whoosh. Sparks flew high, and a bitter, acrid, purple-coloured smoke billowed out, obscuring Emilia from sight. She ran forward and seized Sweetheart’s chain. ‘Come on, Sweetheart, come on, we have you now. Let’s get out of here.’
As she ran away from the bearpit, Sweetheart loping along beside her, she shoved the crystal ball in her hand deep into her pocket to keep it safe. The crowd was in complete disarray. People were screaming and running in all directions, others were belligerently searching for her, while Coldham stood, pale-faced and sweating, struck dumb with terror.
He hates us because he fears us, Emilia thought to herself. Well, now at least he really has something to fear!
She wrapped her black shawl about her waist, trying to hide the bright rose-pink and crimson of her multi-layered skirt, and dragged her grandmother’s gilt-threaded scarf away from her hair, shoving it into her pocket too. Sweetheart was glad to be running away from the crowd, frightened by all the shouting and screaming and the foul smell of the smoke.
Those smokebombs Van made for us really worked! Emilia thought exultantly. Now all we have to do is get away from here.
In the darkness, the only landmark was the gun foundry. Its windows glared red through the night, and the clang and pound of its giant hammers never ceased. Emilia ran towards it, pulling on Sweetheart’s chain every time the big bear protested and tried to rear backwards.
‘I’m sorry, darling Sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘I know it hurts. I promise, just a little further . . .’
Behind her she heard shouts and the thud of running feet. She recognised Coldham’s grating voice, and ran faster. Sweetheart bounded forward, her heavy paws thumping on the dirt of the road.
Overhead, the clouds parted for a moment and she saw the red glint of Mars, the planet of the god of war. She cast some kind of wordless prayer towards it, as the road began to rise under her feet, leading her inexorably to the gun foundry.
Then her foot fell into a pothole, and she stumbled and was thrown to the ground. Her arm was almost jerked out of its socket as Sweetheart ran on. As the chain snapped taut, Sweetheart yowled in pain. Shaken and bruised, Emilia staggered up. ‘Sorry, Sweetheart, sorry!’
A big hand seized her elbow.
‘If it’s not our little devil in child form,’ a familiar voice murmured in her ear.
Emilia swung round in fury. ‘You sold us out!’ she hissed. ‘How could you?’
Felipe made a deprecating sound. ‘He offered us our horses back, if we helped him.’
‘You’re Rom! And you betrayed us.’
‘Don’t take it so hard, my wean,’ he said. ‘It was not personal. With one behind you cannot sit on two horses, you know that. I had to do what I could to save my family.’
‘What about mine?’ Emilia was trying hard to hold back her tears, but her voice quivered so much, she knew Felipe heard them.
‘I’m sorry about your family, little one, but what could I do? Coldham is a bad man to cross.’
‘May he burn in hell!’
‘Is that another curse? I swear you made my blood run cold with those curses of yours, my little gule romni. Will it come true, what you said to him?’
Emilia was silent. Beside her, Sweetheart shifted her weight uneasily, not trusting Felipe’s scent. The shouting and running came closer.
‘I don’t know,’ Emilia said. ‘Words have power. Maybe.’
‘Well, I just hope you don’t ever curse me, Emilia Finch.’
‘May you pay for your shame!’ Emilia flashed.
There was a brief silence, then Felipe let go of her elbow. ‘Who am I to stop a Rom from running where she wills?’ he said softly. ‘Go, little one. I’ll try to throw them off the scent.’
Emilia did not hesitate. With a little jerk to the chain, she was off and running again, Sweetheart bounding beside her.
‘No devil in child form here!’ Felipe called loudly. ‘I think they’ve slipped your net again, Coldham!’
‘I’ll see that girl hang,’ Coldham replied nastily. ‘And you too, you dirty gyp, if you don’t find her!’
‘I swear, she must’ve slipped through a crack in the ground and gone down to find her master,’ Felipe said, in mock piousness. ‘For she’s not to be found anywhere!’
‘Kindle some fire!’ Coldham shouted. ‘Let us have some light here!’<
br />
‘Are you sure that’s wise, Coldham?’ Felipe said, very coolly. ‘Given her curse and all?’
There was a long moment of silence. Emilia quirked her mouth up in a rueful smile. She could not help liking Felipe.
The big doors of the gun foundry yawned before her. She slowed to a creep, and slipped inside.
All was black above, and red below, with sudden sparks and showers of gold and silver, beautiful and dangerous. Men worked away, sullen with exhaustion. They did not notice the tiny stick figure of Emilia or the giant dark hump of the bear beside her. Emilia stuck to the wall, and searched around for her friends, for they had all agreed the foundry to be the best meeting place.
‘Hsst! Milly!’
Emilia looked around, and saw the sudden floating apparition of a face out of the darkness, and the urgent wave of a hand. She sidled towards them, and drew a reluctant Sweetheart close into the shadows under the ladders.
‘You all right?’ Luka whispered.
‘Aye,’ Emilia whispered back. ‘But they’re close on my heels. Do you think they’ll come here?’
‘They’ll think we took to the wood, or went back to the oast house,’ Luka replied softly. ‘We should be safe.’
‘I can’t believe we got Sweetheart free,’ Sebastien said. ‘I never thought your plan would work, Emilia.’
‘I had my doubts as well,’ she said dryly. ‘We could never have done it without Van’s smoke bombs, and that stuff you threw on the torches.’
‘Saltpetre,’ Van whispered. ‘They use it to make gunpowder. Lucky it’s easy enough to get.’
‘Why? Where do you get it?’ Luka asked with his usual quick curiosity.
‘It’s in manure,’ Van grinned. ‘They send saltpetre men round to gather it from stables and dovecotes and henhouses and so forth, for they need so much to make gunpowder for all their guns. All I had to do was scrape it out from the walls of our henhouse.’
Emilia smiled wearily.
‘How do we get out of here?’ Luka whispered.
Van pointed one hand straight up and said tersely, ‘Up the ladders. You can climb out the furnace chimney. I’ve done it before. Be careful of the fire.’