The Bone Magician

by F. E. Higgins

  Deodonatus Snoad

  There was really no way to describe Deodonatus Snoad other than downright ugly. And even to say that would be considered a kindness. His ugliness was unique in its physical manifestation. His stubby neck was lumpy, and supported at an angle a most unfortunate head that was far too big for his crooked body. On his lopsided face there sat a large red misshapen nose and a pair of muddy eyes that were half hidden under his protruding brow. He was a hairy chap and his eyebrows ran into each other in one long bushy line that dipped slightly to meet on the bridge of his nose. Like many of his fellow citizens, his teeth, at least those that remained, were in pretty poor shape, and caused him pain on a daily basis. But Deodonatus had never been one for smiling.

  Deodonatus was ugly as a baby, which was not unusual, but even his own mother thought he was a little hard on the eye. As he grew, people would stare at him in the street and then cross over to avoid him. He quickly realized that the world outside his house was a cruel place so he spent his time indoors shut away in his room. He had an agile mind and taught himself to read and write and educated himself in all that was considered worthwhile in his day.

  As for his parents, perhaps once Deodonatus had loved them, but soon he scorned them. They had always found it difficult to look at him, his mother especially, and with his ever-increasing erudition they soon had little enough to say to him. Shortly after his tenth birthday, they decided they had fulfilled their parental responsibilities (and admirably so, they thought, under the circumstances) and one morning they sold him to a travelling show.

  Deodonatus spent the next eight years going from town to town, exhibiting under the imaginative title of ‘Mr Hideous’. His act consisted of sitting stony-faced on a three-legged stool in a small booth for the sole purpose of being stared at. And how people loved to stare! Occasionally he also had to suffer the indignity of being prodded. Only then would he react with a vicious snarl which made the women scream and the men utter such phrases as ‘By Jove, but he’s a fiery monster!’

  And as Deodonatus sat there and watched the people gape at him and put their hands to their mouths in horror, he considered the nature of mankind and concluded that the whole human race was hateful and deserved every misfortune that fell upon it, either by luck or by design. This was an important distinction. Deodonatus now harboured thoughts of revenge. Not on anyone in particular – that would come later – though perhaps his parents might have crossed his mind as worthy candidates once or twice. Deodonatus had a good grasp of economics and fully endorsed the concept of supply and demand. A man must make a living and the show’s owner was only giving the people what they wanted. If any blame was to be apportioned, then it fell on the general public who came to gawp.

  Deodonatus performed as Mr Hideous until his eighteenth year. He grew a thick beard and one night soon after he slipped away, but not before tying up the proprietor and taking all his money. Thus endowed, he made his way to Urbs Umida, a city renowned for its own ugliness, in the hope that he might be able to merge into the crowds and live a relatively peaceful life.

  They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but experience had taught Deodonatus otherwise. He had learned that if he was to hope to have any quality of life, then it was best that he wasn’t beheld at all. It is also said that one must not judge a book by its cover. After all, it is a universal truth that what really matters is the substance between the front and the back. In Deodonatus Snoad’s case, however, when you looked past his repulsive appearance and laid open his particular book, what was within was much worse than that which was without. Moulded by his youthful experiences, Deodonatus was a bitter and twisted man, physically and mentally, almost wholly beyond redemption.

  The very first time Deodonatus passed through the gates to enter the south side of Urbs Umida, he felt as if he was coming home. He looked around and smiled. Such an ugly and evil city, full of hypocrisy and deceit. He took lodgings in the most insalubrious part of town and soon settled in. He savoured the ripe smell of the Foedus in the summer months and he smirked at the homeless wretches in puddles and huddles in the winter. Occasionally he would even venture into the Nimble Finger Inn and stand at the back to observe his fellow citizens at their worst.

  He lived well, at first, on his ill-gotten gains, but he knew that eventually he would need an income. But what? He was aware of the Urbs Umida Daily Chronicle, a popular newspaper that had a wide readership because of its sensational headlines, simple words and large fonts. Deodonatus wrote a piece on the state of the pavements (constantly being dug up to repair inefficient water pipes) and had it delivered to the newspaper. It was well received. They liked his outraged tone, his sarcasm, and asked for more, which he duly provided.

  And that was the beginning of Deodonatus’s career with the Chronicle.

  Deodonatus worked from the comfort of his lodgings. The landlady, no great beauty herself, considered money a cure for most things, repulsion included, and was happy to give this stranger a large room at the top with a view over the City. Deodonatus required little else and luckily for all concerned preferred his own company. So he hid away from the world during the day and rarely ventured out before sundown. He delivered his pieces to the newspaper by means of the landlady’s son who, for a penny, came every day to collect them.

  At night, after he returned from his regular nocturnal walks, he would sit beside the fire and read. The days of Mr Hideous seemed very far away and occasionally he was overcome by a strange feeling he couldn’t identify. It was, perhaps, the slightest glimmer of happiness.

  Deodonatus felt safe now, surrounded by all that was important to him, namely his collection of books, within the pages of which he could be transported from the depressing reality of daily life in the City. In his more contemplative moments he liked to consider the words of the ancient philosophers, both Roman and Greek, for they had plenty to say to a man in his circumstances. Deodonatus also had a particular penchant for fairy tales. It seemed to him that in these stories an inordinate number of characters were rescued from hideousness and turned into beautiful people. But in the harsh light of day, when he uncovered the mirror that he kept to remind him why he was there, his reflection told him that his life was far from a fairy tale.

  So he turned down the lamps and kept the mirror covered over, but left the shutters open to watch and hear the sounds of the City. He made his room comfortable and kept it tidy, except for his desk. It was strewn with a plethora of writing materials, paper, quills and inkpots and a copy of Jonsen’s dictionary. Pinned to the wall he had some of the pieces that he had recently written, one of which outlined the dangers of speeding horses and carts. He had thought the headline particularly good:

  CAREERING CARTS CAUSE MURDEROUS AND MUDDY MAYHEM

  Tonight, while Juno was slumbering in a fug of herbs and Pin was recording his eventful life in his journal, Deodonatus was standing at the window looking out over the white roofs. They glistened in the intermittent moonlight in complete contrast to the Foedus whose black waters greedily swallowed the light. Deodonatus was restless these days. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself and fidgeting his hair into knots. After half an hour he went to his desk, dipped his quill in the ink and began to write feverishly.

  Chapter Ten

  Article from

  The Urbs Umida Daily Chronicle

  BEASTLY GOINGS ON AT THE NIMBLE FINGER

  by

  Deodonatus Snoad

  My Dear Readers,

  I am sure that by now there are very few of you out there who have not seen, or at the very least heard of, the latest goings on in the Nimble Finger, that inn of ill-repute – well earned I might say – on the Bridge. If nothing else one must commend the landlady, Betty Peggotty, for her business sense. Who could forget the mermaid she had on show just a few weeks ago? Granted her tail was a little limp and perhaps she was not as pleasing to the eye as one would imagine such a divine aquatic creature to be – she seemed quite adv
anced in years; perhaps that is how she was caught in the first place – nevertheless, she was for all intents and purposes a living, breathing, occasionally gasping, mermaid.

  Prior to that, if I recall correctly, Mrs Peggotty had on show a centaur by the name of Mr Ephcott. Although I never spoke to the fellow, I heard that he was surprisingly well-read and displayed exquisite manners. A little stiff-legged, particularly in his hind legs, but certainly a most pleasing entertainment. And that, after all, is what we poor citizens of Urbs Umida are looking for, is it not?

  Mermaids, centaurs and other such exotic creatures aside, I must say I think the good Mrs Peggotty has now surpassed herself. Not only does she have the place full from morning to night with drunken hordes (some would consider them entertainment enough!) filling her coffers, but of late she has a wild creature of another kind altogether in her cellar – namely the Gluttonous Beast. The place is a veritable circus!

  My duty as always is to you, Dear Readers. So with this in mind I went to see for myself this Gluttonous Beast. And I can confirm that everything I have heard is true. He is an horrendous creature of indeterminate species and insatiable appetite. It is deemed imperative that he be contained behind bars. His temper is unpredictable and he feeds on raw meat of the foulest kind, though he has a particular taste for Jocastar, that sheep-like animal so prized for its wool. There is nothing like a beast with expensive taste, I say. He is not alone in this city!

  Beasts aside, I must move on, although it pains me, to other, graver, matters. It is with great regret and heartache I report that the Silver Apple Killer has struck again. Another body, the fourth, was dragged from the Foedus early this morning. None of us has yet forgotten the matter of Oscar Carpue and the murder of Fabian Merdegrave. Mr Carpue, to my mind certainly the most likely culprit, has yet to be found. Many think that he has fled the City to evade the gallows. But I am not of that opinion. What, I wonder, could he tell us of the Silver Apple Killer? After all, birds of similar plumage fly as one. It is hardly beyond reason to think that the two, the Silver Apple Killer and Oscar Carpue, might in fact be one. Granted no apple was found in Fabian’s pocket, but who knows the workings of a murderer’s mind?

  Think on it, Dear Readers, and you are bound to agree!

  Until next time,

  Deodonatus Snoad

  Deodonatus signed off with a satisfied flourish, rolled up the paper and tied it with string. Evil was everywhere. It was in human nature. As was the love of power, a power Deodonatus wielded with his written word. What pleasure it gave him to wander the streets at night to hear the people talking about what he had written!

  Deodonatus had an avid following among the readers of the Chronicle. There were daily meetings in the coffee houses and taverns and gatherings on street corners just to hear what Deodonatus had to say on the latest issues in the City. They didn’t always understand what he wrote, but they believed it (for if it was printed in the Chronicle it had to be true) and they were proud to be called ‘Dear Readers’. It made them feel as if someone out there actually cared and that was as much as was required to have their lifelong loyalty. Conversely, Deodonatus held his audience in contempt.

  Impatiently he pulled a handle that hung from the ceiling just by the door, and from somewhere in the house came the muffled tinkling of a bell. A minute later there was the sound of light footsteps up the stairs and then a knock at the door. Deodonatus opened it a couple of inches.

  ‘Have you got something for me, Mr Snoad?’ This was followed by a yawn – the hour was late.

  Deodonatus handed the cylinder of paper through the crack.

  ‘Out by tomorrow, eh?’ said the boy. ‘We’re all looking forward to reading it.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Deodonatus. And shut the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Home Sweet Home

  Pin knelt on the floor and carefully poured some water into the coconut shells he had placed under each leg of his bed. It was the best way he knew to stop bugs and lice crawling into his mattress. As soon as he thought of ‘bugs’, he was immediately minded of Deodonatus Snoad. He had seen his latest piece in the Chronicle.

  ‘That sleazy cockroach,’ thought Pin venomously. ‘How dare he! Suggesting again that my father might be the Silver Apple Killer.’

  Wasn’t it enough that in the weeks after Fabian Merdegrave was throttled Deodonatus had written daily about Oscar Carpue’s supposed part in his death? And every day he slandered him and accused him of murder. ‘Without a potato peeling of evidence,’ thought Pin. ‘Absence is hardly the same as guilt.’ He clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Deodonatus cared little for the truth. ‘The man is lower than a sludge beetle. If I ever meet him I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ It was a sentence he finished variously but usually it involved violence.

  Pin lay back on his bed with a sigh of exhaustion. He didn’t lie for long. The mattress felt no more than a straw or two thick and the boards beneath were as hard as rock. Barton Gumbroot was not the sort of landlord who ever considered his lodgers’ comfort. As far as he was concerned, Pin should think it a bonus to have a bed at all; most rooms had just a mattress on the floor.

  Even now, days after his strange experience in the Cella Moribundi, Pin couldn’t get it out of his head – or his nose. The aroma of the artemisia and myrrh lingered in his shirt, a constant reminder to him of that eerie night.

  Although he could not show it, Mr Gaufridus was a sensitive man in his own way and, when he saw Pin the morning after his experience with poor Sybil, he knew immediately that something had happened. Pin seemed decidedly distracted, toe-pulling and sole-pricking well beyond the call of duty. Regardless of Pin’s dedication to his work, the broken door lock and muddy footprints in the Cella Moribundi also testified to the presence of rather more than one boy and a dead body.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ asked Mr Gaufridus.

  Pin was not the ablest of dissemblers. Under Mr Gaufridus’s icy gaze he told him everything and it was a relief to let it out.

  ‘It was all like a dream,’ finished Pin. ‘I’m not sure it happened at all, and of course I was drugged. I am convinced that I have been the victim of some cunning illusionist. For what I saw is simply not possible.’

  Mr Gaufridus, also a practical soul, was of the same opinion. He was not wholly unsympathetic to Pin’s plight – after all, the boy had been rendered senseless – and there was certainly little evidence that Sybil had enjoyed a brief respite from her eternal rest. Sybil herself was taken away to the churchyard later that morning and as Mr Gaufridus closed the door in her wake Pin hung his head, gripping the soles of his tatty boots with his toes.

  ‘I should have heard them, I should have stopped them,’ he said miserably. ‘Do you still wish me to work here?’

  Mr Gaufridus harrumphed loudly. He would have smiled if he could. He liked the boy. Pin worked hard. He could not be blamed for what had happened. Yes, he might threaten that there were plenty of others out there on the streets who would pull toes for a living, but he had to admit that he was doubtful about their true number. He was also certain he would not find anyone as honest and conscientious as Pin. As for whether his father was a murderer or not, unlike many Urbs Umidians, Mr Gaufridus was rather ahead of his time in the respect that he felt guilt should be proven, not assumed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said kindly, though he couldn’t help adding sternly for measure, ‘but don’t let this happen again.’

  So Pin sat on the edge of his bed and tried not to think any more about Sybil or Deodonatus Snoad. Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs outside. He recognized that heavy tread and groaned. Barton Gumbroot might be light-fingered, but he certainly wasn’t light-footed.

  He waited for the inevitable slapping sound. Barton always used the flat of his hand and not his knuckles when he knocked. Pin went to the door and his lip curled. Barton’s peculiar odour signified his presence even through the wooden door. He smelled of many things, but overwhelmingly of dri
ed blood (someone else’s) and bad breath (his own).

  Barton Gumbroot stood outside in the gloomy corridor in his usual attire: a grey shirt (perhaps it had once been white) with wide sleeves pulled in by strings at the cuff, a suspiciously stained waistcoat and a dark pair of cloth breeches of indeterminate origin. His neckerchief was stiff with dried food and his boots were spattered with mud and other matter that did not require closer examination.

  But it wasn’t Barton’s clothes that concerned Pin. It was the shifty look on his face. Pin knew it meant one of two things. He was either going to ask for more money (as he had done three times already in the recent past) or he was going to ask him to leave.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you, lad,’ Gumbroot began, rubbing his knuckles with the palm of his hand, the dry skin rasping softly.

  Pin folded his arms across his chest and stood with his feet wide apart. He had found it was the best way to deal with the man. He looked him up and down, his face expressionless.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Rent’s going up.’

  ‘But you know I cannot pay any more than I do,’ protested Pin.

  Barton looked around the door and sized up the room. ‘I could have four times as many people in here.’

  ‘You mean four people.’

  Gumbroot looked confused. He wasn’t one for mathematics. He sniffed. He was always slightly nervous at evictions. This was not out of any concern for those he was about to throw out, but more because he feared the ructions it would cause. To be evicted from Barton Gumbroot’s lodgings was usually the last straw for desperate people and desperate people do desperate things.

  ‘Don’t play clever with me, young lad. I need you out by the morning.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I have any choice,’ said Pin bitterly.