The Curse of Salamander Street

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘I set a charge in the magazine,’ the lad moaned. ‘Strapped it to the gunpowder, long fuse, it will explode on the hour.’ He slumped against the table. ‘I couldn’t do anything else, had to sink her before we reached the sea. I didn’t want to die of this, I didn’t want to die away from the city. It’s always been my home …’ He gasped for breath as more of his bile seeped from his skin, soaking through his coat. ‘I always thought I would die from a Frenchman’s bullet and that I would stare into the eyes of the coward as he pulled the trigger. That’s how the old sooth said I would see my death, staring into the eyes of a coward.’

  ‘What hour was the charge set for?’ Crane asked.

  ‘When the hands strike midnight, we will be gone. London will never see such an explosion again and the name of the Lupercal shall live on forever,’ he whispered. ‘I thought no one would come for us. We were anchored in the river for three days. I cut the ropes and set us adrift.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ Crane shouted. ‘Get every man from the ship, there is but two minutes before this madman has us all in hell.’

  ‘Save the Lupercal,’ said the lad in his last breath. ‘You could cut the charge.’

  ‘And die trying?’ Crane shouted as he pushed them all to the door. ‘To the Magenta – we must be free of this place! Run!’

  ‘We’ve been through this before,’ Thomas shouted to Kate as they all began to run. He dug his fingers deep in the palm of her hand. Kate looked towards the hatch as she ran. Taking two short paces, Crane peered up the narrow flight of steps and into the night. Kate could hardly swallow – her mouth was dried to a crust, her lips charred by a sudden desire to escape her own pounding heart. Strangely, she could taste the scent of salt and feel the chafing of the wind.

  For what seemed to be a whole watch of the night they ran. Crane pushed Kate from the galley, his eyes fixed on a square of sky that flooded through the narrow opening onto the deck. He knew that in the hold of the ship, far away in the dark depths was a charge that would soon explode.

  ‘We can make Rotherhithe by morning. There are no ghosts here.’ Crane shuddered like a dawn cockerel and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Be off and set the Magenta free – save her.’

  ‘You can’t leave him,’ Kate shouted as the chief officer dragged her across the deck.

  Every man was for himself. They ran across the decks like rats with no care or concern for their compatriots. The chief officer took his sword and cut the ropes that bound the ships together. He jumped the widening gap that swirled with deep black water. Kate was the last to run the gangway from the Lupercal as it fell into the water. Thomas swung the gap on a long rope that stretched from the high rigging.

  ‘Where’s Crane?’ Kate shouted, unable to see him in the crowd of smugglers who dived from one vessel to the other.

  Looking back, Thomas saw Crane coming from the hatch of the ship. He held a pistol in his hand, the hammer fallen and barrel smoking. Thomas realised what Crane had done. The lad would not see his beloved destroyed – he had died close to the city he cherished and, as the seer had foreseen, stared into the eyes of the man who killed him.

  ‘Run, Jacob!’ Thomas shouted as the gap between the two ships widened by the second. Crane strode across the deck of the Lupercal. The divide was now too wide to jump and the river was bubbling beneath.

  ‘If we fail, find The Prospect of Whitby, the Devil’s Inn – and there we shall meet,’ he shouted from the Lupercal, as if his men knew what he meant.

  From the guts of the ship came a sudden boiling sound that began to split the timbers and spit each nail from every wooden board.

  Thomas swung from high above and as the Magenta rolled in the tide swooped to the deck of the Lupercal. He screamed to Crane as he sped like a black cormorant towards him.

  ‘Crane, Crane!’ he shouted as the rope took him closer.

  Jacob Crane looked up as the boy swung near, then, looking to the waves and then to the rope, he dived into the smoke-filled air. Thomas reached out as the cable trailed behind him. Crane missed his hand but as he fell he grasped the rope as it passed by. Together they swung towards the Magenta as the Lupercal drifted further away, its boards splitting as from deep within came the sound of the growing explosion.

  A ball of fire lit the night sky. The mast fired into the heavens as rigging exploded across the river. The fire burst from the ship. splitting it in two as it spun on the tide.

  Thomas jumped from the rope, falling to the deck of the Magenta, and Crane clutched to the side of the ship as a ball of fire billowed above his head. There was yet another explosion. Splinters of wood were blown through the air, and then all was silent. The burning hulk of the Lupercal drifted on like a Viking grave-ship.

  Orcus Gravatus

  BEADLE stood in the foaming shingle, the waves washing his feet, and looked to the sky for fear of the beast. Far away, high up the cliff in the dark of the wood, he heard its cry – in amongst the murky branches, covered in dew and rot, the beast wailing like a sea-siren wanting to drag mariners to their grave. The frit-hairs on his neck whispered to Beadle that he was being watched. He swallowed hard, fearing the beast could see him against the sky, then ran towards the stranded fish that humped against the shore like an upturned boat wrapped in seaweed.

  ‘Glory, glory,’ he said in a daze. ‘If it isn’t a whale! No greater fish have I ever seen. How such a beast should be found in this way …’ A sudden wave fell upon the shore, knocking him from his feet. For several moments he lay there silently, his head peering from the surf just above the water like a fat seal pup. He leapt to his stubby feet, water pouring from his pockets and the neatly sewn comfort flap of his breeches. He walked on towards the great fish, soggy-booted and brushing the wet sand from his face.

  ‘Bathed,’ he said sarcastically to himself. ‘First time in a year have I had a bath.’ He scorned the great fish as he slapped his chest, sure that something was writhing in his waistcoat. ‘Look at you – sally-eyed and land-drowned. Not much of an exemplar to us, are you, fish?’

  To his surprise there was a dull groan from the belly of the whale. Beadle listened again, sure he had heard his own name muttered from its bowels.

  With an outstretched finger he prodded its thick skin. It was cold, hard and felt like candle wax. Beadle looked into the creature’s glazed grey eye as a large black gull landed upon its back and began to peck at a long tear in its flesh.

  ‘Scuppered,’ he said out loud as he mulled his own fate. ‘What brought you to these shores from the far north?’ he asked.

  The whale writhed slightly as if it were shuddered by a wave. There was another low moan just within the realms of hearing. Beadle placed his head against the side of the fish and listened. Again the groan came from the lifeless creature.

  ‘But you’re dead,’ Beadle said. ‘Fish don’t speak and men wouldn’t listen if they did.’

  He stopped momentarily, then opened the whale’s mouth with both hands and looked deep inside.

  ‘Hello,’ he said slowly, rubbing his chin against its large, hairy tongue. ‘Can’t see how you can speak – unless you’re a spirit.’

  Suddenly a dark hand darted from the throat of the fish and grabbed Beadle by the collar. In two tugs, it pulled him head- first into the creature’s mouth. He was held fast by row upon row of stiff hairs like a curtain of baleen teeth. Beadle could smell the stink of rotting flesh and the dank fermentation of the whale’s last belched breath. His head was pressed against the inners of the creature’s throat and all was dark. Within the blackness he could hear the shouting that came from within. It was as if his name was being said again and again in a voice that he had heard before.

  The hand twisted his shirt around his neck in a grip that would never be freed. It choked the wind from him as he kicked and struggled to be liberated.

  ‘Leave me be, spirit,’ Beadle groaned.

  The hand pulled tighter through the death-stiffened opening of the whale’s gullet. �
��Beadle, it is I – Raphah,’ came the half-drowned voice from the stomach of the fish.

  ‘But you’re dead. Demurral told me,’ Beadle screamed, as he panicked and pushed against the fish and fell back onto the sand. ‘Said he saw you picked from the Magenta by the Seloth and thrown into the sea.’

  ‘That I was and if I’m not out of here soon I’ll be drowned on the next tide and gone for good,’ Raphah cried, his voice muffled by the tightening inners of the whale.

  Beadle stared in through the open mouth of the sea-beast and looked at the glistening black face of a lad he knew well. ‘It is you,’ he said as he pulled the mouth open wider, tilting his head to one side so he could gain a closer look. ‘How?’

  ‘Swallowed, completely whole – a miracle of miracles,’ Raphah replied, forcing a laugh. ‘Cut me free before I die of the stench.’

  Beadle reached into his pocket and took out the knife he always carried. With both hands he cut again and again into the side of the whale. Skin and blubber parted as the sharp blade went deeper, until it suddenly spilled open like a broken keg of herring.

  Raphah slid like a breech pup into the surf, surrounded by black treacle that oozed from the whale as if it were birthing water. For a moment he covered his eyes as he sat in the waves, then as the water cleared he dived beneath the surface and rolled in the gentle swell.

  ‘Free again and by what miracle,’ he said, washing gut mucus and bloodied blubber from his face and running his finger through his long dreads. ‘Never thought I would see the light of day.’ He stopped and looked at Beadle as if startled by his presence. ‘Your master saw me?’

  ‘So he said, but he’s not my master. He and I have …’ Beadle paused. ‘Parted company.’

  Beadle attempted to smile as the sea salt stung the wound across his cheek.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ Raphah said as he saw the man holding his face.

  ‘A mark for my memory. I’ll never forget Demurral now. Every time I look into a glass I’ll remember the night he gave this to me. A parting gift for all my years of service.’

  ‘And your journey now?’ Raphah asked as he looked to the dark wood.

  ‘London. I know a man who would love a servant like me. A scientist and a scholar, lives in Bloomsbury Square. I once heard Demurral talking of him. Either that or I’ll find Jacob Crane and put to sea with him.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk with you, share the journey. I search for Kate and Thomas. I know that Demurral will want them dead.’ Raphah went silent and looked again to the wood as if he could hear something far off. Beadle saw the look in his eyes but kept silent. He too had heard the distant wail of the beast.

  ‘I’ll go alone, if you don’t mind,’ Beadle replied as he turned to walk away. ‘Wouldn’t be good for you to be yoked to one like me. Not you …’

  ‘Do you forget what happened, Beadle? A friendship forged in adversity is not to be given away lightly. You helped us escape from Demurral. It was you who saved us.’ Raphah held out a hand towards him.

  ‘That were then. Needs must and I couldn’t see you killed. Not another one – there’s been too many,’ Beadle replied as he looked to the wave-washed shingle. ‘I travel alone, Raphah. It’ll be safer for you. Don’t forget who I am. I will never be free of that or my old master. If you came with me he would find you easily. I’m not the Keruvim, you are … I’ll be off. Soon be dark and best be out of the woods.’

  ‘I know a cave, a Hob-hole. It’s not far. We can have a fire and food. You can tell me of your plans and I of mine,’ Raphah said hopefully. He pushed his palm closer to Beadle.

  ‘Not tonight. Another time. The further I am away the better I will be. Demurral has a way of reaching you that grows wicked by night. Don’t want to close my eyes again until I am far away. Demurral can see things to which mortal eyes are blind. He can see the future and visions that are beyond the sight of men. Wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t watching us now. Head to the north, Raphah – he would never think you would go that way.’

  ‘I’ll come with you and watch you whilst you sleep,’ Raphah insisted.

  ‘No, I walk alone. Take my advice, head for York. Take a coach to Peveril and there change for London. That’s where you’ll find the Magenta. Jacob Crane always boasted that the finest berth in the world was at Rotherhithe.’ Beadle spoke urgently and looked nervously about. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you there, but better you travel alone.’

  ‘So mote it be,’ Raphah said, resigned to Beadle’s wishes, ‘but a handshake for the journey?’

  Tentatively, Beadle reached out and took hold of his hand. He looked at Raphah’s shining black face and as he held his bright white palm, felt its warmth.

  ‘Best be gone. Want to be out of the wood before sunset.’ Beadle chuntered his words half-heartedly. He held on to Raphah’s hand and continued to smile, searching his face for some flaw or sign of disgrace. ‘You’d best be getting to that Hob-hole, soon be dark.’

  ‘It wasn’t by chance you walked this path, Beadle,’ Raphah said as Beadle turned to walk away across the shingle beach. ‘I asked Riathamus twice for a saviour. Once I was sent a great fish and then I was sent you. There is a power at work in your life that you will never escape from.’ But Beadle was walking further away, not turning back. ‘Nothing happens by chance. There is a plan to prosper and not to harm you …’

  Raphah’s words faded on the wind as Beadle took the muddied path across the shingle to the shale cliff and into the wood. It rose steeply up a dirt slope and twisted in and out of clumps of trees that gripped the rocks. As he crossed a small mound close to the cliff edge, Beadle turned to look back to the bay. He could make out the shape of the whale in amongst a glutton of seagulls that bobbed and dived upon its carcass. There on the beach was Raphah, now almost indistinct in the fading light. Beadle stopped and gave a half-wave. Raphah lifted his head and smiled.

  ‘Poppycock and balderdash,’ he said to himself as his feet squelched through the mud. ‘I can go alone, now is my chance,’ he said again and again to mark each step. As he walked on, he thought of what he had become. From somewhere in his head, the memory of a Christmas came to mind. He didn’t know where or when. All he could see was a great fire stacked in an old hearth and upon the hearth a weighty stocking that swung in the first light of the morning. Beadle could smell the memory: a burning pine log scented the room, and in the pot mug that steamed by the fire was brandy and fresh tea. Then as now it filled him with great happiness. Joy replaced his desperation and fear – ‘A merry Christmas,’ he said out loud as he walked along, ‘and many of them.’

  Beadle pressed on as the brambles pushed in on either side. The wood grew thicker and branches pulled at his coat. Somewhere near by, he could hear the call of the beast as it brooded, high upon the moor. He fiddled with his collar, muttering as he walked, hoping he would not cross its path.

  The track climbed speedily towards the high peak that grew from the sea to its stark summit. In his heart he knew that once at the top he would be able to see a castle far to the south and the pasture lands that led to York. Beadle picked a long staff that lay across the path and peeled the dry bark as he walked, deep in thought.

  ‘Good for villains,’ he said out loud, dreaming of being attacked by footpads and beating off an attack. ‘Beadle the brave – not one left standing, aha!’ He laughed as he dreamed brave dreams and lashed out at the overhanging branches. ‘That would be me, given the chance. All would be gone as they saw my shadow, not a single footpad or rogue in the county and all down to Beadle.’ He sighed a contented sigh as he mused on another and more adventurous life.

  As he walked on he licked his lips and patted the pocket of his coat and felt for another hen-boiler. ‘Best be walking on faster,’ he muttered. ‘Best head inland and get a coach in the morning. Five guineas in my pocket, enough for bread, beer and a seat on the roof with plenty left over for the rest of the way. London calling – to a far away town, as Uncle Joe would say.’

  Just
ahead, in a dark shadow in the wood, came a sudden cry that raced through the twilight. It screamed from his right and then his left. All around was the echoing sound of the beast. It shook the branches of the trees like a winter wind, and the air around him grew fetid as if filled with the breath of a stinking dog. His neck suddenly blistered with large goosebumps that rushed along his hairy arms. Beadle swallowed what spit was left in his arid mouth and gripped the staff in his hand.

  The howling of the dog-beast came again. It echoed about the rotting tree trunks and moss-covered branches as it ran swift footed through the forest. Beadle peered into the failing light, wishing he had invited Raphah for the journey. There in the wood he wanted a companion.

  ‘Stupid old fart,’ he said to himself in a devilish whisper. ‘Fear of Demurral stopped you asking him to come with you. Now look what you’ve done. Humph!’

  He weighed in his mind whether he should scream and call out for the boy. But he knew he had walked too far and anyway, he thought, why should he come?

  The shriek of the beast was suddenly distorted into a low, angry growl coming from the undergrowth to his right. Beadle walked faster, dragging his leg the best he could as he beat the stick against the ground.

  ‘Not frightened of you, not never,’ he shouted loudly, hoping against hope that the beast couldn’t smell the fear that dripped in beads of sweat from his brow. ‘You won’t get a meal from me – far too scrawny.’

  Beadle peered into the shadows, knowing the creature to be near. Something leapt suddenly from the shadows and quickly vanished into the black canopy of an old yew. It groaned as it went, then chattered its teeth as if the frost had taken hold of its skin. The night fell silent. Beadle sighed and rubbed his strained eyes with the back of his hand, muttering slowly under his breath.

  ‘Nothing to be frit of. Beast won’t come. Not for Beadle, the old feckwit …’ He laughed as he hobbled faster. He cast a wary eye behind him with every third step and strained his ears to the sounds of the wood. Far ahead, the path came to the peak. The glow of the evening sky greeted him like a welcome friend.