by G. P. Taylor
‘What makes me think?’ the cleric asked, half-laughing. ‘I know Parson Demurral and on his word have it that you are a chancre, a scullion beyond scullions and a villain. But I also know that you are witless, feckless and penniless to boot, and if I were the last man alive and you the richest, it would break your soul to give the money to a mere priest. Am I not right?’
Crane shrugged his shoulders. ‘So it is not just for the money that you are here. I know of no children taken from Demurral and as for the African, what is your real interest?’
‘It is more what he has taken. Ethios can be bought at a guinea apiece, but the item he stole is of far greater value.’
‘Do you have long arms? For where you will have to search you’ll be wet up to your elbows. The boy’s dead. Went overboard in a storm. Took all he had with him, and it was his to take, not Demurral’s, the Pope’s or the King’s, but his.’
‘Do you have proof of this?’ the cleric asked as his companions clustered around him and grumbled like foxes.
‘Proof? What is proof? Tell Demurral that all he seeks lies twenty leagues beneath the waves and will never be seen again.’
‘That, my dear friend, is not the news I would wish to convey,’ the cleric said. ‘Read the writ and bring all I have demanded in twenty-one days or else your precious Magenta and everything in her rotting hull will be taken to Dog Island and scrapped. Is that clear enough for you to understand, Captain Crane?’
The cleric nodded to his companions and together they filed from the ship as if they followed a funeral procession, heads bowed and hands grasped in pious prayer.
‘Search the ship,’ the cleric shouted to the Militia as he walked the gangway and stepped onto land, followed by his two assistants. ‘You know for what we search, an item of gold that could be hidden anywhere. Search the ship, I say. And when you are done, cast Crane and his vile friends to the dock. Remember, Crane – two thousand guineas and the children or the Magenta will be matchwood.’
Crane didn’t grace him with a reply. He urged Kate and Thomas to go deeper into the darkness and then slowly followed them as the Militia set about the search. He had known such times before, riches and poverty had always slept in the same bed.
‘The day is lost. Remember, The Prospect of Whitby,’ Crane said to the chief officer as his crew gathered what they could and left the ship. He turned to Thomas and Kate and spoke quietly. ‘I know a place where we can go until this temporary setback is taken care of. There is a street not far away from here. I have a friend who lives there called Pallium. He’ll look after us.’
‘Demurral got here before us,’ Thomas said as Crane pushed them into the ship’s store and a guard stomped upon the deck above them.
‘Faster for the old scroat to get a message to London than for us to sail here,’ Crane replied under his breath. ‘Thought we were done with him. But don’t fear.’ Crane smiled. ‘Can’t say I have ever wanted children, but now I appear to be stuck with you.’
‘The Militia are looking for us, how do we get from the ship?’ Kate asked as the sound of stumbling boots tramped above them.
‘Powder monkeys and sewer rats never get stopped leaving the ship,’ Crane said as he reached to a shelf at the back of the store and pulled the stopper from a wooden barrel. ‘Smother your face with this grease and take a handful of black powder and do the same. You’ll stink and look as if you’ve come from the bowels of hell. If anyone should speak to you, mumble a reply and keep walking. I’ll talk for you. Carry a sack on your shoulders and we’ll be from this place without an issue. Mark my words. If they should catch you then you’ll be back in Whitby faster than a brig could set sail, and I hold no hope for your future with that madman. Stay here and I’ll be back for you and don’t move until then.’
Crane left the store, locking the door behind him and slipping the key in his pocket. Kate and Thomas stared at each other. A thin shaft of light seeped into the room from the slatted hatch above their heads. All around were sacks of flour, sides of beef and tight barrels of wine.
Kate plunged her hands into an open sack of flour and held it in her hand. ‘We could use this,’ she said, looking at the weevils running amongst the rough grindings of corn and stone.
‘Or this,’ Thomas replied, holding out a small keg of gunpowder. ‘Whatever, we have to look older than we are. I don’t want be spend another night in Demurral’s tower, not with his garden full of graves. Now’s the chance to be away from him. Give me the flour sack and I’ll show you what we can do.’
Thomas emptied the sack of flour and began to fill it from the shelf around him. Kate packed her bag and made her disguise from goose grease, black powder and a slither of treacle. ‘I wouldn’t mind going home. I want to see my father.’
‘And end up as another missing girl only seen by spirit charmers and drunks as they wander home? Not me Kate. I’ll chance my arm with Crane. Whitby is a place of the past and if Demurral wants me, then he’ll have to come to London and find me.’
The key turned in the lock of the store and the door slowly opened. Crane nodded without speaking, bidding them to follow. He pulled a sea-sack to his shoulder and buried his face in the side. Kate and Thomas did the same, then went ahead of him from the darkness of the ship into the light of the London morn.
On the deck of the Magenta there was no sign of the Militia. ‘Below deck,’ Crane muttered as he urged them on towards the gangway. ‘Looking for the Keruvim.’
‘YOU!’ shouted the officer of the guard as he stepped from the bridge. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Doing as the writ commands, leaving my ship to the care and providence of the Militia,’ Crane replied as he pushed Kate in the back to walk on.
‘Fancy yourself as quite a wit, do you, Crane?’ the officer asked as he drew his sword and came towards him.
‘Only with fat, ugly officers of the Militia whose pocked faces go beyond human decency,’ Crane growled as he continued to walk on.
‘Quite a celebrity, I hear. Captain Jacob Crane is as famous amongst the drunks and low-life as I would ever want to be.’
‘As my great friend Montaigne said, fame and peace never sleep in the same bed and I have never seen a greater monster or miracle than myself.’
‘Then I will cut off a piece for you to look at and we will see if your great name can protect you from my sword.’
‘Cut from me what you will. My life is yours. To fight would mean the gallows for me and if I recant of my good nature and kill you where you stand, then I am done for.’
‘Dead if you do and dead if you don’t,’ said the officer of the guard. ‘But you will not leave this ship without being searched.’
‘I would prefer to die with a sword in my hand than a rope around my neck. You’ll not search me.’
‘Very well. Then you die on your ship. Smithson,’ he shouted high into the ropes and furled sails. ‘Take aim and should they run, kill the lad first.’
From the rigging above they heard the long slow click of a musket ratchet. Thomas looked up and in the crow’s nest saw a rifleman.
‘RATS! PLAGUE!’ Thomas screamed the distraction over and over, his words echoing around Billingsgate Dock, and every mouth took up the cry. Fear of the plague had hung over London since the coming of the comet. Now it was as if God himself shouted it from the echoing stone of the Customs House, and panic swelled the multitude. Thomas pushed Kate and set off to run.
‘Run!’ shouted Crane as a musket shot rang out from the rigging, missing Kate by an inch and splintering the plank beneath her feet. The sound of the musket rolled from building to building, growing in anger like distant thunder and sending people running for cover as the panic spread like a fever.
‘Quickly, every man for himself – The Prospect of Whitby, Sola the Hermit!’ Crane shouted to his men as he pushed them towards the quayside.
Thomas sprinted along the plank as Kate panicked, threw her sack into the water and frantically gave chase. The three ra
n from the ship as the rifleman madly reloaded his musket and within a minute had fired another shot from high above their heads.
The three ran panting along the muddied, cobbled streets, their hearts bursting as catcalls and shrieks bit at their heels. It was as if the whole of the city had taken up the cry of the plague. Carts were overturned as those in fear stole what they could and made off into the labyrinth of alleyways that infested the quayside. Madness and mayhem burst from every opening. Shots rang out again as the Magenta was surrounded by a crying riot of men and women. They screamed for the ship to be burnt and all who were upon her.
‘Quite a storyteller,’ Crane said as they slowed to a quick march and looked back to see if they were being followed. ‘Thought I would have to kill him until you came to my rescue.’
‘First thing that came to mind,’ Thomas said as they rested in a doorway of a narrow street that even in the morning light felt as if it was well before the dawn. ‘How will you get the ship back?’
‘Steal it from under their noses,’ Crane said as they walked on.
‘Will Demurral come looking for us?’ Kate asked anxiously.
‘As sure as night follows day. Whatever it is you have about you is certainly very peculiar. Demurral has unfinished business with us all,’ Crane said as they escaped along the narrow marketplace.
They trekked through the narrow streets and alleyways by the river. They passed the same place several times, as if the street for which they searched didn’t exist. There was no one to ask the way. All the roads were empty of life and as they went on, the streets became narrower and darker as the buildings grew from the dirt to form high caverns.
‘Here,’ said Crane abruptly after they had walked the hour through a maze of alleyways. Above what looked like a small doorway was a sign cut into a wooden plate. Crane read the words: ‘Salamander Street.’
The Glory Hand
THE crowing of a pheasant called the dawn as Beadle woke from his sleep. He was alone, wrapped in a pile of dry bracken as warm as ten blankets. He nuzzled from the heap like a woodmouse and looked about.
‘Raphah,’ he called gruffly as an earwig crawled from his nostril and across his chin.
There was a cough from the branches of the mighty oak. Beadle looked up and there in the heights was his companion staring down at him.
‘Can see the castle and the sea, ships at harbour,’ Raphah said with a smile etched on his face. ‘And the road to the west.’
‘Then we best follow your eyes,’ Beadle replied as he stood up and brushed the dust from his coat. He picked the earwig from his chin and quickly popped it into his mouth with a chirp.
Raphah dropped from the tree and cartwheeled across the grass.
‘A stroll to London?’ he asked. He strode on, expecting Beadle to pick up the pace and follow.
‘A long walk and then a carriage ride and not all easy.’ There was trepidation in his voice as if he knew what would be ahead. ‘If you keep striding that fast you’ll be dead before we get across the field.’ Beadle panted, already out of breath. He beat his staff into the ground as he gave a final glance to the oak tree. In the light of the morning he could see that the upper branches were festooned with the ribbons of a prayer tree. They trailed in the breeze as if they whispered to the wind all the desires that had been written upon them.
Every long mile was passed in deep conversation. Beadle set the pace as Raphah told his tales of wonder. Through narrow lanes and across the marshes they sauntered on. With the crossing of every river, Beadle threw a penny from the bridge for the Hob beneath and was scorned by Raphah. In the distance they could see the spire of the great Minster that hung grey against the bright blue of the November sky. They saw no one; it was as if the land had been emptied of all life. Barrenness hung across the long vale that stretched from the coast to the hinterland. All was still.
The dirt track they followed through the day opened out into a winding lane and then to a narrow, muddy road. For several miles they pursued the wheel ruts of a heavy carriage that was some way ahead. Occasionally, as if carried on the breeze, they could hear the baying of the coach hounds and the call of the horn. Then it would be gone far into the distance as it rattled against the thick cobbles that stuck out of the ground like so many dead men’s skulls.
It mattered not to Beadle how far he would have to walk. The journey was an opening to a new life, and as he marched on his thoughts of Whitby and fear of Demurral faded. With every word that Raphah spoke of Riathamus, Beadle was taken to a new world. Nothing mattered to Beadle but what was before him. Every concern for the journey ebbed away. It was as if the words of his companion brought hope and comfort and new life. As they walked they laughed, the byways echoing with their mirth. All was well.
With each step, the tower of the Minster drew closer. It was old, dark and craggy against the sky, the best efforts of men to mimic their creator. The road twisted back and forth, as hedges gave way to open ground littered with small clumps of birches and islands of thick marsh grass.
The low sun that had followed their day began to set and shimmer against the shepherd sky. As night drew closer like a blanket, the sound of the coach hounds came again.
‘There’s an inn,’ Beadle said, suddenly remembering the purpose of their journey. ‘We can get a coach from there to Peveril and from Peveril to London – that’s if…’ He stopped and looked to the ground, the joy gone from his face.
‘If what?’ Raphah asked.
‘They may not let you travel inside the carriage. I have the money for two of the best seats. All I have is here, honestly, and I will gladly pay, but …’ He gabbled the words faster and faster, not wanting to get to the truth behind what he spoke of.
‘Because of my skin?’ Raphah asked with a smile.
‘Not used to it … Different … I know, but they might not …’ Beadle choked on his words, knowing what he meant to say but fearing speaking what was so obvious.
‘Then I will travel on the roof, as I have done before,’ Raphah said.
‘And I with you … and they will not say a word against you. I will stand for you and speak my mind no matter how gigantic they may be.’
‘Brave words, my fellow traveller,’ said a steel-bright voice from behind an upturned cart that lay at the side of the road. ‘I am glad you would stand and be so bold. Who is this knight of the road to whom I now speak?’ the man said as he wrapped a black cloak around his shoulders and stepped towards them.
Beadle eyed him up and down. He was tall, half a man higher than he and Raphah. He was incredibly thin, as if a layer of translucent skin had been draped across his bones. The thoughts of his mind were barely disguised as they glinted through his deep blue eyes. It was as if a storm raged them as they glinted like the beady stare of a wolf through the throngs and spikes of the pure white hair that jagged across his face.
‘And you are?’ Raphah asked as he took a step back from the man, uneasy at his presence.
‘Barghast – Cartaphilus Barghast, if a name should matter at all,’ the man said with a hauteur lacking in grace.
‘We are …’ Beadle said only to be interrupted by the man’s sharp voice.
‘Beadle and Raphah. I am well acquainted with you both, having listened to your ramblings for the last few miles as we travelled together along the highway,’ the man said brusquely, pulling the cloak closer to his chest and looking at them through one eye.
‘We were alone in our travels. How can you say you heard what we said?’ Raphah asked as he began to push Beadle slowly from the man.
‘Alas, you were engrossed in your laughter. A whole legion of creatures could have walked in your shadow and you would have known them not. Come … It is a mile to the Inn and we should walk together. The sun has departed the world yet again and darkness reigns. I would be found wanting if I were to allow two fledglings to be out at night and snapped up by foxes. It is a dangerous place since the coming of the comet and the sky-quake. Many people lo
st their lives and so will many more.’ Barghast waved his cape back and forth like the wing of a huge bird trying to scoop its prey beneath. Beadle shivered as he tried to smile at the man.
‘Then we are pleased with your company,’ Raphah said quickly, before Beadle could reply. ‘To the inn,’ he continued, hoping not to give the slightest glimpse of suspicion that filled his heart.
Barghast walked slightly before them, his head bowed low as if to stoop to their height. As he walked, Beadle thought the man looked like a gigantic bird that nodded and pecked as it walked.
‘From your accent, Mister Beadle, I would say that you come from Baytown?’ Barghast guessed as he strolled on.
‘Nearby,’ said Beadle with a nod. ‘Nearby but not too far away.’
‘Not a place that I would choose to visit for myself. I once passed through but never again. Had business with the parson. Demurral … Have you heard of him?’
‘And you, sir, from where do you hail?’ Raphah asked as he walked at a wary distance, two paces to his side, and ignoring the man’s question.
‘Did someone once say, birds have nests and foxes their holes, but I have nowhere to lay my head? Then that truth would be mine. I am a wanderer, always have been and always will be. Never will I rest until I have travelled every road that man has made and then walked them all again.’ He paused and gazed at the stars in a melancholic way as he rubbed his long, wolf-like nose with the sharp tip of his finger. ‘If I had only given him rest, then life would have been so different.’ Barghast muttered and then snorted a sly and sorrowful laugh. ‘I take it from your direction that you seek a coach to take you to Peveril?’
‘We seek a coach and …’ Beadle attempted to reply before Raphah spoke above him.
‘We too are travellers and will go the easiest road to the furthest place.’ He tried to laugh but could only give a very unconvincing snigger. ‘We’ll walk with you until the inn and then our ways will surely part. You look like a man that would only travel within a coach and we’re so poor that a journey on the coach roof wrapped in a horse blanket beckons.’