Mortlock

by Jon Mayhew

  The branches of the yew hung low, groaning and creaking. Josie felt as if a lead weight lay on her shoulders and she stopped before reaching the tree, breathing deeply. Beside her, Alfie did the same. She didn’t want to step beneath the yew. She didn’t want to dig up a decayed body. Her heart hammered and her legs felt weak.

  ‘Come on, Josie,’ Alfie whispered, touching her elbow and steering her beneath the canopy of branches that shrouded the ancient, ridged trunk of the yew. They stood staring into each other’s eyes. Josie could tell Alfie was afraid, too. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the handle of the spade. Nervously, he licked his lips and held the spade above the bare ground. With a final look at Josie and a hiss of breath, he drove the blade down into the earth.

  Josie flinched. If a human voice had screamed just then, it couldn’t have sounded worse than that grate of earth on metal. She glanced around at the shifting shadows of the graveyard, but not a soul moved. Alfie dumped the first pile of earth behind him and expertly slid the spade back into the ground. He flashed a grin at Josie. She hadn’t realised how strong he was.

  ‘I’ve watched Mr Wiggins,’ he said, his voice quavering despite his brief display of confidence. ‘Helped him out a few times, too.’

  Josie said nothing, but stood over Alfie as he dug deeper. Slowly the hole grew. Josie knew she’d have to help him sooner or later. She couldn’t stop thinking about what might lie down there. Hideous images of the circus folk and Cardamom’s gutted body sprang into her mind.

  Alfie paused and dragged his coat off. He was panting now and Josie noticed how he stumbled every now and then, spilling soil back into the hole.

  Josie steeled herself and jumped down beside him. ‘Here,’ she said, grabbing the spade. ‘Let me dig for a while.’

  Alfie gripped the handle at first. ‘Man’s work –’ he began.

  ‘There’s no time to argue,’ Josie said, pulling the spade towards her.

  Alfie resisted but she could tell the digging had weakened him. ‘Just while I get me breath back, then,’ he panted and scrambled out of the pit.

  Josie stabbed the spade into the earth, wincing at the explosion of sound that seemed to reverberate around the yard. Each shovelful brought her closer to the body, the man who had suffocated in this rank-smelling dirt. Would he be twisted in some horrible position, as if trying to ward off the soil? Would she be able to see the expression of horror on his grimacing face? Josie gritted her teeth and slammed the spade into the bottom of the pit, throwing earth in all directions.

  Alfie soon recovered and Josie gladly passed the spade back. She clambered out to keep watch as Alfie set to once more. The hole grew deeper. Josie could only see the white of his shirt as he bent to his work.

  A carriage rattled past, making Josie cry out. Alfie froze. Neither of them dared breathe. They stood, Alfie up to his waist in the fresh pit, Josie towering over him, frozen like a stone monument. What if someone caught them? They could be hanged for this or thrown into prison with lunatics and murderers. Alfie waited, then slid his spade into the ground again. Every scrape, every clink of the metal blade, rang loudly in Josie’s ears.

  ‘I’m going to ’ave to rest again,’ he puffed, and pulled himself out of the pit, leaning back on a pile of earth. His face was smeared with sweat and dirt and he was gasping for breath. ‘You might ’ave to dig now. Don’t know if I can carry on . . .’

  Before Josie could say a word, a crimson glow suddenly illuminated the pit at their feet. It was faint at first but grew stronger. It pulsed like a heartbeat, casting shadows on the deep grooves of the yew tree and making the fringed leaves dance.

  Josie stared, unable to speak. Alfie leaned over and peered into the pit. He gave a yelp and fell back on to the earth pile.

  The light flickered around something – a shape that Josie couldn’t make out. Now she could hear earth moving inside the excavated hole, dirt slipping off something, thumping to the floor. Her scalp prickled and her breath came in strangled gasps. A hand reached up from the pit, fingers stretching and trembling. In the red light, the skin looked dry and withered. Sinews snaked around the wrist and lower arm. Cracked fingernails dug into the earth as the other hand slapped on to the edge of the hole. Josie screamed as a head appeared above the side of the grave. She staggered back, covering her nose with the back of her hand, coughing on the stench that enveloped them as the rest of the living corpse heaved itself out.

  ‘Lord above,’ Alfie spluttered, staring up from the ground.

  The putrefying man stood tall in the darkness, his brown skin clinging to his skeletal frame. Here and there, green putrid slime oozed from the split flesh. The corpse’s hair looked patchy and matted, but long – as if it had continued to grow in the grave. His face grinned mirthlessly. It was a death’s-head smile: all teeth and no gums. Josie retched as a worm crawled from his nose cavity and plopped down on to his ridged chest. He stared at them both with brilliant white eyes. She wanted to run, to escape from the horrible sight. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm her leaping stomach.

  ‘Josie, look in his body,’ Alfie whispered to her. A small, red flower flickered like a tiny furnace behind his broken ribs, in the dark centre of his chest cavity.

  ‘I am Sebastian Mortlock,’ the cadaver said, his voice thick and wet. ‘My children, you have come to me!’

  Josie scrambled back between gravestones, tripping over Alfie as the hideous monster staggered towards her, arms outstretched.

  Mortlock loomed over her.

  ‘Do you have nothing to say to your long-lost father?’

  .

  .

  The grave will decay you,

  Will turn you to dust.

  There is not one in a hundred

  A poor boy can trust.

  ‘The Wagoner’s Lad’, traditional folk song

  .

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Truth from the Tomb

  Mortlock stood over her. His arms fell to his sides. He tilted his head and stared at Josie.

  ‘Am I so hideous to look upon?’ he said. ‘Do you not recognise your own father?’

  ‘You’re not our father,’ Alfie snarled, edging round the ghastly figure to stand next to Josie. His face was pale and even in the darkness she could see he trembled violently.

  ‘And what do you know of your father, Alfie Mortlock?’

  Josie glanced at Alfie. Confusion and indecision flickered in his eyes. They knew hardly anything about their father. The subject had always been avoided. Why?

  ‘He was a circus magician, P-Professor Necros,’ Josie stuttered. ‘He died . . . when we were babes . . .’ Josie’s voice trailed off; the pieces of the past clicked together in her mind. Cardamom had followed Mortlock to a circus. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

  ‘Professor Necros was my stage name. My blood runs through your veins, children. The power of the Amarant is strong within you because of me. I can sense it.’ Mortlock squatted down, every sinew and joint creaking like wet leather. Flakes of flesh and chunks of bone tumbled from him as he shifted on his haunches. ‘And what have they told you while I lay in my grave these last ten years, I wonder?’

  ‘It was you that cursed Lorenzo’s Circus,’ Josie said, her voice hoarse with shock and fear. ‘With the Amarant. You would have killed Cardamom, too, if he hadn’t got you first.’

  ‘Edwin Chrimes didn’t lay me low, Josie,’ Mortlock said. Something dripped down his cheekbone. He raised a long bony finger and pointed over her shoulder. ‘He did.’

  Josie swivelled round. Mr Wiggins stood frozen behind her, his mouth slack and his eyes wide with fear behind his large glasses. Somehow he must have scrabbled around until he found them. Alfie ran to his guardian.

  ‘I had to,’ Wiggins whispered, never taking his eyes off Mortlock’s rotten frame. ‘You would have killed Cardamom. He was my best friend . . .’

  ‘He took Lilly from me, behind my back – brought her to this pestilential city, whe
re she died of the fever,’ Mortlock hissed. ‘Chrimes was resigned to his fate until you struck me from behind . . .’

  ‘Is it true, Mr Wiggins?’ Josie said. ‘You lied to us back at the shop. You said that Cardamom had buried Mortlock!’

  Alfie stood speechless, staring at his guardian as if he were a stranger.

  ‘D’you think I’m proud of it? I did what I had to do.’ Wiggins’s voice was low but clear. ‘Cardamom was in trouble that night he came to me. He told me everything. I knew he didn’t have the spine to stand up to Mortlock – he was never ruthless enough. Someone had to . . . Mortlock had the Amarant. So I followed Cardamom here.’

  ‘Ten years I’ve lain pinned beneath six feet of earth, the Amarant burning into my heart, just keeping me alive,’ Mortlock said, his voice thick as he struggled to swallow down the putrid liquid that seeped from the corners of his mouth. ‘At first I hated them all. Cardamom, Wiggins – everyone. I cursed them as I lay in my grave. I dreamed of my revenge, the suffering I could inflict. Madness took me and I imagined laying waste to the world. But, children, my dreams were also of you as I left you, babes in your beautiful mother’s arms . . .’

  ‘But why didn’t you bring our mother back to life if you had the Amarant?’ Josie said, tears threatening to overwhelm her. As he’d been speaking, Mortlock’s tone had softened, and now she felt bold. All her life she’d wanted her mother, dreamed of her mother – and this man, this awful festering corpse, could have done the one thing Josie had dreamed of.

  ‘Peasants. Savages!’ Mortlock’s voice turned harsh again. ‘The circus folk burned her in her caravan and scattered her ashes to the four winds. Were I to search for all eternity, I could never find my beloved Lilly, never return her to life.’

  ‘You were blinded by hatred.’ Wiggins trembled as he spoke and colour flooded his cheeks. ‘You could never accept that Lilly cared for Cardamom. You neglected her in your lust for power and she left you.’

  ‘No!’ Mortlock shouted and took a menacing, creaking step towards Wiggins. ‘Don’t push me too far, old man. Remember, I have you to thank for this.’ He spread his arms wide, showing them his torn body, the rags that clung to bone and strips of tattered flesh. Josie winced and turned her head away. ‘You struck me down, buried me alive, and Cardamom looked on, did nothing. I never wanted power . . .’

  ‘Then why did you want the Amarant?’ Alfie murmured. He sounded sullen and looked from Wiggins to Mortlock as if he were trying to make up his mind who was the worst. Josie glanced at him. She knew the pain he was feeling – his guardian was not the man he thought he knew and loved. They had never considered their father until now, and now he turned out to be a monster. What a legacy she and her brother shared.

  ‘Think, boy,’ Mortlock said, his breath hissing from between his grinning teeth. ‘A world with no death, no pain or suffering. That is my dream.’

  ‘I told you he was mad,’ Wiggins spat. ‘He’d rule the world . . .’

  ‘But it could never work,’ Josie said softly, looking at the intricate flower pressed into Mortlock’s ribs. Crystal petals flashed in the gloom. She couldn’t tell if it was a real plant or made of glowing stone. ‘You could never fully own the Amarant. There would always be someone who would want it for themselves.’

  ‘They would never take it from me,’ Mortlock said. ‘With the Amarant in my possession I am invincible. No one can equal its power.’

  ‘You’d kill ’em,’ Alfie said bluntly.

  ‘And you said yours would be a world with no death,’ Josie sighed, as sadness filled her voice. ‘We must destroy the Amarant. There’s no choice.’

  ‘Only the holder of the Amarant can do that, Josie,’ Mortlock said. The flower flared in his chest as he spoke. ‘The Amarant is a living thing; it holds great power. The holder can wish for its death, but he will pay for its destruction with his own life.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ Wiggins snapped and took a step forward. ‘You should never have come out of that grave and I’m going to make sure you go back in – whatever the cost!’

  Mortlock raised his hand. Josie screamed as the Amarant burned in his chest. An aura of blood-red light surrounded Wiggins and he fell to his knees, clutching at his heart. Alfie dashed forward.

  ‘No! Mr Mortlock, don’t, please,’ Alfie shouted, tears streaming down his face. ‘Not Wiggins – he’s been like a father to me. Don’t take ’im away from me!’

  ‘A father?’ Mortlock’s eyes blazed red with the light of the Amarant. Wiggins cried out again and doubled up in agony. ‘That was all I dreamed about in the end, down there, under the cold clay. I wanted to be a father to you, to see you both again . . .’

  ‘Then don’t kill ’im, Mr Mortlock, I’m beggin’ yer!’ Alfie threw himself between Wiggins and Mortlock. ‘For my sake!’

  Mortlock lowered his hand and the deathly glow died. Wiggins gave a long rattling gasp and slumped to the floor, groaning. Josie watched as Alfie cradled him in his lap, rocking the old man like a baby and sobbing.

  ‘I don’t care what you done, Mr Wiggins,’ he cried. ‘I don’t want you to die.’

  Mortlock stood motionless, ignoring Josie, his whole attention fixed on Alfie as he held Wiggins. The Amarant’s glow died to the tiniest flicker and a deep sigh, like leaves in a winter wind, blew through Mortlock’s crumbling body.

  ‘I’ve lost so much,’ he whispered, his fingers stroking at the crimson petals blooming in his chest. ‘And for what?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want the Amarant, then why not give it to someone who can make good use of it?’

  Josie turned to see the dark figure of Lord Corvis leaning against a large gravestone. He looked smaller than she remembered and more round-shouldered. His face was obscured by shadow, but its silhouette looked sharper, his nose longer. Aunt Veronica and Aunt Jay flanked him in their human form, their eyes fixed on Josie.

  ‘You should be more careful, children. Our crows were watching you from the moment you arrived in London. They alerted us to your presence when you left that worm-ridden barge. We’ve been following you ever since,’ Aunt Veronica sneered.

  ‘Corvis?’ Mortlock said, and a frown clouded his mouldering face. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘In the flesh.’ Corvis limped forward. Josie gaped. He’d changed almost beyond recognition. Dark, spiny feathers poked from his head, covering his face. The skin beneath had blackened to wrinkled leather. His nose had been replaced by the beginnings of a sharp beak. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Good God, man, look at you. What’s happened?’ Mortlock’s eyes rolled away from Corvis in disgust.

  ‘That’s rich coming from you,’ Corvis said, cackling and grasping another gravestone with a taloned hand. ‘The Amarant hasn’t been kind to either of us, I fear. My crow ladies share my life force, but I’ve inherited something from them, too, it seems.’

  Josie glanced around. A chill shivered down the back of her neck as she looked for the third Aunt. Corvis must be distracting them, drawing their attention away while Aunt Mag crept up on them, she thought.

  ‘I fear the Amarant’s gift is not always pretty,’ Corvis said quite matter-of-factly. ‘But when it’s in my possession, it really won’t matter what I look like.’

  Suddenly Josie made out a lunging shape in the darkness. She tried to scream a warning to Mortlock but it came too late. Aunt Mag appeared behind him, her eyes glinting with triumph. Mortlock’s bony, putrefying body jolted and he looked down. Josie gave a despairing moan and shook her head.

  Aunt Mag had punched her beak through Mortlock’s corrupted flesh and grasped hold of the Amarant. With a spiteful hiss, she yanked it out through his back and, with one leap, landed at Corvis’s feet, holding the flower for him to take. He grabbed it and held it up.

  Mortlock swayed and crumpled to his knees. The light faded from his eyes as the energy of the Amarant seeped from his body. He stared hopelessly at Josie. She stared back, unexpected tears suddenly bursting out of her as she gaz
ed at the wrecked face of her father. She’d feared and hated this hideous creature. Now she pitied him.

  ‘At last!’ Corvis croaked, raising the Amarant above his head. ‘The power to bring order to this chaotic world.’

  .

  .

  For love is strong as death,

  Passion fierce as the grave.

  The Song of Solomon, Old Testament

  .

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sacrifice and a Tender Heart

  Corvis stood triumphant; the Aunts knelt around him as if in worship. Their eyes flashed red as they stared greedily at the Amarant.

  ‘The power to create more of our brothers and sisters,’ cackled Aunt Mag. ‘No longer to hide in the shadows, to feed on the leavings of man. We shall fill the skies and take our rightful place by your side, my lord!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Corvis snapped, jerking his head down to look at them. ‘Do you think I would share this power with you? Eaters of offal? Scavengers from the fields of battle?’

  ‘But you promised, my lord,’ Aunt Mag hissed, scrambling to her feet and taking a step back.

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ Corvis mused. ‘But then, you see, I couldn’t spend another night listening to your insane cackling or watching your appalling table manners!’

  He pointed his finger at Aunt Mag and the Amarant flared into life. Its light grew and engulfed her. Josie watched as Aunt Mag writhed and screamed in agony, shrinking into herself, fluttering feebly as her shape changed. As she begged for mercy, Josie bit her lip. She doesn’t deserve this torment, she thought. No matter what she’s done. Smaller and smaller Aunt Mag shrunk, until her feathers vanished. All that was left was a wrinkled chick, then an egg, black and shining. Corvis shook with laughter and raised the heel of his boot over the egg.

  Josie glanced down. The spade lay at her feet, blade pointing at her. She stamped her foot down, flicking the spade up and catching it. It was heavy and not designed for throwing, but instinct took over. She felt its weight, judging its centre of gravity, how to hold it and how best to throw it. With a yell, she hurled it like a spear at Corvis.