Grisly Tales from Tumblewater

by Bruno Vincent

  Raindrops plopped on the surface of the coffee as I stared into it.

  ‘Now listen,’ said Codger, trying to be more positive. ‘Let’s presume that this blows over if we keep you out of trouble for a few days. What you need, then, is to get a job as soon as possible and earn yourself a living.’

  I agreed.

  ‘There’s a little publisher on the south-west corner of Tumblewater, where you’ll be in much less danger of being recognized. The owner’s a strange old gent, but he’s our friend, and we can only ask. If he doesn’t have any work for you, he might have some good advice. And he’s sure to buy us a good lunch, whatever.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Uncle, who seemed quite inspired by the idea. ‘He’ll surely do that.’

  ‘But it’s four o’clock in the afternoon,’ I said.

  ‘That never stopped a publisher having lunch that I heard of. Strange folk, they are. Always penniless, but they never miss a chance for some good food.’

  I thanked them both again, and said truthfully that I couldn’t imagine where I would be without them, even though I’d done nothing to earn their kindness. They bowed modestly.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Uncle. ‘And don’t try to imagine where you’d be without us; it’s not a happy thought. Now let’s go. We’ll take a back route and keep to ourselves. And as we’ll be walking right across Tumblewater and young Daniel says he loves them so much, why not tell a story, Mr Codger?’

  The other man ruminated for a while, making a few grumbling noises as though he was searching around in the attic of his brain for something suitable, and finally said yes, he thought he knew a story about the right length for our journey.

  ‘It doesn’t have much of a happy ending, mind,’ he said. ‘Nonetheless—’

  ‘But none of them do,’ I muttered. ‘That’s why I like them!’

  ‘But, nonetheless, here’s the story of . . .’

  Once upon a time there was a boy called Philip, who was a very well-behaved little boy of about nine or so years old. His mother was very proud of him in every respect, except one. Once in a while she would see him with his finger up his nose, and this displeased her – that was a habit for dirty little boys, and her son was not one of those.

  ‘If you start doing filthy things with your fingers, you never know where it might lead,’ she said when she caught him at it for the hundredth time.

  ‘But it itches!’ he protested.

  ‘Even so,’ she said. ‘Use the hanky I gave you for your birthday.’

  They were walking through the market as they had this conversation, and Philip (because he was, in all respects but one, a good little boy) was helping his mother carry the bags of shopping. The market was very busy that day – the busiest, in fact, that Philip had ever seen it. People had flocked in from nearby towns because an exotic band of traders was passing through, offering foreign herbs and spices and beautifully decorated clothes that were not normally available to local people.

  Philip struggled to keep up with his mother as he was jostled by the crowd. His eyes were drawn to the stalls and he was delighted by the objects on sale, and startled by the strange faces of the people selling them. But his nose did itch abominably. Unable to get his handkerchief from his pocket, he kept trying to rub his shoulder or his elbow against his nose to scratch it. But he couldn’t reach it with either and, at his third attempt, one of the bags under his arm spilt oranges all around him. Desperately he reached down to grab them up and one of the other bags fell as well, pouring tomatoes in a little pile.

  He looked up and found his mother had vanished ahead of him into the crowd. Hurrying to scoop all he could back into a bag, he was banged into by people’s knees and feet.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ shouted one woman, who had nearly toppled over him.

  ‘Mother!’ he called, feeling himself beginning to cry. He did not like calling out for help because he wanted to be big and strong. He had been the man of the family since the day his father, a fisherman, had lost a battle with a swordfish at sea, and he wanted to help protect his mother. Nevertheless, as he saw tomatoes being squished to pulp beneath the trampling boots all around, more and more tears squeezed out of his eyes and, pulling all of the remaining bags close to his chest, he wriggled between the legs around him and hid in the space between two stalls.

  He did not know how long he sat there crying, waiting for his mother to find him. He pulled out the white cotton handkerchief to wipe away his tears and to blow his nose, but when she still did not appear, the tears kept coming and the itching in his nose grew worse. Looking furtively around, and seeing no one in the bustling crowd paying him the slightest attention, Philip slowly raised his little finger and put it into his left nostril.

  Ah! The itching stopped. He felt tingling joy as he rubbed and twisted his finger around for longer than he had ever got away with doing before, pushing it all the way in. For a moment he even forgot his sadness that he had lost his mother, and he didn’t worry about anything in the world except scratching away that itch.

  When he had been going at it for some minutes without any sign of his mother (and without the pleasure of itching getting any less at all), a shadow fell across Philip’s lap. He looked up and saw a huge round-headed man with great curly thickets of dark brown hair and a leathery face of dark brown skin. Philip gasped deeply and – click! – felt his finger pop in even further, and become stuck.

  ‘Hellooo,’ said the man in a deep voice. ‘Why, you seem like an unhappy little chap.’

  Quite sure that his finger was stuck, Philip tried to look as natural and relaxed as a little boy could in his position. ‘I’ve lost by bubby. I bead … by buther,’ he said, trying to sound as grown up as possible.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the man. ‘Let me help you find her.’ And with that Philip stood, but with one hand stuck to his face found he was unable to manage all the bags of groceries. ‘I’ll look after those,’ said the man kindly, and taking them up in one hand he scrunched them rather roughly into a ball and placed it in one of the huge pockets of his dark brown coat. Philip felt that his mother might be unhappy at the fruit and vegetables getting damaged like this, but was sure that the joy of seeing him again would make it all right. The man shook the juices of the squashed fruits from one hand and with the other gently guided Philip between the stalls and down the street. Philip walked along happily.

  ‘By dabe’s Philip. What’s yours?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ The man’s face clouded over and he went silent for a few seconds. ‘Mr Leg,’ he said finally.

  ‘Bleased to beet you, Bister Leg,’ squeaked Philip, who was, after all, a very well-behaved boy.

  ‘And I am pleased to meet you,’ replied Mr Leg in a dark brown voice.

  Mr Leg guided Philip left and right through small turnings in the streets so confidently that Philip thought he must know exactly where his mother was. Perhaps he was even a friend of the family whom Philip had failed to recognize, and knew a spot where his mother would be sure to go when she found she had been separated from her little boy.

  As they took yet another turn, Philip noticed that the rush and noise of the market had died away behind them and that there were scarcely any people on the street at all. It must be a short cut, he decided, remembering from previous visits to town that the short cuts his mother took him through were invariably along dark, narrow streets like this one.

  ‘Nearly there,’ growled Mr Leg, his voice darker and browner than ever, his hand pushing Philip along the street not quite so gently as before.

  Philip wanted to ask where they were going, but with the ache in his arm from holding his hand up to his nose all the time, and Mr Leg pushing him along at quite a speed, he could not get the words out. As they turned round a corner, he noticed with alarm that this new street, even darker and narrower than ever, ended in a brick wall.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Mr Leg, and stopped abruptly. Philip looked up at a shopfront so grubby w
ith soot and grime that he couldn’t see through the windows, let alone read the name on the blackened sign that hung above him.

  His arm ached from holding his finger up, and his legs ached from rushing down cobbled streets, and he seemed further away from his mother than he had been before. He suddenly felt very lost, and less grown-up than ever. Tears started to well in his eyes again and he was just fishing his hanky from his pocket when the gargantuan hand on his back thrust him forward through the doorway.

  The door closed behind them with a little ring. Philip’s sobs stopped in his throat as he looked around. He was in what looked like the cleanest, brightest butcher’s shop in the country. The white walls and the white tiled floor shone so brightly he almost had to cover his eyes. Behind a counter of clear glass glistened an astonishing array of juicy cuts of meat. Some sat in pale slices on enormous platters, some bulged in giant chunks from bowls dripping with red juice. His eyes running over this selection of meats, which was far richer than anything he had ever seen before, Philip noticed that none of them was labelled. How then might a customer know which creature he was eating? He followed Mr Leg’s gaze and found himself looking at a very clean, bald little man whose head only just came over the counter. He looked like a cheerful sort of person and Philip instantly felt relieved. He had been led to a friendly place, after all.

  ‘Good day!’ piped the bald man in a high voice. ‘What do we have here?’

  ‘This little chap’s lost his mother,’ grumbled Mr Leg, looking down at his feet. ‘I believe you can look after him while I go to find her?’

  ‘Of course!’ chirruped the man, coming round the end of the counter and bending to greet Philip. ‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said, extending a very clean, white hand. ‘My name’s Mr Pot.’

  ‘Bleased to beet you, Bister Pot,’ said Philip, shaking the hand. He was shocked by how cold the hand was, and how his own hand stayed cold even after he returned it to his pocket. But the man’s smile was warm, and he regretted that he was meeting such a friendly person in such embarrassing circumstances.

  ‘Wonderful!’ cried Mr Pot, who then stood and said to Mr Leg, ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Settle up next time,’ muttered Mr Leg. His voice was so dark it sounded like the branches of a great tree creaking in a night-time breeze, and one could barely make out the words. With a tinkling slam of the door, Mr Leg was gone.

  ‘Well now,’ piped Mr Pot, taking Philip’s hand and leading him behind the counter. ‘Let’s have a look at you. Step up here,’ he said, ushering Philip on to some scales, and then watching as the needle spun round to tell his weight. ‘Wooooh!’ he said. ‘We have been eating well!’

  ‘Hab we?’ asked Philip.

  ‘We hab,’ said Mr Pot, holding his nose. ‘Now,’ he said, bending down to look Philip in the eye. His eyes had a bright friendliness, but he was quite serious as he asked, ‘Have you been doing something that you shouldn’t?’

  Philip looked at the floor. ‘I but by figger up by doze,’ he said quietly.

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to do!’ said Mr Pot, standing up straight again, the smile back on his face. ‘That’s what naughty boys do. And you don’t strike me as one of those. Are you a naughty boy?’

  ‘Doh,’ said Philip honestly. ‘I dote dink so.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ said Mr Pot. ‘But you have done something bad, and something I’ll bet your mother’s told you not to do. And bad things have to be punished, do they not?’

  ‘I . . . suppose so,’ Philip admitted.

  ‘Well, they do. And, if you have your punishment now, then there’s no need for your mother to know anything about it when she gets here. So, do you want to know the way we punish them around here? We make them climb a ladder. Can you do that?’

  ‘Ob course!’ protested Philip, who was both insulted to be asked and relieved that the punishment was so easy. Mr Pot, still smiling, nodded over Philip’s head and, turning round, Philip saw a narrow wooden ladder that he hadn’t noticed before.

  Eagerly he climbed up, careful because he only had one free hand with which to grip the rungs (the other was really aching now). He reached the top and leaned against the spotless white tiles on the wall. Up here near the ceiling he was near the bodies of the animals that hung down, and which he refused to look at, in case he got scared. Turning round on the ladder’s platform, he looked down at Mr Pot, who was holding the ladder firm and smiling up encouragingly.

  ‘I’b at the top!’ he called.

  ‘Good boy!’ said Mr Pot, sounding impressed. ‘Now, can you see the hook in front of you?’

  Philip brought his eyes rather dizzily all the way up to a large silver hook next to his head. It had lots of scratches on it, as though it had been used to carry heavy things for years and years and years.

  ‘Yes?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Put your arm over it.’

  Philip grew uncertain, and wondered for a second whether that was really a good idea. It sounded like the sort of dangerous thing that adults were always telling you not to do – but Mr Pot had been so friendly, and Philip was so desperate to complete his punishment, that he ignored his doubts. Reaching out with his free arm left him balancing only on his feet. His knees quivered weakly.

  ‘Not that arm,’ called Mr Pot playfully. ‘The other one!’

  Still holding on to the ladder, Philip angled his elbow over the edge of the hook.

  ‘Is it on?’ piped Mr Pot.

  ‘Yes,’ called Philip.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Pot, and drew the ladder away.

  A sharp pain shot along Philip’s arm as it took all his weight, along to the tip of his little finger, still stuck in his nose. His feet dangled and kicked, but couldn’t make contact with anything.

  Below him Mr Pot began to whistle, opening and shutting drawers, weighing things in his scales and sharpening his knives with a scratchy metallic sound that Philip could feel in his teeth.

  ‘Bister Pot?’ called Philip. ‘Bister Pot! Bister Pot! I’b stuck!’

  Philip thought he heard the voice below him say, ‘So you are,’ under its breath. He wriggled his body on the hook, and the pain along his arm and hand was horrible enough to make him nearly faint. He would never ever pick his nose again – he knew that for sure. Perhaps if he wriggled enough his finger would slip out and he would fall with a painful bump and have a bruise to teach him his lesson. As he tried again to squirm free, he knocked against the other hanging bodies, and, despairing, felt his finger stuck as sure as ever.

  Beneath him he heard the gentle ring of the doorbell and turned his head to see if it was Mr Leg come to rescue him, or even his mother. But no. It was a very short fat man with a huge moustache. He was licking his lips, and looking at the meats on display.

  ‘Good day, Mr Pot,’ said the man.

  ‘Good day to you,’ said Mr Pot. ‘Are you after anything in particular?’

  ‘I think so,’ said the man, ‘but I can’t be sure. What in particular might you have?’

  ‘Well, if you want something special, I have . . .’ said Mr Pot, and waved an arm up towards the ceiling. The moustachioed man’s gaze rose.

  ‘Yes, of course! An admirable suggestion,’ he said, nodding vigorously.

  Philip wriggled and twisted and turned, but the pain only got worse, and the movement made him swing around on his hook until he could see that the other hanging bodies were not pigs or sheep, but little boys like him. Each had his arm over a hook, and a finger stuck up his nose, or in his ear. Philip’s head felt dizzy and light as the hook spun him round so he could see the shop again.

  He could not scream or shout or get any words out of his mouth at all. His body went limp as he felt himself begin to faint. The last things he saw were the bright, eager faces of the two men looking up at him, and in Mr Pot’s hand an extraordinarily long stick with a carving knife tied to its end.

  Mr Codger seemed such a kind, mild sort of person that the shock of the aw
ful ending, delivered in his quiet voice, made me shiver so violently that my teeth knocked together. But however chilling he might be, he had perfect timing: the end of the story came just as we rounded the corner and saw the publisher’s office ahead of us.

  It wasn’t quite what I would have expected of a publisher’s building, just a dirty shopfront on the corner of a street, made up of little square windows much spattered with mud from the horses’ hoofs, and little visible inside except a wall of clutter crammed against the glass. The sign read JASPERS & PERIWETHER.

  Codger went in first, then Uncle, both taking off their hats, and I heard a voice cry happily, ‘Ahh!’ at seeing them. I followed as meekly as I could. Inside, the room was almost overflowing with damp. Drops fell from the ceiling into a series of buckets and pans and flowerpots, which were scattered on every shelf and part of the floor. The walls might have been white once upon a time, but the damp had crept downward and upward and across from each side, staining them with clouds of murky brown. Aside from mould and water, there were books in piles everywhere, supporting desks, keeping doors open and holding up candles. In one corner some books had been arranged into a long, perfectly flat shelf, upon which further books had then been piled. On top of this was a funny sort of octagonal lamp, which made something stir in my memory, although I could not quite think what.

  In the middle of all this mess was a large desk and at it sat a wiry, alert-looking old man. He was very small and his face was deeply lined. His wispy white hair, apparently the only thing in the place unaffected by damp, stuck outwards from his head in every direction, as though he’d arrived here a moment ago after an extremely energetic horse ride. Seeing me, he cried, ‘Ahh!’ again, and his sharp features shone with a charming happiness.

  ‘I don’t know you, sir,’ he said, coming round to shake my hand enthusiastically as the door banged behind me. ‘But I should like to. My name is Jaspers. Horatio Jaspers.’

  I shook his hand. ‘Glad to meet you,’ I said. He immediately forgot about me as he shook hands with the other two.