by Robin Jarvis
Doctor Spittle was a little put out by this interruption. “It was,” he blustered, “but has since passed on to me. I have read the message you left and wish to—”
“Thief!” denounced the spirit angrily. “Thou knave! Thou iniquitous rogue! Your robe holdeth a secret thou canst not imagine.”
“Oh, but I can,” smirked the alchemist. “Tell me Magnus, when did you discover the Philosopher’s Stone?”
The spirit stared back at him then smiled. “So, thou dost understand a little,” it said, “but not all or I should still be sleeping.”
“Tell me the meaning of the riddling words,” demanded Doctor Spittle. “I need to know more so that I may recreate your work.”
“My work,” repeated the shade and there was a bitterness in its tone. “Money is not the answer. Leave this path thou hast chosen Elias Theophrastus Spittle! The golden idol is a severe taskmaster—serve it not. True rejoicing is to be found in thyself alone, look not elsewhere for happiness. The heart that be enslaved by greed is a dead heart.”
The old man tapped his fingers with irritation. “What say you?” he cried indignantly. “Speak no pious words to me. In life were you not a covetous miser? Did gold aplenty not fill your coffers?”
The blue light failed. “I learned too late,” it said with regret. “I have learned much on the other side. Heed my words.”
“Spare me your concern,” scorned the alchemist, “and unlock the secret.”
“For thine own sake I cannot.”
Will had been listening to all this with great interest. He felt sorry for the spirit; it was so sad and melancholy. As Doctor Spittle shouted and shook his fist at it, a distant sound drew the boy’s attention. He shifted on his haunches and turned away from the developing quarrel. The noise had come from outside the churchyard, some way down the street beyond. He strained his ears and peered steadily through the branches of the trees and thickets. The heavy tramp of boots on cobbles was coming nearer and a dim light swung to and fro. It was the nightwatchman.
Will whirled round to Doctor Spittle and tugged at the robe. An annoyed hand slapped him away. “Do not bother me, dog!” snapped the old man. “Can you not see I am occupied?”
“But—”
“Silence!” shrieked the alchemist. He gave the boy a warning growl then turned back to the phantom.
“I shall never tell thee what thou desirest to know,” said the spirit. “Release me at once—let me have peace once more.”
“Never!” yelled Doctor Spittle. “You shall surrender the secret to me!”
“I refuse.”
“You cannot!”
“But I have.”
“Doctor Spittle, please!” Will pulled at the robe a second time.
“In Heaven’s name, dog, why do you plague me so?”
“A nightwatchman!” Will explained hurriedly. “He’s coming this way.”
The alchemist stared over the cemetery wall and saw the lantern of Arnold Strogget slowly swing as the burly man swaggered down the street. As yet he had not seen the bizarre group in the churchyard for he was plodding like a drudge and gazing stupidly at his feet.
“Hah!” scoffed the spirit. “Unless the laws have changed much in sweet England since I passed on, thou wilt have to flee, alchemist—conjuration is punishable by death. Either that or thou shalt be ducked as was I, which amounts to the same in the end. A sorry dilemma it is, and just as we were getting acquainted with one another. Now thou wilt have to release me.”
But Doctor Spittle was not finished yet. He took one more glance at the approaching nightwatchman and reckoned that he had time enough before they were spotted. “So pleased you were enjoying our exchange,” he said treacherously to the spirit. “I too would like to further acquaint myself with a fellow scholar such as yourself.”
“A pity it is,” Magnus chuckled, “yet the briefest of meetings are oft the most memorable.”
“I see no reason for it to be curtailed so soon,” the old man cackled. He rummaged inside the bag and brought out a small bottle of smoky glass.
A tinge of doubt crept into the spirit’s voice when it saw the vessel in his hands. “Release me this instant!” it demanded. “Thy time runs out—the nightwatchman yonder is almost here. Should I call out, the buffoon will surely hear me.”
“Then I must see to it that you keep silent,” Doctor Spittle told him. He uncorked the bottle and placed it upside down on the ground. Then with one eye on the street and the other on his work he hastily inscribed a small circle by his feet and cast the charcoal and salt over it.
“What mischief is this?” cried the spirit, but there was no reply. The alchemist had closed his eyes and was muttering strange words under his breath.
Will looked from one to the other. The spectre appeared frightened whilst his master seemed triumphant. Steadily the blue light began to diminish and with a horrified look on his ghostly face, Magnus realised what the other was up to.
“Nooo!” he begged. “Thou canst not imprison me in... AAAGGHH!”
Screaming like a banshee, the shade of Magnus Zachaire was sucked down into the scorched soil once more. With curses on his lips he struggled to escape the powerful forces which dragged at him—but it was no use. Presently the last of his shimmering vapour disappeared down into the cracked ground and his protests were swallowed by the earth.
Doctor Spittle sniggered and pointed the wand at the small circle by his feet.
Will leaned forward. Bright points of light streamed out of the grass and flew up the neck of the small bottle. The glimmering essence of Magnus Zachaire filled the glass vessel until it contained all of him and shone like a fragment of the summer sky.
At once the alchemist was on his knees. He grabbed the bottle and, before the spirit could escape, rammed the cork back into the bottle’s neck.
“Snuff out the candles, dog!” he told Will quickly. “We must be silent now and let the nightwatchman pass.”
Will obeyed and just as Arnold Strogget peered over the cemetery wall he remembered to cover the lantern.
“Two of the clock on a cold January night and all’s well,” came the cry.
They waited for the footsteps to disappear down the street before daring to speak.
Doctor Spittle held up the glass bottle and shook it gleefully like a cruel child tormenting a captured wasp. “See what I have here,” he chortled. “How gratifying to rescue a trophy from tonight’s work.”
The angry face of Magnus’s spirit pressed against the dark glass and his fury kindled the light inside. “Release me!” the muffled voice demanded.
The alchemist tutted churlishly and tapped the bottle with his fingernail. The brilliance of the soul within welled up through the skin of his hand. “You must learn to speak with more respect,” he said. “Would it not be pleasant to conduct this interview in a more agreeable and relaxed atmosphere? I suggest we return to my apothecary shop forthwith.”
With the enraged spirit hurling abuse at him. Doctor Spittle popped the bottle into his pocket. “I believe it will be safe to leave the circle,” he told Will. “Collect everything and return it all to the bag. It is time to return home. After these last few hours I believe I could sleep for a week; never have I felt so drained.” He patted the pocket which held the bottle and gave a forced laugh. “I do not think our new friend is going anywhere for the time being. I must have a fresh mind if I am to pursue the Philosopher’s Stone.”
Stooping, he picked up his familiar and gathered the robe tightly about him. “Come along!” he urged. “Jupiter and I need our rest.” Doctor Spittle did not wait for Will. He strode through the graveyard and left the boy to follow when he was ready.
Will shoved the last candlestick into the bag. The only thing left to pack was the black gown that the demon had worn. Cautiously he prodded it with his finger, just to make sure there was nothing of that nightmare still lurking within the folds. Fortunately, no claw reached out to grab him and no mist poured from the clot
h. With great speed Will pushed it into the sack and heaved it all over his shoulder.
As he trailed between the tombstones he glanced back at the magical signs still visible in the ground. What, he asked himself, had he done to deserve this dangerous and deadly life? Wandering back through the dark London streets the boy had no idea that the worst was still to come.
7 - Playing with Fire
Imelza stretched out lazily. The logs in the grate had turned to ash and those embers still aglow would soon be consumed. She rolled onto her side and basked in the cherry-red warmth, blinking and idly tapping the tip of her tail on the floor.
A speckled bundle uncurled at her side and Dab yawned widely. “Are you still awake, Mother?” she asked rubbing the drowse from her eyes. “Can you not sleep?”
“The hours of darkness are not for sleeping, my daughter,” Imelza told her. “The night is the hunter’s country—we ought to be out there, not cooped inside this stinking attic. But have no fear, for soon the time will come when we can leave this place and I shall teach you the ways of the wild.” Imelza raised her head and stared into the remains of the fire, yet the light which sparkled in her eyes was no reflection. “The day blinds most creatures with its vainglorious show,” she whispered, “yet the night cloaks all in mystery. The scents and sounds of the velvet dark can strike a fire in the blood and set your mind reeling.” She shuddered as a delicious tingle washed over her. “To be one with that all-encompassing gloom is the only reason to live. Hours uncounted have I remained still as stone, melting into the shadows, waiting for my prey.”
Dab listened with growing discomfort, not sure if she liked this sort of talk. As yet she had never had to kill to eat and the thought that one day she might made her queasy inside. The tortoiseshell doubted if she would ever find murder as easy as her mother described. However, she disguised the revulsion which was creeping upon her and tried to make herself look attentive.
Imelza was smacking her lips, remembering all the dainty bodies she had savoured throughout her life. That was the rightful meat to feast on—not the woeful scraps served here. How she longed for the delight of sweet flesh between her teeth once again. “Oh daughter mine,” she breathed, “how I tire of this place.”
“Hoy, you, Tigerstripe!”
She glared up; it was that insolent black rat again. She had grown to hate the jeering wretch. It was agonising to have live bait constantly dangling from above and not be able to satiate her blood-craving. It had taken great self-control but Imelza had learned to ignore the disrespectful rodent—if only he would leave her alone.
Heliodorus scoffed irreverently. Teasing the tigers down below had become his favourite pastime of late. He turned to the occupant of the second cage which hung from the rafters and called, “You join Heliodorus in happy jesting—yes?”
The podgy brown rat opposite shook its head fearfully. Beckett was a timid animal; he was frightened of everything—even the moths which fluttered in through the bars alarmed him and he would cringe in a corner until they flew out again. “Don’t ’ee wind ’er up so,” he gibbered across the gulf between the two cages. “Yee knowed it fustigates ’er into a wicked temper.”
“Tigerstripe not get Heliodorus, not never!” the black rat shouted down. “Ho, ho—she sad sight most certainly. Oh yes, poor M’Lady she have no sharpy claw no more! Where her backbone got to eh?”
Imelza gritted her teeth and flicked her ears. Was she to be tormented like this every night, she asked herself. With the scornful voice of Heliodorus screeching through her she turned back to Dab. “And where is Leech, thy brother?” she asked, keeping her voice level as though nothing was bothering her.
Her daughter was gazing upwards. She rather liked the black rat. She thought he was funny, although she would never dare to voice this opinion. When Imelza addressed her she had to swiftly collect her wits. “Why, I know not,” she answered distractedly. “He was here when the old human took Jupiter away with him. I recall that Leech was most upset afterwards. Where he might be now I cannot guess; he is always slinking off on his own.”
Imelza glanced round the attic. It was in a worse mess than usual for in his frustration the alchemist had flung books everywhere. The ginger cat narrowed her tawny eyes into slits and pierced the shadowy recesses of the room. “I see him,” she uttered in an unhappy voice. “My son lies asleep in yon corner. It grieves me that he keeps so much to himself.”
Dab pouted in agreement. “My poor brother feels most the anger of the human; he loves him not at all.”
“And yet Jupiter is doted on,” mused Imelza sorrowfully. She looked steadily at Dab. “Promise me,” she began, “that should I ever be taken from you, you shall watch over your brothers. My heart forewarns me that some terrible wedge shall come between them. Swear that you will do all in your power to heal whatever hurts they inflict upon each other.”
“I promise Mother,” stammered the tortoiseshell, startled by the earnestness of the request.
Heliodorus chose that moment to emit a long and raucous raspberry. Both felines looked up and there was the rude creature, squeezing his bottom between the bars and wiggling it to show his contempt.
As he hooted and collapsed helplessly onto the floor of his cage Imelza twitched angrily—these gibes were really beginning to get to her. Dab hastily turned away, for she did not want her mother to see the great smile that had lit her face.
The shop door rattled far below and all knew that the alchemist had returned. Heliodorus ceased his mirth and listened as footsteps clumped up the staircase. Imelza and Dab shifted uncomfortably, wondering what kind of mood the old man would be in, and in his dark corner Leech was roused from sleep as the key clicked in the lock.
The attic door was hurriedly opened and Doctor Spittle breezed inside. He was in the lightest of humours, cradling Jupiter in his arms; he even chuckled when he saw the state of his workroom. “Twould seem a tempest has rampaged through here,” he laughed. “I can see there is much to do on the morrow.” Raising his familiar to his lips he startled the kitten by giving it a kiss. Then he placed it on the floor next to Imelza. “There you are, madam,” he cried, “the prodigal has returned safe and sound. I begin to marvel that I ever managed without his aid.”
Imelza sniffed her son; the night still clung to him and she envied his excursion. In the corner. Leech pressed himself against the wall and as the alchemist pattered closer, he eyed the old man’s boots warily and looked for an escape route. But the kicks he was expecting never came.
Doctor Spittle reached into his pocket and drew out the small bottle. At once the cold blue light filled the room. The old man lifted it over his head and danced around as though drunk. “What a pretty bauble,” he declared proudly.
The frail and anguished voice of Magnus Zachaire called out to him, “Release me thou blackheart!”
“Not yet my shining one,” came the tittered reply. “You know the conditions of your freedom—meet them and on my oath I shall let you go.”
The pale face against the glass was twisted in despair; the spirit longed to return to its peaceful rest—every moment in the living world was a torment to it. Magnus’s glittering eyes glared balefully at his captor but the intense gleam dimmed as he slowly realised there was no choice. Through the smooth walls of his prison he viewed the attic, recognising much of the equipment and all of the wall charts. A terrible regret tore through his being; memories were already flooding back, instants he would rather lose in the eternal sleep of oblivion. He could not bear it. Images of his unhappy life invaded his thoughts, relentlessly taunting him unto the edge of madness.
“I submit,” he moaned, “the secret is thine, just consign me to the grave once more—deliver me from this accursed torture.”
Doctor Spittle grinned callously. “I shall,” he said in a superior tone, “but not at this late hour. I need my rest—the morning is a proper time for the unravelling of coded messages.” Still smiling at his own cleverness this night, he place
d the bottle onto one of the low shelves, amongst the other jars and vessels.
“Stay!” cried Magnus piteously. “I cannot abide another hour of this agony. Stay I beg of thee!” But the crimson door had already closed and the alchemist’s footsteps trotted down to his bedchamber.
The spirit wept softly to himself, penitent beyond measure for all his sins—but it was too late to spare him the pain of remembrance. The blue light faded as he brooded in his melancholy and the attic returned to darkness once more.
Imelza gave the bottle a curious look then dismissed it. “Jupiter, my son,” she began, “are you unhurt? Did the human treat you well?”
“Mother!” he exclaimed. “You would scarce believe what I have seen this night. Truly my master is well versed in secret arts. You should have seen how—”
“Master?” snapped Imelza angrily. “Why for do you call him so?” A growl rumbled in her throat and in her eyes a furious gleam shone. “Have I not taught you the Hunter’s Creed?”
Jupiter looked down abashed.
“What is the way of things?” she demanded.
“Trust no one,” he mumbled shamefully.
“And?”
“Beware of the one that waits in the darkness...”
“But of the most important teaching?”
Jupiter groped for the answer—it was on the tip of his tongue. It was difficult with his mother’s reproachful eyes trained upon him. The seconds dragged by as he sought for the correct words, fearing what she might do to him if he failed.
Imelza was incredibly stern—this was extremely serious. A cat must know these important lessons; they had been handed down through innumerable generations from when the world was young. Never had they been flouted and her child was not going to be the first to do so. The threatening noise in her throat grew louder and her eyes became slits—she would claw it into her son if need be.
Jupiter trembled, knowing the trouble he was in. Wildly he glanced over at his sister. Dab too was afraid. Violence terrified her and to see her mother snarling at Jupiter brought her close to tears. Hastily she stole a nervous look at Imelza then mouthed the answer to her brother.