by Robin Jarvis
Some distance behind. Dab chased after. The tortoiseshell had never run anywhere before and she enjoyed the new sensation. She bounded along, stretching her legs as much as she could, and gazing about her with interest. The noise of the city filled her ears. So this was what the outside was like, she marvelled. From the small window of the attic she had often looked down upon the rooftops of London. From that lofty position it had all seemed smaller somehow. Now those same buildings reared up on either side and the maze of roads and streets opened before her.
Imelza was just a tail that bobbed ever further away and Dab began to be afraid. If she lost sight of her mother then she would never find her again in this strange warren of a place. Her limbs began to tire and the breath rattled in her throat.
“Wait!” she called, panic-stricken. “Mother, please!”
But the marmalade cat was caught up in the excitement that her new-found freedom had brought. Nothing filled her mind except the need to be as far from the apothecary shop as possible. Under carts, over barrels and through the people she raced. It was exhilarating and she gave no thought to her daughter who was now far behind.
“Cat!” bellowed an ugly brute of a man. In his hand he carried a spade and as Imelza rushed towards him he brought it crashing down. Sparks flew off the road as the blade struck the stones but the cat was too quick.
She zig-zagged round, darting out before an approaching coach, weaving between the iron-shod hooves and charging between the clattering wheels.
The horse whinnied in fright and reared up, tossing its head and kicking the air. The driver cursed, the whip cracked, and the passenger within went sprawling from the seat, fell out of the door and spilled onto the road.
Imelza did not turn back to see the chaos she had caused. The uproar blared in her ears but on she went.
Nothing could stop her now; all her old instincts were returning and the wildness burned in her blood, spurring her on. Liberty was hers at last—she could stalk through the night and hunt as before. She yelled with delight and rocketed round a corner.
Too late did she see the danger. Too late did she see the crowd of people with sticks in their hands and murder in their eyes, and too late did she think to turn back.
Her claws clattered and scraped on the ground as she scrabbled and skidded to a halt.
“Get it!” screeched a harsh voice.
Imelza whirled about, but the way back was cut off. More of the creatures closed in and she hissed with dismay as their shadows fell upon her.
A savage kick thrust her into the centre of the mob. She was completely trapped and, as the sticks and cudgels were raised, she knew all hope was gone. With a final mew of despair the light of the sun was denied to her and countless, grim faces towered above.
The people guffawed as they carried out their deadly work and Imelza’s terrified screams were lost amid their clamorous voices.
Breathlessly Dab hurried past the horse as it stamped and blew. Just as the coachman had pacified both it and his bruised passenger, the sweating beast saw the tortoiseshell race by and it reared up again.
Dab turned the blind corner and stumbled to a standstill. It was a ghastly sight that she beheld.
The thronging mass of people were cheering and throwing their weapons into the air and to Dab’s undying horror something else was being flung up with them.
“Mother!” she cried. “Mother!”
Like some pathetic rag-doll, Imelza’s broken body was tossed over the heads of the mob with as little regard as they might show to an old hat.
Dab was rooted to the spot and could not avert her eyes. A violent, terrible shudder racked her and she almost burst with grief.
A numb chill washed over the tortoiseshell as she gaped and stared. It was the most hideous moment of her young life but she was too petrified to escape from it.
“Another ’un!” shouted one of the vicious crowd. All the ugly faces turned to look at her and Dab quailed.
“Grind it into the dust!” the people shrieked.
Finally the bonds of fear fell from Dab’s muscles and she shook herself.
“Here’s a lovely,” said a voice behind her.
She spun on her heel but it was no use. A strong hand grabbed the scruff of her neck and she was roughly plucked from the ground.
A spindly man with a dirty beard and no shoes upon his feet held the squirming cat aloft and swung it round his head. “Here it is!” he called to the others. “A lovely bit o’ trimmin’ you could get off it too—if the skin’s still in one piece at the finish.”
Dab wailed piteously and her claws raked the wind. The man’s grip pinched her and the world lurched round sickeningly. Her beautiful amber eyes were wide with horror as the mob advanced.
“Chuck her over!” they shouted.
The man crowed with black mirth and he threw the cat to the waiting executioners. “Off to the slaughter with you!” he cackled.
The tortoiseshell tumbled through the air, her tail fluttering behind like that of a kite. With a roar from the crowd she fell in their midst and they waved their sticks once more.
Dab whined with pain; she had landed awkwardly and her leg hurt. A stout stick came splintering down beside her and she leapt back in fright as another bludgeoned the ground.
“Kill it!” the call rippled through the people. “It’s us or them! Kill the cursed moggy!”
A hundred clubs and cudgels pounded around the shivering animal, the deafening racket rang in her ears and the street trembled at the violence. And then the first of them struck her and everything went black as Dab collapsed in the dirt.
“Stop!” came a stern, commanding voice.
A hush descended over the crowd as they turned to see who had dared speak against them. But then a murmur of surprise and apprehension issued from their lips.
“A plague doctor!” they whispered. “What do he want?”
The sinister figure pushed its way through with ease, for no one was brave enough to withstand the glance of those round glass eyes, and the long beak seemed to scythe through them. Hastily they pulled back and a clear path opened for the newcomer who strode purposefully to the centre of the malicious gathering.
“Deliver the poor animal to me!” the muffled voice demanded.
A sneering youth with a squint eyed the tortoiseshell angrily. His stick was poised to deliver a crushing blow and he resented this interference. He wanted blood; he had already killed five dogs and three cats that day and no one was going to stop him doing the same to this one. He stared defiantly into the large glass eyes that covered the plague doctor’s face—it didn’t frighten him. With a venomous growl rumbling in his throat the lad spat at the stranger’s booted feet. “Nark it!” he cried and brought the stick swinging down.
A black gauntlet flashed out and caught the youth on his chin. Before he knew what had happened the stick was knocked from his grasp and he went sprawling on his back. The black figure of the plague doctor stepped over him and from the sharp beak the voice said, “Have a care, boy. I have the authority to drag you into the pest-house with me if I wish. So do not provoke me or I shall surely leave you there and the pestilence will take you.”
There was no answer to that. The blustering courage had drained out of the youth and he clicked his jaw back into position, then scarpered.
The plague doctor knelt down and, with one deft movement, scooped up the limp and motionless body of Dab. Then stepping through the silent crowd, the striking figure marched out of sight, dissolving into the shimmering summer haze.
10 - The Plague Doctor
Will hurried along Cheapside, Peggy Blister’s shrill laughter echoing in his ears. He had to find the cats before something dreadful happened to them. It was not difficult to follow the trail for the traders were still muttering in their wake and a coachman struggled with his whinnying horse. The boy turned down Fryday Street and thus came upon the mob.
They were mooning around and grumbling against the plague doct
or who had spoiled their fun. They dragged their feet through the dust and their weapons trailed behind. Only one stick was held aloft and from its sharpened point a limp ginger body dangled.
Will uttered a cry of dismay.
The crowd took no notice of the boy; they were shuffling about—not sure what to do next. Now that their quarry had been taken they were aimless and bereft of purpose. As they ambled past him Will peered amongst them, but there was no sign of Dab.
“Excuse me,” he said to a sharp-featured woman, “was there another cat with that one? A tortoiseshell?”
The ferret face glared at him. “What if there were?” she snapped, turning her back and plodding away.
“Lovely skin on it that one had,” another voice began.
Will looked up; the bearded man who had thrown Dab into the crowd was stroking his whiskers and regarding him suspiciously.
“What happened to her?” the boy asked.
The man kicked the dirt with his bare toes. “Plague doctor snatched it,” he blurted with indignation. “Things have come pretty low if’n folk can’t have a jest or two.”
“Which way did he take her?”
A grubby finger pointed down the street. “Over there, somewhere—were too hazy to be sure. But don’t you go after, lad, I done heard unsettlin’ tales o’ them doctors.” But the boy was already running and did not hear him.
Swiftly Will hurried down the sun-baked streets, drawing ever closer to the wide Thames.
Trinity Lane was a narrow, dismal place. The houses on either side leaned out over the road so much that the windows of their second storeys were only a few feet apart. Only a slender ribbon of light ever touched the ground between those misshapen buildings and even in the fierce brightness of high summer the cramped way looked dark and chill.
Will came running into the lane just in time to see the plague doctor march up to a low doorway. The boy nipped behind a rain barrel as the alarming, beaked face turned left and right to see if anyone was watching. The glassy eyes peered into the surrounding gloom then pushed the door open. Will raised his head as the nightmare figure entered and, there in the gauntleted hands, he saw a snatch of tortoiseshell fur. The plague doctor passed within and the door was closed behind.
Minutes crept by and Will tried to form some kind of a plan. What if he were to dash inside, take Dab from her abductor and race back to the apothecary? “No,” he murmured to himself. That won’t work. The plague doctor’ll be stronger than I am. Besides, as soon as he hears the door open he’ll come to see who’s there.”
But then a latch rattled and when he peeked over the barrel he saw the figure emerge from the building, walk down the lane and vanish round a corner. Dab was nowhere to be seen.
“She must still be inside,” Will told himself. He took one more look at the empty street then dashed out of hiding.
The door was frail: one good kick and the lock would splinter away from the wood. Will forced it open and, with a groaning shudder, it swung on its rusty hinges.
A long, dreary hall stretched before him, at the far end of which was another doorway. The boy hesitated for a moment, as his nostrils met the stuffy air—it smelled of dry decay. The panelling of the hall was rotten with age and beetles burrowed into the grain, chewing the wood and spitting out sawdust. The tunnels and bore-holes branched through the panels like arteries and Will had the impression that he was gazing down the throat of some enormous forest spirit.
Taking a deep breath he entered. Great flakes and splinters littered the floor round his feet and the relentless scurrying of hungry destructive insects moved through the soft heaps.
Down the passage he hurried and when he came to the far door, he found to his relief that it was unlocked. Slowly he turned the handle and pushed it open.
The room beyond was filled with light; the rear wall housed a large window and through this the sun dazzled and blinded, glittering over the floating dust particles in a wide, brilliant sweep. Squinting, Will gazed round—the chamber reminded him of the alchemist’s workroom. Bottles and jars filled shelves and covered tables, books were neatly stacked in a long row and curious instruments gleamed in the sunlight. But this place had a more wholesome feel to it; here there was an order unknown in Doctor Spittle’s attic—everything was arranged with a deliberate tidiness, even the floor had been scrubbed clean.
As Will entered, it was like leaving one world and passing into another. The room contrasted violently with the outer hall; he could not imagine any beetle daring to invade this territory. Even the air was sweeter here—a faint fragrance of flowers and perfumed herbs scented the atmosphere.
Then Will saw what he had come for. Dab was lying on a high table in the full glare of the sunshine. The warm rays picked out the honey-coloured speckles in her fur and set them blazing like veins of gold. By her head a saucer of milk had been placed and a bandage bound her leg—but the cat was motionless.
Will rushed over and lightly touched her head. A beautiful, amber eye flickered open and the tortoiseshell managed a pitiful mew.
“There now,” the boy said soothingly, “don’t you worry. I’ll take you back to your brothers.”
Shakily, Dab raised her head and stared about her. She was confused and bewildered. Then, in a sickening rush, it all came back. “Mother!” she cried.
Will felt her anguish and the cat began to tremble as the awful memory returned. She beheld the savage weapons beating her mother into the ground and the screams of Imelza rose once more to torment her.
The boy saw her wince and was saddened to see great tears spring from her eyes. “Come on now,” he comforted, “shush. Everything’s going to be fine.” Will slipped his hand under her stomach and gently lifted her into his arms. “Let’s leave,” he said briskly, “before—”
“Before I return?” snapped a stern voice.
Will whipped round and there, barring the door, was the plague doctor.
Dab hissed when she saw the nightmarish face and wriggled to be set free. Will could only stammer before the terrifying figure; the eyes behind the glass lenses were magnified to a horrible size and they glared at him accusingly. His courage disappeared as the door was closed and the key turned in the lock.
Will’s heart pounded; what would become of him now?
The plague doctor seemed to be studying him. Seconds ticked by as those hideously large pupils pinned him to the spot like some puny insect beneath a microscope. The tension crackled through the air and it seemed to Will that the whole world had become silent, listening and waiting for the outcome of this meeting. It was so quiet that he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest and the slight breathing of the plague doctor through the herb-filled beak.
And then, the tension was relaxed, diffused with one shrug of the sinister figure’s shoulders. “Enough,” it said. “The time has come for you to know the truth.”
The plague doctor bent its head and unlaced the hideous mask. With sweating palms Will watched as the beak was thrown onto the table, followed by the lenses. Then, with a toss of the head the heavy cowl was removed and a mass of golden curls was shaken free.
The boy stared blankly, too astonished to utter a word.
“Aren’t you going to say hello, then?” asked the plague doctor with a wide grin.
“Molly!” he gasped eventually.
The pretty young woman laughed to see Will so confounded. “You should see your face,” she told him.
“But... why?” he spluttered. “What is the disguise for?”
“It is no disguise, Will,” she said pulling the gauntlets from her small white hands, “but it does conceal my sex. How else would I be allowed to help those suffering from the pestilence? At least as a plague doctor I can give them some comforts. You know that I have a knowledge of medicines; I have always been interested in the healing virtues of certain herbs. In some small way I can give aid to those in need, but I am compelled to hide the fact that I am a woman to do so,” She shook her head bitte
rly. “We are only fit for serving our lords and masters and looking decorative. An intelligent woman is a freak of nature and a dangerous threat to civilisation, Will.”
The boy said nothing; he was thinking of the alchemist and what he had seen from the attic window. “Have you been watching old Spittle?” he asked suddenly.
Molly nodded as she took Dab from his arms and set her upon the table once more. “I think her leg is broken,” she said. “The creature must be in great distress. I was too late to save the mother and nearly didn’t rescue this one in time. Is it not alarming how brutal people can be? Did you mark the faces of the mob back there? They were almost animals themselves. Fear does that, Will, and fear is born of ignorance—remember that.”
“But why were you watching the old man?” he persisted.
The golden head remained bent over the tortoiseshell as she struggled to find a way of explaining it all. Then Molly looked steadily into his eyes. “Do you remember the last time we met?” she asked quietly.
“I could hardly forget,” he replied. “You changed and became—horrible.”
Molly pursed her lips. “Forgive me that,” she said, “but you see, I had suffered a tremendous shock—John Balker was my father.”
There was a painful silence in which neither said anything. Then Will frowned. “So you’re really Molly Balker,” he muttered slowly, “but why did he never mention you?”
She sighed and sat on the table. “My true name is Margaret Balker,” she said. “I took the name Molly to hide from him. It was a long time ago now, you would have been a baby when I left. After the death of my mother. Father turned in upon himself, blaming everyone for her loss. He was a strict Puritan in those days, and my life—well it was not the happiest. His grief and loneliness was like a canker that ate him away. Many times I suffered at his bitter hands.”
She paused and her face clouded over at the memory of it. “In the end I could bear it no longer and fled from Adcombe and my father. London seemed a goodly-sized place where a maid might hide herself and not be discovered, so I journeyed here.”