by Robin Jarvis
Will looked at the dead man and a lump stuck in his throat. “Strange,” he thought, “but I believe I shall miss him. For the last two years that miserable old sinner has been the only constant person in my life.” He lifted his eyes and gazed sorrowfully at Jupiter—the cat was feeling this most of all.
And then a bizarre impulse drove Will to the bedside and he brought the jar to the corpse’s white lips.
“What are you doing?” asked Jupiter.
The boy shrugged. “This took long enough to make,” he answered. “I’m not going to waste it now. Who knows, maybe it’s strong enough to actually bring him back to life.”
“I do not think so,” said Jupiter doubtfully.
But Will ignored him and tipped some of the liquid into the alchemist’s mouth.
“You’re spilling it,” the cat told him. “Be careful.”
“It’s this jar,” Will muttered.
“Then pour it into another vessel first.”
The boy cast around for something else. On the floor by the bed there were two pewter bowls; one contained what looked like water, the other was empty. Picking up the latter he filled it with some of the elixir then put it to the old man’s lips.
“That’s better,” he said, “it’s all going in now. How much do you think we should give him?”
“It does not matter,” replied Jupiter, “it will do no good.”
At that instant the bowl was knocked from Will’s hands and Doctor Spittle spluttered into life.
“AARRGHH!” he groaned, sitting up and coughing. “The void spins around me.”
Then his head wobbled and he collapsed onto the pillows once more, the nostrils of his hooked nose flaring and his breath rattling in his throat—but at least he was alive.
Jupiter stared at him incredulously. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “My master lives!”
Will filled the bowl a second time but the old man would drink no more—he pushed him away and rolled onto his side.
“It is the plague,” Jupiter announced. “He still suffers from it. We have brought him back from death but the elixir has not yet cured him of the sickness. His agony is renewed.”
“What are we to do?” asked the boy.
“Remain at his side,” muttered the familiar, “for his pain and suffering will be beyond the understanding of we mortals. Doctor Spittle has life everlasting now and must endure the pestilence until it passes. Not for him is the blissful release of death; he cannot escape his burdens any more. He must withstand the fever and vanquish it.”
Will sat back then murmured, “Have we really toiled all night?”
“It is but a little after two of the clock,” Jupiter informed him. “Why do you ask?”
The boy rose and wandered over to the window saying, “Then if it is not the dawn that glows in the sky, what is it?”
A ruddy glare had risen over the rooftops. It lit the black heavens with a vivid scarlet that was too harsh and bloody for any sunrise.
Jupiter gazed at it bewildered. “I shall ascend the stairs and see if I can espy more from there,” he said. “Stay here and watch over my master.”
Leech was sitting on the sill of the attic window when he arrived. The ginger cat leapt up beside him but the runt hissed and backed away.
“Peace, brother,” said Jupiter sternly, “I come only to discover the source of the light in the sky.”
Leech sneered and sniggered out of the corner of his mouth. “Then behold!” he cried. “That is the sign of a great burning—buildings are ablaze and, it is to be hoped, humans are dying.”
Jupiter stared over the mass of chimneys, steeples and bell towers. In the distance a huge fire blazed and tongues of flame soared into the night.
“What a lovely sight it is,” breathed Leech. “See how it makes the darkness red, staining it with its violence.”
Jupiter dragged his eyes from the spectacle. “It must be over a mile away,” he said, satisfied they were in no danger. “I must return to my duties.”
Leech stayed him with a paw. “The old human,” he began with a leer, “how does he fare? Has the sickness taken him? I heard you cry that he was dead—is that true?”
“It was,” the familiar replied, “but not any more; the elixir has brought him back from death. My master will soon recover and be the greatest man that has ever lived.”
A twisted snarl curled over the runt’s foul mouth but Jupiter paid no attention to him. With a light heart he ran out of the attic to see to the alchemist’s needs.
Alone, Leech made a horrible whining sound as he realised how miserable his life would be from now on. “I shall never gain power,” he snivelled. “All my patience has been in vain.”
From the spirit bottle a teasing voice answered, “Maybe not, my disheartened runt. There is yet a slender ray of hope for both of us.”
Leech slunk over to where the face of Magnus Zachaire shone out at him. “What do you mean?” he asked, and then his expression changed. “You are still trapped!” he declared. “But did I not hear that the old human had perished before the elixir revived him? Why did you not escape then when all his enchantments had failed?”
A cunning and vengeful look blazed in the spirit’s eyes. “My desires have altered since Elias tortured me in the flame,” he growled. “My freedom I still hold dear, yet it is liberty of a different sort I seek now. To return to the empty, freezing void is not my wish. I, Magnus Zachaire, want to live again!”
“But... but is that possible?” spluttered Leech incredulously.
“Elias hath achieved it.”
“Yes, but he had only been gone a short while—you departed many years ago. Your remains are buried deep in the earth, corrupt and rotted with age.”
That is why I made certain the formula I gave him was of the utmost power and strength, and why I did stay here when I might have escaped. To supervise and oversee my rebirth is now my goal. Presently I shall breathe the air of mortal lands once more.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper as he murmured, “And that is why I need thy help, friend Leech.”
“What can I do?” asked the runt. “You know that I have no magic.”
“The magic is in the elixir. Dost thou remember thy birthplace?”
Leech nodded, “The graveyard, yes.”
“Then take thither a quantity of the precious liquid and pour it over my grave.”
The runt scowled uncertainly. “But how will that help me?” he complained. “Besides, the elixir is in the bedchamber downstairs—how am I to steal some with Jupiter and that boy standing guard?”
“Use the sly craft that was in thee from the beginning,” Magnus told him, “and have no fear, I shall reward thee for thy service.”
Doctor Spittle moaned and stirred in the dark faint that gripped him. With a wet handkerchief Will wiped the beads of sweat from the old man’s pustule-covered brow and tutted.
“It’s taking a long time,” he said. “The boils still increase and the shivering won’t cease.”
Jupiter nodded wisely. “All will be well,” he answered. “Even now the elixir is battling with the sickness inside my master’s body—he shall win through.”
The alchemist muttered under his breath but they could not catch the words.
“Pear tarts!” he squealed suddenly. “Marmalades, syllabubs, jellied milk, apple mousses, marzipan and cheesecakes—come to me you divine dainties. Let me guzzle you down. Ahhh, how delightful!”
“He is raving,” commented Jupiter. “The fever shall make him ramble incoherently from now on. No doubt we shall both tire of his rantings before he is cured.”
“Keep your Dutch Pudding!” gabbled Doctor Spittle. “Where are all the spice cakes gone?”
Will grinned but it quickly turned into a yawn and the ginger cat eyed him kindly. “Why do you not get some rest?” he asked. “I can see to the old one now. You have done your part and there is little point in staying awake.”
“You’re right,” the boy agreed, “I really am ve
ry tired. I’ll go to bed but if you need anything, wake me.”
“I shall,” returned Jupiter, “and thank you.”
Will smiled. “I still can’t believe that you can really talk,” he chuckled. “Maybe I’ll wake up and find this has been a dream.”
“WILLIAM GODWIN!”
The scream had come from Doctor Spittle. He let out a long, wailing shriek and his hands clawed the air.
Will hesitated at the doorway; Jupiter turned to him. “It is the fever that speaks,” he said. “It means nothing.”
But Will was not so sure. “I’ve never told him my full name,” he muttered.
“No!” babbled the alchemist. “You cannot do that—yet why not? What was his should be mine. It is my right, I am the rightful heir of the house.”
Will knelt by the bedside. Doctor Spittle was evidently reliving some past moment when his mind had been in some great turmoil.
“Take the land,” gusted the alchemist’s shrill voice. “Sell it—think of the gold, man! Why all these qualms?—you’ve never had them before now.” He huddled himself into a ball and his fingers pressed against his full lips as he hushed himself to a hoarse whisper. “But I have,” he rattled on in this demented fashion. “Remember the child—and this one is the same. What are you to do with him?” His face hardened and the answer came snapping back. “Death!” he seethed. “Slay him swiftly, let none remain that have a claim on the land. Rectify the blunder you made back then.”
Will and Jupiter looked at one another, confused and astonished. “It is as if two people are speaking,” remarked the cat.
“No,” corrected Will, “more like Doctor Spittle’s conscience arguing with the evil side of his nature.”
“But what are they discussing?” asked Jupiter.
The boy did not reply—an awful suspicion was forming in his mind.
The alchemist wailed sadly in his delirium and the bizarre conversation continued. “No,” he pleaded, “not death for one so young, can we not keep him under our watchful eye yet let the world think he has perished?”
The dark half of his personality spat and the old man bared his teeth.’A curse on your yellow liver,” he grumbled. “Very well, but I like it not. Do not expect me to be kind to the lad; he can rot in my service for all I care—yet I would rather he was dead.”
“Even though he is of our blood?”
“Silence! Long ago I broke free of such shackles. I have no kin now. My name is Elias Theophrastus Spittle—I do not recognise that former life. I have ceased to be Samuel Godwin!”
Will cried in alarm as the answers to all his questions flooded into his mind. “Lord in heaven!” he gasped, staggering to his feet and stumbling away from the bed.
“What is the matter?” asked Jupiter, not understanding the significance of what had been said.
The boy raised a quivering finger of accusation and pointed it, aghast, at the old man. In a faint and stricken voice he stammered, “He... he is my uncle.”
A wicked and disdainful expression darkened the alchemist’s face as his evil aspect conquered his weaker, timid conscience. And, as if the outcome of this turbulent, inner conflict was the awaited catalyst, the elixir of life finally triumphed over the Black Death. Very slowly, the plague boils began to shrink and disappear.
Jupiter noticed the reaction but he was more concerned for Will. “Tell me what is wrong,” he asked. “I know nothing of this matter.”
The boy gazed fearfully at the rapidly recovering old man then turned a pale, drained face to the cat. “I was brought to London by an invitation from an uncle I had never seen,” he explained. “Now I discover that the black-hearted rogue who has made me slave for him is none other than he.”
Jupiter listened attentively as Will related the story of how he came to London with Mr Balker. Neither saw a dark shape slither through the doorway and creep towards the bed.
Leech stole forward, his emerald eyes warily glinting and shining as they searched for the elixir. Then he saw it; the large glass jar was on the low bedtable. Slinking between piles of old clothes he crept closer. Stalactites of ancient candle grease were glued down the table legs and Leech regarded the sticky streaks contemptuously.
“I could never get my claws to hook into that slippery mess,” he told himself. “How then am I to climb up?”
He gave his brother and the boy a sideways glance; if he jumped up onto the pillows and reached over to the jar then they would surely spot him. Then his green eyes fell on the two pewter bowls that Will had shoved under the bed. Both contained a clear liquid and he twitched his whiskers over each of them in turn.
“One of these is definitely the elixir,” he muttered, “yet which one I cannot tell.” He sniffed them again but still he could not decide—both smelled strange but the chemical fumes confounded his senses.
“If I were to drag one bowl to the graveside then it might be the wrong one,” he told himself, “and I would be sure to spill most of it getting there.”
Faced with this problem Leech did the only thing he could. Going to each bowl in turn, he sucked up an equal amount of both liquids then darted for the door, his full cheeks swollen into distorted balls of black fur that threatened to burst at any moment.
Down the stairs he galloped, like a hideous four-legged spider scurrying after its prey. Then across the floor of the shop he dashed and snaked out through the open doorway.
A pall of choking smoke rose into the sky and blotted out the stars. The London streets were filled by the clamour of voices as curious people left their beds to see the fire. Wrapped in dressing-gowns and tripping over the cobbles in their slippers they pattered towards Pudding Lane where the King’s bakehouse was ablaze. The capital was agog with wonder and speculation as to how it had started.
“’Tis a popish plot,” some of the citizens muttered. “The Bishop of Rome is behind this I’ll warrant.”
But no one truly felt threatened by this new calamity that crackled on into Fish Street—London had seen many fires in the past and they all believed this one would burn itself out and cause no great harm.
Like an angry demon. Leech sped between the inquisitive sensation-seekers and hurtled down Cheapside towards the church of St Anne’s.
The tall tower rose starkly against the infernal heavens, a brooding, black shape whose stained-glass windows reflected the glare of the fire-like jewels. In the dark, lofty heights of the belfry, the bats took counsel with one another and they flitted about the church, anxious to leave, yet yearning to stay and see what had been foretold.
Leech slipped through the cemetery gates, invisible in the shadows, and passed into the wild tangle of bushes and thickets beyond.
His face ached with the strain of carrying the liquid in his mouth and twice on his journey he had almost swallowed it by accident. Prowling through the weeds and knotted undergrowth he hunted for the grave of Magnus Zachaire. He knew it was here somewhere, all his instincts told him that, yet in the two years since Imelza had given birth to him the graveyard had changed dramatically.
It was an impenetrable jungle of briar and hawthorn. The Goddess had not been idle and her ancient and perilous might had focused on this one area of neglect. Alone in all London she made her abode there, silent and cold, threatening the order of civilisation and reason with her tendrils of nightmare—a remote vision of how England would look without the hand of man to till the soil and keep her wildness in check.
Leech was aware of her, yet he sneered. Such primeval powers were on the wane, he thought to himself. The time of the old gods was drawing to an end; soon they would be a fanciful memory and only the places where they had been worshipped would mourn them. Now a new age was sweeping aside all past allegiances to sacred hilltops and woodland groves. It was a time for order and control, for nature to be subdued and tamed and the wildness removed from the land.
The branches rustled over the runt’s head as he passed beneath, searching and prying for his birthplace. Squeezing be
tween the brambles that tried to bar his way, he pushed by crumbling tombs and then he found it.
There was the ornate carving of the dragon, twisting and curling about the headstone, its scales encrusted with moss and a noose of ivy strangling the roaring throat.
With relief Leech crept forward, then lowered his head. His lips parted and the liquid he had carried so far spilled onto the ground and seeped into the soil.
The cat gave a grunt of satisfaction. “At last,” he smirked taking a deep breath. “Now we shall see who will succeed, brother dear.”
A faint sizzling sound rumbled in the earth and Leech settled down to see what would happen. Soon it would be over; Magnus would live again and reward him handsomely. Licking his wet chin he began to purr, but it was a vile, malicious noise. Then he swallowed and the bats high above wheeled excitedly in the sky and were content to leave.
Will peered under the bed and fumbled around with his hands. “What are you looking for?” ventured Jupiter curiously.
“I’m not sure,” the boy replied, “but there must be something that...” He stared at the large wardrobe which dominated the room and crossed to it. The single door opened with a creak and he held up a candle to see what lay inside.
A musty, damp smell flowed from the wooden interior and when the glow fell upon its contents Will wrinkled his nose. The wardrobe was filled with old clothes. Everything Doctor Spittle had ever worn was stashed and hoarded in there—he never threw anything away even if it was frayed and full of holes.
The garments were spotted with black mould and Will was about to close the door again when he noticed the corner of some bulky shape protruding out of a tatty and grime-stained shirt.
He pushed the filthy material out of the way and revealed a small wooden chest. Will placed the candle on the floor and lifted the box out of the mouldering heap. It was very heavy and, by the sound of it, filled with coins.
Hastily he knelt down and Jupiter came to sit next to him.
The chest was painted black and strong iron bands sealed it firmly, yet it was plain that the hinges had been oiled only recently. The boy fiddled with the lid but the lock was too strong. “It’s impossible to open without the key,” he said. Where would old Spittle keep that?”