by Robin Jarvis
“The time has come,” spat the runt, “the time of reckoning and destiny. Only one of us will leave this place alive!”
Jupiter hissed back at him and his ears flattened against his skull. “If that is what you wish, brother—so be it. I have been patient with you but now I agree. One of us must die!”
“Remember the oath that you swore,” snarled Leech. “You promised never to use your magic against me! Tooth and claw only.”
“I need no enchantment to kill you!” replied his brother.
“Then make the sign of the Hunter!”
Jupiter lifted a paw in honour of the wild night and at that moment Leech flew at him.
The two cats rolled across the attic, biting and clawing one another. They were a blur of sable and ginger and their tails lashed furiously about them.
Into a pile of books they cannoned and their savage mewling filled the air.
All the spite and misery of his wretched life gave strength to Leech’s scrawny limbs. Bitterly he wrestled, clutching and throttling, tearing and snapping. Using his hind legs to thrust the ginger cat against the wall, he directed his attention to the wound gouged by the ice spear and sank his fangs into it.
Jupiter shrieked and he shoved Leech away. The runt tumbled head over heels, his brother’s blood dripping from his jaws. His somersaults ended when his head struck the leg of the table and for a moment he was dazed. Shaking his head he wiped his mouth and smacked his lips, but his courage fled when he saw the look on Jupiter’s face.
The familiar growled and darted forward. With a frightened yell Leech jumped onto the chair then pelted over the shelves for dear life. To murder Jupiter as he lay prone and weak had been his plan, not meet him in mortal combat.
Books, scientific instruments, jars, scrolls, and everything else that the shelves held were thrown aside and they crashed to the floor as Jupiter raged after the gangling coward.
Amongst this uproar one other object toppled from the shelf and landed amid the wreckage. It was a small glass bottle and, from its depths, the face of Magnus Zachaire peered out at the deadly cat fight which rampaged round the room.
“So it is written,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. With a jerk and a hop, the bottle started to roll across the attic floor and bounced through the doorway.
Doctor Spittle brushed the auburn locks away from his face and preened himself. A pale light was edging into the alley outside the apothecary shop as the grey morning of the second of September gradually dawned.
The alchemist gazed round—the place was ruined beyond repair; the walls were blackened and charred, the beams had split and plaster flaked from the ceiling. Not one pot was left intact and the floor was thick with the spilt contents. Through a mire of treacle, oil, pitch and spices he waded and the foundations of the building creaked and complained. Yet amid this devastation the old man smiled—none of this mattered any more, he needed the shop no longer.
“Elias Theophrastus Spittle,” he murmured softly, “you are almost a god.”
Then his eye fell upon Will’s unconscious body. During the battle with Jupiter the alchemist had forgotten all about him. Quickly he strode over to where the boy lay, covered by dust and soot. He was unharmed. It was as if the familiar’s magic had purposefully avoided him.
Doctor Spittle leered and gave the lad a swift and malicious kick. Will stirred and groaned.
“Now I can dispatch you at my leisure,” said the old man, but a fierce noise from above made him look up sharply. Vicious squeals and shrieks floated down the stairs from the attic and he glowered irritably. “How can I do anything with that caterwauling ringing in my ears?” he cried. “I hope they slaughter each other!”
Suddenly the latch rattled and Doctor Spittle whirled about. A dark figure was pressed against the door trying to get in.
“We are closed!” he shouted. “And will be henceforth.”
The latch fell silent but the shadow outside did not move away. Instead a violent hammering commenced.
This was too much. “How dare you!” the alchemist cried angrily, but before he could reach the door to let loose a tirade of abuse it shivered, splintering off its hinges, and burst open. A cloud of dust was flung into the air and as it settled Doctor Spittle whimpered in terror as the nightmare which filled the entrance was revealed.
“No!” he shrieked. “Keep away!”
There on the threshold stood the mortal remains of Magnus Zachaire.
It was a ghastly apparition: a tall skeletal horror, with blank sockets for eyes and bones for fingers. A black shroud was wrapped loosely about its spindly limbs but the garment was ragged and the tattered wisps fluttered in the still air like shreds of mist caught in a wintry hedge of thorns.
The mouldering smell of the grave flowed out from the figure in waves of corruption and decay and the gruesome head twisted towards the alchemist. The hollow eyes fixed on him and the bottom jaw fell open.
“Begone!” cried the old man. “By the powers of the underworld—return to your silent sleep.” Flapping his hands he desperately sought for a spell which would banish the awful monster.
The folds of the dark shroud rippled and the grinning cadaver stepped forward.
Doctor Spittle wailed in alarm as every enchantment he flung against it broke and was dispersed.
Slowly it stalked him; the arms of the skeleton were raised and the bony fingers groped the empty air relentlessly.
“What do you want?” squawked the old man. But it made no reply and as it prowled nearer its intent was plain.
Down the stairs a small shape tumbled and bounced. The spirit bottle landed at the bottom of the steps with a bump then rolled into the shop.
Doctor Spittle, however, was oblivious to it, for he was unable to drag his eyes from the animated collection of bones that continued to advance and so the bottle came spinning up behind him.
Swiftly it moved over the sticky floor, guided unerringly by Magnus’s will until it came to an abrupt halt and a voice shouted, “Behold Elias thy doom is nigh!”
The alchemist squirmed to see who had spoken and in doing so brought his boot crashing down directly onto the bottle.
Crushed by his weight the glass cracked and shattered.
With an almighty roar a fierce explosion rocked the shop and the front wall was blown into the alley.
Magnus Zachaire was free!
In a blinding flash his soul shot upwards and dazzling stars of sapphire trailed in his wake. Up through the ceiling he blasted, up through the alchemist’s bedchamber, into the attic, then out—bursting from the roof like a rocket. He soared into the leaden sky and his rejoicing boomed over London.
Near the river the great fire crackled still. During the night it had claimed over three hundred houses and was now close to London Bridge. The buildings burned like kindling and a choking smoke rose steadily into the heavens. Luckily there was no wind to drive it into the city and all the people prayed it would soon be under control. The Thames was crowded with boats as folk tried to get a better view of the dramatic spectacle and the hungry flames were reflected in the glimmering water. It was almost a pretty sight and several jolly sightseers commented on this as they bobbed up and down in their little crafts, enjoying the display.
If anybody saw the blue radiance of Magnus’s spirit as it glinted high above the rooftops, they assumed it was a morning star and turned their attention back to the burning. No one noticed the brilliant light plummet towards the flames, curving in a wide gleaming arc down to the incinerated buildings.
Out, over the blazing roofscape the spirit flew, swooping in amongst the fumes and infernal smokes that belched from the splitting tiles and exposed rafters. Like a whirlwind he whipped up the heats and fanned the leaping flames until the fires intensified and became an inferno. The very bricks began to crack and molten lead dripped from the gutters.
Enduring the agony of these furnaces, Magnus tore through the sheets of flame and bent them
towards the city. With dreadful speed the fire jumped from one building to another and cries of dismay rang out from the assembled onlookers; to them it seemed that a great east wind had started to blow and all watched in dread as the fire grew until it seemed that the air itself was ablaze.
With the flames lashing about him and glowing cinders flying upwards, Magnus dived. His sparkling light outshone the livid glare all around and it streaked down to the alley where the apothecary shop lay.
In a thunderous rush the fire leaped after him, forming an enormous arch of flame from one part of the city to another. Through the broken front of the shop the terrible burning crashed and everything was engulfed in the blaze.
Will opened one eye and waited for the black specks that swirled before him to fade from view. His head thumped, feeling like a horseshoe that was being tempered by a blacksmith. Why was it so hot? he wondered. Gingerly, he opened a second eye and the awful vision became clear.
The whole shop was aflame; the rivers of oil and pitch that had oozed over the floor were fine fuel for its hunger and it tore over the ground ravenously. The boy came to his senses and he hauled himself to his feet, but he was trapped. A massive wall of fire separated him from the exit and the intolerable heat beat him back towards the stairs.
“Noo!” gurgled a frightened voice.
Will started and peered through the towering flames. At the centre of a fiery ring two figures struggled and fought with one another. One was unmistakably Doctor Spittle but the boy could not make out who his attacker was.
The alchemist let out a strangled shriek, for at that moment the skeleton hands found his throat and the bones pressed into the spare and baggy flesh, squeezing the breath out of him.
“You cannot harm me!” gasped the alchemist clutching at the shroud which disintegrated in his hand.
The dreadful skull drew close to his face and the breath of darkness and the stale dead blew upon him.
“AAAAGGHH!” he howled, and the hands tightened at his throat. His face had turned purple and no matter how much he kicked and wriggled the deadly grip grew ever stronger. He knew that the corpse could not throttle the life out of him but he glanced fretfully at the encroaching flames.
“Release me!” he demanded. “Release me at once!”
But the grave-stained fingers clung tenaciously to him and Will could do nothing to help. The boy’s face was burned and the violence of the blistering fire drove him up the stairs. The steps ignited even as he sprang up them and flames licked constantly at his heels.
Doctor Spittle clawed at the vice-like hands and, with a tremendous effort, snapped one of the fingers from around his throat. The cadaver wavered and, seizing his chance, the alchemist twisted his neck, loosened the grip of the others and thrust the skeleton away.
The ghastly figure stumbled backwards into the flames. Immediately the ragged shroud was consumed and the apparition was wreathed in fire, burning like a torch.
The old man fled; through the hellish walls of heat towards the doorway he ran. “I must survive!” he gabbled, scurrying from the furnace that had once been his shop. “I must!”
His hands covering his face, he charged for the entrance but before he reached it a cold voice rang in his ears.
“Oh no, Elias—thou must not leave yet.”
Doctor Spittle pulled his hands from his eyes and in front of him the tall spirit of Magnus Zachaire barred his escape.
“Dost thou not like the warm party I have thrown in thine honour?” the spirit asked. “Stay awhile longer, I beg.”
“I cannot!” screamed the alchemist trying to push aside the glittering phantom. “Out of my way!”
Magnus laughed. “Thou wert always a most discourteous fellow, Elias,” he chuckled. “Yet I must insist—this is one time thou shalt obey my command.”
He rose into the air and his radiance gathered about his crackling corpse, winding tightly round it, seeping into the long dead bones. As Doctor Spittle watched, a change came over the skeletal figure: through the trembling haze he saw skin cover the hands and lights gleam in the dark sockets forming two keen eyes; bristles sprouted from the chin as a neat beard appeared and the lips parted into a wide smile. Magnus Zachaire had life again.
He was a lean, imposing man with a grim face and, as the infernal tumult raged, he breathed for the first time in nearly a hundred years.
“Behold, Elias,” he cried, “I am reborn! Didst thou expect this when thou didst summon my soul from the sleep of Death?”
“No,” stammered the old man, “I... I never did.”
Magnus stretched his long arms. “What rapture it is to be renewed!” he rejoiced.
Doctor Spittle stared about him; the withering heats were becoming more intense. “Quickly!” he spluttered. “Now that you are alive you must realise our danger—we could die in here. Let us flee from this place.”
Magnus nodded and the alchemist sighed with relief, glad that the man had seen sense. “Whatever quarrels lie between us they can be dealt with later,” he said, “now let me pass!”
But the man did not move. He stared at the alchemist strangely and a chill crept over him; even as the sea of fire lashed around them he turned cold.
“Am I truly in agreement with thee?” Magnus asked in astonishment. “Whyfor did I seek to walk again under the sun? There was peace in the void, I could forget the woes of the waking world and fear no more the unending torment of existence.” He glared at the alchemist and his eyes shone like steel. “The elixir of life is a curse, Elias!” he declared. “For me the burden of increasing years was a perpetual agony—I was glad to be released of it. Have I now condemned myself to another interminable sentence?”
Doctor Spittle edged away as Magnus reeled from the shock of what he had done.
“A torment to you perhaps,” he said, “but not for me. You cannot deny me now—I relish the thought of my immortality.”
Magnus’s strong hands caught hold of his arm and wrenched him back. “Thou art to blame, Elias!” he shouted. “If it were not for thee I would be sleeping still!” He stared round at the fury that besieged them and a wild look lit his face. “Now shall I embrace Death willingly,” he cried. “Come! Let us both go to the emptiness that awaits us,” And clutching the old man fiercely he began to drag him into the heart of the flames.
“NOOOOOO!” screamed Doctor Spittle in terror. “You’re mad! Don’t do this to me!” But his shrieks were lost amid the roars of the firestorm and though he bit and struggled he could not escape Magnus Zachaire’s iron grasp.
The tall man strode straight into the inferno, his voice raised in laughter—hauling Doctor Spittle behind him.
“Hand in hand, Elias,” sang Magnus, “we meet oblivion together!”
With a last screech of protest the alchemist was overcome and the flames swallowed him.
Will scrambled up feverishly. As he reached the small landing the entire stairway lurched, splitting away from the wall, and thick, spark-filled smoke gusted from the splintered crevice. Will staggered and the steps fell away, leaving him tottering on a high platform, unable to reach the attic.
“Jupiter!” he called miserably. “Leech!” There was no response; perhaps the fumes had already got to them. The poor creatures would be roasted alive up there.
The edges of the landing smouldered and blackened—then it dropped an ominous three feet and swayed unsteadily. Any moment now it would give way and go crashing to the ground.
Will sprang forward, launching himself at the door to Doctor Spittle’s bedchamber. As he tumbled inside the landing finally disappeared and a savage jet of flame shot up the stairwell.
Smoke was already curling between the floorboards in the alchemist’s room and the wood was hot to the touch. Will’s only escape was the window and he hurried over to it—fumbling with the catch. But it was rusted and would not budge.
Eager tips of yellow flame stabbed up through the scorching floor and the piles of clothes that were strewn carelessly
about steamed and were set alight—combusting into raging bonfires.
The smoke billowed in more thickly and Will cast round for something to break the glass with. He saw the small chest which contained his inheritance and threw it against the latticed window. With a tinkling crash, the heavy box tore through the leaded panes and plunged to the alley below.
The black fumes that filled the room were sucked out of the jagged hole and the flames roared towards it, surrounding Will as he tried to make the gap large enough for him to crawl through. The sharp glass cut and sliced into his hands but in his despair he found a heap of material on the buckling floor and with it he was able to cover the cruel spikes that jabbed from the casement.
Will squeezed out of the narrow window and balanced on the meagre ledge outside. It was a horrible, high place; the alley fell away beneath him and the world seemed to spin as he braced himself for the jump. With a horrendous clamour the floor of the bedchamber collapsed behind him and the walls of the building shuddered alarmingly. Flames shot out of the window, burning Will’s arms and legs and lapping up to the roof.
With his eyes clamped shut, the boy leaped from the ledge.
The attic burned furiously. The crimson paint blistered from the door and the mirrored globe exploded into a thousand twinkling fragments. The shelves fell from the cracking walls and the dried herbs which dangled from the rafters dripped fiery flowers. The ancient scrolls were consumed by the flames and the books which contained the secrets of alchemy and magic were reduced to ashes. In only five minutes, the lifetime’s work of Doctor Spittle was utterly destroyed.
Amid this torrent of flame there was no sign of Jupiter or his brother.
As the smoke poured into the attic the two cats had continued to claw and bite one another. So locked in their deadly contest were they, that only when the flames licked under the door did they know of the danger.
The fight had ceased as both hunted for a way out. But the only exit they could find was through the fireplace and up the chimney. It was in that blackened, soot-filled passage they now climbed.