by Robin Jarvis
Leech had been the first to scramble into the cramped passage of brick but Jupiter was not far behind.
The air inside the chimney was hot and stuffy, it stung their eyes and parched their mouths, but it was the only way out. Several feet above, a circle of ruddy daylight lured them on, but each movement was slow and laboured. Both cats were already drained from their struggles against one another and they hauled themselves up as fast as they were able.
Jupiter’s arms ached as he clung to the brickwork; the scorching smoke rose about him and far below he could hear the floor of the alchemist’s bedchamber crash into ruin. The chimney quivered and Leech whined piteously as his claws lost their grip.
Desperately the runt groped for a foothold but his panic was too great and he scraped away at the brickwork in vain. He looked down in despair and whimpered all the more. The chimney was on fire!
In the dim, smoke-swirling distance beneath him orange flames leapt upwards, drawing closer with every second.
Leech squealed as one of his claws snagged on a brick and was torn from his paw. Shrieking, he slithered down, dropping like a stone, and the fire rushed up to greet him.
Jupiter heard the mew of dismay; glancing upward he saw the dark shape of his brother come hurtling down. He hesitated then made up his mind—he could not bear to see his brother plunge to such a horrible death. Deftly he reached out and caught Leech’s paw as he plummeted past.
“Hurry!” he told the runt. “Find a ledge—I can’t keep hold much longer.”
Leech did as he was instructed and his gasping breaths filled the narrow chimney until he was ready to set off once more.
All that time Jupiter supported him and the flames came ever nearer. The fur on both cats frazzled with the broiling heat and their whiskers were singed off their faces.
As the ravening fire approached. Leech turned a bewildered head to his brother. “Why did you save me?” he asked. “It would have been easier for you to let me perish. You could have escaped by now.”
Jupiter shrugged. “I realised just how selfish I have been,” he replied, coughing in the stifling atmosphere. “Magic is not the answer. The secret arts ought to be left alone—problems are better dealt with on a humbler scale. After this day I swear never to use my powers again.” Through the clouds of reeking smoke he stared intently at Leech then said, “Can you forgive me, brother, for all the hurts I have caused you? If we both escape this madness I promise we shall live happily together. The simple lives of hunters—no more spells for me.”
Leech grinned and he shook Jupiter’s paw. “Now do I forgive you,” he said gladly, “but let us leave this terrible place.” With a glitter in his green eyes he clambered upwards and Jupiter followed.
The Great Fire rampaged through the city and nothing could stem its progress. Gunpowder was used to blow up houses in the fire’s path but it bridged the gaps and spread more quickly than before.
The apothecary shop was almost totally destroyed. The first two storeys were already burnt out shells and the attic was in full flame. Only the roof remained intact but the tiles were falling away like autumn leaves and cinders were shooting up through the holes like fireworks.
The chimney stack of the building was tall and towered high above the sloping roof. Black smoke curled lovingly about it, like dark waves about the mast of a sunken galleon.
In the streets, all was confusion and chaos. People were salvaging what belongings they could before the flames reached their homes and bearing them through the razed lanes. The pigeons fluttered and wheeled over the city in fright and amazement and those that were foolish enough to dare the heats fell from the sky with burned wings.
Into this frightening, fire-brimming world came Leech. His ugly head reared over the top of the chimney stack and he hauled himself up to the precarious ledge. Putting a paw to his chest he fought for breath; the airs above London were hotter than those he had just escaped. He looked about him and wondered how to escape from this lofty height.
The roof was burning now and as he gazed round he saw the horrible devastation that the fire had already caused. The city would never be the same.
“Leech!” called Jupiter suddenly.
The runt turned and a charred, black paw came grasping over the edge of the chimney.
“Help me!” Jupiter cried. “My strength is failing. I can’t make it—please!”
Leech stared down. His brother’s face was contorted in anguish, but an evil glow shone in the runt’s eyes.
“If we both escape indeed!” he spat with scorn. “Do you really think I want you to live, brother dear? Do you not understand that your precious gift should have been mine from the first?”
Jupiter looked at him beseechingly. “My claws,” he cried, “they’re slipping—you must help me!”
Leech drew himself up, all the misery and hatred swelling inside. His loathing for his brother overwhelmed him and he hissed, “I said I forgave you brother, and now I do indeed. This is my hour—when I shall take what is rightfully mine.”
Reaching down, he clutched Jupiter’s paw and began to prise it from the edge.
“Stop!” shouted Jupiter. “I’ll fall!”
“I know,” his brother murmured as the last claw scraped down the mortar. “Go to your doom—Lord of Nothing!” he exulted.
Jupiter fell.
Down into the fiery hell of the building he spun and the excited flames blasted up to receive him.
One final cry of surprise and dismay floated up to the runt’s twitching ears.
“LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCHH!” came the echoing call—and then the voice was silenced.
Leech threw back his head and crowed triumphantly. He had succeeded at last: the only member of his family left alive, the magic was his to command. But the laughter died in his throat for his lofty perch shivered and the bricks began to split.
The runt held on grimly as a tremor quaked through the chimney and a long crack snaked up it. He looked around but nowhere was safe, everything was burning about him and he realised that his brother had cheated him at the end.
His emerald eyes fixed straight ahead. Leech clung to the ledge as it slid and toppled towards the ground. His shrill screeches pierced the heavens as the smoking remains of the apothecary shop came crashing down. A mighty roar erupted in the alley as the chimney stack collapsed and the choking soot exploded in all directions. Leech’s screams were drowned and the fire raged on.
The roads out of London were impassable. Thousands of displaced people thronged the road to Greenwich, their few belongings strapped to their backs or carried in their arms. The lucky few who had managed to rescue most of their possessions ploughed through the dismal masses in heavily-laden carts. It was a scene of biblical proportions; the flight from the burning city was awful to behold. An enormous tide of shambling, dispirited figures leaving the devastation behind them—not knowing where to go.
It was as though God had visited His wrath upon the whole of London, such was the fury of the flames, and so terrible was the burning that no one dared turn back to look on it in case they were transformed into salt.
On the horizon the fire still blazed. It had been rampaging out of control for three whole days now and the fumes blotted out the sun so that midday seemed like the blackest, bloodiest night. The massive bulk of St Paul’s was a charred husk, its tower a funnel for the gushing smokes to issue from. Despair was in everyone’s heart.
The flow of human sorrow trudged down the old Woolwich road. Even at this distance the glare of the burning threw their stark shadows before them and it was as though they walked in a river of darkness.
Young and old, rich and poor, all rubbed shoulders in that sorry expanse, sharing the misery and loss.
And there, dazed, shivering and covered in ash, was Will. Carried along by the forlorn masses he staggered and stumbled. In his arms he carried only two things—one was a small chest, the other a filthy bundle of material. He had no idea where he was heading; numbed with
shock and pinched with hunger he just followed everyone else. His world was in ruins and the horror of his ordeals had laid a silence over his mind.
Not one word had he spoken since he had jumped from the window and if anyone tried to help him he would run off in fear, clutching his treasures to his breast.
As the multitude crossed the boundary of Deptford, a sweet voice cut through the desolation of Will’s soul and he gazed around dumbly.
“Will!” cried the voice, and it seemed to him that he had heard the sound before. He stopped marching and the people roughly surged past him.
“Will!” It rang out again.
A gleaming, white swan seemed to be riding on the surface of the black river, and it was that which called to him. The boy shook his head giddily—it was no swan, but a milk-white arm raised above the bowed heads and it was waving frantically.
The figure pushed towards him, sobbing with joy beyond all hope.
“Oh, Will!” she cried flinging herself about his shoulders.
He backed away and peered at the vision that wept before him. She was beautiful; her cascading hair was like fine gold and he reached out to touch it to make sure she was real. Will’s lips trembled as he recalled the word that went with this angel.
“M... Molly,” he whispered.
“That’s right, my little darlin’,” she said tearfully. “Don’t you worry now—Molly’s here.”
He stared at her again and at last he was released from the pits of his despair. “Molly!” he yelled. “You’re alive! But how? And where have you been?”
She laughed and hugged him tightly. “All in good time,” she said, “but first let’s get clear.”
Out of the expanse of people they slowly made their way and she led him to a tavern situated at the roadside.
“It’s a miracle I managed to get a room here,” she told him, “and another that I was gazin’ out of the window when I spotted you.”
They passed into a small, crowded parlour; everyone was looking for somewhere to stay and the buzzing talk was all of the fire. Molly bade the landlord bring food and drink then found a relatively quiet corner where Will collapsed into a soft chair. The chest fell from his grasp and landed with a jingling thud on the floor. He smiled at Molly’s surprise then told her what had happened.
“He deserved that and more beside!” she declared when his tale was finished. “But at least Spittle won’t trouble you any longer. You won’t find me grieving for him.”
Will had been clutching the dirty bundle of material close to his chest, now he laid it gently on his lap and asked, “Where have you been all this time? Did you stay with Mother Myrtle in the pest-house?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured, “I stayed and was spared—this whole year I have nursed and tended to the sick and dying.” She shuddered, then a faint smile lit her face. “With the plague decreasing, come last Friday there was only one patient left and when she died there was nothing further for me to do there. I’m glad she passed peacefully; she said the Lord would take her when her work was done and He did.”
Just then the food arrived and Will fell on it hungrily. Molly waited whilst he ate his fill but her attention was increasingly drawn to the heap of cloth that he had placed on his knees. As he gulped down the last mouthful and was leaning back in his chair patting his stomach, she pointed at the curious bundle.
“Here’s you letting fortunes drop to the ground,” she said, “but what’s so precious about that?”
Will took up the soot-covered velvet and began unfurling it. “This,” he told her, “is Spittle’s posh robe—or rather it was. A sorry sight it is now, but it was the only thing I could find in the wreckage to wrap him in.”
“Him?” repeated Molly. “If you’ve got the apothecary’s head there I reckon we should stick it on a spike like they did to Cromwell.”
Carefully the boy lifted the last fold and there, huddled in a pathetic ball was a cat. It was charred and scorched, all the fur had been singed off its body and it was covered with terrible burns.
“Is it alive?” breathed Molly.
“I don’t know,” he answered sorrowfully. “When I found him there were signs, but no—if he isn’t dead yet he soon will be.”
Molly asked the landlord for some milk and when it arrived she poured it onto a saucer. “Lay it here, by the hearth,” she said gently. “Does it have a name?”
“Yes,” Will replied, “but I’m not certain if it’s Leech or Jupiter. The poor thing, it must have been terrified in that attic, I’ve never seen anything like that awful fire.”
The young woman said nothing but stared out of the window towards the smoking city. “Maybe when it’s rebuilt,” she muttered, “the devil won’t stalk through the streets any more. It’s a new beginning.” Then she turned back to Will and, with a grin, said, “I saw Peggy Blister yesterday—or rather Peggy Mortichuke as I should call her now. Only went and got married she did, and to a minister as well! Lord knows how she managed that.” They both laughed and Molly softly murmured, “If Peggy Blister can do it I’m sure I can—the slate has been wiped clean now.”
Tenderly Will placed the limp and motionless cat by the hearth, but it was too weak to drink the milk. The sight of its sad, battered body was the last straw and the boy burst into tears.
“Come Will,” said Molly, “let’s see if we can get you a room here as well. You need a good night’s rest. After that, who knows? Perhaps we can both return to Adcombe.”
“Maybe,” Will murmured, “maybe.”
“You never know,” Molly gurgled, “I might even open my own apothecary shop. Can you imagine Aunt Hannah’s face?”
And laughing, they went up the stairs.
‘The Blackened Beast’
The glow of the Great Fire was bright in the night sky; for another two days it would burn, savage and remorseless. The distant reports of gunpowder boomed out over the river and the crashing destruction of church spires as they toppled in ruin disturbed the sleep of those camped by the roadside or sheltering under friendly roofs.
Only Will slept soundly; no rumour of disaster could reach down into the depths of his comfortable slumber. For the first time in two years he lay on a genuine bed and his faint snores were peaceful and contented.
Down in the dim parlour nothing stirred, only a red glimmer played over the walls, echoing the dancing flames across the water.
By the cold hearth, on the embroidered robe of Magnus Zachaire, the breaths of the burned and withered cat rasped in its parched throat. A low, dismal moan issued from its mouth and an eye flickered open. Blearily the smoke-filled slit roved round and took in the unfamiliar surroundings.
The cat remembered nothing of the last three days, he recalled only his rescue from the smouldering rubble. After that all was dark and he had been lost in a pathless sleep ever since.
He was tired; every fibre of his body ached and the searing pain of his burns almost made him faint. Death was close at hand—he sensed his watchful presence waiting for him to yield. It was a tantalising prospect, to leave all the hurts and quench the fires that shrivelled his skin. But he clung on grimly; a fierce determination stronger than ‘He who waits in the shadows’ controlled him.
That gentleman would leave alone this time, he told himself, and one who had tasted the elixir would never have to fear his return. The eyelid fluttered shut and the cat fell into a tortuous swoon.
The night stretched by and it was so silent that when a small voice exclaimed, “Lumme! By crikey, just have a goggle at all that grub! Har har!” the sound seemed much louder than it actually was.
Waddling footsteps pattered over the floor as a rat came into the room. He darted over to a pile of crumbs left over from somebody’s supper and wolfed them down.
“Luvverly, luvverly,” he squeaked licking his lips. “Now what other bit o’ nosh is a waitin’ fer me to guzzle it down?”
He turned, searching for more food, and then let out a frightened sq
uawk. “EEK!” he yammered, when he saw the cat lying on the robe.
The rat froze, not daring to move a muscle—but his teeth chattered and he had to bury his snout in his claws to silence them.
“I’m done fer now!” he blubbered. “I’m tiger’s meat fer sure!”
He closed his eyes, waiting for the cat to pounce, and his knees knocked in fear. Several minutes passed and the rat patted himself all over to make sure he was not dead. Then he peered over at the motionless terror and frowned. “Ain’t I good enough fer yer then?” he cried, grossly insulted.
There was no response.
“Hello, hello,” the rat muttered, “hoy you, Fangface! Are you dead then?” He waited for a reply but none came. Taking heart at this lucky turn of events he plucked up the courage which had fallen about his heels and bowled right over to have a closer look.
The rat’s whiskers twitched. “Burned to a cinder,” he remarked, “but who’d want to lug a duff dead moggy like that in ’ere?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked about him. This was an opportunity too good to waste. With utmost daring and valour he snapped his fingers right in the cat’s face then blew a long, insolent raspberry.
“Ho, ho,” he chortled, “I likes this.” Then he extended one single claw and gave the cat a hard prod.
At once the eye snapped open. The rat squeaked in horror and jumped into the air. “Strike me!” he wailed. “It’s not deaded after all.” And he turned to scarper.
“Stay!” croaked a commanding voice. “Do I not know you?”
The rodent spun round, and the eye stabbed at him with a harsh light. It flickered over his orange fur and the voice said, “Your name is Beckett is it not?”
“Er... yes,” mumbled the rat in surprise, “that be my name—how comes you knowed it?”
“Do you not recognise me?” teased the lulling reply Beckett scratched himself. “Ere,” he declared, “you be one o’ them tigers wot prowled under my cage ain’tcha?”