The Devil and His Boy

by Anthony Horowitz

The boy was about twelve or thirteen years old. Nobody knew or cared when exactly he had been born. He had long, reddish-brown hair, pale skin and bright, intelligent blue eyes. He was painfully thin – his rags seemed to hang off his shoulders without actually touching his body and there was a bruise on the side of his cheek, the size of a man’s fist. He lowered the bucket into the well, gripping the handle that groaned rustily as it turned; his fingers were unusually long and slender. The boy’s name was Thomas Falconer. That, at least, would be the name they’d carve on his gravestone when starvation or the plague carried him away. For now they simply called him Tom.

  He was about to lift the bucket out of the well when a sound made him turn. A man had appeared, a traveller on horseback, his body lost in the folds of a dark cloak and his face hidden by his hat. The horse was a great black stallion with a white blaze on its chest. Steam snorted from its nostrils as it jerked forward, its hooves striking angrily in the mud. It came to a halt and the rider swung himself effortlessly down. Mud had splattered his leather boots and the bottom of his cloak. He had evidently been riding for some time.

  “Boy!” The man called out.

  Forgetting the bucket, Tom ran to obey. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take the horse to the stable. See that he’s watered and fed. If any harm comes to him, you’ll answer for it.”

  The man dragged his luggage from behind his saddle and handed the reins to Tom. He was about to turn away but suddenly he stopped and for a moment Tom found himself being examined by two narrow, grey eyes in a dark, weathered face.

  “What’s your name, boy?” the man demanded.

  “Tom, sir.” Tom was surprised. People seldom took any notice of him.

  “How long have you worked here, Tom?”

  “All my life, sir. Ever since I was able to work.”

  The rider stared at Tom as if trying to read something in his face. “Your parents own this place?” he asked.

  Tom shook his head. “My parents are dead,” he said.

  “Who were they? Do you know?”

  It was one question too many. Travellers often passed through Framlingham on their way to the ports at Harwich and Ipswich, but they came as strangers and that was how they left. It was the unwritten law. In an uncertain world, it could be dangerous to give too much information about yourself.

  Tom’s lips clamped shut. The man seemed to understand. “Look after the horse, Tom,” he said and walked into the inn.

  The inn was crowded, the fire a distant red glimmer behind so many huddled bodies. Thick smoke coiled upwards from the hearth, from the tallow candles on the mantle and from pipes clenched in the teeth of men, and women too. Two more boys – older and better fed than Tom – were bustling in and out of the kitchen carrying wooden trenchers of meat and bread, somehow forcing their way through the great tangle to find the tables beyond. Someone somewhere was playing a fiddle but the sound was almost drowned out by the shouting, arguing, laughing and drunken singing of the guests.

  The landlord noticed the new arrival the moment the door opened but then he had the sort of eyes that noticed everything. This was Sebastian Slope. He was a small, nervous man who had never quite recovered from the pox which had ravaged his skin and eaten away part of his nose. He had tried to grow a beard and moustache to hide the damage but unfortunately the hair – as well as being bright orange – was thin and uneven, sprouting in one part of his face but not in another with the result that he looked as if he had been horribly injured – perhaps by a musket at close range.

  Rubbing his pale, white hands together he approached the new arrival who was standing there waiting, water dripping from his cloak.

  “Good evening, my lord. Welcome. Welcome to The Pig’s Head.” Slope’s teeth had long ago rotted away – all but a couple of them – and he now found it easier to speak through what was left of his nose. His voice was thin and high-pitched. If a rat could talk it would probably sound much the same. “What can I do for you, my lord? A pint of the finest ale? A delicious supper? A nice leg of mutton? Or perhaps the speciality of the house. A potato! Have you ever tried a potato, my lord? It is quite new and the most remarkable thing…”

  “I need a room for the night,” the traveller interrupted.

  “Of course. Of course. We can provide you with the best linen sheets. And only six of our guests have slept on them since they were last washed…”

  “I’ll have a bed with clean sheets. And I’ll eat some lamb. Yes. And a rabbit too. Mushrooms. Some cheese. And beer not ale.”

  “Beer. Yes. Yes. Will you eat in your chamber, my lord, or at the common table? It’ll be sixpence downstairs and eightpence up, but if you have it up perhaps we could arrange for one of our kitchen maids to keep you company…?”

  “I’ll eat down here.”

  “You do us all a privilege, my lord.” Slope twisted a smile on to his lips but at the same time a strange gleam had come into his eyes so that he looked both servile and sinister at the same time. “Have you come far, my lord?”

  “From London,” the stranger replied.

  “And returning soon?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  This was the information that the innkeeper had been angling for. He swallowed once, his adam’s apple performing a somersault in his scrawny throat. “Henrietta!” he called out. “Henny!”

  A moment later a tiny woman with grey, straggly hair hurried out of the smoke. This was Henrietta Slope and although to look at she could have been Sebastian’s grandmother, she was in fact his wife. She too had caught the pox – in seventeen years’ marriage it was the only thing her husband had given her. The disease had attacked her lips which had shrivelled away so that when she smiled she was forced to use her teeth.

  “We have a guest,” Sebastian said.

  “A guest! How lovely! And a gentleman!” Henrietta curtsied twice. “Have you ordered food, my lord? The food here is a delight. We’ve only had nine cases of food poisoning since our new cook started!”

  “I’ve ordered,” the traveller muttered.

  “He has indeed,” Sebastian agreed. “Lamb. Mushrooms. Cheese. And rabbit…”

  “Rabbit?” Henrietta grinned liplessly. “Fresh today. It couldn’t be fresher. In fact, I strangled it myself.”

  “Thank you.” The traveller seemed to be in a hurry to get away from this odd couple but suddenly he leaned across the bar and drew them closer to him. “I was talking just now to that boy outside…” he began.

  “Tom?” Sebastian’s face darkened. “If he offended your lordship, I’ll throw him down the well.”

  “That boy’s useless!” Henrietta shrieked. “He’s worse than useless. He’s a drip. He’s a damp patch. A dead worm!”

  “He hasn’t offended me,” the traveller interrupted. “I’m merely interested in him. Where did you find him?”

  Sebastian glanced at his wife then leered at the new guest. “Are you interested in buying him?” he asked.

  “We might sell him,” Henrietta simpered. “Although of course we’d miss him. He works very well for us. A very hard worker. Very fit…” She seemed to have completely forgotten what she had been saying only a few moments before.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He was an orphan.” Henrietta’s eyes filled with tears. “I have two sons of my own, sir. I took him in out of the goodness of my heart.” She tapped her chest which seemed too thin and hollow to contain any heart at all. “We look after him in return for a few light tasks about the house…”

  “What of his parents?” the traveller asked, becoming more interested by the second.

  “They worked up at the castle,” Sebastian replied. “The father fell off a horse and broke his neck. The mother died giving birth to him. He came into the world with nothing and if it weren’t for Mrs S and me, nothing is all he’d have now.”

  The traveller’s eyes narrowed and for a moment he said nothing. He was obviously deep in thought. But then he shook his head and straight
ened up. “Send me my food as soon as possible,” he said and went and sat at the nearest table.

  Sebastian Slope watched the man as he took his place, then slipped through a door and into the kitchen. Here there was a second, huge fire with a rather angry-looking pig on a spit being turned by a fat, sweating cook with dirty hands and a runny nose. Henrietta had followed her husband in and now he drew her to one side, standing over a huge cauldron of soup that was slowly congealing.

  “What do you think, my precious?” he asked.

  “Rich,” Henrietta murmured. “Definitely rich.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Sebastian tried to pick his nose, remembered it wasn’t there and bit his nail absent-mindedly instead. “Did you notice the cloak – lined with velvet, my jewel? And the boots…”

  Henrietta nodded. “I think this is one for Ratsey,” she muttered.

  “Yes,” Sebastian said. “Ratsey will like this one. You’d better call the boy.”

  But at that very moment the outer door opened and Tom came back into the kitchen. It had begun to rain more heavily and water dripped out of his hair, running down the side of his neck. He was carrying the bucket, full now and heavy.

  “Where have you been?” Sebastian swung a lazy arm and slapped the back of his hand across Tom’s head.

  “Lazing again, I’ll be bound!” Henrietta did the same, only harder.

  “I’m sorry!” Tom cried out. “A gentleman came. He told me to see to his horse.”

  “Yes.” Sebastian leaned closer. Tom cowered away but the landlord was smiling. “What sort of a horse does he ride?”

  “A stallion. Black with a white mark.”

  “Valuable?”

  Tom hesitated. He knew what was about to happen and thought about lying but it was no good. The Slopes would know. They always did. “Yes,” he said.

  Sebastian grabbed him by the collar and drew him so close that his lips almost touched the boy’s ear. “You’re to go into the wood,” he whispered. “Find Ratsey. Tell him we have a mark. The London road. Tomorrow…”

  “But it’s dark. It’s raining…”

  “Are you arguing with me?” Sebastian hadn’t raised his voice but his grip had tightened and his eyes, dark to begin with, had gone almost black.

  “No.”

  “Then be off with you. To the burnt oak. And if he isn’t there, wait for him to come.”

  Tom ran out, slamming the door behind him. Sebastian and Henrietta Slope watched him go.

  “You’re too good to that child,” Henrietta sighed.

  “I’m too soft-hearted, I know it,” Sebastian agreed.

  “I wonder why our guest was so interested in him?” Henrietta scratched her head and sighed as a lump of hair fell into the soup. Her disease was definitely getting worse.

  Sebastian considered for a moment. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” he replied.

  Husband and wife kissed each other, grey lipless teeth on to grey pock-marked flesh. Then they left the kitchen and went back into the inn.

  gamaliel ratsey

  After he had left The Pig’s Head, Tom climbed up the hill and back into the town centre. It had stopped raining and the clouds had parted enough to allow a slice of moonlight to cut through. Tom was grateful for it. Without the moon he would have had to make the journey in almost pitch blackness for the only other light came from the candles burning behind the windows of the houses and – with the high price of wax – there were few enough of them.

  He passed through the market square, skirting an old, crooked building that stood in the middle. This was called the Market Cross and Tom knew that there was a schoolroom on the upper floor. Not that he had ever been inside it. He had never been to school, not even for a day. He had never learned to read or write anything more than the three letters of his own name.

  Tom was an orphan who had never known his parents. He was beaten and bullied every day. He was half starved and owned nothing more than the rags he was wearing. And yet despite all this he wouldn’t have described himself as unhappy. For a start he had never once been outside Framlingham so he had nothing with which to compare his own life. At the same time, he had listened to travellers staying at the inn and knew that there were poor people and hungry people all over England – so why should things be any different for him? At least he had a roof over his head – even if it was only a stable roof which leaked in the rain. He had plenty of scraps and leftovers to eat. The Slopes might beat him but so far they hadn’t broken anything. All in all, things could be worse.

  Ahead of him, Framlingham Castle loomed up, its walls dark and ancient against the night sky. Tom had heard about the great banquets and tournaments that had taken place there years ago. But that was all in the past. Now the castle was crumbling. Cracks had appeared in the brickwork and weeds had quickly sprouted in the cracks. The ridiculous, twisting chimneys which had been added to the battlements were just its final humiliation.

  Tom hurried round it, keeping the town ditch on his left. The town seemed to end very suddenly. The road became a track. The track grew more and more uneven. And then he was walking across a bumpy field with a black, skeletal forest springing up ahead.

  Most of the trees had lost their leaves. The forest in winter was a cold, forbidding place. As Tom continued, branches twisted and interlocked above his head while roots formed tangled knots beneath him. The glistening tree trunks were like huge bars. With every step he took he felt himself being swallowed up by a vast, living cage.

  Somewhere, far away, an animal howled in the darkness. One of the dogs from the village? Or something worse? Tom knew that it was unlikely that wolves would come so far south at this time of year – but even so he found himself quickening his pace.

  He had been this way many times and soon found what he was looking for. A tree shaped like a Y, a rough slope covered in white pebbles, a circular clearing and there on the far side, an old oak tree that had been hit by lightning, split in half and burned coal black. This was the burnt oak that Sebastian Slope had referred to. This was where Ratsey would be found.

  Ratsey.

  Tom realized that he was shivering and wondered if it was entirely due to the cold. He drew two fingers into his mouth and whistled a high-pitched note, then a lower one. It was a signal he had used often although he still had no idea how Ratsey heard it, where he came from, how he knew when someone was about to arrive. The sound should have echoed through the trees but on this damp, dreary night the whistle sounded very small. Tom lifted his fingers again, then hesitated as a second terrible howl ripped through the dark sky. It was a wolf. It couldn’t be anything else.

  “Tom, Tom, the piper’s son…”

  The voice was hushed, singing the words with a soft laugh. Tom turned round and almost cried out. A moment ago there had been no one there but now there was a man, dressed in a long leather coat with a sword at his waist. At least, he was man up to the neck. He had the head of some sort of horrible monster with bloodshot eyes that bulged out of their sockets, yellow teeth as thick as piano keys, swollen cheeks like over-ripe melons and a chin that curved round until it almost touched his nose.

  The man finished his song. “Tom, Tom, the piper’s son. Will he stay or will he run?”

  Tom relaxed, recognizing the voice. “Ratsey!” he exclaimed.

  “Did I scare you, Tom?”

  “No…”

  “A shame. I meant to.”

  Ratsey laughed, then reached up and grabbed hold of his chin. He pulled and his entire face came away – it was nothing more than an elaborate mask. The face underneath it was an unusually handsome one with black hair sweeping over the forehead and almost touching the man’s shoulders. His eyes, alight with humour, were pale blue and the more he smiled, the brighter they seemed to shine. But for his sword, his leather coat (patched in so many places that there must have been very little of the original coat left) and his mud-spattered boots, you might have taken him for a priest or a choirboy. But the
n, if you had looked deeper into those eyes, you might have noticed how very black his pupils were and if at that moment he were to stop smiling you would realize that this was a man who would never come near a church – unless it was to burn it down.

  “What do you think of the new mask?” he demanded. He held it up so that its pointed nose almost touched his own.

  “It’s horrible,” Tom replied.

  “Thank you.” He set the mask down. “And now, I wonder what brings you out on this wet and wicked night?”

  Tom swallowed. “There’s a man,” he said. “A traveller.”

  “Is he rich?”

  “Master Slope says he might be.”

  “Might be?” Ratsey laughed and pulled a metal bottle from somewhere inside his coat. He unscrewed the lid, raised it to his lips and swallowed. “Tell me what you think, Tom-Tom! Is he rich?”

  “I don’t know, Ratsey.”

  Ratsey considered this statement for a moment. He lowered the bottle and smacked his lips. He sighed. He sucked his teeth. And then, before Tom could move, he lashed out, grabbing hold of the boy’s ear and dragging him towards him with such force that Tom cried out with pain.

  “I asked you a question,” he said in a reasonable tone of voice. “When I ask a question I expect an answer. That’s the whole point.”

  “He’s rich!” Tom shouted. He could feel his ear coming away from his head. “He’s got a good horse. Black, with white markings. His clothes are smart. He has money.”

  “Which way is he coming?”

  “The London road!”

  “Excellent!” Ratsey let go and Tom reeled back, clutching his ear. Ratsey gazed at him apologetically, then handed him the bottle. “Here you go, old chap,” he said. “Have a swig of that. It’ll take away some of the cold.”

  Tom hesitated but Ratsey gestured and he raised the bottle to his lips. It contained some sort of brandy.

  “In a strange way, you remind me of me when I was young,” Ratsey said. “Not of course that I was as scrawny and ragged as you. As a matter of fact, my father was a duke.” He winked. “Strange to think that when I was your age I ate off gold plates and had servants to do everything for me.”