by Ben Tripp
[ Kit Bristol and Friend ]
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For my most excellent friends Zeke & Nora
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NO MATTER how solitary an author is at work, everyone he knows plays a role in shaping his stories. And not just friends and family—other authors may have the biggest influence of all. This story would not exist without J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin, C. S. Lewis, Susan Cooper, Lewis Carroll, Madeleine L’Engle, Harry Harrison, Mary Renault, Robert Louis Stevenson, Jane Austen, Henry Fielding, Charlotte Brontë, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Charles Dickens, and so many more. I encourage you to read them all and fill your head with worlds.
I also wish to thank Prathima Bengalooru, my London-based researcher of non-digitized archives; Roscoe the French Bulldog and Quincy Ryan for modeling; the Faerie Council of Leeds for information regarding the Book of Eldritch Law; Trinity College Library in Dublin; Netherfield Farm in West Tisbury, Massachusetts; and my lifemate, Corinne Marrinan Tripp.
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EDITOR’S NOTE
PREFACE
1. A PROCLAMATION AT MARKET
2. THE DAY’S SECOND INTERROGATION
3. RATTLE RIDES OUT
4. THE IMPOSTER
5. ESCAPE TO KINGSMIRE
6. THE WRONG HIGHWAYMAN’S TASK
7. THE OWL AT THE CROSSROAD
8. RESCUE, AFTER A FASHION
9. A ROYAL WEDDING FORETOLD
10. LONG-SUFFERING RADISHES AND NEW CLOTHES
11. THE PRICE OF A BUTTON
12. A PARTING OF WAYS
13. UP ANOTHER TREE
14. THE UNLUCKY LUNCHEON
15. THE BRIDGE
16. DESIGNS UPON WOMEN’S HEARTS
17. THE THREE QUESTIONS
18. THE IMPRESARIO’S FLIGHT
19. SAVED BY GILT
20. THE BEST CONCEALMENT
21. PLAY-PRACTICE
22. THE TORTOISE COMB
23. THE FELL REFLECTION
24. LILY’S DREAM
25. PUGGLE’S SPECTACULAR
26. A BRIEF AND HAPPY IDYLL
27. TOASTING THE STEWARD
28. THE SIGILANTUM
29. THE COMPANY SOON TO PART
30. THE FINAL PERFORMANCE
31. CAPTIVITY
32. TIDINGS FROM AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
33. BEING AN ACCOUNT OF MY LAST HOURS
34. THE ROYAL WEDDING
35. MIDNIGHT’S FLIGHT
36. THE IRISH SEA
37. THE ENCHANTED LAND
38. WORD FROM ABROAD
PREVIEW FROM KIT AND MORGANA’S NEXT ADVENTURE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
EDITOR’S NOTE
THE ORIGINAL text of this volume is part of a trove of documents discovered in an old sea chest belonging to Levi Bixby, one of my ancestors. The chest had not been opened in 100 years, as the key was lost. It became a family tradition to try any orphaned key in the lock, provided it was of the skeleton type. Whoever found the correct key would own the contents of the chest. Only last year, I found such a key in a box of old silver lobster picks; it proved to be the very key that opened the mysterious chest.
The earliest document found inside is unrelated to this story and dates from 1690. The most recent, also unrelated, is a letter from Surinam, dated 1847. Whether the original author of the manuscript before you was a relative or friend of the family is unknown. Beside the packets of memoirs, there were some curious objects in the chest that appear to corroborate certain passages in the tale.
As a writer, I couldn’t let this story languish in obscurity, but neither could I bear to let it reach the public without interference; forgive me for exercising a little editorial judgment here and there, in addition to modernizing the spelling and language to make it easier to read. Many of the illustrations are based upon little doodles furnished in the margins of the original pages.
Any anachronisms or historical errors that have slipped into the text are entirely the result of my own meddling, and I apologize to any scholars who discover them. But this story is not intended as a scholarly work, nor to challenge history as it is known. Rather, I hope readers find this an illuminating counterpoint to what is understood about events of the mid-eighteenth century, and that it helps explain a few obscure points in the established record.
—Ben Tripp
PREFACE
by Kit Bristol
GENTLE READER,
This story contains nearly as many dark deeds, treacherous villains, and acts of violence as one might expect to find in a typical morning newspaper. In addition, there is a significant emphasis on heathen magic and demoniacal doings. I cannot recommend that anyone read it.
But it is also a true story. It is a story about bravery, loyalty, and love. Within these pages you will find friendship and laughter alongside the bitter doings of low characters. And, like all redeeming tales, it comes with a moral. But unlike most such narratives, the moral of this story is at the beginning, not at the end.
I shall make no further apology for the strange account you are about to read. Instead, here is the moral of the tale, which should act as a beacon in the darkness to guide you back home, no matter what happens next.
The heart is wiser than the head.
Here’s what happens next.
Chapter 1
A PROCLAMATION AT MARKET
I DROVE THE little cart into town on a fine June morning. It was a bright day, and the country round about was green and fresh—what I could see of it past the backside of Old Nell, the dappled mare. I had a neatly inked list of things to buy at market, just enough coppers to buy them with, and that was the extent of my cares.
Market days were one of the great delights of my life back then. I liked the company of the crowd. There’s nothing like mingling with a great many people to make solitude seem more pleasant. It was lonely at the Rattle Manse, where I was the only servant. My master, James Rattle, had no one else beneath his roof. It was but the two of us in the big, drafty house, excepting a bulldog named Demon, three horses, and some pigs. Even the pigs spent most of their time elsewhere, rooting for acorns in the dark woods thereabouts.
There was vanity involved, too—I might as well admit it. As a small boy I would have been proud to own a pair of shoes, so it felt very grand to go into town with brass buckles on my feet, commissioned to spend another man’s money. Forgive my pride: Respectability is like wine. It goes straight to the head of one who hasn’t had it before.
And besides, market days were entertaining. The entire market was like a big theater, every stall a stage, with the actors bellowing out their parts: “Two for a penny!” “A dozen for the price of ten!”
There were also people whose entire trade was entertainment for its own sake. Some were actors, and put on plays; others specialized in puppet shows, or displays of juggling, sword swallowing, gymnastic feats, and magic. In these performances I took special pleasure because I had, until recently, counted myself among the entertainers.
Before I took up s
ervice at the Rattle Manse, I had toured for several years with Trombonio’s Traveling Wonder Show as “The Infant Daredevil,” tramping the British Isles from one end to the other with a company of acrobats, clowns, and novelty acts, as well as Frieda the Tattooed Camel and an elderly baboon named Fred. My own role was that of trick horse-rider. I would spur my mount to a gallop and then dance about on its back, dangle from the stirrups, perform hand-springs, and generally risk death. The act became second nature and I seldom met with accidents, but when I did fall off, the crowds liked it all the better.
It was this trick-riding that had caught the eye of Master Rattle. He had attended a performance by the Wonder Show, and later that night, played cards with Mr. Fortescue Trombonio (birth name Gilbert Tubbins). Neither of them having much money, Master Rattle staked his fine sword, and Mr. Trombonio my documents of indenture. So it was, with a flourish of kings, I entered my present service.
The troupe had since been disbanded, and a number of its cast members transported to America for recidivism*, but I often ran into old acquaintances on market days, and it was pleasant to hear the news of life on the road. Although I was deeply grateful for my rescue from Mr. Trombonio, the monotony of my new life chafed me. I was bored.
Before allowing myself liberty to see the entertainers, however, I went around the stalls and bought up my list. I haggled and complained and judged the merchandise in the usual way. Then, having fed Old Nell some new oats, I went off in search of any past friends from the road.
They were mostly pitched around the edges of the marketplace, so they wouldn’t have to compete with the lusty cries of the merchants. There was a Hindoo snake charmer I knew, and a magician whose specialty was causing live pigeons to fly out of meat pies. Then, to my delight, I discovered one of my fellow troupers from the Trombonio days. She now toured with a team of juggling clowns as Lily, the high-rope dancer. I remembered the clowns, Trombonio’s Traveling Wonder Show having spent some weeks on the road with them between St. Bees and Pontefract when I was seven or eight years old.
“It’s a pleasure to see you out and about,” I said, once Lily’s squeals of greeting had subsided. “There were rumors you’d been sent up for robbing a cheese shop.”
“Oh, you know how it is. Someone catches you halfway through a window and they ’meejitly think the worst. But look at you! You’re a grown man now. How old must you be?”
“Ten and six,” said I, a little proudly, as if it were an achievement such as learning Latin.
“Sixteen years!” Lily exclaimed, tossing her yellow curls and pinching my cheek. “Old enough to marry!” She had often made fun of me in this way when I was small, and boxed my ears, too, though when her romantic entanglements inevitably failed after a fortnight or so, she would weep on my neck and kiss my brow and tell me men were cruel and I was her only friend. Now she held me at arm’s length and looked me over.
“I remember when you was but a stripling lad, only as high as your own knee. Fresh-bought from the workhouse by Old Trombonio, God rest his soul. You were a tiny thing, and always hungry, but nimble as a monkey. Look at you now! If I wasn’t engaged to that Pierrot over there with the white skin-cap on, I’d take an interest in you myself—such a handsome fellow with a fine suit of clothes and a purse at your belt! Whence,” she added, “came you by the money?”
This last she whispered sideways, as if it were a secret.
“I’m servant in a good house,” I replied, proudly. “The only servant.”
“The only servant? Taking care of a fine family?” Lily didn’t seem to believe me.
“Just the master and myself,” I explained.
“No scullery girls to warm your heart, then? You haven’t got a sweetheart, in a manner of speaking?”
I blushed furiously and denied any such thing.
But she didn’t much care about my personal life, for the subject of the household swiftly returned. “Your master must be away most of the time, to keep such a small staff. A fine big house, and you all alone in it?”
I couldn’t quite understand the line of questioning, but Lily’s purpose soon became clear. She continued to alternate between teasing me and pressing for details about Master Rattle and the general disposition of the house, the quality of its furniture, and how much valuable metal it contained. I kept answering her from vanity, when I might better have been silent from prudence.
“He wouldn’t miss a few odds and ends, I dare say,” Lily muttered, and at last I plainly saw her intent. I should have guessed from the start—in my years with traveling performers I’d come to know their desperate poverty, and how often some of them took opportunity to supplement their incomes by way of a back door or an open window.
I hastily made amends. “My master is a gentleman,” I said. “But he hasn’t anything of worth, being the third son of a lord; just the Manse, which is halfway to tumbling down, and a lot of old stuff that’s been in it for centuries, not worth the price of a cart to take it away in, I expect. Besides, what he has—he gambles away.”
“Ooh, he’s a bit of a rake, is he?” Lily asked, and batted her pale eyelashes fit to start a breeze.
“I don’t know a thing about his life outside the Manse, I confess,” said I, truthfully. “He keeps little enough money.” The calculating look was still in Lily’s eye, so I added, “One thing he keeps very well, though, is a bulldog named Demon.”
“Ah,” said Lily, and looked about her as if the animal might leap out at her in the next instant. “Vicious, is he? Jaws like a trap?”
“He can snap a bone with one bite,” I said.
This was perfectly true. I did not lie about the dog, who was Master Rattle’s constant companion, but rather omitted a few details: he was a French bulldog, a tiny beast bred not to fight bulls but to snore lustily, and he could snap a bone with one bite, but only a ham bone. In fact, he spent all of his waking moments, which amounted to about an hour each day, gnawing on bones.
The mention of Demon put an end to my old acquaintance’s speculations, and after that we had a pleasant chat about doings upon the traveling circuit. Just as Lily was becoming tearful, relating a tragic romance she had recently endured, there came a commotion at the far end of the market square, which drew steadily nearer.
It was a squad of red-coated soldiers with white pipe-clayed crossbelts and gleaming bayonets. They marched through the crowd led by an officer mounted upon a fine brown horse. The town crier followed, carrying his big brass bell. The soldiers halted before the town notice board. The crier mounted the step at the foot of the board, rang his bell, and unfolded a piece of parchment. I took my leave of Lily and pressed through the crowd for a better look. I was grateful for an excuse to avoid further questions about my master, and also to escape being wept upon and kissed, especially by an older woman. Lily was at least twenty-four.
[ Demon the Bulldog ]
“Oyez, oyez!” the crier shouted, in the traditional way. “Oyez.” The sellers stopped shouting long enough to see if his proclamation would affect their business.
“Be it known,” the crier began, reading from the parchment. “A proclamation by His Majesty King George the Second*: Whereas bandits and highwaymen are flourishing upon our roads, and prey upon rich carriages, royal emissaries, mail coaches, and travelers well-to-do, inflicting their brutal and dastardly crimes upon the innocent, be it known that we have set upon the heads of all who pursue this vile profession a bounty of forty guineas, five shillings, thruppence ha’penny.”
A gasp went up in the crowd, followed by a buzz of conversation. That was a great deal of money. One shilling would buy a pound of good soap, although nobody in that fragrant crowd, I thought, would be interested in a pound of soap. Three pennies was enough to have a tooth pulled. A ha’penny would buy a day-old bun. I did the calculation in my head and determined that with such a sum, I could get very clean, visit a dentist, and still retain enough money for two years’ paid holiday and a stale bun.
The cri
er rang his bell again to quell the commotion, and the captain shouted threats from the vantage of his horse until the crowd quieted down.
As soon as there was any chance he would be heard, the crier continued. “Oyez, oyez, oyez! A list of villains is attached herewith, including Giant Jim and his gang, the Spanish Desperado, Dick Sculley, Sailor Tom, the Laughing Priest, Whistling Jack, and Milliner Mulligan, among others. Once convicted, they shall be hanged by the necks at Tyburn Tree. All such bandits in living or dead condition shall be presented to the magistrate of the court for inspection, et cetera et cetera. There’s a good deal more to this ’ere proclamation, but that’s the gist of the matter. Particulars shall be posted on this notice board. Given at our Court at St. James, this day in the year of our Lord et cetera and so on, God save the King!”
And with that, the soldiers recommenced their march behind the officer’s splendid horse, and the crier made his way directly to a beer seller, his throat being sorely parched by the crying. The crowd closed back up and the mongers began shouting again.
I had one more errand before returning to the Manse, and took my time about it. The King’s proclamation had put me in an introspective mood. I’ll relay my thoughts, and how they returned to the matter of the highwaymen; bear with me a while.
My own childhood had been more like that of the highwayman than the major domo, and it was a great surprise to me to find that, after an interval of respectable stability, I pined for excitement again. My life was secure and comfortable now, yet days at the Manse felt like an endless rainy afternoon, and me stuck indoors. The mood was not mine alone: My master had become increasingly like a caged tiger in the last few weeks. He would lounge abed until afternoon many days, then spring up in a fit of energy and meet me in the kitchen yard with rapier and sabers. In these contests he fought with thrice the conviction I did, with the consequence that I became as skilled at defense as he was at offense.