Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  ‘There’s nothing else that will explain it. And I would have come round to my senses, but now I’ve met you. A talking cat! If you can talk… then… We have to do something,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘We?’ said Balthazar.

  ‘We?’ said Niclas.

  We, said the Witchhunter, somehow with his eyes alone.

  ‘Yes. You have to help me. If people see you talking the way you are, it will defy the Realm of Logic. It will unwrite the The Curriculum. Everything would have to change. Everything! The laws, the way we write the laws, our very understanding of the laws. Your ability to talk is magnificent. It’s revolutionary – extraordinary. And it’s proof that Rufus is innocent.’

  ‘’Ang on,’ said Niclas, who had been following remarkably well, ‘who’s Roofas?’

  ‘You want me to do what exactly, walk into the Academy and say “how’d you do?”’

  ‘Yes. Something like that.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to do that,’ said Balthazar, grinning.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, girl, I’m not an idiot. Besides, politics doesn’t concern me. I find the whole thing quite unpleasant and unattractive.’

  ‘That’s outrageous. You have a duty to your Queen?’

  ‘She’s not my Queen,’ said the cat.

  ‘But… you have to help me… you’re the only ones who understand?’

  ‘Look,’ said Balthazar, ‘if I were you, Princess, I’d want to get as far away from this city as I could. Something is rotten in Laburnum. If they were planning on sending you to the Halls of Atonement, then something is very rotten indeed.’

  ‘I command you to help,’ said Cassandra, firming up.

  ‘You cannot command me.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘I’ll expunge your crimes. Have you made heroes of the Empire.’

  ‘Thank you, but no thank you.’

  ‘Is it gold you want?’

  ‘Not a penny.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I want no part in your trouble. As soon as we’ve docked, you will go your way and we shall go ours.’

  Silence.

  Then…

  ‘Who’s Roofas, again?’ said Niclas.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.’ It’s difficult to storm off when you’re on a boat, so Cassandra just turned her back, folded her arms and gave a very dissatisfied “HMPH!”.

  ‘I knows this bit,’ said Niclas. ‘I grew up round ’ere.’ He brightened; glowing with excitement, nostalgia, and probably a bit of anaemia.

  The others couldn’t see why he was suddenly so chuffed.

  The water was murkier and dirtier, similar to the river in the sewers. The buildings were worn out, under siege from dust and dirt with broken windows, collapsed walls, and roofs of malicious tiles threatening anyone passing under them.

  It was a canvas of destitution; as if an artist had captured all the depression and poverty of the slums in pastel shades of grey and brown…

  …then used it as toilet paper…

  …stood on it a few times…

  …then a dog had come along and peed on it.

  ‘Ah, ’ome sweet ’ome.’

  ‘You’re a slum boy?’ remarked the Princess, a touch insulted

  ‘Yes miss. Bred and born.’

  ‘Well that explains a lot.’

  ‘Whatchya mean that explains a lot?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  The boat floated into a wide expanse of water; one of those little lakes where canals come to meet and trade their grotty secrets. It floated on the dead surface, as still as stillness; a harmony of boat and water. Then the bow struck the stone wall and scraped painfully along its port side for a good four feet.

  KERRRRRRRRRRECHHH!

  THUD!

  ‘At last. I was beginning to get sick,’ said Balthazar.

  The cat proceeded to disembark but the cold muzzle of the Witchhunter’s gun stopped him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said the cat, half laughing, half fretting.

  ‘Keeping my promise,’ replied the man.

  ‘’Ey, gov?’ said Niclas

  ‘Get out of the boat, boy. And you girl.’ The Witchhunter kept his unyielding stare on the cat, waiting for him to make any sudden move that would justify pulling the trigger.

  Cassandra was first to go. She stood, gained her balance on the rocking water and stepped onto the land.

  ‘Boy,’ said the Witchhunter, in the kind of way that only needed to be said the once.

  Niclas didn’t move.

  ‘Get off.’

  ‘You wouldn’t kill me like this would you, in front of them?’ said Balthazar.

  ‘Why?’ asked Niclas. ‘Wot you doin’ gov? We’re all in this togever? Ain’t we?’

  ‘He’s a witch, boy. Don’t think he’s your friend. He’s got plans for you. For your body.’

  Cassandra was quiet for the first time since leaving the Academy, she didn’t know the Witchhunter, and didn’t know if he might shoot them all if the wind changed.

  ‘Boy–’

  ‘No, gov, I ain’t gonna get off the boat. If you wanna shoot me master, then… well… you’re gonna ’av’ t’shoot me too.’ This surprised everyone, especially Niclas, who, fearing his shaky words wouldn’t be taken seriously without some sort of action, moved himself between the cat and the gun.

  The Witchhunter cocked the pistol.

  Whether the boy knew something the others didn’t or was just plain stupid, he didn’t move and wasn’t going to until Balthazar said:

  ‘Get off the boat, Niclas.’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘Just get off the boat.’

  ‘But, sir, this gen’l’man means to shoot you.’

  ‘Do as I say, boy,’ said the cat.

  Like most instructions on route to Niclas’ frontal lobe, this took a few moments to sink in. When it did, Niclas nodded, and stepped out of the boat to join Cassandra on the side.

  The cat and the Witchhunter stared each other down.

  Of course, Balthazar could handle this, or at least he would have been able to if he’d been alone. It was important, he knew, for Niclas to have complete trust in him, otherwise the ritual wouldn’t work. So there could be no tricks.

  It was a fair fight.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Because the Witchhunter had a gun.

  ‘I guess you were right,’ said the cat. ‘You would be the one to do it.’

  Many a philosopher has endeavoured to answer what makes humans, human. Here, as witnessed by three pairs of eyes and countless rats, lay one of those baffling moments. An unexplainable moment. A human moment. They are the moments when morality is placed above logic and when madness is justified. For the Witchhunter had been desperate to prove Balthazar was a witch, and now that he was sure of it, he was set on doing as he did to all witches he encountered. Yet now, faced with no obstacle in his path but the strength to pull a trigger, he was stopped. Not by a Black Science, nor reason, but by the swelling tears of a young boy.

  ‘…Please, mister… don’t do it,’ said Niclas, in a breaking voice. ‘’E’s me friend… And I only gots the one see…’

  Who knows what went through the Witchhunter’s mind at that precise moment. But something moved him.

  He looked to Niclas then to Balthazar; angry, mostly with himself. He stood, gun still pointed at the cat, and backed out of the boat.

  ‘Come on, let’s stop this childish behaviour shall we? You’re not going to shoot me,’ said Balthazar, provoking the last of the Witchhunter’s blood lust.

  But no blood was shed.

  With a weighty push of his boot, the Witchhunter sent the boat floating away.

  ‘No! Sir! Sir!’ cried Niclas, rushing to the edge of the water to catch the rope.

  But it was too late.

  The boat drifted out and its bow rope slithered into the murky canal.

>   ‘Why’d you do that, gov?’ asked the boy. ‘’E never ’urt no one. ’E was only ever good to me. Why’d you do it? Wot’s wrong wiv ya. Ain’t you got a ’eart–’

  ‘Do you know the way to the Narrows?’ asked the Witchhunter.

  ‘Balfazar! Balfazar!’ Niclas ran along the path after his master, but no reply came back, and soon, the cat and the boat were swallowed by the misty miasma of filth and fog that clung to the top of the water.

  ‘Balfazaaaaar!’

  ‘The Narrows, boy?’

  ‘I don’t care ’bout yer stinkin’ Narrows. You’re cold, gov, cold. Proper cold. Never known someone so cold. Wot ’e ever do to you anyway? Nuffin’ – ’e did nuffin’.’

  Niclas delivered a barrage of insults and when they failed to work on the emotionless man, resorted to violence, kicking and beating at the man’s body, with blows that looked to Cassandra as vicious as a rabid dog’s wrath, but to the Witchhunter were nothing more than prods and pokes. But everyone soon gets frustrated by incessant prods and pokes no matter how trivial they are. The Witchhunter twirled his pistol around in his hand so that he gripped the barrel and cracked Niclas over the head with the butt. The boy fell on his arse. Blood ran from his hair and into his eye, and the vein in his forehead throbbed like a second heart.

  ‘Stop,’ the Witchhunter said, shaking the gun threateningly. ‘You are a fool. A great fool. He was using you, boy! You don’t have to believe me. You don’t have to understand it. I hope one day you will, but I don’t give a rat’s hole what you think now. I need you to show me to the Narrows. You will take me there, boy, or moons collide, I’ll beat the directions out of you.’

  Niclas stood, holding his head, his eyes fearfully watching the Witchhunter’s hands. He was used to beatings, and had completely forgotten this fact until just then. He remembered the Bowler Gang, Mr K, and his life before meeting Balthazar, the life he was now destined to return to.

  He said nothing, turned and dragged his feet towards the shabby buildings.

  The Witchhunter followed.

  ‘Wait! Where are you going?’ said Cassandra chasing after them. ‘Excuse me? Excuse me? I said excuse me!’

  The Princess had never seen the slums, only heard of it. She knew nothing of poverty, of day by day suffering, of the crippling power hunger has over its victims; but she did know that a young girl wandering alone in that miserable place, was a question of when rather than if she would have an unfortunate encounter.

  And so she trailed on behind them, deeper into the slums, until its filth and stench consumed her.

  PART FIVE

  Into the Narrows

  It’s common knowledge among slum dwellers to keep well away from the Narrows. Every guttersnipe, street wench, vagrant and rat knows the tales associated with that twisted place. Some say they’ve heard the singing; a child’s song echoing throughout the cobblestone alleys. Some tell tales of folk they once knew, who ventured down the narrow lanes and did not come back. Some say the place is a labyrinth, impossible to find your way out of. Some say Laburnum’s most dangerous convicts and murders have taken up home there and murder anyone who trespasses. But there are some locals who believe a simpler truth: that the Bowler Gang spread the rumours to keep their stores of gin hidden. Niclas, of course, knew that wasn’t so. For the Bowler Gang feared that dark and eerie place just as much as everyone else. The gang’s thugs were the meanest and toughest of men, capable of the cruellest crimes, but they seldom mentioned the Narrows in conversation. They ignored the frequent disappearances and strange sightings, and not one of them dared walk down its streets.

  Niclas hadn’t thought much about the Narrows. Like most things, it wasn’t worth thinking about. The slum boys liked to whisper and gossip and make up stories. But stories like that troubled him, so, as with most things that troubled him, he ignored them. Life was simpler that way. But now he was having to face those stories.

  He led the Witchhunter and the Princess deeper into the slums, to where the streets began to shrink, to where they were darker, tighter and quieter. Soon there was only the sound of their steps, and the sound of the ghostly wind, and the sound of dripping gutter drains…

  …and of course, the sound of…

  ‘If I may, I’d like to clarify something,’ said Cassandra, ‘after you’ve done whatever it is that you’re going to do, what is it you plan to do with us?’

  The Witchhunter paid no attention to the girl. He focused ahead, watching Niclas.

  ‘If it’s gold you require, I’m sure my mother will pay a great sum should you take me to the Royal Palace.’

  ‘I’m not holding you here, girl, you’re free to go. Stop pestering me.’

  Cassandra looked around at the broken windows, the damp festered walls and the debris and garbage that littered the floor.

  ‘The thing is: I don’t really know where here is, and I think it would be rather foolish of me to go around this part of the city by myself.’

  ‘If it’s company you’re after, girl, you best be quiet,’ the Witchhunter said, increasing his pace and leaving the Princess shunned.

  ‘Girl?’ she said, exasperated, standing on the spot in the hope they wouldn’t leave her behind.

  But they would have, so she ran after them.

  ‘What’s so special about this Narrows place?’ she asked.

  ‘Ain’t nuffin’ special ’bout it, miss,’ said Niclas, broodingly. It was the first time he’d said anything in a long time.

  ‘Then why are we going there?’

  No one deigned to answer. This infuriated Cassandra who was beginning to get frustrated by the lack of respect some people could show a member of the Royal Family. She was quite ready to grab Niclas by the collar and shake him from his melancholy, when, suddenly, he stopped walking.

  He just stood there, staring down the twisted alleyways that led into the Narrows. His bowels loosened, his stomach twisted, his knees rattled.

  At that moment he would have traded anything to see Mr K and his fellow thugs again; for beat him they would, but it would be a lot better than this.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Cassandra, not quite seeing what all the fuss was about.

  ‘’Ere you are, gov. That down there is wot you’s looking for,’ said Niclas.

  The Witchhunter reached into his coat and grasped his pocket watch; the same watch Niclas had seen him studying at the Queen’s Garter.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Cassandra.

  The Witchhunter raised an eye to the Princess. He tossed her the watch. She fought at the air to catch it, pulled back the lid and both she and Niclas stared into its chamber. Animated expressions of intrigue and disgust appeared on their faces. Behind the glass was a tiny lump of flesh, which looked like a piece of diced kidney from one of Martha’s stews. It was dry and had the appearance of death. But there was something else – it had started to bleed.

  ‘How grim,’ said Cassandra, holding it away from view. Niclas grabbed the timepiece for further examination.

  ‘Wot is it?’ he asked.

  ‘A necrocardium,’ said the Witchhunter, pulling out his guns to check they were loaded and untampered with.

  ‘A necrowotium?’

  ‘A dead heart.’

  ‘That’s a heart?’ said Cassandra.

  ‘A piece of one,’ said the man.

  ‘How monstrously grim!’

  ‘Wot’s it for?’ asked Niclas.

  ‘It tells me the Black Science is near.’

  ‘How?’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Black Science makes it bleed.’

  Niclas remembered his first encounter with the Witchhunter at the Queen’s Garter. He had been looking at his watch and holding it up just like people did with compasses.

  ‘Its range is limited,’ said the man.

  His adjustments made, the Witchhunter held out his hand for the watch, received it from the boy’s sweaty palms and studied it closely.

  ‘What is this Black Science?’ said Cassa
ndra.

  ‘Means there’s a witch. At least one.’

  ‘Round ’ere? ’Ow you gonna find it?’ Niclas asked, an air of concern lingering in his voice. He was beginning to wise up about these sorts of things.

  ‘I’m not. You are.’

  Niclas frowned.

  ‘I need you to go in. The necrocardium will guide you.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Cassandra, working it out, ‘you want to use him as bait.’

  The Witchhunter ignored her and held the rusty pocket watch up to Niclas’ chest.

  Niclas took his time to think. Which was odd, because he didn’t normally think about anything. But this occasion demanded some thought.

  He turned his head to take in the sight of the alley. It seemed to twist and stretch further away as he looked at it. There was a breeze too, a sucking wind that pulled him in and whispered into his ears.

  ‘Mister, I begs ya, don’t make me go down there.’

  The Witchhunter reached into his coat and pulled out a firearm. Niclas flinched. The gun spun around so the handle was facing the boy.

  ‘I’ll be close by,’ said the man.

  Niclas looked at the gun and the necrocardium. Part of him wanted to snatch the weapon and shoot the horrible man dead, but he wasn’t a killer. He stood frozen, his thoughts jostling with each other.

  It was Cassandra who snatched it.

  ‘Don’t be such a coward, Niclas, it’s frightfully unattractive.’

  Niclas stuttered. He felt like a chick, prematurely pushed from the treetops and hurtling down towards the ground. It was now or never, which probably meant splat.

  He grabbed the necrocardium.

  ‘Best let me ’av’ the gun, miss.’

  ‘Why?’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Well… Coz… I’m…’

  ‘You’re what? Have you ever fired a gun?’

  ‘Uh…’

  ‘Do you know how to use one?’

  ‘Err…’

  ‘Hmm, I think I’ll hold onto it if it’s all the same to you. You can hold onto that dead thing. I’m not going anywhere near that.’

  Niclas agreed and gestured into the Narrows with an outstretched hand.

  ‘Ladies first then,’ he said.