Brunt Boggart

by David Greygoose

  “Then you must come in,” whispered Milkthistle, “for your clothes lie on the bed where you left them.”

  Greychild stepped forward.

  “Wait,” she said, raising a hand. “Leave Gobbeth’s mask here. I don’t want that fearsome thing under my roof.”

  Greychild hung the mask on the handle of the door, before following her again to the room at the top of the house.

  “Here are your old clothes,” she smiled. “I will leave you a while to change.”

  But soon as she had gone, Greychild heard her key twisting in the door. He was trapped in the attic room again.

  “You are my boy once more,” Milkthistle cried.

  Crossdogs roamed the streets, watching how people stared at him now he was not Gobbeth no more but a boy from Brunt Boggart lost in Arleccra. He wandered the shanty town down by the harbour, built of the wreckage of boats and boxes washed up on the shore. Here lonely wifen sat waiting for their sailor-men to come home from the sea, seagulls scratted and grey pigeons pecked as ravens looked on with cold dark eyes while rats scurried between puddles of stagnant water. Soon enough he tracked up through the alleys until he came to a tall house. A mask of leather hung outside, all studded with wire and thorns. He seized it up and put it on and beat upon the door.

  Milkthistle stood before him and screamed.

  “I am Gobbeth, true as true,” Crossdogs roared. “Release the boy you are holding here.”

  Milkthistle pulled the key from her skirt and ran to the top of the house to return with Greychild behind her, dressed in his travelling clothes again, while draped about his neck was a scarf of maroons and purples, moss green and black, all picked out in threads of silver and gold.

  Then she turned to Crossdogs, who watched through the eyes of the mask.

  “I have no boy now,” she sighed. “You are all that’s left to me, Gobbeth. Do not leave me all alone.”

  Before Crossdogs could stop her, she kissed him. She kissed the mask of wire and thorns – and as she pulled away, her lips were torn, her pale cheeks ripped and her eyes ringed round with blood.

  Scumknuckle

  Let me tell you… Let me tell you… Greychild delved deep in his pocket for the Eye of Glass, hoping it might show him his mother again, just as it had before – standing here in this very market where now he leaned against a peeling pillar. A knife-grinder pressed dull blades to a wheel, sending sparks flying high in the air while Greychild wiped the dust from the Glass and glimpsed two shadowy figures. One was Scritch, standing at the edge of the stream by the hump-backed bridge, squinnying for anything that glistened. And the boy beside him was Greychild himself, scooping down hopefully into the water to pull out the very Glass which he now held in his hand.

  Greychild looked up and stared about the market, and there was Scritch himself, as real as real, squat and scowling in the shadows where the bone men scratted for rips of paper, tattered rags and scrags of cloth. Scritch watched and waited till a woman came by all decked out in necklaces, bracelets and rings. He hurried quickly towards her then stumbled and tripped right into her, not enough to knock her over, not enough to do any harm. The woman stood startled then brushed down her dress as Scritch smiled and apologised before sauntering away. As soon as he turned the corner he began to move faster as he heard the woman let out a cry, “Where is my ear-ring, my bracelets and my jewels?”

  A while later, and a while later more, Scritch stood again on the far side of the market while the wifen pawed over the baubles laid out on the tray which he hung around his neck.

  “Only the best,” he nodded and winked. “Only the best. Anything that glistens, anything that shines.”

  “This shines,” exclaimed a woman in a turquoise gown. “Shines like the necklace I was wearing yesterday.”

  She glared at Scritch accusingly, but Scritch only shrugged.

  “How can it be? If it was your necklace true, why then it would be round your neck and not here on my tray.”

  Greychild watched as the woman flounced away. Soon as she’d gone, he pushed forward.

  “Scritch – don’t you know me?” he said.

  Scritch gazed at him quizzically.

  “Ain’t no streams here, boy. Go away.”

  Greychild went away.

  “In this city nothing is ever what it seems,” he pondered. “Maybe wasn’t really Scritch after all but some other old’un come to trick and deceive.”

  He pushed his hand in his pocket, just to touch the smooth surface of the Glass which had brought him here. But his pocket was empty.

  “Scritch,” he muttered. “You old trickster. You got the Glass quick as quick. Never showed it you when first I found it, but now you got it after all.”

  Next day Greychild headed back to the market. Scritch was there again, the dull sun glinting off the baubles and trinkets laid out on his tray. A ring, a bracelet, a string of beads… but no Glass was to be seen. Greychild flitted back and forth so Scritch didn’t see him. Then Scritch slipped his hand in his pocket. The sun glinted on something shining. Scritch gazed around then slid the dull polished crystal into the centre of his tray.

  Greychild sidled up to him as a small crowd jostled round.

  “How much you want for this?”

  He nodded at the Glass.

  Scritch peered at him.

  “How much you want to give?”

  “Two silver shillen,” Greychild replied.

  Scritch raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  “If’n you think this glass is so precious that you would give me this much – then other folks round here be sure to give me four. And if someone offer four, why then another would give me six.”

  Greychild shook his head.

  “Ain’t got six,” he said. “Tell the truth, ain’t even got two.”

  He turned sadly away and stood and watched the crowd of wifen milling around, pawing over the geejaws that glittered on Scritch’s tray. Each time one of them plucked up the Glass, Greychild closed his eyes.

  “If she bought it,” he thought, “why then I could snatch it back again…”

  But no-one did. Bought rings and bracelets, necklaces and combs till all that was left on the tray was the Glass.

  “No-one wants it anyway,” Greychild muttered. “I’ll give you two silver shillen, just like I said before.”

  Scritch shook his head.

  “You told me you didn’t have the two.”

  Greychild grinned.

  “Told you false. Told you true…”

  He felt his skin tingle. His breath came short and fast. Then quick as a flash he made a grab. He made a grab, but Scritch was faster, same as he’d always been. He pulled the tray away and slipped the Glass back in his pocket before Greychild had hardly moved.

  Scritch eyed the boy and winked knowingly.

  “Greychild, my lad, I know you true – and you know I was always faster than you. Was then. Still am. If’n you want this glass so bad, come back when you find me not two silver shillen, not four, not six – but ten.”

  “Ten silver shillen, ten silver shillen…” Greychild muttered, lost in the crush of the crowd. A woman jostled past him, a bag filled with everything and anything and nothing at all dangling from her shoulder. Greychild stepped in close to her and tried to hoist the bag. He felt it strain and slip, then slither to the floor. The woman stood and looked at him accusingly. Greychild felt a hot sweat pass over him, but did not run. He stood his ground. Bent and picked up the bag. Gathered the trinkets which had scattered all about, then handed them to the woman who frowned and then smiled.

  “Why, thank you young man,” she said, before setting off briskly in the opposite direction.

  Greychild paused and looked back at Scritch. Was he watching him? He could never be sure. He seemed intent on his own business – showing off the baubles for sale on his tray. Greychild gazed long enough to be sure that the Eye of Glass was still there.

  “Ten silver shillen… ten silver shillen…”<
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  Greychild saw a leather purse hanging loosely from a belt and snatched sudden, snatched quick, just as Scritch had taught him. But the buckle held fast. Greychild had no time to run as he found himself staring into a pair of heavy-lidded eyes.

  “What’s your game, young’un?”

  Greychild was hauled clean off his heels by a sluggish shaven-headed figure.

  “I’m Scumknuckle,” breathed a rasping whisper. “Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what I do?”

  Greychild shook his head, his legs rattling as Scumknuckle dropped him suddenly.

  “I keep an eye out for little scrunts like you, thieving from the market. Don’t like to see no-one trying to steal, so I specially don’t like to find no-one trying to steal from me!… You understand?”

  Greychild understood. Greychild understood that Scumknuckle had gripped him again before he even had time to think if he could flee. Greychild understood that Scumknuckle was dragging him out through the market, past the corner where Scritch stood unblinking. Dragged him down past the water pump and a line of barrows filled with stinking waste. Down to the steps that led him to a dimly-lit basement. Greychild blinked and looked around. In the gloom he could see a shadowy figure sitting before him.

  “Who have we here?” a velvet voice hissed.

  “Snizzleslide!” Greychild exclaimed.

  For sure enough, sitting deep in the damp dripping darkness was Snizzleslide, the trickster. Before him on a table he placed three upturned cups, then produced a pure white shell, edged a delicate pink.

  “See the shell,” hissed Snizzleslide.

  Greychild nodded.

  “I place it under a cup.”

  Greychild watched.

  Snizzleslide swapped the cups about and about, faster and faster. Then stopped.

  “Where is it now?”

  Greychild shrugged.

  “Pick one,” Snizzleslide wheedled.

  Greychild guessed. Snizzleslide turned the cup over. There was no shell. He smiled and turned up the cup on the end of the row.

  “It is here,” he grinned. “Now watch again. Watch carefully.”

  Greychild watched the cup where Snizzleslide had hidden the shell. He kept his eye fixed as Snizzleslide wove them in and out, about and about.

  “Now which one?”

  Greychild rubbed his head. Paused awhile and pointed. Snizzleslide turned the cup over slowly. There underneath was the shell, gleaming white.

  “See – it is easy. Now play again. But this time we put some money on the table. Put down one shillen. If you find the shell, why then – I’ll give you three. Think what you could buy with three silver shillen. What do you desire?”

  Greychild paused. He knew what he desired.

  “Come on, come on,” Snizzleslide hissed. “Why wait? Let’s play. Put a shillen on the table and you could win three. But if you don’t find the shell, why then I keep your money. I stand to lose far more than you.”

  Greychild hesitated then reached in his pocket for the one silver shillen he had. Immediately Snizzleslide spread three shining coins on the other side.

  “Take the shell,” he said. “Place it under one of the cups.”

  Greychild paused. The shell lay cool and hard in his palm. He reached out towards the cup at the end, but then changed his mind. He put the shell under the cup in the middle. Snizzleslide seized the containers, mixing them and swirling them about and about.

  “Do you see it?” he cried. “Are you watching?” as Greychild kept his eyes fixed on the cup where he’d placed the shell. But the cups were a blur and Greychild’s head was a blur as Snizzleslide fixed him with a glittering eye.

  “Under one cup the shell is cast,

  Be it first or be it last.

  Watch the cups and you will see –

  Do you give me one shillen,

  Or do I give you three?”

  Snizzleslide stopped. He gazed at Greychild, his tongue flicking quickly about his lips.

  “Pick one,” he invited casually.

  Greychild was sweating. He looked at his shillen. He looked at Snizzleslide’s three. He had long since lost track of the cup he had been following. Which could it be now? A glimmer of light from a lantern flickered across the porcelain.

  “… do you give me one shillen, or do I give you three?” Snizzleslide mused.

  Greychild gritted his teeth. He closed his eyes. He thought of the Eye of Glass lying out on Scritch’s tray. He reached and lifted one cup, slow and slow. Felt sure he could glimpse the shell nestling there. But as he tipped it over, was nothing. It was gone. And quick as quick, Greychild’s shillen was gone too as Snizzleslide scooped it up, along with the other three.

  Greychild hung his head in his hands.

  “What can I do? I have no money now.”

  Snizzleslide patted him on the shoulder.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “Come with me.”

  As they climbed the basement’s uneven steps, Greychild was aware of Scumknuckle’s heavy-lidded eyes glaring after him.

  Snizzleslide slithered and scurried through the streets.

  “See! See!” he cried.

  There on the corner was a boy dressed in velvet britches and a waistcoat, crying –

  “Watch the cups and you will see –

  Do you give me one shillen,

  Or do I give you three?” as he glanced nervously this way and that.

  Before him on a table he had set three cups and in between them lay a pink-edged shell.

  “Watch this.” Snizzleslide dragged Greychild back into the shadows.

  Soon enough, a small crowd gathered – and just as Snizzleslide had done before, the boy twirled the cups around and about, and just as before the shell seemed to vanish. Snizzleslide licked his lips as he watched the boy rake in piles of silver shillen. Then watched a while and a while more until the crowd had vanished – and then he slithered out. The boy looked up, startled.

  “Snizzleslide!” he cried.

  “Snizzleslide, indeed,” purred the trickster. “What do you have for me?”

  “Please,” begged the boy. “Give me a while more. I ain’t had time to make the settle I owe you. Give me a while more. Sundown you said. Sundown you come.”

  The shadows were lengthening.

  “Sundown will soon be here, my boy,” Snizzleslide hissed. “I been watching you. Made my settle twice over and more. I hope you’re not holding out on me.”

  The boy shivered nervously. Greychild could see his pockets were bulging with shillen. A squat, short-legged dog appeared out of an entry. It gave a growl. The boy stood helpless.

  “Please Snizzleslide, I meant no harm, but my sister is sick. She needs a potion. She needs me to fetch her Corbin Night-thorn’s Morning Sunrise from where Snuffwidget brews it down on the dockside. Let me get it for her tonight and I’ll pay you double tomorrow.”

  The dog growled again as it moved closer.

  “What do I care of tomorrow, boy?” Snizzleslide whispered. “Settles must be paid each day by sunset. And sunset it is now.”

  The boy cringed back as the dog sprang at him, but not a dog. Scumknuckle stood before him, his glowering hulk towering. He picked the boy off his feet. The table and the cups clattered to the floor and silver shillen scattered all about.

  Snizzleslide slid after them.

  “Just as I thought. Here’s my settle and more… Greychild, don’t just stand there. Help me pick it up.”

  Greychild stooped then looked up again to see Scumknuckle drag the hapless lad away and trample the table and cups under heavy studded boots. He turned back to find Snizzleslide watching him with a fixed and glittering smile.

  “So what do you say?”

  Greychild said nothing.

  Snizzleslide edged closer.

  “So what do you say?” he hissed again. “Think you could do it? Think you could run a game for me?”

  Greychild shrugged his shoulders.

  “Think wh
at you could do,” Snizzleslide wheedled. “You could make enough in a day or two to buy anything you want.”

  Greychild shuffled his feet and thought of the Eye of Glass still lying on Scritch’s tray.

  “Or put it another way,” Snizzleslide cajoled. “You have seen Scumknuckle. You have seen what he can do. You have seen that he can come to you any way he chooses. Some days he’s a dog, other days he’s a raven. He can come as a rat, he can come as a shadow – he can come as a flitting bat with wings of flame. And for sure he will find you. And for sure he will remember. He will remember you already for trying to dip his pocket.”

  The next day Greychild stood under the eaves of a merchant house. Pigeons and crows rattled above him, their droppings scattered all around. He set out his table and carefully placed the cups in a line. Then he slipped the white shell from his pocket.

  “Under one cup the shell is cast,” he cried. “Be it first or be it last…”

  He began to stir the cups about, just as Snizzleslide had shown him. The crowd were jostling round him, wifen and girlen and market boys, their eyes hard and sharp. Greychild was sweating, his fingers slippery as he clutched the cups. Round and round. Round and about. He let out a shout.

  “… do you give me one shillen, or do I give you three?”

  Everyone pointed to the cup in the middle. Greychild winced. He knew sure as they did that the shell was there. He tipped the cup slowly, hoping that it wasn’t, but there it lay glistening in the sun. A clamour of hands thrust forward, clutching for their money. Greychild paid them reluctantly. Now half the float that Snizzleslide gave him had gone. To settle up by sunset he would have to win every game for the rest of the day – or else Scumknuckle would come.

  As the shadows lengthened, Greychild played on, his greasy palms slipping as he twisted the cups. He lost again, again and again – but then he watched the glad faces of the wifen and children as they hurried away. Some to buy dresses and trinkets, but others hobbling off crying, “Now I can buy the potion I need.”