Snap

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “We needs them lawyers near St. Paul’s,” said Alfie, sitting eagerly forwards. “Them grand judges, and p’raps a bishop or two.”

  Jumping to her feet, Alice clapped her hands, delighted. “I’ll come with you, Uncle Henry, and we’ll go to every official in London.”

  It was exceedingly crowded, dark and smoky in the cottage and Nathan kept coughing as there was only a hole in the thatch and no proper chimney, so the fire spat all its smoke in a swirl. Each time anyone moved, it swirled again. Having finished his Perry, Nathan got up, apologised, said he needed a little fresh air, and hurried out of the front door to stand in the street and breathe deep.

  Once outside, with the sky frostily blue above, Nathan patted Pimple who stood patiently and began to wander down the lane towards the green. The birds were singing, he heard the call of the cuckoo and the sweet twittering clicks of the courting starlings. Then something caught his eye down a side lane, he stopped and turned, expecting to see the continuing game of strange football. But it was not that at all.

  Brewster Hazlett was sitting in the middle of the pathway, on what could only be described as a throne. His long thin black trousered legs were crossed, one bony knee sticking high into the sunshine. His arms rested on the chair arms, whilst his head, leaning back against the padded throne, was half in shadow from the tall top hat. The scrawny long fingers on both hands, nails like dark claws, grasped the golden balls of the chair arms, and as he gazed back at Nathan, his smile revealed a row of white pointed teeth.

  “Well, Nathan,” he said with a high pitched cackle, “how do you like my adventure?”

  “Nat, not Nathan,” said Nathan, glowering. Already he could smell the drifting, twisting stench of spiced magic. “And what do you want now. Taking me home, are you? Or just teasing, as usual? And where’s your horrible twin brother?”

  “What a lot of questions,” grinned Brewster. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? No, it’s not time to go home yet, but it’s adventure, not tease. And there’s a lot to be done before you can go back to your Granny.”

  It seemed so ludicrous to see this peculiar man sitting in the middle of a village lane on a grand chair like a royal throne, that instead of asking anything more important, Nathan said, “Where did you get that silly chair? And where’s the balloon?”

  “The state throne of wizarding ranks, highest grade,” Brewster announced with a rather proud lift of his pointed chin. “Known, in my world, as the Throne of Lashtang. A great honour, it is.” Frowning slightly, he uncrossed his legs and stood. Nathan noticed that his little tight boots were golden leather, with bright red ribbons, although every other thing he wore was black.

  “A throne?” Nathan stared, his voice challenging. “Thrones are for kings.”

  “Kings. Wizards, Those with great power.” He was cackling again, each squeal of laughter finishing on a high squeak. “Look, look,” he chortled, “see what those with power can do.” And with a flick of one long fingernail and a twist of his wrist, Brewster pointed upwards.

  The lane was narrow and only a slit of sky shone above. Now the slit opened, as though cracked like china. Jagged edges split away and through the break suddenly flooded a moving vision of ice tipped mountains. It was snowing over the peaks, and the glitter of falling snow crystals contrasted with the sunny blue sky over the village. Then the icy vision expanded, and Nathan could see a great ruined building, its stone walls crumbled and falling, its towers in collapse and its gateway blocked with broken stone, crushed pillars and the rubble of a ruined palace.

  Once again twisting his wrist and clicking his long curled nails, Brewster smiled. With a crack and a gust of cold wind, the sky closed into its natural blue and pale sunbeams.

  “Lashtang. A glimpse, a gift, and a reminder.”

  Nathan stood, open-mouthed. “Where is it? What is it? Is it truly in the sky?”

  “My country, Bumble-Bee Head, not yours.” Brewster peered, frowning, before his expression returned to its usual menacing laughter. “Now to more important matters,” Brewster continued. “I have come to tell you that you must never speak to my brother. Never. On pain of death. Never open your mouth to Wagster under any conditions.”

  Blinking, Nathan couldn’t think of anything to say. Brewster towered over him, the top hat slightly tilted, but the wizard’s eyes brilliant and angry stared from the shadows of the dark brim. Finally Nathan said, “I don’t want to talk to him. He’s horrible. But I’m not sure I want to talk to you either.”

  Brewster cackled. “No choice, Nat, no choice, if you ever want to get home again. But I’m off to Lashtang, where you can’t go.”

  The throne was beginning to fade. Its tall golden back and arms, padded in crimson velvet, were disappearing into the pale sunshine, and the wriggly golden legs and stubby feet were disappearing into the gravel of the lane below.

  Worried that Brewster was about to fade too, Nathan called, “So when can I go home, then? I need to see my family again.”

  Brewster began to skip, kicking up dust from the gravel, his extremely skinny legs like a couple of black knitting needles. “This year, next year, sometime, never. Wait and see, Bumble-Bee Head, just wait and see,”

  Angrily, Nathan called back, “So can you help with Alice and the baron?”

  “That’s what you’re here to do,” chortled Brewster, still dancing in a circle. The throne had quite gone, and now the man was starting to fade too.

  “Don’t go. Come back. Can you help?” yelled Nathan.

  “Ask nicely and anything’s possible,” the wizard called from the mist that gradually surrounded him. His little golden boots were kicking higher and higher, his knees like spikes bent almost up to his chin. His dance twirled faster and faster, and he began to rise into the air.

  “I’m asking as nicely as I can,” Nathan called after him.

  But Brewster was gone. Just a little breeze of swirling dust was left behind.

  Chapter Twelve

  Back in their shadowed London cellar, the group sat with their backs against the heated wall, and everybody talked at the same time.

  “Uncle Henry will see important people and fix everything.”

  “Bet there ain’t no important folk will listen to a country bumpkin, when there’s a mean-faced baron to listen to instead.”

  “Well no one’s gonna listen to raggy dirty children, will they? Better an intelligent man, even if he hasn’t a title.”

  “He’s brother-in-law to a Lord. My Papa was a knight.”

  “And you’s just an orphan without no proper clothes.”

  “Uncle Henry is clever. People will listen to him.”

  “Even if he ain’t got two legs.”

  “That’s a sign of courage,” interrupted Alice. “He was a hero and fought for the last king at Tewksbury.”

  “And ought to be your proper guardian, ‘stead o’ that nasty pig-man the baron.”

  Alice turned to Nathan, who was sitting pale-faced and a little numb. “You’re the only one saying nothing,” she said. “Did you like my aunt and uncle?”

  Nathan sat up with a jerk. “Of course. Lovely people.” But he was thinking of Brewster Hazlett. “If your uncle can get a good lawyer and show that parchment with the ink blot that he was talking about, then I think we might get luck on our side again.”

  They had delivered Pimple and the cart back to the grumbling owner, and it was already late when they finally settled for sleep. The discovery that the baron’s guardianship of Alice was not even legal, had shocked and excited everyone, but the solution was not so obvious. They all went to sleep puzzling out the situation, and only Mouse dozed off without difficulty and troubling dreams.

  They were woken by the crash and clank of next door’s furnace cranking up, the heave of the bellows and the hiss of the flames. They could hear the cheerful song of the smith as he began his daily work. He sang, and although the words were indecipherable from the other side of the thick wall, they could hear t
he voice and the rollicking tune.

  Sore from all the travelling in the bouncing cart the day before, Nathan crawled from his blanket and rubbed his eyes. But Alice was already up and busy, gathering water from the barrel outside and washing her hands and face. The water was icy from the cold night air but this, she told the others, helped wake her up.

  “As you know, I’ve arranged to meet Uncle Henry this morning,” she said. “And I want Peter to come with me in case we need to get past any locked doors. Does anyone else want to come?”

  “I will,” said Alfie at once, pushing back his hair from his eyes. “I don’t trust no one and I ain’t gonna risk you getting caught by that pig man. After all, your uncle ain’t gonna be running fast, is he?”

  “Tis raining again,” said Sam, watching the trickle of water come sliding down onto the floor. “Reckon I’ll stay here and look after Mouse.”

  Nathan stood and stretched. He didn’t really feel like going out in the rain, but he didn’t want to stay in and just stare at a blank wall all day either. “Not sure,” he admitted. “Maybe I’ll just go for a walk and visit the market.”

  “Reckon I’ll come wiv ya,” said John. “Or you’ll be lost soon as turn the corner, or picked up by one o’ them angry cooks from the other day.” He laughed. “Or go whizzing around in that balloon you was talking about.”

  “Well, take some money and buy some food and another larger cooking pot while you’re out,” Alice suggested, “and we can all meet up back here later on.”

  “If it keeps raining, I might buy a coat,” decided Nathan.

  “A cape,” John corrected him.

  Nathan could not imagine himself wearing a cape, but he didn’t want to get soaked either. Meanwhile Alice was explaining her own plans. “Uncle Henry and me, we’re going to visit the baron’s solicitor. He may refuse to show us my mother’s last Testament, but Peter may be able to get at it if I cause a diversion. If we can get it, then we’ll take it straight to another lawyer, and try to prove that the baron isn’t my guardian and shouldn’t be living in my house.”

  “Humph. Good luck wiv all that,” John snorted.

  “I’ll look after her,” Alfie nodded. “Ain’t no one gonna put her or her Uncle Henry in the Clink.”

  It wasn’t long before Alice, Alfie and Peter hurried off, and Sam curled up in the warm bed with a sleepy purring Mouse. John turned to Nathan. “Ready, Nat?”

  They wandered out into the rain. It was just a silvery drizzle but the daylight was hidden behind glowering clouds. New shoes clomping on the cobbles, keeping their feet nice and dry, Nathan and John hurried up the broken steps and into Bandy Alley, up to the end and then west towards East Cheap.

  “All ten toes nice and dry and comfy?” grinned Nathan.

  John sniggered. “Only bit o’ me what is dry and comfy. This rain is chilly.”

  The market stalls were already crowded and it seemed that a little drizzle was not going to deter London’s housewives from their shopping. Both shops and stall-keepers were shouting their wares and their prices. The bright striped awnings were flapping in the wind and dripping their collected rain in sudden bursts. One man, holding up a pair of bloodstained pliers and a short length of thin rope was calling for, “All you poor folks in pain, and fellows with yer teeth hanging out. I’s the best tooth puller in London, I surely is. Come see me.”

  One man in a heavy hooded cape was holding the side of his jaw, clearly suffering, but he answered the tooth puller shouting, “You pulled the wrong tooth last time, Bert. I’ll not risk it again.”

  “Will do it for free, and get the right tooth this time,” offered the man, waving his bloody pincers. “Ain’t no time fer being a coward.”

  Another stall was set up with an anvil, and a stone wheel that turned as the owner was sharpening knives, sparks flying. Rows of shining vegetables and fruit were shining, protected by the awnings, and one woman was selling hot pies. The fruit smelled fresh, the pies even better. There were painted wooden puppets for sale, whistles, little coloured drums, and another stall where a quiet man sat mending the strings of lutes. A small man in bright ribboned clothing was juggling with three wooden cups and a young girl was singing softly, sitting on the wet ground and collecting pennies in her lap from any kind passers-by. A large brown and cream duck, head high and proud, was leading her cluster of six tiny fluff-puff ducklings across the muddy ground, and Nathan hoped no one would grab them for dinner. A goat was being milked by an elderly woman hunched on a stool, with a wooden bucket at her feet. Then she ladled the milk into cups, and sold the contents to thirsty shoppers while the goat tried to eat the cabbages on sale at the next stall. The milk smelled sweet and rich and warm.

  A clammer of shrieking and shouting echoed from the edge of the market street and Nathan looked up, curious. “What’s all that? More football?”

  John shook his head. “Probably a cockfight,” he said, “or a dog fight.”

  “That’s a horrible idea.” Nathan stepped away.

  John shrugged. “Good fer a wager,” he said. “But it don’t interest me.”

  They walked in the opposite direction, and Nathan stopped at a shop, its doors wide open behind the stalls. “Looks like they sell capes and stuff,” pointed Nathan and he squeezed past the awnings and hurried in out of the rain.

  It was warm inside, and an elderly man was serving a young woman, showing her a variety of different cloaks. “I will tailor one to suit, mistress,” he told her. “To your measurements and your choice.”

  “I want it now,” the young woman complained. “My hat is already horribly wet.”

  “Then if you care to wait just a moment while I serve these young gentlemen,” said the tailor, smiling at Nathan and John, “then I will undertake to alter whichever cape you choose, mistress, to a suitable length.” The little woman was very short, and clearly the capes already made and on view, were all too long for her.

  Nathan knew he wasn’t very tall either, but he asked, “Is there a short cape, with a hood, I can buy right away?” He pointed to a cape lying over the back of the counter. “But not too expensive,” he added quickly. John was examining another much longer cloak with a luxurious fur lining, and Nathan hoped he didn’t intend to steal anything.

  “I do indeed,” young man,” the tailor smiled. “For your age, sir, about thirteen years, I presume? Yes, there are several young gentlemen’s’ styles already on show. Let me suggest –” and he held out a short blue broadcloth cape, hooded and lined in pale blue knitted wool. “Oiled and ironed, sir,” continued the tailor, “to protect from the bitter ice and the strongest storms.”

  Without the slightest idea whether the price was fair or not, Nathan looked to John, but John had disappeared. Quickly Nathan paid the price asked, grabbed the cape and pulled it around him, flipped up the hood and ran out of the shop.

  Gazing around, he saw no sign of John but after scurrying a few steps into the market, John came up behind him and startled him with a clap on the back of his shoulder. He was proudly wearing a fancy long cloak of scarlet with a patterned edge and a rich fur lining. Nathan gulped. “You nicked it?”

  “Had to,” said John without any sign of guilt. “Can’t you tell it’s a fancy female cloak? Tis fer Alice. Poor lass, she ain’t never warm. This will suit her a treat.” He pulled it off, laughing, and folded it up under his arm.

  “I’m not sure it makes it any better if you steal for someone else,” frowned Nathan. “But let’s get moving before someone calls stop thief again.”

  They bought hot chicken pies and finally wandered back to Bandy Alley, where they stopped at the ironmongers’ on the opposite corner. Here Nathan examined the pots and platters on the long shelves with interest. Most were iron, although a small cluster of pewter cups were displayed on the top shelf. The ironmonger did not seem to recognise them as the ragamuffins from the cellar on the other side of the alley, and he cheerfully sold them two pots, one large, one small, and assured them that
none of his work would ever leak.

  Clattering their heavy pots together, Nathan, in his new cape, skipped back across the lane and its small central gutter, and John, hugging the stolen cloak, followed. But then both stopped for a quick pause, listening to the smith still singing deep in his shop as he poked up the furnace.

  John was not much interested, and called, “Come on. These pies is going cold and will be soggy if they gets wet.”

  But Nathan was standing stock still outside the cellar steps. For the first time he could hear the words of the smith’s song, and something definitely wasn’t right. Over the roar of the furnace flames, the voice rose deep and strong. Nathan clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle the gasp, and almost dropped his pie and pots. This tune was slow, deep and sombre, but it was the words that made him gulp.

  “Lashtang Tower, dark as night with no moon,

  Lashtang Palace, blazing with flame.

  One whispers soft the Hazlett name,

  The other roars. Both hide your tomb.

  Come taste the flames, come taste the ice.

  Nightmare beckons, dreams of death.

  Enter. Now breathe your final breath.

  Peace at last, but Lashtang claims the price.

  Nathan felt his heart stop, then he jumped down the steps with a stumble and a leap, rushed into the cellar and flopped down as far away from the hot brick wall as the space permitted. He stared open-mouthed and silently as John hung up the cloak he had stolen on an old nail sticking out of one corner wall, and sat to eat his pie. A second pie had been brought for Sam, who woke with a sniff and a mumbled thanks, and stuffed half the pie into his mouth, dripping gravy which Mouse began to lick directly from his chin.

  But Nathan sat for some time before he ate. His brain was whirling and he did not know what to think. Eventually as John pushed the last crumbs into his mouth, Nathan asked, trying to sound casual, “Do you know a place called Lashtang? Is it an old story or a song or something?”