Snap

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  No tomatoes, potatoes, pumpkins, tea, coffee or chocolate. Nathan had realised some time back that these things had all been discovered in America, and Christopher Columbus had not yet sailed.

  John’s hat was blowing off as he hurried to catch Nathan up, after watching the piper and the juggler. “I just seen that horrible baron and ‘is revolting bruvver,” John said under his breath. “They was talking to some nasty big wrestling fellow, what fights folk fer money and wagers.”

  “I saw them yesterday,’ Nathan nodded. “I suppose they still live somewhere. But they don’t seem to recognise us now we’re all smartly dressed.”

  “I reckon they both lives in the bruvver’s house,” said John. “Up near Cripplegate it were.”

  “I don’t care,” smiled Nathan. “They can’t hurt us now.”

  An elderly scribe sat at a tiny table, his quill and ink beside him, parchments spread before him on the table top. “Show him yer funny quill wiv the ink all sucked up inside,” suggested John. “Poor fellow would faint, I reckon.”

  Alice wandered back to them, her basket overflowing with herbs, and the perfume rising fresh and sweet. Nathan immediately carried her basket for her, John carried his turnips, and they walked up towards the London wall, and Alice’s home. The spring wind rattled the window frames and on the opposite side of the road, a brick toppled from a chimney pot. “Sometimes them whole chimneys fall over in strong winds,” John said, pointing. “We better get inside.”

  It was that evening after supper that Nathan smelled burning.

  He told Alfie. “Just the kitchens, I reckon,” Alfie decided, stretching out his legs to the empty hearth. Too warm for fires, it was only in the kitchen that the flames blazed, for without fire they could not cook.

  “But,” Nathan said slowly, breathing in the distant stench, “it doesn’t smell like food. It’s a dirty smell.”

  “You reckon them kitchens is all scrubbed and spotless?”

  “Well, no,” Nathan decided, “but we only had a light supper and most of that was cold cheese and smoked sardines.”

  “Don’t like them sardines. Reckon tis the smoking what smells rotten.”

  Nathan walked first down to the kitchens, and startled all the cooks, scullery boys and pages as he walked in and asked if anything was burning. The two hearths were indeed alight, but there was no raging blaze and the logs were burning low. From there Nathan hurried to the pantries but found only the usual dark shelves, lightless tubs and jars, and the aromatic scent of spice.

  He checked the cellars, including the tiny stone cell where once he had been tied up and imprisoned himself. Now it was used to stack beer kegs, and it was cold. Back upstairs, Nathan darted into every room, and when the others saw him, he explained and they began to follow, sniffing for any threat of fire.

  “No chimneys fell, and not much smoke neither.”

  “Ain’t nuffing in the hall. No candles done fallen and no torches nor ashes.”

  “I have looked in every single bedchamber, and both garderobes, there’s no sign of fire, Nat, but now I can smell it too.” Alice was running up the stairs.

  “So do I,” said Sam suddenly. “Where’s our babies?”

  “I got them,” said Peter, the three kittens bundled up in his arms. “Mouse is out, but I can save the little ones.”

  “I shall inform the servants,” said Alice, a quiver to her voice. “We need buckets and water barrels and I’ll send the scullery boys down to the conduit.” She turned to the others. “It may be dangerous. Until we know where it is and how big, then we ought to leave.”

  “I can help fight it,” Alfie said at once. “Reckon I’ll stay.”

  “Me too,” John said, standing beside him.

  “Well, get the younger scullery boys and pages out, and the two maidservants too. They’re all too young. We can’t risk anyone being hurt.”

  The stink of it rose up around them, like unseen smoke or a mist descending from above. Now they all hurried through the rooms, and in a rush of desperation, the servants explored each corner. Scullery boys raced up and down the stairs, the cooks, waving huge wooden spoons, leapt behind. The pages, nimble in and out of cupboards, could find nothing.

  “I know,” muttered Nathan, and disappeared up the stairs once more.

  On the top floor, instead of turning back again, he found the tiny steps which led from the end of the dark and narrow corridor, ten black wooden blocks, going seemingly nowhere, but which stopped at the trapdoor to the attic.

  Smoke, noisome and dark, billowed downwards, and the trapdoor was askew.

  He yelled, “I found it,” but no one heard. Heading immediately back downstairs, Nathan began to wonder how a fire had started in an unused attic, where nothing was stacked, where no one went, and where there was nothing except the roof above. He hurtled the last steps and bumped into Alfie. “Attic,” he gasped, breathless.

  His explanation was no longer needed. The flames had followed him.

  The heat raged against his back as the fire took hold, and the smoke whirled in dirty clouds that made everyone cough, feeling nauseas. A long rug which covered the corridor floorboards was alight, and added to both stench and smoke. The steward, his frowns multiplying, organised the relay of buckets, but although the water doused the smaller licking flamelets, the larger blaze continued, rushing from one corner to another. Window shutters flickered, changed from brown to scarlet and gold. Tapestries on walls singed, then leapt into flame. A bunch of dried flowers sitting in an earthenware vase within the empty hearth, became a small heap of hissing ashes.

  Nathan could see running shapes, but through the darkening smoke and scattering scarlet, it was impossible to see who anyone was. The steward threw water, which soaked him, turning heat to freeze, but only for a moment. Then he thought he saw Alice, but her skirts were on fire and when he rushed to extinguish them, he found her gone. Desperate to help and terrified that someone might die, and that the beautiful house might be destroyed forever, Nathan stood tall and shouted, “As the bearer of the Knife of Clarr, I demand the powers of the Octobrs.”

  Reaching, ready to pull out the knife as the flames mounted around him, he heard first the clatter, then saw the flash of silver light amongst the raging red, and realised the knife had fallen, and lay now at his feet. He picked it up, surprised since it had never before dropped from its hiding place, and pointed it, feeling a little frightened and even slightly foolish, at the flames. Nathan did not expect a magical reaction, but within a blink. It came.

  The change was immediate.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It seemed, incredibly, as though everything moved backwards.

  The points of each flame, the flickering crescendo of each blazing pinnacle, suddenly turned back into itself, as if it had decided not to burn after all. The roaring of oncoming threat was silenced, and turned quite suddenly to a whisper of retreat. Where items had been burned away, where walls had been scorched and furniture singed, the stains of heat faded back and everything glowed again, untouched. Even the ashes, where something had been utterly destroyed, twisted again into their rightful shape, and with a faint and tentative crackle, thrust up as bright as new. Flicker by flicker, each flame, whatever its size, cringed as if terrified to continue. Slowly and carefully, the blaze ebbed and was gone.

  Along the passageway and back up the stairs, the flames hissed, went out or hurried into shadowed oblivion. Scurrying backwards, the fire not only went out, but was as if it had never been. There was no burned echo, no damage, and no smell. Everything was fresh as though washed. And Nathan stood in the middle of it all and stared around him in complete wordless astonishment.

  As if it never was,” he whispered, still holding the little knife with its beautiful and unusual hilt, pointing towards the disappearing fire.

  Alice crept up behind him. “Did that really happen?”

  Nodding, Nathan turned. “You saw it too? Then it really happened.”

  “You d
idn’t just put it out, Nat. You made it go backwards and disappear.”

  “I think,” he said, “you should send someone up into the attic, because that was where it all came from. There might be some signs left.”

  She sent the steward. But it was John who came running up the stairs, shouting, “How? Wot? And who were that big fellow out the back running away?” Neither Alice nor Nathan had seen anyone, but John was entirely convinced. “It were the wrestling fellow I seen in the market wiv the baron yesterday. I knows it. And I reckon the baron paid him ta start a fire.”

  They stood looking both at each other, and at the last traces of fire as it fled up the stairs to the attic, and was gone. For one brief moment, the traces of the smell, and a swirl of condensing smoke told the story, but then even those signs had entirely vanished.

  “Not even a little scorch mark is left.” Alice was shaking her head as though entirely confused.

  “Never mind ‘bout that,” John objected. “Wot about the rotten baron? I reckon tis all his doing. The pig-man wanted to burn us out and the house down.”

  “We could have been killed.”

  “So best go back ta that lawyer fellow.” John was furious. “Tis not only us. Coulda killed all them poor boys in the kitchens. Coulda caught in this wind and ended up burning half o’ London.”

  “It’s true.” Alice put her hands over her face. “It was a wicked thing to try and do. But how can we prove it was my step-father?”

  “Catch the wrester fellow,” said John. “Make ‘im talk.”

  The others had gathered around, shaking their heads in shock. The steward returned, reporting that the attic had been searched and there were no signs of fire, nor of damage. However, the trap door was askew as though someone had climbed up there, and a tinderbox lay on the floor.

  “But,” Nathan pointed out, “how can you accuse the baron of starting a fire, when there isn’t the slightest sign of any burning at all. The lawyer and everyone else would think we were mad.”

  “How true.” Alice stared around at the clean and polished corridor. “I’d be sent to Bedlam. What fire? Clearly there never was a fire.”

  “We’ll have to deal wiv the baron ourselves,” said Alfie. “And wiv that magic knife o’ yourn, Nat, I reckon we can do somefing proper awesome.”

  Nathan was still holding the knife. He looked down at it, running his finger over the smooth glowing metal. It worried him a little, that he owned something with such astonishing power. He also wondered what more it was capable of. Could it act without his orders? Could it make decisions on its own? Although it had achieved exactly what he wanted with the fire, he had not spoken those words, and the results were far better than he could have imagined. He only wished for the flames to stop and go out. Yet the magic had exceeded his hope. That was wonderful. But it was also a little frightening.

  “I think,” he said, “I’d sooner not use this knife too often. I don’t know what you want to do to the baron, but I just want to hide the knife away for now. I’ll try to think of another plan.”

  He looked down, and realised that Poppy was standing at his elbow, waiting for him to finish. “Don’t be a coward,” she snapped, “I bet that thing can do whatever you want.”

  “What if it can do things I don’t want?” Nathan answered her.

  “We need to practise,” Poppy decided. “Come on, let’s go into the big hall and sit together like we used to in the cellar, and find out the secrets of that magical knife.”

  Nathan paused. He would have liked to refuse, but the whole group was looking back at him with such wild excitement, he surrendered. “Come on, then,” he said. Holding the blade close. “Let’s make a magic circle.” He was laughing, but he wasn’t at all sure if he was doing the right thing.

  Although there were comfortable chairs and a long cushioned settle in the hall, they all chose to sit on the floor, just as they used to in their warehouse and then their cellar. But one thing was very different, for this time they had a large platter of marzipan biscuits and a big jug of light ale warmed with spices, cloves, and nutmeg. Although Nathan did not like the few tastes of beer he had tried in the past, this spiced ale he found very pleasant. Poppy, however, pulled a face and said it was disgusting.

  “Right then,” started Poppy, eyes glinting in the candlelight, “point your knife at my cup of ale, and make it turn into Coca-Cola.”

  Chuckling, Nathan did as she asked. The knife reflected Nathan’s smile, but nothing else happened.

  “So turn the marzipan biscuits into chocolate cookies.”

  With the knife pointing, Nathan called loudly. “Make these biscuits different. Chocolate, not marzipan.” The knife, with suitable contempt, went dull. “Look. It’s asleep,” said Nathan.

  The candles were burning low, and the shadows drew in. Alice shivered. “Make me nice and comfy and warm,” she said.

  But Nathan shook his head. “I won’t risk pointing this knife at anyone,” he said. “I don’t trust it. Not yet. Ask something else.”

  “There’s cobwebs right high up on them beams,” Alfie pointed. No broom would ever reach, for the ceiling was very high and vaulted. “Tell your friend to get ‘em down.”

  “My friend?” Nathan laughed again. “Perhaps that’s what’s wrong. I’m thinking of it more as an enemy rather than a friend.”

  “Crazy,” Poppy said, with a pout. “That knife’s the greatest friend you could have. It did a miracle. It saved all our lives. It’s wonderful. I love it.”

  “So, come on friend,” smiled Nathan. “Bring down those cobwebs,”

  But once again, nothing happened.

  It was quite sometime later that everyone trooped up to bed, a little disappointed by their attempts at magic, but enormously relieved at the disappearance of the fire. The steward regarded his mistress with enormous respect. He had certainly never before been employed by anyone who could produce such astonishing magical results. But it was Nathan who was more puzzled than anyone else.

  “Good night, Nat. Golden dreams, and thank your beautiful knife from us all.”

  “Good night, Nat. Good night, knife.”

  “Sleep well. I just hope the fire doesn’t start again in the night. Better keep that knife handy, Nat.”

  Nathan lay on his bed, the knife lying across his lap. He had not closed the shutters over the window, and the starlight was a creamy studded gleam from the sky outside. The moon was almost full, a glorious silver light peeping out from behind the clouds. The wind had not yet died down, and it blustered around the rooftops, whistling a little through the blackness. But it was the knife which interested Nathan, and he watched as it caught the starlight as though ingrained with diamonds.

  “Now I wonder,” murmured Nathan to himself, “why you were so incredibly powerful against the fire, but not for any of the funny little things that other people asked.” He stroked the knife and its intricate hilt. Then suddenly he had an idea. Everything he had asked the knife to do that evening in the hall had been requests from other people. There had been nothing he wanted himself. So now, pointing the knife at the window, he said softly, “Put up the shutters.”

  It took only a moment. The shutters themselves, big slatted wooden boards which sat on the floor, resting against the wall under the window, did not seem to move. But one moment the window was clear mullioned glass showing the sky outside. And the next moment, it was closed off with the shutters clicked solid into place.

  “Wow,” said Nathan, “now that really is magic. Incredible. And all mine. It really is a friend after all.” And he leaned over, and kissed the blade, just as if this was his greatest friend, or perhaps even a member of his family. He almost felt as though his mother and father had returned to him.

  And that, of course, gave him another idea.

  He held the knife upwards, pointing at nothing in particular. And then he started to twist it. Gradually turning it faster and faster, he whispered, “Show me my mother.”

  It seem
ed as though nothing happened, and this time Nathan was bitterly disappointed. He waited, rubbing the blade of the knife as though polishing it. Then he asked again. “Please. Show me my mother.”

  With the window shuttered, no light entered the small room. Complete blackness surrounded Nathan, except for the sliver of silver gleam which came from the knife itself. So Nathan closed his eyes with a sigh. He hoped that perhaps his mother might make a brief appearance in his dream, and so he settled to sleep. He pulled up the eiderdown to his chin, kept the knife in one hand, curled up, and waited. But the excitement had been too much, and he could not sleep. He felt more like leaping out of bed and turning somersaults.

  Tossing, trying to get comfortable and resist the restlessness, Nathan turned and found the knife scratching his leg. He hurriedly moved it to his pillow, but was then frightened that it might stick into his face while he slept. With a deep sigh, he tucked it beneath his pillow instead. Once again he closed his eyes, and tried to think of sheep jumping a low fence. One. Two. Three. Four, but one ran in the opposite direction. Five, but a farmer started shouting from the field behind the sheep, calling them all to come home. Six, but the sheep refused to jump. Seven, but a sheepdog was running in circles, and the sheep all got confused.

  Nathan opened his eyes and sat up.

  And then he heard a strange noise, as of someone tapping on the outside of his window. Assuming it was simply the wind, Nathan tried to ignore it, but the tapping grew louder.

  Finally, shaking his head in disbelief, he crawled out of bed and went to the window to see what was tapping. He thought it might be a loose nail banging in the wind, or a broken slat. But when he lowered the shutters and looked out of the window, he could find nothing wrong. So he opened the window.