“Oh, Lord!”
Jerking backwards, “Oh, Lord,” trying to pull his arm from the hat.
“‘elp me!” Pleading, “‘elp me!” the young man looked from Garibaldi to Flizzer to the barkeep. “‘elp me!”
Suddenly, moving in a wide circle, the magician’s hat began to shake violently.
Lifting his glass of gin and bitters, with a quick flick of his elbow, Garibaldi swallowed the contents.
“It’s got me! ‘elp me!” Begging, “It’s the snake!” Pleading, he turned to his friends at the table, but, frozen in their chairs, their mouths agape, his friends were powerless to help, even if they had the nerve to help.
“Save me! Jesus ‘elp me! It’s got me arm!”
The Climbing Boy: 15; London, England; December 24, 1843
Terrified, Lewis looked at Garibaldi. Pleading, wild with fear. “Please, make it let go!” Straining against the thing that was trying to pull him down, the thing that was trying to pull him into the magician’s hat, Lewis’ complexion, that only moments before had been ruddy red, has become chalk white.
“Pleeease, make it let go!”
It did.
Suddenly released, with both arms flailing the air, flying backward, Lewis’ momentum flung him into the table occupied by his friends.
Crashing into the man and two women, falling over the chairs, all four fell onto the floor amidst bottles, glasses, and chair legs. Within moments, when they were able to detach themselves from each other, they sat on the floor staring dumbly at the magician.
“Now, Lewis? Now do you believe in my magic?”
Wiping his face with his sleeve, “Aye,” Lewis said, numbly nodding his head up and down.
As Garibaldi turned back to the bar, “For the show. Thanks, Gov.” The barkeep sent a drink slithering down the length of the bar. “On the house!”
Nimbly plucking it up and tossing it down, Garibaldi held the empty glass towards the bartender. “Thank you, my good man.”
Looking straightforward, whispering through the corner of his mouth, “Matt, think this be a good time for an exit?”
“Bravo!” Flizzer whispered back.
All eyes watched as, reaching into his pocket, removing a bill, Garibaldi put it onto the bar, picked up the top hat, placed it upon his head and, looking into the mirror behind the bar, tapped it straight.
Turning from the bar, knowing all eyes were on him, the magician attempted to maintain the dignity of a sober man by trying to walk straight, but instead drunkenly wobbled as he walked across the room to the coat rack alongside the door.
Searching a moment, he found his coat under a dozen others and, with an ostentatious flourish, twirled it cape like, across his shoulders then pulled his long hair out from beneath the collar. Reaching for the door handle, turning around, he looked at Lewis and his friends, who, still sitting on the floor, were still staring at the magician. Smugly tapping the top of his hat once again, turning away, he opened the door…
Outside, sleet and rain were falling. Lightening made bright, iridescent flashes behind thick, moisture-laden clouds and there was the low grumble of near-constant rolling thunder.
Stepping outside, the door to the pub was blown shut.
Buffeted by a strong gust of cold wind, Garibaldi hung onto his hat with one hand while holding the coat closed around his throat with the other. The velocity of the sleet forcing him to turn his head from the wind, looking to the side, he stepped into the road, as…
A great bolt of crackling lightning split the air directly overhead and a loud clap of thunder simultaneously shook the earth below, as…
Frightened by the combined sally of lightning and thunder, struggling against the weight of an overloaded dray, the terrified horse broke free from the driver’s clasp on the reins.
Stamping on the brake lever, “Whoa!” the driver screamed at the wild-eyed beast. “Whoa!”
The noise of the runaway wagon muffled by the sounds of the storm, bouncing wildly, sparks shooting from beneath ironclad hoofs and wheels, the dray careened over the cobblestone street.
The velocity of the sleet forcing him to turn his head from the wind, looking to the side, Garibaldi sensed the runaway wagon’s approach before he saw or heard it. Another bolt of lightning illuminating the night, he lifted his head as, transfixed, he tried to move but, the frenzied horse upon him, shrieking, “Nooo!” the magician instinctively threw his arms upward in a futile effort to protect his head. Blowing, Garibaldi’s long, white hair streamed furiously outward for the split second before being struck and dragged beneath
hoofs and wheels.
Following immediately behind Garibaldi, his mouth open in a soundless scream, Matthew Flizzer stood frozen as, powerless to help, he could only watch as his friend was struck by the wild horse and drawn beneath the heavy wagon. Turning back into the pub, “Help!” he screamed. “Get a physician! Please, find a physician!”
Finally able to pull the runaway wagon to a halt several yards down the road, jumping from the seat, the driver ran back to see if he could give aid.
Hearing Flizzer’s screams, knots of people, mostly from the pub, stood looking at the mangled body as two magistrates elbowed their way through the gawking group. Within minutes, most of the crowd, chilled by the sleet and rain, dissipated.
Turning from his companion, one of the two young men still standing over the body looked downward and, searching, walked about in a widening circle till, “‘ere n-n-now,” he said, “‘ere it is!” Stooping, lifting the black object, Lewis returned to his friend. “I g-g-g-guess ‘is m-m-m-magic ‘at wasn’t m-m-m-magic enough to make that wagon d-d-disappear, eh?”
About to put the hat onto the chest of the body of Garibaldi, changing his mind, turning from the body, walking back into the Boar’s Tooth Pub, Lewis put the magician’s now bent and dented top hat onto his head. “Aye, Silbie,” he said without a trace of a stutter, “I found ‘is lordship’s ‘at!”
“An’ elegant it makes ya’ look, too, Lewis,” Silvia replied.
*****
Johnson knew of a great number of pubs between Hobbins’ Funeral Parlor and the dirt road leading to the shack and, licking his lips, imagining the free drinks he’d soon be enjoying, he intended to visit each one.
Now that what he considered to be “his” share of the work was finished, quickly packing the equipment into the tool box, “Ey, boy,” pointing his finger, looking sternly at Zachariah, “you finish ‘ere,” motioning with his thumb at the fireplace and vaguely around the entire parlor, “an’ be sure to get me pay from the…” looking towards the basement stairway, “…ol’ bastard, an’ then ya get ya arse on ‘ome! Ya `ear what I’m sayin’?”
On his hands and knees inside the firebox, turning his body so to better see Johnson, “Aye, Sir.”
Posed as a statement rather than a question, “Ya knows ‘ow to find your way ‘ome from ‘ere!”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Mind ya,” starting to cough, “finish the job good an’ proper like or ol’ ‘obbins, the bloody tightwad bastard ‘e is, ‘ll try to squeeze out’a payin’ ya!” Turning away, Johnson turned back, “An’ don’t’ya be tellin’ ‘im where I’m off to!”
“Aye, Sir.”
He looked at the boy for a second or two, then, grasping the handle, lifting it with a grunt, Johnson hoisted the toolbox onto his right shoulder.
Having a somewhat disquieted sensation in the pit of his stomach, Maybe I ought not be leavin’ the boy a second time this day. Feeling vaguely guilty over leaving Zachariah once again, Eh, tis nothin’! Rationalizing, ‘e’ll do what ‘e must an’ find ‘is way ‘ome without me ‘elp. Mentally brushing the sensation away, turning away, Johnson took a step toward the doorway, stopped, considered a moment, then turned back and, lifting it off the drop cloth, placed the bandoleer of brushes around his shoulder. “That’ll leave ya just the cloths, the scrapper an’ brush an’ the rope to be carryin’,” he said magnanimously. “An’ if the ol’ bastard asks where I’m at, tell ‘im I ‘ad a ‘nother ‘pointment.”
Going to the parlor doorway, leaning his head through he looked across the hall, to the door leading to the
downstairs workroom, which was still closed. Walking on tiptoes, Johnson went to the front door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it quietly behind himself.
Zachariah watched as Johnson left the room, then, backing out of the firebox on his knees, standing, stretching it outward, he looked into the breast pocket of his coat. “‘ey, Mousy!”
Looking back, the mouse twitched its nose.
“We’ll be through soon an’ goin’ ‘ome an’ then I’ll find ya somethin’ to eat.” Reaching his finger inside, he scratched Mousy’s head, patted the pocket, then crawled back into the firebox.
Finished with the rear wall, still on his knees, leaning his upper body backward, Zachariah looked to see if he’d missed anything. “Almost done now,” he said to the creature in his coat pocket as much as to himself. Seeing a small, tar-like patch of creosote, he scraped at it until only the soot-stained firewall was visible.
Pounding…
Brushing the remaining ash into a mound to be swept up and carried away, the boy was startled by the loud, hollow sound as a sudden pounding on the front door reverberated through the cold funeral parlor.
“I’m coming.” The pounding continued. “I’m coming!” Zachariah heard Hobbins shout from the basement workroom, then the thumping sound of his footsteps on the stairs.
Hurrying up the stairs, the undertaker glanced at Zachariah as, the pounding continuing, he rushed to the front door.
Curious, Zachariah looked out of the fireplace, and by craning his neck was able to see the foyer.
Annoyed, “I’m coming!” Hobbins shouted as, pulling the door open, a gust of wind blew sleet, snow and dirt through the doorway into the foyer. “Yes?” he said in an annoyed, unpleasant tone.
“Mr. ‘obbins, Sir.” One of the two magistrates leaned his head into the foyer. “Sorry to be bother’n ya tonight but…”
Peering beyond the policeman, standing aside, “You may as well come inside so’s we can keep whatever warmth we have.”
Each carrying opposite ends of a heavy pallet, coming inside, the magistrates lowered it to the floor.
Realizing what was on the pallet, Zachariah
swallowed.
To be continued
