His hands shoved deeply into the pockets of the long-coat, the top hat wobbling on his head, trying to think of some excuse for the loss of the money, the equipment, and this long standing customer, desperately wanting to think  of any excuse that would take the blame for the behavior of Hobbins from himself, no longer confused about the direction, Zachariah began the long walk  home.

Shortly: Is it possible, do you think, to be so cold that one may no longer feel the cold?

Zachariah’s teeth had stopped chattering and he no longer felt the damp coldness that had penetrated his

clothing and chilled his flesh just a few short minutes ago.

Also: Is it possible, do you think, to be so frightened that one may no longer care?

Also: For the first time in remembrance the boy had a sense of…? Zachariah had a sense of safety?

Climbing Boy 18: Clean People; London, England; December 24, 1843

 No longer cold?

No longer frightened?

How could this be possible?

Warm and safe and…?

What?

The boy took a deep breath and suddenly an entirely new sensation loosened the tie that bound his heart.

Peace.

Warm.  Safe.  At peace!

Yet…

Yet there was something else.

What?

It was something the boy had never felt.  Had never in his closer to nine than eight years felt…

Freedom.

Warmth! Safety! Peace! And now a sense of freedom!

Zachariah felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and from his heart.

Confused with these new sensations, breathing deeply, the boy easily saw the smoky vapor that came from his mouth where but moments ago there had only been darkness.

Calm?

The wind had stopped blowing.

Stopping, standing perfectly still and looking skyward he saw a widening chink in the dark gray clouds where, rather than this winter night’s black nothingness, there was now a brightly lit moon and thousands upon thousands of brightly shining stars. Even as he looked skyward a lofty breeze spread the ragged edges of the rift outward, widening the fissure further, fully revealing the skies’ heavenly brilliance.

Tilting his head back, turning in a circle, holding the rim of the top hat with both hands to keep it from falling off, “Lordy!” the boy whispered and wanting to share this night’s sudden, unusual beauty, “Mousy,” he said to his pocket. “Look at the sky; it’s beautiful!” But the mouse, being content and warm, remained cuddled in the bottom of the boy’s pocket.

Drawing air deeply into his lungs, Zachariah sensed the wonders that were totally new to him: inner warmth, safety, peace, freedom… and now, beauty!

“Mousy, I ain’t never been out by me-self a’fore.”

And a sixth marvel flooded his senses…

Adventure!

“An’ I got me money, too.” Jiggling his right pocket, the two coins jingled merrily against each other. “I won’t be spendin’ the money what the pretty lady in the ‘ouse gave me, only the copper from the crazy lady from the carriage.”

Licking his lips, “Mmm!” envisioning all the unobtainable things he’d always seen in bakery or confectioners’ windows… Especially in the confectioner’s window.

“Gotta get cleaned off! Gotta get some’a this filth off!” Looking, watching for something, he began to walk again. “Aye!” Peering across a yard the boy saw what he’d been watching for: a rain barrel in the shadow of a house that appeared to be dark. “Maybe ain’t no one ‘ome ‘ere,” Zachariah said aloud to the mouse in his breast pocket, and to whatever God there was that looked over as insignificant—but no longer wretched—a creature as a climbing boy.

Cutting across the lawn, standing on tiptoes he looked through a window.

The house was in total darkness.

“Good!” Going to the rain barrel, Zachariah removed the coat and took his shirt off. Bare-chested, testing the temperature by dipping an elbow into the near freezing water, “Oh, Lordy, it’s so cold!” Wanting to wash just his arms and face, quickly, before changing his mind, closing his eyes the boy plunged his arms up to the armpits into the frigid water then rubbed his hands and arms vigorously, but, deciding to go further, looking about he saw a planter’s box. Carrying the wooden box to the rain barrel, standing upon it on tiptoes, taking a deep breath, the boy thrust his entire upper body into the barrel and, while beneath the water, scrubbed his face, neck, ears and scalp with his hands. Pulling out of the water, the boy looked into the barrel a moment while trying to make up his mind then, “Can’t get much colder.” Glancing about to be sure that no one could see him, quickly, Zachariah quickly removed his shoes and trousers then, grasping the edge of the barrel, flipped himself over the top.

Standing chest high in the frigid water, the boy rubbed his groin, buttocks, and legs.

Too cold to stay in the water much longer than forty or fifty seconds, but those few seconds seemed a frozen eternity. His lips blue, his body stippled with goose pimples, the boy’s chattering teeth were clacking together so hard that he was afraid they’d break.

Finished—as finished as one extremely dirty little boy could be using his hands only, washing himself without benefit of soap, to say nothing of warm water—Zachariah pulled himself out of the barrel  and, standing naked, palmed as much of the water off as possible. First flapping his shirt back and forth to shake out whatever dust that could be shaken, he then used it as a towel.

Washing this way, without soap, without warm water, did little more than remove the loose soot and dust and equalize the varying shades and streaks of blackness,  so—although still dirty—the dirt was fairly evenly dispersed. What was most important, though, was that Zachariah felt clean.

Off his body, the damp clothing had become cold. His teeth still clacking, still shivering, the boy put the

wet shirt on.  Shaking the dust from his trousers, stepping into them, he tied the rope belt. Sitting on the box, he put his shoes on, retied the twine around the one without the buckle and, slipping his arms into the coat, he pulled it about his chest.

Fully dressed, the boy was still cold. “Be feelin’ much better now, Mousy,” he said to his pocket as a shudder rippled through his body, “but it’s so cold!”

Cutting across the lawn, starting towards the road, “Opps!” remembering, the boy turned back. Returning to the rain barrel, picking up the top hat he put it onto his head and by merely covering his cold, still damp scalp Zachariah felt warmer, and now…

The undertaker forgotten, Johnson forgotten, the coldness forgotten, once again the sensation of

euphoria overcame the boy and he began to run.

Zachariah had never felt this happy.

He ran. Holding the brim of the bouncing hat with both hands, he ran till…

There, up ahead, there were the lights of shops, and there were people.

“Mousy, it’s near Christmas an’ I don’t know if that bloke, that…” thinking, “…that, uh…” thinking, trying to remember what the pretty lady in the house had said, “…that Saint Nicholas is gonna be able to find me, an’ I’ve been good so I’m gonna get me-self me own present. I’m gonna get somethin’ for me, somethin’ for me-self!” Slowing, holding the hat with one hand and opening his pocket with the other, he looked inside. “An’ you can ‘ave some, too.”

Now, within the crowd, savoring the sensations of warmth, of safety, of peace, of adventure—savoring his freedom—the boy walked slowly, looking about, interested in everything he saw—and everything he saw looked so…?  Different.

He’d been here before, dozens of times, but somehow it all seemed… New.

People were milling, rushing, strolling, looking for a last minute gift or for food, for pastries, for candy.

The people went into and came out of shops singularly, in pairs or groups, young and old. And the people—most of the people—upon seeing the little climbing boy in the tattered long-coat and dented top hat, would smile and, “Merry Christmas to you, lad!” many said and, superstitiously, most would reach out to touch him.

And each time he was touched, Zachariah was touched.

He had never felt that he belonged among the “clean people.” Forgetting who he was and what he was for the first time in his life since becoming aware of his lowly station, Zachariah felt that…? Zachariah felt that he belonged. His eyes becoming shiny and wet, he became one of them, one of the happy people…  One of the clean people.

Streaky and distorted, the glass was heavily frosted near the bottom and coated with beads of moisture nearer the top, and although the wavy window was misty at eye level, Zachariah was able to see trays; at this time most were empty, but not all.

Not too long until closing time, on this, the evening before Christmas, not much was left in the bakery, but what did remain was enough to make the suddenly hungry boy’s mouth water.

There were cakes and cookies of many shapes and sizes; some tarts with delicious-looking red and yellow toppings; a few large, crusty napoleons; scones with rich, oozingcream; and gingerbread men.

With his nose pressed against wet, cold glass, Zachariah watched as the baker, wearing a soiled apron, reached from tray to tray, taking the last of the napoleons and three cherry tarts.

Who could ‘ave so much money, the boy thought, to buy so many’a them wonderful things? And to Mousy, “Should I go in ‘ere and buy me one’a them cream things?” Turning from the window, starting through the door, No! Don’t yaspend ya money so fast, thinking of what was ahead, Ya still got a way to go. And knowing he’d be sorry if he spent his money now, “An’ ya know’s what ya really be wantin’!” he said aloud. “Just ya wait till we get to the confectioner’s shop!”

His deceived stomach grumbled in protest, but sighing and wishing he had enough money for a pastry, too, Zachariah began to walk  again.

“A merry Christmas to ya, lad!” A smiling man with a young boy in tow rubbed his shoulder.

“Thank ya, Sir!”

Another man, touching the sleeve of his long-coat, “May the Lord Jesus keep ya, boy!”

“I thanks ya, Sir!”

“Aye, boy!”

Zachariah turned, looking.

“Aye, boy!” Waving, an elderly woman accompanied by two younger women purposely crossed the road to come to him, and each in turn touched Zachariah, wishing him “A good Christmas.”

“You, too, Mum.” Warmed by the friendly touches of the three women, “And a good Christmas to ya, too, Mum!”

The women were rewarded and delighted with the boy’s heart-warming smile. “God bless you, lad!”

“Thank ya, Mum.” Looking from one lady to the other, “And to you, too, Mum. Thank ya!”

They parted, the boy going in his direction and the women theirs, but each of the four came away from their accidental meeting feeling somehow rewarded.

Going on, one road crossing another.

Looking… Watching… The boy continued on until, suddenly, he stopped walking and, turning in a tight circle, his head thrown back, his nose in the air, he sniffed deeply…

An aroma! His nose twitching, sniffing the air like a hungry animal, “There!” It’s coming from there.

His stomach rumbling loudly, his mouth watered so badly that he actually had to swallow and wipe the saliva from his chin.

Crossing the road, following the scent he stood in the doorway of a rather marose appearing tavern. The door opening abruptly, Zachariah moved out of the way as a cheaply dressed man and woman came from the tavern.

Seeing the little chimney sweep,  “Aye,  lad.” the lady smiled and lightly, with her forefinger only—not wanting to get her somewhat dirty glove dirtier—touched his shoulder as the man went to the road to hail a passing cab.

To be continued