Zachariah put his candy—his treasure—onto the girl’s hand and found, though forced, he could, he did, the little climbing boy smiled.

Silent, the boy and girl, though, did not smile in return.

Feeling the weight of his sacrifice within his mind, within his heart, turning, Zachariah began to walk.

Two paces… three paces. Turning back, “A good Chris…”

Gone.

The girl and boy were gone.

 The Climbing Boy: 21; London, England; December 24, 1843

“Why’d I do that?” Looking for what was there, lifting his hand, Zachariah held it in front of his eyes. Turning his hand, opening and closing his fist, unable to believe it was empty, that he’d, “Why’d I give it away?”

The further he went from The Confection Shop, the closer he came to the shack, and the closer he came to the shack, with each ensuing step his emotions turned about.

As if blown out, the moon and stars were extinct and the sky black as pitch.

Cutting through his meager, threadbare clothing, the blowing wind hurtled wet, stinging snow onto his face. Holding the top hat onto his head with one hand as, trying to protect Mousy from the wind, he covered his pocket with the other hand as, at the same time he attempted to keep the two sides of the long-coat closed about his throat with pressure from the underside of his forearm.

Squinting into the wind. Holding the hat. Holding the coat. Protecting the mouse. “The sweets,” he shouted into the night, “were mine!”

Hungry. So hungry! The food he’d eaten at the lady’s house earlier in the day long forgotten. The one sustenance needed—wanted, above all else—the candy.

His candy!

Still unable to believe that he had given his treasure away, letting go of the hat, the boy once again held his empty hand before his face, but free of all restraint the forceful wind tugged at the hat. Grabbing it, shoving it over his ears and as low on his forehead as the bump would allow, shivering, Zachariah tightened his hold on the collar of the coat.

The cobblestone street ended.

The boy was on the dirt road that would soon bring him home.

“Why’d I do that?” he shouted into the wind. “It weremine, not theirs! So they’re poor! Well I’m poor, too, an’ no one’s never given me candy afore!” Kicking a rock, stubbing his toe, he hobbled a few steps. “An’ now I ain’t got nothin’!”

A stinging, snow-driving blast of frigid wind forced tears from the corners of his eyes.

Tightening his grip on the hat, Zachariah pulled the collar of his coat even tighter.

The illusion of well being completely gone, completely forgotten, remembering, ‘obbins, ya ol’ skinflint, bastard! The ‘quipment! the boy’s anger at himself for giving his treasure away now replaced by cold fear.

Closer to the shack!

Closer to Johnson!

“Lordy!”

Almost home!

“Maybe,” Zachariah said to Mousy, “‘e’s not home yet. Maybe ‘e’s drunk an’ passed out in a pub an’ tomorrow, when ‘e gets home,” he hoped, “‘e won’t feel so bad an’ ‘e won’t be so mad.”

“Lordy!”

There it is! The little boy saw its squat, dim outline in the darkness…

The shack.

His pace slowing, all else forgotten: candy, cold, anger and hunger—all was forgotten.

Fear.

All else was replaced with fear.

Approaching, his pace slowed even further.

He hesitated at the door.

His hand reached for the latch, came away, reached again.

Slowly, quietly. As quietly as possible, Zachariah opened the door an inch… another… a few inches.

Leaning his head through the narrow opening, he looked inside, then, squeezing between the doorframe and the door… his lips moving silently, “Lordy! Oh, Lordy!”

Johnson was there.

Sitting behind the table in front of the fireplace, sprawled upon a straight-back chair, his neck bent to the rear, his head hanging over the back of the chair, his mouth fully open, Johnson was snoring. His legs spread from side to side, one hand hung limply to the floor. In his other hand, held  upon his lap, there was a half empty bottle of gin.

A poorly made fire smoldered in the fireplace.

Upon the mantel were two flickering candles and an unopened bottle of gin.

On the table, with a knife sticking through the middle, was a partially eaten loaf of bread, another candle and…

“Lordy!”

…Lying on its side, another bottle… an empty gin bottle.

The boy took one step into the room… another… then, with as little sound as possible, closing the door behind him, holding the latch, hardly breathing, standing perfectly still, hoping, Oh, Lordy! he prayed that Johnson would not awaken  

But…

The rumbling of his stomach, in his mind, echoed throughout the shack and, afraid the sound might wake Johnson, covering his middle, pressing his forearm  hard against his stomach, the boy thought, If I can just get a piece’ a that bread an’ get into bed afore ‘e wakes.

He took one small, tentative step toward the table, then, thinking he’d rather be hungry then beaten, turned to the far side of the room, to his pallet.

One step…

Two steps…

A sputter and crackle as an overhanging bit of log burned through and fell off the grate.

Another step.

Snoring… snorting loudly, choking on a bit of spittle, coughing, Johnson lifted his head, opened his eyes, closed them, then, as though the effort of holding his head upright was far too great, letting the back of his head drape over the back of the chair once again, he returned to his drunken slumber.

Zachariah waited one… two… three… four heartbeats before taking another step…

A floorboard creaked loudly and, stopping in mid-step, his right foot inches off the floor, the boy did not breathe.

Johnson stirred… His head lifted off the back of the chair, held upright… then slumped onto his chest.

Waiting… Waiting, standing perfectly still the boy waited until, hearing Johnson snore…

On tiptoes, he took one step, another and…

The rough-hewn wood floor creaked again, and…

Johnson lifted his head.

The boy stood still… not breathing… not moving, his left foot poised above the floor.

Johnson stared into the fire. He yawned. He coughed. He closed his eyes… He opened his eyes and, lifting the bottle to his mouth, took a long gurgling swallow. Catching on his lips, the suction of the bottle popped when pulled from his mouth.

Still… Still…

Again standing perfectly still, Don’t turn! The boy prayed silently. Lordy, please don’t let him turn!

Johnson turned…

Looking at the boy, trying to focus his vision, “Uh…” his words slow and slurred, “I been waitin’ on ya!” He stared at the boy a moment, then took another long, lip-popping swig from the bottle.

Knowing the drunker he was, the worse it’s going to be, the boy’s eyes followed the bottle’s trip from the man’s lap to his mouth… and back to his lap.

“Where ya been?” Waiting a moment for an answer… Receiving none, awkwardly pulling himself off the chair, swaying backwards, straightening, planting the base of the bottle on the table, leaning into the table, supporting himself by the knuckles of one fist and with the throat of the bottle held tightly in the other, “Where-ya-been?” Johnson repeated slowly.

“I, uh, I lost me way.”

“Imbecile!” Stumbling around the table, attempting to intimidate the boy—which he most certainly did—standing directly in front and above him, “Me money!” Johnson demanded, holding his hand forward.

The boy did not move.

“I says, ‘me money,’ if ya please!”

His mouth suddenly dry, Zachariah could not speak.

“Boy, I says to ya once more,” bending forward, speaking directly into his face, bringing his open hand under Zachariah’s nose, “Gi’me’ me money!”

The boy did not move.

Staring ominously at the boy, Johnson then looked to the floor near the door. “An’ the ‘quipment?” Bringing his face even closer to the boy’s face, causing him to step backward. Bellowing, “Where’s the ‘ell’s me ‘quipment?” He grabbed Zachariah by the lapels of his coat.

Finding his voice, “Please! I didn’t do nothin’!”

Holding him by the material in his clenched fist, lifting him till only the tips of his toes touched the floor, “Wad’a’ya mean ‘ya didn’t do nothin’’?” Johnson screamed in the boy’s face. “What the ‘ell ‘appened? Everythin’ was well enough when I left ya! I tol’ ya not to get the ol’ bastard angry! What’j’ya do? An’,” pointing at the bent, dented top hat atop Zachariah’s head, “what the ‘ell’s this?” He began to cough, and doubling over, released Zachariah.

Backing away, “Master Johnson, Sir,” he stammered. “It weren’t none’a my fault! Ol’ ‘obbins, ‘e wouldn’t pay me! ‘e said we got dirt on one’a his settees! But I didn’t do it! I weren’t never nowhere near it! An’ all’s it was anyways was a little smudgin’a soot an’ I told ‘im I’d’a been able to clean it, but ‘e wouldn’t let me, an’ ‘e threw me outta the ‘ouse without the ‘quipment, an’ I begged ‘im for the payment, an’ ‘e slammed the door shut an’ wouldn’t even gi’me back the ‘quipment!” Stopping, taking a breath, the boy went on quickly. “An’ then these two ladies an’ men came by an’ even they tried to tell ‘obbins to gi’me me payment an’ ‘quipment, but the ol’ bastard wouldn’t listen to ‘em, too, an’ ‘e tol’ ‘em ‘e’d call a copper if’n they didn’t go, an’ one’a the gentlemen felt bad, it bein’ so cold an’ all, an’ gim’me this ‘ere ‘at.”

Catching his breath, Johnson knew—even through the alcoholic fog in his brain—that it was not the fault of the boy. Johnson knew if he’d stayed on the job and not gone off drinking Hobbins would have paid him. But, once again, having only this means of venting his anger and frustration, and being drunk as he was, he again attacked the boy.

Repeating, “All was well ‘nough when I left ya!” Taking a step forward, once again grabbing Zachariah by the lapels of his coat, twisting the material in his fist, he viciously pulled the boy’s face to his.

Smelling the foul odor, feeling the heat of Johnson’s breath and the spray of his spittle, “Don’t ‘urt me!” the boy begged. “‘obbins threw me out an’ ‘e slammed the door an’ it weren’t none’a it my fault!”

“I left ya to do the work an’ get me money!” Frenzied, “An’ what did ya do?” His drunken anger having no bounds, he shook Zachariah till the boy’s head whipped back and forth, till the hat shook from his head fell to the floor and rolled between their feet. “Ya lost me money, that’s what ya did! An’ ya also lost me me oldest customer! That’s what ya did!” Consumed by anger, swinging him by the material of his coat, Johnson made two full circles.

On the first rotation the boy’s feet left the floor and, with a loud crack, his ankle connected with one of the straight back chairs, knocking it onto its side. On the conclusion of the second rotation Johnson let go of the coat and, his arms flailing as he went through the air, his head thudding against the frame, smashing into the door, Zachariah slumped to  the floor.

 To be continued