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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.

Climbing Boy: 22; London, England; December 24, 1843

Losing all semblance, and whatever thought of self control he’d had, lurching to Zachariah, standing above him, bringing his hand back, snapping the boy’s head to the left, Johnson slapped him hard across one side of his face, then backhanded it to the right.

Cowering on the floor, a large lump forming on the back of his head, blood flowing from his nostrils and mouth, bringing both hands up, locking his fingers in a futile attempt to protect his face, crying from behind his hands, “Master,” the boy pleaded, “Please stop! Please stop!”

But the cries of the boy seemingly only added fuel to the fire of Johnson’s rage and, his face flushed with drink, his teeth clenched in anger, forcibly prying the boy’s fingers backward, exposing his face, balling his hand into a fist, Johnson brought his arm back in what certainly could be a killing blow, but…

His arm stopping in mid-swing, he began to cough.

Expecting to die, waiting for the pain—or the end of his pain—Zachariah had closed his eyes. Now, reprieved—at least for the moment—his eyes opened.

Loud. Hard. Rasping, Johnson’s face became bright red, and thick, blue veins bulged on either side of his neck.Standing over Zachariah coughing, gagging, the last bit of air leaving his lungs, gasping, bending at the waist, Johnson desperately attempted to breathe.

Slumped on the floor, the lump on the back of his head throbbing, both eyes puffed and ringing with purple, his back against the wall, Zachariah inched his way around the room, and as far from Johnson’s reach as possible…

As the boy moved, the back of his head left a dull, red smear on the raw wallboards.

The boy forgotten, his vision turned red…

Zachariah hoped the man would die, and yet was fearful that he might.

Drool ran from his mouth. His eyes turned up in their sockets and his vision turned from red to black. About to pass out, his head slumped to his chest and, staggering, he fell into the wall then onto the floor. The force of his body hitting the wall forced a small trickle of air into his lungs and greedily, with deep, sucking gasps, Johnson breathed in and out… in and out. In what seemed to him to be a long time, but in reality was no more than a few seconds, attempting to lift himself to his knees, finding he hadn’t the strength, he fell back. Waiting a few moments, then slithering on his stomach, Johnson reached for the fallen chair, righted it and, grunting with the effort, pulled himself up. Sitting heavily with his head held between his hands, he waited for his breathing to return to normal.

Reaching his pallet, Zachariah lay down, but lying on his back made his head throb, so pushing the burlap and rag pillow upward against the wall, leaning his back against it, the boy sat in dark shadows.

Rubbing his hand across his wet forehead, Johnson wiped the sweat onto his pants leg. Stretching to the side, reaching to the table, pulling the bottle of gin forward he brought it to his mouth, drank deeply, stopped for a breath of air then, draining the bottle in a swirling vortex, stood it back on the table and, as the alcohol warmed his cold stomach, he closed his eyes.

Mindful of the throbbing pain that came from his neck and deeply within his head, watching Johnson drink, fearing yet another beating, acutely aware that his heart was pounding wildly, in a spontaneous movement he put his hand over his chest and at the same time felt the lump and remembered… “Mousy!” Stretching his fingers into the pocket of the coat, “Mousy!” Zachariah brought the limp body of the mouse out, its neck broken when Johnson had grasped the boy by the front of his coat and swung him. His throat constricting, “Mousy!” Tears coming to the boy’s eyes, “Oh, Mousy!” he cried.

Bleary eyed, lifting his head, Johnson looked across the room. “Eh, whatzat? A mouse? Ya found a mouse? Well, kill it, can’t’j’ya? It can’t ‘urt ya!”

“Mousy,” the boy sobbed. “Oh, Lordy!”

Lifting himself from the chair, standing, tottering, holding on to the back of the chair for support… gaining his balance, he crossed the room.

Feeling the weight of his sorrow at the loss of his friend, needing solace, though expecting none from Johnson—especially while drunk—holding Mousy in the palm of his hand, all else was forgotten as he showed it to his master.

And his master did look at it… for a moment.

“For Christ’s sake, ya twit, ya!” Reaching down, grabbing the mouse from Zachariah’s hand, lurching back across the room to the fireplace, “I told ya a mouse ain’t gonna ‘urt ya!” Johnson giggled. “‘specially if ’n it’s a dead mouse!”

Zacariah watched in horror as Johnson threw Mousy into the fireplace, where it landed in the midst of the burning logs, smoldered a moment, then ignited into flame.

“Mousy!”

“Stop ya blubbering,” shaking his fist at him, “or I’ll give ya what for again!”

Grabbing the unopened bottle of gin off the mantel, Johnson pulled the cork with his teeth, was about to sit on the chair in front of the fireplace when he noticed the top hat lying on the floor. Using both hands, carefully standing the bottle on the table, he swayed to the center of the room where, trying to retain his balance, Johnson bent down, picked the hat up, thought about keeping it for himself, then, as though totally befuddled, he stared at the hat for a few moments until, forcing himself out of his daze, “I tell ya, me boyo,” he said, turning the hat over in his hands. “I was gonna get ya that kitten from ol’ Archie,” he lied, “but now…” Afraid of forcing another choking spell, he’d been speaking softly, his voice low, but remembering that he’d lost the payment for the undertaker’s job, his anger quickly beginning to stoke again. “But now,” his voice rising, his eyes lifting from the hat he looked across the room, at Zachariah, “‘stead’a the cat, ‘ere’s your bloody Christmas gift!” Bringing his arm back, Johnson flung the hat at the boy.

The hat sailed end over end; the dull light of the fireplace and the pinpoint flames of the candles reflecting off its dented, shiny crown.

Seeing the hat coming, Zachariah instinctively moved his head to the side, but the hard brim caught him on the cheek, causing a moment of sharp pain, before it fell onto his lap.

“An’ a good Christmas to ya, ya bloody damn twit!”

Turning too quickly, his drunkenness causing him to become dizzy, lurching, he lost his balance and with a thud that shook the shack, fell to his knees… Lifting himself, rubbing his knees, stumbling around the table to the chair, he dropped onto the seat. Reaching to the bottle, scraping it across the table, Johnson lifted it to his lips and drank.

His head and back resting on the burlap and rag pillow that he’d propped against the wall, he heard the moaning, blowing wind and felt a damp draft on the back of his head and neck that came from between the loosely fitted wallboards.

His head, throbbing with pain, hung dejectedly. He wiggled a tooth loosened by Johnson’s blows and felt the raw, cut corners of his mouth with his tongue while rubbing away some of the blood from his cut lip.

The magician’s hat lay on his lap, in the valley made by his legs. Absently rubbing the smooth, silky material of the brim of the hat between his thumbs and forefingers, the little boy closed his eyes.

So much has happened on this long—so very long—day.

Whatever good that had happened to him on this day was greatly outweighed by the bad. Foremost in the boy’s mind was the vision of the tormented, emaciated faces of the two children outside of The Confection Shop, and the sight of Johnson callously throwing the body of Mousy into the fire.

Zachariah considered these as present and future specters of his own wretched life.

Wincing at a sharp, shooting pain in his head, Oh, Lordy, he thought, why’s the reason for all this badness? He thought of the pretty lady holding her son Albert in her arms. Why’d me mum ‘ave to die an’ leave me alone so’s I’d ‘ave to be with ‘im? The pain nearly unbearable, moving his head as little as possible, Zachariah looked at Johnson from the corners of his eyes. An’ why can’t I ‘ave a friend? Am I so bad that Ican’t even ‘ave a mouse for a friend? A mouse!

Grief for the loss of Mousy along with the sadness of his life overwhelming Zachariah, a building lump in his throat became an actual pain. Pressure built behind his eyes and…

‘Tap’

Leaving shiny trails as they ran down his soot-darkened cheeks, the little boy’s tears fell with a barely heard ‘tap’ onto the hard crown of the top hat.

‘Tap’

The striking tears…

‘Tap’

… caused a slow, soft, hardly discernible tattoo onto the dented crown of the magician’s hat.

Slouched low on the chair, the bottle of gin held between both hands, Johnson sullenly stared at the smoky fire.

‘Tap’

Thinking, so tired, Zachariah breathed a deep, weary sigh.

‘Tap’

His shoulders slumped.

‘Tap’

His eyes closed and…

‘Tap’

His head dropped onto his chest.

‘Tap’

Mingling, the boy’s tears…

‘Tap’

…and the blood of the boy meld on the hard crown of the top hat.

‘Tap’… ‘tap’

Once again, lifting the bottle to his mouth, the clear liquor swirled down, through, and out the bottleneck.

‘Tap’… ‘tap’

No longer mingling, ‘tap’, only blood now.

Johnson’s eyelids drooped, flickered open… and closed again.

‘Tap’… ‘tap’… ‘tap’

His arm dropped to his side; slipping from his fingers, the bottle tottered, fell and rolled…

‘Clink’, ‘clink’, ‘clink.

Clinking melodically on the uneven floor till, its progression halted by a table leg, stopping, the liquor flowed from the opening until the fluid level reached the bottom curvature of the neck of the bottle.

One last ‘tap’…

One last drop of blood…

‘Tap’… ‘Knock’.

Johnson stirred.

‘Knock’. Harder now:  ‘Knock’.

One eyelid opened.

Harder yet: “Knock’,  ‘Knock’!

“Whaz’zat?” Johnson looked at the door. “Who the bloody‘ell’s that?”

The door rattling with the force…

‘KNOCK’! ‘KNOCK’! ‘KNOCK’!

Rousing himself from the chair and the warmth of the fireplace, jarring the table he caused the empty gin bottle to roll onto the bread. “I ‘ears ya! I ‘ears ya!” he yelled, then, muttering under his breath, “It’s gotta be bloody Marcos or that bastard Archie.” Trippingly making his way around the table and the few feet to the door, “Ya, got’s ya…” pulling it open, “bloody ner…” His voice trailed off as a gust of frigid air blew through the shack.

“Johnson!”

The candle on the table flickered and went out.

Sputtering, the flames of the two candles on the mantle extinguished and smoke flowed from beneath the mantle, dulling even that futile light.

Standing within the doorframe, filling the doorway was the silhouette of a tall, heavyset man wearing a bulky coat and a sheepskin hat.

In the deep shadows, on the far side of the room, Zachariah’s eyes opened slowly. Turning his head, he looked at the dark figure in the doorway.

To be continued