“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.

The Climbing Boy: 23; London, England; December 24, 1843                                        

“Johnson!” the figure in the doorway repeated in a deep, solemn voice. “You’re Johnson, the sweep!” This posed not as a question but as a statement.

Startled, Johnson took a step backward. Smoke stinging his eyes, rubbing them, he tried to sharpen his vision.

The stranger stepped into the room, forcing Johnson to retreat another two steps.

The close proximity of the stranger frightening him, moving even further to the rear, Johnson backed into the table, jarring it. “Yeah,” swallowing his fear, “I am Johnson!” He squinted, trying to see the stranger’s face. “An’ who might ya be?”

Coming further into the shack, “It’s no matter to you who I am.”

Moving hastily to the far side of the table, Johnson used it as a barrier between himself and the stranger.

Following him to the table, placing his gloved hands onto the edge of the beaten wooden surface, saying nothing, the stranger stared at Johnson.

Silence…

There was the wind outside.

There was the creaking of the shack.

There was the crackling of the fireplace.

There was Johnson’s harsh, labored breathing, but…

There is silence…

Looking for a means to escape, although not sure why, Johnson’s eyes darted from side to side, but knowing there was no place to go, and wanting to see who this stranger was that was frightening him, peering into the dark area beneath the stranger’s sheepskin hat and bulky, upturned collar, he saw only blackness, and in the place of eyes, the reflected pinpoints of the sputtering fireplace light—and so quickly looked away.

Silence…

Zachariah watched the two men: the blanching figure of Johnson, facing him, and the back of the black shadow of the stranger.

The coat, made of fur, reached to the stranger’s ankles. The oversized collar of the coat was turned up, covering his lower head, while the upper portion of his head was hidden within the sheepskin hat.

Silence…

Shaking his head, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat, Johnson swallowed, and no longer able to stand the silence, with an attempted show of bravado, curling his thin upper lip into a sneer, he glanced briefly into the black void of the stranger’s face, then again quickly averted his eyes.

“Enough of this!” Though trying to be forceful, his voice quivering, “Who are ya, an’ wha’d’ya want?”

Silence…

His flesh crawling, his scalp tingling, Johnson felt the stranger’s eyes probing into him.

“Who are ya?”

But yet…  Silence.

Silence…

Finally, the stranger’s voice sounding hollow, as though coming from the inside of a drum: “I’ve come for the boy.” Said as a simple, unemotional statement.

“The boy?” For a moment Johnson didn’t understand, then, his eyes flickering to the shadowy figure against the far wall, “The boy? Ya be the law?” His besotted voice quivering, “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”

“What you’ve done wrong is between yourself and your maker,” the stranger said in a harsh, accusing tone. “No,” speaking in a softer tone of voice, he said, “I am not the law.”

Shaking his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs, Johnson briskly rubbed his hand over his face in an effort to remove at least some small part of his drunkenness, as at the same time, needing a drink, he looked over his shoulder at the mantel, but the one remaining bottle was not there. Panicking, he couldn’t remember where he’d left it. “If ’n ya ain’t the law, what’d’ya want?”

“Zachariah!” the voice of the stranger boomed, again startling Johnson, causing him to jerk backwards. “I told you, I’ve come for the boy!”

Zachariah? Johnson thought. Who is this man, and ‘ow’s ‘e know of Zachariah?

Looking beneath the table, “Sir,” Johnson breathed a sigh of relief because the bottle was there, but it was lying on its side, half empty. Straightening, looking across the table again, “If’n ya come for the services of a chimney sweep, then you’ve come to the right ‘ouse.” Crouching on hands and knees, his head bumping on its edge, he reached under the table. “Just gi’me your address an’ me’n the boy…” standing, holding the bottle in his hands, looking at the stranger, he held it forward and, receiving no response, shrugging his shoulders, lifting the bottle to his mouth he drank deeply. “Ahh! Um, me’n the boy’ll be to your ‘ouse or ‘stablishment bright ‘n’ early tomorrow.”

Johnson would say anything, do anything to be rid of the stranger.

“I did not come for you,” speaking with strong emphasis, “or your service!”

Tiring of this, “I know! It’s that’s bastard Archie! Archibald sent ya! Didn’t ‘e?”

“He might have called for me.”

“Or the lady! That do-gooder lady on Broad Street! She’s the one what sent ya, huh?”

The wind. The creaking. The crackling…

“She may have called for me also.”

Knowing he’ll want it all, need it all, silently berating himself for allowing the bottle to fall from his hand and drain onto the floor, taking another drink, looking at the stranger as he brought the bottle to his mouth, “Who are ya?” he asked again.

Silence…

Then conceding, “I am who I am.” The stranger said.

Once again the stranger’s words came as though from far away, and again, thinking the liquor had affected his hearing, which it very well may have, Johnson shook his head. “Ya are who ya is, eh?” Flustered, frightened… more than frightened. “Well, I knows who ya are!” Hoisting the bottle, trying to marshal his courage, Johnson took another drink. “So Archie sent ya, or that lady, or maybe even fish-smelly Marcos! An’ one of ‘em tol’ ya ‘bout the lad bein’ a good worker an’ such. Well, if’n it’s just the boy ya be wantin’,

then that’s all right, an’ I’ll be sure ‘e’s at your place nice an’ early tomorrow! Dawn’s all right?” he asked hopefully.

“Tomorrow is Christmas day.”

Speaking sadly, softly, Johnson craned his neck forward in order to hear the stranger.

“Would you work the boy on the day of the birth of our Lord?”

“Oh! Oh no, no, no!” Putting the bottle on the table, he held his hands forward, as though in supplication. “I forgot what day’s tomorrow. No, never! I wouldn’t never be workin’ the lad on Christmas! What kind’a man you think I am? Christmas! I forgot! What I’m meanin’ is, ‘e’ll be by at your ‘ome or ‘stablishment first light’a next day.” Swallowing nervously, turning, squatting, he picked up a piece of cold charcoal from the fireplace floor. Turning back to the table, pulling the chair closer, sitting, Johnson brushed off a corner of the rough-hewn table as though preparing to write on it, then looked up. “Now, Mister…? Ehh, if you’ll just be givin’ me the address of the place ya want me to send the boy.”

In shadow yet, vaguely considering that this, too, might be caused by the copious amount of gin he’d consumed on this day, still, Johnson saw no more than the reflection of firelight in the black hollow of the stranger’s face and now, his thought process progressing, remembering, having acquaintance with more than one person who’d gone mad from drink, Johnson felt a quaking within his stomach that he knew did not come from the liquor… or maybe it did.

Swallowing, ‘e’s got no face! ‘e ain’t got a face! His befuddled mind reasoned, It’s the devil ‘imself what’s come callin’!

Looking away, lifting the bottle, Johnson took a long, gurgling swig.

Long seconds passed, then, “His contract,” the stranger whispered.

Looking into the void again, “What?”

“The boy’s contract. I will buy Zachariah’s contract.” Buy? The word clearing a portion of his dotty brain,  squinting, he again looked closely at the shadowy figure, but still seeing nothing of his face, turning on the chair, taking up the poker he stabbed at the fire, sending a fountain of sparks up the flue and, in the process, lighting the room. Turning back, looking again, he did see something of the stranger’s face and, although he did not know from where, the face did look somewhat familiar, and by having a face, a somewhat familiar face, the stranger appeared to be human and less foreboding.

“So ya wanna be buyin’ me ‘prentice’s contract do ya!”

Johnson certainly did like money, but he needed Zachariah, and also he’d had more than enough of this man. Even as drunk as he was, he felt foolish for allowing himself to be so terrified, and now that he could see some portion of the stranger’s face and knew that he was dealing with just a man—in his own home yet—overcoming a small bit of his fear, “Ya got’s ya nerve comin’ into me ‘ouse in the dead of a’night scarin’ the bejesus outta me an’ the boy.” Looking towards Zachariah, “Ya wanna be buyin’ me ‘prentice’s contract, ya says to me. Well, I ain’t got no contract! An’ even if I did the boy belongs to me an’ will till I lets ‘im go, or he dies… Why, the lad’s like me own flesh an’ blood,” he said sarcastically. “I loves him, I do. Now, I want ya should get out’a me ‘ouse!”

The stranger did not move.

“I says to ya I wants ya outta me ‘ouse… now!” Reaching forward, grasping the handle, standing, pulling the knife from the loaf of bread, Johnson held it menacingly in front of himself, sharp edge up, his thumb on the haft. “No! We won’t be speakin’a the boy’s contract!” Moving the tip of the blade in a small circle, “We won’t be speakin’ at all! Out with ya!” He motioned with the knife. “Get out’a me ‘ouse!”

The light of the fire again sparkling from the stranger’s eyes, leaning across the table with a motion so fast it was no more then a blur, the stranger slapped Johnson’s hand.

The knife sailed through the air… and stuck, quivering, into the far wall.

His eyes following the knife’s flight, Johnson’s mouth opened in amazement.

“ ‘Flesh and Blood’?” Poking his finger into Johnson’s chest, shoving it in and out for emphasis, the man roared, “Like your own flesh and blood?”

Johnson attempted to back away, but couldn’t, and bumped into the chair, knocking it over, then, tripping on it, he toppled over backward falling on his back with his legs straddling the fallen chair.

Leaning over the table, the stranger pointed at Johnson. Johnson tried to scuttle backwards, but there was no place to go but the fireplace.

“The boy is not like your ‘flesh and blood’, is he?” Reaching to him, entwining his hand in Johnson’s shirt, the stranger dragged him upward. “Is he?”

Jerked to his feet, pulled over the table, his face scant inches from the stranger’s, frightened when the stranger was silent, now beyond terror, Johnson flinched with each assertive word.

“You took the boy to be your slave for a pittance!” Pulling Johnson even closer. “For the pittance owing on back rent when his poor mother died.” His voice rising, “When his mother died!” He shook Johnson. “No , the boy is not like your own flesh and blood at all!”

“You’re the devil!” His uneven voice rising in hysteria, “I knew it!” Pulling back, “Ain’t’j’ya?” Using whatever strength he had, Johnson attempted to back out of the stranger’s grasp, and away from the again faceless face. “‘ow’d ya know that?” Pressing his hands against the edge of the table, straining backwards. “‘ow’j’ya know ‘e sold him to me for a quid?” Pulling, straining backwards, his shirt was yanked from the stranger’s gloved hand and the reverse momentum propelled him into the fireplace where a…? coincidental, spurt of flame instantly goaded him forward again, confirming Johnson’s fear that the stranger was, indeed, the devil.

To be continued