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“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

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

“No,” the stranger said softly. “I am not the devil.”

“Yeah, ya gotta be, ‘cause even if Archie or the lady or Marcos did send ya, ‘ow’d they know I got ‘im for a quid?”

“When you drink, you talk.”

Yeah, Johnson thought a moment. That’s the truth. He wanted to believe—at that moment more than anything—that the dark figure standing in front of him was nothing more than flesh and blood, and, yes, maybe he did say something to someone at some time about the bargain he’d made for the boy.

Pulling the chair to the table, the stranger sat down.

Seeing this… this humanistic gesture, and also, being able to somewhat see the stranger’s somewhat familiar face again, breathing a sigh of relief, reaching backward, righting the chair, Johnson sat also.

Sitting on opposite sides of the table, the stranger and Johnson silently regarded each other.

Speaking softly, “Tell me, Johnson,” the stranger asked, “how much longer will it be, do you think, until the boy is too big to fit into a flue?”

Johnson shrugged his shoulders because this thought had often occurred to him.

“How much longer, do you think, until the amendment passes, making the likes of you, and what you force onto children, unlawful?”

“More’the’likely,” Johnson answerd, “they’ll never do such a thing ‘cause them’s in Parliament got chimneys, too, an’ they know’s sometimes the only way to clean ‘em’s to send the likes of ‘im…” jerking his thumb towards Zachariah’s dark pallet, “into ‘em.”

“Yes, Johnson,” conceding the point, “that may very well be true .” the stranger said sadly.

Johnson calmed because, admitting to be wrong, the stranger did appear to be human after all, and sitting as they were, across from each other as though in a bargaining session, did, indeed, appear to be humanistic.

“How much longer will it be, do you think,” the stranger asked bluntly, “till the lad has Sooty Wart?”

Swallowing loudly, Johnson looked down at his hands.

Sooty Wart!

This above all else—sooty wart, cancer of the scrotum, mankind’s first known cancer—was the predominant horror among the chimney sweep trade and was something often thought of but rarely spoken of.

“Well,” Johnson said softly, searching for an answer, “‘e ain’t caught it yet, an’ I ain’t caught it yet. Not all’s get the Wart.” If he were religious he’d cross himself and, even though he wasn’t religious, Johnson  was tempted to do so.

Looking at him intently, as though able to see into the working of Johnson’s body, “Yes,” the stranger conceded again, “that is true .”

Relieved at changing the subject, and yet another concession from the stranger, smiling smugly, Johnson rocked back in the chair.

“Johnson, tell me: how long till the boy has consumption and is dying?” Hesitating a moment, the stranger added kindly, “…as you.”

Never admitting this to himself, now, his eyes widening, swallowing again, Johnson stopped rocking. “Yeah, I caught me the cough,” he said defensively, “an’ sometimes I lose me breath, but I ain’t got the consumption!” Rarely needing an excuse, rationalizing the pain, when his coughing become bad he dank and the gin seemingly eased the cough and the pain but now being told he was dying by this… To Johnson the stranger might still be more than just a man, and as the fact of his predestined death sank through his besotted brain, as though on cue, he begin to cough. Hacking, his eyes bulged, his face became red, his knuckles, griping the edge of the table, turned white… He coughed until, with a supreme effort, he willed himself to stop.

The stranger slid the bottle across the table.

Nodding appreciatively , Johnson brought the bottle to his mouth.

“I will be taking him, you know.”

Lowering the bottle, putting it on the table, Johnson looked at the stranger quizzically.

“Zachariah,” the stranger said, as though a foregone conclusion “will go with me!”

“No! ‘e’s mine! I paid for ‘im an’ I owns ‘im!” Adding quietly, “I needs ‘im!”

“Oh, yes, I do know that you need him for your living, but no man can own another,” the stranger said softly. “A contract need not be more than the word of two people, and I’ll not just be taking the boy; I’ll buy it out.”

“Buy?”

“Yes.” Sitting back in the chair, the stranger watched Johnson. “I will pay for the boy’s contract.”

Yes! His forehead furled in thought, Parliament, damn ‘em, may well pass the damned amendment. Yes! The boy may well get the wart, an’ maybe even… forcing his mind to the thought of consumption, that he must now admit to… If I‘ave, well, what ‘e says I ‘ave… glancing at the stranger… maybe, I’ll get enough from ‘im, to keep me in booze till I, I, uh… Dying was something that Johnson could not admit to, yet… An’ the boy is gettin’ bigger, an’ it’s only a matter’a time till ‘e’s useless—leastwise for working in a flue. Tis the truth; soon ‘e’ll be of no good to me for doin’ the climbin’.

Deep down, though, thinking about losing Zachariah, Johnson hesitated.

Thinking about Zachariah there was…? There was an unknown warmth, an obscure reflection, a strange nagging, a pinpoint of thought for the boy—and it was other than that of his apprentice, the one who did the work for him…

It was something else, but…

Waiting, the stranger watched Johnson closely.

But his shallow ego would not allow it and Johnson forced the warmth, the reflection, and the thought down and, “You plans on workin’ the boy, do ya?”

“Not in a way that you know.” Speaking in a kindly tone, “Not in any way that the boy will know.”

Maybe, if he were sober, maybe even Johnson would question this vague answer, but, “Pay me for the boy?” he questioned. “‘ow much ya be willin’ to pay?”

The stranger looked at Johnson for a long moment, then, almost sadly, as though disappointed in the other’s response, removing both gloves, reaching into the pockets of his coat the stranger brought out two hands full of coins and, “Here!” His tone hardening again, he angrily slapped the coins onto the table.

Having followed the movement of the man’s hands in and out of his pockets, Johnson stared at the jumble of coins in front of him. Never, in his entire life had he seen this much at one time. Moving the coins about with one finger, starting to count, he realized that this was more money then he’d make in…? This was possibly more money than he’d make in three years. Trying to contain himself, thinking, Maybe’he’s got more. “Why,” he said, “even if I ‘ires me another boy, it’ll cost me this much till I get’s ‘im trained,” he lied. “No, Sir,” holding his hand forward, “tain’t enough!”

Once again the fire had withered and shrunken to a dull, wavering glow that barely lit the two men sitting on opposite sides of the table.

Putting his gloves onto his hands as a sign that there would be no more money, once again the stranger’s face was hidden in deep shadow, and, once again…

All within the shack was silent…

Silent.

“Master Johnson.”

The words, though barely above a whisper, came from beyond the sphere of gloomy light and so startled Johnson that he flinched backwards.

Rising from his pallet, Zachariah walked silently across the room and, standing alongside the stranger, his fist clenched, the boy held one hand straightforward.  “‘ere, Sir. The lady in the ‘ouse give it to me, an’ I want’s ya to ‘ave it.”  In his other hand, hanging by his side, he held the magician’s bent and dented top hat.

“What’j’ya got, boy?” Forcing his eyes from the boy’s eerily lit face, Johnson motioned to his hand.

Zachariah turned his hand upward…  He opened his fingers.

In the fireplace there was an upshot of sparks that briefly brightened the gloomy, dimly lit room.

Johnson looked down…

Looking down his eyes widened, his mouth opened and he swallowed.

Lying in the palm of the boy’s hand was a large coin.

In the reflection of light the coin sparkled as…

“Gold?” Johnson whispered in awe. “The lady…” he asked unbelievably, “she gave ya gold?”

“The lady said I was to keep it, an’ I was to use it only for somethin’ very ‘portant, somthin’ I be wantin’ jus’ for meself,” Zachariah answered, smiling wanly. “An’ I wants ya to be ‘avin’ it, Sir.”

The gaze of the stranger did not move from Johnson’s face.

Staring at the coin, “But it’s…” He reached to the coin, but as if afraid to touch it pulled his hand back. “If it’s really g-g-gold…” he stammered in a high pitched voice as, reaching for the coin again, this time grabbing it from Zachariah’s hand, Johnson instantly brought it to his mouth and, biting it, hoped his teeth would feel a softness not found in other coins. And his teeth and jaw, numb with alcohol, did indeed confirm a softness not found in other coins… except, possibly, were he to bite other coins while this inebriated.

“It’s enough for the boy, Johnson?”

No answer.

“It’s enough for the boy, Johnson!”

Cowering at the sound of the stranger’s voice, not sure if he was asking him or telling him. “Yes, it’s enough!”

“Truly,” giving Johnson yet another opportunity, “you do give the boy’s contract willingly, then?” the

stranger asked.

Knowing he had a choice, looking at Zachariah,  Johnson hesitated, and…

Forgetting that just a short while ago he’d beaten him.

Forgetting that just a short while ago he’d stood above the bleeding, cowering boy with his fists clenched and had been prepared to beat him to death.

Forgetting this, Johnson felt betrayed at Zachariah’s willingness to go with the stranger.

The fire having dimmed again, his eyes shifted from the somewhat strange-appearing face of Zachariah to the mound of coins that lay on the table before him and, hefting the lady’s coin in his hand, he weighed…

The boy?  The money?

 To be continued