Zachariah 6
Screenplay
EXT. LONDON STREET - DAY 16 Struggling to keep up while carrying the rope and drop cloths, Zachariah follows Johnson who is marching angrily along while grumbling to himself. The sound of hooves on cobblestones is heard, coming up behind them, but Zachariah and Johnson don’t look back until.
The Climbing Boy 18. MARCOS (O/C) William! - Zachariah! Oye you two! Woah, woah. Zachariah and Johnson glance at each other, sniffing the air and wrinkling their noses. A horse drawn wagon halts beside them, Zachariah smiling, Johnson grumbling, they turn to face the cart and its driver. Zachariah looks at the horse and then the cart, his smile becoming a grimace at the sight of the bloody slime covering its panels. Johnson forces a smile. JOHNSON Mornin Marcos.
Marcos
London, England
December 24, 1843
This day remaining dreary and cold without the slightest trace of sunlight.
The encounter with the two bulling brothers minutes behind them. Not expecting to, but hoping to set eyes upon a familiar tradesman with a wagon that would be willing to help Zachariah and Johnson along the way to their next job…
On this day good fortune of a sort finding them...
“Aye, William, Zachariah...” ‘whoa’! “...ya be needin’ a ride?”
Thick plumes of vapor streaming from the horse’s nostrils, a horse and wagon clattered to a stop.
Johnson and Zachariah did not have the need to look to see what, or who had offered to help them along their way.
Crinkling their noses, the boy and man looked at the wagon.
Never finding a bit of joy at whatever minor good fortune might find its way… Unless after a number of rounds with a bottle of gin.
“Of all the bloody people,” Johnson muttered to himself, then, “Aye, Marcos,” forcing a smile, “that we can! That’s if you be ‘eadin’ towards Broad Street.”
“I am that! Come on, ‘op aboard!”
Reaching behind the seat, onto a knee high cutting block table top — where there lay a long carving knife, a bloody hand ax along with…
“William, put ya tools ‘ere.” The fishmonger brushed away fish heads, scales and entrails then, heedless of the refuse clinging to the fibers of his mitten, Marcos then held his hand to Johnson to help him to board.
Johnson looked at the offered hand, up to Marcos’ face, back at the hand again and, not knowing what else to do, shrugging his shoulders as handing the poles and toolbox to Zachariah , he hesitated another moment then taking hold of the viscera covered mitten, allowed himself to be hauled up onto the wagon’s splintery, wooden bench seat where, grimacing, he vigorously rubbed his hand on the underside of his trousers.
Aware of his master’s discomfort, smiling, Zachariah handed the toolbox up first.
Looking at the partially swiped area, then skyward, “Christ!” Johnson muttered as he dropped the toolbox onto a bloody rope of entrails, two severed tails, a fish head and countless silver scales. The coil of rope was placed on the toolbox and the brushes and drop clothes on the rope. The poles stood wedged between the toolbox and the wagon’s sideboards.
Unwilling to sit any closer to the fishmonger then he absolutely must, moving to the far side of the seat, reaching down, Johnson pulled Zachariah up and onto the seat between Marcos and himself.
Offhandedly knowing William Johnson, as most of those that did offhandedly know Johnson, Marcos, the kindly fishmonger despised the man, and Marcos along with those that despised William Johnson all held a warm affection for the ‘angelic’ boy forced into Johnson’s apprenticeship.
Clicking his tongue, Marcos snapped the reins.
Dropping a load of steaming manure, the old horse looked at Marcos over its withers then, with a jerk, plodded forward.
Even though it was winter and the fish were in deep, wooden crates covered with ice, still, the fish odor was near overpowering.
“So...” Marcos asked, glancing at the boy, “...the two a’ya are doin’ what on this night before the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ?”
“This night?”
“Aye, William, ‘this night’! This night afore Christmas!”
Looking straight foward, the tone of his voice near belligerent. “Nothin’! Not on this night, not tomorrow neither!”
“William, surely you’ll be doing somethin’! If not for you, then surely for the lad!”
Looking at Marcos. “Y’ve no need to be tellin’ me what I’m to be doin’ with me ‘prentis!” Johnson said angrily. “Christmas? ‘Ha’! What’s ‘Christmas’ ever done for me?”
Glancing skyward a moment, then back at the fish monger, jerking his thumb upward, “ ‘e ain’t never done so much as this for me,” circling his forefinger and thumb. “Nah! All’s this day means to me is the free drinks at the pubs that the fools what’s got money likes to be ‘andin’ out. And...” winking his eye conspiratorially “...i’m gonna be at every pub I can ‘elpin’ ‘em enjoy their bloody ‘oliday, an’ I’ll be do’in it soon’s I get the boy ‘ere workin’ on the job you’re takin’ us to.”
Swaying with the motion of the wagon and the warmth of Marcos closely nearby, Zachariah closed his eyes and within moments fell asleep.
Beginning to cough, leaning over the side of the wagon, Johnson hawked a glob of bloody phlegm onto the street.
“After all...” he continued “...a man gets mighty thirsty doin’ them dusty chimneys.”
The thought of the gin he’ll be drinking on this day, of getting drunk on this day and night bringing a grin to his normally somber face. “Aye, lad?” he said, poking Zachariah in the side with his elbow.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered open, closed again and, his head tilting to the right, fell upon Johnson’s shoulder.
Sitting a few seconds, inwardly enjoying the weight of the boy’s head on his shoulder, Johnson then shrugged, pushing the boy’s head off his shoulder, where it listed to the left a moment, then reclined against the fishmonger’s shoulder.
Glancing sideways, the old fishmonger smiled.
Dirty streets, factories, and gray-stoned tenements slowly changed to storefronts, newer buildings, and well-kept row houses.
Having nothing more to speak of, Johnson and Marcos no longer spoke.
The boy’s head bumping gently on Marcos’ shoulder, the horse pulled the wagon along the bumpy cobblestone street.
Reaching the Broad Street intersection, pulling to the side of the road, the fishmonger, “Whoa!” drew up on the reins.
Poking Zachariah in the side with his elbow, when he didn’t waken immediately, Johnson poked him again, harder.
The boy’s eyes opened and, noting his head on Marcos’ shoulder, quickly pulled away.
“It’s all right, lad.” Marcos smiled. “You ‘ave a good rest, did’j’ya?”
Smiling back, “Aye, sir.”
Waiting till Johnson lowered himself of the wagon, reaching behind the seat and grunting with the weight of the toolbox, Zachariah handed the equipment down.
Taking the equipment, sitting it on the street and standing aside, Johnson let the boy scramble off the high seat by himself.
Watching, grimacing. “You’re a ‘ard man, William...” shaking his finger at Johnson. “No matter, I’m still wishin’ ya a good Christmas.”
Looking at the boy, sensing a tug in his heart. “An’ you, too, Zachariah. You ‘ave a good Christmas, too my boy.”
“Thank…”
“I thanks ya for the ride Marcos..” cutting the boy off, “...but ya best be keepin’ ya well wishes to ya’self.” Turning from Marcos, hefting the tool box onto his shoulder and settling the poles beneath his other arm he began up the street,
“ ‘Zachariah’...” yelling over his shoulder “...move ya’self!”
Lifting his burden, looking up at Marcos and smiling again, the boy turned and, being careful not to trip on the trailing rope, ran after Johnson.”
“May God bless an’ ‘elp ya, Zachariah!” Marcos shouted to the receding boy.
“Giddy’ap, ‘orse! Giddy’ap!”
May Jesus ‘elp ya, lad! And he did; kissing the small silver crucifix that hung about his neck, old Marcos the fishmonger said a pray for Zachariah.
Seven staircases from the corner, the chimney sweep and his apprentice climbed the stairs to a neat, white row house.
As always steps behind. Climbing the last few steps looking straight forward… Lordy, grimacing at the sight of himself, Zachariah saw his reflection in the shiny brass kick plate.
Leaving black knuckle prints on the clean, white paint, Johnson knocked on the door… Waiting a few seconds he knocked again, harder.
The hollow sounds of approaching footsteps on bare hardwood floors, “All right...” the voice said from within. “...all right, I’m coming!”
The door opened.
My, lord!
Having set the appointment herself she was expecting them, yet, her eyes widening, the lady’s hand went to her throat as, standing within her doorway looking from Johnson to Zachariah, a deep sense pity wrenched her heart and a sudden feeling of depression overtook her.
Although Johnson was as she remembered when he came knocking at her back door— poorly dressed and filthy—he was immaculate in comparison to the boy at his side and, more than pity for the boy, she was depressed at the thought that a child as small and young as this could be and was forced into this type of filthy, dangerous labor.
Intimated by clean, rich surroundings. Feeling far beyond simply dirty and certainly not worthy of entrance into a home such as this, he’d been looking downward when the door had opened, and now, his gaze moving upward from the lady’s slippers, Zachariah’s head and eyes lifted slowly.
The Lady
The lady was wearing a white, starched apron over a blue dress with thin red lines stitched throughout the soft, wool material. Light complected, a bit on the heavy side, standing at about five feet, five inches, the lady had startling, green flecked blue eyes and long, tightly curled blonde hair.
The look of this lady familiar. Blinking his eyes, sensing a quickening within his heart, looking at this lady’s face his mouth dropped open because, to Zachariah, the lady was lovely.
More than lovely, she was beautiful.
He was but near five yuears of age at the time and within his mind the memory of her had become foggy and this lady… This lady was more than beautiful, because…
Screenplay
18 EXT. BROAD STREET - DAY 18 The frosty road and pavements glisten in the morning sun. Zachariah notices the sunlight playing across the scene. He goes to comment, but thinks better of it. Johnson stops at the foot of some steps leading to a large white door.
Zachariah doesn’t notice Johnson stop and bumps into him. Zachariah cringes, expecting a wallop, but Johnson ignores him and climbs the steps to the door. Relieved, Zachariah follows.
The Climbing Boy 22. 19 EXT. LADY’S HOUSE - FRONT DOOR - DAY 19 Johnson wraps his knuckles on the shiny clean white door three times, leaving sooty smears on the clean paintwork. A few seconds pass without any answer. Johnson knocks again, slightly harder. Footfalls on a hollow hardwood floor are heard. Johnson straightens his coat in anticipation, Zachariah does likewise behind him. The door opens to reveal a beautiful blond LADY (28) wearing a crisp white apron over an expensive blue satin dress. Her expression fixed for a moment, the Lady stares at Johnson until he breaks the awkward silence. Zachariah is obscured from her view by Johnson, who is avoiding direct eye contact.
Next: Zachariah 7; The Lady &
Johnson
