Zachariah 20: Broken Rose

London, England

December 214, 1843

Zachariah had passed it throughout his years of servitude but always in the tow of Johnson — and as he passed ‘The Confectioner Shop’ Zachariah ‘always’ looked longingly through the window, then in passing over his shoulder till the shop was out of sight.

The moisture of sweet anticipation flooding the boy’s mouth, “And now I’m ‘ere...” tapping his pocket “...with a coin to spend!”

Being held by his mother was the this young boy’s sleeping time dream.

Going into ‘The Confectioner’s Shop’ —being able to have what he wanted—this was this young boy’s awake time dream.

But now that Zachariah was there, he was also on a direct route to the shack that was no more than a half-mile away.

Almost home! He was almost home!

The realization returning to him: ‘Home’! ‘Johnson’!

The boy shook his head, clearing his mind and suddenly— as though coming through the fog of a dream…

Zachariah remembered Hobbins. He remembered the equipment left alongside the fireplace and he remembered the undertaker’s refusal to pay.

“Oh, Lordy!” Thinking of Johnson, the euphoria fading, What’ll I tell him?”

Having reached his goal, the boy vacantly stared through the confectioner shop steamy, distorted glass window.

Removing the top hat, nervously rubbing his hand across the stubble on his scalp, What’ll I tell ‘im?

The thought of Johnson—the thought of what awaited him once back at the shack caused a chill to run along his spine, causing him to shudder.

Cold again. Replacing the hat… “Sweets!”

The tip of his tongue circling his lips. His eyes opening wide, Zachariah saw the shelves and trays through the fog-cast window, and all else was forgotten; his dread of

Johnson overcome by his desire for the candy; thinking of what he was about to have, fear left as fast as it had come.

Entranced! Hardly believing he was truly here. That truly he was going into this shop.

Opening the door, the boy walked inside.

The shop was crowded. But the people, waiting their turn to buy, as though afraid of being brushed against and soiled, moved aside allowing Zachariah clear passage as he made his way to the counter.

In near reverence! Open-mouthed, his head moving from side to side, Zachariah gazed at the trays of assorted candies: chocolate, vanilla and cherry; fruits, nuts and creams.

So much! he thought. So many different kinds! What should I buy?

He had a problem Zachariah never thought he would have: What to pick? How much, he thought. What can I get for my copper?

Smelling the sweetness, Mousy poked his head through the slit of the pocket and squealed. Hearing him, Zachariah looked at the mouse than glanced from side to side and over his shoulder.

Instinctively, the boy knew a candy shop is not the place for a mouse—even if the mouse is in the pocket of a boy’s coat.

Facing the counter, his back was to most of the people, so hopefully they hadn’t seen or heard the mouse.

Pushing Mousy back into the depth of the pocket and covering the slit with his hand, Zachariah came back to the perplexing problem of: What should I get?

On the counter there were jars filled with brightly colored balls and long, thin things that look like black rope.

Standing before the L-shaped counter, looking from one tray to another, his head turning from side to side as he looked from tray to jar, from jar to tray, his desire for sweets momentarily overcome by Which sweets? when suddenly…

A sensation.

A prickling sensation.

Zachariah felt something on his back… Something in his back. He flexed his shoulders, but the sensation persisted.

Someone was ‘intently’ staring at him.

Turning his head and forcing a smile he looked at the people in the shop.

Most of the people he looked at smiled back; some averted their eyes, but no one in particular seemed to be staring at him—certainly no one with enough intensity to cause this eerie sensation.

Flexing his shoulders once again, he turned back to the problem of his selection, but still he felt the prickling sensation of eyes boring into his back.

Outside?

Turning from the counter, Zachariah looked to the

window.

There!

Outside, there were two wavy, distorted figures.

Children.

Their faces pressed against the moisture-streaked window, the vapor of their breath making undulating circles of blue fog upon the sweating glass. The hanging tatters of their clothing moving in a breeze that was all but nonexistent only minutes ago, both wore little more than rags.

The larger of the two, a girl, stood with her hand upon the boy’s shoulder.’

Inexplicably fearful, Zachariah tried to smile, but could not and not understanding why he felt this fear, turned away… But immediately was drawn back.

Staring at the two on the far side of the window,Why’my so afraid? he thought. They’re just a couple’a poor kids like me.

Oblivious of the people in the shop, the three stared at each other: the boy and girl outside, in the wind and cold, and Zachariah inside, in the warmth, whom — The confectionery shop moisture laden, distorted window no longer there, Zachariah was able to see the two children with straightforward, crystal clear clarity.

Their long, stringy, muddy-blonde hair, deeply set, black circled eyes and thin, emaciated faces had a marked likeness, causing Zachariah to think, They must be brother and sister.

Sitting upon and across the girl’s chest is a wooden tray held upward by a piece of twine bound about her neck and Zachariah could see an angry red line from where the twine cut into her flesh and—even as he looked, unable to discern if it was factual or imagination—a thin line of blood seeped from the deep, circular indentation.

Hanging over the edge of the wooden tray, its yellow pod and hair-like pistils showing through the flower’s black-edged, fully opened, drooping petals, its stem broken, was the head of one wilted, red rose.

Closing his eyes, Zachariah hoped the two children were a figment of imagination and when he opened his eyes they would be gone…

He opened his eyes…

The children were still there.

Unable to turn away, Zachariah stared at the children and, his eyes following the movement, as he stared a petal fell from the broken rose and as though floating on a ghostly breeze, fluttered slowly to the ground.

“You! You, boy!”

Coming from behind, the words breaking his trance-like attention, forcing his eyes from the window Zachariah turned back to the counter.

“Aye, laddie!”

A familiar face loomed over him.

“An’ what can I get for ya?”

“Uh, Sir…” Turning his face from the man behind the counter, Zachariah looked over his shoulder — through the once-again moisture-coated, distorted window.

The children were no longer there.

Breathing deeply. Sighing with relief, turning back to the man behind the counter. “‘ow much’a your sweets…” digging into his right pocket, holding his hand palm up, “...might I buy with this?”

Reaching over the counter, the man took the coin from the boy’s hand.

“Aye, laddie...” the confectioner said kindly “...I see ya passin’ by here most every day lookin’ inta’me window, an’ at times I wanna run after ya and give ya sumtin’ from me shop...” he said in a thick, Scottish accent “...but I never has. So today, bein’ as it’s Christmas, I’m gonna give ya sumtin’ special.”

About to reach above the counter to give the coin back, but— thinking it could possibly be insulting to the boy offering a working lad charity— withdrawing his hand. “Ya looks to be an’ independent lad what wants to pay his own way, eh?”

About to say, ‘No’, but feeling the man expected an affirmative answer: “Yes, Sir. I been taught to pay me own way.”

“That’s what I thought!”

Putting the coin on the shelf behind the counter. Taking a small square of wrapping paper, the man turned back to Zachariah. “I knew ya ta be a good, independent lad, an’ I’m gonna give ya sumtin’ extra! An’ what is it ya be wantin’?”

“Thank ya, Sir!” His face set in concentration, the boy’s eyes darted from tray to tray.

Well used to this with children and adults, waiting patiently a few moments. “I know it be hard ta make up ya mind, lad. Ya wants me to give ya me favorites?”

Relieved of having to make this unsolvable decision, “Aye, Sir, I’d surely like ya to do that!”

Reaching to his right, the confectioner took a large, dark chocolate pecan cluster off a tray. Walking to the far end of the counter, he choose a cherry cream.

The candies were the largest remaining on either tray, and far in excess of what the boy’s copper would normally buy.

Returning to Zachariah, twisting the four corners of the paper tightly together making a kind of bag, the confectioner handed it across the counter.

“Boy, ya be mindin’ if I shake ya hand? Ya know, for good luck?”

“Aye, Sir.” Reaching up Zachariah offered his hand.

Reaching down, the man took hold of the boy’s hand and, as man to man, the two shook hands.

“Thank ya for the sweets, Sir. A good Christmas to ya.”

“Aye. Same to ya, laddie.” Wiping his hand on his apron, “May the Lord be with ya!” the man said as, turning from Zachariah, “How might I help ya, Sir?” to take care of another customer.

With his treasure held tightly in his hand, Zachariah started for the door.

As he did, he couldn’t help but look to the window.

There again!

They’re there again…

The girl and the boy.

His heart quickening, hesitating, opening the door, Zachariah stepped through.

Outside.

Feeling the frigid chill of outside.

Unwilling to look upon the emaciated faces of the girl or boy. Looking neither to the right or to the left. Wanting to be away from the children, his eyes focused on the plumes of the vapor of his breath, Zachariah walked, and as he did…

As though on air, their bodies turning from the window, the expressionless eyes of the boy and girl followed Zachariah as he walked from the shop.

One… two… three paces…

or an unknown reason ‘compelled’ to stop.

Stopping. turning, he faced the children.

Three paces separating Zachariah from the brother and sister, the two looked upon the little chimney sweep and the little chimney sweep looked back and…

As before, the girl stood with her hand upon the boy’s shoulder, and, as before, the tattered clothing of the boy and girl moved in a wind that Zachariah sensed as cold, frigid even, but oddly, could not feel.

The faces of the boy and girl were sunken and gaunt.

Their eyes, set deeply within black hollows, had an intense, hungry look that thrust to Zachariah’s soul.

Clutching his candy—holding the four ends of the packet tightly in his clenched fist—he tried to smile… But the corners of his mouth—twitching with the effort—could not.

The girl’s eyes leaving Zachariah’s face, her head lowering, the girl looked down, to the tray that hung from the biting twine held about her neck — to the one remaining rose, to the rose with the broken stem.

Forcing his eyes from their faces, Zachariah looked at the flower also…

And as he looked, separating, the wilted rose broke from its stem and seemingly floated to the ground.

Shuddering! Not knowing what to do and wanting, ‘very badly’, to be gone from these two, turning away Zachariah began to walk…

Next: Zachariah 21; Ghosts