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The Black Book of Secrets

Macmillan

Fragment from The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch

When I opened my eyes I knew that nothing in my miserable life prior to that moment could possibly be as bad as what was about to happen. I was lying on the cold earthen floor of a basement room lit by a single candle, no more than an hour's burning left. Instruments of a medical nature hung from hooks in the beams. Dark stains on the floor suggested blood. But it was the chair against the opposite wall that fully confirmed my suspicions. Thick leather straps attached to the arms and the legs were there for one purpose only: to hold down an unwilling patient. Ma and Pa were standing over me.

"'E's awake," crowed Ma excitedly.

Pa dragged me to my feet. He had me in an iron grip, my arm wrenched up behind my back. Ma held me by the hair. I looked from one to the other. Their grinning faces were only inches away from mine. I knew I should not look to them to save me.

Another man, concealed until now in the shadows, stepped forward and took me by the chin. He forced open my mouth and ran a blackened, foul-tasting finger around my gums.

"How much?" asked Pa, drooling with anticipation.

"Not bad," said the man. "Thrupence apiece. Maybe twelve in all."

"It's a deal," said Pa. "Who needs teeth anyway?"

"Someone, I hope," replied the man dryly. "I sell 'em for a living."

And they laughed, all three, Ma and Pa and Barton Gumbroot, the notorious tooth surgeon of Old Goat's Alley.

Once the money for my teeth was agreed with Barton, they moved quickly. Together they dragged me over to the surgeon's chair. I kicked and shouted and spat and bit; I wasn't going to make it easy for them. I knew how Barton Gumbroot made his living, preying on the poor, pulling their teeth, paying them pennies and selling them for ten times as much. I was racked with fear. I had no protection. I was going to feel it all. Every single nerve-stabbing twinge.

They came close to succeeding in their evil quest. Ma was struggling with a buckle around my ankle, her hands shaking from the previous day's drinking, while Pa was trying to hold me down. Barton Gumbroot, that loathsome monster, was just hovering with his gleaming tooth-pull, snapping it open and shut, open and shut, tittering and salivating. I believe to this day his greatest pleasure in life was inflicting pain on others. So much so that he couldn't wait any longer, and before I knew it I could feel the cold metal of his instrument of torture clamped around a front tooth. He braced himself with his leg on my chest and began to pull. I cannot describe to you the pain that shot through my skull, my brain, and every nerve end in my body. It felt as if my whole head were being wrenched off. The tooth moved slightly in my jaw and another white-hot shooting pain exploded behind my eyes. All the while Ma and Pa laughed like maniacs.

Rage swelled in me like a mountainous wave. I heard a roar worthy of a jungle beast and I was taken over by seething fury. With my free leg I kicked Pa hard and sharp in the stomach and he collapsed on the floor. Barton, caught by surprise, let go of the tooth-pull, and I grabbed it and walloped him around the side of the head. I unstrapped my other leg and jumped down. Pa was groaning on the floor, Barton was leaning against the wall holding his head, and Ma cowered in the corner.

"Don't hit me, Ludlow," she begged. "Don't hit me."

I will not deny I was tempted, but this was my one chance to escape. Pa was almost on his feet again. I dropped the tooth-pull and in a matter of seconds I was out of the door, up the steps, and running down the alley. I could hear Ma screaming and Pa shouting and cursing. Every time I looked back all I could see were Pa's snarling face and Barton's hooked tooth-pull glinting in the yellow gaslight.

As I ran I tried to think where to go. They knew so many of my hiding places. I decided on Mr. Jellico's, but when I reached his shop the place was in darkness and the blind was down. I hammered on the window and shouted his name, but there was no reply. I cursed my bad luck. I knew if Mr. Jellico was gone at this time of night he might not be back for days. But knowing this was little help in my current predicament.

So where to now? The bridge over the River Foedus and the Nimble Finger Inn. Betty Peggotty, the landlady, might help me. I ran out of the alley and onto the street, but they were already waiting for me.

"There 'e is," screeched Ma, and the chase was on again. They surprised me, Pa especially, with their stamina. I had not thought they would last so long. For at least a half-mile they chased me down the uncobbled narrow alleys and the filthy streets, tripping over bodies and avoiding snatching hands, all the way to the river. Every time I looked back they seemed to be closer. I knew what would happen if they caught me again. The ache in my bleeding jaw was all the proof I needed.

By the time I staggered onto the bridge I was barely able to hold myself upright. Halfway across I saw a carriage outside the Nimble Finger. Just as its wheels began to turn, I clambered on the back, hanging on for my life. As the carriage pulled away the last thing I remember is the sight of Ma sinking to her knees. She was screaming at me from the riverbank, and the monster, Barton Gumbroot, was shaking his fist in rage.

* * *

My name is Ludlow Fitch. Along with countless others, I had the great misfortune to be born in the City, a stinking place undeserving of a name. And I would have died there if it had not been for Ma and Pa. They saved me, though it was not their intention, when they delivered me, their only son, into the hands of Barton Gumbroot. This act of betrayal was possibly the greatest single piece of luck I ever had. Ma and Pa's diabolic plan brought about the end of one existence and the beginning of another: my life with Joe Zabbidou.

Fragment from The Memoirs of Ludlow Fitch

I didn't know at the time, but I had hitched a ride on a carriage that belonged to, and contained, a Mr. Jeremiah Ratchet. We rattled along for hours, he inside snoring like a bellows, so loud I could hear it above the clatter of the wheels over the ruts, while outside I was clinging to the carriage like an organ-grinder's monkey. The weather worsened and it started to snow. The road narrowed and the potholes became larger, deeper, and more frequent. The driver had no thought for passenger comfort. If it wasn't for the fact that my hands were frozen in position I might well have fallen off. Despite this, and my churning innards (I suffer terribly from travel sickness), toward the end of the journey I was dozing. The carriage began to climb a steep hill, and finally we reached the place that was to be my home for the near future, the mountain village of Pagus Parvus.

Under any other circumstances I would not have chosen to come to Pagus Parvus, but at the time of traveling my destination was out of my hands. At last the carriage stopped outside a large house and the driver climbed down. I heard him rap on the carriage door.

"Mr. Ratchet," he called. "Mr. Ratchet."

But there was no reply, so he went to the house and rang for the maid. A young girl came out looking none too pleased. The driver called her Polly. Together they dragged the man up the steps, accompanied by much snoring (his) and grunting (theirs) and hauled him inside. I took the opportunity to jump down and sneak a look in the cab, wherein I found a leather purse, a fringed printed silk scarf, and a pair of gloves. I wrapped the scarf around my neck and slipped the gloves over my numb fingers. The purse contained only a few pennies but it was a start. I got out and saw the young girl standing in the doorway looking straight at me. There was a slight smile on her face and her eyes held mine for a long second. I heard the driver coming back and knew it was time to go. I could have gone either way, up the slope or down, but for some unknown reason I chose to climb.

The hill was treacherous. As I climbed I heard the church bell strike four. Although it was no longer snowing, the wind was sharp as a knife and I knew I needed shelter. Despite the hour, and the lack of streetlights, I could see well enough where I was going. It was not the moon that lit my way, for she was only a sliver, but all the lights ablaze behind the windows. It seemed that I was not the only one still awake in this village.

I stopped at an empty building at the top of the hill. It stood alone in the shadow of the church, desolate and separated from the other houses and shops by an alley. I was looking for a way in when I heard approaching footsteps in the snow. I ducked into the alley and waited. A man, hunched over, came carefully down the hill. He was carrying a large wooden spade over his shoulder and he was mumbling to himself. He passed right by me, looking neither to his left nor his right, and crossed over the road.

As he melted into the night another figure appeared. To this day I remember the man emerging from the gloom as if by magic. I watched him climbing steadily toward me. He took long strides and covered the distance quickly. He had a limp, his right step was heavier than his left, and one footprint was deeper than the other.

I believe I was the first person to see Joe Zabbidou and I know I was the last. Was it just coincidence that had us both arrive here together? I suspect other powers were at work. Unlike me, he wasn't fleeing. He had a purpose, but he kept it well hidden.

Arrival

It was not easy to describe Joe Zabbidou accurately. His age was impossible to determine. He was neither stout nor thin, but perhaps narrow. And he was tall, which was a distinct disadvantage in Pagus Parvus. The village dated from times when people were at least six inches shorter and all dwellings were built accordingly. In fact, the place had been constructed during the years of the "Great Wood Shortage." The king at the time issued a decree that every effort must be made to save wood, with the result that doors and windows were made smaller and narrower than was usual and ceilings were particularly low.

Joe was suitably dressed for the weather, though unheedful of the current fashion for the high-collared coat. Instead he wore a cloak of muted green, fastened with silver toggles, that fell to his ankles. The cloak itself was of the finest Jocastar wool. The Jocastar — an animal akin to a sheep but with longer, more delicate legs and finer features — lived high up in the mountains of the northern hemisphere. Once a year, September time, it molted, and only the most agile climbers dared venture up into the thin air to collect its wool. The cloak was lined with the softest fur in existence, chinchilla.

On his feet Joe wore a pair of black leather boots, highly polished, upon which sat the beautifully pressed cuffs of his mauve trousers. Around his neck was wrapped a silk scarf, and a fur hat shaped like a cooking pot was pulled down tightly over his ears. It could not fully contain his hair, and more than a few silver strands curled out from underneath.

With every step Joe took, a set of keys hooked to his belt jingled tunefully against his thigh. In his right hand he carried a rather battered leather satchel straining at the seams, and in his left a damp drawstring bag from which there emanated an intermittent croaking.

Quickly, silently, Joe climbed the steep high street until he reached the last building on the left. It was an empty shop. Beyond it was a walled graveyard, the village boundary, within which stood the church. Then the road stretched away into a gray nothingness. Snow had drifted into the shop doorway and gathered in the corners of the flyblown windows. The paintwork was peeling and an old sign in the shape of a hat creaked above the door in the biting wind. Joe took a moment to survey the street down to the bottom of the hill. It was the early hours of the morning, but yellow oil lamps and candles glowed behind many a curtain and shutter, and more than once he saw the silhouette of a person cross back and forth in front of a window. A smile broke across his face.

"This is the place," he said and let himself in.

The shop itself was quite tiny. The distance between the display window and the counter was no more than three paces. Joe went behind the counter and opened the solid door that led into a back room. A tiny window on the far wall allowed the dusty moon-glow to lighten the gloom. The furniture was sparse and worn: two ladderback chairs and a table, a small stove, and a narrow bed pushed up against the wall. In contrast the fireplace was huge. At least six feet across and nearly three deep, it took up almost the whole of one wall. On either side of the hearth sat a faded upholstered armchair. It was not much, but it would do.

In the depths of the night, Joe busied himself settling in. He turned up the wick and lit the lamp on the table. He unwound his scarf, took off his hat and unfastened his cloak, and put them on the bed. Then he opened his satchel, and as a silent observer peered through the window, Joe emptied it out onto the table. The onlooker never moved, though his already huge dark eyes widened impossibly as Joe pulled out clothes, shoes, a collection of trinkets and baubles, some rather fine jewelry, two loaves, a bottle of stout, another bottle (dark-glassed and unlabeled), four timepieces (with gold chains), a brass hurricane lamp, a rectangular glass tank with a vented lid, a large black book, a quill and bottle of ink, and a polished mahogany wooden leg. The satchel was deceptively spacious.

Deftly Joe fixed the tank together, then took his drawstring bag and loosened the tie. He set it down gently on the table and a second later a frog, a rather spectacular specimen of mixed hue and intelligent expression, emerged daintily from its folds. Very carefully Joe picked it up and placed it inside the tank, whereupon the creature blinked lazily and munched thoughtfully on some dried insects.

As Joe dropped another bug into the tank he stiffened almost imperceptibly. Without a backward glance he left the room, the eyes at the window still following him curiously. But they didn't see him slip out into the street. No human ear heard him tiptoe around the back of the shop, where he pounced upon the figure at the window and held him up to the light by the scruff of his scrawny neck.

"Why are you spying on me?" asked Joe in the sort of voice that demanded an answer without delay.

Joe had the boy in such a grip that he was half choking on his collar and his feet were barely touching the ground. He tried to speak, but fear and shock had rendered him unable. He could only open and close his mouth like a fish out of water. Joe gave him a shake and repeated the question, though less harshly this time. When he still received no answer he let the young lad fall to the snow in a crumpled, pathetic heap.

"Hmm." Joe took a long, hard look at the boy. He truly was a pale and sorry figure, undersized, undernourished, and shivering so hard you could almost hear his bones rattle. His eyes were striking, though, dark green with flecks of yellow, and set in a ring of shadow. His skin matched the snow in tone and temperature. Joe sighed and pulled him to his feet.

"And you are?" he asked.

"Fitch," said the boy. "Ludlow Fitch."

Poetry and Pawnbrokers

Ludlow sat at the table shivering in silence while Joe tended the fire. A blackened kettle hung over the flame and every so often Joe stirred its contents.

"Would you like some soup?"

Ludlow nodded and Joe ladled the thick mixture into two bowls and set them down. The boy gulped his noisily in spilling, overfull spoonfuls.

"Where have you come from?"

Ludlow wiped soup from his chin and managed to whisper. "From the City."

"I see. And do you wish to go back?"

He shook his head violently.

"I cannot blame you. In my experience the City is a rotten, diseased place full of the very worst of humanity. The lowest of the low."

Ludlow nodded again and drank at the same time, with the result that the soup dripped onto his gray shirt collar. Without hesitation, he put the stained cloth in his mouth and sucked out the juices. Joe watched unsmiling, but with amusement in his eyes.

"And what did you do in the City?"

Ludlow put down the bowl. The warming soup had brought life back to his frozen limbs. "All sorts, really," he said evasively, but then, under Joe's intense gaze, he continued, "though mainly I picked pockets."

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Excerpted from The Black Book of Secrets by F.E. Higgins. Copyright © 2007 F. E. Higgins. Excerpted by permission of Macmillan.
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