The Black Book of Secrets (2 page)

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 on 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 weren’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), towards 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 travelling 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
Ratchet 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 street lights, 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 towards 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 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.

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 moulted 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 grey 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 on to 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 jewellery, two loaves, a bottle of
stout, another bottle, dark-glassed and unlabelled, 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 backwards 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.’

Ludlow sat at the table shivering in silence while Joe tended
the fire. A blackened kettle hung over the flames 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 on to his grey 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.’

‘Your honesty is refreshing, Ludlow, but I doubt there’d
be much of that sort of work here,’ said Joe drily. ‘This is a
small village. There’s little to take.’

‘I can always find something,’ said Ludlow proudly.

‘I believe you could.’ Joe laughed, looking at the boy
thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, have you any other talents?’

‘I run fast and curl up so tight I can hide in the smallest
places.’

Whether this impressed Joe or not, it was difficult to
tell. ‘Useful I’m sure,’ he said, ‘but what of schooling? Can
you write and read?’

‘Of course I can,’ said Ludlow as if Joe was a fool to suggest
otherwise.

If Joe was surprised he did not show it. ‘Let me see your
skill.’ He rummaged through the pile on the table, then
handed Ludlow a quill, a pot of ink and a piece of paper.

Ludlow thought for a moment then wrote slowly, in his
plain, spidery hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the
corner of his mouth:

A Pome

The rabit dose be a gentel creture

Its furr is soft, its tale is wite

Under the sun a gras eater

In a burro it doth sleep the nighte.

Joe stroked his chin to conceal his smile. ‘Who was it taught
you to spell? Your parents?’

Ludlow snorted at the very suggestion. ‘My parents care
not for the written word, nor for me. I was taught by Mr
Lembart Jellico, a pawnbroker in the City.’

‘Lembart Jellico?’ repeated Joe. ‘How very interesting.’

‘Do you know him?’ asked Ludlow, but Joe was busy
looking for another sheet of paper.

‘Write this,’ he said and dictated a couple of sentences,
which Ludlow wrote carefully before handing back the
paper to be examined.

‘Two b’s in Zabbidou,’ said Joe, ‘but you weren’t to
know that.’

He stood back and took a long hard look at the boy. He
resembled so many City boys, dirty and skinny. He certainly
smelt like one. His clothes were barely functional
(apart from the scarf and gloves which were of a much
higher quality) and he had a distrustful face that gave away
the wretchedness of his past existence. He was bruised and
his mouth was very swollen, but there was a spark of intelligence
– and something else – in those dark eyes.

‘I have a job for you if you want it.’

Ludlow’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does it pay?’

Joe yawned. ‘Let’s discuss that tomorrow. Now it is
time to sleep.’

He threw Ludlow his cloak and the boy curled up in the
space beside the fire. He had never felt such soft fur before
and it wrapped itself around his legs almost of its own
accord. Ludlow watched through half-closed eyes as Joe
stretched out on the bed opposite, his legs not quite fully
extended, and began to snore. When he was certain that
Joe was asleep Ludlow pulled out the purse he had stolen
from the carriage and hid it behind a loose brick in the wall.
Then he took the paper and read it once again.

My name is Joe Zabidou I am the Secret
Pawnbroker

A secret pawnbroker? thought Ludlow. What sort of job is
that? But he did not ponder the question for very long
before drifting off into a sleep full of wild dreams that made
his heart race.