The Eyeball Collector (2 page)

I knew Father was ever watching closely from behind me and I was always keen to show him that he had taught me well. Slowly, so slowly, I would push the long, pointed insect pin through the middle of the butterfly’s body, right between the wings – careful not to rub off the tiny scales that gave them their captivating iridescence – and into the mounting board. Next I would position the wings open, exactly how I wanted them, with their patterns matching, before pinning them in place, one at a time, just behind the larger veins. Finally I would place thin pieces of paper over each wing to prevent its curling up while the insect dried. Father wouldn’t say anything, just place his hand firmly on my shoulder, and I always knew from the look on his face that he was pleased.

Father gave me a gift shortly before it all happened – a small ebony cocoon to wear on a cord around my neck. I still have it, and every time I touch it I am reminded of those happier days.

But, Polly, that all seems a very long time ago . . .

The description above of the process of butterfly mounting, a common hobby of the age in which this was written, is to be found in one of a number of letters still surviving from a correspondence between a young lad named Hector Fitzbaudly and the girl called Polly (her surname is never given). I found the letters deep in the heart of the Moiraean Mountains, tied together by a leather cord with the ebony cocoon mentioned above hanging from it. I don’t think they were all there, and I cannot say if they were ever sent, but I suspect not.

This revealing bundle is just one of many items I have picked up on my travels since last we met in Urbs Umida, that vile city where I uncovered the mystery of the enigmatic Bone Magician and the Silver Apple Killer. I have travelled further abroad since then and my collection of oddities has grown considerably. It now contains:

The story that follows relies heavily upon this correspondence. And, together with the false eyeball, what a story they tell! As is often the case, I am left with more puzzles than answers.

But let us tarry no longer! Hector’s tale awaits . . .

F. E. Higgins

      Part the First      

Ode to Urbs Umida
Urbs Umida, Urbs Umida!
O City, dark and dank.
Would that I could call you sweet,
But by the holy your air ’tis rank!

I took a boat across the Foedus
And looked into the water.
Two fish I saw but dead they were
And swam not as they oughter.

I walked across the cobbled Bridge
Went in the Nimble Finger.
A fight broke out, I ducked a punch
And thought best not to linger.

Urbs Umida, Urbs Umida!
No matter where I roam,
The Foedus’s nostril-stinging stench
Will always lure me home.

Beag Hickory

‘
Tartri flammis!
’ cursed Hector as his stomach tightened in a knot and his chest jerked violently with every beat of his heart. He rotated slowly on the spot, panting from the chase. His nose tingled with the stench that filled the air. Already his ears were pricking to the menacing sounds around him: screeches and wails, scraping and dragging, and the ominous unrelenting moaning.

So this is fear, he thought. In a strange way it excited him.

He stood at the centre of Fiveways, an open cobbled space where five dark alleys converged. It was late afternoon but regardless of the time of day it was difficult to see anything clearly in the strange half-light that bathed this part of the City. Hector had crossed the river only twice before, but had never ventured this far. His mistake had been to give chase to the thieving vagabond who had taken his purse. In a matter of seconds the light-fingered boy had led him a merry dance down the unlit, claustrophobic streets and lanes until he was completely lost.

‘Wait till I get my hands on him!’ muttered Hector. But he knew he wouldn’t. The pickpocket was long gone.

Or was he?

A sudden movement to his right caused Hector to turn sharply. He watched with mounting unease a small dark figure slip out of the alley and come silently towards him. He saw another figure, and another. From each alley they came, ten boys in all, creeping closer and closer to surround him. The leader, the tallest, stepped out from the sharp-eyed encircling pack. He lifted his coat slightly and Hector was certain he saw the glint of a blade in his waistband. The boy spoke with the confidence of one who knows he has the upper hand.

‘What’s your name, Nor’boy?’

‘Nor’boy?’ queried Hector. He was surprised at how feeble his voice sounded. He clenched his fists and held them to his sides to stop them shaking.

‘Yeah, Nor’boy,’ repeated the lad. ‘You’re from the north side, ain’t ya?’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he replied. Then, more boldly, ‘As for my name, it is Hector, like the Greek hero.’

The leader was unimpressed. ‘So, ’Ector, what else can you give us?’

‘Give?’ The sarcasm was lost on the boys.

‘I likes ’is boots,’ said one boy.

‘And ’is ’at,’ said another, and quick as lightning he produced a long stick and hooked Hector’s hat, tossing it artfully to land on the leader’s head.

‘Hey!’ Hector cried out, albeit half-heartedly. He was outnumbered, a stranger in hostile territory. If they wanted to let him go, they would. If not? Well, he didn’t like to think where he might end up. He had not dealt with such boys before.

‘Very well,’ he said slowly, but inwardly thinking fast. There must be some way to appease them. ‘You have my purse and my hat. You may have my coat and boots if that is your wish, but in return perhaps you could direct me back to the Bridge.’

Hector’s accent seemed to amuse his captors and they sniggered. The leader came unnervingly close to Hector and poked him in the chest.

‘I ain’t asking your permission, Nor’boy. If I want somefink, I take it.’

He snapped his fingers and instantly the group surged forward, their eyes shining. Like wild animals they closed in. Hector swallowed hard. He could smell them now, they were so close. He could hear their breathing. His mouth was dry as wood chips. He gritted his teeth and held up his fists, preparing to fight.

Then he felt their hands all over him and he was overwhelmed, struggling uselessly against the onslaught. They patted and pulled his coat sleeves and tugged at his cuffs, jerking him near off his feet. Helplessly he allowed the coat to slip off his shoulders and into an assailant’s possession. He watched the boy shrugging it on and dancing around, crowing loudly. Someone pulled hard at his bootlaces, unbalancing him, and he landed awkwardly on the ground where he surrendered his boots wordlessly. They took his watch and chain, his silk cravat and finally his gloves.

‘Anyfink else?’ asked the leader.

‘Only my handkerchief,’ said Hector sarcastically, getting back to his feet. He brushed himself down but knew he looked rather foolish. Inadvertently his hand went to his neck, and the sharp-eyed leader pounced. He reached under Hector’s shirt and pulled at the concealed leather string. It snapped and he held it up. A small black object dangled from the end.

‘Wossat?’

‘It’s a butterfly cocoon,’ said Hector slowly. He suddenly felt very angry. He didn’t care about his other possessions, but the cocoon was different. A gift from his father, he couldn’t let it go without a fight. Then he smiled. He had an idea.

‘I’ll challenge you for it.’

The leader raised his eyebrow. The boys looked at each other and readied themselves.

‘Not of fists, of wits,’ said Hector hastily. ‘A riddle. You can all try to answer it, ten of you against one of me. If you answer it correctly, you may have the cocoon; otherwise you must allow me to keep it.’

The boys exchanged grins and winks.

‘It’s awright wif me,’ said the leader. ‘Wot’s the riddle?’

Hector had the sinking feeling that he was merely delaying the inevitable. Did rascals such as these honour deals? No matter. He had to try. It was just not in his nature to give up easily. He began:

‘There was once a kingdom where it was a crime to tell a lie, the punishment being death.’

His ragtag audience laughed at this. Was that good or bad? Hector didn’t know. He went on.

‘A young man travelled to the kingdom and heard about the crime of lying. “That is nonsense,” he declared to the townspeople. “If I tell a lie, I will not be put to death.”

‘One of the King’s guards overheard his boast and asked him, “Did you say you could evade punishment for lying?”