Mariah Mundi (2 page)

‘Sudan?’ Mariah said without thinking. ‘My parents were in the Sudan.’

‘I take it they are not there now?’ the bagman asked before the officer could speak.

‘Lost – missing – dead,’ he said slowly, the words coming in the order of events that had broken his heart two years before. Mariah stared through his piercing blue eyes at the leather bag thrown into the luggage rack above the soldier’s head; he read the words etched in black on the tan hide:
Captain Jack Charity
. ‘It was in the uprising, a mission post. My father was a doctor and my mother a nurse,’ he blurted out. ‘At first we heard they had been taken prisoner,’ he said hopefully. ‘But later, Professor Bilton told me that news had come that they were …’ Mariah couldn’t get the words from his mouth. They stuck like dry bread on a hot day.

‘On your own, boy?’ the soldier said as he edged the man away with a sharp dig of his elbow.

‘Now that I have graduated from the Colonial …’

‘Family?’

‘Not one left,’ he said as he looked to the floor.

‘A hard life, but still, worse things happen at sea,’ the army officer said as he leant back in his seat and opened the penny dreadful, immersing himself in the reverie, every now and then chuckling yet again at tale of Fiery Jack.

‘A story like my own,’ the bagman said as he took a packet of thick toffee from the carpetbag and offered a piece to Mariah, handing him the crumpled sack of brown paper filled to the brim with matted lumps of sticky goo. Mariah quickly filled his mouth. ‘Whatever your circumstances, let it be known that despite your present station in life, by virtue of our being both old boys of the Colonial School we are practically brothers. Isambard Black – here is my card.’ He held out an empty hand; then, with a twist of his wrist, a neat gold-edged calling card sprung out of fresh air to the tips of his fingers ‘Take it,’ he said with a smile. ‘If you are ever in London and need gainful occupation then call upon me. You never know, the coast may not suit you and the London smog may be a place to hide.’ He
chuckled to himself, twisting his hands again, and brought forth an old Panjandrum playing card.

Mariah gasped, his mouth bubbling with frothing toffee.

‘I have a friend at Claridges, he could help. In fact I was supposed to travel with him today but he never came.’ The man held out the card to Mariah. ‘The fool, the Joker without jest, behind his smile is great tragedy and malice, never one to be trusted.’

Mariah couldn’t speak, Albion’s command to tell no one echoing in his mind. He swallowed hard as the Joker with its telltale cribbed edge and brightly coloured mantle flashed before him, spinning in the man’s hand as he made it bob back and forth and then twist on his fingertip in some elaborate conjuring trick. It disappeared suddenly, vanishing from view.

‘Gone,’ said the man as he reached towards Mariah, who pressed himself harder against the seat, one hand firmly in his pocket clutching the pack of cards that Albion had entrusted to him. ‘And now …’ He reached into the top pocket of Mariah’s new suit and pulled forth the card as if it had been there all the time. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed. ‘The card dances about my new friend.’

‘Party tricks,’ muttered the Captain from behind the rustling paper. ‘Next you’ll be littering the carriage with rabbit droppings and pigeon feathers from all the beasts hidden in your dangerous undergarments.’

‘Such a trick would be too crass. I am a magician – part-time, of course, but sleight of hand that fools the eye is my passion. I travel the world collecting the most audacious illusions that I can find and using them to bring mirth to those I meet.’

Mariah sat wide-eyed, twizzling strands of his thick, dark, curly hair in his fingers as Isambard Black balanced the Joker on the tip of his finger once more – and then in a puff of smoke that blew from the palm of his hand, it vanished, never to be seen again.

‘Where does it go when it disappears?’ Mariah asked.

‘That I cannot tell you. I am bound by oath never to divulge the secret of the Order of Magicians. It would be on pain of death to give such vital knowledge to the uninitiated.’

‘You can buy those tricks on any street corner where you’re going, boy,’ the Captain said without even raising his head from his paper.

‘There is one illusion that cannot be bought,’ the man said quietly to Mariah, hoping to be ignored by the soldier. ‘A magic tin box that turns anything placed within it to the finest gold. That would quench all of my desires; it would surpass any sleight of hand or scurrilous palm. If I could have the Midas Box, I would be a happy man. ’

‘You could turn anything to gold?’ Mariah asked.

‘Anything, and everything,’ the man replied. Just then the train’s whistle blew as it was consumed by a tunnel, disappearing into the blackness.

M
ARIAH peered through the side-slat of the heavy blinds that were firmly pulled over the carriage window to keep out the night. Squinting into the blackness he could see the twinkling of lights from a thousand windows as the train slowed over the high viaduct that took the track into the heart of the town at the end of the line. Below him were the roofs of fine houses that snaked along the contours of the railway leading the train to the sea. It was as if there was an enquiring face at every window as the train slowed, steam billowing from the engine, brakes squealing as it panted to a halt.

Neither Captain Charity nor Isambard Black had spoken another word since the train had left the tunnel many miles before. Mariah too had sat in silence, trying to avoid the grinning face of Mister Black as Captain Charity had slept again, this time silently, the penny dreadful folded over his face to keep out the light from the gas lamp that hissed above his head.

The carriage shook violently as it came to an abrupt stop, the engine clanging against the iron buffers that marked the end of the track. Mariah was catapulted forward, tumbling head-first
into the lap of the Captain and waking him awkwardly from his deep and mournful sleep.

‘Never!’ he shouted as he grabbed Mariah by the arms, picking him up and throwing him sideways to land heavily upon Mister Black. ‘Never in a million years will you take me!’

‘It was the …’ Mariah protested as Black struggled beneath him, compressed by the carpet bag, Mariah’s foot pushed against his chin and squashing his head against the back of the seat.

Black attempted to spit the boy’s boot from his mouth, but then the train rolled back from the buffers and Mariah was thrown to the floor of the carriage. As Black jumped to his feet he dropped his cherished bag upon the boy and fell backwards into the Captain’s lap.

‘I’m not here to be used as a hobby horse,’ Charity barked as he pushed Black from him, giving him a sharp jab in the back with his tightly clenched fist. ‘Once more and I will pull the ears from the side of your head and … and make you eat them, one by one.’

Black fell forward, tripping over Mariah and landing face-forward in the seat, spilling the contents of his coat pocket to the floor.

‘I have never been so treated in all my life by such a ruffian as you,’ Black complained bitterly as he tried to free himself from the convulsion he was now placed in. ‘If this is the North, then I shall find myself on the first train back to the city. Manhandled, uncosseted, battered and –’

‘END OF THE LINE!’ screamed a voice in the passageway outside the compartment. The guard walked the long corridor, tapping on every window and reminding the occupants of the terminus. ‘CARRIAGES AND OMNIBUS AWAITING ALL!’

‘At least I will get a civilised journey to the Prince Regent,’ Black exclaimed as he picked up several silver coins and the
chain of his broken fob watch from the carriage floor. Mariah stared up at him as Black scowled angrily. ‘Move, boy. You stop me in my quest. Help me, come on. Out of the way and pick up the things I’ve dropped. Move, move,’ Black chuntered angrily as Captain Charity took his tan bag from the rack and pushed past them both, sliding the stiff door.

‘It’s time you went,’ Charity said as he pulled Black from the compartment and into the corridor by the collar of his coat. ‘The boy has helped you enough, he’s not your servant yet and his job won’t start till the morning so leave him be.’

Black lurched into the corridor, fob chain and coins in hand. ‘My bag!’ he yelled in protest as he was dropped unceremoniously. Charity leant in, grabbed the old carpetbag that pressed Mariah to the floor and threw it at Isambard Black, who put his hand to his head to protect himself from the blow.

‘I’ll have you arrested, taken from the train in irons and transported to Australia, never to see the light of day,’ Black grumbled loudly as he grabbed the bag and scurried off backwards like a fat rat edging its way along a sewer. ‘Never, never have I known anything like it,’ he said as he quickly pushed through the door and on to the cold night platform.

Mariah lay motionless on the floor as the Captain stared down at him, his immense frame filling the door and casting a dark shadow across the boy’s face.

‘What shall we do with you?’ he bellowed. Then a hand plunged from the darkness, grabbed Mariah by the collar and lifted him to his feet. ‘We never did get introduced. I’m Captain Jack Charity. Too tired to talk and that imbecile would have driven me mad with his chivvying, so come on. Who are you?’

‘Mundi … Mariah Mundi,’ he said sheepishly as he cleared his throat and shook the mop of thick curly hair that sprouted over every inch of his head like the coat of a Newfoundland hound.

‘Well, Mariah Mundi, you have reached the end of the line and from what I can remember you have an appointment at the Prince Regent.’ Charity laughed as he rubbed the side of his sharp nose. ‘Not a place I’d like to stay, so watch yourself. Better seen in daylight and too many tales of devilish doings for my liking. There’s rumour that a madman walks the streets, taking the children and leaving no trace. Never be alone in the old town, especially after dark.’ Charity rummaged in his pocket. ‘If they give you a day off, come and see me. Just look from the Regent to the harbour and on the quayside you’ll see my place.’ Charity beamed proudly as he handed Mariah a gold-edged calling card. ‘The Golden Kipper, the finest place to eat on God’s earth. I have a chef who can cook the most luxurious fish that man has ever eaten, and if you get yourself along there’s one waiting for you. I bet you’ll never be able to eat it.’ Charity held out his large hand as if to seal all he had said in a soldier’s bet.

Mariah grabbed his hand, squeezing it firmly. This, he had been told by his father, was the way to show you meant what you said.

‘Done,’ said Charity as he stepped back into the compartment, pulled up the blind, opened the window and leant out. ‘Careful what you do with my trunk,’ he shrieked down the platform to the luggage van. ‘Break a single thing and you’ll end up the same, mark my words.’ He looked at Mariah, who cowered back into the seat. ‘Doesn’t do to be nice to everyone,’ he said with a slight, lopsided grin. ‘Got to keep them on their toes. Now boy, pick up your things and off you go. I’ll see you to the street and point you the right way.’

Mariah didn’t reply, his eye captivated by a small trinket that dangled from the seat where Isambard Black had fallen. He reached out, nimbly picked it from the snagged fabric and held it to the carriage lamp. There, dangling on a small thread of fine chain, was a golden skull the size of a honeybee. Two green
jewelled eyes stared at him, twinkling in the light. Its jaw dangled open, set on the tiniest hinges he had ever seen, a full set of intricate diamond-tipped teeth sparkling like drops of morning dew.

Mariah held out the skull to Charity. ‘Not mine,’ the Captain said as he looked at the object. ‘Could belong to the madman, dropped from his pocket when he fell over.’ He laughed. ‘Give it to him when you see him at the Prince Regent, I can trust you with that, especially if you’re coming to dine with me.’

‘What is it?’ Mariah asked as he twisted the piece in his fingers, allowing the light to shine upon its fine jewelled eyes.

‘Never seen the likes of it before. Once saw an earring of a skull, but that had been shrunken by pigmy head-hunters and it certainly didn’t have jewels for eyes. Best you keep it safe. Doubtless if it belongs to Black, he’ll be squealing for it by the morning.’

Charity turned and stepped from the carriage, holding his tan bag on his shoulder like a shepherd with a lamb. Mariah clumsily lifted his own bag as he followed on, balancing all he had on his head as he swaggered along the corridor to the platform door.

The cold night air cut sharp against his skin, taking away his breath. The smell of the sea nuzzled his throat as if he was being wrapped in a blanket of seaweed. The flagstone platform glistened with a sheen of frost-like grit that crunched underfoot with every step he took. Charity marched on, protected from the sea gale by the station canopy that rattled, glass upon steel, high above their heads. Whistlers of night breeze pushed sand around their feet in thick swirls. A row of small shops stretched out in a long parade, each lit by its own gas lamp and, even on this winter’s night, bustling with the business of the late hour as, inside, brown paper and string wrapped objects of every kind.

By the iron gate stood a tall thin ticket collector, a pair of the neatest spectacles perched on the end of his hooked nose and held in place by a thick strap that circled the back of his head. His hand was held out as if he were a fine waxwork or shop mannequin dressed in pinstripe trousers and a thin overcoat with tattered elbows.

Charity belaboured the porter who dragged his sea chest along the platform as quickly as his stunted legs would carry him, trying to keep pace with the Captain’s stride. ‘Quickly, man,’ Charity harassed him. ‘I’ve been away for seven years and I want to see how this town has changed. My eyes eagerly await the delight that is before me and your poor provision of limbs holds me from that enchantment,’ he snapped at the porter, who tried in vain to run faster. Dragging the case behind him, he was red-faced and wheezing as they headed past the row of shops to the gate.

‘Tickets, please,’ said the collector through his nose, his lips never moving, as if he had trained his nostrils to speak.

Charity pressed by, ignoring the man and signalling for Mariah to walk on. ‘Too busy to pass the time of day with you, Postill,’ he bellowed at the ticket collector. ‘Stood there on the day I left and there when I return. Didn’t have a ticket then and don’t have one today. In the service of the Queen and if the Queen doesn’t need a ticket neither do I.’

Postill grunted through his nose, which quivered and twitched with each syllable of discontent as Charity marched into the dark night. High above, the station clock chimed midnight. Charity looked towards the town he hadn’t seen for so long. Tall railings surrounded the station like the bars of a prison stopping all from escaping to distant shores. Beyond, a row of houses soon petered out into the fields of the North Way, which gently sloped down to the pleasure ground of Northstead and the deep cut that bit through the cliff to the
open sea. All was as it was before. The paint had flaked from the high windows of the boarding house that clung to the corner of the white, decorated square glowing in the moonlight. The hackney stand bristled with fine black carriages and tired drivers as the horses chomped in oiled leather nose bags, hoping the night would soon be over.

‘There she blows,’ Charity shouted, pointing to a carriage etched with a silver outline and carrying the name of the Prince Regent emblazoned upon the door. ‘Hey, you,’ he shouted like a seafront drunk to the cabby, who had perched himself, rug-wrapped and double-coated, upon the driving plate above the cab. ‘I have a guest for the Prince Regent. Stand and be made ready.’

Charity pushed Mariah forth and into the station yard. The cabby looked down, unwilling to offer even the slightest hand of friendship as Mariah scurried like a worried lamb across the gravel under the harsh moon, his back beaten by the strong wind gusting from the sea.

‘He is a Colonial boy, sent to work. Treat him well or you’ll have me to deal with,’ Charity hollered as he humped his sea chest into the back of the cab, tipped the porter with a penny piece and patted him heavily on the back, knocking him to the floor.

Mariah held fast to his travelling bag and looked up at the driver, who grimaced down with cold grey eyes. A thick brow cut across his forehead like a field hedge of gorse underneath a heavy wool hat pulled down over his ears.

‘Get on the back. You’re late. Already got a guest and have to wait for the servants, not a good start to your life at the Prince Regent,’ the cabby muttered as he flashed his wand above the horses’ heads, dangling it like a menacing summer fly, and ushered them on with a tug of the reins.

Mariah jumped to the back of the coach, grabbing the cold
brass rail as the carriage pulled into the cobbled street and turned sharply right.

‘How long to the hotel?’ Mariah heard Isambard Black’s voice muffle impatiently through the leather hood.

‘A couple of streets and then to the cliff top, sir,’ came the bored reply as the cab made its way slowly through the empty streets, past shuttered inns and coffee shops. It turned past a sandstone church with rain-cut carvings running through each stone, then left towards the cliff top. The sound of the roaring sea grew louder and louder and the salt spray billowed up from the beach far below, churned by the violent tide.

‘Not a night to be out,’ the driver shouted. The horses brayed like donkeys against the wind. ‘Get yourself down and under the oilskin. As soon as we turn the corner the gale will be upon us.’

For Mariah it was too late. The sudden gusts blew harshly against the carriage, bringing a damp dusting of sea and sand that lashed against his face, filling his eyes and nose with coarse grit plucked from the Oceanus Germanicus. Rain blasted against the carriage like stair rods that cut the air and smashed against the ground, surrounding the horses’ hooves as if they danced in boiling lead.

‘Quickly, man, I’m drowning in here,’ Black said, tormented by the stinging rain that broke into the front of the carriage, dowsing him in cold strands.

‘Only go as fast as the horses will take you,’ the coachman muttered under his breath, and he cracked the whip to persuade the chargers to go against the storm. ‘You, boy. You hailing well?’ he shouted.

Mariah cowered against the gale as he gripped to the carriage straps and balanced himself on the back box. He had pulled the oilskin over his head and curled up his legs as he was bounced and jolted from side to side with every turn of the hackney wheels.

‘Fine,’ he said as another turn in the cobbled street threw him sideways.

‘Not much further. Once you can smell the sea, the Regent isn’t far away,’ the driver shouted, his voice fading into the whining of the wind that howled and moaned in and out of the dark alleyways running between the houses. ‘There she blows.’