بخش 20

CHAPTER 38

THE SHADOW THIEF

HAMPTON WAS NOT a man who was easily surprised. He’d worked for the Others before; he knew they had unusual powers, and he’d seen some strange things.

But he had never seen anything like what Ombra did to the guard under the streetlight in front of the Aster house. As he followed Ombra around to the side of the house, he still didn’t know exactly what he’d seen. He stole a look back over his shoulder at Jarvis, standing beneath the streetlamp, not moving a muscle. Hampton returned his gaze to the dark shape gliding ahead. He wondered who, or what, was under that cloak. He was not at all certain that he wanted to know.

They rounded the corner of the house, and Ombra stopped, nearly invisible in the blackness. He turned to face Hampton, who felt a chill and turned slightly away, unable to look directly at the void under the hood.

“You understand my instructions?” Ombra groaned, barely audibly.

“Yes, m’lord,” whispered Hampton. “But making him cast a shadow could be a tricky thing, dark as it is.”

“I don’t need much, and I don’t need long,” the voice groaned. “You smell like a man who smokes.”

Hampton frowned, trying to make sense of this remark. Then it hit him. “Ah, I see, m’lord,” he said, smiling despite his nervousness. “Perhaps Cadigan likes a bit of tobacco himself.”

“Perhaps he does,” groaned Ombra. “Keep his back turned to me. You’ll know when it has happened.”

“Right,” said Hampton. He straightened his tall bobby’s hat and fixed the ill-fitting uniform coat, then started toward the back of the huge, dark house, staying near the shrubbery as he walked down the cobblestone drive.

Rounding the corner of the house, he turned toward the service entrance, and permitted himself another smile: Cadigan did, indeed, smoke. Hampton smelled pipe tobacco even before he saw Cadigan’s large form looming ahead.

“Who goes there?” Cadigan’s voice was low and husky.

“Constable Hampton.”

“What’s your business?”

“Are you Cadigan, then?”

“Might be.” Cadigan’s tone was suspicious, unwelcoming.

“Mister Jarvis said I might have a word with you.”

“Did he, then?” said Cadigan.

“That he did,” said Hampton.

“Well, you’ve had your word, Constable. I’ll ask you to return in the morning when I’m not on duty here.”

Hampton kept walking. He needed to get past Cadigan, to turn him. But the big man moved, cutting him off. Cadigan clearly had no mind to allow a stranger—constable or no—between him and the kitchen door.

“Tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” Cadigan said, the politeness of his words belied by the menace in his voice.

“You mind if I smoke?” Hampton said, and before Cadigan could answer, he bent and scratched a long wooden matchstick on the side of his shoe. In the oppressive darkness the match seemed to explode, its yellow light flashing across the faces of both men. Cadigan was younger than his voice suggested. He had a broad forehead, closely cut red hair, and a thick neck. Hampton stuck a small cigar into his mouth and brought the match up with a quick and practiced motion. He sucked the cigar to life and exhaled a cloud of gray smoke that enveloped Cadigan, then was absorbed by the night.

“The thing is,” he said, still holding the burning matchstick, “this here can’t wait ’til morning.”

Cadigan was smelling the cigar smoke, eyeing the match flame. As Hampton had hoped, Cadigan allowed his tobacco habit to overcome his reserve. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe.

“D’you mind?” he asked, nodding toward the match.

“Not at all,” said Hampton. Cadigan stepped close to share the flame. As he did, Hampton turned him fully around.

Cadigan sucked on the pipe. The flame grew, throwing off another burst of light. Hampton, looking over Cadigan’s shoulder, saw a black shape flow swiftly across the drive, toward Cadigan’s flickering shadow.

“I was told to deliver a warning,” Hampton said.

“About what?” Cadigan said, again drawing on his pipe. The flame was nearing Hampton’s fingers now, but he dared not let go.

Ombra’s cape glided silently, swiftly toward Cadigan’s shadow. Hampton watched this movement. Cadigan saw Hampton’s eyes shift, and immediately spun around.

Too late.

Cadigan moaned as his shadow elongated and stretched like a water drop, moving away from him and toward the base of Ombra’s cape, until only a thin neck of shadow touched Cadigan’s feet. It seemed to cling to him, as if not wanting to let go; then it broke away, like a piece of taffy stretched too thin. The entire shadow raced to Ombra, forming a dark pool beneath him. Ombra lifted his right sleeve, and the shadow—writhing as though resisting capture—flowed upward to where Ombra’s hand would be, though Hampton, watching all this closely, could not see a hand.

For an instant, Ombra held the shadow as a man would hold a snake. Then his left sleeve came up, a burlap sack dangling from it. The right arm seemed to wrestle with the unwilling, shifting shadow, stuffing it into the open sack until it disappeared. Then the sack vanished into the robe.

Ombra spun around, one full circle. As he did, a new shadow appeared on the ground in front of him—although there was no light behind him. The shadow slithered, serpentlike, across the ground. It attached itself to Cadigan’s feet just as the match flickered to extinction.

Darkness.

Hampton heard himself breathing heavily. Cadigan stood motionless in front of him.

“Mister Cadigan,” groaned Ombra, “you will resume your duties.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Cadigan responded tonelessly. He moved back to the doorway.

“Shall I summon the housemaid?” Hampton asked.

The hood of the cape lifted toward the sky. “No,” said Ombra. “It will soon be dawn. We must return to the ship.”

Ombra addressed the statue-still figure in the doorway. “Mister Cadigan.”

“Yes, m’lord,” answered the toneless voice.

“We will visit you and Mister Jarvis again tomorrow night. You will assist us with Mister Hodge and the women.”

“As you wish, m’lord,” said Cadigan.

“Yes,” said Ombra. “Exactly as I wish.”

Then he turned and, with Hampton hurrying behind, disappeared into the darkness. CHAPTER 39

THE MARKET

PETER, WITH AN EXHAUSTED Tinker Bell clutching tightly to his shirt, flew low over the dark city until, judging that he was a safe distance from the man, he alit on the peak of a steeply pitched roof. There he crouched, shivering.

“Are you all right?” he said.

Yes, answered Tink. But tired.

“That was a good plan you had back there,” he said.

Yes, it was.

They went quiet for a while, recovering. In the east, the black of the night began to soften to a dark gray; dawn was coming as a slight glow through the coal smoke. Peter looked around and saw that he was atop a tallish building, standing alone. To one side was a railroad track; to the other an open square with rows of stalls, apparently some kind of market.

Peter was grateful that the nightmarish night was finally ending, but he dared not let daylight catch him perched in so visible a spot. Sitting down, he slid to the edge of the roof, then dropped gently down to the square. No sooner had his bare feet touched the dirt than he began to hear sounds of the awakening day; a cough, voices, barking, cart wheels rumbling on cobblestones.

Peter tucked the protesting Tinker Bell under his shirt and walked down a row of stalls to a low stone wall separating the square from the street. It occurred to him that a market might be a good place to find food. He sat on the wall, his plan for the moment being to wait there until the sellers arrived, in hopes he might be able to beg or borrow a bite to eat, and then see if anybody could tell him the way to Lord Aster’s house.

Soon enough the sellers began to arrive in ones and twos, bringing their wares in by hand and on pushcarts. But it wasn’t food they were selling: it was…animals.

Peter and Tink had landed in a pet market, on a street called Brick Lane. The carts were stacked with cages, inside which were all sorts of small animals—dogs, cats, guinea pigs, turtles, snakes, lizards, chattering monkeys, and birds. Most of all, birds. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, big and small, native and exotic, bright and drab, sometimes dozens to a cage, twittering, trilling, tweeting, screeching.

To Peter, it was a meaningless cacophony. But not to Tink. Tink understood the birds perfectly, and what they were saying did not please her at all. Peter felt a vibration, and then Tink’s tiny, furious face poked from his collar. Quickly he covered her with his hand.

“Get back in there,” he hissed.

They want out, she said.

“Tink, we can’t—”

They’re hungry and scared. They want to fly.

“But we—”

Peter’s protest was too late. Tink had escaped through his fingers and was streaking toward a small, wiry man pushing a cart with four large cages filled with canaries, twittering and flitting around like bright yellow leaves whipped by a late-autumn wind.

“Come back!” called Peter, his voice drawing the attention of the wiry man, who turned away from his cage to look at Peter just as Tink darted past him and landed next to one of his cages. Her motion caught the man’s eye, and he began to turn back toward the cart.

“No!” yelled Peter, drawing the man’s narrow-set eyes back to him. He was sallow-faced and thin-lipped, with strands of oil-brown hair plastered to his forehead. Peter saw that, behind the man, Tink had found the cage door and was fiddling with the latch.

“What is it?” said the man, annoyed.

Peter tried frantically to think of something to say. Tink had the cage door open now and had stuck her head inside.

She was communicating something, somehow, to the birds, who had stopped twittering and were listening to her intently, heads cocked.

“I…ah…” Peter said to the man, “I say, it’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

The man looked at the sky, which was a dull, smoky gray, threatening to rain. He gave Peter a venomous look, spat on the ground, and turned back to his cart.

And saw Tink.

The man shot out his hand with the quickness and precision of one skilled in capturing small flying creatures. In an instant, Tink was caught. Peter saw Tink’s head poking from the top of the man’s right fist as he heard a terrified burst of bells.

Help! Peter, help!

But Peter was already running toward the man. “Put her down! She’s mine!” he shouted. “Put her…UH.”

As quickly as the man’s right hand had grabbed Tink, his left fist shot out, catching Peter on his cheek. Peter’s head snapped sideways, and he saw a flash of light. Then, without being aware of falling, he was lying on his back in the dirt, the right side of his face throbbing in pain.

Above him he saw the man holding Tink’s struggling form close to his face, examining her. Then, after glancing down at Peter, he thrust her into the canary cage and closed the door.

Peter, woozy, his face afire with pain, struggled unsteadily to his feet.

“Let her go!” he shouted at the man. “You can’t keep her! She’s not yours!”

“Now she is,” the man said softly. “She’s all mine.” He stared at her, intrigued. “But what is she? Ain’t never seen one like her.”

Peter lunged toward the cage again, but the man was too quick, and far too strong. He stepped in front of Peter and, grabbing him by the shoulders, hurled him to the ground again. The man then covered the canary cage with a piece of canvas, tying it tightly in place with a piece of rope. From within, Peter could hear the muffled sound of Tink’s frantic appeals for help.

Yet again he got to his feet, standing just out of the man’s reach.

“Please,” he begged the man. “Please. Let her go.”

“If you know what’s good for you,” said the man, taking a menacing step toward Peter, “you’ll get out of here.”

“No!” shouted Peter, though he took a step back. “Let her go!”

By now a half dozen other merchants had wandered over to find out what the noise was about. Peter turned to them.

“He’s got my…my bird,” he said, pointing to the wiry man. “He stole my bird!”

The man shook his head as he turned to the other sell ers. He addressed them calmly, the voice of reason. “Do you believe the cheek of this one?” he said. “He tries to steal one of me canaries, and then he calls me the thief! Me, who’s worked this market for ten years and more!”

The other sellers, all of whom knew the man, shook their heads at the sorry state of modern youth.

“It’s not true!” said Peter desperately. “He’s lying!” Seeing that nobody in the crowd believed him, he ignored his throbbing cheek and hurled himself again toward the cage. The wiry man was waiting for him. He grinned with satisfaction as he drove his fist deep into Peter’s stomach.

Peter went down on all fours, unable to breathe, the pain in his belly almost unendurable. The pet sellers roared with laughter. After a few moments, Peter was able to draw in some air in small, tortured gasps. He raised his head, saw the wiry man laughing with the others, saw the canvas-covered cage, heard Tink’s faint, frantic calls from within.

With agonizing effort, Peter staggered to his feet and again lunged forward, this time managing to reach the cage. He took hold of it just as the wiry man grabbed him, pulling back his fist to deliver another blow to Peter’s face.

“Here now!” boomed a new, deeply authoritative voice. “What’s this all about?”

The wiry man dropped his fist. He and Peter turned to find themselves facing a police officer, a large man sporting a luxuriant walrus moustache.

“He’s a thief,” said the wiry man, pointing to Peter holding the cage. “Tried to steal me best canaries, he did.” The wiry man appealed to the other pet sellers, who nodded in sober confirmation.

“A thief, is it?” said the bobby, grabbing Peter by his shirt collar. “Hand it over, then,” he said.

“But she’s mine!” said Peter. “I…OW!”

He was silenced by a sharp poke in the ribs from the bobby’s stick.

“You save your talk for the magistrate,” said the bobby sternly. “Not that he’ll want to hear it neither.”

This witticism drew a hearty laugh from the pet sellers.

“Come along, then,” said the bobby. He yanked the birdcage away from Peter and handed it back to the seller.

Peter? In the noise of the market, only Peter heard the muffled bells. He stepped toward the cage again, only to be jerked violently away by the bobby, who began dragging him down the street, away from the market. Peter tried to jump—hoping, in desperation, to fly his way free of this predicament—but the bobby’s massive hand held his arm in an iron grip.

As they reached the end of Brick Lane, Peter took a last glance back at the pet seller, who was watching him and smiling, as he tied a second rope around his now-precious canary cage. The last thing Peter heard, as he lost sight of the market, was the distant, muffled, desperate sound of bells.