بخش 23

CHAPTER 44

THE COLLECTOR

THE BIRD SELLER’S NAME, as fate would have it, was Isaac Wren. Others found his surname amusing, but Wren himself did not. He rarely found amusement in anything: he was a serious man, a man who never laughed, and who smiled—a thin smile, at that—only when he got the best of an opponent in a business transaction. This was not uncommon, for Wren was a clever dealer, a shrewd bargainer who could tell at a glance how much a bird was worth, and what he could get for it.

Of course, he had never seen anything like Tinker Bell. But in the few moments he’d held her in his hand—had seen the astonishing beauty of her tiny, delicate, terrified face, and had heard the celestial sounds she made—he knew this was a creature that would come along only once in a lifetime, if that.

Wren meant to make the best of this opportunity.

Whatever this wondrous creature was, he was determined to part with it as a rich man. And he meant to sell it quickly, because he was certain that such a valuable thing must belong to somebody. The boy must have stolen it. Its rightful owner would be looking for it, Wren was certain. He intended to be rid of the creature before that owner appeared.

And so, from the moment the bobby had dragged off the annoying boy, Wren had loaded his birdcages—including the precious one wrapped in canvas—back onto his cart, and left Brick Lane. He went directly to the home of Lord Welton Pondle, a very wealthy man with whom he had dealt in the past. Pondle was one of London’s most avid collectors of rare animals; he was well known among animal dealers for his willingness to pay handsome sums for hard-to-get specimens.

Pondle also—and this was why Wren went to him first—did not mind buying animals of questionable ownership. If a rare and valuable animal had been reported stolen from one collector and a remarkably similar animal happened to be offered to Lord Pondle a short while later, he would pay the asking price, no questions asked.

And so, in just over an hour after the disturbance at the pet market, Isaac Wren sat in Pondle’s massive den, the canvas-covered canary cage on the floor in front of him. One wall of the den was a large stone fireplace with a coal fire burning in the grate, warding off the London chill. Two of the other walls of the room were lined with the heads, and sometimes the entire bodies, of rare, stuffed animals, many of which Pondle had killed himself. The fourth wall was almost completely covered with cases containing Pondle’s very large collection of butterflies; hanging in the center was the net he had used to capture them.

After waiting for fifteen minutes, Wren heard a muttering in the hallway and quickly rose to his feet. He bowed deeply as Pondle waddled through the doorway. Pondle was a heavy man, with most of his weight concentrated toward his center, forming a vast waistline. He was tapered at both ends, with tiny feet and a small, pointed head. He had a capuchin monkey named Edgar sitting on his shoulder.

Edgar wore a collar connected by a thin silver chain to a bracelet on Pondle’s left wrist. Neither Pondle nor Edgar looked happy to see Wren.

“What is it?” Pondle said, ignoring Wren’s bow. “You realize you’re keeping me from a meeting of the Newt and Salamander Fanciers Group?”

“I’m sorry, Your Lordship,” said Wren, “but I believe when you see what I’ve brought you”—he pointed to the covered cage—“you’ll agree that it was well worth your time. This here is something you won’t see in no other collection in London. Not in all of England neither, for that matter.”

“Really?” said Pondle, his annoyance grudgingly giving way to curiosity. “What is it?”

“The best thing,” said Wren, “would be for Your Lordship to see for yourself.” He lifted the cage and placed it on a table. Watched closely by Pondle and Edgar, he began to untie the ropes holding the canvas, first one, then the other. Then, with a dramatic flourish, Wren pulled the canvas away.

There was a flutter of yellow flashes inside the cage as the twittering birds darted this way and that.

Pondle glared at Wren.

“Canaries?” he said, his voice rising. “You caused me to miss the Newt and Salamander Fanciers Group for canaries?”

“No, m’lord!” said Wren, pointing to the cage. “Look there, at the bottom.”

With another glare at Wren, Pondle brought his face, and Edgar’s, close to the cage. It was Edgar who reacted first, emitting a screech of surprise. This was quickly followed by Pondle’s sharp intake of breath as he saw the gossamer wings, the tiny, exquisite face, the impossibly expressive eyes, now wide with fear.

Pondle looked at Wren, then back at Tinker Bell, then back at Wren.

“But what…” he said, “what is it?”

“It’s a fairy, sir,” said Wren. He repeated it softly, for he had trouble believing it himself: “A fairy.”

“Where did you get her?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Your Lordship,” said Wren.

Pondle gave Wren a significant look. “I see,” he said, returning his gaze to Tink. A pause, then: “How much?”

Wren had been anticipating this moment, knowing that the price he could extract, and the quality of his future life, depended on how badly Pondle wanted the creature. Wren saw by Pondle’s expression that he wanted it very badly indeed.

Wren took a breath, exhaled, and came out with it: “Five thousand pounds.”

Pondle spun to face Wren, his face reddening. “But that’s outrageous!” he sputtered. Edgar bared his teeth.

Wren nodded understandingly. “I agree it’s a substantial sum, sir, but—”

“It’s a fortune!” bellowed Pondle.

“As I say,” Wren said calmly, “I certainly understand if Your Lordship don’t wish to pay it. But it’s not every day a man gets a chance to own such a creature as this, is it?”

Pondle stared at Tink, saying nothing.

Wren went on: “And as I say, there wouldn’t be no other collector in all of England could claim to have one of these, now could there?”

Pondle kept staring at Tink.

“I brought it to Your Lordship first,” continued Wren, “because I know how much Your Lordship appreciates the truly rare item. But if the price is too high, I certainly understand.” Wren picked up the canvas and made as if to cover the cage. “I’ll just take it to Lord Shaftsbury, and I’m sure he—”

“Shaftsbury!” said Pondle. Edgar emitted a screech. Pondle detested Shaftsbury, who had once outbid Pondle on an albino ocelot, and never failed to remind him of this at social gatherings.

Pondle threw his arm out, blocking Wren’s efforts to cover the cage.

“I want to hold it,” he said.

Wren barely suppressed a smile. Pondle had taken the bait; the hook would soon be set.

“Certainly, m’lord,” he said. He opened the cage door and carefully reached inside. The canaries darted this way and that, avoiding his hand. Tink went to the opposite side of the cage, pressing her back against the wire. Wren’s hand came across the cage toward her. Just as it reached her, she darted to her left, but Wren, the experienced bird-snatcher, had seen it coming, and easily grabbed her.

Tink opened her mouth and sunk her small but sharp teeth into Wren’s thumb.

“Aaah!” he said, wincing, but not letting go.

“What is it?” said Pondle, peering into the cage, Edgar peering with him.

“It’s nothing,” said Wren, repositioning his hand so his thumb was out of range of Tink’s mouth, but keeping a tight grip on her as he pulled her from the cage and pushed the door shut. “This one’s a little feisty. You want to watch out for its mouth.”

Eagerly, Pondle reached his sweaty hands forward, and Wren carefully pressed Tinker Bell into them. She squirmed to get free, but Pondle held her firmly, raising her in front of his face to get a good look at her; his eyes, and Edgar’s, widening in amazement.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Yes, m’lord,” said Wren, sucking on his bleeding thumb, wondering if he should have asked for more money.

“I must have it,” said Pondle.

“If you please, m’lord,” said Wren, getting to the heart of it, “gold would be best.”

Pondle looked at him. “All right,” he said. “Gold you shall have.” He looked back at Tink. “I have just the cage for her.”

At the word “cage,” Tink emitted a furious burst of bells, startling Edgar, but delighting Pondle.

“Did you hear that?” he said. “What a marvelous sound it makes!”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Wren. “About the gold, if you—”

“Yes, yes, you shall have your gold,” said Pondle. “As soon as I have secured this creature in the—”

He was interrupted by more bells from Tink, an extended sequence of melodious tones. He was transfixed by the sound, as were both Wren and Edgar. But the monkey understood something that neither man did.

Tink was talking to the canaries.

They were not the brightest birds, unfortunately; Tink would have much preferred to be working with macaws or cockatoos, who would have grasped the situation instantly. But she had to work with the resources at hand. She had noticed that Wren, focused on capturing her and handing her to Pondle, had failed to latch the birdcage door.

Fly out! she called to the caged birds. Fly out!

The canaries, excited but confused, fluttered wildly about the cage, all speaking at once: What? What? What? What? What?

Fly out! repeated Tink.

Fly out! said one of the canaries, finally understanding, flitting to the cage door. The others picked up the cry: Fly out! Fly out!

The canary flew up against the cage door; it swung open, and the canary darted out, followed quickly by the others. By the time Wren saw what was happening and lunged toward the cage, he was too late: the canaries—seventeen in all—were now loose in the room. Wren lunged about, trying unsuccessfully to grab them, as Pondle watched the scene with alarm while Edgar leaped up and down on his shoulder, screeching loudly.

Fly to me! called Tink. Fly to me! Peck the man! Peck the man!

Peck the man! chorused the canaries. Peck the man!

Suddenly Pondle was surrounded by a swirling swarm of yellow.

“Ow!” he shouted, as the first sharp beak sunk into a roll of pink flesh on his neck. “OWWWW!”

Edgar screeched and leaped from Pondle’s shoulder in an effort to escape the canaries; his weight yanked Pondle’s left hand free from Tinker Bell just as he had released her with his right to swat at the attacking birds.

Tink was free.

It took her a second to get her bearings. Spying the open door, she shot toward it.

WHAM!

The door slammed just before she reached it. Wren, having seen Tink escape Pondle’s grasp and anticipating her escape attempt, got there first. He almost grabbed Tink as well, his lunging hand missing her by an inch as she veered sharply away.

The den was chaos now: Pondle, his head still in a swarm of attacking canaries, was running blindly in circles, bellowing and waving his arms, flinging the hapless Edgar around like a rag doll.

Wren, meanwhile, had eyes only for Tink. He stalked her, occasionally leaping at her; but as quick as he was, she was quicker, managing each time to elude him. He pursued her as she flew around the den, looking desperately for an exit, but the door was shut tight and there were no windows. After several circuits, Tink landed on a stuffed moose head just out of Wren’s reach. She perched on the moose’s massive antlers, panting, watching Wren the way a bird watches a cat, while he stood below, also panting, watching her the way a cat watches a bird.

They remained that way for several seconds, focused on each other, ignoring the bleats of Pondle, who was now bleeding from numerous small but painful peck wounds. Then Wren had an idea. Bypassing Pondle, he crossed to the butterfly wall, grabbed the butterfly net, and yanked it free from its mounting bracket. Holding it in both hands, he moved back across the floor toward Tink, who watched him coming closer and…

SWOOSH!

…Tink shot away from the antlers only an instant before the net got there. Wren cursed as he yanked the handle, pulling the moose head off the wall and sending it crashing to the floor. He whirled and set off after Tink.

SWOOSH! SWOOSH!

Twice more he swung the net at her; the second time he very nearly got her, the wire striking her leg and sending her spinning through the air. Wren smiled grimly; she would tire, and he would have her soon.

Tink was thinking the same thing as she looked frantically around the room for a way to escape, or at least a place to rest for a moment.

And then she heard it.

Hot! said the voice. Hot! Out!

Tink, shooting across the room to escape another swing of the net, looked around for the source of the voice. Suddenly she realized who was calling to her.

Edgar.

The monkey, between jerks on the silver chain attaching his collar to Pondle’s wrist, was chattering and hooting at her. She wasn’t getting everything he said; he spoke a different dialect from the monkeys back on Mollusk Island. But two words—“hot” and “out”—came through clearly and repeatedly. He was also gesturing frantically toward the fireplace. There were fires on Mollusk Island, but no fireplaces; Tink did not know how a chimney worked. But she knew that if she didn’t do something soon, the man with the net would get her.

Tink swooped across the room, directly at the glowing coals. She felt a SWOOSH just miss her from behind as she shot into the fireplace, gasping as the fiercely hot air hit her face. Instinctively, she turned up and away from it, into the smoky darkness of the chimney. Up and up and up she went, holding her breath to keep out the foul fumes, almost losing consciousness just as she felt the blessed coolness of the dank, foggy London air, and found herself soaring free in the night.

From the chimney behind her, she heard faint sounds: the wails of Lord Pondle, famed collector, batting helplessly at fierce, tiny, yellow birds; the sound of her savior, Edgar, hooting in delight; and—loudest of all—the curses of Isaac Wren, bird seller, who had just seen his glorious, happy, wealthy future vanish up the flue. CHAPTER 45

THE COLD IRON RING

PETER ACHED ALL OVER. He ached in his jaw and belly, where the bird seller had hit him; he ached in his legs, from standing in tense readiness against the wall of the cell, braced for an attack by Rafe. And he ached in his arms and hands from holding the heavy, disgusting toilet bucket, its fumes so foul that several times he had gagged uncontrollably. Once, Peter set the bucket down, but Rafe was on his feet in an instant, ready to pounce, and Peter had to quickly pick it back up again, slopping some of its repulsive contents onto his bare feet.

He knew he could not stand this much longer. Rafe knew it, too. The stocky bully sat comfortably on the far side of the cell, watching Peter with a contemptuous smirk.

“Smells good, don’t it?” he asked. “You’ll be wearing that bucket on your head soon enough.” This was the fourth time he’d made that joke, but the other boys hooted with laughter as though they’d never heard it before.

Their raucous reaction was silenced by the appearance at the cell door of two uniformed men. These were the jailer, a mutton-chopped man named Humdrake, and his nervous young assistant, a boy of fifteen named Kremp, all gawky limbs and Adam’s apple. In one hand, Humdrake lugged a heavy, coiled chain; in the other, he held a metal key ring with a half dozen keys. He inserted one of these into the cell door, opened it, stepped inside with Kremp, then relocked the door. He faced the prisoners.

“ALL RIGHT, YOU WORTHLESS SCUM,” he bellowed—while on official duty, Humdrake never spoke below a bellow—“LINE UP ACCORDING TO HEIGHT.” To emphasize the command, he gave the boy nearest to him a kick. The boys began scrambling into line.

“KREMP,” Humdrake bellowed to his assistant. “WAKE UP THAT SCUM OVER THERE.” He pointed to the snoring drunks. As Kremp went over and began prodding them, Humdrake’s eyes fell on Peter, still standing against the wall, holding the toilet bucket.

“YOU!” bellowed Humdrake. “WHAT D’YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING WITH THAT?”

“I…I…” stammered Peter. “I was—”

“DO YOU INTEND TO STEAL THAT BUCKET?” bellowed Humdrake, who was not one to tolerate toilet-bucket thieves.

“No, sir,” said Peter. “I was—”

“THEN PUT IT DOWN.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter, setting down the bucket, glad to be relieved of its weight and stink.

“NOW GET INTO LINE,” bellowed Humdrake, grabbing Peter by the shoulder and shoving him toward the others. Peter, avoiding a punch thrown by Rafe, got into line according to size, smallest to largest, toward the front, fourth in line. Kremp herded the drunks to the end of the line. One of them, stumbling and confused, said, “What’s happening? Where are we going?”

“YOU ARE GOING TO BE TAKEN BEFORE THE MAGISTRATE,” bellowed Humdrake. He had bellowed these same words many times before; it was rote bellowing. “YOU WILL HAVE A PROPER HEARING TO DETERMINE YOUR GUILT OR INNOCENCE. YOU WILL THEN BE TAKEN TO NEWGATE TO ROT.”

At those words, the boy in front of Peter, who was perhaps nine years old, perhaps eight, began to cry.

“What’s Newgate?” Peter whispered to him.

“A prison,” sniffed the boy. “A ’orrible, ’orrible prison. Me dad died there.”

Peter turned toward Humdrake, gulped, and spoke.

“Sir!” he said.

“WHAT IS IT?”

“What if…” said Peter, screwing up his courage, “what if we haven’t done anything wrong?”

The larger boys behind Peter snorted. Humdrake turned a purplish shade of red.

“KREMP!” he bellowed. “CLOUT THAT BOY ON THE EAR!”

Kremp scuttled over and clouted Peter on the ear. Fortunately for Peter, Kremp was an inexperienced clouter, and it was not too painful.

“IF YOU DIDN’T DO NOTHING,” said Humdrake, explaining the fine points of English law, “THEN YOU WOULDN’T BE HERE, NOW WOULD YOU?”

Peter saw that his only way out of this predicament would be to fly. He knew he’d be seen, but he had no choice. He’d do it quickly, he decided, the instant they were outside. Then he—

Peter’s thoughts were interrupted by the clinking of chain links. He looked to the back of the line.

Oh, no.

Humdrake was chaining the prisoners together. He moved down the line, squatting next to the prisoners one by one, snapping shackles around their right ankles; the shackles were firmly attached to the chain. As Humdrake closed each shackle, he locked it with a small, shiny brass key on his key ring. As he approached the front of the line, Peter looked around desperately but hopelessly: the cell door was locked; there was no way out. He felt a hollowness in his stomach as Humdrake snapped the cold iron ring around his own filthy ankle.

His flying ability was useless now. He was trapped.