The Eyeball Collector Page 9

  And what a great start it had been. With his new wardrobe, mysterious accent and bottomless reservoir of charm, not to mention his ever-expanding collection of eyeballs, he had been welcomed with open arms into northside society. After all, as Hector himself well knew, the north side was a place where people were judged in the main on appearance. The ladies in particular had taken to him and he was invited into all the best drawing rooms. He might have arrived with only his personality but he always left with a memento – a ring, an ornament, a piece of cutlery, all items small enough that they wouldn’t be missed for a while. Indeed sometimes, if he had been shaken, he would have jangled like Christmas bells.

  But it was his encounter with Lady Mandible that set him on a fateful and even more lucrative course.

  Lady Lysandra Mandible was well known in Urbs Umida. Her wealth – rightly rumoured to be significant – had been rapidly attained by a succession of marriages to rich, much older men. She came to the City just when old Lord Mandible, painfully aware of young Lord Mandible’s shortcomings, was seeking a wife for him to ensure the continuation of the family line. Lysandra suited both Mandibles’ purposes eminently, and vice versa, and they were married while Bovrik, as Gulliver Truepin, was still selling hair restorer elsewhere.

  It was at the Annual Northside Late Summer Ball that Bovrik was introduced to Lady Lysandra. She, having heard much about this charming and popular foreigner, thought it would be both practical and amusing to engage him to help with the Midwinter Feast. And of course she knew how it would gall so many society ladies if she was to have the delectable Baron all to herself. Bovrik, for completely different reasons, was equally happy to accept the position and lost no time installing himself at Withypitts Hall.

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Bovrik, running his hand over the crisp linen sheet. ‘This is living!’ This was certainly the most enjoyable and profitable swindle he had ever undertaken. He had already recouped all the money he’d spent to get here by pilfering Mandible trinkets, and he was able to do it in such style and comfort. Even if he only stayed at Withypitts until the Feast, he was sure to have significantly increased his wealth.

  With a self-satisfied smile he took an engraved rectangular box from beside the bed and opened it to reveal a red velvet-lined interior with seven deep depressions, four of which were occupied with false eyeballs. There they sat, side by side, all staring the same way. At first glance they looked identical – made from glass, off-white with a jetblack pupil and a pale blue iris. Upon closer inspection, however, it could be seen that each had a jewel or precious stone in the centre of the pupil, winking in the light, and that each jewel was different: a ruby, an opal, a pearl and the most recent emerald.

  ‘Hmm,’ he thought, snapping the box shut. ‘Three to go, and then I will have one for every day of the week.’

  He sighed deeply. Regardless of his heart’s desire, he had decided that when he had his final eyeball – by the Feast, he hoped – he would leave. Years of swindling had taught him never to push his luck in one place too long. It was a rule he prided himself on. He screwed up his face. But it pained him to think of walking away from such a wonderful meal ticket and, against his better judgement, recently he had found himself wondering if he could postpone his departure. Lady Mandible, in some ways such a kindred spirit, certainly seemed to enjoy his company. She liked his suggestions for the Feast (it was he who had first mentioned Trimalchio), and with the somewhat unseemly connections he had made over the years he was able to help her with some of her more ‘unusual’ ideas about decor and entertainment. She was obviously delighted with the so-called butterfly boy too. That had been a stroke of luck. Until his encounter with Hector Bovrik had been rather stumped as to where to find hundreds of butterflies in winter.

  ‘Oh, surely there is a way . . .’ he mused. He stroked his cloak thoughtfully again. The fur seemed to represent everything that was important to him.

  ‘And why should Jocastar not be for the likes of me?’ he thought with some bitterness. ‘I’m worth it.’

  He looked out across the grounds and down the hill to the ancient oak forest and he remembered once again a day long ago when he was still young Jereome Hogsherd, son of Tucker Hogsherd, a lowly forest dweller . . .

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thanks for the Memory

  . . . That autumn morning, young Jereome sat by the stream watching his father’s pigs (he always referred to them as his father’s, distancing himself from their ownership) rooting about and chewing on acorns. He was deep in thought as usual, lamenting his life of drudgery and pig filth, and it was some time before he realized that he was no longer alone. A solitary traveller, a rangy man with a narrow head and high cheekbones, had managed to come unnoticed up to the stream and stood quite close to him. Jereome said nothing. He had little interest in strangers, especially ones who looked impoverished. If the fellow had money (and Jereome had a unique ability to sniff it out), it would have been a different story. Certainly he would have introduced himself in the hope of taking advantage of the stranger’s purse. In fact, if Jereome had known just a little more about the stranger, his life could have taken a very different course, but that is by the by.

  Eventually Jereome sneaked a better look at the fellow only to find that he was already under close scrutiny himself. The traveller looked as if he had been on the road for some time. He carried a knapsack and a stick and was plainly dressed, in dark colours. With a curt nod to Jereome he knelt by the stream and took a drink of water from cupped hands.

  Jereome was wary of strangers. Generally they meant trouble. Either they wanted hospitality (for which the forest dwellers were not known at all, having a reputation to the contrary) or they were sheriffs looking for criminals. This man didn’t look like a sheriff. He watched as the man laid down his bag and took out a hunk of bread, some cheese and a bottle of ale.

  ‘Would you like to share with me?’ he asked. His accent was not local but also not strong enough to place anywhere else.

  ‘I have my own,’ said Jereome, and pulled from his pocket some strips of dark dried meat. And to his surprise, almost without realizing he was doing it, he offered a piece to the stranger. The man’s eyes lit up and he took it gratefully.

  ‘Hairy-Backed Hog,’ he said as he chewed it. ‘Excellent! The best there is.’

  Jereome’s chest puffed out. ‘I cured it myself,’ he said.

  ‘And what a fine job you’ve done. Here, take some bread, make a meal of it.’

  Jereome accepted and the two sat silently for some minutes chewing and drinking, the stranger from his ale bottle and Bovrik from his water-filled pig’s bladder.

  Finally replete, the two began a conversation in earnest. Nearby the pigs were snuffing and the trees were swaying gently in the breeze. The weak sun had mustered some strength and they both enjoyed the feel of its rays on their faces.

  ‘So, where have you come from?’ asked Jereome. ‘Where do you go?’

  ‘I have come from a small town in the midlands.’ The man mentioned a name that was familiar to Jereome. ‘Perhaps you have heard of it?’

  ‘And what were you doing there?’

  The stranger laughed. ‘What I always do. Trying to help but getting into trouble.’

  ‘You sound as if it wasn’t quite what you expected.’

  ‘Oh, I expected it all right,’ said the man. ‘Some things are inevitable.’

  Jereome was quietly intrigued by this enigmatic stranger. ‘Tell me more,’ he urged. ‘Have you had any adventure? What was your reward?’

  ‘Adventure? Certainly. Reward? Well, I have this,’ said the man and he produced from his rucksack a wooden leg.

  Jereome glanced immediately and overtly at the man’s legs. He recalled that he had limped as he had approached.

  ‘I limp, it is true,’ said the stranger, seeing his look, ‘but I do have both my legs. This wooden leg belonged to a very old gentleman. I had the privilege of hearing his last confession on his deathbed. He
gave it to me before he passed on.’

  ‘What would anyone want with a wooden leg? Is it valuable?’

  ‘Not the leg itself,’ replied the man, ‘but what was in it. Look.’

  He held it out and twisted the knee and it came off. The leg was hollow. ‘The man kept his life savings in it, in promissory letters and bank notes. It was a substantial sum.’

  ‘What of the man’s family?’

  ‘Aha! Now you get to the crux of it. The gentleman did have a son but he was a slothful beast. He knew what was in the leg and he came to me and demanded that I give it to him, that it was his by right. I refused, of course. He threatened me and then left. He returned that evening and stole it when he thought I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Were you? Looking, I mean?’

  ‘I’ll grant you that I was not surprised when he came back.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  The traveller laughed. ‘Let’s just say when he put his hand in the leg he got a nasty surprise.’

  Jereome frowned. ‘When he found there was no money?’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  Now Jereome was confused. ‘If not money, then what did he find?’ he asked.

  The stranger got to his feet and, with some difficulty, pushed the leg into his knapsack again. He smiled oddly.

  ‘Just a little something that had crawled in unexpectedly – and completely of its own accord, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Like a scorpion, perhaps?’

  ‘Similar. Certainly the encounter was fatal.’

  ‘But you have the leg still.’

  ‘I like to think it came back to its rightful owner.’

  ‘So why do you keep it?’

  ‘I have a feeling that it will come in useful one day.’ The stranger stretched and yawned. ‘Well,’ he said with finality, ‘I must be on my way. I have a long journey. I am heading further into the mountains.’

  Jereome shuddered. ‘Why do you want to go there? It will be so cold this time of year and only get colder. You should stay in the forest. Wait out the winter.’

  ‘No, I must go,’ said the stranger. ‘I am . . .’ he hesitated before finishing softly, ‘. . . expected.’ He looked at Jereome with a critical eye until the boy began to feel as if he was being measured up for something. But then the man gave a little shake of his head and began to gather his things.

  ‘I wish you well,’ said Jereome uncharacteristically, and shook his hand. ‘Maybe one day we will meet again.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the stranger, and put his cloak around his shoulders. As it swung about him it brushed against Jereome’s bare skin. The hairs stood up on his arm and his body tingled all over. Such softness! He had never felt such a thing. Jereome’s clothes were woven by his own mother and were coarse and stiff and smelled quite bad when they were wet, which at this time of year was most days. Almost shocked by the feel of the cloak, Jereome watched as the tall stranger began to walk away.

  ‘Wait,’ he called after him. ‘I have a question.’

  The man had already stopped.

  ‘Your cloak. From what material is it made?’

  ‘Jocastar,’ said the man, ‘naturally.’ And then he disappeared into the forest, leaving Jereome in a frenzy of emotions. He realized he had never even asked the stranger his name.

  And what of the money in the leg? thought Jereome, but by now it was too late.

  That night over bacon stew and acorn broth Jereome spoke to his family about the stranger.

  ‘Jocastar?’ queried his father with a frown. ‘Don’t you be getting any ideas about that,’ he said gruffly. ‘Jocastar ain’t for the likes of us. The most expensive fur in the world, woven into the finest material. The creature is found only on the highest slopes of the mountains. Fools alone go to harvest it. There certainly ain’t none around here.’

  ‘I . . . .’ began Jereome, but his father’s expression did not invite any more conversation.

  That night Jereome lay awake until the early hours, his mind in turmoil. The feel of the cloak still made his finger-tips tingle. Suddenly, Jocastar seemed to represent everything that he wanted, and yet was denied, from life. Jereome did not subscribe to the same self-perpetuating martyrdom as his father. He had plans for his future suddenly and it didn’t involve the forest. Or pigs.

  ‘Why should that traveller, a man of little fortune by all appearances, have such a luxurious item and I not?’ he asked himself. ‘Is he any better than I am?’

  And he vowed that night to one day possess a cloak of Jocastar and all the things that went with it . . .

  Bovrik shook himself from his reverie. The irony of his situation – that he was living such a high life only a few miles from where he was born a lowly peasant – never failed to make him smile.

  He sprayed some of his favourite lemon perfume into the air, walked quickly through the aromatic cloud and then turned back to his box of eyeballs, to select one for the day.

  ‘Eeenie meenie minie mo

  How I wish Lord M would go

  Bovrik then could rule the show

  Eenie meenie minie mo.’

  His glass eye successfully chosen, he lifted his cup, filled with tea brewed from tea leaves picked by finger and thumb at elbow height from the rarest of tea bushes that grew only in secret locations in the Orient, Lady Mandible’s favourite, and toasted the air.

  ‘To you, Augustus Fitzbaudly,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’ Now, where was that boy? He had an errand for him to run. He did so like having servants to order around.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Close Encounter

  Hector was trying his utmost to breathe quietly but he was tense and his chest was tight. He was crouched down awkwardly in a bush and a branch was poking him in the back of the head, but he couldn’t afford to make a sound. In front of him was a small clearing in what was otherwise the dark and dense forest of centuries-old oak, the source of so much of the Hall’s interior – the panelling on the walls, the broad floorboards (where it was not marble) and, of course, the huge dining table in the main dining hall.

  It was sleeting but Hector was well wrapped up in his father’s cloak. He had the hood pulled right over his head and the green cloth allowed him to melt into his surroundings. No one could possibly have known that he was there. No one, that is, but not no thing.

  A Hairy-Backed Forest Hog stood only feet away from his hiding place.

  The hog, a magnificent and certainly most hairy specimen, was the largest member of the pig family Hector had ever seen. It looked ancient, its whiskers were grey, but the ridge along its back was just as he had heard, jet black, with all the appearance of scorched fur. There had been rumours for some time in the Hall, greeted with great excitement by Lord Mandible, about a couple of extra-large hogs roaming the forest but sightings were few and far between. There was no doubt in Hector’s mind, however, that this was one of those very creatures.

  This was the third time Hector had ventured into the forest in as many days. The Baron had sent word again that Lady Mandible needed a large quantity of hog hair and Hector had accepted the task. He was happy to run errands – as long as the cocoons stayed cool they needed little attention, and he found it suited his mood better to keep busy. Besides, it was in his own interest to visit the forest . . . The Hairy-Back was a copious shedder regardless of the time of year, so the bristle was readily found on the forest floor and caught in bushes and briars. It had many uses at the Hall, from false eyelashes to cushion stuffing to cosmetic brushes. He had gathered a full bag on the two previous occasions without incident but today things were not going so smoothly.

  The hog lifted its long fleshy snout into the air and sniffed audibly. It seemed to Hector the beast knew he was there. Its head was cocked slightly to one side as it stared unblinking into the foliage. Two huge yellowing canines rose from its lower jaw, glistening with toxic saliva, to fit perfectly side by side with the pair that grew down from the upper.


  ‘It must weigh as much as my horse,’ he thought.

  The hog sniffed again and then began to root about in the forest floor. Finding what it was looking for, it started to eat noisily, its jaw grinding from side to side. Then with a satisfied snort it turned and trotted back into the trees. Hector allowed himself to breathe again. It was a privilege to have seen the animal but it was also a relief to see it go. Many a huntsman, generally dead, bore the scars of those canines.

  As he crawled out from the bush he noticed something glinting on the ground in front of him. He picked it up. It was a huge ring, heavy and cold in his hand. Its black stone gleamed even in the forest’s low light. How had that got there? he wondered. Still, he was fortunate. If the ring was as valuable as it felt, it would fetch him good money when he sold it. Hector was very aware that when his plan was complete a rapid exit from the Hall might be necessary, and any extra funds he had to help him on his way would be most useful. He put it in his pocket.

  Standing up, Hector went to where the hog had been rooting. He could clearly see the remains of its mushroom meal. The hog ate only the large juicy heads, leaving the long narrow stalks in the ground, which stalks were exactly what Hector was after.

  Once finished, Hector pulled off his gloves and tucked them inside out into his pocket, alongside the ring. Then he unpicked a large tuft of hog hair from a nearby branch, stuffed it into the overfull pouch at his hip, and started back through the forest. He had left his mare tethered to a branch when the trees grew too close for her to get through.