the Legend of Springheel Jack (complete)

In those days, London was a stranger place. Most days we couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the sky began, for the fog had grown as thick and substantial as the clouds. Night was black, day was gray, both overcast and shadowed. A sense of isolation was never more prevalent in a city than it was in London at that time. All decent folk were walled up in townhouses, or hidden behind the curtains of passing carriages. Every man wore the same hat, every woman carried the same parasol, and that constant wall of yellowish fog made it so that each block might as well have been another world.1

London, 1730; the perfect setting for fairy tales in an age that had seemingly outgrown them. England was making its way steadily into what we now call ‘civilization’ while the rest of the world struggled to define that word before too readily subscribing to it. That is all politics, though, and this story takes place on the wrong side of town for that. While some people of importance may have made their way out this far before, most politics stop before they reach Winchester. The broken cobblestones are all but dust now; ruts in which carriages hastily make their passage on their way to more lively parts of town. The fog stirred softly, thick, sickly yellow reflecting the flickering lamplight above. There was a cough, and a carriage came into view.2

It was a gypsy caravan, arrived from some mysterious location and now on its way back from whence it came; Ireland or Prussia or the deepest reaches of the Ottoman Empire. A man leapt off the back of the caravan and shouted his thanks to the driver in some foreign tongue. He is a legend, now, his name spoken in whispers or read with wide eyes in moldering texts, but then he was just a man, and not much to look at either. His clothes were a collection of rags, mostly threadbare costumes thrown out by the proud theater house just east of the river. He wore patched velvets and suede, lace and gilded trim; an abominable display of Shakespeare and Ovid, Grecian luxury and English melodrama.3

He had hitched a ride with the gypsies from the bazaar under the old bridge in the lower part of town. It was one of the many places that the city seemed to have swallowed whole and forgotten. Certain parts of any city are hidden away from the waking world, lost places known only to the street people; rag clad kings in a world beyond our own. That is why the caravans always set up under the old bridge. Only the right kind of people would know about the bazaar. There were no rich eccentrics browsing exotic curiosities here, or wealthy thieves making their way through a crowd one wallet at a time. The gypsy bazaar was frequented by the true children of London; Jack’s people. They were the shadows on street corners, living by lamplight, sleeping in archways and doorsteps, thinking about money but glad to be poor.4

The bazaar was always something to behold, an oddity so seemingly out of place amongst the crumbling facades and looming architecture of ever-sterile England. Merchants hawked all things from every corner of the world. The air was filled with the scent of exotic spices and sun-scorched dust from far off lands. Odd foreign instruments sung the laments or praise into the chilly night air, speaking of worlds Jack would never see. The life of a vagrant was a good one, Jack knew, but the closest he would come to seeing the world was in the bits of it brought to him by the gypsies.5

Many of them knew him by now. Jack had grown up on the streets of the city, raised by whoever would take him in that week. Even then, with no family and nothing in his life consistent, Jack was content to live on the streets. Some people are just born to the city, and Jack was truly her adoring son.6

He had seen most of London, having wandered from one corner to the other. Out of all the available alley space he had seen in his days of wandering, none had taken his fancy as much as Winchester, a decaying community of bizarre architecture and abandoned churches. At one point or another, Winchester was a populous and wealthy community. The city is a strange animal, though, and she is inconsistent. The community had begun to dissolve just at the peak of its prosperity, leaving a sad, empty world behind for Jack to inhabit.7

There were plenty of abandoned buildings to be had in Winchester, but Jack had never felt comfortable sleeping inside. He had set up his home in a covered alley the year before, kept from the rain by an awning between two age-old townhouses. Life was fairly good. He could usually scrounge up enough money begging or doing odd jobs to keep himself fed and for Jack, that was enough. 8

By the time he got home, the world was just changing from the impenetrable black of deep night to the surrealistic gray of coming dawn. Jack looked at the sky, trying to gage what day of the week would greet him when he awoke the next morning. 9

Sunday.10

It felt like a Sunday.11

He settled into his bed; rags piled into some great ornate bed frame long since abandoned by the previous tenants of the house on his right. Sleep came soft and dreamlessly as sleep usually does to those who choose to live simply. Jack slept for a seemingly brief time, but it was deep enough to quench the thirst of any exhaustion. 12

Church bells welcomed the sun’s return to the sleeping city. Jack awoke and smiled softly, relishing the distant melancholy echoes of a Sunday morning. He rose and traded his Grecian robe and ruffled shirt for an old velvet doublet used in a long-ago production of Hamlet. Though it probably mattered very little, especially in his case, Jack always liked looking his best for church.13

London was awakening, the great flower of sunrise burning away the night’s fog and caressing the steeples and spires of the sleepy town in pastel shades of red, then orange, then yellow as morning gave way to cloudless day. In amongst the cleaner dregs of the city, men waxed handlebar mustaches and tightened bow ties and cufflinks, women brushed on rouge and fastened jewelry, everyone making themselves up, preparing to head off into the world to celebrate their conformity. Church was an obvious obligation, even in this strange age where it was beginning to be acceptable and, even, fashionable to question it.14

Sunday morning was quite a different thing in Jack’s corner of Westchester. Beggars, gypsies, pickpockets, prostitutes; all emerged from their places in the shadows in a celebration of color and individuality. Jack had no mustache wax and, indeed, no mustache. He had only his costumes from the old theater, and that is what he wore. The old woman who lived in the shipping crate down the road wandered into view, sporting her collection of handkerchiefs. She collected them, each Sunday adding another brilliant color to her patchwork display of bright cloth and various pattern. A whore from the brothel in the red lantern district wore an old wedding gown, modified and trimmed in black. The mad old general descended from his decrepit tower above what used to be a constabulary in full crimson uniform of the British foreign legion and a cracked, dirty monocle. The street people were an odd group, looking like more of a circus than anything. They emerged from alleyways and forgotten cellars, doorsteps and cheap hotels; a parade of sociological refuse, silently making their way to one point; the old church.15

Of course it wasn’t the only church in Winchester, nor was it necessarily the biggest or best, but it was theirs. Long had the place been abandoned; boarded up and given over to the city to die and be forgotten. No one was quite sure when they had started going there, or who first organized it, but it was now tradition. 16

The bells tolled in various steeples all around London to announce to the Christian world that Sunday was upon them again. The working inhabitants of London went to their church, and the street people went to theirs’. 17

Jack usually spoke on Sundays. He had always been a favorite of the Westchester churchgoers for his sermons, which contained not the vindictive fire and cryptic ceremony of the Roman Catholic worship that most of his audience was accustomed to, but a quiet, insightful power that people could take with them when they left. Jack usually had plenty of good things to say. He spent most of his time thinking, sorting through what he would present to the waiting populace of the Westchester streets the next Sunday. This week, though, he had drawn a blank.18

Everyone filed in silently, the vagrant community exchanging hushed greetings and compliments. The church seemed to have a quality that inspired silence. Dust, illuminated by soft, stained-glass-filtered morning sun, settled serenely in the empty corners, stirred up again and again by passing bodies. The choir loft hung dangerously askew under a partially collapsed roof, which served to admit more sunlight on the nice Sundays such as this one, but made sermons during rainy periods rather unpleasant. The place smelled of warping wood and mildew, an acrid scent that all who attended were quite used to. It was the uniform odor of most of their homes. 19

When everyone was settled, and the last rustles of cloth and whispers of greeting had subsided with the motes of sunlit dust, a painful silence ensued. At this point, Jack would usually take his place at the two upturned soapboxes that served as the pulpit. When it was apparent that he would not be speaking today, the mad general took stood up to have his say.20

The mad general could always be counted on to give a speech. He straightened his uniform coat, which had lost many buttons and gained even more pins and bright bits of metal in its years of use. He wore a constable’s helmet, which was a bit too large for his head but necessary to cover his baldness, a thing he seemed quite frequently ashamed of. He raised one skeletal, arthritic hand and cleaned his monocle on the black silk bandolier that stretched diagonally across his coat. The size of the small man was greatly exaggerated as he stood in front of the congregation, his too-large eyepiece, baggy coat and loose helm making him appear as some pygmy mummy, childish and vulnerable.21

His voice was weak, but he spoke in a way that implied that he was used to it being strong and hearty. The mad general was a man accustomed to people listening when he spoke. 22

“It is Sunday, friends, and were I a spiritual man by nature, as is our boy Jack, I would have a nice sermon prepared for you. Unfortunately, I am a practical-thinking man, and not very creative in way of religion. I come before you today to address an issue you all may or may not be aware of.” 23

He reached two fingers deftly into the small watch pocket of the jacket and, like a magician producing magic scarves, withdrew a folded notice of some sort.24

“This was posted today on my front door.”25

He turned the bulletin to face the crowd. It was a job offer. The army regularly posted similar bulletins up around the streets of Westchester, trying to recruit London’s waste into England’s finest. This one, though, was not from the government.26

“It says that there is to be a factory put into the vacant park space at the end of Ill Street.”27

The road wasn’t really called Ill Street. The real street name was lost when, at some point long ago, half the sign had been sheered away by some unknown force and never replaced. Ill was all that was left.28

There was a murmur of hushed conversation, but not necessarily a disapproving one.29

“And what be the problem with that, then?” Someone asked. It was a small man named Ernie, a street musician who hardly ever spoke up. 30

The general squeezed his monocle tight with practiced facial muscles and glared at Ernie, vulture-eyed and volatile. “The problem is that there is a factory trying to steal Westchester from us. They move in, their towers vomiting smoke and their engines devouring silence, and all of you get a job there. Then your children get jobs there. And you make just enough to get by. And they make just enough to get by. And they fix up the townhouses, and they tear down the hovels. Before we know it, we will have lost control of our lives. I value that too much. I will not sell my soul. Not to a machine.”31

The general was a fiery and passionate man, which was why it was easy to say he was crazy. His speeches, while usually not very full in the way of content, had always been eloquent and masterfully delivered. He probably would have made a great politician, had he ever understood politics. 32

Though passionately spoke, it was difficult to say if his point had hit home or not. Some of them seemed to understand, nodding at the right moments, taking each point with increasing fervor. Most of them lived in Westchester by choice, for it was a place abandoned by functioning society. Westchester was their world. Though they were a people who owned nothing, they at least owed nothing, and that seemed infinitely more important.33

But a factory…34

A factory was too big a thing for some of them to even imagine. England was growing pregnant with industry. Factories were the figureheads that represented a new, prosperous age. For such a thing to be in humble Westchester was exciting. Some were sick of living stagnant lives of filth and decay, and the promise of a new age that a factory represented was just the thing to bolster the dying community.35

“We have very little choice in this, I am afraid,” the general continued. “But as a people united we can simply choose not to accept it. If we don’t work there, if we don’t fuel that beast, then it will starve, and Westchester will live. Otherwise…” The general, a man of seemingly infinite zeal, had run out of words.36

Jack prayed alone after the congregation had cleared out, on his knees with his hands clasped, a single ray of gold and crimson sun painting him in stained glass glory as he spoke with God.37

Jack had never been taught anything about religion. His sense of God had been gleaned independently from a few moldy volumes of the bible he had found in the back room of the chapel. They were the books that a traveling priest, bound for Scotland from Ireland, had taught him to read with. He had not understood a lot of it, but he could interpret enough for it to interest him. 38

He had once discussed with a few sailor friends at the pub what he would be had he been born to a normal English family. He had said a priest. They had agreed. Something about Jack just seemed fit for divinity.39

In an old, broken church, with the noon sun cutting stark holes in the gloom, father Jack began to pray.40

He had never prayed in words. Not really. Jack’s prayers were images, emotions, pure hope, pure thanks and sometimes, pure fear. He prayed for the people of Westchester, who were his family more than anyone else had ever been. He prayed for guidance in the matter of the factory, and for the safe journey of his gypsy friends, freshly departed the night before. Then, almost hesitantly, he prayed for one last thing. The pure contentedness of his childhood was wearing off. He had wandered further and further into unknown parts of the city lately, searching for something he was not sure of. Jack’s brow furrowed, confused, as he, for the first time in his life, prayed for change.41

-*-42

Her name was Jill, and she was beautiful. Her father coveted her like a jealous dragon hoarding treasure, hiding her in a room with heavy curtains from the prying eyes of the world. She was presented to certain men of prestige now that she was old enough to inspire lust, and this always made business deals go more favorably for her father. 43

Business; that ever-present ephemeral thing that ruled so much of her life… Business was the reason for everything lately. Father would come home after two days spent in the pub, and this was because of business. They had to sell their cottage in the hills, back in her home country of France because of business. They moved to this horrible, filthy place where even the air seemed somehow acrid and dirty because of business. Jill had been in London less than a day, and she already had decided to hate it.44

Father was an artist, though much of his ‘business’ had very little to do with art. He painted shoddy landscapes and sunsets; attempts at duplicating the beauty of the home they had left behind. Jill looked out the carriage window at the cluttered apartment windows and sooty factories of the city. She wondered what father would paint now.45

He was ever enthusiastic about the move to England. Wealthy English tycoons, too wrapped up in industry to consider the finer points of life, imported French culture as much as any other resource. Jill’s father saw England as a land of opportunity; a whole country of men who may actually appreciate his art.46

To Jill, it was simply another prison, as her own home had become in the years following her mother’s death. No more would she walk the green cresting hills of the open countryside. No more would she watch the sun disappear behind the tree line bordering her favorite pond. Her world now was the soot and pollution of the big city, and as they drove on it got progressively worse.47

Her father was not a wealthy man, though he tried to make it seem like he was. He had purchased a large townhouse; once the property of a great mining investor who moved out to stake his claim in Africa. The house had come very cheap. Jill expected the worst, and was not disappointed. Westchester was a cesspool of abandoned lots and crumbling buildings, and their new home was directly in the middle of it.48

While their two servants unpacked, Jill sat on the balcony that attached to what would be her new room. It was a rickety thing, in as much of a state of disrepair as anything in Westchester. Jill sat silently, secretly holding onto the self-destructive hope that the balcony would give way, sending her plummeting into the sharp and rusty industrial scrap that was piled under her window. No such luck. The wind blew, the balcony groaned and settled, but showed no signs of imminent collapse.49

Jill’s window afforded her a great view of nearly the entire street. She watched as an increasingly odd cast of characters filed out of the ruined church across the street from her new home.50

The only people she’d known her entire life had been the simple country folk of the small village she’d called home and the well-dressed gentlemen who came to court her. It can be imagined, then, that her reaction to the spectacle that was the Westchester populace was less than enthusiastic and, in fact, a mite bit terrified.51

“I hope none of them see me,” she thought.52

Everything about this place was seeming more and more foreign to her every second. She watched a rather fat man in an ancient looking wig and a shockingly thin man in an old officer’s uniform examine their carriage curbed in front of their house. They left, eventually, and the streets were deserted once more. Jill breathed a sigh of relief. She was certain that those men were about to steal their horses. So much about this place made her paranoid that she wondered if she would ever summon the will to leave the house again. Jill stood and was about to return to the relative, if still unfamiliar, safety of her new room when one last person exited the church, and her breath caught in her throat.53

Jill’s mother had died when Jill was only ten. She had been a wonderful woman, vibrant and passionate. She worked as a violinist and chamber singer while her father struggled with his art. Those were happier times. They would spend whole days picnicking on the clearest summer days, reading fairy tales, mostly penned and illustrated by her father himself. There was one book, though, that Jill remembered most of all. Her mother had read it to her repeatedly on request. ‘Belle and the Beast’ was Jill’s favorite story and her most prized possession; the leather bound book as ornate and well crafted as any bible.54

“One day,” Jill’s mother used to muse, “you will find your perfect prince.”55

Jill would stare at the picture of the prince, freshly human and gorgeous at the end of the story. She had memorized every little detail of that picture. In her mind, it had always been the man she would marry.56

He walked out of the church then, an exact image of the illustration she had worshipped for so long. He even wore the same clothes; that tattered doublet and those ripped leggings ragged from long years spent as a monster.57

Jill watched as her beautiful prince smiled at the noonday sun and wandered out of her sight.58

Dazed, she walked back into her room, the gloom of the place in stark contrast with the extreme bright of the summer day. Jill looked around lazily for a certain box, and then proceeded to search for her books of fairy tales.59

-*-60

Prayer had the power to leave Jack invigorated. He had gone to church that morning harboring secret disparaging thoughts; quietly nurturing a hopelessness and emptiness that was foreign to his free spirit. In those few lonely moments he spent sending his will up to a listening God, Jack learned to smile again. He tried the expression on, casting the light of his happiness to the sky as if to challenge the sun. His smile fit him like an old blanket; familiar and comfortable. All things: his worries about Westchester, the strange stirrings of inexplicable emotions, would be settled somehow. He had prayed for it. With his problems in God’s hands, Jack started on his way. Lost in the simple world his thoughts, Jack didn’t notice the beautiful girl staring down on him from her place on the ruined balcony above his bed. He only saw the bright glare of the morning sun and then the long, empty street he would have to travel to reach the pub.61

Jack waved to the girls at Madame Moreau’s as he passed under the covered windows. They smiled and blew kisses at him, most of them returning from church or just waking up. Jack worked there when major merchant or naval ships docked in and business got overwhelmingly good. He worked behind the bar mostly; cleaning glasses and pouring drinks. For this he had been offered many types of sexual gratification he had not even imagined as possible, but always only took a few hot meals as payment. Though just one brothel among many, Madame Moreau’s had the second best food in Westchester. Her chef, an old sepia-skinned man who seemed to speak no English, was bested only by the cooking of Benjamin Jacobs, the owner of the Westchester pub.62

Ben’s place really didn’t have a name. It was simply a pub, populated by sailors, criminals, lowlifes and street urchins. Ben was an old Jewish man, come from a place that Jack only knew he had never heard of. He cooked and cleaned and served booze himself, for the most part, his seemingly great age doing little to slow him down. The only other hired help he had were his two bar girls and his muscle, an immovable mass of tissue named Burg.63

Burg’s full name was Burgeron McNeiland, and he was a Scotsman. As a boy, he had stowed away aboard a merchant ship belonging to a slaughterhouse, hoping to escape a simple life of sheep farming in exchange for the excitement of the big city. Ben had taken young Burg in, putting him to work doing various things around the newly opened bar. Burg grew, and he grew enormous. Now as tall as the doorway to the tavern and so muscled he could open a keg by punching it, Burg was an effective bouncer and crime deterrent. Ben always spoke quite fondly of his hired help.64

“Some bloke shot him once. Burg never did quite get used to being shot.”65

On Sunday mornings, the pub belonged to lower Westchester; Jack’s crowd. The mad general and Charles the philosopher were already present as well as a few other faces Jack recognized. A few hellos were exchanged, pleasant and endearing grunts of acknowledgment. Delicious fumes welled up from the kitchen behind the bar, strange and pungent odors that could only be the cooking of old Ben.66

The old man loved the company he chose to keep, and such company was always the crowd that Jack brought in. On Sundays, while everyone was either sleeping or still in Church, old Ben welcomed the homeless inhabitants of Ill Street to his pub for free drinks and breakfast. Jack once asked old Ben why he never went to church. The man just laughed.67

“I’m Jewish, Jackky. Your church is not the same as my church.”68

“Well, where is your church?” Jack asked him.69

“Right here,” old Ben said. “I serve my God by making you all crepes. Bon appetit.”70

Burg simply seemed to have more of a use for sleep than church. He was sprawled out in one corner of the room, his soft snoring loud enough to rattle an upturned chair on the table he lay under.71

Old Ben emerged as Jack seated himself at the bar. He carried a large pot of steaming stew in both hands and he set it just to Jack’s left.72

“Breakfast, boys,” he rasped. Ben’s voice had begun to fail him as of late, but the old man still had a lot to say, his sharp tongue and keen wit famous among the drunks that had visited the area.73

Jack peered into the vat anxiously, always excited by the new and wonderful things that Ben regularly served. The stew was yellow, full of rice, something that was probably fish, and some strange, black seedpods.74

“What’s this then?” Jack pulled one out with two fingers. “Cockroaches?”75

Ben laughed. “Yes,” he said, still laughing, before retreating into the kitchen once more.76

Jack had always had trouble telling when the barkeep was kidding. He withdrew his wooden bowl from its place tucked into his broad sash and scooped himself a serving. If they were indeed cockroaches, they were the best insects he had eaten in awhile.77

Ben had a seemingly endless collection of recipes handed down from generation to generation on his father’s side. At some point, one of his ancestors had traveled to the Far East to trade for silks and spices and had returned with only the art of eastern cooking. Armed with that, he moved to Europe to make his fortune in the kitchens of many a wealthy patron. The Jacobs family had made a living off those secret recipes ever since.78

The breakfast Jack ate was some sort of curry, a flavorful and wonderful delicacy in contrast to the bland potato and cabbage stews that he was accustomed to. Jack closed his eyes and thought of the bazaar, imagining distant places. The day before the gypsies arrived, Jack had had a dream, a rare occasion for the simple man. He’d dreamed of sands as far as the eye could see and endless rolling hills of grain.79

A vagrant, though free in ways a working man may never understand, is still trapped. Without money or means of travel, Jack was caged by London.80

He thought of the factory. He had never had a job, but perhaps now was the time for one. All things must change. Jack knew he could either remain stubborn and stagnant, like the old general, or do something he had never done before; alter his lifestyle.81

Burg woke up then. The harsh grunts of him struggling into the waking world startling Jack out of unusually deep thought. Jack and Burg had been good friends since the day Jack had met him. The enormous Scotsman was nefariously easy to get along with, a trait not displayed by many raging alcoholics. 82

“Good morning at high noon, Burg, old boy.”83

“Aye, morning it is Jack.” Burg struggled to his feet. He was a bit unnerved by the fact that he hadn’t made it to his bed the night before. Saturday nights usually ended as such. “Oy. I am henceforth quits on all booze.”84

It was an old resolution, something he had set aside night after night in favor of another bottle.85

“Don’t let me touch the stuff no more, Mister Jacobs.” 86

Old Ben laughed again from someplace in the kitchen. Once Burg had his eye on a drink, there was no stopping him. Burg knew this as well as Ben did.87

The large man sighed heavily and plopped down on the stool next to Jack, massaging his bloodshot eyes.88

“So how goes it, my friend?” His voice was gravelly and slurred by sleep.89

“Only the same as always, Burg.” Jack smiled softly. Same as always.90

The two shared a quiet moment as they drank their tea, Jack’s bowl of stew long gone. 91

“Story me about Scotland, Burg.” In all their years of acquaintance, Jack had never thought to ask him about his old home.92

Burg thought for a moment as he took a large gulp of his scalding hot tea. “Wee bit oddkins you should be asking that of me, really. Aye, I know it be the place o me birth, but other than that I ken recollect none of it.” He shrugged and drained the rest of his cup. “All I gots in me head is the city. Seems like once she takes your life, she takes your memories, too.”93

“That’s too bad…” said Jack quietly.94

“Burg, you silly object,” laughed old Ben from the kitchen, his voicing rising above the sound of his cooking like steam from his various pots. “’Tweren’t the city that done run off with your memories, it’s the drink! I’ll bet ye could recollect Scotland yesterday, and your consumption last night done wiped ye so clean that ye can’t even remember that you remember it.”95

Burg chuckled softly at that, enough to choke on a bit of his scolding hot tea. Jack also laughed until, seemingly against his will, his thoughts returned to the factory.96

-*-97

It had been a long time since last she had painted. Jill struggled to mix the right colors, trying to remember the exact shade of green that the fading velvet had been. She tried to recreate the scene in her mind; that strange boy standing in front of the church, smiling into the sun. His face was difficult to place. She could only imagine the most vague of detail, certain lines and curves all jumbled together to form an image, like the face of a saint on a stained glass window or the casually etched features of the prince in her own story book.98

She stared down at the book then and realized that she was only painting what she saw there. No perfect image can ever be reflected by the human mind. It always clouds over and transforms into something more familiar.99

She let herself get absorbed in the storybook painting; the slight curve of the mouth, two hooded dots for eyes… She wondered about their color. The endless blue of a calm sea or the solid brown of earth and great mountains…100

“Green,” she thought, “his eyes are probably green.”101

She tried to capture his image in her mind once more and again she failed.102

“Who are you?” She asked aloud. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Jill didn’t hear the creak of footsteps traversing the treacherous staircase. She was only aware of her father’s presence when her door opened and he stepped inside.103

Jill’s father had never been the type to knock. It was his house, she was his daughter, and he figured the combination of the two gave him right to do whatever he wanted to without offending anyone. He was a flamboyant sort of man, attempting to enjoy luxury without being able to afford it. He wore a loose, lace up shirt with baggy sleeves and pantaloons that did not quite fit his expanding waistline any more, though he had the help of a constricting girdle to contain his bulk. 104

“Painting, my dear? I haven’t seen you engage in art in quite awhile.” 105

He spoke to her in French. She was annoyed by this, seeing as he had forced her to speak in English every day for a week before their arrival in London.106

“Yes, father. I was recently… Inspired.” She spoke in English.107

Her father frowned as he looked at her painting so far. “Inspired? By what, darling? Is that not just a picture from one of your old storybooks?”108

Jill sighed heavily, frustrated. “Yes, father.”109

He laughed. “Imitation may be the highest form of flattery, but it does little to further the career of a serious artist. You will never see me painting any image that another man has wrought. Come now, dear, forget this folly and join me for dinner. There are a few eligible young men interested in meeting you.”110

These were the evenings Jill had come to dread. Even while they still had their home in France, men of prestige would come to court her, bringing expensive food and wine to their table in exchange for a chance to appraise her like a heifer and then be turned away when their accrued wealth or occupation proved insubstantial to impress her father.111

“Yes, papa. I will have to get changed first.”112

Her father beamed at her and kissed her forehead before he left the room, shutting the door behind him. Jill opened her large traveling chest, which contained her most expensive dresses. A moment later, the serving girl, Jessika, looking gaunt and miserable as always, entered the room to assist her. Jessika picked out a dark blue gown from the trunk.113

“Your father has requested that you wear this.”114

It was her mother’s old evening dress, her favorite and most elegant.115

“He dresses me like a doll.” It was not the first time Jill had openly expressed resentment for her father’s treatment of her. 116

Jessika responded quickly and practiced. “He means you well, miss. You know he does.”117

Jill sniffed in contempt. Of course he did. He meant to sell off his daughter in exchange for business. Always business.118

Jessika dragged a full length mirror over to Jill from the far corner of the room. Jill looked at herself, disinterested. She saw only her mother, and she looked away.119

Her painting was in front of the window on her easel, the canvas admitting sunlight enough to give her unfinished prince an almost divine glow. A silent tear rolled down her cheek as Jessika tightened her corset. She closed her eyes, and was finally able to imagine him; bathed by sun and perfect. Why one stranger should be able to effect her so deeply, she had no idea. She relished the portrait of him she painted with her mind, her eyes closed. Jessika’s hands left the dress and fastened a necklace around her neck, then applied a thin layer of unnecessary makeup. She opened her eyes slowly, hesitantly. The image of him, her make-believe perfect man faded, and was gone.120

-*-121

“We had hoped our fliers would attract the attention of young gentlemen just like you,” said the man with glasses in his nasally, uptown voice. 122

Jack had grown to distrust just such men in his many years of begging. They always had a perfect proposition, usually involving trying to get him to join the foreign legion at the end. It was this man’s job to try to recruit him to a different legion; the working class.123

The man had introduced himself as Mr. Crenso, and his associate, a dark and quiet man who sat in the corner, was Mr. DePaulo. Jack said it was a pleasure to meet them both, and introduced himself as Mr. Jack.124

Jack had exited the pub and walked the short distance to the mad general’s place of residence. Sure enough, tacked on the door of the old constabulary, there was a few notices of advertisement targeted at any resident of Westchester or the surrounding areas. Jack wondered how they expected to recruit anyone, considering that most of the inhabitants of the area were illiterate. He wasn’t, though, and he followed the directions listed by the notice to an old house just outside the vacant lot where the factory was already being built.125

The office was still in a state of transition, it seemed. Crates of unpacked papers and other odds and ends littered the corners of the room, but a path had been cleared to accommodate the desk, chairs, and a few cabinets. Jack supposed that the room they were in had once been a parlor. The house had previously belonged to an old widow who had also owned the lot that the factory was currently being built on. She had died fairly recently, and the company had jumped at the opportunity to purchase her plot. They were building rapidly, and apparently hiring just as quickly.126

“We have already spoken with an Ernie Hildebrandt earlier today,” said Crenso, looking down at some random piece of paper on his cluttered desk. “Do you know him?”127

Jack nodded. Of course he did. Ernie the musician, who played his violin on random populated street corners most of the day. Jack had wondered why Ernie had been absent from the pub after church.128

“Mr. Hildebrandt told us that we might be interested in talking to you. He said that you have some amount of influence in the area, and that if we could hire you, you may be able to bring more workers in for us.” Crenso smiled at Jack. It was the broad and false smile of a predator. 129

Jack was suspicious, but he had always been suspicious of men like Crenso. They all looked the same to Jack; well-groomed, beardless, clothes all one subdued color and a monocle or eyeglasses that they may or may not need. Jack tried to keep his prejudices at bay as he listened to Crenso’s offer.130

“Mr. DePaulo and I have spoken with Mr. Cicalo himself and we have decided to offer you an immediate foreman position, should you choose to join us.” 131

Cicalo was the owner of the company, a wealthy textile producer looking to expand his business. Jack was taken aback, though he was not sure what a foreman was.132

“Well, what say you to that?” Crenso’s smile was eager, taught. He looked ready to pounce on Jack and devour him any second.133

“I’m a bit addled,” said Jack. “A foreman is kinda a boss man, righto?”134

DePaulo laughed, and Crenso only continued to smile. “Yes, it is indeed. As a foreman, you will be in charge of safety in your part of the factory, mainly. The workers we have now are mostly children, so you won’t have much trouble. All you will need to do is walk around and oversee things, making sure nobody gets caught in a machine or decides to rest before break time.”135

Jack frowned. “You gents do realize that I’ve not had any sort of real every single day job before?”136

“Of course you haven’t. That’s why we moved to this community. We are looking to take in the untapped talent of the impoverished in the area.” Crenso stopped smiling and made an attempt at growing sincere. “You are the perfect example of that talent, Mr. Jack.” Crenso quickly used his expensive fountain pen to write something on a clean piece of paper. “You will be paid this much,” he slid the whole sheet over to Jack. 137

The numbers meant nothing to him. Jack had never had to deal with money before, but he assumed that anything that had to be written on a piece of paper to be expressed was probably a good amount. 138

He thought of his childhood, his time spent on the rooftops of London, being taught about the world by various people, most of whom had either passed away or moved on by now. He thought of Ben’s cooking, and the gypsy campfires, and the greater world they symbolized.139

He stared out the window behind Crenso at the ruin and filth of the place he had grown up loving.140

“Right, then…” He paused for a moment. “You’ve bought me,” he said quietly, still staring out the window.141

Crenso adopted his too-big smile once more. “Excellent. It will be a pleasure working with you, Mr. Jack. If I could just get you to sign your name here,” he slid him a single piece of paper, covered in small print that Jack did not bother reading, “we can make it all official.”142

Jack had never had to sign his name before. He wrote it in the neat calligraphic cursive he had been taught by the Irish priest, one letter after the other; capital J. 143

Crenso snatched the paper back as soon as Jack finished the K and suddenly he felt as if he had signed away his soul. 144

“That will do, Mr. Jack,” Crenso said. “You will report for work in three weeks time, when the factory is finished.”145

He reached over the table to shake Jack’s hand. Dazed, Jack simply stood up and walked out.146

Depaulo spoke after the door had closed behind the new east wing foreman. “Are you sure that was such a good idea, then, Crenso?” His accent was thick and sloppy, mostly due to the fact that he was missing a few teeth and a chunk of his tongue. 147

“And why not?” Crenso turned to DePaulo, his composed demeanor now sharp and edgy. “Who cares about safety, anyhow? No factory is safe. Most of the workers are going to end up missing a limb, or two or their life, maybe. That’s just the price of industry. That boy is only a figurehead, not a real working man. He’ll come, then more will follow him, then we all end up with enough cheap labor to call it quits on this fucking city.”148

Cicalo himself had made an attempt to explain this to DePaulo, but the man had no sense of economy, and could not grasp any amount of capital strategy.149

“Its not important for you to understand, anyway. You’re just the bloke, I’m the bloody brains. All you need to do is kill things when I tell you to.”150

DePaulo glared at Crenso; an iron stare that was famous for making most men buckle. “Little wonder I haven’t had done and kilt you, ye damned tool.”151

Crenso’s stuttering laughter was a quiet hiss, like a snake about to strike. DePaulo couldn’t bother him now. He was excited to tell the boss about their new employees. Cicalo himself was, at the moment, busy with a dinner engagement.152

-*-153

Jill had expected a dinner hosted by her father, with many suitors present, ready to take her as a business proposition. Instead, they had traveled to the home of someone else to be guests instead of hosts. Her father wanted her to meet only one man that day, and Jill already didn’t like him.154

Gregory Cicalo was a shady character. One could tell just by looking at him. He wore dark colors, mostly blacks and deep reds of expensive materials that seemed out of place on him, like a worm on a silver platter. Jill wondered at what kind of ‘business’ Cicalo and her father had, but was at the same time glad that she didn’t know. She was accustomed, by now, to being stared at, but the way Cicalo stared bothered her deeply. She felt naked under his light gray eyes as they crawled over the curves of her breasts and the flare of her hips under her mother’s favorite gown. 155

Dinner was French cuisine, and bad French cuisine at that. Cicalo had apparently made some attempt to cater to her and her father’s heritage and had failed in the area of food. They spoke in whispers at the head of an excessively long table while Jill sat at the end, uncomfortable, apparently a pleasant-looking conversation piece.156

She milled through her food, some nearly unidentifiable concoction of pork and a cream sauce. Their carriage returned as the sun was setting. Jill spent the entire ride in silence, rubbing at the place on her hand where Cicalo had kissed.157

The house was dark. Father burned as few lamps as possible to save money. Jill’s room was a frightening place at night, a crowd of strange shadows and dark corners. The sun set blood red outside her window, bathing her painting in flames. She tried to recall again that perfect image, but of course, she could not. She had begun to doubt if she had even seen it at all.158

“The time has come to grow up,” she told herself. “This is no fairy tale. There is no prince to come rescue me. My future has been chosen for me already.”159

Tears welled up in her eyes. It was the second time she had cried that day. “Life would be different if mother was still alive.”160

She stared at her unfinished painting again; the faceless object of her passions. She remembered discussing marriage with her mother. She had made it sound like something special, something to look forward to.161

“Mother is dead.” Jill spoke to her painting; all of her hopes and her dreams. “She is dead and so are you.” With that, she lifted the canvas off the easel and threw it out the window onto the rest of the trash cluttering the alley below. She then hesitated a moment, and, impulsively, picked up her old storybook, the Belle and the Beast, and threw that out, too. As she stepped onto her balcony to look after her discarded happiness as it dropped, the strained wood gave way under her, and she was falling.162

-*-163

Jack sat in his bed, staring at nothing. He spent most days either begging, exploring, or scavenging somewhere, but not Sundays. He had read that even God had rested on Sunday, and it only seemed right to him that he rest too. He slept the sunlit hours away, compensating for the previous night he had spent avoiding sleep with several strange liquors. When he awoke, the sun was just beginning to go down, making the entire world red in its passing. The fog crept back onto the cobblestone streets as the air temperature dropped, catching rays of dying sunlight and glowing like supernatural, living fire. He hunched himself over, preparing to stand and perhaps head off to old Ben’s and talk with whatever sailors were enjoying food and drink there when something large and rectangular fell from the sky and smashed on the ground in front of him. Curious, Jack examined it. It looked like a painting, but he was not sure what of. He stood to pick it up when something rather heavy and hard followed the painting’s path to the ground and hit Jack in the back of the head. Looking up, he heard the groan of wood, a sharp crack, and then time slowed.164

He saw a flutter of cloth; dark blue and white. His first frantic thought was that he was being descended upon by an angel, but an angel would probably settle more gracefully than this. No, this was a girl, and she was plummeting towards the ground from her broken balcony. Jack, dazed by a rather large copy of Belle and the Beast taken to the back of the skull, held out his arms, jumping forward to avoid the falling wood and stone of the balcony, and caught Jill.165

Both of them would remember the meeting foggily, the trauma of the experience clouding both their minds. Jack asked Jill if she was all right repeatedly, too frantic and dazed to think to put her down. Jill simply stared at Jack, her mouth a perfect O of surprise, her face flushed.166

“It’s you,” she said finally, staring deep into his eyes. “They are green.” She smiled, and fainted.167

-*-168

Jill awoke shortly, laying down on the remnants of Jack’s bed that he was able to drag from the wreckage of her balcony.169

“Miss! You’ve awoken!” He said, glad she wasn’t dead. Jack knew little about dead people. He had seen a scant few in his life and was still unsure as to how to deal with them. 170

Jill just stared at Jack a moment, wondering if she had fallen off of her balcony and into a dream. “You saved me,” she said, “I would have been killed by the fall had you not caught me.”171

Jack shrugged. “It bloody well would have hurt, I can say.”172

Jill smiled. “What’s your name?”173

“Jack.”174

“Just Jack?”175

“Probably. Not really much use for another name.”176

Jill smiled again. “My name is Jill.”177

And that is how Jack met Jill.178

-*-179

The days that followed were some of the happiest of Jack’s life. He had never had a companion like Jill; someone unfamiliar to the city with whom he could share his world. He took her up on the rooftops, above the fog and the soot, where London was a great, unexplored forest of steeples and spires, towers and chimneys. He took her through the abandoned places, showed her the beauty of the old library and the church. They watched the ships come into port from unused rock piers out by the sea. Jack toured her across all he knew of London, every place he had come to appreciate in his long years there. 180

The beauty of the city was new to Jill. She could have never imagined that the crumbling urbanity offered by London could hold the same melancholy aestheticism that she had grown to love in her country home. Jack truly was her prince, come to rescue her from the monotonous life of imprisonment her father kept her in. Every day he would run out to ‘investigate potential investments’, a term he used to cover any amount of activity involving money, from sucking up to rich patrons interested in meeting him to gambling away what little money they had. If not for Jack, Jill would have been stuck home, warned about the dangers of London by her father and still afraid of the odd world she had been dragged into. Instead, she would sneak out with Jack by her side and travel to places she could have never imagined existed. Had she not loved him the second she saw him, she would have grown to. His free spirit was so different from the high society puppets she was forced to associate with because of her father. He was wild, passionate, and romantic in the most unexpected of ways.181

Jack was completely content again, having found that missing element of his life that had made him want to travel. Jill was everything he had desired. She was more beautiful than any person he had seen; always clean, and, when she was around him, always smiling. They talked of everything. She told him about country life, of forests and fields and silent spring nights when she would fall asleep to the sound of crickets and frogs. He told her of city life, of lonely time spent in his strange world of urban ruins. She was untouched by the city, still clean and bright and unlike anyone he had ever met. Jack summoned his courage and told her this one evening as they sat on the roof of her own home.182

The sun was just rising. They had spent all night awake under a clear sky, the stars burning bright holes in the black velvet of the night. Jack looked over at her, his eyes half-closed by sleep neglected. There was a silence as their eyes met.183

“I love you,” Jack said softly, his eyes never leaving hers.184

“…and I love you, my prince.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and he held her close. Her face tilted up towards his and they shared their first kiss.185

The most perfect moments are not captured in paintings, or poems, or, indeed, in stories. And thus does this narration fail to truly capture the beauty of the first time that Jack kissed Jill. It wasn’t the longest of kisses, nor was it the most impassioned or picturesque, even with the sky aglow with the roaring crimson of the imminent morning. It was simply a kiss; as good a kiss as captured by the fancy of any storybook. If only their tale were fiction, to be met with the parting gift of a “happily ever after” by the contented author.186

If only we could close on that scene and remember them both as thus; two lovers, holding each-other close, facing the dawn of a new day and the silent promise of a bright future that love inherently carries.187

If only the story were to end here.188

-*-189

Two weeks passed that quickly. Soon Jack would start his job, a fact of which he was proud. Jill catered to his enthusiasm, but she secretly despised the idea. Working was something ill-suited to Jack’s nature, and while he was attempting to change for the better, intending to one day use whatever financial leverage the foreman position had earned him to ask Jill’s father for her hand in marriage, Jill only grew more and more despondent, afraid she would lose the ragged prince she had fallen in love with to the working class. And, of course, there was always the matter of her impending marriage to worry about.190

Jill’s father had been drunk when he told her. He presented it to her casually, as if it were only a minor happy distraction that she would not at all object to. (“Oh, by the way, darling, I’ve arranged for you to marry Mr. Cicalo. Won’t that be splendid?”)191

This had resulted in an explosive emotional outburst; a thing Jill’s father was not really experienced in dealing with. She stormed up to her room, and he sent Jessika up to talk to her. No amount of coaxing from the serving girl would cheer her up, of course. She needed to see her love, and that night he came to her as he always did.192

Jill’s collapsed balcony and some jutting stones provided Jack with a kind of rough ladder on which to ascend to her chamber. He scrambled up with his usual grace and stealth, ushering her out of her window and into the waiting world.193

She didn’t tell him about the marriage. She couldn’t. Jack lived in a different world, away from arranged marriage and ‘business’. He wouldn’t understand. That was why she loved him. 194

“Where are we going tonight, my love?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him when they were safely outside her window, her troubles temporarily forgotten in Jack’s arms. 195

“This night,” he lifted her and spun her around him, “you and me run off to a place very special. I cannot tell you of it. You need to see it yourself. Come on.” He took her hand and ran.196

Jack had always been the type to get where he was going by running. He had never minded how he looked to passersby, nor cared much for the scenery on his way to a place. When he wanted to get somewhere, he got there as quickly as he could, and as quickly as he could just happened to be as quickly as his feet could take him. Jill was always able to keep up, her many days spent dashing through the hills of much merit in the company of Jack. The two dashed madly through the darkening streets of London as the lamplighters emerged to make the shadowy city a little less gloomy. 197

Jack took her through places she had not yet seen, following a river that meandered in and out of her view as they ran. They crossed parks and pathways and dashed through a cemetery before finally reaching their destination.198

An old bridge crossed what used to be a broad section of the river. Now the water there was little more than a creek, and the vast underbelly of the arch was lit by campfires and torches. Music was heard faintly from a distance, amplified by the acoustics of the old stone. Jill’s eyes opened wide in wonder as they drew closer.199

“What is all this, Jack?” she asked.200

“It’s a ragger’s to-do,” he responded, “the second coming of the gypsy bazaar.”201

He had told her about the gypsies, of course. They were the people he admired most. Secretly she dreamed of running off with Jack and the gypsies, bound for foreign lands; perhaps even her own native France.202

These were the second wave of gypsies to hit London that year. The first wave were Bedouin merchants and entertainers from the Middle East, Persians and Ottomans and men and women from places that were even foreign to old Ben the barkeep.203

The second wave were the Cossacks, mainly; Romanians, Slovaks, Siberians. They were a fiery people, proud in body and proud in spirit. 204

The underside of the bridge was a cavernous place, capable of accommodating the dozen or more caravans and all the patrons of the bazaar. Jack recognized many people he knew. The old general, who had been less than friendly with Jack ever since he had found out he had taken the foreman position, was hawking off old gun parts to a frightening looking Cossack selling weaponry. Burg was hammering a clear alcohol with several drunk-looking gypsies, which meant that old Ben was undoubtedly around someplace, probably trying to get recipes from the old women who cooked strange soups in large vats. The musicians were a group of fiddlers and guitarists, and they were attempting to play a modified version of ‘Greensleeves’ instead of their ethnic musical faire. Jill flitted about the rows of items for display, finding each thing more fascinating than the one before it. Never before had she seen so many truly unique crafts. She desired almost everything in sight, but never had Jill wanted anything as badly as the glass rose.205

It was alone on a table of knickknacks; red glass against black satin. She touched it, almost afraid it would break under her fingertips. In Belle and the Beast, there had been a rose, a thing of magic and beauty just like this.206

She took out her small coin purse and looked inside, hoping that what little money she had would be enough.207

“We need not your coin, dear,” said the old woman who sat behind the table. She smiled softly. “I’m sorry, but a gypsy never trusts currency.” Her accent was thick and implacable. Jill frowned deeply, wondering what to offer in exchange for the beautiful flower.208

“Hallo, Ibinlisa.” Jack greeted the old woman.209

Ibinlisa smiled and squinted, trying to make Jack out clearly with her failing vision. “Hello, me boy! Is this one yours, then?” She was referring to Jill.210

“Aye, I guess she is, at that.”211

Jill smiled at Jack.212

“Good,” said Ibinlisa, “You are deserving of a real pretty one like this.” She smiled a craggy old woman’s smile. “She can liken some beauty, too, it seems. Taken a real shine ta this bauble I’ve for sale.”213

Jill looked away, a bit embarrassed.214

“Fine, then, Ibinlisa. You know I’ve always something to trade you.” Jack reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a gold pocket watch. One hinge was broken, but when he wound it, it still ticked.215

“Found it in the curb gutter this morning. What say you, then?”216

Ibinlisa smiled broader. “Of course, Jack. And such a pretty girl really does deserve so pretty a thing. Take it darlin. And keep well that man o’ yours. He’s a good one.”217

Jill beamed at Jack and then down at her rose. She kissed him lengthily and whispered a hushed ‘I love you’ into his ear.218

“Well I dunno if that little flower was worth all that,” responded Jack, “but thanks ya just the same.”219

They danced after that, an awkward, lilting number that left them both breathless and happy in each other’s arms. The frantic violins and strange wind instruments exhaled the breath of another world into London, and Jack and Jill pranced and smiled as if they were figures in each other’s dream.220

Jill lay on her bed later that night, reflecting on the evening with a broad grin. The evening was a blur of faces and names, colorful characters that mirrored Jack’s own eccentricity. She felt more alive than she ever had, a part of a new world now; the world of the city.221

Jill stared deeply into her glass rose and thought of her discarded storybook. Jack had it now, tucked into the folds of his bed of rags. She thought it was a fair trade, swapping her dreams for reality. With her eyes on her new most treasured possession, Jill felt an urge to do something she had not done since the first time she had laid eyes on her prince. By flickering lamplight she set up her easel, mixed a few vibrant colors of oil paint and set to work.222

Jill awoke the following morning sprawled on her bed, still dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous evening. Her hair was a tangled mess, as she had never let it down from the rough braid she had fastened it in, and her face and hands were covered in several splotches of dark red paint.223

“Well good morning, Jillian.” Her father was standing in her doorway, his arms crossed. He never used her full name unless he was upset about something. “You are awake finally.” He was staring at her window, to the painting she had completed the night before. “Very nice work, dear. I admire the skill of the artist in you, I really do, but if you are to be a wife, you must curb your nocturnal tendencies.”224

Jill sat up in bed, still too much asleep to know what to think. Her father crossed the room to take a closer look at her painting. It was the glass rose, dark and magical in a single painted hand. The background was the London sunset as she had come to know it; a swelling sea of rooftops above the ugly fog.225

“Very nice indeed.” Father had grown a bit red, as he usually did when he was upset. “The world is not so accepting as I, dear. Female artists are never really successful. I have found you a husband, and thus the time has come for you to abandon this folly. Learn to sing or play, as your mother did. Leave true creation to the men.”226

He was drunk again, as he had been more and more frequently as of late. Standing in his robe and slippers, he carried the tool of his intoxication in one hand; a single tall glass of cheap British brandy.227

Jill sat, incredulous and furious, as her father spoke, completely impervious to her needling glare.228

“The date of your marriage has been pushed up, as Mr. Cicalo is a busy man as of late what with his new factory going up. On the opening day of the factory, right after the opening ceremony, you will have your wedding.” He looked at her. His eyes were dead as he smiled drunkenly. “There, won’t that be nice?”229

“Get out, father…” Jill struggled to control her rage and sorrow. “You do not own me, nor does the nauseating Mr. Cicalo. I know you probably care very little, but your daughter loves another.”230

His eyebrows arched slightly. He was surprised by the fact that she had spoken up, but not by what she told him. “Ah, yes, of course. I have been warned about him. Jack, isn’t it? Mr. Cicalo has eyes everywhere, and many of them are on you, my dear. Jack is his employee now. Cicalo owns him, really. He won’t stand for his new foreman cavorting with his new wife; no that won’t do at all. Don’t be a silly girl, Jillian. You will be married in one week’s time and all this dissension and foolish ideas of ‘love’ for that street urchin will be forgotten.”231

Tears ran down Jill’s cheeks as her father exited the room to avoid being effected by them. She stared at her painting, the first truly good thing she had ever produced, through a hazy veil of sadness.232

“I can stay here no longer,” she thought.233

-*-234

The house was an odd construction of stone and bits of driftwood that didn’t quite keep out the wind, but it was much sturdier, at least, than the shamble of a home Jill had left behind. Jack felt confined by the roof, but it was something he was willing to get used to, if the need be.235

Jill had been surprised at how easy it was to talk Jack into leaving. He had seemed so content where he was, so integrated into the structure of the city. She was sure that she would never get him to leave, but he seemed more than willing to go, as if it had been something he were planning all along.236

It was, really. Jack was excited about the prospect of work, but more and more he realized that all he wanted was to be with Jill. Working was just the only way he could see to do that, unless…237

Had Jill not presented the idea of running away with him, he would have done it.238

They hitched a ride on Ibinlisa’s caravan, clustered into the carriage with her and her enormous twin Cossack sons as they made their way north. Jack watched in wonder as the city thinned and gave way to scattered houses and bare rock. They were outside the North Wall, in a part of England the city had not yet infected. Jack had never seen so much open land all at once as the vast plains they passed, extending as far as the eye could see.239

“The world is truly a bigger place than I had ever imagined,” he said. 240

Jill smiled softly at him, assuring herself that her harsh decision was the right one to make. 241

The carriage stopped outside of a fishing town so small that it had no use for a name. There, atop a sharp cliff overlooking the sea, they found their home. 242

“Godspeed toya, Jack and Jill. Don’t think we won’t be by again to visit you. Happy lives, young ones. Take care of each other.” And with those sentiments, Ibinlisa closed the carriage door. They waved as she departed.243

It was an old fisherman’s shack, long since abandoned, it would seem. The inside was clean, and gaps in the rocks left it a little drafty, but there was a fireplace and plenty of old, dry wood piled inside and out. 244

The night was the most beautiful Jack had ever seen, fogless and quiet. The stars were brighter with no city lights to outshine them and no soot to cloud them. The air was lighter somehow, not weighed down by pollution and noise. Jack was entranced by all of it, but not nearly as much as he was enchanted by the girl in his arms.245

They lay on an old fur rug in front of the unlit fireplace, eyes locked, fingers touching. Neither of them had made love before, but they did so then, slowly and comfortably, with practiced gentleness and ease.246

“I love you,” Jack whispered in her ear afterwards, her head resting on his bare chest.247

She sighed deeply and kissed his sternum. “And I, you, my prince.” She pressed herself tightly to him. “You may never know how much.”248

It was exactly then, in the fuzzy afterglow of that perfect moment, when there came a knock at the door.249

The lovers looked at each other, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. Each struggled into their clothes before Jack finally opened the warped wooden plank that served as an entrance to their new home.250

The last people he expected to see greeted him as he swung the door wide, their grins pleasant and predatory.251

“Hello again, Jack,” said Crenso, his wolf-like smile making him look half-mad under the light of the moon. “And hello Miss Jill.” Crenso tipped his hat in her direction while Jill stood confused and suddenly a bit afraid, frozen in place.252

“Mr. Crenso,” Jack blundered, shocked. He looked behind Crenso. “Mr. DePaulo. I, um, I didn’t know we would be having guests.”253

“That’s nice and all, Mr. Jack. Probably have never had guests before. Well, allow me to tip you off on how to handle the matter: You can begin by inviting us in.” Crenso’s impossibly broad grin got even bigger.254

“Yes, of course. Won’t you come-“255

“No thanks,” interrupted Crenso. “Its such a nice night. Why don’t you come on out?” 256

He stepped aside. DePaulo reached out one long, lanky arm and, with strength that seemed nearly impossible of so thin a man, grabbed Jack by the collar and threw him outside.257

“Who are you men?” Screamed Jill, “What do you want?”258

“We’re chief employees of your new husband, Mr. Cicalo, Mrs. Cicalo.”259

Jack was outraged and shocked. He looked at Jill as he stood up from the wet ground outside. “Husband? Cicalo?”260

Crenso giggled shrilly. “Oh what an absolute delight! He doesn’t even know?” He giggled again. “That’s right, Mr. Jack. We were sent to deliver her. As for you-“261

DePaulo grabbed Jack’s shoulders with two hands and lifted him off the ground.262

“-you’re fired. Sorry, mate.”263

And DePaulo threw him.264

Jack went tumbling off the cliff, bashing into rocks on the way down, feeling parts of him break and other parts tear loose. He couldn’t feel the pain. Not really. He could only think of his beautiful Jill, going to marry another man. He caught a glimpse of the sea below him, gray and frothing, coming closer and close as he fell.265

Jill watched as he hit the water, screaming his name over and over again.266

“Come on then, Miss Jill. We’ve more important things to attend to than ex-employees, like your wedding for example. Be a nice gilly and come with us willingly. Mr. DePaulo and I have already been through more than we are being paid for tonight.” Crenso yawned lightly.267

Jill whirled her head around and glared back at Crenso and DePaulo, her lip quivering and tears in her eyes. In one hand she clutched one of the only things she had brought with her when she and Jack had run away; her glass rose. Silently, she closed her eyes, took one last breath, and jumped.268

Jill thought of her mother, of playing in endless orchards of pink blossoms during perfect summer days, and the sound of her singing as she cooked or did laundry. She thought of Jack’s eyes, green as she had guessed, and long nights spent watching the sky only for the sunrise on some rooftop high above the sleeping city. 269

“Beautiful,” she thought. “It’s all been beautiful.”270

Her collision with the water was amazingly violent. She had missed the escarpment Jack had tumbled down entirely and had slammed straight into the sea. Jack’s eyes opened, his vision cloudy. Jill floated next to him, and her eyes widened as they saw his, surprised that he had lived. She gasped softly, taking in a little water, tears of blood welling up from her fragile blue eyes. She exhaled then, more blood drifting from her mouth in a dark stream, and sank silently into the hungry sea.271

Jack coughed, taking in a bit of water as he did, and his vision faded to black.272

-*-273

Jack’s body floated into an inlet and down a river, staying miraculously upright. Sometimes he would awake partially for long enough to spit up water and blood, but mostly he was unconscious; somewhere halfway between life and death.274

When he finally fully came to, it was raining. He had washed up somewhere, it seemed, where the river thinned and narrowed. The place was familiar; the dank scent of old masonry and mildew capped by the distal smell of fish, the sound of dripping water dropping down through the brick overhead, the bleak darkness of a shadowed place in an overcast city. It was the old bridge where the gypsies had held their festivals. It was empty now, populated only by a few birds hiding from the rain and a corpse that had washed up in the river.275

Jack turned his face skywards and screamed, his throat ragged and sore as the rest of his torn body. Some birds stirred and flew off. He collapsed onto the stone of the embankment, his own scream ringing in his ears.276

Another sound faded in over his scream, growing more and more audible by the second. It was the sweet, lilting melody of a violin.277

Jack whirled around and saw a tent; wet and nondescript. It was like any tent used by the gypsies under this bridge, only Jack had never seen one alone. The music was sweet, and calming, though tragic. Jack thought of Jill, and how they’d danced one night in that very spot, and he wept softly, his tears pooling with the rain in small streams, which wove their way into the river. He stood and shambled towards the tent, dazed and drawn to the music for reasons he couldn’t explain. Red paint was splashed above the tent flap. Jack read it aloud.278

“Revenge.”279

Without a second thought, he entered.280

The tent contained only a stool occupied by the violin player. He could have been any nationality, with his dark beard and light eyes. His fingers eloquently continued to pick out their tragic melody as he looked up at Jack.281

“Greetings, Jack. Nice of you to come see me.” His voice was quiet and patronizing. He smiled and put down his violin. “What can I do for you?”282

Jack shivered violently. His clothes were bloody rags around his torn flesh. He knew it would probably not be long before he caught horribly ill and died, but there was only one thing he wanted. “Revenge,” he said shakily.283

“Of course, Jack. That is what I am selling.” The man smiled. His teeth were unnaturally white and all slightly pointed. “Revenge, however, is not free. Though I know you have reason to dislike the job market as of late, I propose that you work for me.”284

Jack did his best to raise one eyebrow before collapsing to the ground.285

“Yes, work for me. I can grant you the power to exact your revenge, Jack. I can grant you power a god would envy, but there are a few things I need you to do for me.” He stared Jack in the eye, and Jack felt suddenly frozen by him, hypnotized. “You must kill for me, Jack. Already you have been killed. Now it’s your turn. Each man you kill, each evil soul you vanquish, must be killed with me in mind. As long as you do that, I will be satisfied. But should you kill selfishly, forgetting who gave you the power to do so, or should you kill an innocent, pure person, you will be immediately fired, and returned to the sad, dying state I found you in.”286

Jack shuddered, and pain racked his body. He was dreaming. He was sure of it. Soon he would wake up in his bed of rags and smile, a healthy and happy boy again. Maybe it would even be Sunday, and he could tell the unofficial congregation of Ill Street that he had dreamed of the devil.287

“I will do it,” he said softly. He thought, again, of Jill dancing with him not too far from where he sat, clutching her glass rose tightly. He thought of that same rose shattered, nothing more than glass fragments lying next to her lonely corpse at the bottom of the dark, blue sea.288

A tear rolled down Jack’s cheek. “I will do it.”289

The devil handed reached under his stool and produced a purple half-mask with a long, pointed nose.290

“Wear this always,” he said, “for you are now a thing of destruction. Anything you look upon will instantly die. All living things who see your face unshielded by this mask will see the most fearsome thing their mind can comprehend, and they will be scared to death.” He smiled a little, as if impressed with his own creation. 291

Jack took the mask in his hands and stared down into the eyeholes, meeting with the monster he had agreed to become. When he looked up, everything had changed. He was no longer in a tent under the old bridge, he was back in 292

Westchester, sitting on his bed of rags.293

Tears ran down his face again. It was a dream. It was all a dream. His body was no longer ragged and broken by the rocks of some distant cliff. And that meant that Jill was no longer dead and gone, lost to him forever, swallowed whole by the jealous ocean. He turned his head to her window. No lamplight shone inside. She was sleeping. He decided not to bother her with his foolish dream, which seemed less and less real by the minute.294

Then he felt the mask in his hands. The purple mask with a long beak instead of a nose, handed to him by the devil himself. He heard Jill’s father weeping from her room. Apparently he had just received news.295

An unfamiliar voice spoke to Jill’s father as he cried. It was cold and disinterested; the voice of a man who has little patience with any amount of emotion. Jack could tell who it was immediately and his eyes narrowed as he pulled the mask over them.296

“And I am sorry to say that I can see no reason to continue our business, then,” Mr. Cicalo said to Jill’s father.297

“Damn you and your damned business! My daughter is dead!” Jill’s father broke into a sobbing string of French.298

“Yes, well… I just thought I should inform you of this personally while I was here. Good evening to you,” Mr. Cicalo said awkwardly and stepped out of the room. 299

The driver of his carriage drew an umbrella as Cicalo exited it the house and held it above his head until he entered the cab. He reigned the horses, and they started towards home.300

Jack stepped out into the middle of the street just in front of Cicalo’s carriage. His ragged clothes were soaked and seemed to melt off of him. Water and tears ran off the end of the nose of the mask like a fountain. The driver reigned the horses on, hoping that the lunatic would have enough sense to move out of the way. Jack held out one hand and touched each horse before they trampled him. The horses made no noise as they collapsed to the ground, asleep.301

“What in the bleedin hell?” said the driver as he hopped down from his seat. Jack jumped, landing on the man’s shoulders and crushing him to the ground, knocking him unconscious.302

Cicalo had never in his controlled life been so frightened. He tried to bar the door of the carriage with his cane, but Jack simply ripped it from its hinges. As Cicalo screamed, Jack began to speak.303

“We’ve never met before, but I know who you are.” His voice was a deep growl from his ragged and ripped throat. “Yes, Mr. Cicalo, I know you. Do you know who I am?”304

Cicalo gasped and choked. A few tears escaped his eyes. “The devil? The devil! Come for me at last!” He began to weep.305

“The devil…” Jack laughed, a raspy sound that echoed on the empty street. “Once I was your foreman. Tonight, I am your murderer. You made me a monster the very moment that you killed us both. You will meet the devil, however, when I DELIVER YOU INTO HIS ARMS!”306

His voice was supernaturally deep. Cicalo shrunk back into the cab of his carriage, finally realizing who he was dealing with as Jack removed his mask.307

Who can say what Cicalo saw then? Terrors untold existed behind that purple mask; things that men’s minds cannot even begin to fathom. Cicalo’s eyes bulged and his face turned white. He choked, probably swallowing his own tongue, and then died in a puddle of his own urine. 308

Jack felt no satisfaction, nor any remorse. He felt nothing. He was sure to remember the one who had given him the power, as he was instructed to, and he slowly put back on his mask. Part of him was still hoping this was a dream, but he knew it was not. This was real. He had finally changed. He was no longer Jack.309

He hunched over, gathering himself into a crouch.310

He was the Springheel.311

Jack launched himself into the air, putting close to thirty feet between himself and the ground before crashing onto a rooftop, crouching down, and the leaping again. He could traverse London quickly that way, leaping as far as he could see from rooftop to rooftop, but he wasn’t trying to get anywhere just then. He was just running, one of the few times in his life he had nowhere to go. Eventually he would find Crenso, and then DePaulo, but what then?312

He would find someone else. London was a whole city of people who deserved to die. From behind his mask, Jack was dying at last with the rest of his body, the hatred for a home he’d loved his entire life building with each leap.313

-*-314

In the days to come, old Ben and Burg would visit Jack’s old home in the alleyway, curious about his disappearance directly after the odd murder of Mr. Cicalo. Burg took a few things, knowing that Jack would want him to hold onto them; some marbles, a bible, a rather nice velvet waistcoat that actually fit him. 315

“That was basically everything of value the boy owned,” said old Ben.316

“No.” Burg rummaged through the rags of Jack’s bed and scratched his head. “Something’s missin’.”317

“What is it?”318

“That book. The one he used to carry around when he was seeing that girl.”319

Old Ben nodded. He remembered that; remembered laughing secretly at the boy carrying around a leather-bound children’s story.320

“What was in that book, anyways, Ben?” Burg asked.321

“A fairy tale. It was about a monster who falls in love and turns into a prince.”322

“Jack was always kinda the fairy tale type, I figure,” said Burg. 323

Old Ben silently agreed.324

They never heard from Jack again, though Springheel would haunt London for years and years to come. In a later age, he has disappeared entirely. Some say the devil called him back to Hell, his debt for power fulfilled. Others say he has found salvation somehow, the monster inside him exorcised. 325

I imagine him as he probably is; lonely and immortal, the most melancholy of beings. On clear summer nights he leaves the city and travels north to the sleepy fishing villages. There he walks into the water and wanders the bottom of the sea, searching for the scattered fragments of a lost rose. 326

-*-327