Mariah Mundi and the Ghost Diamonds

T
HE
man walked nervously in and out of the long, dark shadows. He followed the alleyway that led from the harbour up the Customs House steps and into an old street of narrow cottages. His wet feet left a trail of footprints across the stone steps. He wore his long coat tightly wrapped about him and kept his head down as he strutted on. With his cane he marked out each step. He kept a black, gloved hand to his face, as if to hide himself from the world. A spot of blood trickled from the fingers and across the back of the glove. The man coughed as he walked and looked back and forth to see if he was being followed. A door opened, a cat was thrown into the street, and the door slammed again. The man paused for a moment and tried to look inside the house without being seen.

Peeking through the misted glass he could see two children huddled beside the fire. To one side was a man slumped in a chair, his head lolling from side to side like a dying fish gasping for breath. The children at his feet raced two beetles across the fire hearth, not knowing they were being intently watched.

‘Shall these be the ones?’ the man asked himself in a voice of gravel.

‘Too small … Not enough meat to fill a louse,’ he replied as he gathered up his coat even tighter and walked on. The man turned into Princess Street and walked as far from the light of the inn as he could. Above him he could see the outline of the church that had stood on the hill for a thousand years, and beyond that the silhouette of the castle.

‘This way,’ the voice inside urged him on as he took the first step up the hill. ‘I know there’ll be one this way …’

Not far away, Mariah Mundi stood on a narrow flight of stone steps that led from the churchyard, through the alleyways and ginnels, and eventually to the harbour far below. He looked older than fifteen short years. Mariah was tall, thin, with a mop of black hair that curled and curled like thick brambles upon his head. In the glow of the gas lamp, the steps looked as if they were the glistening back of a serpent that had coiled itself through the town unbeknown to anyone.

He blinked. Above his head the gas lamp spat and bubbled in its green metal casing that held four panes of thick glass. It coughed and hissed as the flame burnt brightly. He waited and looked out across the rooftops below. With the golden tip of his little finger, Mariah traced the pattern of the lamps upon the far bridge that straddled the ravine and led his eye to the Prince Regent Hotel. Four towers reached up and touched the dark clouds that were swept in from the sea. Every window of the Prince Regent was lit, and even at that great distance, Mariah could hear the chords and swirls of the orchestra that played each night for those who cared to dance.

He shrugged his shoulders, pulled up the collar of his coat against the wind and took a fob watch from his pocket. Mariah looked at the golden hands that dragged themselves across the oyster face. In his mind he counted the seconds and listened as they kept pace with his own heart. He stared again towards the

Prince Regent, the grand hotel where he had gone to work as a magician’s apprentice. It loomed from the sea as if every brick had been placed one on top of the other by a giant. Mariah remembered his first day, when he had arrived from the Colonial School for Boys in his five-pound suit and with his writ of worthiness. He had the golden tip of his little finger to remind him of the Midas Box.

In the dark churchyard, the clock on the high tower began to strike the tenth hour. The wind screamed through the dark streets below. It rattled the locks on the tall terraced houses of Sepulchre Street and slammed the gates to the backyards one by one.

Out to sea, just off the harbour mouth, Mariah could see the broken bones of a ship, the rigging of its foremast billowing in the swell. In the months that had followed the mysterious sinking of the SS
Tersias
, rumours had abounded. Some had said that it was the work of the Kraken, a hideous sea creature that would drag ships to the bottom of the ocean. Others had argued that, in the age of reason and exploration, nothing could be further from the truth. Just beyond the breakwater, the funnel of the stricken ship poked from the waves and even at high tide served as reminder of the night it sank.

No one had dared go near the wreck. Several bodies had been washed ashore on the fine sandy beach below the Prince Regent Hotel. In great secrecy, they had been quickly taken away and buried before anyone could see what was wrong with them. It was the talk of the town. The
Evening Chronicle
had, for once, faithfully recounted the night of the disaster with eyewitness reports. It had even mentioned that one of those who had drowned had been turned to gold, with a look of terror upon his face as if he had seen the devil himself.

This was fervently denied by the Mayor, Inspector Walpole of the town police and Joseph Peabody, the magistrate. Despite

their feeble protestations, the people of the town at the end of the railway line believed that since the sinking of the SS
Tersias
, gold was being given up by the sea.

At every high tide for several days following the sinking, almost the whole of the town turned out to see what would be washed ashore from the wreck. Children ran after the breaking waves that pulled back into the undertow. They grabbed the rolling rocks and shells and tapped them against their teeth to test for gold.

On one particularly dark night when the sea was high and beaten into a great swell, an old man with long fingers and no shoes had found a golden fish. It was as if it had been frozen in time, its mouth wide open. He had dragged the petrified creature across the sands to the pawnbrokers on Quay Street and even at that late hour had beaten upon the door to wake the shopkeeper, who pronounced that it truly was made of the finest gold he had ever seen.

Inspector Walpole had seized the fish as evidence. He had chipped at the metal creature with the point of the sharp knife he always carried on his belt and gouged out a golden eye. This had been then placed securely in the top pocket of his grubby gabardine. Walpole had then picked his nose and muttered something to the small, fat detective who lurked in the darkness of the pawnbroker’s shop. With that, the fish was snatched from the pawnbroker and was never seen again. The snivelling Inspector made promises over the protestations of the man that he would get what was rightly his, but then he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat and he and the fish vanished.

When the storm of that night had given out, the beach was strewn with pieces of gold. It was as if creatures never before seen by the human eye had been chiselled from the seabed, turned to gold and thrown on to the beach by the waves. Cockles, mussels, seaweed and several prawns had been miraculously

transformed into beautiful and shining objects of desire. Each one was made of solid gold.

Then, as soon as it had started, it was finished. The sea beat against the coast but gave nothing more. The crowds dwindled and streets emptied. From Christmas to skipping day nothing else had been found. The wreck of the SS
Tersias
broke up in the waves leaving only the foremast and blackened funnel as a reminder of its grave. Those who combed the beach looking for gold had now gone. In the pub at the bottom of Paradise Hill, talk of treasure had all but ceased.

Mariah had heard one man saying that he thought the Kraken would have taken every ounce by now and hidden it far out to sea. His companion, a younger man in thick breeches and sea boots, had muttered into the froth of his beer that all was not right with the world and it was surely coming to a fateful end.

As he listened to their words that night, Mariah had smiled contentedly. He gripped the badge in his pocket and ran his fingers back and forth over the words etched in the metal. He knew them by heart:
Bureau of Antiquities
. Mariah had tapped the golden tip of his little finger against the metal. It was something he felt he couldn’t get used to. It was a part of him, joined seamlessly at the knuckle, gold and then flesh. He wondered how his flesh and blood had been turned to gold, but he had seen it with his own eyes. The Midas Box had left its mark, and Mariah had been touched by its power.

Now Mariah wanted to stand before the whole town and tell them everything. He could answer all their questions, tell them the truth about the gold. It was a feeling that was bursting in his chest and he wanted to scream out. Every time he heard someone talking about the gold from the SS
Tersias
he wanted to boast how he knew, how he had been the one to see the box work its magic. He knew that the Midas Box was making the gold. Once every day, as it was tossed by the currents, it would

open up and shine brightly on all that was near. Mariah knew that it was still out at sea, just waiting to be washed ashore.

Every time he looked at his right hand it reminded him of the fight with Gormenberg in the Prince Regent. The Midas Box had burnt with a brilliant light and transformed Gormenberg’s hand to gold as well as the tip of Mariah’s little finger. He knew that Gormenberg was now dead and would never return. He also knew that such a wonder as the Midas Box would never just vanish, and that soon its power would slither back into the world.

A man and his gold may soon be parted, Mariah had thought as he left the smoke-filled pub. Sacha had followed on behind, chuntering to herself that Mariah should stop wearing the glove to cover his hand; either that or have the finger chopped off and melted down.

Now, as he looked out over the town, he waited for her at the top of the steps. Sacha had been gone for fifteen minutes. As Mariah huddled against the wall, under the gas lamp, the clock on the church tower gave its last chime of the tenth hour.

‘Where have you been?’ Mariah asked as Sacha’s shadow broke across the steps.

‘It was me dad – he’s had too much again.’ She sighed as she spoke, reluctant to say any more.

Mariah knew not to press her any further. Sacha was feisty, like the small terrier dog that he would watch on the pier end chasing rats. She would snap out her words, screw up her eyes and give him that look. He in turn would smile, change the subject and say no more.

‘Best be getting back,’ Mariah said as he put the glove on his hand and waggled his fingers so that the glove pulled tight against them.

Sacha saw what he had done. She looked at him. ‘How long can you keep that to yourself?’

‘Jack Charity knows of it,’ Mariah said as he walked on, counting the streetlights that lined the alleyway.

Sacha followed two paces behind, her long coat with its bright silver buttons dragging on the cobbled steps.

‘It’s growing more and more. I’ve seen it, Mariah. More of your finger is turning to gold.’

‘Not that much,’ he said briskly, not wanting to think that soon his whole hand could be solid gold. ‘Just a bit. Taken six months to grow to the knuckle. It’ll stop there – I know it.’

‘What’ll happen when it’s your whole hand and then your arm?’

‘Won’t get that far, Jack Charity said –’

‘He’s a soldier, not a doctor. What does he know?’

Mariah said nothing. He twisted the tip of his finger in his hand. She was right – more had turned to gold. ‘If it grows any further I’ll have it taken off. There’s a surgeon in London, Charity said he would write to him.’

‘It’s not much use to you, is it? Might as well get rid of it before you end up like that bloke Walpole found on the beach. They said he had staring eyes and an open mouth. That he’d been frozen to gold in the middle of a scream.’

‘Who told you that?’ Mariah asked.

‘Quadlibett … in his sweet shop. He hears everything,’ she said as she danced on ahead of him down the glistening steps. ‘Same thing happened to that sailor as to your finger. That Gormenberg would have done it.’

‘He’s dead. No one could have survived that wrecking. I saw the Kraken reach from the sea and drag the ship down …’

Mariah stopped suddenly. He looked ahead. Sacha was gone. The alleyway was empty. She had been there just a moment before – but now he was alone.

‘Sacha … Sacha,’ he said nervously as the hairs on the back of his head stood bristly tight. ‘Stop playing, we have to get

back to the Prince Regent – Charity said to be back for eleven,’ he pleaded, as if he thought she were hiding from him in a game of hide-and-seek.

There was no reply, not a sound. The alley was completely empty. Mariah took three paces to the exact spot where she had been. Set into the wall so that it could hardly be seen was a small gateway. It was made of wood, with flaking green paint, and was surrounded by the damp brick wall. It swung gently from one hinge; the other was rotted through with sharp flakes of rust. On the wet ground, wedged against the frame, was a silver button. It shone in the lamplight like a small moon ripped from the sky. It was the same as the one upon Sacha’s coat.

‘Sacha,’ he said again, this time just above a whisper. ‘Are you there, girl?’

All was quiet. Mariah pressed his hand against the wooden gate and pushed slowly. It opened without a sound. He shuddered as a cold chill ran through him like a knife. Stepping through the entrance he found himself in a small yard stacked with lobster pots. It smelt of the sea and dead fish. The yard led to another passageway and then in the distance to another street. Mariah could see the amber reflection of the gas lamps shining from the window of a house at the end of the alley. All was quiet. The wind had ceased its squalling, yet he felt he wasn’t alone. Something, something near, made him gulp, swallow hard and hold his breath. Mariah had felt the same when he had searched the tunnels of the Prince Regent for Gormenberg. He verged on panic – he wanted to run and shake the shivers from his back.

Hanging from the walls of the yard were bundles of kelp weed tied with string. The long, dried sea palms rustled in the breeze. Mariah looked about him. The roofs of the houses that made up the yard cast crossed shadows against the walls.

Behind him, the gas lamp from the alleyway shone in through the half open door that swung slowly back and forth, flapping like the wing of a dying bird. There was still no sign of Sacha.