The Eyeball Collector (21 page)

Down into the kitchens, into the sweat and steam, the hissing and crackling, the spitting and cursing and shouting, the fetching and carrying, the scraping and peeling and chopping and washing and salting and pounding, the squealing and chirping, a young lad came running on the morning of the Midwinter Feast.

‘I have news!’ he shouted over the din. ‘I have news!’ Mrs Malherbe, her face red and shining with perspiration, stopped her stirring. Something in the boy’s tone told her that this was news of great import.

‘Lord Mandible,’ he said, catching his breath.

‘What of him?’

‘He is back. Look out of the window.’

There was an urgency to the statement that made everyone lay down their knives, spoons and cleavers and rush en masse to the window. They were below ground so their view of the outside world was restricted to a narrow sliver above their heads, but they could see enough. And what they saw made them exclaim.

‘Lord above!’

‘Mercy!’

‘Tickle me with a thorn bush!’

‘I don’t believe my eyes,’ said Mrs Malherbe. Then she turned around to her motley crew. ‘Get to it, lads,’ she said. ‘There’s work to be done!’

Few who have been close enough to witness the evil expression of an oncoming Hairy-Back have lived to tell the tale. Its size, its viciousness, its enormous tusks! And with a skull that is two inches thick and cushioned with a thick layer of shock-absorbent cartilage, it is able to run head-on into tree trunks and rocks without injury. No other forest animal could withstand such an impact. This porcine monster is well adapted to its forest home.

It was exactly this sort of beast that Lord Mandible had envisaged on the dining table of his dream. So when the day of the Feast finally dawned he had joined his hunting party at sunrise and gone to the oak forest determined – and oddly confident – that today would be the day.

By the time the group reached the edge of the forest Mandible had managed to settle into his usual uneasy and awkward rhythm on his horse. It was a comical sight and his band of fellow huntsmen amused themselves by taking wagers as to how long he would manage to stay in the saddle and, specifically, which side he would fall from, because they were certain from previous experience that he would be unhorsed eventually.

Mandible was blissfully unaware of the amusement he caused his companions as he rallied them all with great enthusiasm.

‘Today is the day, my friends,’ he cried. ‘On this the occasion of the Midwinter Feast it is imperative that I put a Hairy-Backed Hog on the table. We shall not return until our goal has been achieved.’

Inwardly the huntsmen groaned. They knew how desperately Mandible wanted to catch a hog. They also knew how unlikely it was and could see a long day of fruitless hunting before them.

But if Mandible displayed more confidence than usual it soon seemed he had good reason. The hunting party had just arrived in the forest when they heard rustling and snorting sounds from the undergrowth only feet away from their leader. The huntsmen warned him to be patient (they had seen his hasty technique before), but to no avail.

Mandible levelled his musket in the general direction of the sounds and without warning shot a blast of lead down the barrel into the bushes. It seemed to echo in the forest, as if two shots had been fired, but the hunters hardly had time to consider that, as with an almost human squeal and a roar a bloodied and enraged hog burst out of the bushes and came careering towards Mandible. His horse, having more sense than the rider, turned tail and began to gallop as fast as it could in the opposite direction. Mandible fell off backwards (so no bets were won) and landed fat out on the forest floor. The hog bore down on him at a tremendous speed and in a panic he brandished his musket wildly and fired again. There was a strangely loud bang and to everyone’s surprise, Mandible’s in particular, the hog stopped in mid-charge, went rigid and keeled over.

All was silent.

‘Well done, Your Lordship!’ congratulated his chief huntsman finally, wide-eyed with disbelief. The rest of the group let out a genuine cheer. Mandible himself was still in a state of speechless shock. He scrambled to his feet, aided by a couple of the men, and stood in amazement by the side of the hog.

‘I did it!’ he breathed. ‘I finally did it!’

Genuinely moved, he knelt by the fallen hog. He reached out cautiously to feel its still warm body and a tear or two coursed down his face.

‘It’s a miracle,’ he said softly. ‘A miracle. I have bagged the biggest boar in the province! I am a hunter extraordinaire.’

For a moment, he could almost forget his extreme distress about his missing beloved cat. And the entire group of men, some wishing that they too could bag the biggest bore in the province, clapped and cheered in anticipation of an early return to the Hall.

And that is exactly what Mrs Malherbe and her kitchen staff saw when they looked out of the kitchen window: the return of Mandible and his prize. Mandible rode at the head of the procession – for procession it was – with his horse slowed to a trot. At this pace he was able to grip its sides with his knees, hold the reins in one hand and raise the other in triumph. Behind him came the boar, tied by its trotters to a thick branch and carried by four men, two at the front and two at the rear. It was still dripping sticky spit and bodily fluids and blood, leaving a shining wet trail across the courtyard. Bringing up the rear came the remainder of the hunting party, laughing and joking.

‘Well, well!’ murmured Mrs Malherbe. ‘As I live and breathe I never thought to see the day that fellow caught a Hairy-Back.’ And Mandible immediately went up in her estimation a little further.

Someone else observed Mandible’s triumphant return too. From his Brummagem tower Bovrik watched the procession with a keen eye. So, he has caught a hog at last, he thought. It was a long time since he had seen a whole Hairy-Back that close up . . .

Bovrik raised himself from the chair by his window. At the mirror he examined his shoes and posed with one foot in front of the other, showing off his shapely silk-stockinged calves to their best advantage. He smoothed down his cream velvet knee-length breeches and pulled on his loose-fitting magenta coat. Perfect – he truly looked the part. He finished off with a splash of his lemon perfume.

Finally, Bovrik smiled and opened up his box of eyeballs. He picked out one between his finger and thumb and held it up to the light.

The seventh eyeball.

Fashioned from white opaque glass, hollow in the middle to lessen its weight, slightly flattened at the top and bottom to ensure a good fit, it might have been similar to those he already had but in fact it was overtly superior. The iris was a band of gold ringed with deep blue sapphires, and the pupil was studded with tiny diamonds that glittered in the light. It was utterly, utterly enchanting and his most expensive to complete the collection. He had an eyeball now for every day of the week and need never make do with an eyepatch again! Surely Lady Mandible would be impressed. And added to the success of that cat-eater it boded well for the future. Roll on the Feast! Then, reassured as to his appearance, he adjusted his frilly cravat, shook out his lacy cuffs, collected his cloak and went back to the narrow window of his tower. But his joy was rudely interrupted. From somewhere in the building came the cacophonous sound of the harpsichord. ‘Doesn’t that fool have anything better to do?’ he muttered. Lord, wouldn’t he be glad never to have to suffer that racket again!

Extract from

Withypitts Hall

Dear Polly,

. . . Oh, Polly, how I wish you could see my butterflies! They are so beautiful, so delicate.

When I last wrote I told you the time had come, then I went to the Incunabulorum and sealed the windows and door. I lit the lamps beneath the tanks and stoked up the fire. And I waited. As the temperature rose I went from tank to tank, looking for signs of life – a tiny movement, a split in a cocoon. But there was nothing. The night wore on. I put more logs on the fire and watched the balls in the thermoscope begin to rise.

And then it happened. In the darkest hour before dawn one of the cocoons began to move. Only slightly at first – I thought I had imagined it – but as the minutes passed it was undeniable. Gradually, one after the other, a split appeared at the head and the butterflies began to emerge.

Polly, they are everything I hoped for and more. Huge, majestic almost, rainbow-coloured, astonishing to behold . . . and then there are my own special ones too . . .

Hector put down his quill and yawned widely. A globule of ink dripped on to his desk and the grey cuff of his shirt soaked it up as if it was thirsty. It was difficult to concentrate when he had been up so many hours on the trot, with so much to do. Outside the daylight was fading fast – another day gone and the Feast about to begin. His bag sat on the bed and beside it a leather purse heavy with coins. Lord Mandible might be strange in many ways but at least he had proved to be grateful and generous. When he had come up to Hector after the episode in the tower, and asked him to aid in the capture of a Hairy-Back, Hector had quickly agreed – the money was too good to refuse. And a splendid job he had done too! By the time Hector had reached the forest early this very morning, as instructed, an extremely large and incredibly dozy Hairy-Back (perhaps the very one he had had the pleasure of meeting before) had already been captured, thanks to some cleverly baited acorns and mushrooms, and penned in the bushes. Hector had released the creature just as the hunting party rode in. Then he had managed, as planned, to shoot the creature at almost exactly the same moment as Mandible’s own musket had discharged. When the hog unexpectedly kept going he had even shot it again. Both times the huntsmen thought it was Mandible’s own weapon that had brought the animal down. It couldn’t have worked out better.

Hector had not bargained, however, on sustaining a wound himself. The first squeal the hunting party heard hadn’t been the hog’s, it had been his. But he was lucky. It was only a graze to the side of his face, caused by Mandible’s musket ball as it flew past him. He still felt a little dizzy though, and now he put his hand to the wound on his forehead. He winced, but weighed again the purse in his hand. It was worth it. This money, along with the mysterious ring he had found in the forest (he could feel it in his waistcoat pocket at this very moment), would certainly help him on his way. For once he left the Hall what would he have other than the satisfaction that came with the ultimate revenge? Only the contents of his bag: a couple of books, some clothes and his unsent letters. He planned first to go to Urbs Umida and pay to have his father buried in a better grave. Then he would visit Polly, but after that his future was in the hands of fate.

He pulled on a pair of gloves. On the floor in the corner of the room sat the single glass case wherein quietly rested twenty newly hatched specimens of
Pulvis funestus
, each black as night and sipping daintily from dishes of syrup. He reached for the mortar beside the tank and pulled off the cover.

‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘hold still.’

Not long after, Hector set to work rapidly boxing Lady Mandible’s huge and colourful butterflies in time for her to see them before the Feast. He was soon sweating profusely from the effort of his exertions in the steamy Incunabulorum, but more from fear. The moment of truth was drawing ever closer.

The insects were sluggish, having drunk their fill of syrup, and easily caught. Before long Hector was loading the boxes one by one on to a low wheeled trolley. He was just lifting the last one on when there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Gerulphus waiting to take him to Bovrik and Lady Mandible. For the last time, Hector hoped.

Bovrik was already at Her Ladyship’s chambers, pacing outside the double doors in one of his plainer eyepatches. When he saw Hector he frowned. ‘At last,’ he said, and took a butterfly box, looked briefly inside, then indicated to Hector to follow.

In her room, Lady Mandible was waiting for them, powdered and painted and coiffured – hair conventional in style but still improbably high – and wearing a surprisingly plain gown. Hector guessed she had not yet dressed for the Feast.