in that place—but before the boys were turned back out onto the streets, they were given a haphazard but intense theological training. Jack was a scholar of a weird and narrow sort. He was equipped to give the catechism like a priest or argue doctrine with the theologians. Though of course he would never be either; the stain of Barbotin could not be forgiven.
So Jack listened intently when Mr. Garond—a spindly half-seen shade hunching over his desk—read to the class from the pages of the
Sentinel
about the predicted return of the Great Bird. Later, he took books from the House’s little library into the lightwell and studied them. He palmed scissors and thread from the workrooms, stole silk from the storerooms, and worked on his ritual. Soon after, he fought Dallow.
In the Barbotin House, laundry work was something to be fought for. It was hard work even for the oldest boys to turn the great mangles, but it was safe enough. Safer than the silk machines. More important, though, was the fact that the House had too few mangles for the volume of laundry it produced. There were days when excess laundry was taken to the roof to be dried in the light and wind, and the laundry detail, too, were allowed to take their pale and scrawny bodies up into the air for a moment. They fought over it: it was pathetic, and they knew it, but they had little else worth fighting for.
Jack picked on unpopular, brutish, bearded Dallow, once a ship’s boy from Aysuluk run wild on shore leave in the city. It was to protect little Simon from Dallow’s demands, Jack said, and that was partly true, but he would have done it anyway. He took Dallow by surprise, downing him with a foot to the back of his knee, and stamping on his fingers, breaking them.
When he was done, Jack leaned in to Dallow’s bawling, snotty face and whispered, “Sorry, mate. But you would have done the same.” Dallow was quite old, he had thought. Eighteen, perhaps; the two, perhaps three years that separated him from Jack were a wide, dark gulf. They might let him go early, now that he was unfit for work. It was almost a kindness, really. Turning to the watching boys, he’d said, “I get his billet, all right? Anyone else want to try for it?”
Four nights ago, he removed some critical pins and bolts from three of the mangles. A dozen boys were chosen to be whipped for that outrage. He was not among them, but he could see no way to offer himself in their place and still keep his plan. And every day after that, the Masters had to lead the laundry workers up into the light on the roof, and so he was in place at the right moment.
He began to dream of the Bird’s coming. White wings filled his mind for a moment; then he was wide awake, and it was morning.
C hildren darted in and out of the alleys around Moore Street. Children like himself: he could see they were nervous and hiding, too. Some of them were wearing the coarse grey wool jackets that marked them as workhouse escapees. Filthy and torn, as if their wearers had been free and wild for months.
He followed some of them, and watched them come and go from the abandoned shell of a pub at the south end of the street. The sign still hung, naming it the Black Moon, but the windows were boarded up, marking its death. (Jack recalled the Masters’ lectures: the faithful of Dloan placed coins over the eyes of the dead.) Three stories of wet black timber. The whole building seemed to be leaning over the pawnshop next door, like a slow-moving giant looking for support. One day the two might touch.
The children came and went in twos and threes, or alone, slipping around a gate in the collapsing fence at the building’s side, and into the back garden. Some were brazen, some furtive. Some were tiny little animals, no older than eight or nine; others were Jack’s age, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen: rangy street-thieves, with underfed frames and the beginnings of thin beards. Jack watched them all day. He was hungry and cold,
So Jack listened intently when Mr. Garond—a spindly half-seen shade hunching over his desk—read to the class from the pages of the
Sentinel
about the predicted return of the Great Bird. Later, he took books from the House’s little library into the lightwell and studied them. He palmed scissors and thread from the workrooms, stole silk from the storerooms, and worked on his ritual. Soon after, he fought Dallow.
In the Barbotin House, laundry work was something to be fought for. It was hard work even for the oldest boys to turn the great mangles, but it was safe enough. Safer than the silk machines. More important, though, was the fact that the House had too few mangles for the volume of laundry it produced. There were days when excess laundry was taken to the roof to be dried in the light and wind, and the laundry detail, too, were allowed to take their pale and scrawny bodies up into the air for a moment. They fought over it: it was pathetic, and they knew it, but they had little else worth fighting for.
Jack picked on unpopular, brutish, bearded Dallow, once a ship’s boy from Aysuluk run wild on shore leave in the city. It was to protect little Simon from Dallow’s demands, Jack said, and that was partly true, but he would have done it anyway. He took Dallow by surprise, downing him with a foot to the back of his knee, and stamping on his fingers, breaking them.
When he was done, Jack leaned in to Dallow’s bawling, snotty face and whispered, “Sorry, mate. But you would have done the same.” Dallow was quite old, he had thought. Eighteen, perhaps; the two, perhaps three years that separated him from Jack were a wide, dark gulf. They might let him go early, now that he was unfit for work. It was almost a kindness, really. Turning to the watching boys, he’d said, “I get his billet, all right? Anyone else want to try for it?”
Four nights ago, he removed some critical pins and bolts from three of the mangles. A dozen boys were chosen to be whipped for that outrage. He was not among them, but he could see no way to offer himself in their place and still keep his plan. And every day after that, the Masters had to lead the laundry workers up into the light on the roof, and so he was in place at the right moment.
He began to dream of the Bird’s coming. White wings filled his mind for a moment; then he was wide awake, and it was morning.
C hildren darted in and out of the alleys around Moore Street. Children like himself: he could see they were nervous and hiding, too. Some of them were wearing the coarse grey wool jackets that marked them as workhouse escapees. Filthy and torn, as if their wearers had been free and wild for months.
He followed some of them, and watched them come and go from the abandoned shell of a pub at the south end of the street. The sign still hung, naming it the Black Moon, but the windows were boarded up, marking its death. (Jack recalled the Masters’ lectures: the faithful of Dloan placed coins over the eyes of the dead.) Three stories of wet black timber. The whole building seemed to be leaning over the pawnshop next door, like a slow-moving giant looking for support. One day the two might touch.
The children came and went in twos and threes, or alone, slipping around a gate in the collapsing fence at the building’s side, and into the back garden. Some were brazen, some furtive. Some were tiny little animals, no older than eight or nine; others were Jack’s age, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen: rangy street-thieves, with underfed frames and the beginnings of thin beards. Jack watched them all day. He was hungry and cold,
Similar Books
