Witch Craft: The Tale of Giacomo – Ch. 2

Witch Craft: The Tale of Giacomo

Ch. 2

Giacomo had never stopped to consider whether or not he was an obsessive person. He’d never had a reason to. There wasn’t much in life that he wanted other than a meal, a warm place to sleep and enough time to observe the haloes.

But there was an inexplicable need clenching inside him to understand what it meant when a body had no halo, and he supposed that this was what it meant to be obsessed. He didn’t understand this need to know, because knowing that it was possible for someone to be alive with no halo terrified him.

And yet he had to know why, as though whatever part of him could see the colors could not stand for there to exist a living being without colors.

Giacomo did not sleep well, but he was awake and alert more than he had ever been in his entire life the next morning. He worked quickly through basket after basket of fish, hacking and gutting and throwing the meat into the barrels that would then be carted to the meat market. When the working day was done, he hurried quickly to a fountain, this one a small, water-stained collection of cherubic mermaids, and scrubbed his arms free of the stink of entrails. He had no money for bread today – Broc’s punishment for being assaulted with a fish head the other day – so Giacomo made his way to the theater. He found a place to hide, a nice alley far more shadowy than his spot from last night. He settled himself behind a stack of old crates, and waited.

It wasn’t long before the carriages arrived and the people in their finery and perfumes stepped off. They walked like geese who thought they were swans, their heads held high and their postures prim, as if every one of them were a dainty tea cup of fine China.

Some of the carriages, however, continued onward making their way around to the back of the theater. Not many, only about five. Giacomo slunk from his hiding place and crept like a cat in the shadows to where these carriages had stopped. He hid himself in the darkness of a doorway of a hat shop, and watched the carriage riders disembark.

There was the man without a soul, his face as blank and empty as his halo, a machine surrounded by flesh and blood and smiles. A marionette with hidden strings.

The young man quickly vanished through a small, red door along with all the others who had chosen the back way.

The streets at this end of the theater were empty, quiet, but Giacomo moved quickly to find a new and better hiding place; somewhere closer to the theater, if possible. He found a narrow street, one without lamps, and made himself comfortable on the stoop of a rotting wooden door.

The night crept by without notice in the empty sky, the world cold and wet and smelling of rain that wouldn’t come. A gargoyle’s claws clattered on the stone ledges overhead, then leather wings fluttered and faded away into the night. Giacomo sat with his knees to his chest and his skinny arms tucked behind them, but the cold slipped across his shoulders and tumbled down his spine, making him shiver. He was used to it.

Then the carriages returned. The red door of the theater opened and the people filed out, tired but pleased. The young man was the last to emerge. He approached the driver of the carriage he had ridden in, spoke a few words to him, then began to make his way on foot – alone – down the cobbled road and onto a narrow, misty street.

Giacomo detached himself from the darkness of the stoop and followed, keeping to the shadows. His plan was to talk to the man, but the man was walking quickly, and the click of his heeled boots resounded like a cracking stone in the silence.

Giacomo walked heel to toe to keep his feet from slapping and startling the man. He was close enough now to get the young man’s attention. But for Giacomo, getting anyone’s attention was always preceded by a cold lump of terror in the pit of his stomach, freezing his throat and his heart and, sometimes, paralyzing his tongue. Like now. Giacomo opened his mouth to speak, but his voice wouldn’t work.

The man broke into a half run as if anxious to get to where he was going. Giacomo had no choice but to do the same, but if the man heard Giacomo’s bare feet, he didn’t care or was too focused on his destination to give it any mind.

Then, like a clock-work cart winding down, the man slowed to a walk, then slowed to a stop at a cross-street. He cocked his head like a dog having heard his master’s whistle. Giacomo did the same, and heard the click-clack of heeled boots coming their way.

The man took three steps back until the shadows hid him. The source of the clacking passed by, and the man without a halo lunged like a cat. He grabbed the passer-by around the throat and dragged him, struggling, into the darkness.

The shock of it paralyzed Giacomo for all of two heartbeats. The victim kicked and struggled, but the young man held on with no more effort than if he were restraining a new born pup.

The victim’s struggles began to slow.

“No. Stop!” Giacomo cried out but the young man ignored him.

Giacomo broke into a run and leaped onto the man’s back, his own arms clamping around the man’s neck.

“Stop, leave him alone!” Giacomo shouted. The victim was released and he stumbled back against the wall, gasping and choking. The young man grabbed onto Giacomo’s arm while twisting left and right trying to throw him off. He dug his fingers into Giacomo’s wrist, pulled Giacomo’s arm away from his neck, then with a final burst of strength he gave Giacomo’s arm one hard pull while doubling over, flipping Giacomo from his back and onto the cobbles. The man ran.

Giacomo lay there on his back, stunned and breathless and staring up into the empty sky, the only sound the clack of running feet fading away. A long, thin face lined with wrinkles and framed in a silver wig eclipsed the sky, and Giacomo’s violent flinch of alarm reminded him to breathe. He sucked in a long breath and tried to scramble away.

“Wait, wait! Easy, my young friend,” the old man said gently, holding his hand out toward Giacomo but not touching him. “It is all right, we are safe, now. Here, may I help you up?”

Giacomo stared until the man’s halo flared around him, a gentle miasma of powder blue bordered by a green the color of spring leaves and flecked with pale yellow. Giacomo reluctantly nodded.

The man crouched with the help of his brown lacquered cane and a grunt of old bones, and slipped his hand beneath Giacomo’s shoulder. Giacomo hissed at a sudden burning about his shoulder blade, and the man apologized profusely while shifting his touch to Giacomo’s arm. He was careful with his hold, offering support more than actually pulling Giacomo upright then to his feet.

“Oh, dear,” the man said, turning Giacomo so that his back was facing the stranger. “It seems my attacker did you harm. A bit of a scrape is all but it is bleeding. Come, my friend, I can help you with that. My shop is not far. And it is the least I can do for you saving my life.”

The old man continued on his original path, both his boots and cane tapping on the cobbles. Giacomo followed timidly, because the man was his better and Giacomo was always better off doing what his betters told him. But at least the man’s colors were not the colors of malicious intent.

Although the man’s bones had creaked when he’d crouched, his gait and stance was that of one still physically capable, and his cane more a matter of accoutrement than need. And while he wore a silken wig, his waist coat and breeches were plain – neutral browns rather than the gaudy colors favored by the wealthy.

It was not long before they reached the man’s shop perched on a corner where the streets branched into a Y. It was a place of gray brick with a brown tiled roof, and ivy growing up most of its walls. A large window with the words Alastair’s Alchemy Agents painted in gold letters displayed a rainbow collection of bottles and vials. The man unlocked the wooden door with a small brass key, and entering made a little bell ring.

When Giacomo followed it was as though he had stepped through an invisible wall made entirely out of smells – sharp, spicy smells, deep musky smells, sour smells and the flowery scent like the perfumes of the rich. Bitter smells, pungent smells, moldering and unpleasant smells, dusty smells and smells that made him think of the little forest outside the orphanage, full of moss and cedar and pine.

The building was a single, large room so packed with shelves and tables, so precariously stacked with bottles upon bottles that it seemed a miracle there was room enough to move about safely. Dry, brittle plants hung from strings crisscrossing above, with more bundles laid out in a display case beneath a glass and wood counter.

Giacomo was more fascinated with the rather large ticking copper and brass owl perched on a very tall and ornate grandfather clock in the corner. He was quite used to seeing clockwork birds fluttering overhead, their wings buzzing at the speed of a hummingbird in order to keep them airborne. But this owl was so intricate, so detailed, so precise that he could easily imagine it taking off as a real owl would, its wings flapping only when absolutely needed. The owl’s head swiveled on its neck, tiny gears and miniscule pistons turning and clicking with each minor movement, and metal eyelids slid over shining glass eyes the color of amber.

The owl hooted, like a real owl would. Giacomo smiled.

“Aw, you have spotted Euripides,” the old man said with a smile of his own crinkling his eyes. “A creation of my late wife Beatrice, God rest her soul. She was a master clock smith of a level that is sadly rare. That woman could make a butterfly as small as a thimble or a whole elephant… er, had she the resources for such a massive endeavor.”

The man pulled a stool out from behind the display counter and patted it. “Sit here, my young friend, and I’ll see to that scrape.”

Giacomo obeyed while the man quickly gathered what he needed – cloths, a pan of water, and various bottles from the shelves. He piled them all onto the counter, then took a cloth and soaked it thoroughly.

“My name is Alastair, by the way,” the man said. He chuckled. “Although you might have assumed as much from the title of my shop.”

“You’re an alchemist,” Giacomo said softly and with wonder as he studied the bottles and pouches, each with little slips of paper tied to them with ribbon.

“I am,” Alastair said, beaming, as he wrung out the rag. “But no charlatan who wastes his talents on love potions and snake oils. Mine is the craft of potion making, so rest assured that while I am no physician I am well-versed in the ways of healing. A more worthwhile endeavor than love potions, wouldn’t you say?” he said, and slipped Giacomo’s sleeve down his shoulder to get at more of his shoulder blade.

Alastair sucked air through his teeth. “Oh my, that fiend was certainly cruel when he felled you. You’re terribly bruised.”

“Those are from yesterday,” Giacomo said absently, because the clockwork owl had spread its amazing wings that glittered with tiny gears.

“They’re terribly dark…” Alastair said. He then fished a pair of spectacles from the pocket of his waist coat, perched them on his beak nose, and grimaced. “Oh, they do indeed look a bit aged. If you don’t mind, I would like to have a look at them. Er, to ensure no bones are broken, otherwise I have a salve that should help with them.”

The old man then began to gently dab at the scrape on Giacomo’s back.

Giacomo shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t have to,” he said.

“No,” Alastair said. “I do not. But I insist. You saved my life, my boy. It is a debt I will more than happily repay. Why, had you not come…” the man trailed off, because nothing more needed to be said.

And Giacomo said, as though his mouth had a mind of its own, “He wasn’t right.”

“Hm?” Alastair said. “The man who attacked me?” He chuckled. “No, I would think he wasn’t right.”

Giacomo frowned thoughtfully. He glanced around at the many bottles, then glanced as much as he could over his shoulder at the old man.

“How do you make your potions? Is it just plants and powders? Or do you use… use more than that?”

“By more than that, if you mean incantations and such then, well, yes. It is how an alchemist coaxes the needed properties from the ingredients to make them more potent.”

Giacomo’s fingers dug into the thin material of his thread-bare breeches, gripping the cloth as if holding on to flotsam adrift in a raging sea.

He had never told anyone of the colors since he had told the fathers, because the fathers had thought him sick, then had thought him mad. But alchemists were men of magic, men of the Craft, and people of the Craft saw things and did things that most considered to be impossible and insane. But they did them, and no one thought them sick or mad for it.

And the man with no soul had tried to kill someone.

“It’s just…” Giacomo said, his heart a runaway horse in his chest. “I… the man…”

Alastair exchanged the cloth for another cloth and one of the bottles. “Hm? Yes?”

“I see souls,” Giacomo said quickly.

Alastair stepped suddenly out from behind Giacomo to study him with an odd expression. “You see souls?”

Giacomo shrugged, wincing when it hurt. His clenched fists dug into his thighs. “I don’t know if I’m really seeing souls. It’s mostly colors. They surround a person, you see. But the man that attacked you, he didn’t have any colors.”

“Colors,” Alastair echoed, the cloth in one hand and bottle in the other.

Giacomo nodded dejectedly.

But Alastair only hummed thoughtfully, and returned his attentions to Giacomo’s back.

“What sort of colors? Do I have colors?” he asked.

Giacomo nodded. “Blue and green. Bits of yellow.”

“Ah. And what do these colors mean?”

Giacomo shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t know them all. But… I think green means you think. I always see green around the ones who go to the magic college. And people with blue are calm. But sometimes they’re nervous. Then there’s red. If the red is dark, like blood, or darker, you can’t trust that person. It usually means there’s something wrong with them.”

“Hmm,” Alastair hummed. The cloth touched Giacomo’s back spreading something cool and pleasant over the stinging scrape. “But you said this man had no colors?”

“Everything alive has colors,” said Giacomo. “They’re supposed to have colors, I mean. But I’ve seen it before – someone with no colors – and the next day they were dead and I don’t know what it means.”

“It could mean a great many things, but I fear my knowledge of all things Craft is limited to alchemy. However, I do have many friends at the university. I shall make an inquiry into the matter. They might be able to direct me to where such a thin can be studied if nothing else.”

Giacomo’s death-grip loosened. He turned his head with a startled look in Alastair’s general direction. “You will?”

Alastair blinked at him in surprise. “Of course I will, my young friend. A man tried to kill me and you tell me it because there was something wrong with his soul. Only the foolish and ignorant would ignore such a conundrum.” He set down the rag and bottle only to take up another rag and bottle, but paused before applying the bottle’s contents. “Er, you know, I just realized you never told me your name.”

“Giacomo,” Giacomo said.

Alastair nodded. “Well, Giacomo, matters of Craft should never go ignored. And your case sounds very much like a matter of Craft. Although I suppose it could be a matter of the church, if a soul is involved, but we’ll cross such bridges when we come to them. Now, where do you live? I think it would be wise to summon a hackney for you in case the fiend is still out there.”

“The fishery.”

“Oh,” Alastair said with some trepidation. “Ah. Well. Hmm. That… may be a bit of an issue. It doesn’t seem to matter how much I am willing to pay for a hackney to take me to that part of the city, they always refuse, and those willing are very questionable. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here for tonight and returned in the morning. In fact perhaps it would be best, so that you can come with me to the magistrates and offer them a description of the fiend.”

“I have to be at the fishery before the sun rises,” Giacomo said nervously.

Alastair peered around Giacomo for another of his odd inpspections. “When there is a mad man on the streets? Surely your employer will allow some leniency for doing your civic duty? And I will vouch for you, of course. I have some friends in the constabulary whom I am sure can be convinced to vouch for you as well.”

Giacomo thought of Broc, and immediately doubted any sort of vouching would convince him not to give Giacomo a beating or a skimp on his pay later on.

But Alastair was correct. There was a man killing people and people without souls. It wasn’t right to have the knowledge to be able to do something about it and not do anything. And if he could sneak back and get to his spot before Broc made his rounds, then maybe Giacomo’s absence wouldn’t be noticed. Broc wasn’t the most attentive fellow.

Giacomo finally nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Alastair smiled at the agreement, then made due on his promise to check Giacomo for broken bones and alleviate the ache of his bruises. He then had Giacomo follow him to the back of the room and a door. It opened up to a small hallway with two doors and stairs leading down. They took the stairs and entered a basement full of stoves, boilers and small burners to heat beakers and copper pans. Sacks and barrels were piled in every corner and bits of plants and minerals dusted the floor and tables. Toward the back of the room was a cot piled with blankets.

“I often keep this down here when I find myself working late into the night. A quick rest often helps me continue with my more troublesome creations,” Alastair explained. “You should be quite comfortable. My workroom is always dry and warm. There is a pitcher of water, over there on the stone table, and fresh cups on that bookcase by the boiler. You may use the ceramic bowl if you need to wash up.”

“Thank you,” Giacomo said quietly.

The man gave him a pat on the shoulder, then left.

            Giacomo looked around the room with its comfortable clutter of machines and plants. He took the pitcher from the first table, then went to the table with the bowl and filled it with water. He didn’t feel right sleeping in a cot, dirty as he was, that belonged to someone else. His arms and legs were easy enough (his back already cleaned when Alastair had tended to the bruises) but his feet left the water in the bowl near black.

             But he was clean, cleaner than he had ever been even after washing in one of the city fountains. He crawled onto the cot and curled beneath the pile of blankets, bundled in a warmth he had not felt since the orphanage, and he marveled at how something so wonderful could come in the aftermath of something so terrible.

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TBC…