Josh and the Magic Vial Read online

  JOSBR

  &

  THE MAGIC VIAL

  JOSBR

  &

  THE MAGIC VIAL

  CRAIG SPENCE

  ©Craig Spence, 2006

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Accesss Copyright).For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Thistledown Press Ltd.

  118 - 20th Street West

  Saskatoon,

  Saskatchewan, S7M 0W6

  www.thistledownpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Spence, Craig, 1952-

  Josh & the magic vial / Josh Spence.

  ISBN 978-1-927068-64-9

  I. Title. II. Title: Josh and the magic vial.

  PS8637.P45J88 2006 jC813'.6 C2006-903743-4

  Cover painting by Diana Durrand

  Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing program.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Successful writing is often a team venture, and I have many people to thank:

  Lynn Thomson, my literary agent, for her efforts and encouragement.

  My editor, Rod MacIntyre, for his experience, skill and patient determination.

  Thistledown Press, for seeing the potential in Josh and the Magic Vial.

  My sons, Daniel and Ian, for the lessons they have taught me.

  My loving wife, Diana, whose illustrations helped enliven the key characters in this book.

  All of those who have read various versions of Josh and the Magic Vial and who have offered advice, encouragement, and constructive criticism; in particular, Sarah Cumberbirch.

  Finally, you, the readers. I'm sure you will bring life to the characters in Josh and the Magic Vial in ways I would never have imagined.

  To my parents Dorothy and Ed Spence, who have believed in me and supported me always. I cannot say how grateful I am for the loving upbringing they have provided. I only wish that Dad — who passed away in February 2005 — could hold this book in his hands and share in this joyful event.

  CONTENT

  THE VIAL

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  PUDDIFANT’S TALE

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  IN SYDE

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  73

  Charles Underwood, dear sweet Charles, burned with fever. The doctors did all they could. They prodded, poked, took temperatures, listened to the thump of his heart and the wheeze of his lungs, but still they had no sure diagnosis — except to say he was dying. That much was clear.

  Clarisa Underwood sat with her son through bouts of sweating and shivering, holding his hand the whole time, as if she were leading him through a snowstorm. “You’ll be all right,” she coaxed. “You’ll come round.”

  She believed it, too. What else could a mother do?

  Her faith was shaken when they moved Charlie off the ward of the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children into a private room. “They’re not doing it because he’s royalty,” she sobbed in her husband’s arms. “It’s because our Charlie is dying.”

  Robert Underwood comforted her as best he could. “You must keep your strength up, my dear, for his sake,” the drayman said. “He needs his mum, now, more than ever. Come, my love. Don’t despair.”

  If only he could have taken his own advice, Robert might have been able to help his wife. But he could barely keep from breaking down himself, and (truth be known) he had wept many a time with Clarisa and alone. Robert had seen horses die, and dogs, and birds, and people too, for that matter. He knew the signs.

  He’d have gone toe-to-toe with anyone in the Empire to save his son, but this enemy could not be driven back with fists and shouts. Or with any of the medications the doctors prescribed. This enemy was the sound of a bell tolling a long way off; it was a shriek carried on the wind; it was water splashing in the depths of a dark well.

  It was also a name. “Vortigen!”

  Charlie had called to this being several times when the fever raged. The boy was delirious, Clarisa’s practical side told her. Who could tell what hallucinations might be conjured up by such an illness? “Best busy yourself with warm water, sponges, and morsels of food when he’ll take them.” She didn’t put much stock in his raving . . .

  Until the day Charlie shouted out when a nurse was in the room. The woman blanched, backed away, and shook so hard the water rippled in the glass she carried.

  “What’s the matter?” Clarisa demanded.

  “It’s him again, isn’t it?” the woman said.

  “Who?” Clarisa shouted. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse answered. “He caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  Clarisa insisted on speaking to Dr. Chadwick immediately. Something had been kept from her and she wasn’t having any secrets. Not when her son lay dying of an illness no one could name. “What’s going on?” she demanded the moment the nervous young physician entered the room.

  Dr. Chadwick was a tall, thin specimen, prematurely stooped, as if his slender frame could not support the excessive weight of his head. He picked at things habitually with his long fingers, and spoke with a stutter. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asked, brushing aside his shock of wiry red hair.

  “When my Charlie called out that name,‘Vortigen’, the nurse nearly fainted.”

  The doctor plucked unhappily at his lab coat. His pea-green eyes darted about the room, looking for an exit, coming to rest at the window, which was closed. He sighed wearily then met her gaze. “I’ve wanted to talk to you about this Vo-Vortigen, but I didn’t want to upset you ma’am. Could we step out into the hallway for a moment?”

  “Please explain,” Clarisa pursued him out of the room.

  “We’ve heard the name before,” he said quietly.

  She waited.

  “Two other patients have called out to him in the last year, bo
th afflicted with an illness similar to your son’s.”

  “And what happened to them?”

  His answer caught in his throat, but Clarisa could tell by Dr. Chadwick’s anguished look what he was trying to say, and her heart sank like a stone. “They died, didn’t they?” she moaned. “Didn’t they!”

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Underwood,” he whispered. “Yes. They died.”

  “But surely there’s something you can do!”

  “Of course,” he assured her. “We are still trying new procedures, different medications. The illness has not responded so far, but we haven’t given up. Not at all.”

  “And what does this ‘Vortigen’ character have to do with it?”

  “We don’t know, ma’am.”

  “Let me put my question a different way, then, doctor: What do you intend to do about this Vortigen?”

  “We have contacted the Metropolitan Police,” he answered firmly.

  “My God!” she gasped. “What type of illness is this we are speaking of Dr. Chadwick? What type of disease warrants a police investigation?”

  “Please, Mrs. Underwood,” he hushed. “I beg you, keep what we have discussed in strictest confidence. I will share what I can with you and your husband, but if word of this gets out, it will create a sensation. The whole city would be in a panic.”

  “And shouldn’t it be, Dr. Chadwick?” she hissed. “Shouldn’t every mother be up in arms!”

  “I assure you, if there is any substance to these fears, we will let the public know. But the police need time to look into the matter, and physicians who know more about the spread of disease. We’re taking every precaution, Mrs. Underwood. Every precaution! But we need time.”

  “How much time does my Charlie have, doctor?”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed, “but a public uproar would be more hindrance than help. It would make a proper investigation v-very difficult. Impossible, actually.”

  Clarisa glared at the doctor, but this time he did not look away. “I know this is terrible for you,” he said. “I can’t imagine how terrible, Mrs. Underwood. But making this public at this time would serve no purpose.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded, forcing her head up and down against her own will, for in truth Clarisa wanted to shout the repulsive name “Vortigen” in the streets. She wanted the whole world aroused to the evil that stalked East London.

  The next day Dr. Chadwick introduced Clarisa and Robert to a peculiar fellow named Inspector Horace Puddifant, New Scotland Yard. “I’m so sorry,” the inspector began, shaking their hands briskly. “I know the last thing you want right now is a police investigation . . . ”

  “We’ll help any way we can, sir,” Clarisa cut him short.

  Robert nodded grimly. “Any way we can,” he echoed.

  The inspector glanced from one to the other, then touched the brim of his bowler hat, inclining his head just perceptibly. “I admire you both,” he said. “I know what it is to see a child suffer.” He fixed them with his bulging dark eyes and stroked his grizzled beard thoughtfully.

  Clarisa noticed the cuff of his tweed jacket was frayed, and his shirt wrinkled. Inspector Puddifant must be a bachelor, she concluded.

  “How is your son?” he asked after an awkward silence.

  “Poorly,” Clarisa quavered. “In truth, our Charlie’s condition has gone from bad to worse these last few days. All we can do is pray.”

  “Dr. Chadwick has informed me about the strange nature of the illness. May I see the lad?”

  The Underwoods looked to Dr. Chadwick. “Yes, of course,” he said, gesturing toward the room.

  Charlie’s condition had worsened overnight. There was no denying it. His skin had yellowed and tightened around the bone, so that the angular features of his skull stood out. The breath rattled in and out of him, and he muttered incessantly. Not even the Underwoods could make out what he was saying. The most disconcerting thing of all was Charlie’s eyes. They stared right through this world into another.

  Inspector Puddifant wasted no time. Moving quickly to the side of Charlie’s bed, he sat down and watched the boy intently, then did something the Underwoods would not have expected — Puddifant stroked the boy’s hair with his large, muscular hand.

  The effect on Charlie startled them. He bolted upright and looked about the room. “Who’s there?” he challenged.

  “Charlie, dear, it’s us!” Clarisa cried. “Father and I!”

  Charlie continued searching, neither seeing nor hearing them. “Can you help me?” he pleaded. “Can you get me out of here?”

  “Out of where, Charlie?” Inspector Puddifant asked.

  “I-I don’t know,” the boy whispered. “Syde is the name of the place, but I haven’t seen much beyond my room. I’ve been ill.”

  “You’re in a room?”

  “Yes, a small room with nothing in it but a bed. More like a cell than a room, really — a monk’s cell, not a jail cell . . . why can’t I see you?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’m to your left, Charlie. Next to the bed.”

  “Why can’t I see you?” the boy complained. “Are you a ghost?”

  “No, Charlie. I’m very real. Your mum and dad are here, too.”

  “Mum? Dad?”

  “Charlie!” Clarisa cried.

  “The room you are seeing is not real,” Puddifant said calmly.

  “You are in a room at the Great Ormond Street Hospital. If you look to your right, you’ll see the lights of London out the window.”

  “The sky is made of stone here,” Charlie said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, he tries to disguise it with lights and so on. But it’s granite. Vortigen’s kingdom is nothing but a huge cavern underground. It’s bigger than you can imagine, but still a cavern. I don’t want to live here.”

  “Then get out. It’s not real,” Puddifant insisted. “If you can only think of it as an illusion, you’ll see through to your own world, Charlie.”

  “The walls of his palace are made of green marble, I think. Quite grand, really. It must have taken years to build.”

  “It’s not real Charlie!”

  The boy sank back into his pillow.

  “Charlie!” Clarisa shrieked.

  But he had slipped beyond reach, sinking back into his coma.

  Three hours later Charles Alexander Underwood died. He simply stopped breathing. Clarisa wailed over her son. She cradled his head in her arms and kissed him fiercely. But a lifetime of sorrowing after him would not bring Charlie back, or mend Clarisa’s soul.

  “My boy. My dear, sweet child,” she sobbed.

  Puddifant, hearing the news, wept too. He’d been close to extricating the boy, and blamed himself for not succeeding. “It’s not your fault, man! Don’t be ridiculous,” he grumbled, but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. He walked to clear his mind, tramping along under a moonless sky with stars scattered about the blackness like sequins.

  THE VIAL

  1

  Josh reclined in the canvas chair and imagined himself far from the tidy rectangle of his parents’ back yard. He’d left Mount Pleasant behind, and the 21st Century, landing in the Dark Ages, in the thick of a looming battle on the Plain of Hador. King Carak’s army stood at the ready in full battle order, and Josh found himself in the centre ranks. Men stamped, horses neighed and champed at the bit, armour clanked and rattled. A pennant fluttered in the breeze. The army grew impatient: those who were afraid wanted the fray over quickly; those who relished battle couldn’t wait to begin.

  Gorp the Hurler could always be counted among the latter. He strode out into no man’s land and glared at his enemies — a ragtag bunch, orcs mostly, with a few ogres and trolls thrown in to make things interesting. “This will be fun,” he boomed to his companions — Hazard to the left, Prince Boniface to the right. He put down his sling so he could rub his hands in a pantomime of glee. “Conking orcs before breakfast is my idea of the perfect start to a day.”

  Hazard,
leaning on his shield, shook his head and laughed. “You’re crazy, Gorp,” he chuckled. “I suppose that’s the only reason anyone puts up with you. Can’t you think of anything that might be better to wake up to than this grim duty?”

  Gorp shook his great, shaggy head.

  “Not a breakfast of bacon and eggs, served up on a platter as big as Hazard’s shield?” Prince Boniface chimed in.

  The Hurler snorted resolutely.

  “Not Matilde in a nice, cozy bed?” Hazard put in slyly.

  “Oh jeez!” Gorp stuttered.

  The others burst out laughing, joined by their comrades up and down the line.

  “Don’t tell her I said that,” Gorp pleaded. “She’ll have my bones in a stew if she finds out I prefer walloping orcs to her gentle company.”

  “Now here’s a fine warrior!” Hazard shouted loud enough for even the orcs to hear. “He talks big about bashing orcs, but craves refuge from the most beautiful, mild-mannered woman in all Hador.”

  “All right,” Gorp grumbled, staring sullenly across the gap of no man’s land. “You’ve had your laugh.”

  “Aye, and I pray it’s not my last.” Hazard said, suddenly serious. “Now you’re in a fighting mood, my burly friend. We will punish these wretched creatures, because they threaten everything we cherish. To prevent their pillage and tyranny I will kill if I must, and die too, if God wills it. But I’ll never relish this kind of work.”

  “I stand corrected,” Gorp conceded.

  “But not any closer to a plate of bacon and eggs, or to your lovely wife Matilde,” Hazard teased. “Come, let us embrace and prepare for war, and if we three survive, we shall tell of this day’s deeds around the campfire, when night has covered over our crimes, and the rats and maggots of this neighbourhood are going about their business.”

  No sooner had they wished each other well, than the clarion sounded, and with a mighty shout King Carak’s army surged onto the plain like a wave roiling with swords, and spears, and arrows . . .

  “Josh!”

  “Huh?”

  “Josh! It’s me. Millie.”

  Reluctantly, he opened first one eye, then the other. King Carak’s realm disintegrated and there, sure enough, stood Millie, an impish grin turning up her thin lips, her red, frizzy hair emblazoned from behind by the afternoon sun.