August Seventeenth, 1545 – Tudor England, London
Scenes of tranquillity rarely differ – a twilight sunset over a meadow, the meeting of ocean with the shore and the sound of waves lapping at the beach, or perhaps a night lit only by the full moon, light glistening on dew-covered grass and leaves.
The inhabitants of the city found tranquillity wherever they could get it – in this case, a darkened alleyway, strewn with muck and an unnameable liquid. The man huddles for warmth – it is a cold night, and the patchy tattered coat he stole is thick. He leans against the brick wall, ignoring the filth, and tries not to fall asleep.
To sleep is to die.
It is a scene that is repeated throughout time and across space – a country man making his way to the big city to find his fortune, only to end up destitute on the gang-controlled streets, making his living thieving and robbing. But there is no Dickens here to chronicle such destitution, no state efforts to create work for the jobless – only alms from the snobby rich and religious who can spare a few crowns. But tonight, the man's hat is firmly on his head, drawn about his ears and eyes for warmth – nobody walks the streets in the darkness anymore. And with good reason.
The only light was the glowing moon, but he felt the shadow is it fell across him. He lifted his hat to look up, peering at a man standing over him.
"Good morrow, sir," he said, cautiously. "Tis late to be walking the streets, is it not?"
The figure remained silent.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and now he could make out the figure clearer. It was man-shaped, dressed in tattered rags, more tattered even than his own, all in shades of black and grey that seemed to match his skin. A cap lay upon its head, stained with something. The man squinted up at the figure standing over him.
"How is it with thee?" he asked. "What o'clock ist?"
Still the figure remained silent, though now it swayed a little.
The man frowns to himself, a little worried. He isn't part of the City Watch – no Watchman would ever disguise himself so meanly – but the newcomer plainly had a purpose in darkening his place of sleep. He glared at the figure.
"Well? What say ye?"
Play with us!
The man sprung back, scooting along on his hands and knees to get away from the figure, who turned to face him as he fled. The man sprung to his feet, eyes wide and staring. A child! Where had the child's voice come from? Seemingly from the air itself – devilry, or witchcraft, or something equally blasphemous!
Now that he was standing, he could see that the figure was tall, and strong-looking for all his clothes looked like they belonged to the meanest pauper. His eyes hadn't deceived him – the figure's skin was pale, pale beyond all reason, his eyes glassy and unfocussed, sunken like his cheeks. Where the cloth was torn, he could see that the figure's body was torn in many places, a liquid slowly dripping from the figure's fingertips, the same liquid that stained the cap. He shuddered as he wondered what sight would meet him if the hat were removed.
"What meanst thou?" he demanded, still backing away. The light flickered as clouds passed across the face of the moon, and the shadows seemed to grow.
I only meant to play. It's been so long since I had someone to play with – so long since I had such fun toys! Come, sir! Shall we play?
The man backed away faster now, terrified for his life. Surely this man, built like an ox but with the voice of a child, must be some vision out of hell, come to take him to where the Devil made merry! He stumbled out into the street, fumbling in the darkness past a cart, and tripped on something on the ground.
The figure stood, eyes staring past and through him.
"Whence come ye?" he demanded, fear creeping into his voice.
Far away. Beyond the Dead Frontier, further than the Medusa Cascade. My home was the Gates of Elysium. Gone now. All my lovely toys, burned, never to have existed. But no matter! I have new toys now, and what fine toys they are!
The man tried to rise, but there was a pressure around his ankle. He kicked out, but it didn't relent – a hand grasped it, attached to the body that he had unknowingly tripped over. He yelled in alarm, and wrenched his foot from its grasp, trying to stand.
Something else gripped his forearm, claw like fingers gripping it tightly. Another grip, and another – arms reaching out from the cart. Horrified, he looked upon the sight of a dozen bodies all piled on top of each other, orderly. The corpse on the ground slowly rose, creaking as it did so. It was less… fresh than its predecessor, the one that had roused the man from attempted slumber. Its face was half-gone, worms and maggots still crawling across the rotten flesh. He screamed, and screamed, and kept screaming as the first body tottered slowly, deliberately towards him.
Such wonderful toys! I shall enjoy these new games very much!