John.’
Stout brother John. He half-lifted his relative from the cart. ‘Is there a good fire?’ James begged to know. Through the cloth of his coat John felt the quake of his body, his jumping pulses. There was a nasty smell on his breath: rot.
Dumped on a three-legged stool, James seemed hardly able to support himself upright. ‘What means this?’ John enquired. ‘What brings you home in this condition, mon?’
‘I am done for,’ James said. ‘I am worn out from the dissection room, the noxious emanations from the corpses, their poisoned fluids and exhalations, and the long hours your brother Wullie keeps. So jealous is he of his subjects, that he bade me sleep at night under the post-mortem table, lest one of his rivals should crack in at the windows and carry off the corpse.’
‘I see. So theft of corpses is an ever-present worry, is it?’ John asked. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at his shivering brother. Well he remembered the day James left for London, sovereigns in his purse, felicitations ringing in his ears, and a new hat in a leather box completing his general air as a man of present prosperity and greater ambition. And now—the ribs were stoved in, the stomach collapsed. There were two red blotches on his cheeks—a sick parade of well-being. ‘It seems to me you have come back to die,’ he said. ‘All our family have a charnel disposition. Have you heard of a great man, called Sir William Harvey? He dissected his own relatives.’
James raised his head. Hope shone in his face. ‘Have you formed an interest, brother John, in matters anatomical?’
‘But only after they were dead.’ He turned aside, calling out to his sister Dorothea to come and view James. ‘You need not fear me,’ he said, under his breath.
Dorothea came, and made a great fuss and to-do, and boiled something nourishing for the invalid. Dolly never criticised or carped, and when he became a great man himself he would have her for his housekeeper, since all his other sisters were now residing in the churchyard under sod.
When they docked, and stood on dry land, Pybus fell about, and affected to be unable to walk except in the manner of a sailor, rolling and slowly riding upon the element he has made his own. Claffey grew impatient with the joke, and kicked him, saying, That’ll give you something to straggle for.’
The Giant looked up, scanned the English sky. A few scudding clouds, the promise of sun breaking through. ‘God’s same sky over us all,’ he said. But the voices were foreign, the shoving, shouting men, the tangles of rope and rigging, the salt and fish odours, and the buildings piled on buildings, one house atop another: they had boarded after dark, so now Pybus gaped, and pointed. ‘How do they—’
They fly,’ Vance said shortly.
‘Jesus,’ said Pybus. ‘Englishmen can fly? And the women also?’
‘No,’ Vance said. The women cannot fly. They remain on what is called the lower storey, or ground floor, where the men are able to join them as they please, or, when they sicken of their nagging chatter and wish to smoke a pipe of tobacco, they unfold the wings they keep under their greatcoats, and flutter up to what are called the upper storeys.’
‘That’s a lie,’ Claffey said. ‘They must have a ladder.’
The Giant gave Claffey a glance that expressed pleasure at his ingenuity. He was familiar himself with the principle of staircases, but in the lifetime of these young fellows there had been no great house within a day’s march, where they might see the principle applied.
‘Oh yes,’ Vance said, sarcastically. ‘Surely, they have a ladder. Take a look, Claffey—don’t you see them swarming over the surface of the buildings?’
They looked, and did not. Glass windows caught the light, but the Giant’s followers saw glinting, empty air, air a fist could pass through, that flesh could pass through and not be cut.
On the quayside, Jankin leapt in the air, pointing. He was swelling with excitement, bubbling at the mouth. The black man he had seen strolled calmly towards them. He wore a good broadcloth coat and a clean cravat, being, as he was, employed at the docks as a respectable and senior kind of clerk. He was young, his plum-bloom cheeks faintly scarred, his eyes mild.
Jankin danced in front of him. He gave a shriek, like one of the parakeets the Giant had heard of. His grubby hand shot up, massaging the man’s face, rubbing in a circle to see would the colour come off. Jankin stared at his grey-white, seamed palm, and clawed out his fingers, then rubbed and rubbed again at the fleshy, flattened nose.
‘Get down, dog,’ Joe Vance said. ‘The gentleman is as respectable as yourself.’
The black man reached out, and took Jankin’s forearm in his hand. Gently he removed it from himself, pressing it inexorably into Jankin’s chest, as if he would fuse it with the ribs. His mild eyes were quite dead. His mouth twitched, but it did not speak. He passed on, his tread firm, over the cobbles and towards the city he now called home.
The Giant said, ‘People are staring at me.’
Vance said, ‘Yes, they would. I should hope so. That is the general idea.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Sooner we get you indoors and housed, the better for us all. We don’t want them gaping for free.’
The Giant saw the parakeets, green and gold, flit and swoop in a hot tangle of deeper green, and heard the alarm shrieks from their beating throats, and felt rope cut into skin and smelt the sweet, burnt, branded flesh.
He called out after the black man, ‘Poor soul, you have a brand on your body.’
The man called back, ‘Shog off, freak.’
The first night of their walk to London, they begged lodgings in a barn. Joe Vance parlayed with the farmer, and purchased from him some milk, some beer and some nasty dried-up bread with green mould on it. Claffey became militant, and raised a doubt about Joe Vance’s abilities. The Giant was forced to detain their attention with a long tale. He settled them among the straw, and turned his cheek to the alien breeze. They had come so far in thin rain, their heads down, purposefully observing as little as they could. London would be all wonder, Vance said. They were disposed to believe it, and not notice anything immediate: just walk. They had expected lush valleys, mounts snow-topped, fountains, a crystal house or mansion at each turn in the road: but no, it was tramp, tramp, just tramp. ‘Look now,’ the Giant said. ‘Shouldn’t we have a conveyance, Vance? I’d have thought a coach would have been sent for me, or some sort of elegant chariot?’
Hm. Or possibly not. Vance seemed likely to break out into a rage, which he did too readily when things went wrong. ‘What kind of a coach?’ he yelled. ‘One with the roof cut off? Who’s going to wreck a perfectly good coach for the one-time transport of a giant? It isn’t as if England is teeming with giants, it isn’t as if having made a ruin of a perfectly sound vehicle they can hire it out again on a weekly basis, is it? No Englishman does business that way!’
‘What about a chariot?’ the Giant asked mildly. The same objection cannot be raised to a chariot.’
‘Oh yes, a chariot, but then it would have to be reinforced! You couldn’t have your customer stepping in and putting his giant foot through it, so it would have to be strengthened—which costs money—and then drawn by heavy horses.’
‘Did
