Josh and the Magic Vial
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
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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
â who passed away in February 2005 â could hold this book
in his hands and share in this joyful event.
CONTENT
C
harles 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 â 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,âVortigen', 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, both 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 âVortigen' 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.