Julius and the Soulcatcher Read online

  Praise for Julius and the Watchmaker

  ‘An exciting romp through time, full of wonderful characters and sinister possibilities.’ Lian Tanner

  ‘Alternate worlds, time travel, mechanical horror, the demi monde of Victorian England and evil trickery all come together to make this novel a compelling read...a winner for those who love good fantasy.’ Reading Time

  ‘The ideas about time and time travel are intricate…they have been created, sorted and ingeniously assembled…Teen readers will also particularly enjoy the fight scenes, sly ironic humour and steampunked flights of fantasy.’ Australian

  ‘The alternate parallels into which Julius is hurled are rich and scary and strange…A compelling read…a classic in the making for ages twelve and up.’ Readings

  ‘A thoroughly absorbing read for twelve-year-olds, who can engage as much or as little as they like with the historical detail and lessons in time, while getting swept along in the adventures and fates of Julius, our likeable hero, and his slowly evolving band of friends.’ Big Issue

  THE WATCHMAKER NOVELS

  Book 1 Julius and the Watchmaker

  Book 2 Julius and the Soulcatcher

  Tim Hehir lives in Melbourne and writes short stories and plays. Julius and the Soulcatcher is his second novel.

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  textpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © Tim Hehir 2016

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published by The Text Publishing Company, 2016

  Cover & papercut art by W.H. Chong

  Page design by Imogen Stubbs & W. H. Chong

  Typeset by J & M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Hehir, Tim.

  Title: Julius and the soulcatcher / by Tim Hehir.

  ISBN: 9781925240177 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781925095975 (ebook)

  Target Audience: For young adults.

  Subjects: Time travel—Fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  CHAPTER 1

  LONDON

  Thursday 18th January 1838

  5:56 PM

  Julius Higgins heard the rattle and creak of a hansom cab. But there was nothing to see, only darkness.

  ‘What is it?’ said Crimper McCready.

  The clatter of horses hooves grew louder.

  Julius hunched his shoulders against the bone-shattering cold as he strained to see down the alleyway.

  There’s nothing there, Higgins.

  The sound grew to a torrent.

  ‘Move, move,’ he called out to Crimper. ‘Run, damn you.’

  Julius pushed Crimper out of the alleyway into Lawrence Lane and jumped aside. The deafening rumble cascaded over him like a storm wave.

  The hansom cab shot past them, its wheels skidding as it lurched hard to the right. The cabbie, high on his perch at the back, flicked his whip.

  ‘Oi, mate,’ called out Crimper. ‘Light your lamp so folk can see you. You’re a bleeding menace. I’ll have the law on you.’

  The cabbie pulled back on the reins and the cab halted. He twisted around to look at the two boys. His spine was bent in a half moon and his head and chin were thrust forward from his domed shoulders. He put Julius in mind of a heron wearing a billycock hat.

  Uh-oh, thought Julius.

  He heard a whimper from low in Crimper McCready’s throat.

  Julius swallowed.

  Make a run for it, Higgins.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Crimper. The sound was too weak to make it far from his face.

  The cabbie’s eyes were unreadable in the shadow of his hat’s rim as he looked down on them from his perch. The breath from his nose misted with each exhalation.

  ‘What is it? Do you see her?’ called out a voice from inside the cab. ‘Do you? Do you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the cabbie. He snapped the whip. The horse whinnied and the cab clattered down the street and out of sight.

  Julius felt as if his body was turning to liquid and forming a puddle where he stood.

  ‘Good job he took off,’ said Crimper. ‘Else I’d have shown him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julius. ‘Lucky for him.’

  After a few hurried twists and turns through the London streets Julius and Crimper arrived at the top of Ironmonger Lane.

  Nearly home, Higgins. A hot meal and a warm fire await.

  Lamps burned over doorways along each side of the narrow street. They didn’t give much light, but they showed the way. A few more paces and Julius saw the sign for his grandfather’s bookshop. Higgins’ Booksellers: Rare and Difficult to Find Books a Specialty.

  At the window, Julius stopped and looked inside. A smartly dressed girl reached across the counter accepting a coin from his grandfather. She curtsied a little stiffly, as if she were still learning how to do it. Then she dropped the coin into her purse, pulled a veil over the front of her bonnet and turned towards the door.

  Julius remained at the window, watching.

  The shop bell tinkled as the girl stepped out onto the footpath. She stopped, startled to see the two boys. The veil over her face moved like a ripple on water as she breathed.

  Julius estimated her to be twelve or thirteen from her height, and well-to-do from her polished ankle boots and fur-lined cape. He could not see her eyes but he knew she was staring at him.

  Julius marked the seconds by his heartbeats, as regular as the ticking of a clock.

  He knew who she was.

  She had changed in every way since the last time he had seen her, but it was still her. She was taller now, certainly better dressed, and she carried herself, if not like a lady, at least like a well-trained lady’s maid.

  Despite the cold, Julius felt a warmth within. He opened his mouth to say her name, but she turned and ran.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Crimper.

  ‘Someone I used to know,’ said Julius.

  But she didn’t want to know you, Higgins.

  ‘Who? Higgins, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Higgins?’ said Crimper.

  ‘Hmm…what?’ said Julius.

  ‘The book?’

  ‘Book?’

  ‘Latin, remember?’

  Julius felt the warmth drain away.

  They went into the shop and stood near the crackling fire unwinding their scarves. Mr Higgins looked up from the book he was reading as the two boys unbuttoned their coats.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, young Caesar?’ said Mr Higgins.

  ‘Of what, Grandfather?’ replied Julius.

  ‘The lateness of the hour. Where have you been?’

  ‘At the extra history class, Grandfather. I told you about it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I recall. And is Master McCready a history scholar, too?’ said Mr Higgins, studying the large, pudding-faced boy for any sign of a budding historian.

  ‘Me? No fear, Mr Higgins, I’m here to borrow a Latin grammar book,’ said Crimper.

  ‘Borrow? Borrow? Books are made to be bought and sold, my boy, not borrowed,’ said Mr Higgins. ‘Where is the profit in that? Whatever next? Will you be borrowing a cup of tea, perchance? Would you like to borrow some
candlelight?

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Take no notice, Crimper,’ said Julius. ‘Grandfather’s only joking.’ He tossed the book to Crimper, who mumbled a thanks and hurried out the door.

  ‘Grandfather?’ said Julius.

  ‘Yes, young Caesar?’

  ‘The girl who was here just now?’

  ‘Which girl?’

  One of the many things that Julius found irritating about his grandfather was his strategic coyness.

  ‘The one with the veil.’

  ‘Veil? Oh, that one. A very well-spoken child, very polite. Very pretty too. I bought this odd fish from her,’ said Mr Higgins.

  He lifted a book from the counter. The cover was worn. Its title looked like it had been cut into the leather with a sharp knife. Julius held it up to the candle to make out the letters. A Diary of My Voyage on H.M.S. Beagle—C. R. Darwin.

  ‘Did she leave her name or…or her address, Grandfather?’

  ‘No, neither. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. Is it interesting?’ said Julius, leafing through the pages.

  ‘Odd is the word I would use. I thought one of my more eccentric collectors might be interested; it contains some exquisite paintings of orchids. I might get two pounds for it from an orchid maniac.’

  ‘Did the girl say where she got it?’

  ‘She said she chanced upon it lying in a gutter and, as she loved books above all things, she hoped I might find a home for it with a book-lover who would appreciate its unique qualities,’ said Mr Higgins.

  Ha-ha. It’s her, Higgins. It’s definitely her. She nicked it.

  ‘And you believed her?’ Julius said, with a smile he couldn’t contain.

  ‘Of course not. Do I resemble a new-born infant? It is obviously stolen. It will be an “under-the-counter” sale, you can be sure of that.’

  Julius stopped at one of the pages. It was a watercolour painting of a tortoise—but not any ordinary tortoise. Comparing its size to the sailor standing beside it, Julius reckoned the creature to be as large as a tin bath.

  ‘This Darwin fellow is obviously a fantasist,’ said Mr Higgins. ‘But a talented painter, nonetheless.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Julius. He continued turning the pages. On one was a line of finely painted birds in profile, each with a slightly different beak. ‘He says “The Islands of Galapagos are like a continent in miniature, with their own unique variety of creatures.”’

  Julius turned more pages. ‘And he says here, “The variation occurring among the fauna of these islands is the clearest I have seen on my voyage thus far. Each new observation strengthens my theory. But is the world ready to hear that Nature selects, sculpts and forms her own garden?”’

  ‘A lunatic, no doubt,’ said Mr Higgins.

  ‘What’s this?’ Julius stopped at a portrait of a man caught in the zenith of a scream of unimaginable agony.

  ‘Good Heavens,’ said Mr Higgins. ‘I didn’t notice that one.’

  Plants grew from the man’s mouth and nostrils and the corners of his eyes. Flame-red flowers at the ends of the stems surrounded the man’s head. On the opposite page C. R. Darwin had written:

  June 13th 1832. Brazil.

  Village of the Soulcatchers.

  Mr Skinner and I navigated up thinner and thinner tributaries for eight days until we came to the Village of the Soulcatchers. We camped on the far bank for safety and paddled to the jetty to see if the famed Reverend Merrisham would greet us and, if so, how we would be received. Having heard such strange stories of this place of the Damned I am not ashamed to say that I experienced some trepidation.

  Hearing that there is a remote village on an island in the river where the souls of its people have been stolen by a race of orchids is one thing; to meet the Englishman who has lived as a missionary among them is another. How would he have adapted to this curious environment? What of the state of his soul?

  We waited for almost an hour, all the while aware that we were being watched by many eyes, until a man came along the riverbank. By his black coat and breeches and white stockings we knew him to the missionary we were seeking. When Merrisham lifted his hat to greet us and the sun shone on his cheeks, Mr Skinner gripped my shoulder and cried out.

  ‘God help us,’ he said. ‘It is true.’

  The horror I felt when I looked at the missionary’s face will stay with me until I die.

  The door burst open. Crimper McCready ran in. His gaping mouth reminded Julius of the picture—that same screaming rictus of terror.

  ‘What the—’ said Mr Higgins.

  ‘The girl’s been took,’ said Crimper.

  ‘Emily?’ said Julius.

  ‘Who?’ said his grandfather.

  ‘Down the road. It was that hansom cab without the lamp. There was two bruisers and a little geezer. They threw her in the cab. She was fighting like a good ’un but—’

  Julius clutched Crimper’s arm. ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘I don’t know. I ran here. We should send for a constable. It’s kidnappers or—’ Crimper stopped. He looked through the window. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  It was the same galloping clatter they had heard in the alleyway.

  ‘That,’ said Crimper.

  Julius felt his chest tighten as if gripped by an icy claw.

  They’ve got Emily.

  ‘Quick, bolt the door,’ said Mr Higgins. He slipped the diary under the sales ledger.

  CHAPTER 2

  Thursday 18th January 1838

  6:14 PM

  Crimper was only two steps from the door, but he was rooted to the spot in terror.

  ‘Here it comes,’ he said.

  The black horse pulled up outside the shop window. The cabbie was too high in his seat to be seen, but the reins tightened on the horse’s neck. It snorted once, blowing out a cloud of steam. The cab lamp was still unlit, but the lamp above the shop doorway showed the outline of the cab and the gossamer mist of sweat rising from the horse’s back.

  Julius lunged for the door, but Crimper retreated at the same moment, knocking him away. A man climbed out of the front of the cab with the girl slung over his shoulder. The cabbie climbed down too.

  Julius pushed Crimper aside and rushed forward. He clasped the door knob.

  ‘Bolt the door,’ shouted his grandfather.

  Julius hesitated. Both men looked at them through the display window. The cabbie was as thin as a workhouse dog, and a full head, chest and shoulders taller than the other man. The girl squirmed and fought in the shorter man’s grasp.

  ‘Bolt the door, damn you,’ said his grandfather again.

  You can’t lock her out, Higgins. You can’t.

  In two steps the cabbie was at the door. He jiggled the handle. Julius grasped the other side, holding it fast. The cabbie’s eyes looked at him through the letter H of Higgins’ Booksellers in the frosted glass.

  ‘Bolt the blasted door,’ ordered his grandfather.

  What would Mr Flynn do, Higgins? he asked himself.

  Julius let go of the door knob and stepped back.

  The shop bell rang as the cabbie swung the door open.

  ‘Very wise, young man,’ he said. His voice had a rasping yet oddly gentle quality to it. The cabbie remained outside on the step, his eyes flicking left and right as if in search of danger, or prey. His face was so long and thin it looked like a stalactite hanging from his billycock hat. His cheekbones were so pronounced that his pock-marked skin strained to contain them.

  The other man—as squat and solid as a bulldog—entered the shop carrying the girl over his shoulder. His faded brown, triple-caped overcoat reached almost to the ground, giving the impression that he floated, rather than walked across the floor.

  He dropped the girl. She landed with a thud and a stifled yelp.

  ‘Got a delivery for you,’ he said, through a tilted slit of a mouth. He sniffed home a stream of silvery snot into his misshapen nose.

  A t
hird man barged into the shop bearing the eager expression of a spoilt child let loose in a sweet shop. He was small, shorter than Julius, and the strangest-looking person Julius had ever seen.

  ‘What a lovely evening it is,’ said the man, in a singsong voice.

  That’s the voice from the cab, Higgins.

  The little man’s smile revealed two rows of disconcertingly small teeth. They reminded Julius of old-fashioned, porcelain dentures.

  Mr Higgins opened his mouth to speak but then changed his mind.

  The man raised his purple, wide-brimmed hat to reveal wiry, red hair parted along the middle. His skin as dry as ancient parchment and in his small hands he held a plant pot.

  Julius did not know if it was his imagination or the blood going cold in his veins, but he felt the temperature in the bookshop drop.

  Crimper’s flesh wobbled as he stepped back and bumped into the display table. He caught the candle before it fell, but several books spilled onto the floor.

  Mr Higgins used the distraction to regain his composure and prepare himself for business.

  ‘Have I come to the right place? Have I? Have I?’ said the short red-headed man. He unbuttoned his purple frock coat to reveal a yellow-and-purple-striped waistcoat.

  He’s not dressed for the cold, Higgins.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure, sir. What was it you required?’ asked Mr Higgins.

  Julius clenched his fists to stop them trembling.

  ‘Require? Can you guess?’ said the man. ‘Can you? Can you?’

  The innocently expectant tone of his enquiry froze Julius’s blood solid—he could almost feel his veins cracking and splintering.

  ‘Er?’ said Mr Higgins.

  ‘A diary, bound in leather, written by my good friend, Mr Darwin.’

  ‘Hmm, let me think,’ said Mr Higgins, as his eyes ran along the shelves.

  ‘Shall I give you a hint?’ said the man. ‘Shall I? Shall I? This little thief told me she sold it to you not five minutes ago.’ The man stopped smiling. ‘And I want it back.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, if it is stolen property perhaps we ought to alert the constabulary,’ said Mr Higgins, rather feebly.

  ‘Or,’ said the man, ‘my friend here could chop her hand off.’