As the day wore on I grew bolder and crept up the steep curve of Candlemaker Row, passing–unbeknownst to me at the time–the shop where my mother had spent her childhood. It was the rich smells of roasted meat and tobacco, drifting from the pubs that lined High Street, which lured me upwards.
The afternoon was drawing on toward evening, but it was June and still light. I skulked along alleys like the numerous stray dogs, obeying the instinct to keep out of sight. Finally, as dusk stole through the city, I ducked into a courtyard tucked among tall buildings–a place I would later come to know as Advocate’s Close, and a good bet for picking a rich man’s pocket.
Stairs led down to a door in which a small window glowed with the warmest yellow light I had ever seen. It was the back entrance to one of the pubs that faced High Street. The door opened, and more light spilled out, along with raucous laughter. A woman with frowsy hair and an ample bosom emptied the contents of a bucket on the cobbles.
“Here ’tis, ye whelps,” she called. “Coom an’ take it away fer me.” She stepped inside and shut the door.
Several dogs slunk from the shadows toward the heap of slop. I was faster. I leaped forward, snarling as I brandished the knife I had stolen from my mother, and to my surprise the dogs slunk back, tails between their legs. I grabbed as many of the choicest bones as I could, then ran across the close, leaving the rest for the curs.
I climbed atop a wall, then ate. The bones were legs of lambs pulled from a soup pot, and there was little meat left on them, meant as they were for the dogs, but to me they comprised a succulent feast. I ate, smacking my lips, enjoying the feel of gristle against my teeth and gums. I cracked the bones against the wall and sucked the marrow out.
Finally I was done. The dogs were fled. Above, the last gray light was fading from the sky. It was time to find a place to curl up and hide for the night–time to go back below the city. I wiped my greasy hands on my shirt, and as I did I felt a lump within.
I pulled it out. It was the silver cloth I had taken from my mother. My shirt was stained with blood, yet the silver cloth remained as clean as before. I held it up, marveling at the silken feel. It seemed to catch the twilight, shimmering in the gloom.
“Hey, you up there!”
I knew at once there was nowhere to run. The back entrance by which I had entered the close was now barred with an iron gate. Someone must have locked it as dusk fell, and in the rapture of gnawing on the bones I had failed to notice. There were several other doors lining the close, but I was certain all would be locked, save perhaps the back door to the pub. However, I dared not try that way. One big hand on my scrawny neck, and my flight would be in vain.
The only other way out of the close was by the main archway that led out onto High Street. Two men stood in that archway.
“Where did you get that?” one of the men said, pointing at the silver cloth.
He was corpulent, his jowls spilling out of a lace‑collared shirt. His velvet coat was just as rich, sewn with brass buttons, and at first I supposed him some sort of lord. When I did not answer him, he turned to his companion. “This will take just a moment.”
The other remained silent. He was tall, a dark cloak draping his broad shoulders and his face shadowed by the wide brim of a hat.
The gentleman marched forward. “I daresay that kerchief is too fine for the likes of you, boy,” he said, his breath wheezing, as if he had walked up a long flight of steps rather than just across the close. “Where did you steal it?”
“It’s mine,” I said. “My mother gave it to me.” It was not exactly the truth, but close enough to it.
“Liar,” the man spat, and before I could move he snatched the cloth from my hands. A new emotion cut through my fear: anger.
He pawed at the cloth with thick fingers. “This is fine indeed. I’d warrant you pilfered it from some noble lady. It’s malefactors like you that are ruining this city. I’m a barrister for the king’s court. I’ll have you hauled up to the castle and thrown in the dungeon.”
I started to push myself off the wall, but then the other–the tall, shadowy one–stepped closer. He raised a gloved hand.
“Let him go, Brody,” he said, and I froze. His voice was deep and resonant, and for some reason it sent a shiver up my spine. “Let us go inside.” He gestured to the back door of the pub. “I would see to our business.”
Although the other spoke to the barrister, Brody, I felt certain it was me he was watching, even though I could not see his face.
Brody glanced back at his companion, and I knew this was my chance. I leaped down from the wall and snatched the cloth from the barrister’s hand. He moved faster than I would have guessed for one so large, whirling around and grabbing for me. I let out a snarl and glared at him. He stumbled back, his face pale in the gloom, and I knew at that moment my eyes flashed green just like my mother’s.
Clutching the cloth to my chest, I ran for the archway. I was forced to pass so close to the barrister’s companion that I brushed against his black cloak–the fabric was heavy and soft–but he did not stop me.
I pounded barefoot over the stones of High Street, dodging horses, coaches, and people, expecting a hue and cry to rise up behind me at any moment, but it did not. I careened around a corner onto Candlemaker Row, then ran on, down toward the Cowgate and the fringes of the old city. I had left the throngs behind; there were no people to observe me as I scrambled up a stone wall, then dropped down the other side.
The noises of the city receded. A hush closed around me. Pale stones shone in the dimness.
This was Greyfriars cemetery–though at the time I did not know its name, only that it was a graveyard and that it suited me. The living would not bother me there, and I feared them far more than I did the dead. I moved deeper into the cemetery, shivering as the sweat brought on by my flight evaporated. Even in summer, nights in Edinburgh were cool.
I suppose I surprised the grave robber as much as he surprised me. I came from around a large headstone topped with a Celtic cross, and there he was, hunched over his work, muttering to himself as he pried at the door of a mausoleum with a pickaxe. He had already broken away a corner of the stone door.
Startled, I let out a gasp. The grave robber dropped the pick and turned around, his eyes like saucers in the gloom.
“Mother Mary, save me!” he said, clutching a marble column, his face a mask of dirt and fear.
I reached out a hand and tried to tell him it was all right, that I wouldn’t hurt him, but he let out a strangled cry and turned around to flee. As he did, his cloak caught on a hawthorn bush. He jerked free of the garment, then ran away through the graveyard.
I suppose he thought I was a ghost, pale as I was, scabbed with blood and dressed in rags, and that I had risen from the grave to punish him. Quite the opposite, I was grateful for his actions, as now I had discovered where I could spend the night.
I retrieved the cloak from the bush, then squeezed through the gap the grave robber had made–too small for a man, but perfect for a thin boy. Only the faintest light followed me into the mausoleum. There was a musty smell, from the rats that had long ago built a nest in a corner, but the odor was faint and old. Crypts lined the marble walls; one of them was open and empty, awaiting a body.
I gave it mine. Bruised, aching, and tired beyond imagining–yet strangely pleased for a reason I couldn’t quite name– I wrapped myself in the robber’s cloak and lay down inside the cold crypt. The stone seemed to me the softest feather bed, and there I slept like a corpse, born and dead in the very same day.