I kept my eyes on his black boots, but a shiver coursed through me, for I recognized that voice, though it had been almost four years since I had heard it last, in the confines of Advocate’s Close.
“I’ve been looking for this person for some time,” the man said. “I recently heard that he lives here, in Greyfriars.”
“No one lives here, my lord,” I said. “ ’Tis a graveyard.”
“Is that so?”
A strong finger touched my chin, tilting my head up. He was even taller than I remembered. As before, a wide‑brimmed hat shadowed his face, but I caught two glints of gold light in the darkness. His eyes were locked on me, and they were yellow like a wolf’s.
“Who are you?” I said in a hoarse rasp.
“Someone who can help you.”
My fear receded a fraction, and I felt a spark of anger flicker up in me again. First Deacon Moody, now this stranger in black. Why did they want to help me? Couldn’t they see it was no use?
“Leave me be,” I said, jerking away from him.
“As you wish, James.”
These words stunned me so much that I stopped in the act of turning away. I looked over my shoulder. A stray shaft of light fell from a window above, illuminating a strong mouth framed by a dark beard.
“If you change your mind, come to Advocate’s Close at twilight on the first day of any month. You’ll find me then, just as you did before.”
I clenched my hands into fists. “I won’t come.”
The man said nothing. He turned and walked down the street. When I could no longer see him, I gazed up at the gates of the cemetery. I was weary and longed to lie down in the crypt to sleep. Only I did not dare–not now, not ever again. Somehow he had learned that I made my home there. Someone on the street had told him, and that meant I could never sleep in Greyfriars again. No more would I know the peace of the Gilroy mausoleum, or the comfort of my imagined family. A pang of sadness pierced my heart.
I crumpled the feeling and tossed it away, like refuse in the gutter. Deacon Moody was an old, drunken fool, but he had been right about one thing. Sorrow was not for the dead. I straightened my bony shoulders and passed into the night.
After that, I put all thoughts of Greyfriars and the stranger in black out of my head. A change had come over me, as sudden as a storm sweeps out of the Highlands. While before I had been quick to laugh or make a jest with other folk on the street, now I was grim and silent, and I spoke to no person except out of need. I no longer slept in a crypt, but all the same I had died, just like the people Deacon Moody had spoken of.
It was not simply temptation that had caused me to steal that man’s purse on the stair below High Street. Desperation had factored in as well. As the years passed, despite the wretchedness of my diet, I had sprouted. My breeches had become knickers of their own accord, and my shirtsleeves reached barely past my elbows.
The taller I grew, the harder it became to compel the ladies to charity. Fewer carriages stopped, and when they did I received smaller coins for my troubles. Then, for a long time, no carriage stopped at all.
I had all but given up on winning alms by the time I robbed that fellow. However, the day after I fled the dark stranger at Greyfriars, I tried one more time, cleaning myself up as best I could and standing beside the road. To my surprise, it was not long before a glossy coach stopped in front of me. To my further surprise, it was not a woman who opened the coach’s door, but a man: a barrister or other well‑to‑do gentleman, edging on toward middle years, but still handsome in his fine attire.
Looking back, I should not have been so astonished. With the change that had come over me, I had not bothered to affect the cherub’s forlorn and beatific expression. Instead, I looked exactly like what I was–a young man with yellow hair, thin and pretty and dangerous. I should have known they would stop for me.
The piercing light in the fellow’s eyes told me he did not seek to do charity unto me, but the coins in his hand, gold as my hair, removed any qualms I might have felt. I climbed into the carriage, and the door shut behind me.
After that day, I realized it did not matter if the fair ladies would no longer make a fuss over me. There were men who would give me far more money, and for far different reasons. One thing, though, remained the same: they all favored my golden locks. I let my hair grow long and luxuriant, and always kept it clean.
Sometimes, as on that first day, I stood beside High Street, waiting for a carriage to stop, but I soon found only the boldest favored that method. More often I could be found as dusk fell, lingering in the square just below the Tron kirk, whose wooden steeple beckoned like a finger against the sky. That’s where I’d find them waiting in shadows, eyes hungry and furtive. I’d give them a look, then lead them away down a side street, toward a crib in a wooden tenement I had rented with my first earnings.
Usually I’d let them pay their coin and do things to me before I robbed them while they slept on the dirty straw mattress in the crib. If they were fat or smelled bad, I’d just rob them right away, pulling my mother’s knife on them once we were alone in an alley. Either way, I didn’t worry about getting caught. The men would be far too ashamed to go to the constable to report a robbery. After all, there was a special place in Hell for men with appetites such as theirs; that’s what the ministers inside the Tron said–a place where tongues of fire licked at your nether regions and devils dug at your entrails with hot pokers for all eternity.
As for me, I was not concerned with devils. After all, if I was dead, then I was already in Hell. Or perhaps I was one of Lucifer’s devils myself, sent here to torture the wicked.
Autumn edged into chill winter, and I used my newfound money to buy clothes, including a gray cloak that was in truth quite plain, but still fine by the standards of those who lived on the street. Those who had greeted me with friendly words when I was younger now gazed at me with suspicious or jealous looks. More than once I saw Deacon Moody at a distance, gazing at me from across the Grassmarket. I paid no heed to any of them.
One of the men who came to me introduced me to the fiery taste of whiskey, and I found I quite liked it, though more than once I became too besotted to remember to rob my clients, and once one of them rolled me while I slept in a stupor. However, that did not inspire me to caution, and soon the majority of what I earned went to buy bottles of the stuff, for I favored it over food. I grew taller yet, but remained thin as a whip, and pale from haunting the night and sleeping in the crib by day.
I did not know it at the time, but as winter released its grip on Edinburgh and the warmth of spring seeped onto the air, in the year of our Lord 1668, I was near to death. A cough had afflicted me, and often in the morning I would bring up gobs of yellow phlegm flecked with blood. Even on chill days sweat sheened my pallid skin, for it seemed I always had a fever. I could keep little food down, and only the whiskey seemed to dull the pounding in my head, though it made the gnawing in my stomach worse.
To compound matters, I found my money running short. Rarely now could I keep my wits about me long enough to rob the men who followed me from the square below the Tron. Too often I would fall unconscious, leaving them to paw at me as they wished without making payment. I would wake to find them gone and my body so sore I could scarcely walk. All the same I would shrug on my clothes, untangle my hair, drink a little whiskey, then head out to find another I could offer myself to.
I began to grow reckless, not bothering to wait for the shadows of night, and approaching men directly rather than waiting for them to slink after me. When a constable would ask me what I was doing, lurking about, I would try to bribe him by offering my services for free. The first two or three accepted, but then one–a big fellow with ruddy cheeks and red hair–struck me with the back of his hand, so hard that blood burst out from my lip and I had to run through twisting streets to escape him.