Thistle & Weed

By Benjamin R. McGovern

“Thistle & Weed” is actually a true story, for the most part. Obviously certain things and places have been exaggerated to become more appealing, but the story itself is history.
Thistle & Weed is a story about two orphan children, Ewan and Thistle, who have the extraordinary misfortune of living in the catacombs and sewers beneath Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.
I’m not gonna lie, their lives are pretty miserable. Whether it’s empty chamber pots or scrounging for food, their days are pretty uneventful… until recently.
Edinburgh in 1828 was a pretty spectacular place. In fact, it was actually the centre of medicine for the Western, if not the entire world.
Anatomy and dissections were a pass time at the ‘Royal Institute of Medicine in Edinburgh’. If you had an afternoon free, why not go see a limb or two get cut off. Nothing on this weekend, let’s go see an appendix.
The only problem was, your only “supposed” to cut up dead bodies, and people just weren’t dying quick enough. This meant that the doctors needed to try more ‘extreme’ measures.
With the help of the ‘Snatchers’ people were disappearing left, right and centre. Only to wind up “Dead from Natural Causes” and on an operating table for prime time viewing.
This was less than ideal for Ewan and Thistle, two orphan children who no one would miss. Living in the dark tunnels of Stoneroot, out of mind and out of sight from the police.
Who was going to notice one or two or even a hundred orphans missing.
Without giving away too much, that’s the general story line. Below is the blurb.



“When a third child disappears from the dimly lit labyrinth of tunnels beneath Edinburgh’s cobblestones ‘Royal Mile’, it becomes all too clear, no one is safe.
Ewan and Thistle, two orphan children raised underground, can only hope to solve the strange disappearances before they too find themselves kidnapped and at the mercy of the ‘Snatchers’. As the daring pair draw closer to the truth, their journey becomes ever more treacherous, with unexpected discoveries and fatal consequences.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984500823

Benjamin R. McGovern

Benjamin R. McGovern, was born and raised in Ipswich, Queensland, Australia. He was a travel consultant and a Bank Clerk, before pursuing his dream of becoming a published author. He has been competitively writing since he was a child, and possessed the uncanny ability to loose himself in a good book. Benjamin now lives in Toowoomba, with his wife Elizabeth. Thistle & Weed, is his debut novel. Hopefully, one of many.

Book preview

Prologue

R ain pelted down from the dark storm clouds churning high above the cobblestone streets of the ‘Royal Mile’. Plumes of black and grey clouds blanketed the night sky, plunging all of Edinburgh into darkness. A darkness only broken by the piercing cracks of lightning that danced across the sky to the orchestra of the rolling thunder. Wind whistled through the buildings lining the street, slamming the shutters and extinguishing what few lanterns remained lit now that the town folk surrendered to the storm. With all the ferocity in the sky above, as the last lantern flickered into a thin wisp of black smoke, no one noticed the woman keeping to the shadows.

She crept down the cobbled street, wary of the occasional open window or solitary beggar roaming the Mile after sundown. She moved with great urgency and anxious discretion, constantly looking over her shoulder, listening for the echo of pursuing footsteps. She knew what would happen should the Snatchers spot her. Fear overwhelmed her though not for her own sake. In her arms she cradled a dirty, tattered bundle that looked like nothing more than a rag scrounger’s hoard gleaned from a successful day’s work. Protecting this rather large and unwieldy bundle was the one thought that compelled her onwards, keeping to the shadows and out of sight of prying eyes.

The Snatchers had many eyes and ears in the old town. In fact, it was often said that nothing ever happened along the Mile without their notice and rarely was a crime committed that they weren’t somehow behind. When she was but a child, she’d heard the whispered conversations of the adults. Stories of children disappearing from their beds. Shadows changing into men in masks. Body parts. Blood. And unending pain.

The Snatchers had no castle or keep, nor did they have an army, but still they reigned supreme over the ‘Mile’ with authority akin to the divine right of kings. Their power was absolute, any who opposed them or thought to challenge their power had a nasty habit of winding up dead, or worse still… not winding up at all. Some just vanished, never to be heard from or seen again. There were few worse fates than being snatched, which the woman understood all too well. But that wouldn’t be the worst of it if she were caught with what she had hidden inside her shabby bundle. She had to reach the cathedral. Only there could she dare to hope her secret would be safe.

St. Giles Cathedral lay in the centre of the old town in the heart of the town square surrounded by homes, taverns and stores, all constructed with the same moss-covered stones that paved the Mile. Its gothic spires towered menacingly over the streets, while its steeples cast sword-like shadows over the courtyard, lit only by a solitary lamp post. The stained-glass windows were legendary across Scotland for the intensity and vibrancy of their colour. However, tonight there was none of the usual warmth or radiance in their glow. The glass seemed to wallow in a deep blackness, a dark flowing film of rain cascaded down the panes obscuring the beauty underneath, Relentless wind had sliced its way through the cracks and tiny crevices extinguishing most of the candles. The cathedral sat as a looming presence, towering over the town. While no light meant the woman could pass through the open courtyard virtually unseen, it also left her wondering if anyone was inside.

A sense of uneasiness, a feeling of eyes tracing her steps through the darkness began to grow inside her stomach. She felt, rather than saw, that she was no longer alone. A sudden crack of a shutter blowing in the wind made her heart skip a beat while the gaze of a stray alley cat reminded her that she was perhaps not as invisible as she would wish. She had come to the edge of the shadow; from here she would be exposed. Exposed not only to the weather but also to prowling eyes in the darkness. Her only option was to reach the cathedral, and quickly.

Summoning the last of her courage, she hitched her sodden skirts and began to run. The shelter of the shadows was now behind her, she crossed the courtyard as quickly as her weary aching legs would carry her, She dared not look back into the shadows she knew were closing in behind her, an impenetrable wall of impending terror. Were they the sounds of her own footsteps or someone else? As quick as she could manage, he scampered up the small flight of stairs before collapsing at the foot of an enormous solid oak door. Gasping for breath, she reached for the large steel knocker and rattled it with her last ounce of strength. Forced to wait with ever growing apprehension and dread, she couldn’t be certain whoever was inside had even heard her knocking over the raging storm above. Seconds passed like an eternity. Anxiously she waited, praying and hoping for an answer that couldn’t come soon enough.

It was a minute that seemed an eternity before the sound of the locking mechanism could be heard unwinding and the door creaked ajar. A small, frail man of the clergy in his hooded brown robes wielding a dim lamp. The man was much older than she, with pale, deeply scarred skin and a long wispy white beard. A pair of spectacles sat upon his crooked, almost certainly at one-time broken, nose. His spectacles were scuffed and cracked in places but beneath them were the welcoming blue eyes the woman had ever seen. The old man ushered in the drenched and exhausted woman before hastily locking the door behind them as fast as his shaking fingers could manage. For the first time tonight, she afforded herself a sigh of relief. In a soothing and fragile voice, the man assured her that her night’s work was done.

You are safe here my child, no evil of man or beast, or even that infernal storm can reach you in here. You are safe in the Lord’s sanctuary now.

Father, the woman gasped, trying desperately to catch her breath, remember your promise.

What she had to say was evidently more important to her than her struggling breath. She continued immediately between gasps for air.

You promised… remember… you promised to keep him safe…. to hide him… they can never find him…please. Father?

As the Lord is my witness, no man shall find your son. He will be safe within the sanctuary of these walls. Now rest, come child. You need rest.

The man outstretched feeble arms to comfort the exhausted woman, soothing her as she caught her breath on the stone tiles of the cathedral floor.

Hesitantly, with an empty aching in the pit of her stomach, she presented her bundle of rags to the old man. Unravelling the rags, she exposed a small boy. He was small for his age with messy red hair, a wide smile, eyes as green as emeralds and the unmistakable markings of the woman’s own features. She paused for a long moment at the sight of her son. Silent tears came unbidden and fell. This was the only way she could keep him safe his only chance to live a life safe from the Snatchers. She brushed the hair from the child’s forehead before planting the softest kiss on his warm, smooth cheek. Her son did not cry or even blink, but stared with wide and serious eyes back at his mother, oblivious to what this moment meant. Crippling grief threatened to overwhelm the woman as she withdrew from her son. A sadness only equalled by the hope she had for his safety.

Remember your promise Father, the woman whispered through her pain. Remember your promise.

With only a second’s hesitation she turned and fled into the onslaught of the storm, leaving a trail of rain drops mixed with tears on the stone floor.

He is safe now. Safe from the Snatchers and safe from the world, she reassured herself fleeing across the courtyard and disappearing once again in the shadows. She was quicker now without her bundle. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks only to be lost in her sodden coat, adding to the wetness that hindered her progress. She paused and turned back for one last look at the Cathedral, sending a prayer for the safety of her son, longing for one last glimpse.

Be safe my son, she whispered into the darkness.

The putrid stench of whiskey and decaying teeth flooded her senses, followed by warm stale breath over her neck. Fingers of frozen steel raced down her spine as fear gripped her completely. Her damp body seized as horror and panic stole all breath from her lungs.

He will never be safe, came a low, menacing voice from over her shoulder.

It came through clenched teeth with a vile odour so strong it stung her nostrils. The man forced a wet hessian bag over her head quicker than she could counter. Before the blackness took hold, she had time for one final thought.

Remember your promise Father.

And then the world faded to black around her.

Keep him safe…

For years the Father had kept his promise. Keeping the woman’s secret and her child hidden. But, secrets have an unfortunate habit of not stay hidden forever…

A Boy in Blue

A kid’s bin’ taken. A kid’s bin’ snatched!

A crowd began to gather around the animated scene Gregor was causing. Hushed whispers and gasps passed from ear to ear in the faint shafts of morning sunlight that filtered through the sewerage drain above. As the rays descended into the tunnels beneath Edinburgh, the golden light expelled the shadows, illuminating the alleged scene of the crime.

I seened it with my own two eyes. I did. Honest, said Gregor in an almost drunken slur. Pleading with the onlookers in the surrounding circle to believe him.

It wasn’t the suggestion that a child had been kidnapped that was so hard to believe, that was a rare but unfortunate part of life down here in the tunnels. No, it was more that the source of this disturbing news was questionable. Gregor was a skeletal unkempt man who appeared as though he had just woken after a night’s heavy drinking and was struggling to stay afoot. He was known by the rest of the residents as a nuisance, always keeping the other inhabitants of the underground awake with his drunken performances far into the night. Scarcely, if ever, did a word of intelligence let alone truth escaped his lips.

What’s goin’ on ’ere then? came a booming voice from the rear of the crowd. Come on, outta my way now, move it.

The voice belonged to Bernard, a giant of a man who had appointed himself Chief of Police. He was built like a bear with broad, hunched shoulders, arms like tree stumps, a snarl for a smile, and hair that was almost a complete fur coat. No one objected to Bernard appointing himself chief down here; everyone agreed it was safer having him in charge than having him on the loose. Now he pushed through the mob with his woollen cloak billowing behind him, his chest inflated.

Gregor! What’s this ruddy racket?

A kid’s been snatched. I seened it happ’n right up there.

Pointing, Gregor tried to show Bernard the exact spot where he had witnessed the crime. His trembling finger aimed up the dimly lit passage, overgrown with descending tree roots that seemed to be the only thing supporting the crumbling walls.

T’was one of ’em Coomies he snatched, one of ’em orphan kids from under Giles, I seened the blue on ‘im.

Whether their parents had died or abandoned them, it made no difference. No matter how they had arrived, they were left at the doors of St Giles where they were taken in and housed in the catacombs of the cathedral. And so, they became known as ‘Coomies’. The church housed them, fed them and clothed them with pieces of old blue curtains. There were three things all the Coomies had in common; no parents, damp hay for a bed, and those same old blue curtain clothes.

You’ve been drinkin’ again, ‘aven’t you, Gregor?

Bernard knew the answer before he asked but had always liked to taunt and make an example of him.

Seems the only thing that’s been snatched is your senses! He roared with laughter as did the rest of the crowd.

Gregor’s face reddened and his jaw clenched. He seemed about to lose his patience with the old bear when a frail voice interrupted the laughter.

I’m afraid he’s telling the truth.

The voice came from a delicate old man at the rear of the crowd. The old man was known only as ‘the Father’; if ever he had an actual name it had long been forgotten. This was the same man, who for as long as the townsfolk could remember, had been responsible for the care of the Coomies. His white beard had grown long and wild and his eyes had faded behind his cracked and clouded spectacles. All the same, his presence demanded the attention of the rabble.

Bernard’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped in disbelief. He hadn’t expected the Father’s arrival, of for that matter his opinion.

The truth? Bernard spat back at the frail old man, He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit ‘im on the nose.

The bearlike features that gave Bernard his nick name ‘Old Bear’ began to show. Inflating his chest once more he towered over the old man. He didn’t appreciate opposition and he certainly didn’t like being made a fool, even if it was his own doing. Despite the old bear’s intimidation, the Father hobbled through the crowd, passing under Bernard’s very nose.

True, Gregor’s words are usually drunken folly, there is no argument there, but I do not think it was by chance that he spins this particular tale this morning.

The father took little notice of the crowd, instead perusing the scene and muttering to himself.

Indeed, one of our own has been taken from us, a boy in blue it would seem. Just as our friend Gregor observed, he sighed. Always he would wander and sneak where he ought not.

But Father, that’d make this the third kid ’n six months, whispered Bernard, quiet enough so the crowd couldn’t hear. We still got no clue who nicked the first one, let alone the second, ’n now a third. Blimey, there’ll be no kids come Christmas! Dumbfounded, Bernard scratched his thick black beard as he struggled to show concern on his usually rigid face.

Alas Bernard, should these disappearances go unsolved that may well be the case.

Mutterings and whispers welled from the inquisitive crowd that had by now doubled in size, each person as bewildered as the next. For a while no one spoke. Drips echoed through the adjacent tunnels while everyone waited for someone else to speak. It was Bernard who finally broke the anxious silence.

Now hold on, just ’cos some kids disappeared doesn’t mean they been snatched. Bernard argued desperately trying to steer the conversation away from the direction he feared it was heading.

There was some truth to what Bernard was saying. The world beneath the ‘Royal Mile’ was not the easiest nor the safest of places to live. Moss and roots had spread like a sickness through the labyrinth, a parasite consuming every bare rock and stone. In the darkest and dampest reaches of the passages, plagues of green decay had overtaken. Water would drip through the cracks, each drop echoing off the cold weathered walls before showering the floor. What strength these walls once had, had been strangled out of them lifetimes ago. Now what remained was a mere skeleton of stone, held together by the very roots and vines that smothered and constricted them. The mortar that had once held brick and stone had crumbled away allowing the stones to shift and buckle under the weight of the dense, wet soil above.

The labyrinth beneath the Mile was a cold, miserable and dangerous place at the best of times. Some of the passages beneath the world above were so dark and so twisted that sometimes it was impossible to know which way was up, which way was down or even if your eyes were open at all. At least half of them were false or misleading, taking you around in circles or to nowhere at all. Many wandering souls had lost their way in this eerie maze, only to be consumed by it, forever lost. While most who had braved the tunnels alone were seldom seen again, it would be false to suggest that those who were lost were not heard from again. For once the labyrinth had you in its clutches, it kept you. Forever the tunnels would carry the whispers of those souls who lost their way. Now, they haunted the very passages that devoured them. Some had been lucky enough to be caught by the Snatchers; at least their battle with the darkness was soon over. The few who the Snatchers missed roamed in eternal shadow until they lost what humanity they once had. Feeding on anything or anyone they could snare in the shadows, they became like ghosts. Trapped, lost and dwelling deep beneath. Never gazing upon the sunlight again.

No need to start a panic, for all we know this kid ‘as wandered more than ’e should of and now he’s gotten lost, Bernard objected.

For him, a lost kid was much easier to deal with than the thought of the Snatchers.

Most of the crowd had forgotten Gregor, until he piped up again.

No sorry Mr Bear sir, I seened him. I seened a man carrying a boy. All bound he was with one o’ them bags on ‘is head.

Gregor was either very brave or incredibly foolish to oppose Bernard further. More than likely it was the latter of the two options.

Bernard lunged towards Gregor grabbing the front of his shirt and holding him nose to nose and baring his teeth.

Shut it, you drunk! You’re too drunk to know what y’ saw. Don’t go scaring everyone with delusions you found in the bottom of y’ bottle.

Honest sir, I just sayin’ what I seen. You believe me, Father? Y’ know I’d never make somethin’ like this up. Please, Father, Gregor pleaded with the one person who was his ally in the ever-growing rabble.

He waited for the old man’s response, pitifully fighting the ferocious stare and judgement of Bernard, as well as the encroaching crowd’s disbelief.

I do not doubt your honesty, But I pray Bernard is right, for the boy’s sake. For hope remains for a lost child, but I fear for those who remain should the Snatchers have found a way in.

Stoneroot

T he catacombs were a dark, dreary sort of place that housed many strange creatures. Usual inhabitants were bats, spiders, rats and twenty-seven orphans, all dressed in blue. For decades, the Father had been sheltering lost and abandoned children, keeping them safe from the Snatchers. This was their sanctuary from the world above and the one place the Snatchers never came.

A warm amber glow extended across the wall as the rusted metal brazier in the centre of the room was set alight. Rays of gold danced across the coarse stone walls while a ribbon of black smoke slithered through a narrow shaft in the domed roof. The floor was paved in the same cobblestone as the streets above, but down here they were much colder underfoot. Around the walls were stone shelves, three levels high. The shelves once belonged to those who died centuries before, housing their dry bones and collapsed coffins. Now, lined with damp yellowed hay and hessian cloths for blankets, they supported the living. As the warmth of the flames flowed over them, the children began to stir.

Up! Come on now, up you get.

An impatient and unpleasant voice came from Seamus, the ill-tempered assistant to the old Father. He often kept an eye on the children when the father was needed elsewhere. He was a full-grown man of few teeth, a constantly wrinkled forehead, receding grey hair, a thin white scar above his right lip and an obvious limp. Having once been an orphan here himself he was more than familiar with the children and their role beneath the mile.

"Up! I’ve asked twice