For Mary
Fools as we were in motley,
all jangling and absurd,
When all church bells were silent
our cap and bells were heard.
PUFFIN CANADA
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Published in Puffin Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc, 2011
Simultaneously published in the United States by Amulet Books, an imprint of Abrams, 115 West 18th Street, New York, NY 10011
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Text and chapter illustrations copyright © Jonathan Auxier, 2011
Title page illustrations copyright © Gilbert Ford, 2011
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Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book design by Chad W. Beckerman
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Auxier, Jonathan
Peter Nimble and his fantastic eyes / Jonathan Auxier.
ISBN 978-0-670-06466-3
I. Title.
PS8601.U95P48 2011 jC813’. 6 C2011-903055-1
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Contents
PART ONE
GOLD
CHAPTER ONE
PETER NIMBLE’S FIRST TEN YEARS
CHAPTER TWO
THE HABERDASHER’S MYSTERIOUS BOX
CHAPTER THREE
PETER versus the MUMBLETY-PEG GANG
CHAPTER FOUR
SIR TODE and the FAMILIAR VOICE
CHAPTER FIVE
THE TROUBLESOME LAKE of PROFESSOR CAKE
CHAPTER SIX
THE VANISHED KINGDOM
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE GENTLE WIND, and WHERE IT TOOK THEM
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRAPPED in the JUST DESERTS
CHAPTER NINE
POOR OLD SCABBS
CHAPTER TEN
A BREEZE over the HILL
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE RAVENS of KETTLE ROCK
CHAPTER TWELVE
A DEN of THIEVES
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PETER NIMBLE NICKS the NEST
PART TWO
ONYX
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE PERFECT PALACE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A CHAT with PICKLE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE NIGHT PATROL
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIMON and the MISSING ONES
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AN UNLIKELY HERO
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CURSED BIRTHDAY
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE KING’S ADDRESS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LILLIAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE CLOCKWORK BEAST
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE MUTT’S NOGGIN
PART THREE
EMERALD
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE RETURN of NONAME
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE ROOT of the PROBLEM
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FISHING for a FRIEND
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE WINDS of WAR
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
PEG’S BREAKTHROUGH
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE GREAT FLOOD
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE BACK-STABBER’S BLIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE BLESSED REUNION
PART ONE
GOLD
CHAPTER ONE
PETER NIMBLE’S FIRST TEN YEARS
Now, for those of you who know anything about blind children, you are aware that they make the very best thieves. As you can well imagine, blind children have incredible senses of smell, and they can tell what lies behind a locked door—be it fine cloth, gold, or peanut brittle—at fifty paces. Moreover, their fingers are small enough to slip right through keyholes, and their ears keen enough to detect the faintest clicks and clacks of every moving part inside even the most complicated lock. Of course, the age of great thievery has long since passed; today there are few child-thieves left, blind or otherwise. At one time, however, the world was simply thick with them. This is the story of the greatest thief who ever lived. His name, as you’ve probably guessed, is Peter Nimble.
As with most infants, Peter came into this world with no name at all. One morning, a group of drunken but good-hearted sailors spotted him bobbing in a basket alongside their ship. Perched on the boy’s head was a large raven, which had, presumably, pecked out his eyes. Disgusted, the sailors killed the bird and delivered the child to the authorities of a nearby port town.
Though the magistrates had no use for a blind infant, a local bylaw required them to at least give the boy a name. By silent show of hands, they christened him Peter Nimble, after a misremembered nursery rhyme. With this name and nothing else, he was sent off to make his way in the world.
For the first while, he was nursed on the milk of a wounded mother-cat, whom he met after crawling beneath the local alehouse. The cat permitted baby Peter to live with her in exchange for his picking the lice and ticks from her fur—until one tragic day some months later when the alehouse manager discovered them huddled beneath his porch. Furious at finding vermin in his establishment, the man shoved the whole family into a bag and tossed them into the bay.
Using his skillful fingers to untie the knot on that bag marked the beginning of Peter’s career. Being furless and naturally buoyant, he managed to make it back to shore without too much trouble. (The cats, on the other hand, did not fare so well.)
Until this point, you have been witness to Peter’s rather typical infancy—probably not unlike your own. But it was only a matter of time before he distinguished himself from the teething masses. The first hints of this appeared in Peter’s uncanny gift for survival. Since he had no parents to purchase clothes and food for him, he f
ound it necessary to take matters into his own hands.
There is an old saying about how easy it is to “take candy from a baby.” This saying is utterly false; anyone who has tried to take anything from a baby knows well what sort of crying, kicking, and general commotion will ensue. It is very easy, however, for babies to take things from us. Despite being blind, young Peter had no trouble sniffing out fruit stands and vegetable carts to steal from. He would toddle wherever his nose led him and innocently cut his teeth on whatever food he wanted. He soon began to pinch other necessities, such as clothes, bedding, and a bandage for his eyes. He tried stealing shoes, but found that he preferred going barefoot. By his third birthday, he was an expert in petty theft and a known menace to the vendors. More than once he had been caught in the act, only to slip away before the constable could be alerted.
One problem with a life of crime is that it lowers your chances of social advancement. Law-abiding citizens take one look at children like Peter and turn the other way—never to offer sweets, toys, or hope of adoption. In providing for himself, our boy had all but guaranteed that he would grow up parentless and alone.
All that changed, however, when he met an enterprising fellow named Mr. Seamus.
Mr. Seamus was a tall, wiry man with meaty hands and an enormous head. Because of his clumsy touch, he had been unable to live out his dream of becoming a cat burglar. Instead, Mr. Seamus had taken a career as a beggarmonger. A beggarmonger, as you might imagine, is someone who deals in beggars. The man had built up a business of adopting orphans, maiming them good and proper, and then sending them out into the streets to beg for coins. Any child who dared come home empty-handed was throttled and sold to the workhouse. All told, Mr. Seamus had probably gone through about thirty orphans in his career.
Peter was five years old when the beggarmonger first spied him beside a fruit stand in the market. “Hullo, boy!” Mr. Seamus said upon his approach. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Blind Pete, sir,” the small boy said, still too young to know not to talk to strangers.
Mr. Seamus leaned closer for a better look at him. It was his experience that blind children made especially successful beggars. “And where are your parents?” he asked.
“I don’t have parents,” the boy answered. By now Peter’s hunger was getting the best of him, and so he quickly reached a hand behind his back and stole an apple from the fruit cart.
Mr. Seamus glimpsed this action out of the corner of one eye, and it nearly took his breath away. The boy had stolen the apple not from the top of the stack, but from somewhere deep in the middle, leaving the outside completely untouched. For an ordinary person, such a feat would be impossible, but for this filthy child it was second nature. Mr. Seamus knew at once that he was standing before a very gifted thief.
The man leaned closer, eyeing the boy’s delicate fingers. “Well, Pete,” he said in his sweetest voice. “My name’s Mr. Seamus, and I’m ruddy glad we met. You see, I’m a great, important businessman, but I’ve got no son to share my riches with.” Mr. Seamus took the apple from Peter’s small hands, biting into it as he spoke. “How would you like,” he bit again, “to become my business partner? You could live with me in my mansion, eat my food, and play with my dog, Killer.”
“What kind of dog is it?” Peter asked, hoping very much it was big enough for him to ride.
“It’s a . . . Siamese,” Mr. Seamus said, after thinking a moment.
“Are Siamese big?”
“The biggest. I suppose he could swallow you whole if he wanted.” Mr. Seamus tossed the apple core into his mouth and swallowed it whole. “Now, what do you say, boy?”
There was no mansion. There were no riches, servants, or feasts. Killer was real enough, but he was missing a leg and quite old—and like most old things, he hated children. Instead of giving Peter rides, he spent most of his time limping, growling, and lapping the drip off his disgusting snout.
Mr. Seamus gave up beggarmongering and never looked back. He sold off his other orphans and devoted himself entirely to Peter’s education in thievery. For the first year, he locked all the boy’s meals inside an old sea chest. If Peter wanted to eat, he had to pick the lock with his bare fingers. This not only taught him valuable burgling skills but also saved Mr. Seamus a great deal in expenses. The boy went hungry for over two weeks before getting a first meal in his new home. When he did finally manage to unlock the chest (by stumbling across the “McNeery Twist” maneuver), the scraps were long spoiled. But eventually he grew more adept at picking locks, until at last he had gone through every one in his master’s collection.
Mr. Seamus also trained Peter in the fine art of sneakery—how to creep over floorboards, rooftops, and even gravel so as not to make a single sound. The boy proved a fast learner and soon mastered the gamut of thieving crafts, from window-cutting to advanced rope-work. By the age of ten, Peter Nimble had become the greatest thief the town had ever seen. But of course no one actually saw him: they only saw the open safes and empty jewelry boxes that he left behind.
Every night Mr. Seamus sent Peter into the town to steal. And every sunrise Peter returned to Mr. Seamus with a burgle-sack full of loot. “Worm!”—which is what the man had taken to calling him—“you done ruddy well. Now get out of my sight!” With that, he would lock the boy inside the cellar, leaving Killer to stand guard.
Peter didn’t actually mind the cellar all that much. Being blind, he didn’t care about the lack of light, and sitting down there was far better than looting honest people’s houses. Whatever wrongs he may have committed (and stealing things is wrong), Peter was still a good child who wanted nothing to do with burgling. Every morning as he curled up to sleep on the damp cellar floor, he would pretend that he could sneak past Killer, break into Mr. Seamus’s great treasure room, and return all of the stolen goods to their rightful owners. He would imagine thankful townsfolk rescuing him from cruel Mr. Seamus and inviting him to live forever in a big, warm house full of food and singing and other joyous children. In short, he would dream of being happy. But this was only a dream, and every sunset he would wake once again to the shouts of Mr. Seamus and be kicked back outside for another evening of pilfering the possessions of honest citizens.
And so it went for Peter Nimble. He was miserable, mistreated, and forced to commit misdemeanors—day after day, season after season, year after year—until one very special, very rainy afternoon, when he met a stranger who would change his life forever.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HABERDASHER’S MYSTERIOUS BOX
On top of his nightly thievery, Peter also had household chores. Every second-Tuesday, he was sent out by Mr. Seamus to fetch (steal) food from the market. This particular second-Tuesday was no exception. “Get up, worm!” Mr. Seamus hollered as he clumped down the cellar stairs shortly after dawn. “It’s grocery day. I don’t feed you just to loll around here all morning.”
Peter had spent the night burgling and had just gotten to bed an hour before. “You don’t feed me anyway,” he muttered in what can only be called an act of sleepy stupidity.
The next moment he felt a big, meaty fist grab hold of his hair and yank him to his feet. “Don’t forget who you’re talkin’ to, worm!” Mr. Seamus said, dragging Peter’s scrawny frame upstairs and through the main house. “Just for that, it’s a double-shift. You’ll bring me food and money . . . and a chew toy for Killer!” The dog licked his chops appreciatively as they passed.
“Yes, sir! Forgive me,” Peter said with genuine remorse. He knew better than to talk back, but words, as you know, sometimes have a way of slipping out.
“Save your ‘sorries’ for the hangman.” Mr. Seamus shoved the boy into the street and threw his burgle-sack after him. “That had better be full when I see you again! Or else!” he said, slamming the door.
Peter picked himself up and slung his bag over one shoulder. Hearing fat raindrops percolating in the clouds high above, he sighed.
Rain presents a
unique problem for those in Peter’s line of work. You see, when it rains, rich people seldom come out for fear of melting. If they do venture out of doors, they are usually accompanied by umbrella-bearing servants who keep a close watch for pickpockets. There is nothing a town loves to do more than hang pickpockets, and any criminal hoping to steal a wallet under such circumstances is putting himself at great risk. It was for this reason that Peter had hardly managed to nick a single thing over the course of this unpleasant, rainy afternoon.
He was rounding a corner with his shirt full of broccoli and kippers, thinking about how much trouble he would be in if he didn’t bring any money back for Mr. Seamus, when he happened upon a crowd of people gathered by the dock. This was a great stroke of luck; as a rule, pickpockets thrive on tightly packed crowds. Even better, all of the umbrella-bearing servants were just as distracted as their masters. The boy ditched his groceries and set to work at once. He carefully picked his way through the crush, lifting billfolds from eager onlookers and trying to figure out what was causing such a commotion.
“Do you tire of looking like a friar?” a voice boomed from somewhere beyond the crowd. “Is your scalp as bare as an Alp? Not anymore! This fine turban—made of bearskin from the dark South Seas—will restore your luscious locks overnight!” The voice belonged to a man standing somewhere to Peter’s left. “Hats for every head! Whatever your need, look no further!” His voice was confident and smooth, his words like a spell holding the crowd captive.
It might be wise to pause a moment and explain the many details of this scene that were lost to Peter Nimble. He was unable to see the leaning tower of hats perched atop the man’s head. He was also unable to study the speaker’s sharp jaw, crooked red nose, and long, owlish eyebrows. The only thing Peter knew was that this man had provided a perfect opportunity for a young pickpocket to practice his art on a hapless crowd.
Peter continued “wallet shopping,” slipping his fingers into pockets and purses with ease. He had to suppress a grin—the people were so focused on the Haberdasher’s patter that none of them felt a thing. The man was presently sharing an account of where he found his wondrous wares. He claimed he had journeyed beyond the borders of the map to the great uncharted waters of the world. There he discovered hats made from tapestries, toadstools, and dragon scales, “All of which I offer today at a special discount!” he exclaimed.