things, and only the wise can see them.
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
Ainsley Martin was viewed by some residents of Willow Grove as 'batty' but others recognized his preternatural powers and viewed him as an alchemist, a man who could transmute the ordinary into the extraordinary.
Two local children, Mikey and Sue, were paid by Ainsley to do odd chores but mainly to keep him company.
This evening, in the absence of Edna the housekeeper, they were expected back at the Martin residence to assist the old man in drawing the curtains round his vast four-poster bed to keep out drafts and to make sure he was settled in for the night.
At a quarter of eight the children turned the key and let themselves back into the house. They rushed up the huge circular staircase and ran down the wide hall to Mr. Martin’s room. He was propped up in bed as usual.
“Did we miss anything?” Sue asked breathless with excitement.
Old Mr. Martin was forever employing magical incantations that inevitably got him into trouble and the children had to clean up his messes.
“Well, you could clean up the fireplace for me. The old man pointed to the fireplace utensils lying in a sooty heap upon the floor.
“What did you say now?” asked Mikey.
“Oh, the usual for this time of night—Pokers and tongs, say the bells of St. John’s. I don’t like that one much—as you can see, it leaves a mess.”
Sue giggled and bent down to pick up the implements. Just then, they heard a clatter from downstairs.
“What’s that?” Mikey looked alarmed. “I thought Edna was out.”
“She is,” said Mr. Martin, looking a little frightened as well.
They heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the old oak floorboards and then heard boots tramping up the staircase.
“Go hide in the sunroom,” Mr. Martin whispered, “and don’t come out, no matter what happens.”
The children rushed into the sunroom, leaving the French doors slightly ajar behind them. They hid behind the tall rubber plants.
The bedroom door creaked open. They heard Mr. Martin call out, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to collect the rent, Grandfather,” a gruff male voice replied.
“I don’t have a landlord—I own this house.”
A raspy laugh followed. “Well, ye have one now, Father, and it’ll be well for you to cooperate or I’ll dash out your brains right now with this poker here.”
They could hear the metallic ring of the poker being lifted out of its stand.
“Meow! Hiss!” McTavish the cat protested.
“Shut that cat’s trap or I’ll pitch him out the window.”
“Scoot Mac—scoot!”
With a scrabbling of claws on oak, McTavish came barreling through the narrow door opening and leaped onto Sue’s lap. She stroked it and soothed it.
“The best laid plans of mice and men,” The gruff voice guffawed. “Now where’s your stash?”
“It’s in the safe, “ the old man said, pointing to a dark painting on the wall.
They heard a scraping of the canvas being moved. “What’s the combo?”
“It’s on timer, “ the old man explained.
“Here now, don’t lie to me or your brains’ll be out.”
“It’ll open on the hour—it’s only a few minutes till eight.”
“I reckon I can wait that long for me just desserts,” the robber rasped.
Some time passed until the clock began chiming. The children waited, counting the eight bongs. Just as the chimes were still echoing they heard the old man say, “Here comes a candle to light you to bed.”
The robber gasped in fright. They had no idea what he was seeing.
“And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.”
They heard a blood-curdling scream as the robber scuffled about, then fled the room, half-falling, half-rolling down the stairs. They heard the door slam and then footsteps running down the alleyway and out to the street.
“You can come out now, Children, the robber has fled.”
They crept out cautiously and poked their heads into the room, Sue cradling McTavish in her arms.
“Don’t be scared, Children—if anyone should be scared, it should be that blackguard, and he’s lucky I didn’t finish the rhyme.”
“How does it end?” asked Sue
The old man’s eyes gleamed, as he recited the lines: “Chop, chop, chop, chop, the last man’s dead.”
Sue looked horrified.
“They say the spell worked well for Henry the Eighth.”
“Shall we call the Constable?” asked Mikey.
“Oh, no need. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll amuse myself with happy rhymes. ‘Gay go up and gay go down, ring the bells of London town’.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Sue exclaimed.
“Tomorrow we’ll have a party. Tell your parents you’ll be bringing home fruit salad for dessert.”
“Really?” Michael frowned.
“Of course. ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s.’ Now, that’s a nice twist on an old rhyme, isn’t it?”