Read Online The Skin Map by Stephen R. Lawhead - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
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bread?”
“I be closed!” cried the somewhat woozy man. “You’ve woke me up, you have!”
“I do most heartily apologise and beg your pardon,” replied Cosimo. “But, seeing as you are awake now, might I purchase the bread? Any old loaf will do.”
“Hold yer water, then,” grumbled Thomas the baker. He shuffled back inside, reappearing a few moments later with a round lump of bread. “That’s a ha’penny to you.”
“Here’s tuppence for your trouble,” said Cosimo, passing over the coins. “You can thank me later.”
“Tch!” replied the baker, and slammed the door.
Cosimo returned to the coach with the bread under his arm. “That should do it very nicely,” he chortled, climbing back into the coach. “Drive on!”
As the coach jolted to a start once more, Kit puzzled over the meaning of the charade he had just witnessed. Finally, when he could no longer help himself, he asked, “What was all that about? What do you want with stale bread?”
“Oh, this?” His great-grandfather glanced at the loaf beside him on the seat. “But I don’t want it at all.”
With that, he took the loaf and, calling, “Free bread!” tossed it from the carriage to a clutch of poorly dressed women who had gathered around a lantern that cast a pale circle of light onto their bare heads and shoulders. One of them caught the loaf and at once began dividing it up among the others. “Thank-ee!” she called with a gap-toothed smile.
“Don’t you remember anything you learned in school?” asked Cosimo.
“Not much,” confessed Kit.
“Second of September . . . year 1666 . . . Pudding Lane? No?”
“Sorry, not with you.” Neither the date nor the place rang any bells.
“Why, it’s the Great Fire, dear boy. Never heard of it? What do they teach in school these days?”
“ That I’ve heard of.” Kit thought for a moment. “So, by waking the baker you’ve prevented the fire—is that it?”
“Well done! There might be hope for you yet.”
“But isn’t that hazardous—messing with events?”
“Well, why not?”
“You’re changing the course of history. I thought that sort of thing was strictly forbidden.”
“Forbidden by whom?” inquired Cosimo. “Who’s to say the reality in which we find ourselves is the best one possible?”
“Yes, but—” Kit objected.
“See here, if a simple act of kindness or generosity, such as buying a loaf of bread for some poor working women, can mean that wholesale death and destruction will be avoided—why, a man would be a monster who had it in his power to alleviate all that suffering yet stood by and did nothing.”
The thought of messing about with history occupied Kit until the coach rolled up outside a large torch-lit house with a painted sign hanging above the door. The sign read T HE P OPE’S N OSE , and had a picture of—it was difficult to tell in the flickering light of the torches—what appeared to be the plucked rear end of a somewhat startled goose.
“Ah, here we are, gentlemen!” cried Sir Henry, snatching up his walking stick and leaping to his feet the moment the coach creaked to a stop. “This is my preferred chophouse. The food is uncommonly good, but the place is ferociously noisy, I fear, and likely to be crowded. I do hope you will not mind.”
“Not in the least,” replied Cosimo. “As usual, Sir Henry, you have anticipated my desires precisely. Lead on!”
They stepped from the landau and marched up to the public eating house arm in arm, with Kit bringing up the rear. As they approached the entrance, Kit caught Cosimo’s elbow and pulled him back for a word. “Look, I’m hungry as anything—but what’s going on here? Aren’t we worried about Wilhelmina? I thought it was important to find her.”
“Rest assured, dear boy, it is my main concern and the focus of all our efforts. Trust me. We are definitely working on it. But it will do no one any good if we starve ourselves into a state of mental and physical
“I be closed!” cried the somewhat woozy man. “You’ve woke me up, you have!”
“I do most heartily apologise and beg your pardon,” replied Cosimo. “But, seeing as you are awake now, might I purchase the bread? Any old loaf will do.”
“Hold yer water, then,” grumbled Thomas the baker. He shuffled back inside, reappearing a few moments later with a round lump of bread. “That’s a ha’penny to you.”
“Here’s tuppence for your trouble,” said Cosimo, passing over the coins. “You can thank me later.”
“Tch!” replied the baker, and slammed the door.
Cosimo returned to the coach with the bread under his arm. “That should do it very nicely,” he chortled, climbing back into the coach. “Drive on!”
As the coach jolted to a start once more, Kit puzzled over the meaning of the charade he had just witnessed. Finally, when he could no longer help himself, he asked, “What was all that about? What do you want with stale bread?”
“Oh, this?” His great-grandfather glanced at the loaf beside him on the seat. “But I don’t want it at all.”
With that, he took the loaf and, calling, “Free bread!” tossed it from the carriage to a clutch of poorly dressed women who had gathered around a lantern that cast a pale circle of light onto their bare heads and shoulders. One of them caught the loaf and at once began dividing it up among the others. “Thank-ee!” she called with a gap-toothed smile.
“Don’t you remember anything you learned in school?” asked Cosimo.
“Not much,” confessed Kit.
“Second of September . . . year 1666 . . . Pudding Lane? No?”
“Sorry, not with you.” Neither the date nor the place rang any bells.
“Why, it’s the Great Fire, dear boy. Never heard of it? What do they teach in school these days?”
“ That I’ve heard of.” Kit thought for a moment. “So, by waking the baker you’ve prevented the fire—is that it?”
“Well done! There might be hope for you yet.”
“But isn’t that hazardous—messing with events?”
“Well, why not?”
“You’re changing the course of history. I thought that sort of thing was strictly forbidden.”
“Forbidden by whom?” inquired Cosimo. “Who’s to say the reality in which we find ourselves is the best one possible?”
“Yes, but—” Kit objected.
“See here, if a simple act of kindness or generosity, such as buying a loaf of bread for some poor working women, can mean that wholesale death and destruction will be avoided—why, a man would be a monster who had it in his power to alleviate all that suffering yet stood by and did nothing.”
The thought of messing about with history occupied Kit until the coach rolled up outside a large torch-lit house with a painted sign hanging above the door. The sign read T HE P OPE’S N OSE , and had a picture of—it was difficult to tell in the flickering light of the torches—what appeared to be the plucked rear end of a somewhat startled goose.
“Ah, here we are, gentlemen!” cried Sir Henry, snatching up his walking stick and leaping to his feet the moment the coach creaked to a stop. “This is my preferred chophouse. The food is uncommonly good, but the place is ferociously noisy, I fear, and likely to be crowded. I do hope you will not mind.”
“Not in the least,” replied Cosimo. “As usual, Sir Henry, you have anticipated my desires precisely. Lead on!”
They stepped from the landau and marched up to the public eating house arm in arm, with Kit bringing up the rear. As they approached the entrance, Kit caught Cosimo’s elbow and pulled him back for a word. “Look, I’m hungry as anything—but what’s going on here? Aren’t we worried about Wilhelmina? I thought it was important to find her.”
“Rest assured, dear boy, it is my main concern and the focus of all our efforts. Trust me. We are definitely working on it. But it will do no one any good if we starve ourselves into a state of mental and physical
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