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Chapter 1: The Life

How long can you hold your breath?

That was the first thing Alister ever said to me. At first, as a small kit, I had no idea what he meant. That didn't stop me from being a bit of a smart mouth though.

Until I pass out.

I remember the faint smirk on the older fox's face when I said that. I remember the hand on the small of my back and the hat being put on my head, my precious 'newsie' that I still had even today. From then on I had a job.

I was a 'prentice chimney sweep.

Today though, I wished Alister had been a baker, a cobbler, or even a street sweeper. Anything other than this! Ugh!

It had been a bitterly cold day and I couldn't believe the amount of work we had; hollering up and down the roads, we got enough business that Old Man Alister nearly ran out of boys to work the chimneys. By the heavens, he even had me working a few. Not that I minded, mind you -- being the best in all of Whitechapel, if not London herself. It gave me a chance to show off just how good I was, and this time, not on a bet.

Right now, though, I wish I had kept my stubborn ego in check. Ugh, this chimney was filthy! And that's saying something, coming from a 'sweep like me.

Well, for those of you who may not know the fineries of my trade, I'll give you a quick lesson and it'll cost you nothing! I'm a generous journeyman, that I am.

You see, London has a lot of people. A lot of people means a lot of homes. A lot of homes means a lot of chimneys on account of people don't like to freeze to death and they like their suppers warm. That means overtime, soot and gunk, and random birds getting stuck in the chimneys and the buildup. Too much buildup is dangerous -- you want to see a fire? Never clean your chimney.

It's been a long time since the Great Fire, when everything changed about chimneys, or so Old Alister tells us. Back then, houses were stacked upon one another like pieces of firewood, with no thought about where things would go! It meant that, when a spark happened to get away in the wee hours of the morning, things went bad. So much of London burned down.

The King, in his wisdom and grace, decided that there needed to be building codes and rules. Now, I'm not one for the rules or anything like that, but in this situation it made being a chimney sweep much better, and kind of worse at the same time. You see, chimneys flow together up and up and up like a bunch of creeks to a river. So a stack can branch off to various houses, shops, and the oddities that I dare not speak of. A lot of people would think it's just up and out like I'm climbing Big Ben or something, but it's more like a warren -- easy to get turned around and lost, or heaven forbid, stuck. Getting stuck is usually a death sentence. Believe you me, I've seen plenty of 'sweeps die 'cause they got lost. It ain't a pretty sight.

So here I am, crawling up a tenement building barely big enough for my scrappy body, a hook in one hand and a brush in me other, chipping away at the soot and the caked on stuff. It's dark mostly. I got some light, but you learn to feel the walls and make a picture in your head. At least, that's what I do.

Now, my trick to being the best in all of London is supposed to be a secret to just Alister and the lot of us who work for him, but I'll tell you free of charge. I tie my brush to my tail. You might think that sounds silly -- a little fox with a brush to his tail! -- but let me tell you, having a brush tied to my tail lets me smack it against the walls as I climb, sending the soot down to the cloth below. It lets me use another hand that a lot of boys wouldn't have. It has saved me life on more than one occasion.

I'm moving up, my eyes mostly half closed, my hat, my precious, favourite (and only) hat pushed tightly against my muzzle, my teeth holding it there securely so it doesn't fall. It's the best kind of filter I have. I keep meaning to get a rag, but... you know how things go. I don't have the best attention span in all of London, just the best sweeper skills.

I reach the point of the chimney that's the most dangerous. It's where the flumes turn and wind like a maze. I need to know where to put my feet in the darkness and soot, and if I mess 'er up, I could slip and slide right down into a lit fireplace. It happens! Not to me, the Best in all of London, but it does happen.

I do manage to get my feet right -- pushed right against the edge of the corner of the break between flumes, and jump. It's that moment where I worry I'll slip. If my pick doesn't get right and I don't push my hips out and knees forward...that's it for old Simon.

Thankfully, Lady Luck still thinks I'm worth keeping around.

I keep climbing up, working and chipping, brushing and dusting. I use my arm when I need some extra cleaning above me, and I'm wagging my tail so hard that I can barely feel it and the brush thumping against the brick.

Finally, after what feels like hours (But actually never that long, of course -- Alister is a patient fox, but he'd light a fire himself if I took _that _long!) I dramatically explode from the chimney stack with a deep, gulping breath of air!

"God Save the King!" I shout, coughing and pulling my hat from my muzzle, slipping it onto my head with a sigh, leaning forward and catching my breath.

This time of year, London isn't so dirty. Well, she is, but she's got a fake coat of paint. The snow has covered everything, the roofs pristine and white, the filth in the street not so visible and the way everything looks run down hidden until spring.

After taking a moment to catch my breath, I haul myself out of the chimney, pushing up and throwing my legs over the side. I'm stripped to the waist, just wearing my breeches with the knee pads. In tight chimneys, you want to be as small as you can, and a shirt can catch on these smaller ones. It can get ya killed if you aren't careful.

I sit on the side, looking out across my home, my city. I can only imagine what people think -- this black spec of a person sitting on top of a burning chimney stack, bare chested (but mighty handsome!) just kinda losing himself as he stares off into the distance.

The chill snaps me out of my thoughts as I reach to remove the brush from my tail. I knock it against the flume again, sending some extra soot tumbling down to the blanket at the bottom. Alister, like all good master sweeps, has us sell the stuff at the end of the day and make some extra money. Not for us, mind you, but it helps him feed us, clothe us, and get him his cough medicine.

I walk to the edge of the roof and look down. I'm three stories up. Normally, I would go back down the way I came, but I am enjoying the clean air and the view, so I take the outside path.

Alister doesn't like it when his boys (by which he means me) use the walls to get back down. But I'm a journeyman, a bit more power than a little apprentice. If I have some liberty, I should use it!

I do my best to avoid the windows to go fast, and with my brush tucked into my belt, along with my climbing blade, down I go. It takes me only a moment to get down (I slipped the last few feet but I'll never admit it) and land on me rump right in a snow drift.

I jump up, dusting the snow from my trousers, when a familiar voice sounds next to me.

"Simon," the older voice says. "Mrs. Dwitmier doesn't like boys scurrying up the side of the building. You want this to be the only time we work for her?" His voice is firm, flinching, but not mean.

I look up and over to my Mastersweep and give him one of my grins, putting my hands behind my head. "Sorry, Master Alister," I say, rubbing my arm a little bit. "The view was really good up there and I didn't think she'd mind if I used the side of the building."

"You're just lucky Christopher was inside talking to her and getting your soot," he said, motioning over my shoulder to the front door of the tenement which burst open. A small tiger boy, in a newsie far too big for him, had my sack over his shoulder and scurried down the steps. He stopped in front of us.

"I gots it, Mr. Alister sir, I do!" He reached into his pocket and passed over the shillings to the mastersweep who deftly pocketed them. "And for you, Simon," he said, handing me my shirt, vest, and coat.

Quickly dressing, I heard Alister talk to Christopher, "Good lad. Go deliver it to the House and come back to Brimley Road number 24." He patted the cub on his shoulder and sent him on his way.

Alister started walking and I followed close. Alister was an older red fox, a man who had done this job when he was really young and had moved all the way up to run his own team of boys. He was one of the good ones.

You see, a mastersweep is required to do a few things for us by law. One is they're supposed to feed us, clothe us, and bathe us once a week. They're also supposed to make sure we can go to church (bleh!) and teach us the trade. Reality is that not every master is the same. Some will work you to the bone, feed you as minimally as possible, and not care if you get hurt or sick. Some even stick needles in you if you're too slow going up the chimney.

Alister though, he'd never done that. Not unless he had to get one of us unscared or something, and he never did it with cruelty. The fox knew the life, and he knew that most of us would probably die before we hit twenty.

Speaking of dying, Alister was sick. He wouldn't tell us a lot about it, but he was always coughin' into one of his kerchiefs and downing medicine. He looked tired a lot of the time, especially lately. His once-bright red fur was dulling, and his eyes drooped even though he slept like the dead. He just said it was winter that was getting to him.

"Simon," the old fox said, looking down at me with a curious expression. He always looked so professional in his top hat -- he said he found it but I'm certain he bought it. He cherished the thing. He fixed it on his head. "You listening?"

"Wha? Oh. Nah. Was thinking about dinner." I said with a cheeky grin, putting my hands behind my head again as we walked. "It's Bromley's turn to cook. He always surprises us." It was a white lie. It was better than admitting what I was thinking.

Alister is going to die soon.

The old fox rolled his eyes comically, a hand coming to the small of my back to pick up my pace. "I swear, if I had been a baker you'd have eaten me out of house and home. There is more to you than just a stomach, right?" he teased.

"Oh, sure!" I responded. "I have my handsome eyes, my wonderful tail, my dashing good looks, my--Ow!" I dramatically complained when a hand gently smacked the back of my head. I grinned up at Alister who also grinned. Just a little.

"Humility, my boy. It is the foundation of good character."

"I don't want to be a 'good character,'" I responded. "I want to be a full one."

To that, Alister laughed heartily. So hard he punctuated it with a coughing fit into his lavender kerchief. Folding it up and putting it away, he gave me a look. "If you eat too much you won't be able to fit in the flumes. We're on our way to Mr. Dawnson's building. Three of the tenants want their chimneys cleaned, and you're the quickest lad I have."

I groaned dramatically, hands behind my back as we walked through the snow, trying not to think about the black paw prints I left in my wake. "His building is too tall! I always need to climb out and get a breath and go back in."

"I told Mr. Dawnson you could do one flume in one go," Alister said, grinning and looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "You don't want to make a liar out of me, do ya, boy?"

"What! Why would you tell him something like that? I thought you said 'never lie to the customers!'"

Alister took a deep breath and looked lost in thought for a moment before he looked back down at me. "Because," he started, "you never told me how long you can hold your breath."