The First House

by Robert Allwood

  'She's a witch or mad, or both, must be! She had everything set against us. Knew of us, my name, knew of the Tower, and knew of what we planned to do. She knew that Westlander had died before the blood became cold in him.'

  ‘A witch? Well, if she does know everything, we have to leave, we can’t trust her. We have to head back to London. There’s nothing to gain from this.’

  ‘Cyrus, we’ve gone this far.’

  ‘If we steal whatever it is that she covets from this journey, she’ll know it and stop it. We’re two strangers on a bought ship bound for open sea. One slip between us will be the last,’ Cyrus wringed his neck.

  ‘She can know how and why. She can cast every spell under the sun. But Lady Saville cannot protect against every outcome,’ said Alex.

  ‘What, wait until we’re back in London? When everything is closer to home?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ Alex folded his arms. ‘And then we’ll steal this treasure for ourselves, and become rich men.’

  ✽✽✽

  When Cyrus and Alex finally met the captain of The Lion's Tail later that day, he proudly displayed a greasy black beard, above which swivelled two musket ball eyes that surveyed his domain with authority and fire. The captain took Lady Saville and her hire as guests. He afforded a generous amount of space between them and the crew, even after the sea–funeral of the Westlander, to which the crew, much to Alex’s surprise, took well. Some of the sailors Lady Saville already knew by name, others the Lady took avoidance to, or they to her. Magicians did exist within London. He'd met some who could spin fire or some who could beguile ghosts. However, none of them were as powerful as Lady Saville; as she could cast spells upon men without doing anything at all. Her presence could silence a crowd. Her gaze gave out a sailor’s heart. He imagined her reputation was fiercer by the stories built of her, and the crew was as pious as it was superstitious Alex gathered. They believed in devils and monsters, witchcraft and God, as men had any right to. But there was fervour about them, a malevolent way they twisted the fables of good and evil. Their true deity was the sea, and she kept a dim view on dabblers of sorcery. Alex cupped his fingers around the handles of a heavy chest, the only luggage the Lady was taking with her. It was unceremoniously dumped on the deck. There were no more preparations to be had; only the voyage lay ahead. The gang was raised, the anchor scooped up, and the ties lowered. Above a man called out, and a bell sounded.

  The Tail was underway, and she suffered naught but calm water.

  The Empress

  – The Isle of Rocks –

  As the waves churned, a chill was herald to a storm that was spreading across the length of the Westland Sea. It began with rain that whipped the unwary and climaxed in a tempest that squeezed the hearts of those on board. The groans from the wood of the Lion’s Tail made its crew anxious as they sat cramped in the forecastle. They shook together as the carrack listed and spun, desperate to keep her course. In her cabin Sarah had slouched as she tried to read in the sweat and gloom; her vision aided by a single dancing lamp. The storm simmered in time, and died to a whimper after a turn of the hourglass. It made the sailors fall to their knees in prayer. They offered up hardtack and rum as thanks to whatever divinity had saved them. She slapped her book closed when the fracas from the celebration grew too much. She was here to relive her childhood. If she had wanted divine intervention, she would have found it at church and on her own terms.

  ‘Alex,’ she shouted.

  ‘Yes Lady, you called.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  There was a pause, until a heavy thud from above broke it and sent streams of dust into her eyes. Alex popped his shaven head through the soaked companionway. He gave her a wink and the sailors a nod in the haze.

  ‘The Tail’s good, the sails caught too much wind, tore some of them. She’s a tough one.’

  ‘That’s fine. Get Cyrus and secure my trunk. We’ll go see the captain.’

  Sarah glanced at her vanity mirror. She was, after two days at sea, bedraggled and sleep—deprived. She tousled her hair, pulled a tie from her salt—crusted jacket, and fixed it into a bun. Her hands fitted themselves into worn gloves and she then placed a leather peak on her head. She felt she was ready for anything this haunted isle could throw at them. She braced herself against the wind and could taste the salt before leaving the hold. The captain greeted her from the stern with a hearty wave. She enjoyed Captain Frost’s company. He was a businessman at heart. She paid him half now with expenses and half later.

  The murk—shimmer of the island caught her breath. It was vast and green and black to the core. An expanse of rock so crowded with evergreens and heather she did not believe it was the same place. Thin clouds threw themselves at distant hills obscuring their summits.

  ‘It’s quite a sight Lady.’

  ‘Asleep or drunk?’ She employed a wicked eyebrow at Cyrus. He scratched his stubble and squinted with half—closed eyes.

  ‘Both. Won some cards and dice, drank until I slept.’

  She squeezed her eyes tight. Alex and Cyrus were untrustworthy. The educated guesses she had told Alex on the sloop had had the desired effect. They believed she was a witch with the ability to glimpse into a man’s head. This was half true, she was born a cunning-woman; but as far as she knew, it was impossible to see the future or read minds. The coincidence in London was too obvious not to arouse suspicion. Her paid spies had staked the market out before any opportunists from Redbridge Tower had woken up. A spy had seen Isolde with one of her men, bribe in hand. That was all the information she needed. Now they could betray her, rob her blind, but doubt festered in them. Doubt she could use.

  ‘Captain what news?’ Her mouth spat away drizzle that had collected around her lips.

  ‘She won’t be rolling here, needs the tide Lady. Then we’ll point her around; which means you will have all the time in the world to get back to shore. Boson, see a boat is ready for the Lady’s jaunt.’

  Sarah noted there was mirth in his voice. She didn’t approve of that tone, but could not care less; it had begun. She tried to reimagine the island from her childhood. They were perhaps on the opposite shoreline; the trek should take them less than a half a day. Her mind cleared as she cast a spell of clairvoyance. The strings before her bent and twisted as clay in her hands. The ones that glowed showed her the way to the flower through memory. Her skin felt hot as her blood thundered with the strain. I must relax the strings gently, and let them go the same. The way was now certain, clearer than any map.

  ‘Cyrus, make sure the Boson has everything we need. We are climbing up that.’ Sarah gestured at the forests that clogged up the distant hills. She turned to Alex with her battered trunk.

  ‘Was that a spell Lady? It won’t go down well with this crew. I want to return back to London without meeting Davy Jones,’ said Alex.

  ‘The crew’s opinions be damned. I will have my prize after suffering pithy bread and sea–water.’

  ‘They think you’ve cursed them, that you’re everything they say you are and worse. They won’t show mercy.’

  Sarah made a gesture of cessation. ‘I’ll concede–no more then.’

  ‘We both know you’re not a foolish type.’

  ‘No. Well spotted.’

  Sarah wrestled with her hat while crew scrambled to prepare the ship when the tide returned. A rope ladder cast over the gunwale led down to a jollyboat with greased ropes. Sarah found her chest dumped on the deck by Alex; and wondered if it was the thud she had heard earlier. She only needed one book from it, a battered velum diary with slick cover and worn spine. After the climb down, they soon stood on the island, the rocks beneath them broken and wet. To them it was a foreign land of little hope and stark imagination. An island which gave little adventure, and offered no respite: from the cold nooks and caves of sea–stone, to the mermaid’s purses and brown kelp that tangled up beneath their boots. At the peak of the beach they could hear muffled cries of gulls carry in the wind. For a mom
ent Sarah looked across the small bay and to the Tail, where it sat in the water as if it was a favourite pet on guard.

  ‘Enough gawping–we have progress to make,’ she said.

  ‘My Lady!’ cried Cyrus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Reckon there’s anything to make a meal of here?’

  ‘Just hurry, if there is something to eat, you find it and eat it yourself in your own time.’

  ‘Careful Cyrus, she’s got a knife–edge on her mind. She’d turn you into pudding and feed you to the crew,’ Alex said as he hoisted a bag of tools over his shoulder.

  ‘Nonsense, she can’t do that. Can she?’

  Sarah left Cyrus’s question unanswered. She felt dread as they climbed further inland. Her eyes scanned the valley for the temple she remembered. The diary in her hands told her the island folk prayed to both a god and goddess. Mars and Juno; a deity of the spring and the may-flower. She studied the old book and ran her fingers over its familiar corners. She wished William could have seen her now, back again. Her mother would be furious. The rotten endplates had pictures of the flower she had touched and the golden man. They staggered up a steep path and walked along broken twigs and cracked stone to the temple from her past. What was once proud walls, were now choked with ivy. Graffiti of spears and shields had been carved into the entrance. From the roof poked a pale oak, its roots pushed past the doorway. Birds scattered as Alex and Cyrus began to clear away roots and branches that impeded them.

  ‘Watch for anyone else. There might be eyes in the forest.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Once before. We should move on inside.’ Sarah reached up with a spell and tugged on the aged door with a thought. She felt the strings pull loose and unravel. ‘Stand clear–the thing’s coming free.’

  The oak crumpled as it freed itself from the roof. Stale air escaped and vented straight into the lungs of Alex who racked his lungs. Inside the temple a strained beam shone down upon a bare sanctum; the cloister was devoid of art. It had been neglected with time, sheltered from the elements. An anti–climax. Sarah paced in anxiety. Steps led to the back, it was deep and dark, and her torch could illuminate only so much.

  Sarah relaxed herself and roamed the temple. She saw Alex and Cyrus chip away at the walls in a fever, their eyes full of lust. She came to a halt before a collapsed passage and panicked in the gloom. She stumbled over stone and roots before she came to the chamber where the flower was before. It was impossible it had not changed since she had seen it last, but there it was, static and immortal. The flower’s leaves were still waxy and rich, the petals still that off—blue and ochre red stem; exactly as her memory preserved it. The statue still stood behind the flower. It was the gold man proud and erect, with dour face and muscular arms outstretched in salute. Sarah ran to the peony; a glimmer from the surface of its petals mirrored the room in teal. She felt like a child again when the idea to touch and hold those petals came to her; to take one as she did before. There was nobody to stop her now. She held a petal with her thumb and finger and plucked it. It wept clear sap. She held it to the light. It was delicate as gossamer on the inside, full of fluid and motes. It spoke to her, with words that only she knew or could hear. Sarah held it against her chest, ran the petal down her breasts and to her stomach. As she made the connection, Sarah sensed a change in her body. Her breathing became tighter, her stomach tense and fragile; she shivered and grew nauseous. To scream was the first thing she did. A primordial scream born from pain and fear with no will to stifle it. The agony inside was hot and it was merciless. It grew straight from her legs, up and through the bones in her spine and sent daggers into her heart. Her pulse raced and forgot to beat. She gritted her teeth as she felt Alex and Cyrus pick her up and move back through the valley. She could only see the canopy, hear only the crack of sticks underfoot.

  ‘Faster Cyrus, she needs to see the quack.’

  Sarah heard Cyrus grunt as they quickened the pace. Before long she could smell seaweed and feel the sun scorch her clammy skin. She was rotten, dizzy, and wan all at once. Sweat stung her eyes; she felt too frail to turn her neck to be rid of it. Little by little, a sliver at a time, Sarah lost the grip she had on her mind and faded into oblivion, her arms limp and eyes still as the men rushed to the infirmary.

  ✽✽✽

  In Sarah’s oblivion, a blood–moon outshone opaque stars on a cracked firmament. There was a city ahead of her, glorious and terrible. Aqueducts that once sparkled greeted her as she walked up a slate street. It led to an eroded temple made of alabaster and soil. From here, she could see only the splendour of the city, long before its enemies had claimed it. She heard shouts, distant screams that caused her to shrink in fear. She could sense them, she could almost see them too, but they were too fast to track; the smallest of the phantoms too agile and feint. There was a shriek, a bang of voices that shouted all at once. Sarah ran as fast as her legs could commit. Closer it came, her doom, her death, her destruction. Then silence. The howls and noise from the ghosts had stopped. She was back in her father’s study.

  ‘I–I’m not afraid,’ her words came out thick and tangled.

  Through the miasma Sarah could see her father stand patient. He became animated with an awareness that grew as the seconds passed.

  ‘Then, pray, what are you?’ he asked her.

  Laughter rippled about. The study dimmed as Sarah grew feint; her father’s statue seemed to spin as she dropped to her knees. He spoke again, his voice growling and deep. ‘There are three of you now.’ The spirits that had stalked her through the city had found her. They paused; claws and teeth bared, their forms indistinct, and pounced.

  Sarah woke as the afternoon trickled in through a porthole, untouched by the horror. Sweat ran down a blanket she did not recognise. Sarah wiped the grime away with one hand and organised her thoughts. She wanted to stand and peek through the window, but her legs gave way and she thudded onto the deck. The noise disturbed Alex; he rose from his position and pushed aside the curtain.

  ‘Lady, rest now,’ he helped her up. She judged by the sluggishness in his voice he’d been asleep also. She swatted at him.

  ‘You’ve taken the flower, haven’t you?’

  Alex shook his head. He placed her back on the bed as easy as a doll

  ‘We didn’t. Better for everyone to say you found nothing.’

  ‘Then it has been a wasted trip for the both of you. What will you do now?’

  ‘Can’t go back empty handed, not after this. Cyrus is asking the captain for any work. Better than going back to London, we’re free men here.’

  Sarah reached out with one hand and touched Alex on his cheek. She sighed and flopped onto the stained pillows. She felt all thirty–two years compound into a single ache that ran through her body and sapped her energy.

  ‘Thank you. As a thought, I am in the need of hiring two groundkeepers before the winter comes.’

  ‘Well, if you promise we’re away from Redbridge proper, we’ll work for you.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Excellent. You’re hired on one condition: if you can leave your dishonest life behind you. Help me get some wine for tonight with the honourable Captain. I need him to see eye–to–eye with what I’ve found. You need to keep the crew distracted.’

  ‘Some dice and songs and we’ll give them a merry night.’ Alex stopped just as he was to give her privacy. ‘What else did you find in there?’

  Sarah pursed her lips, they widened into a large smile. ‘The find of the century.’

  ✽✽✽

  Night came as the ship meandered to a safer distance from the coast. Sarah had found a stuffy dress amongst her luggage, struggled herself into it. She applied blush, and was now entertaining Captain Frost in his pokey cabin. Her impression of John was that he wasn’t the rambunctious sea-dog from tales she had heard. Sarah expected pompous and preposterous tales with knee-slaps and snorting nostrils. Instead, (from his manner) she assumed he was a family man with t
he aspirations of a comfortable life. Their dinner of dried fish and boiled rice was over. Now she was in her element. Her voice took on a smooth appeal and she showed more cleavage than his eyes knew what to do with. She could see a red face underneath his beard.

  ‘I need to ask a question, but I believe that you’re not ready to tell me the answer sir,’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, why not ask away and let me mull it over Lady.’

  ‘It’s very risky to ask a captain something that would jeopardise his crew.’

  She watched him light his pipe and puff a few times as he regarded her. She sensed his curiosity after such a bland dinner.

  ‘There’s a statue back at the temple. It was gold. If we could take a look tomorrow...’ She wondered whether he had heard her.

  ‘There’s a certain issue,’ he said. Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I’m keeping a tight schedule for other clients. I’d need extra pay up front, or similar rebate.’

  His hand slapped her thigh and stayed there. It crept up her inner leg without resistance. She pushed her hand down to meet his, lifting his chin up with her other; her assumptions were incorrect.

  ‘You’ll get paid and more. I’m not one to cross privateers, even legal ones with writs and fancy papers to their name. I’m sure that after landing at Greenmarket, you can explain to my current lover why I was groped. He’d seek your ruin.’

  John snorted and emptied his pipe. ‘Who would that be?’ he slurred.

  ‘Lord Turner.’

  She felt just a nudge to who steered the conversation was necessary. She could see him laugh and grin, but her stare didn’t falter. Perhaps he didn’t realise that a Lord paid for his marque out of his own pocket? The penny dropped as the smirk faltered on his face. Idiot, why do think you’ve escaped attention from the law for so long?