The First House

by Robert Allwood

  ‘Cannon fire!' roared John.

  The few that responded fast enough dove onto the deck. Gold spun around to see a dark ball, too fast for her to track, fly past with a hollow whoop. As it broke a wave in two, it sent a shower of seawater across her face. A splinter the size of a fist struck Sarah across the temple; her legs buckled and she fell silent. Two more cannonballs smashed into the prow; the timbers shook from the impact. Below, the passengers had started to panic as the hull gasped, cracked, and gave in. Sailors with fear in their eyes began to shore up the gaps with anything at hand. They shouted and cursed over each other in a frenzy of limbs. Gold saw one of Sarah’s men pick her up by one arm. He dragged to the jollyboat, ready and prepared to go. Her father stood over her, with Sarah’s babies in her arms–and passed her children down to Gold. She shivered with adrenaline while Cyrus positioned himself at the oars. At once, he started to pull hard on the lines. It put vertical distance between them and her father’s pained face.

  ‘The Lady could come with us!’ shouted Gold.

  John bowed his head–grief suffocated him; his mouth too contorted to talk. The jollyboat dropped heavy into the water; the babies immediately started to cry.

  ‘Silence them, or it’s the end of us,’ Cyrus growled as he rowed.

  Gold rocked the babies while her heart hammered. She knew, as the boat moved away from the ship, she wouldn’t see her father or Lady Saville again. Violent cracks of gunfire spoiled the silence. Two silhouettes emerged. A white cog with triangle sails swooped alongside the Tail. Its oarsmen ceased, ready to board with hooks. Another ship, a crimson galleon, waited near the cog, her cannonade aimed and ready. Gold looked at Cyrus. His face was wax. The blood had drained from his skin in exertion. The man swore as he heard the battle echo around them. Through the mist the men on the galleon fired on them. Some shot struck the boat, the holes smouldered as they punched the timber. Gold curled up into a ball and hid under tarpaulin as the assault continued. The two babies, still crying for comfort, pressed to her.

  ‘Stay down Miss Frost–stay down you hear? You hear me? Don’t peek over the edge or nothing–whatever happens to me, you keep rowing–you keep going you hear? Keep them safe. They’re the only thing Sarah truly holds dear in this world–she loves them with all of her soul–you hear me girl?’

  Gold could hear nothing more but spray and waves. She saw nothing more but fading light. She tugged the tarp over her and prayed to God to guide her and the little lives she kept close.

  ✽✽✽

  Gold’s legs shuffled on their own accord. The sheets underneath was unfamiliar; the smell of the room was of cinnamon and rind, not home. She opened her eyes to see the moon scratch itself among strange stars. Thick eggshell paint covered the planks. Incense burned and lanterns decorated the ceiling with silhouettes. The floor was dirty with footprints. Gold stared at a boy in the room, who stared back. He was her age, perhaps older, his skin sore and sunburnt. His eyes were limned with kohl and copper stars stencilled on his cheeks. His wore a sheet of plain indigo which ended at his ankles.

  ‘Are you well?’ the boy spoke with a Stranger’s accent.

  Gold stared. Her legs now shook under the cotton covers.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Gold.’

  ‘A Golden Star lost in The Channel? If I was an augur–I’d pronounce you as an omen. So, are you a bad omen?’

  Gold sat upright against the pillows stacked behind her.

  ‘Neither?’

  The boy raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and chuckled.

  ‘Well then Gold–I’m Malachi. My Master is on the top deck observing. Please join us.

  Malachi slinked away with the grace of a cat. Gold sniffed the air: she was at sea. She drank it in–it was a heady concoction that inspired her to wander. She shifted her legs and felt sand spread out on the white–washed floor. A small stair led to the upper deck, where the smell of roasted meat and wood fire teased her stomach. She paused just before the railing. The lanterns positioned on the ceiling looked like the ones found in Sarah's book. If it was true, she was on board a merchant pink from the Cape of Strangers. From her cabin the deck above was swathed in a thick cloth canopy shaped into a tent of sorts. A cool evening wind chilled Gold’s arms and she folded them. Sailors and mercers ate and drank together in small circles. One cooking trough took up most of the mid–deck. It overflowed with fillets of beef, vegetables and pork medallions. All, as she saw, sticky with honey. Gold watched as a fat merchant lifted a single medallion and swallowed in one motion. Malachi waved her over to a pile of large silk cushions. As she walked towards him, she noticed one group of men inhale deep from a crystal hookah. There was a pause before each breathed out prismatic smoke, their heads bobbing as they looked at her.

  ‘How do you like our party? Isn’t it just decadent?’

  ‘What are you celebrating?’

  ‘Saffron for the Americas–we’ve just returned from the journey.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a ship like this.’

  ‘Then you have not lived. My Master is very eccentric. He has a taste for the exotic.’

  ‘Where are the children, what happened to them? Where’s Cyrus?’

  Malachi smiled sly, with his eyes narrowed. He lent at Gold and whispered in her ear. Gold could smell his breath: sour milk and honey.

  ‘Talk to the Master–he will have your answers.’

  He spun her head and pointed to the forecastle. Elfin steps lead to a captain’s cabin; on its door was a spear and shield fixed by a chain.

  ‘Go on up–he’ll make you his guest.’

  ‘Is he a kind man?’

  ‘He is a clever man, but cruel. We work for him and we are his now. That’s the price we pay for a lavish life.’ Malachi shrugged.

  The silvered steps led to a blue door enamelled with more stars. She waited outside–she could feel a nervous twitch run through her legs. There was a desire to leap off the deck and swim to shore, but which shore would she be near? Gold opened the door with a sigh. Inside the cabin was a small lens that cast moonlight onto a desk strewn with ephemera. A short, wizened man traced the luminescence onto a thick journal. He twitched the nib in his fingers, the ink smoothed out in cryptic lines. She stood there, the noise from the celebration a distant murmur. Inside this candle-lit sanctuary, everything was measured and orderly, an equilibrium of reason and logic. The nib broke, and man coughed and looked in her direction. He was squat, with quivering jowls and bronzed skin. Hard eyes judged her over spectacles.

  ‘You’re Malachi’s master?’

  ‘I am his father. You were lucky the First Mate spotted your boat, our “Star lost in the Channel.” You’ll have to forgive my son’s passion for flowery language.’

  He turned and resumed his work–he scribbled a red blob with ellipses that interweaved through it.

  ‘My name is Gold sir.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Gold studied the planet he jotted down. He fixed one eye on a telescope and muttered.

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Mars is the most important. The Cape of Strangers prides itself for famous Stargazers. We ourselves sail by the stars, live and eat by the rotation of the planets.’

  ‘What is your name sir?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Meriadoc, Shipmaster.’

  ‘I need to know– ‘

  ‘The man you were with, Cyrus, is safe. The babies are under his care–they are in Malachi’s quarters. Warm, fed, and watered.’

  ‘What will you do with us?’

  ‘We’re headed for London. You can join us if you want, but let me first ask you a question. What do you know of The First House?’

  Gold blinked away tears. ‘Nothing. I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘I’m a man of a new age. Lord Saville’s wife had the same interests as I. We belonged to a group who realised planet Mars is near conjunction.’

  ‘Conjunction?’

  ‘A rare event.
Mars is lining up with others. Not since Lord Saville made his expedition to an island in the Westland Sea has it made this change. Of course, that’s speculation and coincidence. His daughter had left London, did you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How could you know? Though it is strange that a man, a young girl and two infants are found adrift–there are signs in life. Patterns, if you have the knack to read them.’

  ‘She was on the ship.’ Gold bit her finger.

  Meriadoc shook his head with disgust.

  ‘Let that be a lesson, do not lie to me. Where is she now?’

  ‘There was an attack, the Lady was injured.’

  Meriadoc twisted in his chair. He lit a few more candles, turned an hourglass, and slapped fatigue from his cheeks. He breathed a quick prayer.

  ‘And those two infants, are they hers?

  Gold nodded. She tugged on her lips and wiped her wet cheeks.

  ‘Those two are–oh Mars forgive me!’

  Meriadoc stopped short of breath while he crossed himself. He left in a fluster. Gold was left alone in the cabin amongst his research and ephemera, confused. She picked up his journal and held it at arm’s length. Mars was there, under the title of First House; a House of Self. Gold shivered. The planet's outline had been repeated in several pages; the ink still wet. Meriadoc had painted Sarah Saville's face in gouache on the other side of the page. Her gaze fixed heavenward; a halo shone above her with twelve stars. She wore a blue robe, and in the robe her daughters suckled content; one with silver locks, the other with red curls.

  The party had settled, the lively guests had come to rest, and the sailors replaced with a fresh shift for the day. Blankets had placed on guests unused to London’s chill weather. A reed flute played by a boy in red caught Gold’s attention; the melody reminded her of days forgotten. Meriadoc sat centre of the deck, his rolls of fat bunched up his cream jacket. Tufts of black cotton splayed out of gaps. He began to talk to a group assembled around him. He didn’t glance in her direction, and ignored her repeated calls. Gold’s rage simmered until it hit a plateau; she kicked a brazier which spilt hot coals onto the deck. Sailors scrambled to put out the coals with sacks of sand. One held a curved blade under her chin, its point tickling her neck.

  ‘She means nothing wrong,’ said Meriadoc. ‘Leave her be.’

  ‘Are you going to harm Lady Saville? Do you mean to steal her children?’ Gold asked.

  After some consideration he smiled, a genuine smile. ‘That’s what I am here to talk about with my fellows. Mars is our God. We worship him as a bringer of peace, like our forefathers had.’ They waited for her to answer. In that pause Meriadoc gathered more crew around them.

  ‘How do you know of her?’

  ‘There are signs girl. We see them in our dreams.’

  ‘Will you help us then; help us to get to London? My father is waiting there too, like he promised.’

  ‘I will. May you permit us to see the children further? Many here wish to give their blessings.’

  ‘For safe passage I see no harm in that. I should thank you.’

  ‘Yes, you should.'

  Gold saw to Cyrus in the crowd and laughed. He came to shake her hand. ‘You look well enough. The children are fine Miss Frost, no harm’s come to them,’ he said.

  ‘We are getting passage to London; they want to help.’

  ‘I see. Forgive me but, you trust them? They’re a religious sect.’

  ‘I made a promise to my father. I imagine you’ve made one with Lady Saville to keep her children safe.’ Gold felt her cheeks heat. He winked at her with humour in his smile.

  ‘Then it’s settled; we have no choice either, the jollyboat sprung a leak. I’ll be here early in the morning. Mister Meriadoc will be thanked and I’ll never set foot on this floating wreck again. Then we’ll go back to my house.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You’ll meet my wife. I’ll do the talking. There might be a wage if you pitch in with the housework.’

  ‘My father is still out there. Do you think he–’ Gold shook her head. She felt tears welt again; her mouth fettered the rest of her sentence.

  ‘Worry makes it worse. Eat something while our hospitality is still welcome and then get some rest. Nearly dawn.’

  He passed her a plate of medallions and a bun before he retired, with a wave, below deck. Gold stumbled towards a gap between two billets and folded a worn blanket over herself. After the meal she closed her eyes, squeezed into a ball, and allowed her body to rest.

  The Hanged Man

  – Houndbarrow, London –

  In the morrow, as Meriadoc’s pink sailed in flecks of amber, the sun brought fresh vision. London had remained unchanged since Cyrus had left. The shanties of Greenmarket, always on the verge of tipping into the Darkwater, were in sight: inns, factories, refineries. Stacks upon stacks of chimneys divvied the sky with furrows of smog. Households tumbled in place around London Bridge; a brick and iron crown upon the mottled brow of the narrow streets below it. Cyrus sighed and steadied himself as the pink came alongside, on the other side of the city was his home.

  ‘Give way to the tradesmen first, girl!’ screamed the Quartermaster as Gold stood on the gang. Cyrus sighed again. This girl, Miss Frost, was as stubborn as a mule. He began to speak, but nothing fruitful came to mind. He watched as Gold gave the Quartermaster a filthy look and slipped on her heels.

  ‘Come on girl, easy up.’

  He picked her up. She weighed nothing. Pole legs, spider arms and a bouffant of jet hair with eyes like smudges of boot polish. She wrenched away from his hands.

  ‘So what happens now? You take me behind some whore–house and slit my throat?’

  ‘I’m true to my word,’ Cyrus showed her his forearm. A tattoo of a tower was incandescent on his skin. This was his citizenship; his rite of passage, proof of his loyalty to nobody but himself.

  ‘A tower?’

  ‘The Tower of Redbridge–you haven’t heard of it?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like something that small could vouch for you. I do know you’re a thief.’

  ‘A changed thief,’ he corrected. ‘I work for Lady Saville, no longer for any other.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Cyrus rubbed his brow. The girl was irritating. He could leave her now and vanish; he could easily slip into the crowds and forget this whole affair. ‘Now look, stay close, don’t look at any drunks or knaves in the eye and don’t buy anything. They’ll usually have a partner waiting on the side to dip his hand in your pocket. And watch for the urchins, they’re the most desperate.’

  ‘You would know, thief. Let’s find this wife you mentioned. They’re both hungry,’ Gold held her cradle up high for him to see the two babes awake and unsettled. Cyrus huffed. It had the makings of a difficult day.

  Houndbarrow’s convergence was always filled with bright tents, tax officials and toshers. Solid stone arches supported waterways choked with debris; refuse from the market was dumped into slipways that fed to the east, and out into the sea. Cyrus knew from a boy (but never dared) that you could pilot the waterways to the heart of the city with a float; its sewers and foundations linked together before the name London came to be. And as he grew older, as the other stories and myths of London were dismissed in the cynical eye of adulthood, the legend of the slipways never went away, never disproven. At times he would listen to a tosher’s tale at the White Rose, and sit and imagine that underneath all of them lived a beating heart of London: a heart that fed blood to the streets and people, and grew in the dark in wet slick horror. Alex’s ruminations had finally rubbed off onto him.

  Cyrus’s house was ramshackle on the outside. Its weathered façade mismatched the rest of the housing in the street. It was two floors tall, with panels the shade of burnt wheat. The paint crumbled on diamond accents and pitted iron windows. One bull’s–eye window that crowned the top of the house gave it the impression of a squat cyclops. Inside, the home was cosy. Possessions stacked in g
roups throughout the single open–floor room beyond the hall. Cyrus noted his Victoria’s quirks had not changed with the year passed. The furniture lain out just so. That sickly smell of the honey and lemon mixture she rubbed on the rafters to keep them clean, that kaleidoscopic blanket thrown over his favourite chair. A single fresh log smoked lazy in the hearth and Cyrus threw a bundle of willow onto it. The branches curled and crisped in the heat.

  ‘Welcome,’ Cyrus said, proud.

  ‘Warm enough,’ said Gold.

  ‘Your room is at the top. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m used to them.’

  Cyrus scrunched his lips and swallowed as if digesting her attitude. Creaking steps from upstairs heralded a young woman. He nodded at her and she squealed in joy, with both of her arms thrown around his neck. She let out a whimper. They embraced deeply; ending with a kiss on his cheeks and one on both their lips. Cyrus ventured Victoria hadn’t aged a day in his eyes. She was his confidant, his joy, to speak of his ills and pains, someone to grow old with. He couldn’t imagine life with her absence. He had convinced himself he was in love, and knew so. Victoria looked over at Gold, with crib in hand, both startled. Cyrus could see the inflection stir in Victoria's eyes.

  ‘Who is this? Cyrus, where did you meet this girl? Whose children are these?'

  ‘Miss Frost, Gold, is a friend. You did say you need help around the home, while you’re out at night.’

  There was a growl, followed by brisk footsteps as she ascended the staircase.

  ‘Gold, you stay there. I’ll be a moment.’

  Gold folded her arms and raised one eyebrow a touch. After the argument had died, Cyrus showed Gold her room. Large chests filled with keepsakes clotted on one side of the attic, while a bed waited on the other. It smelled damp and a steady stream of air came through a cracked window. To Gold it was as if she was back at sea, which Cyrus took as a compliment. When the two babies were at rest, Cyrus and Gold both told their story in the lambence of the fire. From the treasure on the island; to the Tail attacked at sea and rescue at the Cape of Strangers. Victoria sat and listened, her questions answered and fears dissolved.