The First House

by Robert Allwood

  ‘Storm’s coming,’ shouted Charlotte above the racket. She repeated herself and the captain waved away the rabble who were still cheering her on.

  Cyrus helped her down from the last rung on the mast. She shot him a dirty look; Charlotte held out her hand to a sorrowful-looking man who parted with a purse. ‘You think that was clever last night?’ he asked.

  ‘I think this is clever,’ she jangled the purse in front of him. ‘I think you lost out.’ Cyrus stopped before he could respond. He drew his eyes onto the horizon. ‘What lost your bottle? Come on Southerner give me a show!’

  Cyrus hesitated, meeting her gaze as she jutted her chin out. She flinched, as if he was about to strike her, but he pointed to the sky. ‘Here, look, that’s not a storm.’

  He turned her around. In the sky gathered a series of women with sticks placed under their thighs. They shouted and screamed, cackled and spat.

  ‘Devils!’ shouted one sailor, another bent at the knee to pray.

  ‘Hard to port!’ Cyrus shouted. He could feel sweat build on his palms.

  The captain, a barrel-chested man, pulled hard on the tiller. The Rancor swung to port, the wind squeezing the sails. Cyrus could see the fear in the man’s eyes-he looked twice as old from yesterday. Everyone moved to hold onto rigging, the more experienced binding rope around one leg. The sea swelled up, throwing spray across the deck. He saw Charlotte shout something over a crash of wave. The witches had now swarmed, hovering above, heckling and spitting. One of them dove down, throwing a metal ball that erupted in a hiss of sparks and flame. Some of the crew took up arms, whether to fight or regain their courage. He cast a concerned look at Charlotte, hoping not to show his own fear. Two of the witches jumped onto the topsail, with carved sticks in their hands. They uttered curses and chanted. Several sailors threw themselves overboard, braving the sea.

  Cyrus grasped his dagger, freeing it from the sheath. Only a handful of men remained, their courage holding fast. The Captain and Charlotte did not move, but their legs shook. She drew a dagger. A look of determination was on her face, fire in her green eyes. The witches stopped their assault and paused, looking at them in turn. One of them flew onto the deck proper. She had a pennant wrapped around her arm; a half–eaten fish painted rough on the fabric. Cyrus grimaced when she spoke. Her brown teeth oozed saliva; her twisted nose rattled with warts as she spoke in a ruined voice.

  ‘Leave now and we’ll spare your souls.’

  Before Cyrus could drop his weapon in surrender, Charlotte leapt forward. Her blade caught the witch by surprise across the shoulder. It bit deep, spraying blood. The blood changed colour, from fleshy purple to blue to bright scarlet. The witches’ skin turned youthful, her warts disappeared, leaving only a white complexion. Soft brown eyes met his own. She was around Hazel’s age, with flakes of blonde hair spread across a perspiring brow.

  ‘What is this sorcery?’ he gasped.

  Charlotte had stopped with her swings as she fell back to Cyrus, unsure, the fight ebbed out of her. The witches surrounded their fallen sister and carried her up. They were normal women. The type a man would court and marry, or see made as happy house-wives with a cluster of children at their feet. They gave him intense glances, looks that could sour milk. Above, an arrow loosed at Charlotte; it struck her in the meat of her side, causing her to ball up in agony. Cyrus could see the shadow behind him before he could react to it. It clubbed him square in the head. His last vision was the Captain, bow-legged and praying, a sword slicing his throat.

  ✽✽✽

  Cyrus kicked against the bed sheets. Still cold. He could not feel any sheets or a soft pillow in his bed anymore. There was a cry, of a woman, or girl. She cried out again and again and again. Cyrus pushed with both his arms, his chest creaking. His mouth was hollow and spent, his teeth dry. He tried to groan, but only a whimper came out. A pair of beady eyes, ending in a cruel beak and looked down at him. It cried like a woman, and then flew away. A seagull. He was not anywhere he recognised. The Rancor had buckled at the prow. Her planks still floating between rocks, trapped as flies against glass. He felt his throat, it was cut, like the Captain, but the wound had not killed him. He felt the back of his head; blood had matted with his hair, forming a lattice over a goose-egg of a bruise. A trail of his blood carried by the morning drizzle had seeped into his clothes. It ran down below his body, a stain of rust that flowed onto the broken prow. His arms were spread either side of him; a garland of kelp tangled under his chin. A noose. You need to move, a voice whispered in his head. He flopped onto one side, his mouth touching the sodden deck. Come on old man, he pushed himself up, the neck wound screaming. Cyrus grasped a flag pole, and wrenched it from its sconce. He steadied himself, moving down to the rocky shore over smashed timber. Above, cliffs loomed, casting dark glances at him. Across the beach, there was a passage up the cliffside. He clutched his neck, almost crying out in pain. Almost. Come on.

  The last stretch of the climb saw Cyrus on his knees in dirt, his breath ragged, and his mind numb. A silence crowded on him, cloying his hearing. Hidden in his waist-coat was a neckerchief, wet through, but still useful. He tied the cloth around his neck as a bandage. He pushed himself onto his knees, and onto his legs, shaking with effort.

  In the pink sky he could not see any witches, and no evidence of Alex, Gold, Hazel or Charlotte on the ground. Tracks once visible had almost washed away. Partly formed shapes suggested that people may have come through here. Over the hill Cyrus came across a shack sheltered in a copse. The roof looked sturdy for the night, and bushes with fruit lay nearby. Inside it was warmer. Sheets were clean and dust free, the floor filled with fresh rushes. He dropped everything, gathered a handful of berries, and ate them one-by-one. He settled onto a makeshift cot and slept with one eye open. It was not until a slice of moonlight slipped through a hole between the logs of the ceiling that Cyrus woke. He was weak still. His body resisting his urges to move. As looked around the room, candles had been lit. Cyrus shot upright, groping for the flag pole that carried him up the cliff in defence. A small face had been watching him from a corner of the shack. It looked friendly at least. It spoke to him, but he shook his head, the words had not translated.

  ‘You’re lucky.’ It said.

  ‘Charlotte?’ he replied. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Gone to town. They’re asking around for Elena, but asking carefully,’ she added.

  He grumbled. Then there wasn’t much else to do. His explored his wound; it had been bandaged over. He looked at Charlotte, who stood, expectant, by the door.

  ‘If it was you who helped me Charlotte, I owe you a debt.’

  She said nothing but stared at him, her eyes flickered.

  ‘There’s a cave nearby.’

  ‘And? If they’re in town, that’s where we should meet.’

  She slinked closer with a coy smile. Cyrus shifted to the other side of the bed.

  ‘The cave is where we need to go. That’s where we are camped. Out of the way, away from the locals,’ she smiled again.

  ‘If you lead, I’ll follow girl,’ he stood, the pole holding his weight.

  They walked outside with Charlotte skipping ahead. Cyrus peered at her. Her hair seemed to change in the moonlight. You’re tired old man. Just follow, you owe her that much. Cyrus was limping so slow he feared that he would lose sight of her, or fall behind. They fought through thickets until they reached the cliff that overlooked the wreck. In the night, he could not see the full coast stretch out in front of him. Only licks of platinum where the waves peaked and caught the moon. Torches paraded an entrance to a short tunnel. They lined inside too, warming a rough–hewn interior. He hesitated while Charlotte crept up behind him.

  ‘Just in there, go on.’

  Cyrus stumbled on, the cave ahead stifling and cramped. One by one the torch flames flickered and petered, swallowing him in dark. He turned; not knowing which way was out.

  ‘Charlotte? Damn it girl, where are you?’ He heard
a laugh. Someone was close by. He poked with his pole hitting nothing. Panic had started to grip. Cyrus spun around, he felt air rush at him, something heavy and solid striking him across the temple. In fleeting consciousness, he wonders whether his eyes are closed or open.

  ✽✽✽

  Hazel fidgeted with her eyes closed as had her hair knotted. ‘Keep still child,’ Gold scolded. Her little sister huffed, but finally sat still enough for her to finish. She looked about their camp, which was just on the outskirts of town. They had not planned for an extended stay in the Cape of Strangers any longer than they had to. Alex and herself both agreed that lodging in the town would raise suspicion. In a draughty little tavern, locals gave them hints of witches spotted in the area. Ships raided, farmers seduced to their deaths, the local Council disinterested to help. There were whispers of a Sabbath between womenfolk and a coven hidden on the coast. Gold knew it sounded like several spun rumours, and that no one knew the complete truth. She decided to walk down to the beach for ablutions.

  It was a luxury she rarely had the chance to do in London. She breathed the clean air, drank the sea, tasted the fruit of buckthorns and prayed. She had sinned and killed a man. She knew it was a guilt born from nothing, dogma made from coincidence and imagination. She wanted to protect Cyrus and her sister, was that wrong to shed blood in doing so? Forgiveness felt as high as the peak of a mountain. In sight but not in reach. She began to ask God for a sign, or guidance or hope.

  As gulls screamed overhead, they led her eye to smoke on a distant outcrop, which popped out the prow of a ship. She saw the Tail emerge before she had a chance to blink. It sat there, like a phantom, challenging her vision. It struck all its sails, skating away from her and disappearing on the horizon. She ran back to camp excited and fretful at the same time; each emotion fought to be on top. Hazel looked at her with worry written on her face. She scattered her tarot cards and held her by her shoulders.

  ‘Gold? What’s wrong?’

  Gold shook her head in disbelief. ‘A ship–a ship on the horizon!’

  ‘But we haven’t seen any for days.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m finding where it came from.’

  ‘Well, where did you see it come from?’

  ‘A cave nearby, it just,’ Gold stumbled over her words, ‘it just slipped out of the rocks.’

  Her hands shook as she packed her satchel. She set a grim look on her face, and marched into town, with Hazel in tow. She took to that Inn where Alex was gathering rumours as to where the coven likely was. She barged past the door, ignoring perturbed looks of fishermen and farmhands. ‘Where is he?’ she asked. They pointed around back. She peeped through a crack between two heavy curtains, spying Alex enjoying a game of cards. Gold snorted, bade Hazel to stay put, and marched through. The game had only begun when Alex’ smile dissolved. He stood, his cards falling to the floor to the dismay of the other players.

  ‘Gold. Have anything?’ he asked.

  Gold nodded, picturing her father. She sobbed once, and hugged Alex tight. The Innkeeper tugged her on her shoulder.

  ‘No women, wait outside,' he thumbed at Hazel. ‘And her with the silver, whores aren’t allowed in here.’

  Gold paused before planting her fist into the man's nose, much to the joy of other patrons who rolled about, laughing. They escaped from the Inn, retreating back to their camp. Gold could sense Alex was brimming with questions, but he gave her time to think. After the all the equipment was packed, and out of ear–shot of Hazel, she took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s the Tail.’

  ‘What?’ said Alex.

  ‘My father’s ship.’

  Alex gave her an incredulous look. There was a distance on his face, a need that answered his question before he said it.

  ‘Yes, I know. If we find my father… we could, I don’t know, sail back to London. I don’t know Alex,’ Gold continued.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Maybe a morning’s walk. Not far. What’s wrong?’

  ‘That game in the tavern, I was asking about ships due.’

  Gold sighed. ‘The Rancor, she hasn’t made it?’

  ‘Worse, it was attacked and wrecked. That swarm of witches we saw.’

  ‘Those witches have taken over the Tail perhaps,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Too much we don’t know. We still need to find where Elena is.’

  Gold nodded. ‘Everything points to this cave or inlet.’

  ‘Then we need to find Cyrus and Charlotte first, Elena second, your father third. If he is still the captain of the Tail, could you persuade him to go back?’

  ‘I do not know. He could be a completely different person by now. He’s spent years without me Alex, and I without him,’ she bit her lip. ‘I need a chance, that’s all. Please don’t breathe a word of this to Hazel.’

  ‘Do you think she suspects?’

  ‘Yes–and I want to be the one who is honest with her.’

  ‘Then we’ve no time to waste.’

  Well–forged paths through reeds and scattered dunes led them to the wreck of the Rancor. The group took a break from the walk as they inspected it, each hoping it was still seaworthy. Each hoping it could take them back to London. Getting closer, it was obvious the ship had been smashed. No souls or bodies had washed up. An invisible sun shied behind a plume of fog that rolled in across the beach. Tides had crawled back, creating pools among the feet of rocks. The sand beneath was caramel speckled with ochre. Rings of jet stones spiralled out from solitary boulders. Past rushes and tough sea–hedge scattered a flock of birds, each smaller than Gold’s hands. She held her breath as the fog dissolved, revealing a vista painted cream and eggshell blue. Heavy clouds were twisting into churches and cathedrals. They towered above, dizzying Gold when she flattened her hand to shade her eyes. The Tail eluded them until the end of the day, when the sun bowed low and the nimbi crumbled into thin wisps.

  ‘There, lights,’ Gold pointed, ‘see them?’

  ‘I see them,’ said Alex.

  ‘Looks like they’re coming back from London, with supplies.’

  ‘Why would they help witches?’

  Gold shrugged, ‘perhaps they’re bewitched, or being coerced to do so.’

  The Tail neared them as they huddled overlooking a natural alcove. Gold put away a spyglass, nodding in satisfaction.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ she whispered to Alex.

  Gold saw him look at her as if she had gone mad.

  ‘Look, there. The aft is lit up in a certain way. Only my father would do that,’ she explained.

  Gold watched the Tail sail towards them. She frowned, expecting the sails to drop, or the ship to turn. It stayed on course for the cliffside.

  ‘What are they doing?’ said Alex.

  ‘They’re going to crash her!’

  The carrack sailed on, oblivious. Gold squealed in horror as her father’s ship neared them. Alex held her down, out of sight. Hazel was wide–eyed. She approached as close to the edge of the cliff as she dared, pulling her hood tight. The Tail finally slowed; its sails furled in turn. As soon as the ship touched the rocks it became immaterial. It shifted from vision, dancing between opaque and invisible. The rocks enveloped it like sap over an insect, and just as quick, it vanished.

  'Magic?' asked Alex, his brow folded.

  Hazel nodded, her face fighting between fear and wonder. In the night they banded torches together and set off to find a way down. What paths there were down to the that magic cove, either were sealed with stone, or too treacherous in the night. Luck saved them from abandoning the search when Hazel spotted a lantern keeping the dark away. It swung from an old yew, glowing with an absence of fire.

  ‘More witchcraft,’ said Alex, under his breath.

  Hazel took the lantern down; she inspected it, turning it over. Every time she did so a thok would rattle the panes. There was a ball inside, made of entwined fur and hair. It shone brighter when Hazel squeezed it.

  ‘A witch–ball. I've read of th
em. Folk–magic.’ Hazel tore the ball open. A sliver of quartz nestled inside. It was bright for a few seconds longer, and then died in her palm. ‘I can use this.’

  By the tree Hazel wrapped string at one end of the quartz crystal. She rubbed her finger at the tip, chanting a rhyme as she did so. It glowed, just bright enough. Alex and Gold crowded over her, sheltering the worst of the wind. The quartz sprang upwards, hovering in one direction. It pointed over a hill crest, then back towards town, between a copse and the Plum. Alex beamed at her, marvelled.

  ‘You needed a guide,’ smiled Hazel. ‘And a guide you shall have.’

  ‘We should be off; the less time we spend here, the more we have of getting to that ship.’ Gold said.

  Gold took lead, with Alex watching over Hazel. After consulting the quartz compass twice for direction, they found a hall built up on a mound of earth. Hearth—fires highlighting gaps in the timber. A grand oak erupted from the centre, smoke ringing its branches. They waited for guards to appear, but none came.

  ‘This is it,’ whispered Hazel. ‘Couldn’t we wait ‘til morning?’

  ‘We could,’ said Alex, ‘but there’s a chance we might see Elena tonight.’

  ‘This will be difficult; the longer we linger the more likely we’ll be caught by her kidnappers. If the town is at the source of the river, then what is this? An old village?’ said Gold, wringing her hands to stay off a chill. ‘Doesn’t seem likely.’