‘What are you suggesting?’ Asked Alex.
‘This could be the coven that we’re looking for.’
‘The witch–ball suggests it.’ Hazel’s teeth chattered, her shawl and hood wrapped snug around her.
The hall opened, and people walked out, their jackets and cloaks held around the neck. Alex recognised a few. ‘Fishermen from that card game,’ he said.
‘Something’s wrong. Why would they bother walking that distance to here? To trade?’
The answer struck Gold clear in her mind. ‘Worship. It’s a cult. Look at what they’re holding.’
Alex and Hazel saw what Gold mentioned. The townsfolk carried hymns and books, some handled golden idols of men with spears. They prayed as they walked back home, the dirge sombre and slow.
‘So, a coven and a cult.’ Alex sighed.
Gold looked over at him; he was long-faced, with bags under his eyes. ‘Maybe we should rest tonight, for everyone’s sake. We need to figure a plan.’
Alex nodded, stifling a yawn. ‘And where do you suggest, that no one will find us?’
‘There,’ Hazel pointed. ‘Under that thicket, out of sight.’
Wheel of Fortune
— Plum Village, The Storm Coast —
A hot morning sun had brought an early mass below, in the village. Sarah rose naked from her bed, her sheets falling to the floor. The nightmare she had was still alive in her mind. It was of a tempest had brushed away her efforts, leaving her vulnerable to Turner. The Lord himself assumed the role of a demon. His blackened skin flaked off into her mouth, choking and poisoning her. Rivulets of fire flooded out of his eyes and soon the village was ablaze. It spread to the sea, turning it into sickly oil. The Tail sailed straight for it. Sarah wrestled with the air as she tried to divert the ship, but it was too late. It erupted, sending sparks towards her; a great crucifix of fire burned in her dream.
She had chastised herself as soon as she woke, but the nightmare had born a seed in the back of her mind. A crippling doubt of who she was, what she was aiming to do, and how to finish her goal. She needed her anchor. She crept downstairs. Her home, built behind the main hall, opened into a veranda in which sat John. His black hair was rough-cut, his once fearsome beard trimmed and smoothed with wax. He looked at her with his cobalt eyes; he drained fresh tea from a cup, a smile forming.
'Good morning,’ he said.
'Good morning.'
She sat in front of a cup of tea for herself. Her nightgown loose.
'It reeks in there,' he said, pointing to the bedroom.
Sarah curled an eyebrow and smiled at him. She reached over and smoothed his beard some more, twisting it in her fingertips. She purred, nuzzling his cheek. John did not move.
'What's wrong?'
John replaced his tea, and fixed her with that look he rarely used. She braced herself for an argument. Her mind checked through conversations from the last month.
'We got this here, how?'
'What, got what?' Sarah sputtered.
'The bohea, it comes from London?'
'It does, yes, but–'
John held up one hand.
'And who brings it over?'
'Your ship,' she said. 'Your crew.'
'Sarah, I'm not happy being a glorified merchant. The Sisterhood can provide for its own. This is just luxury.'
'What you provide keeps us together, keeps what we've built, together.'
'What we've built? This was all for you.'
'Then,' Sarah drew her breath, 'what do you want?'
John folded his hair back and smoothed his beard, his expression unchanged.
'To be free again, to do what I've always done, to do what my father had taught me, to do what runs in these veins.'
Anger rattled inside her. I want you to be happy. Why aren’t you? 'To be free? You nearly got killed last time my love. It was only through the Sisterhood you were saved.'
'My father taught me how to live. I don't want to abandon what you've built.' He cradled her, 'I want more freedom, not to just courier goods.'
'Your father only cared for his ship, his way of life. Sad to see you've become a poor example yourself,' Sarah choked on her words as they left.
John was silent as he stared down at the tea set. He smashed it with a sweep of his arm and left her be. As the pieces of china settled on the floor, Sarah sat, her mind numb. Regret came, pricking its way through her. She pulled her hands away from her face, her palms were wet. She turned. Selene was there, waiting against the wall, her face expressionless.
'He's a man of the sea my Cwen. You knew it when you were betrothed to him.'
Sarah did not reply, she smoothed her hair out, and placed both hands on the table. She rubbed them across the nicks and marks, feeling the bumps and scratches the old dining table had. Finally, she buried her head in her arms.
'He's a man who's tasted the freedom of the waves. The Sisterhood has shunned menfolk for a reason.' Selene scratched at her stump, 'he belongs to Neptune now.'
'Selene, I need to be alone. Will you go through ablutions and prayers with the Sisterhood in my stead?'
'And the girl we captured from the Rancor?'
'I'll see to her in due course. Make sure she's fed and watered, her wound treated. I need to meditate on events.'
'Of course, my Cwen,' Selene said. She twisted on one heel and left.
Sarah looked around for dustpan and brush. She began cleaning, her mind distracted. After the accident had been disposed of, she dressed for the day. A long white gown, which covered her arms and legs. The cloth patched where her knees would rest as she prayed, the fabric loose and discoloured. Her hand traced a bookshelf, until she found the catch. She pulled it; a mechanical click came from behind the case. Hesitant, a thin door opened to her left. She designed it to be near seamless, a trick entrance built into the brick that ran on coasters.
She stepped through a white—washed passage, bending low enough not to smart her head. Inside was a small sanctuary. Gold leaf shone against a cramped cupola that shed light over a desk and stool. In the opposite corner was a statue of Mars, a near copy of the one she saw on the expedition, where they had found him. She knelt, prostrating as she did so. Mars had given her two daughters, an immaculate conception, a miracle. Her research about the Roman god described him as a warrior. A being who stitched war and peace, and granted gifts. Her prayers, as pious as she could muster, fell silent. Rituals and communion were one in the same. They both required patience, skill and determination. Sarah could not sense anything. Her voice ignored. She stopped in frustration, giving the statue a glare. Was it in his nature to not answer? Was he bound in duty as a warrior would be? Forever at battle, unable to reciprocate questions and wishes? Sarah sighed and sat in the centre of the sanctuary; her legs crossed. She closed her eyes, her fingertips manipulating the strings in flicks. Her spirit walked out of her mortal shell. It began to see the stacks of books on the nature of gods and magic, the golden cupola, and finally herself. Head bowed in a deep trance. Her body could rest. Her mind needed to take recess from this place.
Sarah's spirit floated, a foot off the ground. It twirled in the air, and sprang up through the ceiling, jumping higher into the clouds in short bursts. Here, she could meditate. Stacks and columns of clouds lay ahead; the pale sun shed slow warmth. Her spirit stayed there, enjoying the view. She turned and looked down at the village they had created. At sea, the Tail was leaving, it buffeted against choppy waves and disappeared from her sight. She sighed. Want bubbled inside her; she wanted John to be here and to be happy with her. She floated for a while, enjoying the nothingness that being insubstantial can bring. Her mother had warned against using such a trick too often. "You go mad, you lose yourself and never want to return to the strife of being Human. You'll never want to live ever again. You'll turn into a half-thing Sarah, a Ghost that never died."
A snap made her look down. Three strangers crept around the bush and bracken at the back of her house. She fe
lt a tug on her body and reversed herself back through the sky and back into her sanctuary. In the stillness she gathered her breath and organised her thoughts. Could she scare them off? She doubted it. She could give them a sense of unease; put up a wall of mist and frighten them a little, as if they were robbing a grave. She pulled back on the strings, folded them out into a sheet, and then unravelled. On the veranda thick mist cloyed the air outside Sarah's home, she could not see the intruders. But they cannot see me. She took a spell book off a shelf, a tome that dealt with form and textures. She tweaked the strings of her own face. Her hands slipped and pressed the flesh until she was a monster with golden eyes and a crystal red mouth. Suitably grim. Outside, the mist shrouded her. She could see the interlopers creep to the front of the hall. As they kept watch around themselves, the man of the group stalked inside, through one of the side doors. She looked at the younger girl from behind an outcrop. Her wan hair jutted out of her hood, silver locks resting on a plain shawl. The older woman was different, with long sable hair and well—travelled clothes. Sarah blinked indifferent as the older woman turned and stared at her. They locked eyes for a minute, both furrowing their brows. The woman squealed at the younger girl, and the man came half—running back to them. Sarah's heart squeezed inside. She had not figured on this outcome. The man unsheathed a dagger, the older woman drew a pistol and cocked it. She said something, the accent Southerner. Memories tumbled back to that day when she lost her children. Her god—promised daughters. Sarah shook the spell off her face, touching it to see if it had returned to normal. She smoothed her dress as best as she could and stepped out in front of them, her arms raised in peace. They stared back, unsure of what to do. Their game was over and a sense of relief had struck the man's face. The woman folded herself over the younger girl, shielding her. The younger girl was muttering something under her breath.
'Gold. Alex. Do you not recognise me?' Sarah asked.
A beat passed. Alex shifted his weight and looked up and down at Sarah. 'You haven't aged a single day, if this is real.'
Sarah smiled warm at him. She also knew John's daughter was alive through all these years. That Cyrus had not failed to protect her. The wind blustered around them; droplets discoloured bare earth where they fell.
'All of you come inside, rain has started. We've got plenty to converse,' she said.
Inside her house, they settled until comfortable, although she could see Alex preferred to keep standing. Sarah lit the hearth, the tang of driftwood smoke drifting through the study. On two rickety chairs sat the younger girl and Gold. The young girl almost hugged Gold’s side. She was nervous; her legs shook, whether from cold or lack of nourishment Sarah couldn’t tell. Her hair was a strange metal–white; silver–spun locks far above her age rested on a spotless complexion. She began to ask of her when Alex puffed his chest and broke the silence.
'What is this place?' he asked.
'A haven of sorts, we teach girls and women of certain… disposition, whereas they would be ostracised from London.'
'You teach witchcraft? Here?' said the young girl, unable to hide her surprise.
'We do. There are the villagers, you've no doubt seen, and there's the school beneath us.'
'The Church allows this?' said Gold.
'It has a dim view on the black arts, hence why the students disguise themselves as witches. Ironic their normal identity is their disguise also.'
'We saw,' said Alex. 'Why play to people’s fears?'
'Why pretend to be innocent when the world believes you to be evil? An innocent monster is still hunted down and destroyed. Better to live up to the rumours, better to share in the power of superstition.'
'But you attacked London. People have died. You cannot justify that,' said Gold.
'Forgive me, but we were attacked first. After Turner's men were beaten off the Tail, they gave chase and sent more privateers into the coast. We lost several lives in his pursuit for me. Retaliation came soon after. An eye for an eye,' Sarah rose and poured tea for each of them, the atmosphere in the room had changed.
'Why, may I ask, what happened for Turner to take such a set against you?' Alex said.
'That’s a sad story,’ Sarah cleared her throat and began. 'It started on an expedition to find a treasure. On the basis of an earlier expedition my father took me on when I was but a child…’
They conversed into the night, each asking questions and Sarah answering in turn. Each question answered in truth. Soon they all knew of her story. Of how fate had twisted her life into what it was today. How Sarah became separated from her miraculous daughters. How she had married again (but not who she had married, sensing that Gold believed her father dead). Alex was civil and taciturn. She knew the reason they had come; to take Elena back, back to that rancid city. She had expected as much. Sarah invited them to dine with herself; taking time to put Gold's feelings ahead of her own. She did not know how John would react to seeing his daughter again for over two decades. She needed time to plan their reunion. Supper was peasant food prepared from yesterday, and kept chill. Thick blackbird pie and vegetables, followed with the last of her cider. Before long, their shoulders had slumped, eyes were listless, and limbs weary. She called for bed sheets and cots for the hall, with embers poured into a small pit. Sarah left Alex and the young girl to slumber after their journey, and took Gold, alone, back to her house. She asked Gold to wait for her husband (as it would be a person of interest), and talked until sleep got the better of them.
'He's late,' said Sarah. 'My dear, I must apologise. Not only had he not shown for supper, but now he's not returning home.'
'Never mind then. That’s men for you,’ she laughed. Gold wiped sleep away from her eyes.
'Get some sleep. We can talk of this in the morning.'
Gold rubbed her chin, then knotted her fingers, her eyes burning.
'That girl, Hazel. Do you recognise her? Sarah, she’s your–'
A loud cry rang out from outside; several Sisters came running into the room.
'A fire’s broken out Cwen, you must come quickly!' said one of them.
'Mars! Where's Selene?'
'Out flying, The Tail is ablaze.'
She ran outside with Alex (leaving Gold and Hazel to rest), plus the students who warned her, down to the dock. She could see the flames rocket in the in the night sky before seeing the whole of the blaze. A conflagration that heated her cheeks and burned the air.
'Move! Quickly now!'
The ship was steaming at the hull, timbers roaring on deck. Most of the sails had erupted in a blaze, leaving the masts barren. The crew was safe, as soon as it grew out of control they had jumped overboard. They huddled together as the Sisters looked after them. Men worst off had sluggishness from inhaling smoke, others had light burns. Sarah took note of now many heads were missing.
'Where's the Captain?' Sarah shouted at an older sailor.
He looked at her with languid eyes, face dirty with smoke. He shook his head unsure, gaze fixed on the ship. She rolled back her eyes, summoning her spirit. Sarah floated through the smouldering heaps of sail and rope. Pausing to search each smoke–filled cabin. John was in the bilge, lying flat with a wet blanket curled up around him. She retreated back into her body.
'He's still there! Everyone put out that fire.'
With each pail of seawater, the fire simmered away, leaving a charred mockery of the proud carrack. In turn, Alex and Sarah fought down to the lower decks; Alex scooped John up in his arms, and out into fresh air.
'Is he still with us?' Alex asked.
'He's fine,' reflected Sarah. 'The smoke did not reach him. But the exertion has knocked him out.'
She squeezed John, placing a kiss on his brow. 'Old sod, he wanted to be free–I've kept him cooped up here like a pet.'
Alex made sure John’s breathing was normal, and heart steady. Sarah asked questions among the recovering sailors. She came across the boy who had been on in the nest before the fire. He propped up another young
man, both testifying what happened.
'A great ship came upon us Lady.'
'Aye, like it was a sea monster. Took advantage of the weather, and rushed us–attacked before we knew it.'
'Who?'
'Looked like soldiers. They were using queer shot on us. Cap'n said they were setting the sails alight.'
'The sails they bore–any flags? Banners?'
'No but it was the size of a galleon Lady, hard to see details like that when you're at night.'
Sarah scrunched her face up, passing a hand over her brow. A horn struck out through the underground dock; it sounded long and deep. They waited in silence as the noise drowned, each man, boy, woman and girl looking at her for guidance.
'The village is under attack,' she barked to everyone around her, 'man the palisades!'
✽✽✽
As the underground dock emptied in panic Alex used the opportunity to steal away. He wondered where the prodigal daughter was, where Elena could be hiding. Alex weighed that building called the Hollows and Sarah’s bitter ambition, were equal in scale. That woman had changed for worse. She had become hard inside, a self—made tyrant, a reflection of what her life had become. Just a single conversation had seen through what hospitality she had attempted to softer her character. She was an antagonist that sought to control every aspect of her life until nothing could pain her. Until nothing could hurt her any longer. He recognised it. Nothing had softened her after all these years. Which, he imagined, with a sigh, all this would have been exactly what he would have done in her situation if he had two children who were lost in an instant.
He stalked deeper into the Hollows, and avoided all contact until he found a modest workshop and library built into the hillside. In the library he noticed Elena’s red locks as she cowered behind a shelf that bowed under the weight of tomes. He rounded the door and snuck up on her as she huddled next to a lantern for comfort.
The First House Page 18