The First House

by Robert Allwood

  'It is. You’re overthinking the situation.'

  I am a fool to believe anything he says.

  A feeling of trepidation repeated in her mind. As her heart caved, Elena shrank within her cloak, mind numb. Indigo swells shook the boat as London came into view. The city spread flat in a wide oval, bell towers upon bell towers mashed with churches and steeples. Chimney stacks assaulted the air with acrid smoke. Elena had dreamed of houses of cinnabar brick, towers of shining metal and grandeur. Not a purgatory of soot and pale figures struggling amongst themselves. Everywhere there was man, doing what he did best. Progress and discrimination in equal measure. The old and young passed invisible amongst the rich and poor. Each pitted face had a story, and each story was alive in front of her. Singsong street merchants pitched everything to do with the sea and terrestrial pursuits.

  'Almost there. We're going up the Darkwater, past Boxwood and into Greenmarket.'

  Elena nodded, sullen. She gave the closing embankments a sandy–eye. Escape was slowing turning in her mind. A mooring was free beside a stinking dock, its smooth stone rubbed bare from the river. Clumps of filth had left their mark in dried lines, showing where the water had risen or fell. Alex paid the dock master for the birth, venturing the sloop in exchange.

  ‘Ready?' he said.

  She expected him to scream and rage at her when she did not move. Alex stood, hands by his sides, his face a mask of pity. The new owner of the sloop had turned up with his fellow, and had started to match Alex in his distain. Elena cursed as loud as she dared, and staggered up from her warm spot. She braced a rusted ladder set into the stone, and stood onto the dock proper, her legs shook with the effort. The merchant and his fellow both cast a grimy look at them as they set off down Darkwater and out to open water. Elena would have sunk to her knees from fatigue if it wasn’t for the hate that rolled in her gut.

  'Come on. We're both tired and hungry.'

  He led her to a tavern that was once a goods house. She saw it was the only clean example of hospitality on the dockside stretch. Everywhere looked as though it was reaching the end of its natural life. Elena hoped she had set her eyes to the worst and brooding look she could summon as they walked in. The smell of food was rich and inviting. That sour punch of ale seemed to lift from the floorboards and starched drapes trapped in time. The only motion was that of a rowdy set of musicians and the staff, preoccupied with service.

  'Stay there. Don't move or touch anything.'

  She almost hissed like a cat at him; wishing one of her legs would lash out as he walked past. One oil painting in the tavern stood out from the rest. Two candelabras lit a dark tower surrounded by bright copper rooftops. At its base was a group of one woman and two men, scarred in spots on their faces. Both men wore finery of the past; the woman wore a blood–red dress, laced with gold. An enormous ruby highlighted her cleavage. She looked out of the picture with a sneer. Alex conversed with the owner. He was gesturing at his arm, showing off his tattoo of a tower. The same tower that's in the painting. Elena looked around, waiting for nothing to arrive. She pulled open the door and walked outside, leaving Alex to argue. She was alone. London was alien to her as the Storm Coast, the two interchangeable. Her stomach complained. She rubbed it to calm the pangs. Now was a perfect chance to run. With what reserves of energy left in her legs Elena sprinted down the dockside, through a collapsed building that had sank back into the earth, across a rickety bridge that spanned sewage and finally into a marketplace, which was a maze of carts and stalls. People bumped into her; they shoved and poked her into crowds enjoying the rare weather. Her hood was up as Elena scanned faces behind her. Nobody had followed. Alex was either as lost as she was, or he had not bothered to check she had left him. She relaxed a modicum. There was an alcove, a small oasis in the throng of people. She sat down beside a heavy grey statue, the plaque long since worn, her mind swimming from hunger. Around the market she found a coin there, a coin here. To look for them was easy enough if she avoided feet; a shine or sparkle in the dirt gave them away. Several coins more she guessed to have enough to eat from a stall. She haggled for quarter of a meat pie with foul beer to wash it down. After eating, curiosity forced Elena back onto her feet. She walked within earshot of a single man was spreading news to any who would listen. He spoke of the evils of the French monarchy, how a civil schism was overdue. She waited until his congregation had finished listening to his anecdote. They had left him to recount his thoughts from a battered journal.

  'Excuse me, sir?'

  'Hm? Yes? How can I help one of such beauty?' the man doffed his hat, slicked his pencil thin moustache with one slim finger. The fingers reminded her of dry twigs, and the moustache of hairy caterpillars.

  ‘You’ve arrived on a ship from France sir?’

  ‘You’re in luck, it’s still here.’

  ‘May you tell me where? It’s important to me you see.’

  ‘A trifle, there, you can plain see it, the one with the tall masts. The bright yellow canvas. She’s called the Cambion.’

  ‘My thanks.’

  ‘Well, pretty girls like yourself should not be all alone in this city,’ he licked his lips. ‘In fact, pretty girls can be quite safe with me.’

  ‘Thank you, but I must leave.’

  He rushed at her, to make a snatch for her arm, but Elena whipped away quicker; her legs jumping through clearings in the ever–busier market. It wound down and through London; stalls and vendors never ending. Greenmarket proper. There was a brief sliver of the Darkwater before Elena skittered around a corner. She caught her breath as the names of each ship came to her: Merry, Warrior, St. George. Ahead loomed one with tall masts, sails as bright as mustard: Cambion. Up and down the dockside Elena looked, no sign of Alex hunting her, no sign of anyone running or seeking. Surly seamen gave her curious looks, commenting on her clothes. I need to act. How would it be best to stow on–board? Which one would head back home? A gust shook her hood; a chill fell onto the wind, raising her hairs on her back. There was a pall over the dockside. Workers paused as they worked, silencing their conversations. Sailors pointed at the crumpled air, muttering and shaking their heads. It was rain, of no doubt, but it carried a warning. The first shakes of raindrops burned themselves on her cheeks. A flash of yellow stained the world; the rain grew colder still, forming into hail and sleet. Elena watched as the city fled from the downpour with disbelief on the faces of many. It was unnatural. Lightning slashed at wounded clouds; the sun retreated with every spark. As hail skidded across stone and wood, Elena saw the swarm. A witch–flight that sped across the London skies. Her heart jumped, squeezing hard in her chest. She was there at the centre of it all, leading the clan, her mother. It was a sour dream; a nightmare unravelled. Sarah swallowed and bowed her head, hiding herself beneath her cloak. She saw Alex across the way, shielding the worst of the storm with one arm hooked over his soaked head. She locked eyes with him. They were glassed with regret. She ran towards him, her arms hugging his chest. She could feel a huff of surprise followed with a sigh. One rough palm smoothed her head, tickling the hair behind her ears. Her ennui melted with each stroke. She looked up at him.

  ‘Alex, thought I was nothing to you.’

  ‘That’s not true, you know that.’

  ‘Then why have you lied? Why deceive me?’

  ‘How could I court you, a daughter of a witch and a Lady? I’m just a thief–a pick–pocket at best. People like me, we can never be anything more. Unlike you.’

  ‘You are something to me,’ Elena said.

  She didn’t want her words to wound or hurt; she wanted the truth. She wanted him as a whole, not divided by greed or pride, or ostracised by the world, hesitant by whatever feelings were inside him. He grunted sorry, as close to a form of apology she was likely to get. Elena could feel herself smile and shook her head.

  ‘Come–this storm is not natural; you’ve noticed the witch–flight too I see.’

  Elena nodded, taking his arm. She looked down
at it, strings spun and danced along his skin, forming a lattice. They sparked wherever she held on tight. She led Alex on until he saw what she had: an old clock tower, standing tall above the dock. The air inside it shivered with energy. Timbers had suffered time, stone that was set long before she was born. Elena imagined mechanisms, a constant tick tock inside, but there was none. It was a cessation from the hail, a dry roof above their heads. They took in the empty black–and–white house around them. Abandoned long ago, with its single bedroom and meagre pantry. The rest was a workshop, fitted with iron tools and rank grease. In a draw of an oak worktop she disturbed a tinderbox which helped illuminate the room around. Their sodden capes were cast to one corner, boots stuck to dry in front of a tiny fireplace. The storm drew too much attention to ignore. It rose in crescendos of violence, rattled the sashes and pawed at the glass. Elena sat waiting.

  ‘Scared?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I am.’

  Strings that formed around him now were cloying. Too many here, too little there; they danced over him, passing through him with ease. She had never seen so many, never seen so many of her secret around a man. She had never spoken of it. How could she? Anyone would think her mad; sprouting nonsense of strings connecting everything. My father would not understand my affinity, nor Lady Stone. To explain it to one who cannot see is difficult. Strings that are transparent when viewed, and disappear in a prismatic blink. They defy description. She focused on Alex, her eyes falling back onto themselves in round submission. A large cluster of strings tugged around his side, just below his chest. She raised an arm, feeling, searching. It was akin to touching dry paper, or brittle kelp. Insubstantial, delicate. Strong when pulled, weak when torn. She imagined a blessing of fire, of warmth and love. A nook or nest, filled with desire and dreams, a sanctum of wishes. The weave bloomed with her touch. It surprised her to how much effort it took, as if she were on a precipice with danger of falling, the fall below unwelcoming in its vastness. To run on and plunge forward would be her goal. Pricks of pain tingled behind her skin and eyes as she kept kindling the spell, kept willing it to fruition.

  ‘You have that same look as your sister. What are you doing?’

  There was no need to talk. The spell was cast with a twist of her wrist. An arrow loosed beyond her control and responsibility. The room grew warmer; flecks of gold dusted the scrappy air from nothing. The fireplace burned softer. It shed more light than heat, until all the dirt was gone. It cleaned the floorboards to the ceiling, cheered in a fresh indifference. The old place spoke to Elena of thanks, but she smiled and shook her head. No need for thanks. As the spell grew larger her skin tingled, sending waves of succour forth, each cleaning what had remained, straightening crooked iron, fixing dented wood. As the fugue around them cleared, she sighed in a climax of energy. It lifted her, lifted her soul up, but not enough to separate from the body. Slow, slow, her spirit sank back down into her, her magic opened as petals of a flower, exposed to all.

  ‘My first,’ Elena gasped.

  ‘Your what? What happened? Everything looks new.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s warmer.’

  ‘Do you think we’re safe? Will you let them take me?’

  Elena expected a hesitation, a thought before answering, but Alex didn’t.

  ‘No, I won’t. You are important to me. You know this,’ he said again.

  She stood up from the floor, a neat patch of silver dust left in a neat circle where the spell had missed. A kiss was simple compared to a spell; a kiss was a giddy prospect. Her lips fumbled on his stubble. She backed off, looking at him. They kissed again, wanting each other. He brushed her shoulder, raked his fingers down the small of her neck. His grasp became firmer as they explored. They were warmer than the room around them, his skin smoother than she had thought it would be. The small make–shift bunk looked inviting as desire filled her. They both sank into it, stripping themselves of garments, easing themselves under the cloth. Heckles sang along her pale skin as she cupped him fierce in an embrace. They were both wet and wrung, both needing company after long travel, both wanting an end to the tension.

  ✽✽✽

  Evening crept in. As they listened to the cries and shouts of the witches above them, Elena waited, nestled close to him. She felt the heat, the fleeting excitement that she had lost her innocence. No longer a girl in waiting. He was asleep when she crept close, tired lines sketched his face, drawing her to touch them. She traced a map across little nicks and scars from whatever black history his past had been. They both had a glow about them, synchronous in joy; both young, both with hope still left in their hearts. Little had the storm relented when Elena tried the door outside. It still poured down, her candlelight denting nothing of the night. With a push the old door clumped shut. The pantry had rot. She separated some edible cheese and bread from the ripe meat that stank out the small space. Elena considered whether she could transform the inedible edible, but she was content.

  'Hey, eat,’ she said, nudging him.

  Alex woke, his eyes fluttered open, and a coy smile rolled itself out for her. She smiled back, fighting the urge to wrench him off his pillow. He groaned and complained but ate. It is a small pleasure, she thought, to watch another enjoy something simple as eating. She felt a belonging rise in her chest, it bubbled up to her cheeks which pitched in union.

  'Well,' Elena spoke, choosing bread over the hard cheddar, 'are we waiting till morning? Or are we here forever?'

  'Waiting for what?'

  'Escape of course. What else?'

  Alex gave her a plain look. 'We can't.'

  'We can, just straight through that door–

  'No, they'll be ready, sure as day. The moment we walked through they have us.'

  'In a city as large as this? Then what about now? In the dark?'

  'If you want to take the risk, I'll be right beside you. But I suggest that we wait. The witches out there cannot keep that storm going forever. As soon as it goes, so do we, straight the nearest ship. Besides, nobody will sail in this.'

  He was right. He didn't have to quash her mood, but he raised a point. Elena pursed her lips. She sauntered back to the single window where a sliver of dawn was heaving back the night.

  'Do you suppose they'll be merciful?'

  'Who?' said Alex, dressing for the new day.

  'My parents. They would understand?'

  'Are they kind?'

  'They're... More so than Sarah Saville. But Sophia, she has a cruel streak. A bitter mood that rises up every now and then.'

  'Your father? Not the real one.'

  'He's kinder in his way.'

  'Then appeal to him. Seek your blessing from your father, and Sophia will have to follow suit.'

  She nodded resolute. She knew the course of action to take. A second opinion with his voice seemed to solidify the plan all the more so. It gave it weight she couldn't summon on thoughts alone. By a moored barge that had survived the night, a figure was pointing at her in the gloom. Its miserable form matched by another, and another, until a gang stalked towards them. Elena squealed. Her breath caught between her teeth.

  'What is it? What's wrong?' Alex surmised her expression and bent low, ready, 'how many? Are you sure they spotted you?' She nodded, frightened. Her limbs shook, her eyes grasping at anything familiar.

  'Come, we have to go.' They dressed and he led her up and along a wooden box staircase that twisted into the clockworks proper. Holes and disrepair. She sensed finality in the air as they ascended, further upwards to a creaking trapdoor. They heard a crash below as the front door shuddered on its hinges.

  'Alex, please don't let them take me.'

  Alex growled. The rest of the tower was detritus, the attic dominated by a tang of cold metal which hit the back of the tongue. He went first up a ladder to the roof, lifting her up after. The summit was spectacular, causing them to wheel around for danger in hidden in the fog. London crooned. It woke once more as the storm passed. Dock wor
kers headed to their stations, sailors and strumpets parted, bakers pitched morning wares. Fresh downpour stopped any sense of a bright day; thick rain came down as sludge. The air curdled to a bone–yellow that stole Elena’s courage. The witches came not from the sky, but from the hatch that emptied out onto roof. At first, only two came out, arrows notched ready on grim bows, scowls set under wet hoods. She could feel Lady Saville through the clocktower as queer as the sense of someone watching her from behind. The Lady herself emerged; she stamped her boots on the old flagstones, her face enraged. Alex moved forward, his pistol out, ready to defend. Elena took his arm, and lowered it.

  ‘Don’t take me back–set me free. Let the past end, it cannot pain you further,’ Elena appealed.

  ‘You cannot be free to whore yourself to whoever you please, you are my daughter. Under my care and my responsibility,’ she spat. ‘Do not go back to Turner either. He is mine to destroy, and anyone who interferers–such as this man,’ her finger stabbed at Alex.

  Elena saw the bows taut and ready, her mother’s hand ready to command. Her legs buckled as they twisted in front of the arrow’s path. There was no thought to the pain, no feeling as the arrowhead snaked into her thigh. She gasped as another hit Alex across his shoulder. He stumbled back, winded.

  ‘No! Please–’ Elena saw the world fade around Alex, his wound slick. She summoned a tumult of breath, ragged and rasping, searching for any more strings she could pull on. Her eyes glossed as her head lolled back. A bolt of light flashed from the heavens. It pierced the miasma the witches were now struggling to control. She felt it, it was so far, so distant, but she grabbed at it, scrabbled her thoughts towards it, hope filling her. Light filled around them, a corona stretching wide. Before the witches could arrest her, before her mother could bark orders, the sky split. It became a crimson kaleidoscope that broke everything in two. It pulled at cloth, sliced skin, blurred vision. It popped sharp shadows and vented violence. Elena willed it to be, it was her want: more, more, send them to Hell. It obeyed, delighted. An orb of fire cleaved witches that had arrived by flight, the sticks and rods they rode on, turned to cinders. Those with bows bent in half as they clutched their eyes in pain. Her mother tried to move towards her, she attempted to take her, arms outstretched.