by H C Turk
Downstairs I found a large chamber full of books on shelves, another full of chairs and divans and other types of furniture, and that largest area filled with nothing, a mediocre space inferior to that beneath my bed. A significance shared by all of these lower chambers was a mortared hole with ashes. Beside each was a pile of felled trees. Not even I was ignorant enough to consider these holes sites for the burning of any witch coincidentally discovered downstairs. I knew them to be fireplaces, and hated upcoming cool weather in advance. How different from our cabin fireplace, which had less of a smoke residue than my nose. Praise God no such hell hole existed in my chamber.
Toward the rear of the house were rooms of no elaborate accommodations. I did not examine these inner homes of Rathel’s slaves. One of the local populace soon found me exploring and wondered of my travels. I mentioned to Elsie my discovery of the roof. To this she replied that brazen I must become to gain the house’s opposite end, for this bottom was the basement, achieved only by passing through the kitchen.
“No other entry is available?” I asked her. “Certainly, a kind woman such as yourself would not see me tormented by entering a bloody area proven to sicken me.”
“And, no, girl, I’m not having you ill on my account, but neither am I being duped by your flattering talk. So I’m telling you now of the other entry, but it’s outside, a door for receiving firewood. But locked it is to keep prowlers out, and can be opened only from within. If I’ve nothing better to do, lass, I might be opening the thing for you. But, then, perhaps I’m a better person to be teaching you bravery, for you’ll not get far in the City if unable to face cooking.”
At once I affected not courage, but timidity.
“Miss Elsie, I believe I do have potential for entering the kitchen in order to gain the basement. I kindly seek your assistance, however, for even if I summon the courage to approach that frightening area, ignorance will preclude my opening the basement door. I am pleased to thank you beforehand for describing how to conquer these mechanisms.”
The sinner went static as she examined my face, reasonably disbelieving that a girl of such fluency could not open a door.
“Very well, lass,” she sighed. “And I’m telling you now that a key is needed, which you won’t be gaining on your own. So I’m opening the door meself, then through the kitchen you run and down the stairs carefully so you’re not stumbling to die with a broken head against the firewood.”
Elsie had me follow her into that rear corridor between garden and kitchen. As she opened the latter’s door, a wave of hideous fumes came to me, which inspired a rethinking. Surely, the basement could not be worth my suffering that fog of destroyed animals. Why did I need the basement considering that I had conquered the roof and garden? I thus decided to be off and under my bed before Elsie returned. But as I turned to flee, there she stood at the kitchen entrance, holding the door open to release a smell of burnt blood and death, holding the door open for me to enter.
“Come, girl, and you’re stepping quickly to get this passage done,” she said, and waved me toward her. “The courage you’re gaining here is worth a bit of upset innards.” And she looked toward me with such a concerned expression that she nearly seemed a witch.
I ran past Elsie, hearing her loud instructions: Move to the far wall, turn right, through that open doorway and down—and mind the stairs. So I ran, past Theodosia fiddling with death in a kettle steaming gore, past an open fire enough to burn me paces away. In an endless moment, I ran while smelling steaming pots and a coating of dead fat throughout the room. Metal was everywhere: huge masses in the ovens and unknown devices for hot destruction. To the doorway and down, feet skipping quickly upon the stairs, into a darkened room that was cool and quiet and lacking any sense of death, with a smell of lichens and rodents and insects. Then Elsie was behind me, moving down the stairs with an assured but heavy gait, viewing each tread as she spoke.
“Aye, and I’m hoping you find this no fond place, in that it’s too musty for any longish stay.” She stopped nearby, looking only at the odd youth, not the familiar basement. “And when you’re through with your exploring, lass, be up the stairs and rap on the door. There I’ll be, at some chores in the kitchen, but not many I have and not for long; so be making no encampment here as you do beneath your bed. A later day will have me showing you the ways of locks and latches, but for a spell, I think it best we keep you inside if we’re able.”
The woman then departed, and I proceeded with my examination, which began with relief. Another sinning horror survived. Since Elsie closed the kitchen door behind, I received minimum smell from that death chamber, and virtually no sound of sinners’ voices, clattering metal, or hissing steam escaping slaughtered creatures’ pieces. In this basement, I was alone, the only sounds my feet stepping on the soil floor and rodents retreating from my intrusion. Here the only light came from small windows near ground level. And here I found a third type of space, unlike that of my bed’s bottom or the rooftop, for those realms were of the sinners’ world, and the basement seemed more of God’s. The basement seemed a cave, and though no especial appreciation had I for these holes—preferring the dry expanse of the open world’s air—this cavern was superior to corridors, even as my bed’s bottom was a secure place in this land of dangerous sinning.
Superior, but not perfect, for my exploring revealed more of Rathel’s furniture stored beneath thick fabric, paintings hidden in the same manner, but little metal beyond rake heads and hinges. Mostly present were soil and the mildew Elsie found unpleasant. I also found wood: not planks, but limbs and trunk portions recognizable as parts of trees instead of flooring. The heap of rough coal pieces I discovered gave no satisfaction, in that their source was obvious: burnt wood whose ashes were compressed into lumps. Not likely would I again find the smell of hot charcoal fascinating as I had in Jonsway. Neither was I overjoyed to examine large, ceramic jugs whose fermented, fruity liquid I smelled leaking as vapors through one imperfect seal. Equally fruity though not so liquid was a sludge contained in smaller jars, the sweet smell of mulberries failing to entice me. A superior find were boxes filled with straw, a material with a bracing, subtle scent and a satisfying texture. When I entered deeper with my hands as though to have more of my person in the wilds again, I discovered the purpose of these boxes. They were not made to contain straw—the straw was inserted to preserve apples!
What a gift from God was this food! Not that I was starving, for I had consumed enough of the household’s raw vegetables for sustenance; but this sweet find was so appropriate for the area that I rejoiced in God’s love, which again He manifested in so simple yet profound a manner. Quickly I consumed an apple, which offered an especially vivid taste because of my disposition. I then placed the core behind a box, believing that possibly these fruits were a resource that Rathel had hidden for some sinning reason, and I would be burned for having consumed one. With a final inhalation of this cavern’s air, I ascended the steps, fearing that if I tarried longer, Elsie might quit the kitchen and I would have that hated chamber and two impossible doors to face alone; and how long could I live on a bushel of apples? But survive the kitchen I did, again with the aid of Elsie. Through that tunnel of dead steam I ran with her guidance, into a house that yet held me, though no longer was I lost therein.
Chapter 6
So Succinct, So Certain
Wise was Lady Amanda to settle the witch in this new world not by force nor conniving, but by allowing me to apply my own sense of survival. No fleeing in desperation would I attempt while fearful of my surrounds, aware that bridges lay ahead. Rathel employed equal intelligence by promoting our mutual accommodation through intermediary servants—particularly Miss Elsie, who well accepted the new lass’s challenge. Though satisfied to find me eating adequately, Elsie remained displeased to learn that meat and cooking would never pass within me, only fruit and vegetables in their natural state. And, yes, those basement apples were provided me without request, but none of the c
ider, thank you, no preserves after the first too sweet, too sticky bite. I also found liquefied tea acceptable upon understanding it to be flavored, not filthy, water. Coffee, however, touched my lips only to be spat away, for this was the blood of burnt beans—but what a joy were onions! How appealing their shapes and hues: round and yellowish, long and green, small and white and globular. What fine eating never found in the wilds Elsie provided me with onions, somewhat to her dismay, since my breath became noxious to her after a meal of these tubers. And my eating was alone, at the huge, formal table where Rathel also ate with no company, she because I was her only peer in the household, and I would puke to be so near that molested flesh she consumed. And why this succession of parts to her meal? Why these separate courses: soup here, then bones, then breaded sugar? Why the elaborate compositions of utensils? Clear, cut glasses, ceramic plates and cups, hateful metal dinnerware for stabbing and cutting. These latter I would not touch, though I did relent to Elsie’s demand that I accept my greens on a plate. Her assertion that only the lowliest of baseborn folk ate with their fingers caused me to dissent. No better way to eat apples, I declared; but Elsie insisted that I at least use wooden utensils to eat peas, and I consented.
The servants partook of their meals in the kitchen as was their proper place, and better than eating on the roadway, Elsie professed. My place was more properly on the road than in this house, on the road and out of London, and this I would achieve; for my life’s goal was to escape Rathel and regain the wilds. But I had no ability to exit, no knowledge of any wilderness beyond. On the roof, regardless of the wind’s direction, I smelled only local greens and gardens. No expanse of natural land could I discern, the location of Man’s Isle a mystery. I only knew that more familiarity with London was required for my escape. And never did I forget Rathel’s design for my life. Though not spoken since Jonsway, her intents with me had not changed, I knew, for even her breath had the scent of vengeance. No such smell had she when speaking to the servants. Only with me had Rathel an odor of hatred to be fulfilled, and a type of joy from facing the source of that fulfillment. Neither was the nature of her plans forgotten: that I would kill for her as a witch, thus with sex or magic.
I could not explain to Rathel the foolish impossibility of her notions, for witches cause consternation with their sex, not death, knives and clubs more effective means of killing than any magic known to me. Deluded in her expertise, Rathel would not readily be convinced by one considered fit only for servitude, albeit murderous servitude. But this convincing would further my life’s goal, for if Rathel considered me useless for her purposes, what point in retaining me? But how would I confirm my inadequacy? If my only method of leaving London was to kill some man for Rathel, then long in this city would I remain.
• • •
“And I’m finding a smell of wetting in your room, lass?” Elsie demanded. “You’re having trouble, then, in hitting your chamber pot?”
“Your pardon I most humbly beg, Miss Elsie, in that you well know I take satisfaction in cleaning my own quarters and keeping the area perfect.”
“Aye, that I know, lass, but perfect for you is too much lavender petals and sprinkled tea. At least you’re finally learning to sweep up the stuff thereafter. Perfect for you is collecting dust beneath your bed, for this dirt you find cozy when you’re residing there, and that’s too often for a lady, which by the grace of God one day you’ll be. But I’m saying we must have limits, child. If there’s too much dust, another spider, or more pee on the floor, then I’ll be the one upkeeping your chamber, and I’m doing it with mop and the strongest soap I find, and that’s a smell you’ll not be fond of.”
Miss Elsie then departed, having well asserted her authority over the new lass, who found some amusement in the servant’s gruff force, a power that was neither harmful nor unkind.
• • •
Burying the household feces was one chore not allowed me. City commoners defecated on public dunghills, some of these so modern as to provide a fence for concealing users. Folk so extravagant as to own chamber pots would empty them upon these same hills each morning for city-employed persons to cover with soil. If the commoners be especially lowly as sinners, they would simply dump their pots onto the streets. The only commoners in our (our?) ward were servants, we rich folk a hygienic lot.
Sweeping was a task I enjoyed, for it brought me in touch with the natural element of dirt and allowed me to sprinkle too much tea on the carpet to provide the floor with a clean and natural scent. Strange were the sinners to be human yet share little more than dung and tea with witches.
Theodosia and Delilah shared nothing with me, not only because I rejected their cooking, but because I made to usurp their employ, offering to launder attire and peel fruit—though not within the kitchen. But as the rarely speaking Theodosia remarked, if I did all the servants’ chores, would the mistress allow them to sleep in my bedchamber? Not blinking likely.
Rathel had no such duties. Being the inheritor of her husband’s estate, the lady was a business person with fiscal responsibilities, with landholdings and taxes, solicitors and agents, the average day finding her out and about London to oversee rentals and sales. These business sinners would also visit her townhouse, though only men, for rare was the lady in London who controlled her own wealth. And rare was I when these men arrived, for Rathel required that I remain unseen when males were present. Here the witch had no argument.
Elsie was disappointed with these guests because they did not include women from social clubs. Being a fine lady of English society, the mistress should be passing time aiding poor children or bedridden peers. Yet, she can’t be doing everything, can she? Praise God at least, I told Miss Elsie, that Rathel is not out stealing other children from their homes as taught her by the Meacham fool.
Then I scowled and stomped away from poor memories attacking, Elsie possessing sense enough not to inquire of my distress. Unfortunately, she caused herself no better feeling by later returning to that subject of social clubs; for most women of London—regardless of wealth or poverty—found satisfaction in craftwork, Elsie with modest pride displaying her crocheting. True appreciation I found in her peaceful efforts, but not enough to preclude Elsie’s disappointment upon learning I had no desire to be crafting doilies of my own, though into the garden with her and to digging I would well appreciate. Elsie became disappointed because needlework was the nearest she came to being a lady, and a lady she would have me be, not a gardener.
• • •
“Oh, Elsie—this is nearly the real world!” I exclaimed in the garden, sensing God’s greenery, His sky, feeling His breeze.
“Ah, and you’re not telling me again, are you, lass, of your terrible state for having to live in a beautiful home?”
“That house is but a brick cave, Elsie, an enclosure to separate sinners from genuine living. But this grass and soil and sky—this is the true world.”
“This is a garden, child, a fine garden and one I’m loving, but part of the world, not all of it.”
“If you love it so, why all the assaulting?” I asked of Elsie, who was uprooting a flowering epiphany only to bury it elsewhere. “The plant is secure in the earth here and living fulfilled. Why, then, move the thing so traumatically? Is this a game you play wherein you imitate the mistress? Is this epiphany to your shovel a child witch stolen from her true home only to be taken to a false manse?”
With the term “witch,” Elsie reacted with a discomfort smelled by one. Her words, however, were only of flowers.
“Too many of the deep blue we’re having in this one spot, lass, and the mistress is desiring a bit of a darker color behind the black elm. This arranging by one with a good eye is how we’re making a garden beautiful.”
“But in God’s eyes, would not the garden be more beautiful if left to His natural—”
“And it’s a lot of godly learning you’re oft giving me, girl, for one so shy of reading the Bible,” Elsie replied as she looked up
from her dirty knees.
“In God’s true world,” I responded haughtily, “one learns of God and His ways from being part of them, learns from one’s mother directly with the land, not from any mistress, a type of personage no less artificial than her kitchen.”
Elsie then gained such conversational gravity that she set aside her tiny spade. As I innocently fingered a beech grass’s tassel, she demanded, “Why is it, then, you’re not condemning Miss Theodosia for plucking up weeds? Is this not a type of murder to one so wild?”
“Not to one who eats turnips without remorse,” I answered. “Besides, Miss Theodosia is not so…compelling…in her speech as you are.”
“And thank you well, child, for saying how argumentative I am,” she scowled, and returned to her digging. “Be plucking a rose, then, and insert it above your ear if you’re so displeased with my transplanting. At least your hair will then be smelling decent, in that you’ve not brushed the dust away from your last bout of rooting beneath the bed.”
“Very well, miss, if I am so offensive in my preference for God and nature, I shall move along and cause you no further misery. Perhaps I might examine the eastern gate to see where it leads.”
Leave I did, along the hedges and across the gravel path, but well away from both Miss Theodosia and the bridge. Toward the garden’s eastern end were trees so tall and a stone fence so high that none of London could be seen, this area seemingly a wild place despite the sound of carriages beyond, despite the smells of countless sinners and their odorous city. But the garden’s wildness only pleased me in comparison, for true nature is not bounded by sinning emanations. Wilderness is a place proven by its natural inhabitants. London, in comparison, seemed a moderated hell.
As though my comment had been a threat, I continued to the gate, but this mass of lumber seemed a door not for a house but a fortress, an impediment as imposing as it was bulky. This huge door was not so temporary a hole as to be traversed by me. Besides, beyond was London, a wall as thick as a city to separate me from the true world, a barrier whose latches and lockwork I found incomprehensible. If my window required a great effort to conquer, and the exterior doors remained unfathomable, how long before I would decipher the city? But I was not lost in my journey from London, for I had scarcely begun. Time I had to learn much and wait longer, being a witch, for they live not a life, but an era.