Child of Fear and Fire

by G. R. Thomas

  All the hurts and pain of her life haunted every moment, following her in thought and sensation. The words that stung, the punches from Sybilla, the awful burn between her legs from the Lord’s probing fingers. She never understood why she felt shame, as though she were to blame for all these assaults, but shame and fear flooded each void that wasn’t crammed with chores. Her eyes glazed, she filtered out Lord Norlane’s complaints and stared out the kitchen window towards the hedgerow, wondering on mysteries of the Galdrewold.

  For a moment, she thought of running deep into what lay beyond the greenery, far from the horrors of Norlane Hall. Perhaps it wouldn’t be any worse. Her eyes narrowed as she focused intently upon the hedge, and the voices tapped back into her thoughts. They whispered soft nothings; all the pains were forgotten. She could smell fresh blossoms, the mineral tang of a bubbling brook, feel the gentle embrace of a spring breeze rush across her hot skin. Her hand fell away from her wrist, and she took a step towards the back door out to the garden.

  Then Annabelle screeched, and it tore Eliza away from the gentleness that was calling. She snapped back to the smells and heat of the kitchen. Annabelle’s tantrum reverberated through the walls. Eliza held her breath and could just hear her calling Mrs Embrey a fat old witch. Her teeth ground as she heard hushed words, perhaps a scolding, because this was followed by the familiar sound of feet stomping up the grand staircase and a door slamming.

  Eliza felt something cool in her hand. Her attention fell to a carving knife she hadn’t realised she had picked up. It was wet with pheasant juices. She lifted it up, watched the red-tinged fluid drip from its blade and imagined plunging it into the sisters, one by one. A new rush of heat hit her face; her heart thundered. Her vision clouded. She blinked hard, crossed herself, but her eyes remained a moment longer on the sun’s glint along the length of steel before she threw it onto the bench.

  Eliza leaned into the bench and squeezed her eyes tight. She opened them and turned away before she could be entranced by the blade again. With the distraction of a childish tantrum upstairs, the kitchen and servants’ quarters were empty. Footsteps padded hastily on the first floor. Mrs Embrey and Mr Blythe would be trying to keep a sense of civility and decorum in the dining room. This was her chance.

  Eliza dried her hands on a rag and stuck her head out the door to ensure the corridor was clear. The staircase was empty. She tip-toed quickly towards Mr Blythe’s office. She felt sure that if she was caught, this would see the end of her employment and a guaranteed bed in a ditch on the streets for her. However, the fear of the sisters’ threats was still a greater risk than sneaking in to borrow a key.

  Eliza pictured the hedgerow as her hand rested on the cold brass handle. She imagined the tranquillity of a forest, held her breath and pressed her ear to the door. She was almost sure that Mr Blythe was in the dining room but not entirely certain for the commotion had settled, and there was quiet once more. Only the tick-tock of the grandfather clock cut through a pressing silence.

  Do it! The whisper made her flinch; her hand jerked back from the handle as though it had burned her. She turned it over, wriggled her fingers. A welt ran from the pricked finger to her wrist. She grabbed it with her other to quell the return of the fire under her skin. Take the key, the breathy voice was right behind her; she felt its heat in her ear. Eliza spun around. She was alone in the corridor.

  Come to us, the melodic lull nestled snuggly within her mind. Her hands rolled over and over, she peered back and forth up the corridor, hoping for a rational explanation. Alone, unbalanced by a tremor, she backed up against the opposite wall, convinced she was entirely mad. Hands pressed against the wall for support, she closed her eyes, tried to quell her rapid breaths. The words blended into nothingness, a soft tune that calmed as it sang. These imaginings were frightening yet somehow comforting. They drew out that new and strange feeling of not being so alone in the world. Eliza peered heavenwards. Perhaps she might have a guardian angel. At that thought, a warmth spread from within her chest. It dampened fear and let her hand fall away just as her thumb reached across to search for her scars.

  Eliza moved back to the door and grasped the handle again, her fingers still quivered, but it was a new feeling altogether that made them tremble. The sensation tugged a smile from her. She turned the handle to the right before she could change her mind.

  Like many rooms in Norlane Hall, the tick of a clock beat rhythmically in Mr Blythe’s office, the heartbeat of the house. Eliza scanned the room quickly, hunched over and tip-toed as though this might lessen her chances of discovery.

  A perfectly tidy desk dominated the small room. Grandly placed upon it were an ink well and white-plumed quill. A large leatherbound ledger sat proudly on it. A chair occupied either side of the desk with a wooden coat stand laden with heavy cloaks tucked against the wall. A walking cane leaned next to it.

  She moved quickly, pulling at the locked drawers of the desk, sunk her hands into the deep pockets of the cloaks. Anxiety dampened her shirt collar as the tick of the clock made her all too aware of time passing. The delicate tartlets banged against her leg in her apron pocket as she hurried. She imagined the beating she would get if she turned up without the key and crumbled tartlets.

  Eliza froze momentarily as voices echoed up the corridor. Her mouth dried as she smothered it, yet the air rushing from her nose seemed as loud as a locomotive. The clock struck a quarter to the hour; she shuddered with each lost minute. Footsteps thudded on the stairs. Up or down, she couldn’t be sure. She looked under the desk for a place to hide. Panic pounded in her temples. The footsteps clicked closer; she heard Mr Blythe’s voice just outside the door. She couldn’t fit under the desk without scrunching into a tight ball, and that would surely destroy the tartlets.

  Breaths came too fast, her vision clouded. Her whole body shook. She looked to the window as a means of escape, but it would surely creak when opened. She dashed to it anyway and tugged at the latches. Her sweaty palms slipped at first. She ran them down her dress, took hold again, and the window slid up; a relieved sigh rushed from her chest. As Eliza scrunched up her skirts, about to cock a leg over the ledge, a gush of wind blew through the opening. The gas lamps on the far wall flickered. The breeze rattled the coat stand, causing the walking cane to topple to the ground with a dull thud. Eliza nearly fainted. She braced herself against the window ledge, one hand over her racing heart, one across her mouth. The door remained closed, the voices outside continued. The pitch increased in argument.

  Another gust of wind nearly blew her slight frame over, and this time caused the coat rack to wobble precariously. It rocked side to side, heavy with its garments. Eliza gasped and rushed to steady it; the floor creaked even louder underfoot. She wondered where her guardian angel voice was as she steadied the coat stand. The fabrics smelled musty and cigar-laden, like an old man.

  Eliza picked up a cloak that had fallen, and as she hung it back up, she noticed there were a number of wall hooks hidden behind the coat rack. A neatly labelled collection of keys of various sizes and shapes. There, in the middle, under a brass plate engraved with the word hedge, was a large key with a rounded handle. In her mind, she thanked the absent voice whom she had doubted too quickly. She reached for the key, unbelieving of her luck, but the door handle squeaked. Mr Blythe’s displeased voice curled through the crack of the door. Someone was definitely in trouble, and shortly it would be her as well.

  Her hand froze just beneath the key as she watched the door edge a little wider. Eliza glanced to the window again, but it seemed too far. Her eyes slid back to the door; she couldn’t breathe; she was too frozen to grasp the key. The light of the hall glanced inside when the door opened another inch; it beamed across the floor and drew her attention to a broom leaning in the corner to the left of the window. She lunged for it as the door swung fully open.

  Mr Blythe stopped mid-sentence, scolding the Lord’s Valet for some kind of misstep when he saw Eliza sweeping th
e floor.

  He cleared his throat. “What are you doing in here, girl?” His eyes fell upon the broom as Eliza swept a little more convincingly. He wandered over to the window, his bushy brows narrowed as he pulled it closed. “Hmm,” He rubbed under his nose with a fat finger. “Out with you, I’ve work to attend.”

  The sisters awaited Eliza behind a Grecian statue the Lord had gifted the Lady upon her last birthday. It had been all the household could talk about when it arrived. It was scandalously naked in all the places that made Eliza blush and the sisters giggle. Sybilla poked a stick at the part hidden behind a hastily added fig leaf. Lady Norlane had been unable to look at the statue without feeling faint, so the Lord had a local mason add modesty to it. Annabelle was trying to peer up underneath it.

  Margaret screwed her mouth into a twist as Eliza arrived. “You’re late.” She peered beyond Eliza, ensuring they were alone.

  Eliza handed Margaret the tartlets. She unwrapped the linen, and Annabelle snatched one and rammed it most un-ladylike into her mouth. Sybilla poked her arm. “You didn’t eat your luncheon; spit it out!” Annabelle chewed faster. Sybilla smacked her face. Annabelle’s cheeks tinted red; tears welled in her lashes. Her fists clenched until she could no longer hold her sobs inside. She coughed and spat pink mush onto the path.

  Margaret smiled and tucked the other tartlets into the pocket of her finely embroidered apron. “Time is of the essence,” Margaret waved everyone to follow her along the path. Eliza walked obediently behind them; hands clenched in front of her. The sun warmed her back until the clouds obscured it. Afternoon light dulled, a gentle breeze carried the smell of fresh bread from the open kitchen windows, and it gave small comfort to Eliza until they reached the shade of the hedgerow.

  Margaret’s hand shot out as they stood before its greyed gate. “The key?” Impatience wriggled her long, perfectly clean fingers.

  Sweat drizzled down Eliza’s back. She stared at the place that enticed her from her room the previous evening. She rolled her thumb over the prick on her finger. The hedgerow looked no more welcoming in daylight.

  Eliza swallowed hard, eyes sweeping from one sister to another. Annabelle was still wiping tears and jam from her face as the breeze rustled the leaves of the hedgerow, demanding her attention. Eliza felt small, like she might fold up and disappear under the immensity of it. Then there were the sisters staring at her, arms crossed. Disappearing would be ideal. She had no key to offer. She was going to get a beating today.

  Eliza’s mind raced with explanations for her failure, rushed with ideas of how to evade the sisters’ wrath. The hedgerow’s shadow expanded like a hand reaching down to grasp her, just like the shadows in her room. She took a step back. Something tapped against her thigh, but she ignored the sensation as the shadow seemed to follow her. Fear seized her throat and she stepped back again. The Galdrewold was only feet away. Its mysteries known and unknown, ready to swallow her up. She would be more invisible than ever beyond the hedgerow, more invisible than a servant could ever be. Being a no one allowed the sisters to have their way with her. In this life, Eliza was nothing, a fear-ridden blight that bent to the will of mal-intent out of pure and unbridled fear. Through her panic, a singular voice sang softly once more in her ears, and she reached out for it with her heart as Margaret snarled at her.

  “Give me the key, Eliza, or Sybilla will wrench it from your filthy hand!” Margaret lunged. Eliza shied away from her snatching fingers. She felt a tap again against her leg. Eliza slid her hand into her apron pocket; it jerked back immediately. Confusion made her dizzy again. She leaned forward, resting a hand on one hip to get blood back into her head. The gravel path faded in and out; its little cream stones looked close and then far. Deep breaths cleared the haze. Sybilla’s grinding voice made her fingers bite into her thighs. Her teeth ground until they squeaked.

  “Last chance,” Sybilla demanded. She stamped her foot just beyond Eliza’s field of vision. The crunch was similar to Mrs Embrey flaying a chicken to roast. Eliza imagined doing it to Sybilla. The enticing voice behind her ear became more excitable, blotting out Sybilla’s voice, applauding Eliza’s frightful thoughts. The words were a murmur she wanted to hear more of. The soft lull paid heed to her loneliness when no one else did.

  “I shall not ask you again,” Margaret pushed Eliza’s shoulder, forcing her to stumble back. Margaret’s mouth was moving, but Eliza did not hear her as she focused on the friend in her mind. She listened to the gentle cadence urging her to explore what was in her pocket. Her fingers worked quickly over the cool object. A strange wave of warmth rushed through her; fear drowned in the embrace of it. The voices’ excitement grew as her fingers slid around the smooth metal and grasped it tight. The hedgerow’s shadow lengthened to catch her for every step she took backwards. The sun breached the clouds overhead, yet the hedgerow’s fingers of darkness kept its warmth from her.

  The voice cooed at her to move forwards, to embrace the shadows, to hand the key over. Eliza bit her lips, blinked the confusion from her mind. As nothing made any sense, she defaulted to pondering if this was just another dream or moment of mania. Yet, she felt everything more keenly than ever. The heat beneath her skin, the smell of roses and rot blended together, the creak of the hedgerow and the cool clutch of its shadow around her.

  Its leaves wafted gently behind the impatient glares of the sisters. They seemed to blur as they moved. The day was clear, the breeze soft, yet the leaves lapped briskly against each other. Eliza bit her bottom lip harder; she tasted blood. She had to be awake.

  A tiny pale flower, identical to the previous night, burst open just to the right of the gate. Its blossom purest white, its centre blood red. Eliza stared at it, realising that perhaps last night was more real than she cared to admit. The bloom moved; it turned slowly, its petals closing into a point until it was left facing towards the lock of the old gate. The whispers increased in intensity.

  “What is she doing?” Sybilla grumbled as Eliza moved past them and reached for the strange bloom. As her finger touched it, the petals greyed and wilted to dust.

  Caught in the intoxicating moment, Eliza did not notice Sybilla move. She yanked Eliza’s hair, jerking her back to reality, silencing the murmur that had dulled the slither of the fear in her veins. Eliza wobbled backwards but managed to avoid falling. She blinked hard to contain a rush of tears, kept tremoring hands busy as she thrust them back into her pockets, her right hand tight around the key. Sybilla lunged again and pulled Eliza’s arms until they were forced out of the pockets. She wrenched the key out of her fingers and shoved Eliza to the ground.

  “She was hiding it!” Sybilla snapped, waving the key in Eliza’s face.

  Eliza pulled her knees up, her hands shielded her head, awaiting another strike. All she felt was the pound of her own pulse. The sisters began fighting over the key. Eliza pulled her cap back on, pressed her lips tight to suppress the quiver of her chin. She rose to her feet, lifted by the voice. Her chest felt heavy; she clenched her hands into balls. Her cheeks prickled with heat; her skin felt too tight, as though she might burst inside out.

  Margaret snatched the key from Sybilla, “Give it here,” she held it up too high for the others to reach and turned for the gate. She stopped and peered over her shoulder towards Eliza. Margaret shook her head and held a hand over her heart. “Oh my, how remiss of me. I did forget that cap I promised you, didn’t I?” She made a sad face. “So sorry, I just couldn’t find one that would at all suit such a… a… an ordinary head. You seem to have found a little something more to your position that suits you quite well anyway.” She laughed. “Looks like your reward for your services will be the honour of being in our presence,” she sneered and turned back towards the hedgerow.

  Whilst the sisters jostled excitedly at the old gate, Eliza’s nails raked at her wrists. She stared at them and thought of the kitchen knife. She shook her head, frightened by the thoughts. The voice elevated, scolded her for suppre
ssing her desires. Eliza’s legs became restless; she wanted to run and scream, to beat the life out of the sisters. The voice cheered; its encouraging vibrations joined by an orchestral choir of others. So much noise, Eliza pressed her hands against her ears, but the companions of her mind remained.

  Fear rose again for a very different reason. These thoughts of hurting people and wishing them ill, they terrified and excited her. Perhaps her guardian was the Devil. Her heart thumped hard. Eliza hugged her belly, squeezed her eyes shut and pushed her thoughts elsewhere. Away from the sisters, afar from the steaming laundry and sweet smells of Mrs Embrey’s kitchen. Beyond the stinking chamber pots and endless floor scrubbing. She smudged memories of Lord Norlane’s reflection leering at her as she polished the silverware, of the squeak of her door at night, of the pressure of him upon her. She gulped and squeezed her eyes tighter, then took a step forwards, just as the loudest of the voices told her to. Eliza’s eyes snapped open to the sound of the sisters still screeching at each other.

  “You do it then!” Sybilla muttered through her teeth. She kicked at the still-locked gate, it rattled on ancient hinges. Sybilla elbowed Margaret in her ribcage. Margaret slapped Sybilla’s face and snatched the key back. “Move!” Margaret grunted. Sybilla backed away, her eyes thin, her mouth an angry pucker. All the while, Annabelle twirled a ribbon back and forth through her fingers as she plaited it around a doll’s neck, delight in her eyes now she’d recovered from the tartlet incident.

  Margaret slid the key into the rusted lock, glanced at Sybilla, huffed at her with a smug expression, and twisted to the right. The key did not move. Sybilla laughed.

  Margaret glared at Sybilla. “Shut up, you silly cow!” Margaret shook her head and took a calming breath. “It can’t be that difficult,” She jiggled the key and turned again. It merely squeaked in the immovable lock. Margaret peered over at them all, her back stiffened, and she cleared her throat. Another twist. The gate rattled, the leaves rustled, the key remained immobile. Margaret hit the gate with her free hand, pulled the key out, covered it in her palms and discreetly spat on it. She reinserted it, this time jostling the lock more forcefully. Her arm shook as the key refused to budge.