Child of Fear and Fire

by G. R. Thomas

  The hearth blew out. Eliza jumped up and ran for the door. She jiggled the lock, her fingers shook, they slipped, and the key fell from the lock. It spun across the room to settle under her bed. The thing was there now; two black orbs shone from behind her bed as though it had melded into the wall. Wet footprints glistened on the floorboards just under the window, which she only now noticed was cracked open a few inches. She wondered again, like the other night, if she should flee through it. As though it existed in her thoughts, the shadow oozed over the bed head, its hand elongated under the cindered remnants of the crucifix and down to the side table where her ragged bible sat.

  The bed creaked; its mattress sunk under an invisible weight. Teetering on the edge of the table, Eliza’s tattered bible shifted ever so slightly as shadow fingers reached out and toppled it over. It thudded softly to the floor, and the shadow oozed down the length of the table, curled around the bible and spun it around a dozen times before it flung across the room, coming to a stop against Eliza’s feet. Her toes curled back from its pages, and she pressed her body against the locked door. Frozen, she watched the book vibrate, the cover flicked open, thin, yellowed pages rustled like a thousand butterflies. They flicked back and forth until the bible lay still; just the corners of the open pages fluttered as though inviting her in. She pressed harder against the door, took a step to the left and jiggled the handle knowing full well it was still locked. A rush of heat fanned Eliza, the bible slid left, stopping again at her feet.

  She stared at the book; her fingers peeled away from the door. Pick it up. The voice was distinct. She balled her fists. The fire relit itself, and the bible quivered. She pulled her hands back to her chest. Dancing with the Devil was what this must be, not the guardian angel she had been hoping for. Surely an angel would not scare her so? But God was no longer in her heart, and that left a space for only devils, not angels.

  The book nudged forward again, its weight making a soft shhh sound. Eliza pursed her lips to control her exhalations which were too rapid; her lips and fingers tingled. She unwillingly lowered herself, fingers splayed wide as though reaching for poison. The air was heavy, pressing her closer to the book.

  There was a moist crunch, like the sound of Mrs Embrey wringing a chicken’s neck. Eliza hesitated as her fingers neared the pages. Something fell from overhead. A splash of liquid hit the delicate pages. The hearth crackled louder and brighter than ever. The urge to obey whatever force surrounded her was victorious as Eliza dipped the tip of her finger into the liquid. She smoothed it between finger and thumb. It was slippery and thick and the colour of the secret bottle of Port that Lady Norlane hid in the base of her armoire. She brought it to her nose, it smelled metallic and thickened quickly upon her skin. It was blood.

  Eliza was mesmerised by the crimson stain on her fingertips. It tingled, warmed down through her palm and burned along the length of her arm, finishing with a punch in her chest. She slipped to the floor, fell against the door with a thud, gasping. The rhythmic pulse in her ears receded to something new, an abrasive slithering that scraped overhead. She covered her face, the blood smearing under her right eye. She shook her head but knew she had to look up; she just had to.

  The ceiling had splintered into a thousand cracks, small crevices pushed open by the creep of a vine. Green leaves, glossy in the moonlight, spilled from within it. It covered the ceiling in moments, creaking and snapping as it grew over her bed and down along the floor. It curled past her and disappeared into the shadows of the farthest corner. Eliza watched in horrified awe until the vine ceased its movement.

  Eliza sat in silence. Apart from the roaring hearth, all was quiet, all was still. Another spot of blood dripped onto her leg. When she looked up again, it was only then that she saw the single white flower dripping blood from its centre. She blinked as another drop dribbled onto her brow, over her eye, and down her cheek. She touched it, and now both her hands were smeared with the strange floral blood.

  Through the gap of her fingers, she noticed the bible once more, with the dried spot of blood on its page. She reached for the book. Despite overwhelming fear, she was driven by a fantastical thrill, a strange feeling of danger that she was willing to court. Eliza rose up and made her way to her bed where she sat, the bible in her hands, her mind aflutter. Her fingers ran the edges of the book, trailed the neat script, and stopped upon the spot that was stained red. She scanned the words next to it.

  1 Samuel 22:23

  “Stay with me; don’t be afraid. The man who wants to kill you is trying to kill me too. You will be safe with me.” Eliza’s fingers tapped under the words. Stay with me; don’t be afraid. She repeated these words in her mind. She wanted to speak out loud, but it had been so long since she allowed herself to speak so as to be heard. She did not know how to begin to pass words through her lips, so she thought her question. Are you here to help me?

  A warmth wrapped around her, and the fire whooshed. An image of the yew tree flashed into her mind. It was surrounded by those strange white flowers blooming in clusters around the great tree trunk. Women in peasant attire kneeled at its base, picking them, placing some in a basket and some in each other’s hair. They laughed. They seemed happy. A young ebony-haired woman turned, looked directly at Eliza as though she was in this vision. She handed Eliza a flower. The vision ended abruptly as the sound of a key scraped into the lock of her door. Eliza dropped the bible and scuttled to the head of her bed.

  “Ah, waiting up for me, I see?” Lord Norlane drawled as he stepped in, candle in hand. He did not notice the vine, his eyes only on her and the bed. Eliza felt like she was about to vomit.

  Help me! she screamed in her mind, but no voice answered her, no one sang or wooed her. Her body was sore from the fall. She did not want this vile man on top of her again, adding to the pain. She pulled up her covers, pleaded to the shadows but nothing was there, just her and the vulgar smell of sweat and desperation.

  The Lord placed his candle by her bedside and his fingers to his lips.

  “Now, now, just a little something for the one who gives you a place to call home.”

  He pushed her onto the mattress. She gagged on his brandy breath and stiffened her body to inhibit the drunken fumbling of his fingers. He was too big, too strong, so she stared at the ceiling and wished him to be done quickly.

  The vine began to move again, creeping out of cracks that were not there when she went to bed. Its branches writhed like snakes, slithering in and out of each other. The Lord did not notice a thing as he grunted and farted on top of her. She retched in disgust.

  The shadow reappeared and twisted throughout the leaves. Eliza focused on the fantastical sight, wished for it to save her from the beast. The shadow stretched long and thin until an arm shape formed and pulled at a length of vine amongst the tangle. It guided this branch free. Its thorns scraped across the ceiling.

  A tear slid from Eliza’s left eye, stinging the fresh scrapes on her skin. The shadow reached down to her. An elongated finger of blackness absorbed the sadness from her skin. Its touch was painless whilst the Lord thumped roughly against her leg, too inebriated to know the difference. The rigidity of Eliza’s limbs relented as the shadow retreated. A calmness descended upon her as though she had left her body, and she watched with morbid delight as the shadow arm coiled the branch back like a whip.

  In that moment, her guardian was not God or an angel; it was not the Devil either. It was an ancient darkness, fulminant with the power to heal and destroy. It was the voices in her head, the taste of the wind, the call in the night. It was the only thing protecting her. Eliza embraced it as a starving man would grasp a morsel of bread.

  The shadow flicked the branch. It silently snapped forwards and whipped across Lord Norlane. He yelped, went rigid and rolled from her onto the floor with a thud. Eliza sat up, quickly pulling her nightdress down to find the Lord cowering on the floor, holding his shoulder, the linen of it bloomed red. His bulging eyes met hers
as he scrambled to his feet. He stumbled towards the light in the hallway, tripped on a length of vine and fell against the wall. He moaned incoherently, grasped for the handle and rattled the door to escape. He turned a moment and stared at Eliza, confusion or fear, she was not sure. His face was swollen and bilious, he looked like a pig about to explode. Eliza giggled behind her hands. Lord Norlane glared at her and pointed. “You… you, you’re a….” He belched the smell of stale alcohol before he could finish his slurred accusation. He pressed his limp blood-soaked arm up against his chest as he fumbled with the doorknob again. It clicked, he glanced back at Eliza, then stumbled out, the door left open.

  Eliza sat in silence for a moment, huddled into her knees. She peered up to the roof, but the vine was no longer there, the cracks repaired, her shadow saviour gone. She reached for the candle Lord Norlane left behind and clicked her door fully closed, her ear against it, listening to him thump away down the corridor.

  She made her way to the washstand, somehow lighter on her feet. Eliza leaned into the wood and grit her teeth before pouring a little water into the bowl. She dipped a cloth into it and wiped away all traces of him. Her thumb twitched to dig into her skin. Her fingertips clutched harder into the washstand. She lifted her head and looked at the mirror.

  The wound from Lady Norlane had bruised; her eyes were heavy and dark underneath. Her lips dry and cracked, the skin dark and hard, yet she smiled at herself. Warmth blossomed within her; she relaxed and stared into the reflection as she noticed she was not alone at all. The shadow remained, a blurred essence, silently watching on from the far wall.

  She nodded in thanks to it, and as though waiting for her invitation, it slid around the walls towards her. A human-shaped visage rose slowly behind her, blurred at its edges, featureless, apart from eyes as black as ink that glistened down at her. The smell of moss and rot was strong. Eliza reached out; her fingertips touched its reflection. The darkness embraced her, sunk beneath her skin and melded with the shell that she was. It gave her a comfort that no light had ever done. She felt it writhe around inside until it slipped around her heart and took control of each frantic beat. The shadow guardian soothed her pain and eased the chaos in her mind. It obliterated fear.

  The warmth of dawn sunlight awoke Eliza. A comforting sweetness turned her head to find a breakfast tray on her side table with tea and toast. Mrs Embrey, she thought with love. She hungrily eyed a pot of plum preserve. For a moment, she had forgotten the happenings of the night, and when it did enter her thoughts, she passed it off as another dream, yet the memory and comfort of the shadow were strong, and a delicious warmth spread from her belly up through her chest like a hug.

  Eliza flung the covers away. Her nightgown was unruffled, her intimate areas free of pain. Eliza drew in a relieved breath, pushed herself up and made her way to the window. Dust motes scattered as she reached through the sun’s kiss and rested her hand on the warm glass. A cerulean sky capped the hedgerow. The morning glow seemed to lessen its mystery.

  Hunger called, and she reached for the breakfast tray. The tea was hot, the toast thickly buttered, and the preserve sticky and sweet. She took her time, no urge to hurry. As she flicked toast crumbs from her lap, Eliza noticed something sticking out from under the bed. She reached to the floorboards and retrieved the shrivelled remains of a white blossom with a blood-red centre.

  Eliza dropped it as though it were a hot coal. Her eyes shot to the ceiling. It was as it should be, just a ceiling in no need of repair. The hearth had dulled to gently glowing embers, her door closed, with the key present and turned to the right. Then she saw the Lord’s candle on the floor, its silver holder upside down, and a small scorch mark on the boards. Eliza scuttled back into bed and pulled the quilt up to her chin.

  Panic tightened her chest. A lump of half-chewed toast became stuck in her throat. She pounded at her chest until she coughed it out onto the quilt.

  The sunlight no longer felt comforting. Eliza darted out of bed before the thought fully formed and snatched up the candlestick. She reached over the hearth; it was still warm but not too hot, ran her fingers along the grooves up inside the chimney and searched for a ledge of brick. It was hotter up there, and her fingers burned as she fumbled about. On the far side, though, she found what she needed, a little out-cropping of the flue. She pushed the evidence of the Lord’s visit onto it.

  Her door jiggled and swung open; Eliza nearly toppled straight into the embers.

  “What on God’s good earth are you doing, Eliza?” Mrs Embrey’s brows rose then furrowed quickly into the middle. Eliza jumped up, rolling her blackened palms over each other before quickly rinsing them in her basin.

  “Hmph! Well, if you’ve energy enough to play in the cinders, you’re certainly in fine shape to get back to work.” She waddled over to her and unwound Eliza’s bandages. Mrs Embrey stood back and tapped her lips with a stubby finger. “My word Eliza, you’ve naught anything so much as a scratch left!” She stuffed the bandages into her pocket, shook her head, mumbled something that might have been a prayer. “Wash yourself up now,” Mrs Embrey wandered to the window, her feet soft rhythmic slaps on the floor. She opened it up and began to pack up the breakfast tray. Eliza winced as she stood on the white bloom. It hurt somehow. Mrs Embrey turned about, eyes running the length of Eliza and wandered towards her washstand.

  “You can go straight…” The baby began to cry upstairs. Mrs Embrey tutted to herself and poured a little fresh water into the basin. “As I was saying, go straight to work in the washroom when you’ve made yourself more respectable. The family have taken breakfast in their rooms this morning. The…” The babe’s scream heightened. Mrs Embrey’s shoulders slumped a little, and she performed the sign of the cross. “Upon my word, the Devil has his grasp on this household. What with the Lord taken ill overnight and that poor ignored babe...” Lips pursed, she shook her head. “Hurry up now. I’ll go find Nanny or tend the poor lad myself. Stay away from the Lord and Lady’s chambers. You’re not to disturb them today. Also, you’re to leave the sisters chambers for other staff to tend to. They’re confined to their rooms as punishment for going into the forest. And…” Mrs Embrey barely suppressed the delighted glint in her eyes. “They are no longer going to the Henley’s garden party.”

  A gush of fresh morning air rushed through the curtains, cool and refreshing. Sunlight haloed around Mrs Embrey. Eliza smiled wider than ever as she gazed past her, thanking the shadow guardian for being real, not a hopeless dream. She closed her eyes and breathed in the forest air. She barely heard her name being called.

  “Eliza!” Mrs Embrey’s voice snapped with annoyance. “What is wrong with you?”

  Eliza opened her eyes, her smile still an unfamiliar feeling pushing at her cheekbones.

  Mrs Embrey edged the tray against her soft hip, leaned over and placed the back of her hand against Eliza’s forehead. “Are you unwell? You never smile.” Her face creased with worry. “Your eyes are glassy,” The cook put the tray down and poured the last of the tea. “Here now, fortify yourself and go to the larder to fetch more unguent for your lips. They’re awfully dry.” Eliza swallowed the dark brew, her attention magnetised towards the hedgerow.

  Mrs Embrey’s thumb and forefinger ran down Eliza’s face to meet at her chin. She tipped Eliza’s contented face up to hers. “Have those girls finally sent you mad?” Mrs Embrey’s eyes moistened; she swallowed emotion away as she gently rubbed Eliza’s chin. “Stay away from them, my dear. You’re a good soul. Don’t let them corrupt your innocence. I don’t know what I’d do without you here.” She sniffed, blinked her eyes rapidly and pulled her apron up to her nose to wipe it.

  “Well then, hurry yourself up. There’s work to be done.” Mrs Embrey plucked up the tray, rattling the cup and pot together. “Get on with you then. Make haste. There’s a lot of laundry today. I expect it will keep you busy and out of trouble. I’ve already filled the copper for you.”

  Eliza washe
d slowly. She felt no urgency, no rush, no desire to please. She concentrated on her nails that had an unexpected green stain around the edges. She scrubbed them until they were bright pink. More than once, Eliza looked to the ceiling, not for God, but for her shadow guardian. An inexplicable thrill buzzed in her at the thought of it. She slipped into a clean work dress and tightened her apron. With her hair pinned into a roughly twisted bun, she reached for her ill-fitting cap. The morning breeze gusted more determinedly through the curtains. Eliza closed her eyes and leaned into it. She drew in the strange familiarity of its pungent scent. Refreshed, she knelt to lace her boots only to find the white flower upon the toe of her boot.

  Eliza picked it up gently, setting it against her mirror, wedged ever so carefully into a small crack in the old frame. Caught in its reflection, she studied her hazy image, licked her fingers and smeared away a spot of coal from her neck. Deep brown eyes, ringed with green, stared back. Thin dark brows furrowed over them. Full lips pressed white with concentration. The pulse in her neck bounded just above the turn of her collar as she stared deeper at herself, unmoved by the busy footsteps outside her room, uncaring of her duties. She imagined herself dancing with the shadow around the yew tree, threading white flowers through her hair.

  As habit demanded, her nails moved to the scars on her wrists, thumbs ready to dig, yet they halted just above her skin. The scars were there, healing in pinks and reds, underpinned with silvery-white, yet around the freshest ones, the skin was dark and dry. She touched a finger to one, its scab flicked away to reveal another rough patch of skin, thick, like bark. Eliza looked to her other wrist; there was a similar change. Her attention swung immediately back to her reflection. The corners of her mouth were tinged a darker hue; they too felt thick and rough. She leaned in closer, looked deep into her eyes. Her irises cracked with a web of black tributaries, encircled in a dark halo. Her pupils dilated, the hairs on her arms stood erect. The voice was no longer in her head; it was within her entire self.