by G. R. Thomas
Collecting firewood for the copper held a new joy that morning. Where Eliza used to kick the logs around in fear of spiders, she searched for them instead. She enticed them to crawl upon her hands before leaving them to scurry away in the nearby vegetable garden. Everything felt different, smelled different, as though colour had been punched more vibrantly into the world.
She hummed to herself as she rounded the path back towards the laundry. The sky was bluer than usual, the air headier with nature’s odours. Birdsong weaved through the air. She could hear each individual tune where before it was just indiscriminate chirping.
Already unlocked by Mrs Embrey, Eliza kicked the door open and dumped the kindling into a crate next to the copper. It was already warming, but she poked a few extra shards of birch underneath. She added some starch and determined the water needed topping up, so she set about looking for the bucket. It was not behind the door where she usually left it. There were two sections to the laundry room, the clean and the dirty. She fossicked about under the folding and ironing benches first before stepping around the divide to the dirty section —
Eliza grabbed her chest, her knees gave way, vision blurred. She collapsed forward, elbows digging into her thighs, her fingers clawed at her head. Bile rose to her throat, and she vomited up her breakfast. What had been a rare, peaceful start to the day, was now an acidic puddle in front of her. She coughed through the last of the burn, eyes glued to the hook above the wicker baskets full of the sisters’ dirty laundry. A howl swirled in her chest; it built and grew. Her cheeks burned; her head thrummed. She drew in the starch tainted air and screamed.
Her cry echoed around the laundry. Eliza raked her chest, trying to claw out the pain.
Eliza heard nothing but her own screams until she felt Mrs Embrey’s arms around her. “What? What is it? Have you burnt yourself, child?” The old woman ran her hands hurriedly up Eliza’s arms looking for injury. She grabbed Eliza’s chin; Mrs Embrey’s face was blurred behind her tears of rage. Eliza smelled sugar and vanilla as the old lady’s flour-caked hands dabbed her wet cheeks. “Tell me, what has happened, sweet girl?”
Eliza’s chin quivered uncontrollably; she grasped Mrs Embrey’s wrists. She held tight as something pulled at her, yanked within her as though to take her away. Eliza sucked in a choked sob. Her eyes glanced fleetingly over the old woman’s shoulder, and the feeling within took over. Eliza’s sobs stopped in an instant, and she stared at the back wall in deathly silence.
Mrs Embrey swivelled her head around. “Oh…oh…oh dearest Lord!” Her voice was thin as she crossed her body, kissed her crucifix, and she pushed herself up. She was unsteady, nearly tripping over her hem as she staggered for the closest bed sheet and draped it over the body of Agnes. The cat hung from a pink ribbon upon a laundry hook, its hair singed away, eyes bulged in the terror of death. Mrs Embrey fumbled to quickly remove the body, mumbling and sniffing rushed words under her breath. As she wrapped up the cat in one of the sisters’ dresses, she turned back to Eliza to find her standing, arms stiff by her sides, eyes dilated and fixed upon the swaddled bundle she held in her arms.
“Eliza, dear…” She coughed; her voice choked. “Come, my love, let’s put dear Agnes to rest by the rose bushes.” Mrs Embrey’s voice hitched. “I…I will speak to Mr Blythe about this; he is sure to know how to address this with the Lord. This shall not go unpunished.”
Eliza’s fingers curled into fists. Her cap slid from her hair that flickered around her face. “Eliza, dear, come now, let’s….” Mrs Embrey hesitated as the copper began bubbling wildly. “What the devil?” She hobbled past Eliza, grabbing a round wooden lid. Eliza heard it thud over the boiling liquid, she smelled the fire beneath the copper burn harder.
“Eliza, get up, something’s… amiss.” Mrs Embrey’s voice wavered as she tugged Eliza to leave the laundry. “Come, my love….” Mrs Embrey was cut off as the laundry window behind them exploded. She screamed and ducked, but shards of glass left pinpoints of blood across Mrs Embrey’s cheeks. Eliza moved not a muscle, just stared ahead, eyes fixated on the hook that Agnes had hung from. Mrs Embrey frantically pulled at her, but Eliza was planted like a tree, rooted in misery.
The laundry smells, so long a balm, were now an assault to her senses. Eliza’s face twitched. Her skin itched. Her fingers moved, reached for her arms and scratched, faster and faster until blood wept through the cotton.
“Eliza!” Mrs Embrey cried, still cradling the cat’s body against her chest. Eliza grabbed her head, so cluttered with thoughts and sounds, voices, screams, and the image of what poor Agnes had suffered. She could not hear Mrs Embrey’s pleas. She ignored Mrs Embrey’s hand that pulled desperately at her. Her vision blurred to almost blackness, then cleared, and she stared at Mrs Embrey, tilted her head as though she suddenly did not know who she was.
Mrs Embrey let go of Eliza, grabbed her chest and fell backwards, scrambled back to her feet and crossed herself over and over, but her knees buckled again. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Eliza…your, your eyes!”
Liquid filled Eliza’s vision; it dripped hot down her cheeks. She wiped a bloody hand across her face. Her skin tarred with inky tears. Her brow creased, confused by the sight, but it did not hurt; it felt... good. She looked back up to the strange woman before her who, for some reason, fell to her knees.
“Dear Lord, preserve us from this evil, please Lord, she may be of no consequence to you and your plan, but she is everything to me,” The woman cried.
Eliza felt a twinge in her chest, a warmth. She opened her mouth to soothe the woman, but no sound emerged. Liquid bubbled out instead and drizzled down her chin. The walls creaked, the copper churned its water wildly, the boiling liquid dribbled over the edges as its lid rattled louder.
Mrs Embrey screamed, scrambled to her feet and hit the wall as she backed away from Eliza. “Eliza, pray to the Lord, do it now, child!” She begged.
A fire took hold within Eliza. It burned the strings of servitude and fanned the addictive taste of revenge that flooded the part of her soul left vacant by fear.
Eliza’s cracked lips opened again; thick flakes of skin peeled away. A groan rumbled deep inside her chest; a morose scream sailed upon a black vapour that purged from within her. It rose into the air, curled around her. Eliza’s fingers clawed at her face; grey skin flecked away in thick woody shards. She reached out towards the woman who cowered in front of her, her palms turned up, each beheld a white blossom in a pool of blood.
Mrs Embrey tripped over a broom before pulling herself up. She ran screaming for help. Eliza’s feet moved, drawn along by the private song of her shadow. Her boots moved silently across the path, sank into the softness of the lawn. The shadow encircled her like a vortex, tapped the pain from her soul, drank the last of her fear. As she approached the hedgerow, its branches peeled back in an invitation, the gate ajar.
Eliza stepped through, the hedgerow’s branches creaked as they snaked back across the entrance, sealing her off from the here and the there.
Footsteps rushed through the corridors of Norlane Hall. Servants dashed in and out of every room. Doors creaked open and slammed shut. Desperate shouting in the gardens disturbed the usual calm civility. “Anything?” Someone called. “Not yet!” Another answered.
Mrs Embrey sat by Eliza’s window; eyes cast out towards the hedgerow. A gentle breeze fanned the lace curtains about her face. The gardeners hacked at the hedgerow, looking for the strangely absent gate. Footmen, valets, stable keeps and the like all joined together and searched the expanse of the estate for the three sisters.
No one called for Eliza, no one even noticed she was gone. But Mrs Embrey did. Her eyes stung from sleepless nights besieged by nightmares and prayer. Food had lost its taste; she could barely sip tea. With the horror of what she had witnessed in the washroom, Mrs Embrey found no tonic to stop the shake of her hands. She kept them busy, knotting the ribbons she had confiscated from Annabelle’s room. Her head tilted l
eft towards the rose garden where she had buried Agnes. Fresh tears dotted the ribbons, not for the sisters, not a single drop. The weight of the house had lifted as though it could breathe without the sisters within it, but Mrs Embrey could not breathe without Eliza. Her tears were for the girl she had saved and lost.
The sound of hooves brought the haze of her aged vision back into focus. Four carts of local villagers, all to look for the sisters, the spoiled brats who had brought nothing but wickedness into the home. Lord Norlane, one arm in a sling, a large rambling stick in the other, greeted the men. Even from the window, she grimaced at the wobble of his jowls and his overindulged paunch. She could almost smell the stale brandy. The search party gathered by the Grecian statue. Lord Norlane pointed them towards the hedgerow that was imminently about to reveal its secrets as a part of it was cleaved open.
The babe had been grizzling all morning, and now it screamed so loud it penetrated the ceiling. Mrs Embrey glanced up as she rose to her feet, leaning against the wall. Lady Norlane had taken to her bed, unable to pull herself from her melancholy to care for him, not even with the aged Nanny out searching for the wretched girls.
Mrs Embrey wiped her hands down her apron, pulled her cape about her shoulders, ignoring the babe’s increasing distress, her mindset on her dear Eliza. As she wandered away from the window, she set about pulling Eliza’s bed into order as though this would bring forth good fortune and ease the sick feeling from her belly. As Mrs Embrey lifted, tucked and smoothed the floral coverlet, she noticed something smoking in the fire grate. She reached in with the poker. “Mary, mother of God, please, save my Eliza?” In her hand, she held the remnants of the crucifix.
†
“The Galdrewold? Surely, they wouldn’t have wandered in there again, my Lord? Not after their last misstep?” Mr Blythe questioned Lord Norlane.
“The Devil’s work is afoot, man! Do you not see?” Lord Norlane pointed sharply towards the hedgerow. The gate had been located. It was ajar but impassable through the thick knitting of the hedge; the gardeners set to it with axes. The ancient gate was hacked down along with the hedgerow’s thorny curtain. Mrs Embrey shielded her eyes as the sun descended, one hand to her fluttering heart. Surely, none of them, even those ridiculous sisters, would have tested the evils of that forest again? She stood within earshot and listened for any snippet about Eliza, but no one mentioned her.
“Boy!” Lord Norlane shouted to the undergardener as the senior one pulled the last of the gate away from its supports.
“How did this happen? Why is the hedgerow overgrown?” His face was plum red, his bulbous nose seemed to grow along with his anger.
“I dunt know what ‘yer mean sir,” The young boy removed his hat, held it nervously in his hands. He hung his head and wiped the sweat from his brow along a filthy sleeve. “It weren’t like this when I tended it this Monday past.”
“Hell and the devil! Get out of my sight!” Lord Norlane swung his stick at the lad. “And what of you?” Lord Norlane spun around to the butler. “That blasted gate was unlocked again, Mr Blythe. You have the keys, do you not? Did you not ensure that it was locked and bolted after the other day? Explain yourself man!” Spittle flew from his mouth, and the accusation left the head butler blustering for words.
Mr Blythe’s cheeks flushed. “Sir, I have it here,” he held up a fat finger, dangling the key upon it. “It hasn’t left my person since the other er… incident, My Lord,” he cleared his throat and tucked the key back inside his jacket.
Lord Norlane stamped his foot. “Be damned with this.” He yelled. “We search the Galdrewold now! Weapons at the ready.” Lord Norlane pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and waved it about. Mr Blythe dodged its point.
“A robust reward for whoever finds my daughters safe and well.” That and that alone prompted the villagers to verge, and Mrs Embrey was not surprised. A table laden with food, rent that was paid, well, they’d search for Jesus himself. Yet still, no thought of poor Eliza.
She followed the crowd at a hesitant pace towards the hacked hedgerow. All the while, she kept her old eyes sharp for any sign of Eliza; a cap, a shoe, the crucifix from around her neck.
A breeze whistled beyond the hedgerow as the sun lowered in the afternoon sky. Mrs Embrey clutched a small lantern, turning its flame up, as the sky dulled under green-tinged clouds, the air ripe with the smell of more unseasonal rain.
Mrs Embrey watched the glow of the search party’s torches dim quickly in the thick of the Galdrewold. She hesitated under the torn branches of the hedgerow, teetered upon the perimeter of the normality of the world she knew and one she feared to tread. In her fifty-six years, she’d not so much as walked along the path towards it. She could not name a single person she knew to have opened its gate without good purpose. It was no place to picnic, not even to hunt.
Her right eye twitched as she noticed a single white bloom with a blood-red centre nestled near the remnants of the doorway; her palms began to sweat. She had never seen the hedge in blossom. The sight unsettled her further, and she whispered a quiet prayer under the sign of the cross. She reached for the bloom, but a gust pushed her through the entrance, nearly dousing her lamp. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She peered towards the glow of the search party. The air darkened within paces. The smell of roses turned to decay, birdsong dulled to the scratching and slithers of unseen things. Mrs Embrey shivered and hugged herself. The rustling of hidden creatures in a sodden and colourless undergrowth made an old woman’s aches a memory and her pace brisk.
The hoarse voices of the villagers shouted for Margaret, Sybilla and Annabelle in earnest. Nobility and commoner came together for the sisters — still no one called for Eliza.
Mrs Embrey followed the crunch of their footsteps, but their shouts faded away into the vast arena of Mother Nature. Finally, with some distance between herself and the search party, she felt safe enough to call out. “Eliza? Eliza?” No response, no cry for help followed.
Deep shadows ate away residual light as the search party pulled further away. Mrs Embrey rushed, ignored the breathless pressure in her chest. Her eyes squinted in the murky darkness; she only just kept sight of the glow of their torch fire. “Eliza, I’m here. Come out, child, please?” She called less confidently as thunder rumbled closer, sparse fat raindrops began to fall.
“Spread out!” someone yelled in the distance. Mrs Embrey veered right towards the sound. The ambient light of their torches fanned out amongst the thick, ancient treescape; sunset obliterated by its gloom.
“Eliza?” Mrs Embrey’s voice hollowed to a nervous squeak. “Eliza, dear, where are you?” She was scared to be heard yet also terrified of remaining silent. She was the voice of the voiceless, and she trudged onward, determined to find her young charge.
The ground became muddier as the rain fell harder. Mrs Embrey pulled her cloak up to shield her head. Water poured down her nose, mixing with the salt of quiet tears. The shouts of the search party tapered away as her old legs tired. She slipped on something, fell to the ground, her lantern doused in the puddle she now found herself in. She gasped, held her hands over her mouth and began to cry out loud. “Please, gracious Lord, bring my girl back to me?” Upon her plea, a guttural scream cut through the wind and rain. That scream was followed by another scream, then a third. Soaked through, shivering, Mrs Embrey tried to pull herself from the mud, but her clothes were heavy, her boots thickly caked. Her heart hammered as more screams ensued. She rolled over, murky puddles splashed into her mouth, the wind whistled in her ears.
Fingers clawed into the ground, she heaved up onto her knees, her body trembled, her remaining teeth chattered. She shook her head with the frustration of age. She was exhausted and fell back onto her side. Lightning lit through the crevices of the canopy overhead; thunder crashed moments later. In the pauses of the storm’s wrath, Mrs Embrey could only lay there listening to the distressed cries of whatever the search party had found. “Please don’t be
you, Eliza?” She mumbled. The wind whipped harder, its whistle more a song in her ear. She could have sworn upon the bible itself she heard a voice in it.
Someone rushed past, followed by another. No one noticed the old lady stuck in the mud and shadows.
“Call for the doctor, man! Hurry, damn you!” Lord Norlane yelled somewhere in the distance. The squelch of their paces died away. They paid no heed to a servant in need of help. One, two, three ran past her, kicking up more mud into her face. She was as invisible as Eliza.
Mrs Embrey prayed for strength as dread iced through her veins. Once more on her knees, a gust swept under her belly and lifted her to her feet every bit as much as if it had hands to do so. She wobbled, grasped a sapling tree to her right, and pulled a boot from the grip of the mud. In the corner of her eye, a shadow dashed by. She gasped, wobbling against the small tree, her hands slipped on the smoothness of its bark, and she slid back down into a fog that rolled in like a tide. It lapped at her feet.
Exhausted, Mrs Embrey leaned back against the tree. She closed her weary eyes and listened to the silence of the Galdrewold that seemed to swallow the shouts of the search party. She would sit there and freeze to death; she accepted this, for her body was now well stuck in both mud and the trappings of her years. A branch cracked, she yelped, eyes wide in the gloom. “Who’s there?”
The formless shadow swirled up in front of her out of the fog. It sailed upon the mist; a figure darker than the night. A curl of black smoke reached for her. She screamed; pain burned across her chest and down her left arm. She felt colder. Her vision faded like she was falling into an abyss. The shadow peeled away and hovered. The mist enveloped her, its crisp earthiness melted in each of her breaths and cooled the pain in her heart. Mrs Embrey’s eyes cleared, and she regarded the shadow. Malevolence was heavy in the air, it plucked at her skin, tugged at her hairs, yet this thing hovered benignly in front of her as though waiting.