But there was nothing save a warm wind that made the broad green leaves on the trees wave and the tall grass bend in the breeze. But when it did so, the grass revealed a stone poking out of the ground. I could see it was carved.
Maybe a road marker?
I stepped into the grass at the edge of the forest then pushed the blades, nearly jumping out of my skin when I found a face looking back at me. The stone was, in fact, an old Celtic marker. Someone had carved a face into the stone. Slash marks lined the side of the rock. There were Ogham marks, the language of the ancient Celts. I recognized it but couldn’t read it.
“Where am I, ancient friend?” I whispered to the stone then rose, leaning heavily against my staff. My head swam, black dots appearing before my eyes. I took a moment to steady myself then went back to the beach. Moving slowly, I walked along the shoreline. Signs of the shipwreck were abundant, but there was no sign of anyone else.
“Hello? Anyone?”
Feeling weak and cold, I made my way along until the land narrowed to a long point. Soon, I found myself standing on a bar of pebbles. I cast my eyes out at the water. There was nothing. Nothing. Was I facing England and Scotland or was I facing Ireland?
I turned and looked back. From this vantage point, I expected to see the shoreline trimming the horizon on either side. But instead, I found water on both sides of the narrow point. Good lord, I was on an island. Had we passed the Isle of Man or was I elsewhere? There were so many small islands in the narrow sea between England and Ireland. I could be...anywhere.
“Hello?”
Once more, the wind rustled the leaves, but there was no answer.
Following the shoreline again, I made my way up the beach. Here, the signs of the shipwreck were far fewer. I eyed the coastline for any sign of a house or wharf, but there was nothing but the dense forest and the waves. I felt dizzy. Whatever I’d hit or had hit me had done so with terrible force. Stopping, I bent over to catch my breath. My stomach rolled once more, and I thought I might be sick.
The wind blew again, and this time, I could have sworn I heard voices.
Leaning heavily against my makeshift staff, I stared into the woods. “Who’s there?” I called.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and my skin turned to gooseflesh.
This time, when the wind rustled the leaves, I spied a worn path hidden by the long blades of grass. Once upon a time, the earth had been trampled down here by foot or hoof. The trail led into the forest. I stared into the dark woods. My mind split with two ideas. Something called to me, urging me to venture into the woods. Yet another instinct told me to stay away. In the end, I headed back up the beach away from the path. I eyed the woods warily. Maybe the path would have led to an old woodcutter’s house or perhaps a fisherman’s hut. But something felt off.
As I walked up the beach, I remembered reading the stories of the Roman invasion of Celtic Britain. Hadn’t the Celtic tribes had sacred islands offshore from which they’d called upon their gods to save them from the Romans? I remembered the story of the Romans shaking in fear as the Druids of old—priests and priestesses—called upon their magic to save them from the invaders. My skin prickled at the thought. I was making myself nervous.
I headed back up the beach. The debris from the shipwreck was on one side of the island only, but in my confused state, I wasn’t sure if it was east or west. The dense fog occluded the sun. My temples throbbing, I doubted my natural sense of north and south—and my true sense of direction had always been good. As more time passed, my headache began to blind me, and my stomach ached. Did I have a concussion?
Black spots appeared before my eyes, and my stomach pitched again.
This time, I did get sick. Leaning into the bushes, I vomited up the last of the seawater and stomach acid. I clung to the walking stick as I swayed.
I needed to go back to the main site of the wreckage. My best chance was to try to make a fire and stay there. And I needed to rest.
Gathering myself, I headed out once more.
The day passed, and it began to grow dim. I neither heard nor saw any other living person...save the odd sounds in the woods. No doubt, those were just hallucinations in my concussed state.
Out of desperation and frustration, tears pricked the corners of my eyes.
“Papa?” I called, my voice dry and raspy. “Papa?”
Terror swept over me.
With each step, I failed to find my father. What if... What if he’d been lost at sea?
That was a thought I could not bear. I could not live without my father. He was all I had. Tears streamed down my cheeks.
Once again, I spotted the debris from the ship. But there was no one. There was only me.
A soft moan escaped my lips.
“Papa?” I whispered.
Again, the wind blew.
Once more, the wind revealed another path through the woods. This time, however, I saw that some stones lined the walkway. I eyed the path. Yes, there was very definitely a man-made path here. So, where did it lead?
I stared into the ever-darkening woods.
The massive oak trees swayed in the breeze. In the far distance, I heard a soft chime.
I could follow the path just a little. Maybe there was an old house with a hearth, somewhere to get dry and light a fire, somewhere off the beach. I wouldn’t go far, just down the path for a look.
Gathering up my skirts, my petticoat and undergarment still damp, I followed the path into the woods.
It was foggy here, the air shrouded in mist that seemed to weave around the oaks. Taking a deep breath, I headed into the forest. My heart slammed in my chest.
When I stepped between two arching oaks, I felt like I’d been swallowed by the wilderness.
Chapter 8: The Island
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The canopy of trees overhead hid what sun there was. I made out a path in the woods that seemed to lead...somewhere.
Following the trail, I moved under the tall oaks. The massive timbers swayed in the breeze. Again, I heard a soft tinkling sound. The forest, from what I could tell, was untouched. Maybe I was right to think of the ancient Romans and Celts. Sunlight slanted through the branches, casting blobs of golden light on the forest floor. The smell of the forest—new spring leaves and heady loam—made a sweet perfume far different from the air in London. It put my unsettled head at ease. Motes of dust floated through the air making it shimmer. Spring flowers grew in small bunches at the base of the trees. Mushrooms seemed to grow everywhere.
I stepped off the path just a moment to look at an impressive ring of red-capped mushrooms growing in a circle. But then I remembered my fairy tales and Mister Walpole’s book on goblins. It was best not to get too close to a ring of mushrooms where faeries danced. I thought again about the book then dug into my satchel.
I was relieved and surprised to find that Elyse’s mirror had survived the wreck unscathed. Mister Walpole’s books, my journal, and the tome on Hero of Alexandria had not fared as well. All of them were wet. When I was finally settled, I’d need to investigate the damage. But at the moment, I was searching for something else.
At the bottom of my bag, safely stowed, I found the small hairpin I always carried. It was trimmed with a metal bumblebee.
“Pardon,” I said, stepping into the ring of mushrooms. Leaning against my staff, I set the hairpin down at the center of the ring. “Faerie troupe, accept my gift, if you please. And if you will, help me find a way to safety and recover Papa.”
Moving carefully, I stepped back.
Perhaps it was a superstitious thing to do, but I was lost, and Mister Walpole’s book on goblins had undoubtedly enriched my imagination. And this island, well, it just seemed so...
My thoughts left me then as the sun glimmered brightly through the trees far deeper into the forest and I saw a ring of stones.
Gasping, I walked deeper into the forest toward the ring.
Papa and I had talked many ti
mes about taking a trip to Salisbury to see the standing stones at Stonehenge. We’d hoped to go this year at midsummer when they said the sky and stones aligned. I had never seen any of the ancient rings before. But there, just before me, in the midst of this forgotten wilderness, was a ring of nine stones.
I approached the stones carefully. I felt their energy, or maybe it was an echo of those who had come before, but once more, my skin prickled to gooseflesh. And, reminding me I was not well, my head swam.
The dark stones were a good three feet taller than I was. Moss and lichen grew on the stones. As I studied them, I saw that they were all carved with Celtic knots and designs, trimmed with Ogham writing, and had faces carved thereon. They were exquisite. I had never even heard of such fabulously decorated stones before.
Taking a deep breath and chiding myself for being overly superstitious—again, I blamed Mister Walpole’s book on goblins—I stepped into the stones.
At the center of the ring, the sunlight shimmered with renewed vigor. There was a feeling of magic in the air. I could hardly breathe. I went from stone to stone studying the faces and designs. A wealth of knowledge, lost lore, was just at my fingertips.
Reaching out carefully, I gently touched the face on one of the monoliths.
The wind blew once more, and this time, I swore I heard voices on the wind.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The sky overhead darkened, and in the distance, I heard the rumble of thunder.
Oh no. No, no, no.
I looked up at the sky. My head swam.
I needed to find shelter.
I turned to go back to the path, but when I did so, I didn’t see the path, nor the ring of mushrooms, nor anything else vaguely familiar.
Once more, the sky rumbled.
I felt the first of the raindrops on my head, but luckily, the thick leaves overhead sheltered me somewhat. As the storm rolled in, the forest grew dark.
I cast a glance around.
It didn’t matter which direction I went. Eventually I would find the shore once more.
Turning to head out, however, I spotted a bluish colored light in the distance. A house? A fire? A lantern? A...something.
“Hello?”
No reply.
Turning, I followed the bluish glow. I headed deeper into the forest, chasing after the light, but soon found its source. It was a mushroom. The glowing mushroom had been sitting on a rise. It had played a trick on my mind. Then I spotted another glowing fungus, then another, and another, all of which held an incandescent blue light. They grew in a straight line. Without a better recourse, and feeling half suspicious of the supernatural, I followed the glow of the blue mushrooms as the rain pattered overhead, the sky rumbling. I followed the blue lights deep into the ancient woods, aware that I was passing other sacred rings. I walked past a mound of earth, a barrow, the final resting place of some ancient person—and some said a passageway to the Otherworld—as I hurried deeper into the woods. Surely I would find the shoreline soon.
Lightning cracked overhead.
Then, on the horizon, I saw golden light. A fire? I squinted my eyes, trying to make out the shape through the trees, but my head ached miserably. Leaning heavily against my staff, I moved toward the golden colored light.
The forest thinned. The glowing mushrooms led me onward toward the glow of the yellow light in the distance. Praying to find someone—anyone—I followed along, well aware that my quick exertion had my stomach rolling. Black spots wriggled before my eyes. The line of mushrooms ended. To my shock, I’d blundered to the center of the island and found myself standing outside the gates of a castle.
I gazed up at the enormous structure. It towered over me, a black silhouette on the horizon. Light glowed through one of the windows in the upper floors. It was raining in earnest now. Not waiting a moment longer, I pushed the gate. It swung open with a creak.
It was pouring.
I leaned my walking staff against a metal bench in the perfectly manicured garden, then grabbing my skirts, I ran for the castle door. As I rushed, lightning flashed. It created an odd illusion on the bushes and flowers around me. For a moment, they all seemed to glimmer like metal under the bright light.
My temples pounded. My stomach rolled. I raced through the heavy rain to the castle door.
Hoping whoever was at home would forgive me for letting myself in, I pushed open the castle door and crept inside.
The place was eerily silent.
“Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here?”
Breathing deeply and quickly, I realized the moment I stopped that I was not well.
I cast a glance toward a roaring fireplace nearby. A chair was seated before the hearth, a glass of something dark sitting beside the seat. I heard a strange clicking sound.
“Hello?” I called again, but this time, my head began to spin. I put my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. I closed my eyes. Everything was twirling.
Footsteps approached.
“I-I’m sorry I let myself in but...” I began then opened my eyes.
Standing before me was a massive automaton, its silver eyes staring coldly at me.
A nauseous feeling swept over me, and my head swam. Black spots danced before my eyes.
“Pardon me. I think I’m about to—”
Faint.
But the word was lost.
And so was I.
Chapter 9: Arrested Perfection
“She’s coming around,” a soft, feminine voice said. “Go tell him.”
A pair of feet clomped heavily across the floor followed by the sound of a door opening and closing.
My head ached miserably, and I felt ill. I was lying in a warm and comfortable bed. I hated to open my eyes, but it wouldn’t due to leave my hosts worrying about me after I fainted at the doorstep.
I opened my eyes and sat up slowly. I sat nestled in a massive poster bed. Sheer drapes had been drawn to mute the sunlight.
“Awake, mistress?” a soft voice called.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You gave us a fright. You’ve been out for two days. You had a very nasty bump on the back of your head.”
“I was shipwrecked.”
“Indeed?”
“Are there any other survivors here? My father... We were separated in the wreck. Any of the other passengers or sailors wash ashore?”
“I have a pot of tea ready for you and a bite to eat,” the woman said. “Let me bring your tray.”
I sat up, adjusting myself in bed and coaching myself to be patient. I was a guest here, after all.
The woman pulled the drape aside. “You need to eat, mistress. You’ll need to get your strength back. Mistress... My name is Missus Silver. Please, don’t be frightened.”
“Frightened?”
I stopped fluffing the pillows and looked up at the woman. My breath caught in my chest. Standing at my bedside holding a breakfast tray was an automaton. My mind flung back to the night I’d arrived and the hulking creature I’d seen in the hall. I hadn’t hallucinated it. It was real, and so was the creature standing before me.
She looked every bit like a woman. She even had a mop of curls frozen in bronze, but her face had been made of porcelain. Where she should have had eyes, there were bright blue optics. Her mouth was jointed so it could open and close. She wore the gown of a maid with a long white apron and cap, but the dress was out of fashion, worn, and ripped at the seams. Her movements told me her entire body was machine.
I stared in wonderment.
“I know, I am a sight,” she said then set the tray on my bed. “But at least you didn’t scream.”
“I...I... No, of course not.”
“I didn’t think you would. The others were not so sure. But I saw the necklace you’re wearing, and I figured you might not be shocked.
“Necklace?” My eyes drifted down to my chest. I pulled out the leather cord I was wearing around my neck. On it were the windup keys for all of my beautiful
devices which were now at the bottom of the sea. “The keys were for my creations.”
“Creations?”
“Sculptures. Like music boxes. Clockwork. They were lost with the ship.”
“I see. You know about such things then? Things like me?”
“Yes. My father and I are tinkers. Madame, is my father here? Any of the others? I’m sorry to press, but I need to look for my father. I need to send word to the mainland that the ship is lost. Please, where am I?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer any of those questions dear. But the master will be by shortly.”
“Master? Who is lord here?”
The automaton laughed a strange tinny sound. “He will tell you himself. Eat up, dear. Get your strength back,” she said then turned and left, closing the door behind her.
I cast a glance around the room. The furnishings appeared to be in the style favored during Queen Anne’s reign or older. I looked down at the gown I was wearing. The lace at the cuffs and along the neckline were beautifully made, but faded to yellow and very fragile. Everything in the room was exquisite but old.
I took a deep breath, steadied myself, then quickly drank the cup of tea—which tasted more herb than tea—and scarfed down the thick piece of bread. I had been starving. The flour used to make the bread had an odd tang I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t quite sourdough but something similar. Once I’d eaten, I turned and set my feet on the floor.
I felt dizzy, my legs unsteady. Working slowly and carefully, I slipped out of bed and grabbed the dressing robe hanging nearby.
I crept to the door and listened. It was utterly silent.
Hearing nothing outside, I opened the door a crack and looked out.
My chamber was in a long, dimly lit hallway. Barefoot, I crept out of the room and down the hallway. The castle was truly wonderful. From paintings on the walls to fine sculptures in the alcoves to beautiful tapestries, the castle was luxurious and richly appointed. Whomever the lord of this little island was, he was a very wealthy man. It was, however, dim inside. I snatched a candelabra off a nearby table and went in search of...anything. Anyone. And most importantly, Papa.
Beauty and Beastly Page 4