Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  “Faulkner!” she gasped as she pulled open the door.

  But it wasn’t Faulkner. It was a messenger with a folded note in hand.

  “Ophelia?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is for you.” He held out the note. She took it quickly and closed the door.

  At the top of the letter was her name and address. Besides that, there was no salutation.

  It has come to my attention that you have left an item uncared for in Luscombe Street.

  It was from the LampLighter guild, who always disguised their letters as notices of lost property to protect the identities of their workers.

  Please report to house number 1 to identify and retrieve said item.

  The LampLighters used codes for what was required. If a number of lamps had been extinguished, the house number was 1. If lamps needed extinguishing due to a sick LampLighter, or carelessness, the house number was 2. If it was an emergency, or if lives were at stake, the number was 3, and she would have to rush.

  She donned her uniform quickly, strapping the belt of gas bags about her hips, pulling the waterproof cloak over her shoulders.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” she called out. There was a hum of acknowledgement from her mother’s room, but that was all.

  She left, walking quickly along the stone cobbles through an inch of water. The drains must be overflowing.

  She turned a corner, and found herself in Helladron Street.

  Nataniel!she thought, the flame from her gas stick flickering out as she realised that she had never seen him after rescuing Harriet. For a moment, she reminded herself once more that he had probably returned home, but as she stared through the rain, she noticed something upon the door. It was a notice of sorts.

  She ran through the rain, water splashing where her heavy boots touched ground. She came to the door, and checking to see that no one was watching, read the sign on the door.

  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY?

  She let out a gasp of horror at the sight of the title, which was written in bold, brilliant lettering.

  Nataniel Grayson of Helladron Street went missing on the fifth day of the winter month of Miclkai, at around 7p.m. He is marked by the Tyndibar Well, but by no means bestial. Approach with care, but not with caution. It is not suspected he has been affected by the monstrous curse yet.

  Following that small section was a description of Nataniel and a sepia-tinged picture.

  She paused before the door, and knocked.

  Within moments the door swung open. A kind older lady stood in the door, her expression sad, but warm and inviting. It quickly changed though to dismay. Or was it disgust?

  “Is this sign true?” Ophelia asked.

  “I’m sorry,” said the lady, “but who are you.”

  “Um…” she paused, as she realised she still had her hood up. She thought about the superstition that surrounded the LampLighter guild, the stupidity of Castore’s citizens, and the way that one person had come to help her when saving Faulkner. One person had dispelled their fears for a time, shown true bravery and saved a man’s life. Now, she had to dispel her own fears.

  Do it,she thought. If no one else will break down the superstition, then you must be the one. Without another moment’s hesitation, she lifted her hands to her hood and pulled it down, taking another moment to pull her hair from within so that it hung over her shoulders.

  “I’m Ophelia,” she said, “a LampLighter, and a friend of Nataniel.” She took a moment to think. If he hasn’t come home, then…

  “And I think I know what’s happened to him.”

  The disgust at a LampLighter standing at her doorstep quickly disappeared from the lady’s face, replaced with hope.

  “I’m Delilah, his mother. Come in, please.”

  Ophelia said a quiet thanks as she entered, following the lady into the dining room. This house was set up very much like Ophelia’s, as most houses were, with the living room to one side of the house, the dining room and kitchen to the other, divided by a small hall and stairway which led to the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs.

  A kettle was boiling on the stove, its long, loud screech calling for attention. Delilah took it off the heat, putting it on a cold element.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Yes please,” Ophelia replied. She spooned tea into the pot, pouring in the boiled water shortly after. She put the lid on, and carried it to the table on a tray with two other cups.

  “I never thought I’d have a LampLighter at my table,” Delilah said as she sat the tray down, her hands shaking slightly. Nataniel mother was surprisingly old, probably somewhere in her late fifties, which put her somewhere around forty-five for when Nataniel had been born.

  No,Ophelia thought. That can’t be right…

  She took the tea thankfully and let it sit to cool.

  “How do you know what’s happened.”

  “Well, I don’t know for certain,” she said, “but I think I have a fair idea. Now bear with me because this is a very long and complicated story.”

  She began with the meeting of Faulkner, and the promise she made to him. Then she told her of Nataniel’s involvement—about the supposed vision he’d had—followed by their failed rescue attempt.

  “And you justleft him near that horrible place?” Delilah asked.

  “No, never. I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing! When I got back down from the tower, I noticed he was gone. I just assumed he’d headed home.”

  “Well you assumed wrong, didn’t you!” she cried, rising from her chair. Tears were swelling in the woman’s eyes; fierce, furious, wretched tears. She let her sobs overcome her, falling back to her seat with her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “I…I just can’t do this. It’s too much.”

  She looked up from her hand, staring into Ophelia’s eyes, her face red and her expression dejected. “The Vindicators came around yesterday,” she said. “They told me that his Blessing must’ve changed. But it can’t have. He’s too young, too sweet to be gone. He can’t have changed so…quickly!”

  Ophelia was lost for words. She sat in silence as the lady before he broke down, her emotions crumbling in on themselves, consuming her every thought. In short, Delilah was not a well lady.

  “He can’t be a monster…” Delilah murmured. “He can’t be…dead.”

  This woman hadn’t given up hope entirely—that Ophelia knew—but the small, flickering flame of optimism was quickly dying. It would only be a matter of time before the lamp was snuffed, and the fiends of loss crept in. Depression would surely follow.

  Delilah bowed her head, sobbing. She muttered something Ophelia didn’t catch, cleared her throat and then spoke again, louder.

  “Get out of my house,” Delilah said. “There’s nothing else you can do for me.”

  Ophelia rose slowly from her seat.

  “GO!” the woman roared, rising once more.

  Ophelia leaped with fright, took up her fire stick and ran from the house, stopping once she was at the end of the street. She turned around one last time in the rain, feeling the water soak into her hair, run down her face. It was cold and dark, like Delilah had been.

  She drew up her hood and turned away from the lamplit street, facing the east, and paused.

  That second tower,she thought, it has to mean something. I can’t have been all my imagination.

  She turned suddenly to face the west, where the Architect’s tower stood, the beacon atop blazing gold and scarlet, a speck of brilliance against a dull sky.

  “What else are you hiding from us?” she said, not quietly, but soft enough so that it would not be heard through the rain. “What other lies have you spun?”

  She lit the flame on her gas stick, feeling the soft warmth against her cheek. Turning, she began her way home.

  As she walked, protected on both sides by tall lamps, she felt herself being watched by those safe indoors, and the fiends outside. The flame at the tip of her gas stick flickere
d gold and blue, fighting the rain which tumbled down torrentially. And just like the flame, she burnt onwards, despite the seething glares she could sense from the Castorians, who saw her as bad luck. In the rain, she was alone, and she would have to fight the Architect alone. There was no way people would so easily put aside their superstitions in a city where superstition was the foundation for everything. So long as there was a God King, an Architect, there would be lies and secrets.

  And now she had to uncover them.

  *

  Nataniel didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but when he stirred he saw the hearthfly still clinging to the ceiling. As his eyes adjusted, he found that the hearthfly became curious once more, fluttering down to stare at him.

  It seemed he and his hearthfly weren’t the only ones awake though.

  From the cells nearby, he could hear chatter of people discussing unimportant matters like what they’d been given for breakfast—the general consensus had been slop—or how many days before they were meant to be released. There was boredom to the discussion, though, as if it wasn’t the first time they had mentioned these matters. In fact, it seemed almost as if all of them knew exactly what the other was about to say, like reading from a script.

  Have they been here that long?

  The hearthfly suddenly snapped to attention, as if surprised by something.

  “What is it?” Nataniel asked, but he got no response. Instead, it disappeared, shimmering flames and all into nothing. At that moment, a guard came by, looking quickly into the cell.

  “We’ve got a live one here,” he said, scratching at the stubble upon his face. Three other guards came over to inspect, curious.

  “Indeed he is,” said another guard. “He’s got markings on his face, though. Think he’s all right to let out?”

  “Well if he wasn’t fine he would have burnt up already. There’s fire burning everywhere.”

  I am standing right in front of you, you know,he thought to himself.

  They pulled out their keys and unlocked the bars, sliding them back.

  “Come out when you’re ready, boy,” one of them said politely. “Feel free to roam about, stretch your legs.”

  Was this man being serious? Was he joking? Nataniel couldn’t tell. He sat there for a time, alone and quiet before he finally found the courage to stand up. He emerged from his cell and found many of the cells around him open too, and empty. At one end of the hallway, a fire burned brilliant, blocking an exit, but to the other end was an open archway, where a flame had once been burning—he could tell by the charred, black marks scarring the stone.

  He walked towards the doorway, expecting to wake up at any moment from this strange dream. And yet it felt so real. He had always imagined prisons as austere and dangerous, but those guards seemed so welcoming and kind. He wandered through the passage; almost expecting it to burst into flames once more, punishing him for his attempt to escape.

  But it didn’t.

  He wandered down a stone passageway, turning an ever turning curve, following it around a square corner until it opened out into a large, circular room. The floors and ceiling were made from wood, though the walls were carved stone. Reaching from the walls were ‘L’ shaped pipes, through which gas flowed, giving the room a warm glow. In the middle of the ceiling was a glass window, drilled through which were holes for ventilation. But even that didn’t disperse the smell of unwashed bodies.

  Quite surprisingly, there were both women and men of all ages in this room, sitting at tables playing cards or reading or eating, while a small gathering had chosen a space far off to sit around a woman, who was telling a story of sorts.

  Nataniel jumped as a firm grip wrapped itself around his shoulders.

  “New one, eh?”

  He looked up to see a young man, probably nineteen or so, standing beside him, wide grin across his face. He had messy brown hair, glasses and a large nose for them to sit upon.

  “Name’s Marlowe,” he said.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Well, prison,” he replied, “but not real prison. No. This is prison for those that…err…are too dangerous.”

  “So you’ve all got Tyndibar Blessings?” Nataniel asked.

  “No! Of course not! We’re all here because either we know about Pollock, or we’ve been involved in one of the Architect’s plots, or we’ve come from the outside to visit the city, and haven’t been allowed back outside. So it’s a prison of sorts, but we’re here, generally, for reasons that are not our own faults.”

  Nataniel nodded slowly, confused. “So why am I here?”

  “Well what have you done?”

  “Nothing! Nothing at…” he paused. That’s right! He remembered Ophelia and the tower, and he remembered being caught. “But I was just in the gardens. What could I have done wrong?”

  “You were in the gardens!” Marlowe gasped. “Well I think you’re here due to trespassing. I think maybe those markings might have something to do with it, too.”

  “What? My Blessing?” Nataniel scoffed at the thought. “No! I’ve been like this for ages. If the Curse was going to take effect, it would have done so already.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Marlowe replied, more seriously than he had been before. “We had a woman in here not that long ago…what was her name. Ah, yes. Elsa, her name was, and she had the same markings as you. One night, she went to sleep fine, and the next, she was a monster. The guards had to pour lamp oil all over the floor and ignite it just to be rid of her.”

  Nataniel gulped as worry gripped him.

  “So don’t be surprised that you never end up leaving this place. Me,” he continued, pointing at his chest, “I get out of here in six months’ time. Or at least, I hope I get out in six months’ time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well no one’s ever left, have they? We know too much so they extend our sentence. That lady over there, the old one with the long, grey hair. She’s been here since she was in her fifties.”

  Nataniel raised his eye brows at this, glancing at the old lady. She sat alone at her table, her mouth moving as if she were in deep conversation with herself.

  “How old is she now?”

  “She doesn’t know. No one knows. When you have no way of keeping track of days, they all seem to blend together. I only know I’ve got six months left because I got told today.”

  Nataniel nodded slowly at this.

  “Come over here,” Marlowe said. “You’ve got to hear this lady tell her stories. Hana has to be one of the best.” He pointed to the woman in the corner, surrounded by people, talking animatedly with wide gestures and a strong voice. She had dark skin, black hair, brown eyes, and a thinness that could only come from being stuck in prison. She too was wearing the same jumpsuit Nataniel was wearing, but it appeared to have been altered in some manner. It was pinched in at the sides, allowing her hourglass shape to appear through the thick fabric.

  Nataniel listened in to the end of the story she was spinning. “…And it was then that Lord Lasterburn took up his blade and smote the monster, removing its tail, and thereby destroying whatever power it held. The monster shrivelled up, and once its cries had stopped echoing, Lasterburn ignited the corpse and left it to burn in the forest clearing.”

  “She’s telling stories of happenings outside the walls?” Nataniel said. “But I thought there was nothing outside. Just a wasteland. And I thought people who knew of the outside world were forbidden to speak of it.”

  “Well yes, in a fashion,” Marlowe said. “Anyone from outside is taken here and kept captive. It’s easy to cover up, because people just assume that the person isn’t allowed to leave, and so they just put themselves into society. It’s not that easy, though. People, no matter how much of a threatening you give them, will always try to argue the point. Could you imagine how much unrest would occur in Castore if the Architect really let visitors just come and go as they please. So they’re brought here, where they can be
watched.”

  Nataniel nodded. “And so she’s allowed to tell stories of the outside world…why?”

  “We’re never going to escape here, so there’s no point in trying to cover up what shall never be revealed. Besides, it keeps us quiet too. Passes the day. Could you imagine how bored we’d all be if we weren’t allowed to hear stories from Hana. I think we’d all go insane!” He laughed and pulled up a chair, joining the group.

  “She’s about to start another,” Marlowe explained. “You might as well take a seat. Better than playing cards. By the looks of things, they’re about to start betting clothes now that they’re out of peanuts. I don’t want to be around them when that starts.”

  Nataniel scrunched up his face, confused as to whether he was joking, or if he was serious. He took a seat nevertheless and made himself comfortable as Hana finished her drink.

  “Thank you,” she said in a deeper voice than he had expected from such a petite woman. It was a voice suited to storytelling though; grand, loud, expressive. She passed her glass to one of the men sitting around her, and he passed it back to the next man, and the next, until it was sitting on a table once more.

  “This next story is one that I have told a few times before, but not in some time. It is actually a personal favourite of mine, and quite suitable considering out setting here in Castore. I call it, The Imperfect Mirror.”

  A few people in the small, intimate audience had clearly heard this story before, for a few let out excited gasps or clapped quietly.

  “Now, for the sake of those here who do not know how I tell this tale, I do so in two parts. In the first I shall spin it how it is known by you, which in truth is a lie, though if I was lying, is truth.” Nataniel paused at this as he tried to decipher her meaning. He stopped however when she continued.

  “The second part, however, shall be the unequivocal and absolute truth, as I have learnt from others by existing for a long while outside these walls. This is the tale of Castore, Tyndibar and the brothers that built it.”

  Nataniel thought he had heard wrong. Brothers? But it was just Castoro and his Vindicators. Surely not…

  “I shall begin with a lie,” Hana said, pausing mystically to let her words sink in.