by Andre Norton
I was caught in a trap I could not hope to escape. The horror of what was before me was so great my courage broke. She must have read that in my face for she laughed.
“Oui, Bessie shall school you—and she has no fine house as ziss—she does not entertain gentlemen as come here. Non, her place ees on zee Coast, perhaps you do not know vat zat means. Listen—you—”
She poured forth words like blows, making it very clear what sort of a dive Bessie maintained, and what duties would be forced on me there. So that at last I could keep from screaming only by the greatest effort. That last small rag of self-respect I clung to. I must not let this woman hear me beg for mercy.
All too soon Bessie returned. She took up my cape again, draped it about me to hide my bound arms.
“Now will you walk quiet and nice like the lady Cel says you be, gal? Or do I use this on you an’ you leave here sleepin'?” She held one of her huge fists before my eyes.
Conscious I might have a thin chance, taken unconscious I would have none at all.
“I will go quietly,” I managed to say.
Bessie's wide mouth stretched in a smile. “See, she's gonna be a good gal, Cel. We ain't gonna have no trouble at all, we ain't.”
Her massive bulk towered over me, her hand was heavy on my shoulder, both pushing me along and holding me captive. So we came down into the lower hall of the house where there was music and talk sounding from the other rooms. I prepared to scream. Surely there were those there who, even in such a house, would come to my aid were the truth known. Bessie, however, might have read my mind. Her hand went from the shoulder to the nape of my neck gripping that so painfully I nearly lost my footing.
“I can choke the breath right outta you, gal, just as easy as not,” she whispered in warning. And I did not doubt she could carry out that threat before help could reach me.
We went on out into the night. The rain had stopped, but clouds still banked the sky. The lurid red light of the sign spilled like blood to show a waiting closed carriage.
“In with you, gal.” Bessie lifted me easily, shoved me into the interior. As she settled herself beside me the springs gave an audible creak. We moved off.
“We'll make a stop on the way—to git rid o’ him.” In the light of a carriage lamp I saw Bessie's thumb signal to the back of the carriage. “Dummy'll dump him.”
Under the cover of the cape I fought feverishly against the stocking bonds. But Bessie knew her knots as well as any seaman. I got only chafed skin out of the struggle. Any hope for escape must come when I reached the den Célie had so graphically described to me. But that I did have any hope—
To surrender, to accept that nothing but black evil awaited me, that I could not do. I must be alert for the first chance fate offered. Yet, as we moved on at a steady pace, I could foresee no opportunity.
We came to a stop and Bessie inched forward on the seat, squeezing me painfully into a corner as she put her head close to the window to peer out. For several long moments she held that cramped position, then settled back with a nod.
“All right an’ tight now. Dummy's unloaded him. We'll be on our business, gal.”
Across her words cut a sharp cry from behind the carriage, a wail to make a listener shudder. Bessie gasped and wheezed.
“That Dummy! I told him to watch it. Leastways he's got sense enough in his head to git goin’.” For now the carriage lurched along at a pace never meant for city streets.
Again we heard that cry, but from farther off. Bessie produced a handkerchief, mopped her face, streaking the paint and powder so heavily caked over her coarse skin.
“Got away from ‘em. They can't beat Dummy when it comes to drivin’,” she observed. “Got sense, too. He'll take the long way round to git back—that'll throw off any as wants to follow. But that yell now—never did hear nothin’ jus’ like that before—did you, gal?”
Her elbow nudged me in the ribs with force enough to bruise. I gasped out, “No!”
“Sounded ‘most like an animal o’ some sort. Nasty kinda noise—”
The carriage began to slow. I saw more lights, other vehicles passing us. If only I had my hands free, was able to throw open the door. But if I tried to scream Bessie could silence me at once, have a plausible story for any who investigated.
We made several turns and the noise became nearly a steady roar. Garish lights were all about us. We must be within the boundaries of the Barbary Coast, and who here would help me?
Our carriage pulled to a stop and Bessie puffed and panted her way to the pavement. It was only because she turned to speak to the driver that fortune favored me as she looked up and called, “You done right well, Dummy.”
Thus I had a chance to see two men beyond her. They wore sea clothes, one an officer's cap. He had a tight grip on the arm of the slighter and younger man and his voice was raised loud enough for me to hear.
“Don't be a damned fool, boy. This is the crimps’ own hunting ground. Come back to the ship now. Or you'll find yourself shipping out on a Bluenose under a bucko with your pockets to let—”
That was Mr. Whicker, the mate of Alain's ship, the one who had known about my father! And Bessie was no longer in reach to gag or choke. I thrust my head and shoulders out of the coach door, into plain sight, and called with all the strength I could summon, “Help! Mr. Whicker, help!”
He swung around. Would he recognize me? Perhaps in my present disheveled state he would not. But, after an instant of surprise, I saw his eyes widen—only it was too late.
I also saw the blow Bessie aimed at me, and in my cramped position I could not dodge. Pain exploded in my head and then there was nothing.
About me was darkness and pain gnawed at me, but I was once more conscious. I was so sick that the slightest movement made me retch, brought an answering stab through my head. For a long time, I did not know where I was—or who—I was only aware of the pain and sickness.
Slowly I was able to see a little more. There was a lighter space to one side. My eyes were drawn to that because it was a small escape from the terrible smothering dark.
There was worse than the stench of my own sickness, such odors as I had never been forced to breathe. I tried to move and discovered that my wrists were still knotted together, that I lay on my side on a pile of stinking rags.
So—I had failed in the one small chance I had been offered. As my mind moved sluggishly, that was my first thought. So deep was my physical misery that the future no longer mattered. I heard a small bleating sound monotonously repeated, and realized that cry was my own, nor could I control it. So far had I been reduced to a dumb and suffering animal that I had no will or resolution left. Had someone come to kill me at that moment I would have waited without protest for the blow to fall.
How long that period of dark and pain lasted I did not know, nor what forces had been set to work through the night and early morning. Nor, at that moment, would I have cared, for nothing beyond my own misery had any meaning.
I must have lapsed into unconsciousness several times. The last time I opened my eyes the light was pale gray and the window, over which hung a sleazy curtain of filthy cloth, was completely visible. To turn my head was such agony that I dared not attempt it more than once. Before me on the other side were only grimed boards, a stained wall over which insects scuttled.
My pile of rags lay near the middle of that cubby. There was a door opposite and nothing else.
But outside the window there moved a vague shape. The pane was so thick with dirt it could have been painted over. A sound—I watched dully, uncaring.
The sound grew louder, there was a crash, a tinkle of glass falling inward. A moment later an arm swept aside the rotten fabric of the curtain which tore like a spider web. Someone was climbing in.
I watched apathetically. This seemed to have nothing to do with me, my pain and misery. With the window open there was more light in the room and the man who had entered straightened to his full height.
I h
eard him give a sharp exclamation as he knelt beside me. Now I could see his features. Though my eyes blurred when I tried to focus on them clearly. I—knew him. He had a name—only I could not remember it. And that last small failure, that I could not remember, brought tears to my eyes, running unchecked down my bruised cheeks.
“Tamaris! Good God above, what have they done to you! Tamaris!”
I cried out in pain at his touch. He flinched back and then returned to cut the bonds about my wrists. There was no feeling in my hands, which lay wooden and lifeless.
“Please—” I whispered. “Please—my head—it hurts so—”
“Yes.” He did not try to touch me again. Rather he went to the window and whistled. Then he leaned out and I heard a murmur of voices.
After he returned to kneel by me, taking my numb hands into his, rubbing them so that the agony of returning circulation made me cry out. But his fingers pressed instantly on my lips and he leaned close to whisper.
“My brave girl, you must help me a little in order that I can help you. We cannot get out save through the window. Whicker has gone to round up some more of the crew. When he comes you must be strong enough, brave enough, to move—”
I could hear his words but they were like meaningless noises. He was hurting me, that was all I understood. If he would only go, allow me to slip back into the darkness where the pain did not reach. But that he would not do, his voice, his touch, kept me conscious.
“Alain!” That was his name. I had remembered his name!
“Yes, it is Alain. Be still, rest, gather all your strength so we shall be ready when Whicker returns. We have sent for the police also. You are safe—safe—”
Behind his head I saw the door of the room begin to move. I struggled to cry out a warning.
“Be still—rest—” He smiled at me. Smiled! When behind him—
The massive bulk of Bessie—I remembered now. With her others. She held a poker in her hand. No, that was wrong—I had used a poker. So this punishment had come to me—this lying in hell. But why should Alain be here? Now Bessie leaned over him ready to strike—
Somehow I found my voice. “Alain—behind—!”
He swung about without getting to his feet. Strong as he was, how could he defend himself against the giantess? I could see what she held was really a hammer. She shouted in that shrill voice, “Git ‘im, boys, when I lay ‘im out. Jo'll pay top price for the likes of this boyo!”
But she was not to knock out her prey so easily. Alain dodged, and I saw a pistol in his hand. Bessie edged back from that threat, her men also giving way. Then they divided forces, Bessie to the right, the others to the left. Alain could not defend himself from two directions at once.
Where my own peril had left me defeated and witless, his brought me strength. I edged along the rags of that noisome bed, flung myself at Bessie. My crooked fingers caught in the drapery of her dress at knee level.
Her arm swung down but the hammer did not thud home on my head or Alain's, rather to the floor. Bessie, overbalanced, staggered back. Outside the door there was a thunderous crash. By the force of her own unwilling retreat she had carried supporters with her.
Alain was on his feet, now he stooped and drew me up. My head throbbed with such pain I was afraid I might faint. And with the agony was vertigo which sent the walls of the den in a sickening dance around me.
Shielding me as best he could with his own body, Alain backed to the window, his pistol aimed at the door. Though we could hear shufflings beyond, they had not come to attack again.
“We must get outside,” he said. “There is more room there and Whicker's men can't be too far away.”
“Git ‘em, boys!” came Bessie's cry.
Alain fired. The crash of the shot was deafening. A scream answered, then sounds as if they were moving out of range.
He had me at the window but I could not help myself. I felt a dull anger at my own uselessness, and that anger strengthened me. But it was not lack of will, rather lack of strength in limbs and muscles which hindered me.
“I cannot climb out—”
“Hold on!” His one-handed grip on me tightened. “Can you sit on the sill and drop out?”
How simple—of course I could and would do that. I fell rather than sat on the sill. Alain lifted and I was able to swing my feet over and down. As he kept watch on the door, I fell from the window, leaving him behind.
This was an alley even more noisome than the room. The jar of my striking its slime-encrusted pavement nearly shattered me. I fought faintness, I must remain alive and conscious. This I must do or Alain, too, might become a victim.
I pushed up to my knees. Then, leaning against a scabrous wall, vilely damp, I somehow stood upright. Though I dared not move away from that support.
“Alain—” I wanted to call to him that I was all right, that he must join me. But all I produced was a rasping croak.
I slid along the wall, my goal the window. Perhaps if he saw me he would come. Why was he not already here? There had been no sound of another shot. But those within had knives—
“Alain!” I saw nothing but the window.
So it was that when they closed about me it was a shock. Whicker's men? One glance told me no. They were strangely alike, the three of them, small and thin, dark of skin, moving noiselessly. Their faces were blank of expression, only their eyes were alive. Those regarded me dully. Still it was plain they were determined on my capture.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As, for the last time, I forced out a weak cry of “Alain!” the centermost of those three who had closed in upon me threw something straight into my face. I gasped, coughed, choked, trying to breathe through the dust clogging my mouth and nose. And I was still coughing and helpless when they laid hands on me. They pulled me unresisting down the lane, my will gone. I could no longer fight as they pushed me into a cart drawn by a pair of mules.
Two of the strangers spread bags over my body. Then we jolted off, and I was a prisoner within flesh and muscle where not even my voice would obey my frantic commands.
The cart bumped along and I could hear the clamor of the Coast all about. Then those sounds dwindled and I knew we must be drawing out of that section of the city. Who were these men? Followers of D'Lys? D'Lys was dead. Was that why they had tracked me down—in order to take vengeance? But how had they known where to find me?
I had seen too much, endured too much. That confidence born at Alain's coming seeped away. And what had happened to Alain?
That Bessie could and would summon reinforcements, of that I was sure. And then perhaps he would suffer the fate she had threatened, of being knocked out and shanghaied aboard some ship. From there he could not escape. All because of me.
My thoughts were heavy burdens as the cart creaked on. But being in the open revived me somewhat, or else the spark Alain had ignited had not wholly died. Although my body still lay limp, my mind cleared. And I began a silent fight against what held me captive. Since I had surely been kidnapped for some evil purpose, I must expect danger at the end of this journey.
Alain found me at Bessie's somehow. But I could not hope for another such miracle. I could only pray for his own escape.
We passed through very quiet streets now. Our goal must be whatever hiding place D'Lys had found, the one Mrs. Pleasant's people had never discovered. Finally the cart bumped to a stop. My head still ached, but now the pain was not so intense.
Those sacks over me were thrown aside. Hands closed on my shoulders and, with unusual strength for their slender bodies, two of the men swung me down to the pavement. The day was well advanced and we were in a thick-walled courtyard with a single gate the third man was barring. Along two sides were buildings, on the third some open-fronted sheds in which horses stamped and snorted. Leaving me to stand, still unable to take a step on my own initiative, my captors unharnessed the mules and took them to the sheds.
The windows of the house section were covered by thick wooden shutters.
And the doors, with the exception of the nearest, were not only closed, but had boards nailed across them. Soil drifted from what had once been flower beds and there were fresh animal droppings everywhere. Deserted as the place might look at first glance, it was plainly in use.
My captors returned, the one in the lead taking my arm to pull me forward. I was a puppet in his hands, though my mind struggled to break those bonds the choking dust had laid upon me.
We entered a vast kitchen with a hearth capable of taking a good-sized log. Hung over a fire, dwarfed in that cavern, was a pot on a chain. And from that steam arose.
Standing near, a long-handled spoon ready, was a woman who turned such a seamed face in my direction it was like meeting Death (if Death might be of my sex) engaged in a grotesque parody of a household task. Wrinkled and withered though her face might be (her hands were veritable claws), she was dressed in the brightest of colors. Her wide skirt was a red which clashed with the brilliant orange of her blouse. And twisted around her head, hiding all but a wisp of gray fluff over her forehead, was a blue scarf.
She dug into the pot with her spoon, brought that back up to her chin, dribbling contents over blouse and skirt. Holding spoon at lip level, she blew on it vehemently, sending more of the liquid flying. Then, extending a pallid tongue, she lapped, as might a cat, at what was left.
Apparently the taste did not suit her, for she turned to the table behind, clawed up a thick pinch of dried stuff and tossed that into the pot. Then, slamming the spoon on the table, she hobbled to meet us.
Though her shoulders were so bent she had to screw her head up at a painful angle to face us, she had once been a tall woman. And it was plain she ruled this household, for the men waited for her to speak first.