Frelsi (Book Two of The Liminality)

by A. Sparrow

  Failing to find her, he would return to Brynmawr Sunday night, they would have their tearful reunion, live happily ever after and that would be that.

  She could only hope.

  ***

  Jessica and Helen whipped up a dinner of stir fried corned beef and cabbage ignoring Karla’s protestations and despite having just eaten themselves and washed their dishes. To top it off, they brought out a cherry crumble for dessert.

  Helen noticed Isobel admiring a book on a kitchen shelf. “Would you like to have that?”

  “To borrow?”

  “To keep. I’m done with it. It’s not something I would want to read twice. And no one else here is a much of a vampire fan.”

  “Vampires were banned from our house,” said Isobel.”

  “She doesn’t mean literally,” said Karla, balancing her last bite of cherry crumble on her fork.

  “Oh?” Helen smirked. “So actual vampires were welcomed?”

  Karla laughed. “I wouldn’t have been surprised, considering some of Papa’s friends. What Izzie means is that he did not allow us to read any fiction he did not approve, and there was very little that met his standards.”

  “Three books,” said Isobel. “The Keys of the Kingdom, The Power and the Glory and Atlas Shrugged. And the only one of the three not about a priest was absolutely wretched!”

  “Public libraries were off limits,” said Karla.

  “Well then, sounds like you have some catching up to do,” said Helen. “I’ll put together a grab bag of must-reads. I promise to go light on priest protagonists.”

  While they were cleaning up, Mr. Boyle introduced a neighbor, a man named Ben who was carrying a guitar in a battered case. Harry hobbled in with a fiddle tucked in the crook of his elbow and they commenced to play.

  It turned out that music making was the custom at the farm every Friday night. Other musicians came with mandolins and more guitars, bodhráns and banjos. They played everything from ancient Welsh ballads to American bluegrass to Beatles.

  Karla listened for an hour with Isobel holding her hand, snuggled up against her shoulder, until Jessica sidled over.

  “You two look exhausted. How about we get you settled in for the night?”

  “We can stay here?” said Isobel, all excited.

  “Of course!”

  She led them out and around the corner to a little one room and a bath cottage with its own fireplace.

  “This is lovely!” said Karla, admiring the spare but elegant decor. “It reminds me a bit of Bern and Lille’s. If there’s a spare quilt we can borrow, we can find a spot on the floor.”

  “Nonsense. You two get the bed,” said Jessica.

  “But where will you…?”

  Jessica was already unrolling a yoga mat in front of the hearth. She pulled a sleeping bag from a closet.

  “Jessica, no! We can’t displace you from your own bed.”

  “I insist. You are my guests.”

  “But Izzie and I would be happy even in a barn.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You two will take the bed. There are spare towels in that chest. Make yourself at home.”

  The unrelenting hospitality of these goat farmers overwhelmed Karla. She was not accustomed to receiving such kindness. It reflected well on how much they thought of James, to treat his friends so well.

  There was a grace to their giving that made it difficult to decline, as if it were something intended by the fates. To not accept it might disturb the natural order of things.

  Karla watched Jessica wash up for bed. She couldn’t help wondering how James got on with her. Not that she was jealous, just curious.

  She was not the prettiest girl on the planet, but she had raw potential that needed only tweaking; some thinning of the eyebrows, some strategic application of shadow and blush, a somewhat less baggy flannel shirt.

  Karla was a kindred spirit. Even before her face had become scarred, she had kept herself homely by choice, both as a defense against her father’s carnal suspicions and to conform to his warped expectations of chastity. She had cultivated plainness, eschewing all makeup and wearing the most unfashionable and unflattering possible clothes and hairstyles.

  But what was Jessica’s angle? What was she trying to avoid?

  Jessica caught her looking and smiled. “Would you like some milk or tea before bed?”

  “No thank you. I am fine.”

  Jessica’s grin widened.

  “You know, I just love hearing your accents. How long ago did you move from Italy?”

  “It’s been three years since we lived in Rome,” said Karla.

  “Rome.” Jessica sighed. “I would love to visit there someday. But I’m not very well traveled. Unlike James. He’s gotten to see half of Europe.”

  “And now he gets to see Glasgow.” Karla rolled her eyes.

  “Oh? Would you not recommend it?”

  “Not particularly,” said Karla. “It’s just another big city. Scottish and dreary.”

  “You know, I don’t quite understand how this disconnect happened,” said Jessica. “Were you both trying to surprise each other?”

  “We haven’t been in touch,” said Karla. “It’s just bad luck. I’m not even sure why we went up there blind. He has no idea how to find me.”

  “Blind? But he seemed quite confident he knew where you lived.”

  “Really?”

  Karla couldn’t see how, unless he had somehow gotten in touch with Sturgie. He knew where Linval lived, but she was pretty sure he had not left Inverness since shuttling James down to Brynmawr. He and his uncle Mr. Boyle were not on speaking terms.

  Her head began to swirl with anxiety. What if James had gone straight to Linval’s flat in Springboig? Linval wouldn’t know what to tell James their whereabouts. They had left without a trace.

  James would probably freak out and assume the worst. And what would he do then? Should she call Linval and let him know where they were? But what if Edmund…?”

  Karla’s head ached from the strain. Her stomach tumbled.

  “Are you okay?” said Jessica. “You’re looking pale.”

  “Um … I’m going to step out and get some fresh air.”

  “Take this cardigan,” said Jessica, hopping up and pulling a blue sweater off a coat rack. “The nights are getting a little nippy.”

  Karla pushed open the door and rushed onto the porch, leaning over the rail until her queasiness passed. But the cool air calmed her queasiness. She gazed up at the stars, which were unusually dense and twinkly tonight. Music still wafted from Renfrew’s kitchen. More instruments had joined in, including a bass that thundered against the barns.

  She realized how huge a mistake it had been to send James to Wales all by himself. Together in Glasgow, she could have at least shared their lives. Even shipping him back to Florida would have been better. With an ocean between them to kill all hope, she could have found her way back to Bern and Lille. With James in Brynmawr, she got neither.

  And then it happened. For the first time in ages, she felt the vanguards of Root probing at the periphery of her senses. They were too shy and tentative to lure them in by manipulating her mood in the manner she called ‘surfing.’ She would need to wait for the mass to drift closer.

  As a deep chill descended over the hillside, the cardigan no longer sufficed to ward off the shivers. And as marvelous as the stars looked tonight, experiencing them alone only deepened her longings. She retreated indoors.

  “Shut that door! It’s freezing out there,” said Isobel.

  “Feel better?” said Jessica. “Sure you don’t want some tea? I’ve got chamomile.”

  “No thank you. Just a glass of water would be fine.”

  “This is the life, La,” said Isobel looking up from her book, all cozy under the covers. “Miss Jessica’s so lucky. She gets to have her own little cottage. No one to tell her what to read or watch. And fluffy pillows to boot.”

  “It’s not as wonderful as it seems,” s
aid Jessica. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but I do miss my family.”

  Karla sat down on the edge of the bed. “Do they live far away?”

  “Not really, but … far enough. I hail from a tiny village called Morda, on the north side of Wales.”

  Isobel giggled. “Did you say Mordor?”

  “Mor-da. But believe me, there are days it can feel like Mordor. Well, anyhow, my grades weren’t good enough for university, so when I didn’t get accepted, Mum had me look for a job, and this was all I could find, thanks to my Dad. You see, he served on a ship with Mr. Boyle.”

  “He was a sailor?”

  “Royal Marine,” said Jessica.

  “Seems like a fine deal to me. I can’t believe you stay here rent free.”

  “Well, that’s how Renfrew gets away with paying us so little. I really shouldn’t complain. I just wish it wasn’t so isolated here. Brynmawr is loads more interesting than Morda for goodness sake, but once you get beyond the pub and the cinema, there’s really not much else to do.”

  “Do you hang out with James much?” said Karla, hoping she didn’t sound too nosy.

  “Not as often as I would like,” she said. “He keeps to himself. No one sees him after dinner. He goes off by himself on long walks into the hills. He never goes to the pub with us when we go, unless we force him. I suspect he doesn’t like us. Maybe we’re too weird for him, us Welsh.”

  “It’s not that at all,” said Karla. “It’s just how he is, trapped inside his head.”

  “I can’t understand that. He’s lost his parents. He’s never had siblings. He’s by himself in a strange country. You would think he would want to reach out to other people. Why shut the world out?”

  “Have you never been depressed?” said Karla.

  “Is that his problem? But there are treatments for that, no? Pills one can take?”

  “There are limits to what chemicals can do.”

  “Hmm. It never occurred to me that he was a depressive. I thought depressive types tuned everything out, never got out of bed, but he’s been pretty functional. He’s hardly ever late, and he works quite hard.”

  “There is a threshold one passes,” said Karla. “Where death becomes an opportunity, not something to be feared or avoided and one is able to rise again and function.”

  “Oh gawd! You mean he might be suicidal?”

  “It is the same feeling, but deferred. One can persist in a prolonged state of deferment. Maybe I am not making any sense.”

  “No, I sort of catch your drift. But you sound like some kind of expert. Have you read up on it or something?”

  “I just happen to know these things.”

  Jessica’s eyes probed. “You have it too, don’t you? You’re depressed just like him.”

  “Was,” said Karla. “Not anymore.”

  “That’s because she’s in love,” said Isobel, mockingly.

  “Izzie! Mind your own business!”

  “And so you come to see James at the same time he’s gone off to see you? And you had no idea he had done this?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh my! I don’t know whether to think that’s pathetic or romantic.”

  “I vote for pathetic,” said Isobel. “This never had to happen. As much as I love Cousin Linnie, we would have better off coming here than Glasgow. This place is great!”

  “Don’t get too yourself comfortable, Iz. Remember, we are only guests.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Jessica. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” She tucked her chin in her palm. “But I guess I just don’t understand depression. Time on earth is so limited, why waste any of it being down in the dumps? Why not experience all you can, while you can? Though, I admit that sounds odd coming from someone who’s stuck working on a goat farm.”

  “Depression defines its own terms,” said Karla. “There is no negotiating. It needs no rational cause. Once it triggers, you are trapped.”

  Jessica got up and went to the window, pulling aside the curtain to reveal a moon that was a day from away from turning full. “I still don’t understand,” she said. “Life is a gift. How can one decline it? I guess I’ll never understand.”

  “Count your blessings,” said Karla, sighing. “I wish I had that luxury.”

  Chapter 8: Inquisition

  I awoke with my cheek pressed against cold concrete. Mildew swelled my sinuses. Shivers and goose bumps ran up and down my torso. I lay still, barely aware of my limbs.

  Something rumbled the foundation. A truck? A train? An earthquake? The only light in the room seeped around the edges of a door. There was no window.

  I squirmed around and pulled myself into a seated position. My head swooshed and swirled. I nearly flopped back over. I sat there, wobbling. My thoughts flowed like thick syrup. I had no idea where I was or how I had gotten there.

  I brushed the grit off my face, and crawled over to the door. Bruises on my knees and shins made me wince. I felt like I had been dragged down a staircase, and realized that was probably exactly what had happened.

  The door was locked. I felt around for a knob, but there was none. Pressing my face against the gap along the frame, I could see a dingy hallway, with walls of mortared stone and a ceiling of dusty rough-hewn timbers. Cobwebs wafted around a single, bare light bulb. There was another door directly across, secured with three sliding bolts, one at the top, one in the middle and one near the floor—just like mine. I was a prisoner.

  I stood and ran my hand along the rough wall but could find no light switch. I found a cot behind me with a scratchy woolen blanket and a pillow that smelled of moldy feathers. At its foot was an empty bucket I assumed was my toilet.

  I sat on the cot and pulled the blanket up around my shoulders to counter the chill. My head throbbed. My brain felt like it had been crammed into a skull two sizes too small. I had the most terrible thirst and there was absolutely nothing in that cell to drink.

  My head was slow to clear, but I knew I was in a bad situation. I couldn’t believe they had drugged me and slammed me into a dungeon. What kind of maniacs were they?

  Someone coughed. I went back to the sliver of light and peeked out at the other triple-bolted door.

  “Linval? That you in there?”

  The coughing reverberated down the hall. It was some time before he could respond.

  “Aye, mate. It’s me. James, is it?” His voice was thick and raspy.

  “You sound horrible. Are you okay?”

  “Just a touch of the old asthma. All this mildew ain’t helping it.” He broke into another fit of hacking and wheezing. “Bastards … left my meds behind … said they’d pray for me instead.”

  “What was in that crap they made us drink? My head feels like it’s about to crack in two.”

  “That fluorescent blue? Got to be Rohypnol or GHB or something like that. Date rape drugs.”

  “Christ!”

  “Careful mate! Someone might be listening. Taking the Lord’s name in vain is a capital offense in this crowd.” He groaned. “Oh my bloody arse! My knee’s all swelled up.”

  “What are they gonna do to us?”

  “Wish I knew,” he said, his voice ragged with phlegm. “These are some scary people, mate. I thought I had rid them from my life. They fancy themselves true Catholics. Truer than the Pope. The only ones with Jesus on their side.” He exploded into another fit of coughing.

  “Nasty buggers, I’ve had nothing to do with them since I turned sixteen. Ever since Uncle Edmund came and joined forces with my crazy Aunt Emma. If ever there was a marriage born in Hell. They wouldn’t leave my poor Mum alone. I was born out of wedlock, my father from Jamaica. She never heard the end of it. Because that Edmund, he’s a piece of work. Poor Karla and Izzie. I can’t imagine what it was like living with that beast.”

  “Was … Karla staying with you?”

  Linval didn’t answer right away. He panted and wheezed as if he had just run a marathon. His eye glistened thr
ough the gap between door and frame. “Yes,” he whispered. “Her and her sister.”

  “Where’d they go? Someplace safe, I hope?”

  “Don’t know. I woke up, they were gone and these guys were knocking at my door. Never should have let them in. I didn’t realize they had Uncle Edmund in tow. Karla and Izzie must have gotten wind and skedaddled. Good for them.”

  The timbers rattled again as something heavy passed overhead.

  “Where the hell did they bring us? Are we under a road?”

  Linval cleared his throat and spat. “Church basement most likely.”

  “What kind of church has a dungeon in its basement?”

  A door creaked open down the hall. Voices boomed and reverberated.

  “They’re comin’!” Linval shuffled back from the door.

  ***

  Two sets of stairs creaked as a group of men, quietly speaking amongst themselves, made their way down to what must have been a sub-basement. Somber voices echoed down the passage. Something hard rapped on my door.

  “Hello, James? Are you awake?” The man’s voice was soft and cloying. It was that smiley guy from Linval’s apartment, Edmund’s friend Joshua. “We’ve come to have a chat with you. When I open this door, you are to be sitting on your bed, hands visible on your lap. No funny business. And in case you’re considering anything rash, keep in mind Brother Edmund’s has his shotgun. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  I went and sat on the cot, placing my hands flat on my thighs. “Okay. I’m sitting.”

  The lights flicked on, but I wished it had stayed dark. I was surrounded by unpainted walls of mortared stone and concrete, speckled and splattered with something dark, like blood. The thin mattress had no sheet and was mottled with stains. The pillow had no case. Feathers poked from holes. The floor was unswept and filthy.

  The door opened slowly. Joshua poked his head around it, smiling a smile that seemed cauterized into his face. Satisfied that I was complying, he opened the door wider to reveal a kid in a dress shirt and tie holding a cricket bat. Edmund stood behind them, shotgun pointed at the floor.

  “James, this is my son, Mark.”

  He waited for me to shake the kid’s hand or something but I just sat there.