She cast her mind back to the first time she had made a leap. Something that Kit had said about lines etched on the landscape came drifting back into her consciousness, and she looked for anything that might resemble a line. Although it took a few moments, the realisation finally dawned on her that she was, in fact, staring right at it: a perfectly straight course through the beech copse, a thin trail with trees on either side and the merest trace of a path on the ground like that wild animals made-a fox run, perhaps-but straight as an arrow until losing itself in the deep shade of the little wood.
Wilhelmina swallowed and found that not only had her mouth gone dry, but her heart was beating very fast. “This is it,” she said to herself. “This is one of those leys.”
Her feet were already on the path before she had even decided what to do. Walking steadily into the grove, her eyes fixed on the stone-shaped instrument, she noted that the glowing light began to pulse gently with every step. The faint chirping sound did not grow louder, but the squeaks came faster; she stepped up her pace and the chirps came more quickly.
A breeze stirred the nearby leaves; the branches overhead moved with a sudden gust, and darkness descended over her-as if she had moved into the deep shade of a large tree. Just that. Nothing else. Three more steps carried her out from the shadow of the tree and into
… a broad sunlit glade.
The beechy copse was gone. The curving riverbank was gone too, along with the surrounding fields and hills. Instead, she stood in a pool of bright sunlight at the bottom of a deep canyon. Behind her stretched a long incline etched into the cliff face leading to the grassy sward on which she stood. Towering over her on every side were high limestone cliffs, and directly below her a shallow river sloshed around the huge stones and boulders littering the valley floor. She heard a ragged screech and glanced up to see a hawk soaring through the cool, bright air.
“Mina, you’re not in Bohemia anymore,” she whispered, her voice falling softly in the silence of the glade.
The device in her hand still glowed softly but was no longer sounding. What a clever little thing, she thought; and then, What shall I call you? Ley lamp, she decided on a whim, and the name seemed to fit.
Curious about where she had landed, Wilhelmina proceeded to look around, taking care not to wander too far lest she lose her bearings. She tucked the ley lamp into her pocket and continued down the path to the bottom of the canyon. Around the next bend, the valley widened; the limestone walls receded. Someone had planted fields of corn on the rich flat ground either side of the river. A short distance ahead she could see a few stone and timber buildings, but there was no one about.
As Mina approached the buildings, the riverside trail became a twin-track road that ran through the tiny settlement and on, through the little farmyard and around another bend. Since no one seemed to be about, she paused to look inside one of the buildings as she passed; it was a simple animal shed with straw covering the floor and an empty manger below a squared hole in the wall, which served as a window. She moved on, following the road as it wound ’round the bend. In the heights above her another hawk had joined the first, and both soared in slow wheeling circles.
Just around the bend she saw that someone had made a dam of river rocks-a primitive construction of stones heaped one atop another across a narrow part of the river. The water pooled nicely behind this simple barrier, forming a wide, placid pond. On a rock ledge just above the pond stood a stout stone building, which on closer inspection turned out to be a ruin. The roof was gone, and two of the four walls had tumbled into rubble, but the remains of a great wooden wheel and several grindstones lay amongst the jumble of wreckage.
“A mill,” Mina surmised. The thing had long been derelict; weeds grew in the rubble and grass had seeded itself on the upper courses of stone and the ledges of what had been windowsills. But someone still used the pond, for she saw a rope tied to an iron ring in the wall overlooking the water, and on the end of the rope a wooden bucket.
She stood for a moment wondering where she was, and when. So far as she could tell, she could be anywhere at nearly any time; the things she saw around her certainly had an antique air about them, but little more than that. The surrounding landscape gave almost no clue to her whereabouts; it was nowhere she had ever been, but it could have been in any number of countries. Still, something about the construction, rude as it was, seemed European rather than, say, South American. Definitely not Asian.
What to do now?
She raised her eyes to the sky. The light had taken on the golden sheen of late afternoon, and the already faint warmth in the air was fading. The shadows of the canyon walls were lengthening and deepening towards evening. She did not care to be caught wandering around in the dark, so she turned and hurried back the way she had come.
Upon reaching the spot where she had entered the valley, Mina pulled the ley lamp from her smock and, holding it as before, started walking quickly up the long ramplike trail angled towards the top of the canyon walls. After a half-dozen steps, the bronze-cased instrument began to glow with its eerie indigo light… a few more steps and she heard the faint chirping sound. She kept walking. The path rose between two rock stacks, which stood as pillars on either hand. Wilhelmina passed through this crude gateway and into a shadow. For an instant, all was darkness and an absence of air. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stumbled forward and into the little beech wood with its narrow fox run of a trail.
She stood blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light. The air was soft and warm, and sunlight streamed through the leaves in shafts, which dappled the grove around her.
She was home.
Halfway back to the city, it occurred to her to wonder if she had returned to the same time she had left. Was it still the seventeenth century? Was Rudolf still on the throne? Was the bakery still there? Would Etzel be waiting for her?
Her heart sank, and for a good few minutes she entertained a wild variety of frightening thoughts about all the things that could have gone wrong; she kicked herself for how stupid she had been. What, after all, did she really know about this ley line business?
But then she heard church bells. The sound rang out, filling the streets and echoing across the river and beyond. The familiar sound called her back to her senses, and somehow she knew that all was well. She quickened her steps as she passed through the city gates and hastened to the old town square. When she saw the good green-and-white facade of the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus, she smiled.
Etzel was there in his flour-dusted apron, just as she had left him. He looked up as she came in, his round face beaming as she bustled into the shop. Although there were several patrons lingering over their afternoon coffees, she went up and gave the big baker a fat kiss on his smooth cheek. “Mina!” he exclaimed, cupping a floury hand to her face. “I thought you were going for a walk.”
“I did.”
He regarded her askance. “But you only left a moment ago.”
Mina shrugged. “I changed my mind. I would rather be here with you.”
“But you are with me all the time,” he pointed out.
“I know.” She kissed him again and went upstairs to her room. There, with the door closed, she removed the ley lamp from her pocket and crossed to the large chest where she kept her clothes and the few valuable things she owned. She unlocked the chest and wrapped the brass instrument in a stocking.
I wonder, she thought as she tucked the bundle under her spare nightdress at the bottom of the chest, what else can it do.
CHAPTER 12
In Which Sheer, Bloody-Minded Persistence Is Rewarded
It would be a happier world where each child enjoyed the love and care of two devoted parents to supply a firm foundation on which to build a solid and productive adult life. But, sadly, that is not our world. And it is not the world into which Archibald Burley was born. Little Archie’s story is darker, more desperate, and yet drearily familiar. How not? We have heard it all before: a story old as time
and repeated daily the world over; we can recite it by heart. For the plight of unwed mothers is too, too predictable, and Gemma Burley’s descent from prim and respectable Kensington to noisome, crowded Bethnal Green is almost too banal to report in detail. Still, that is the task before us if we are to understand all that flowed from that initial rejection of her and her son by the boy’s father, and all that was to come after…
“Archie!” moaned Gemma, her voice ragged and low. “Archie, come here, my darling, I need you.”
The boy crept to the doorway, slender shoulders hunching, already dreading the request he knew was coming.
“I’m out of medicine. You must run and get me some more.” She held out her hand. “Here is some money.”
“Aw, Mum,” he whined. “Do I have to?”
“Look at me, Archie!”
He raised his eyes to her ravaged face. Hair filthy and matted, her dress soiled, missing buttons, she no longer looked like the woman he knew.
“I’m sick and I need my medicine,” she insisted, strength coming to her voice. “Now. You come here and take this money.”
Moving slowly to the side of her bed, he regarded his mother. Her face haggard, dark circles under her dull eyes, her forehead pale, there was sweat on her upper lip and her flesh looked waxy. He had seen her this way before, and knew with a sinking heart that there would be no supper for him tonight. He held out his hand for the few coins she gave him.
“Now, you be a good boy and run along.”
Head down, the slender body turned and, feet dragging, the lad started away.
“Don’t dawdle, Archie. Promise me.”
“I won’t.”
“There’s a good boy. Off with you now, and hurry back. We’ll have bread and cheese for your tea. The sooner you come back, the sooner you can have your bread and cheese-we’ll toast it too. You like that, don’t you, Archie? You like your bread and cheese toasted, I know you do. That’s what we’ll have as soon as you get back. You run along now.” She sank back, exhausted. “There’s a good boy.”
Outside, Archie flitted down the cinder path behind the house he and his mother shared with other itinerant lodgers, his fist closed tight on the three coins she had given him-two farthings and a sixpence piece. Tucking the coins into his pocket, he darted down the alley, dodging puddles of standing water and fresh slops emptied from kitchen buckets and chamber pots. At the end of the alley, he picked up his speed-he’d have to hurry now to still have time enough once he’d got the medicine to make it back to the greengrocer and buy or steal another apple or two to sell on the bridge before the bakery closed. Then again, if luck smiled on him, there would be day-old bread out back and he could get that for free. And besides, stale bread was better for toasting anyway.
Once on the street, Archie ran to the nearest chemist and, knowing better than to go in, hurried ’round to the back. He pounded on the door until it rattled.
“Keep yer shirt on, mate,” growled a voice from the other side. A chain was unlatched and a bearded face pressed itself into the space between doorpost and door. “Oh,” said the man with undisguised disappointment. “It’s you. What is it this time? No, let me guess-you want more laudanum.”
“Please, sir, it’s for me mum. She’s terrible sick.”
“You got money?”
The boy held up the silver sixpence.
“Wait here,” said the chemist.
The door closed. Archie stood in the backyard, shifting from one foot to the other, aware that the sun was lowering, the daylight soon fading. It would be late before he could reach the bridge with an apple or two to sell. In a moment, the door opened once more. “Let me have it,” said the man, shoving out his hand.
Archie dropped the coin into the extended palm, which was withdrawn and replaced by a small brown jar. “Tell yer mam she still owes me for last time, hear?”
“I’ll tell her.” Archie was already running back to the lodging, the jar safely in his pocket. His mother was up, waiting for him at the door when he returned, berating him for being slow. He handed over the jar and dashed away again before she could detain him further. He heard her call something after him, but ignored it and ran on. Once on the street, he flew pell-mell down the beaten dirt road, dodging the carts and pedestrians until he reached the shops at the wide intersection.
The greengrocer was already closing up for the day, and the boy had a hard decision to make-wait until the shop was closed and try to find something in the refuse heap in the alley behind… or bargain with the grocer using the two farthings he had left. The evening lull was coming on; the time between the day’s traffic and the night’s was no time to be selling fruit. If he did not hurry, he might not get another sale today, and night was no time to be abroad. Though only eight years old, Archie already knew that nothing good happened on the streets of Bethnal Green after dark.
Digging in his pocket, he snatched up the two farthings and ran to the shop. The greengrocer was just doing up the last shutter. “Three apples,” he gasped breathless.
“I’m closed up, boy.”
“Please, sir.”
“No. Come back tomorrow.”
“Please, sir, they’s fer me mum,” he whined, putting on his best street urchin accent. It was the one he’d learned since arriving in the neighbourhood a year or so ago, and most useful for wheedling and begging. “She’s full sick, she is, an’ asked me to fetch her some apples to help get her well, like.”
“Can’t you see I’ve closed up?”
“I got money-I can pay yers.”
The shopkeeper straightened, turned, and looked at the boy for the first time. “You’re the brat ’as been thieving my stock of late.”
“No, sir,” lied Archie. “I ent nivver stole nuffin’.”
“You look like the one.”
Archie extended a grubby hand with the two small coins. “It’s just three apples.” He offered a forlorn smile. “Fer me sick mum, see?”
“God help us,” sighed the greengrocer. “I must be going soft in the head.” He turned back to the door of his shop. “Wait here.”
Archie stood on the pavement at the door while the shopkeeper rustled about inside. The fellow reappeared a moment later with three good-sized apples. “There,” he said, holding them out. The boy reached for them. “The money first,” he said.
Archie delivered the coins and received the apples. He stuffed two of them in his trouser pockets and ran away again.
“A word of thanks would be in order,” shouted the greengrocer after him.
“Thanks!” called Archie without breaking his stride.
He ran until he reached the bridge, taking up his customary spot. As he suspected, the traffic passing from one side of the city to the other had already begun to dwindle. There were few foot travellers and carts, and even fewer horse-drawn carriages. Yet there were still some making their way from the city to the suburbs. He polished up an apple until it shone, and then went to work, approaching each carriage as it passed and calling loudly, “Buy an apple from an orphan! Buy an apple! Help an orphan!”
With the better prospects-carriages containing well-dressed ladies and gentlemen-he often ran beside the vehicle a little way; sometimes, when they saw his determination, they stopped and he made a good sale. He did not bother approaching pedestrians or any of the hundreds of handcart pushers-he never got anything from them but blunt abuse.
He tried each coach that came his way, but the passengers of the first two did not even look out to see him. The third and fourth vehicles, likewise, rolled on without stopping-as did the next three. He had to wait for the next carriage to come by, but when it did, he managed to make three pence-this from a white-bearded gentleman in a tall silk hat.
After that, there were no more carriages to be seen in either direction. Archie waited for a while, watching the shadows deepen around him and listening to the wash of the river beneath the bridge. There were still a few handcart pushers coming his way, and some worker
s and others on foot, but no carriages. He wondered if it might be a good idea to run along the embankment to the next bridge. Maybe the traffic there was better and he might still make a sale.
Just as he was about to abandon his post, a lone coach bumped onto the bridge from the opposite end. Archie polished the apple on his shirt once more and put on his most abjectly hopeful expression. One more sale would mean supper for tonight, with maybe a little left over for breakfast. As soon as the horses came abreast of him, the boy leapt to the side of the carriage with his plaintive song: “Help an orphan! Buy an apple!”
The vehicle rattled on, so he began to jog alongside, holding up the apple and calling to those inside. After the third plea, he heard someone call out to the driver, who brought the horses to a halt. Archie stood at the carriage door as the window slid down. “Please, sir,” he called, “buy an apple. Help a poor orphan.”
A face appeared in the window: a youngish, long-nosed fellow with a shock of fair hair falling over a high forehead; he wore a knotted silk cravat with a gold stud. “Let me see the merchandise,” commanded the young gentleman, reaching a gloved hand through the window.
Archie dutifully handed over the apple, saying, “It’s a fresh one, sir. Very good fer yer appetite, sir.”
“Ha!” sneered the young gentleman. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He took a big bite from the middle of the apple, chewed it, swallowed it, then took another. Fully half the apple was gone in two bites. “This apple is bloody rotten!” cried the gentleman, flinging the apple into the gutter. He gave a rude guffaw. “Ta, you little blighter!”
Archie heard the twitter of female laughter from inside the coach. “Driver,” shouted the man, “drive on!”
The coachman, laughing at Archie, snapped the reins, and the horses jolted away.
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