Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  Hummingbird shrugs her off and joins the other supplicants at the altar rail, leaving a strong scent of jasmine in her wake. The young cleric is working his way along the line, dispensing bread and wine. A choir sings some dirge from an upstairs gallery. Occasional sneezes punctuate the music.

  He reaches Hummingbird. She raises her face to him, expression unreadable. The priest’s hand wavers, bread paused in the air between his hand and her mouth.

  ‘Child?’

  ‘Amen,’ says Hummingbird. Her tongue snakes out, pink and wet in the light from the stained-glass windows.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that,’ Beth declares as the two girls push through the city throng.

  ‘Why not?’ Hummingbird bats a fly away from her bonnet. ‘Putting some wind in the preacher’s sails teaches him a little of the humility his holy peers preach from their pulpits. These clerics love to sermonise. Sometimes their mouths need reining in.’

  ‘You behaved like someone from a travelling show.’

  ‘Our attendance always throws the pure at heart into a dither. No vicar will condemn us, no bolt of lightning strike from the sky. We are the devil’s daughters seated among the lambs. Yet we give generously to charities. Nothing confounds the fire-and-brimstone preachers more than fallen women filling the pockets of the poor and destitute. Last year a visiting clergyman hired a Sister with the sole intention of taking her to church and praying for her salvation. The Sister put on a suitable show of repentance then everyone returned home.’

  ‘That cleric’s cheeks turned so scarlet I thought they’d burst. We were lucky not to get kicked out on our tails.’

  ‘I doubt it, Kitten. He’s one of our best clients.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s true. His visits to our particular den of delights are discreet but regular. However, his debt has grown heavy and he needed a reminder to settle. Besides, most of those fine-suited men stinking out the front rows with their expensive cologne spend much of their time whoring and gambling. They find absolution in muttering a couple of prayers then go and sin all over again. God is merciful, God is forgiving. The more money and status you’ve got the more merciful God tends to be.’

  ‘It’s not what I was taught.’

  ‘Where did those lessons get you? Listen, Kitten, everyone knows us. Some call these Emblems on our cheeks the mark of Cain, yet gallants often send their footmen to dog our path home in a bid to arrange an unofficial assignation. These unwelcome shadows can usually be perplexed by a fast carriage or sedan bearers who know a back alley or two.’

  Hummingbird squeezes Beth’s fingers. ‘We don’t pretend to be anything other than exactly what we are, and that gives us power. A very sweet power. You will learn more about this once you wear an Emblem.’

  Next morning finds Moth at the breakfast table, her eyes big and raw. Her left hand is bandaged. She won’t look at or say a word to Beth. Halfway through the meal she gets up and runs from the room, knocking her stool over in the process.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Beth asks the serving woman.

  The maid’s mouth thins. ‘Moth got a hot hand.’

  Eloise catches Beth in the corridor and asks her to hang out the linen from the washhouse. Apparently the washerwoman has the gripe. ‘We’ve had a poor morning and it will rain again later,’ Eloise explains, both hands black with coal dust. ‘If you peg it up now we might get most of it dry before the heavens decide to open again. Either that or we suffer a kitchen full of wet bed sheets. Cook is very jealous of her space. I don’t want her sour face ruining the rest of my day.’

  Beth hurries downstairs, scoops a basket from the alcove beside the courtyard door and steps outside. A flagstoned area, square as an executioner’s yard, is hedged by the House on three sides with the stables flanking the fourth. Wooden poles support washing lines that spider-web above ground made slick by the morning’s rain. Beth squints past the tall chimneys. Clouds grey the sky, thinning in places like the strands of some ageing dandy’s hair. The air feels clammy.

  Two dozen steps take her across the yard, basket swinging at her hip. The washhouse door hangs open. Tubs, like huge wooden barrels lopped off at the base and banded with black iron, hug the space beneath the window. Scrubbing boards lean over the rims like gravestones.

  Against the far wall, an untidy pile of linen lies heaped on the draining board. Already it’s beginning to smell of washing left too long. If the rain catches it there’ll be no comfortable sleep for some of us tonight, Beth thinks.

  She piles the washing inside the basket. The damp cloth feels horrible against her bare forearms. A grey sludge of water covers the bottom of the nearest tub. Soap suds hiss as they dissolve.

  A noise outside. Beth peeks round the door. Nobody there. A few pigeons coo from the slate roof. The linen basket is a dead weight in her arms. She dumps it under the nearest peg-spiked drying line, half throwing, half draping sheets over the twine. Taking a mouthful of pegs she creates white, billowing rooms for herself, the walls made of linen ghosts.

  Another sound. Then another. A breeze funnels into the yard, catches the sheets and sends them flapping. A speck of something strikes Beth’s forearm and she looks up, panicking, thinking the rain has tricked them all. But the sky remains stuck in its grey doldrums. A pinch of soot, then? In a city of a thousand belching chimneys it must prove impossible to keep anything clean for long.

  She rubs her arm and picks up the last of the washing. A sharp gust sends the corners snapping at her ankles. After this, Beth thinks, she’ll go to the parlour and steal a few minutes with some coffee. Perhaps Eloise will be waiting by the fire, her face fat with smiles and gossip.

  A shadow falls across the sheet in front of her. For a moment Beth thinks a bird has caught itself in the folds. The shape turns into a fist and strikes her square in the face through the material. Beth staggers back. Gloved hands appear, plucking the pegs from the line. The sheet slithers onto the wet flagstones. Beth squeals. An apparition. A white-faced spectre with dark, slitted eyes and bloody lips open in a demonic pout. Wild patterns of blue and black swirl over its death-white cheeks. It wears a green satin gown with creamy sweeps of lace looping across the skirts. A peg is scissored between fingers and waved in front of Beth’s face.

  She hears a wet slap as another sheet hits the ground. Then another. More figures, more white faces. Some are emblazoned with flames, others with birds or flowers, or strange winged creatures out of some poet’s dream. Beth is caught in a rustling cage of skirts and petticoats. One of the figures speaks with lips frozen in a scarlet kiss. The voice is hollow and filled with winter. ‘Quite the tattle tale, aren’t you?’

  Masks, they’re wearing porcelain masks, that’s why their faces don’t move.

  The circle closes around her. ‘Tattle tale.’ A blow between her shoulderblades. ‘Tattle tale.’ Another in the ribs. Beth tries to back away. She trips over someone’s leg and jars her spine on the hard stone. Thoughts tumble into one another. Her eyes water and she blinks to clear them.

  An initiation. She clings to the idea. That’s all it is. I’ll wager all new girls undergo something like this. I’m nearly a Masque, Hummingbird said so. They’ll tease me a little, try to scare me and then there’ll be hugs and kisses. I’ll be one of the girls. Hummingbird and I shall laugh about it later.

  They lean over her, masks dark against the gunmetal sky. One of the faces ducks out of sight. Footsteps crack across the flagstones. A pause. A muffled scraping sound. Then the face returns. ‘Hold her up.’

  Hands hook under Beth’s arms and wrench her into a sitting position. The figure crouches in front of her, the mask inches from her face. Hot breath from those brittle lips tickles her nose. ‘Got a dirty tongue, haven’t you?’ the voice says. Beth doesn’t know how to reply. Who is hiding behind the porcelain? Is it someone she knows? Her back and ribs throb. The jest is wearing thin.

  The figure holds out cupped hands. Manure, turned to ochre sludge by the rai
n, drips between the gloved fingers. ‘Open her mouth.’

  An arm slides around Beth’s neck and tightens. Thumbs prise her jaws apart. Filth pours over her teeth and gums. She tries to scream and only makes choking sounds. The mask fills her vision. Beneath the thin slits, eyes glitter with anger.

  ‘Sisters don’t snitch on one another. Nor do Kittens. Remember that the next time you want to win a smile from the Abbess.’

  The hand lets go. Beth rolls over, belly heaving. Manure pours out of her mouth and splatters onto the cobbles. Her eyes and nose sting.

  Footsteps drift away. Muttering voices. Some faraway door opens and closes. Alone in the yard. Sheets flap as another gust blows between the chimneys. Others are crumpled phantoms lying prone on the ground.

  I’ll have to wash them. The only sane thought Bethany can squeeze out of her mind. She blinks, brings things into focus. A flagstone, tiny crack splitting its surface. Grains of dirt. A clothes peg, splintered into pieces.

  Beth spits out the last of the muck and pushes herself into a kneeling position. Her breath is coming in loud whoops. Black threads wriggle across her vision.

  ‘I’m going to die,’ she whispers.

  A pair of hands heave her into the air and carry her across the yard like a sack of oats. She tries to struggle but the arms holding her are firm. Ahead lies the horse trough. ‘No—’

  Cold water smacks against her skin. It fills her ears, swills out her mouth. She swallows. Cool fingers slide down her throat into her belly. A hand pushes her deeper, sluicing the last of the manure from her nose.

  Out. Fresh air. The world smelling as it should. Floods of water course down the front of her day gown. Hair flaps about her ears like wet reeds. The hands lift her out of the trough and smooth threads of sopping hair off her forehead. Leonardo’s face swims into focus. ‘Better now?’

  ‘Hurts . . .’ Beth splutters.

  ‘But thou art clean, and will live. Pride injured more than anything, I wager, as was their intention.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thy Sisters have punished thee for a reason only thou canst know. Give thyself a moment, then I shall take thee to Kingfisher where thou canst dry in front of his stove. I shall fetch a fresh garment from the House.’

  ‘I can’t go back.’

  ‘Thou canst not stay here. Best make thy mind up.’

  Beth eases herself upright, clinging to the edge of the trough for support. Her knees quiver but keep her on her feet. ‘The mess—’

  ‘Stable girl will clean up. ’Twas her fault horseshit was there in the first place. Do as I say. Thy pride will mend.’ He nods towards the House. ‘After thou hast dried out, things must be mended in there.’

  Settling Accounts

  Rain starts falling in long, wet lances, smacking forcefully on the cobbles. Kingfisher pulls his coat tighter and peers into the muddied skies. Many times he had stood outside his hut in the forest of his homeland, revelling in the fresh, cleansing downpours that sometimes blew in from the coast. Here, the rainwater is harsh and choked with soot.

  ‘No darkie is ever going to extort coin out of me.’

  Kingfisher draws his attention back to the squawking buffoon in front of him. ‘Your debt grows heavy and is long overdue. I am afraid I must insist, sir, especially as you have enjoyed yet another long session at the gaming tables.’

  ‘I barely step out of the coach and you accost me in my own stableyard. How long have you been lurking here?’

  ‘Not long, sir. Your whereabouts was common knowledge. The account must be settled. The House has granted you good grace for long enough.’

  The client glances at Leonardo, standing like a misshapen boulder by the yard gate, then turns back to Kingfisher. ‘Very well, I shall fetch your cursed payment out of my strongbox. You can wait out here and get a soaking, and if it costs you a fever then so be it.’

  The back door slams. Kingfisher tugs his hat lower across his forehead. A foul night to go chasing bad debt. The client is as obnoxious as they always are but everyone pays in the end. In one manner or another.

  Movement by the stable door interrupts his musings. A shape is hunched over the ground, hands scrabbling over the cobbles. Kingfisher steps forward for a better look. A young woman, her skin as dark as his own. She is trying to winkle manure from between the stones, but the rain is turning it into a foul sludge that slips between her fingers and splatters her knees. She hears the scrape of boots coming towards her and looks up, water smearing oily drops down the course of both cheeks. His eyes know the cut of her face, as she knows his.

  Kingfisher does not believe this encounter to be fated, though there are those whose lives are channelled by such things. Rather, this is another example of the great, endless roll of numbers that determines the way of the universe coming up with an event, a moment, a point where a decision one way or the other can change lives. It doesn’t matter whether this woman had remained cowering at the back of the slaver cage until sold, or whether she fled with some of the others, only to be recaptured somewhere down the dark road. She is here. Now.

  The words come to his mouth before his mind has time to consider them. ‘I am sorry,’ he says in their mother tongue. ‘I shall try to make this right.’

  She looks at him, mouth shivering in the cold, eyes full of disbelief. ‘Can you make it right for those who died on the boat? Can you make it right for those who have died since? You could not save your own wife, Osei, so how can you help me? I am a slave now.’

  ‘I know your voice. It was you who whispered into my ear during that long voyage. Even above the groans of the ill and dying I heard you. I know what I have done.’

  ‘Truthfully, Osei? You walked away with that white man, leaving us in our cage, not looking back. Here you are now, driven in a carriage and wearing those foolish clothes. The man who holds me here is in fear of you, despite his noisy words. How did you come to have such power, Osei? Who else have you abandoned or betrayed?’

  The back door opens. Kingfisher slips a hand under the girl’s arm. He half expects her to jerk away, but she allows herself to be helped up without protest. The client is halfway across the yard with a purse dangling from his fingers. When he sees them an oily grin slides across his mouth. ‘Like the look of that one, do you? She’s not much of a belly warmer, I can testify.’

  ‘Give her to me and your debt is settled.’

  The client laughs. ‘Want one of your own do you, blackie? Then take her by all means. Like the rest of your breed she’s of scant use to me.’

  Leonardo drives them back to the House. If he has any thoughts on the matter he keeps them to himself. Kingfisher smuggles the girl up to his chambers, wraps her in the coverlet from his bed and feeds her the cold supper that is waiting for him. She gives the thanks her father taught her to and says nothing more, watching him with those moon-pool eyes while she eats.

  ‘You will stay in here for now,’ he tells her. ‘I shall talk to my mistress. A place may be found here for you.’

  ‘So I am still a slave then, Osei? As are you?’

  ‘Every village has its chief, even in this cold-lashed land. It is a blessing that some are kinder than others.’

  ‘My family calls to me. I want to go home.’

  ‘So do I, little one. So do I.’

  She sleeps with him in his bed and, whatever she expects, he doesn’t touch her. Next morning he collects the breakfast tray and smuggles a little extra. Later, in the kitchen, a commotion outside draws everyone to the window.

  ‘Looks like the Sisters are punishing one of their own,’ Cook says. ‘It’s that new girl.’

  Along with the maids, Kingfisher watches the events in silence. When the yard has emptied he goes out to the stables. He studies the shivering girl perched on a stool before the stove, horse blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  ‘You are making a pretty mess of the tack-room floor,’ he observes.

  ‘Pardon me, but it was your friend Leonardo who dunked
me in the trough.’

  Kingfisher nods. ‘Better water than horseshit.’

  ‘Don’t pretend to care, darkie. I didn’t cry. Not a tear. Nor would I if my hand had been cut off.’

  ‘You are not very civil in your tongue, English girl, no matter what table manners they might have taught you.’

  She doesn’t appear to know what to say to that. They look at each other for a moment. He doubts he can stare her down. She seems ready to wait until next winter before moving that hard gaze. Fingers run across her shorn head.

  ‘I always had pretty hair,’ she mutters. ‘I doubt it will ever grow back the same.’

  ‘That may be, but do not complain to me. I am forced to wear these rancid wigs. My scalp feels as if angry insects have bitten it. The cologne makes me sneeze and the food turns my stomach.’

  ‘Look, Kingfisher, I—’

  ‘Kingfisher is not my name. It is something I was made to take, trained to answer to as if I were a dog. If I spoke it in the forest the trees would not hear. It has no meaning.’

  ‘You don’t like it here?’

  He glances out the window. ‘It is nearly always raining, and cold. Clouds never seem to lift from the rooftops, and there is no friendliness in the wind. Even the birds have nothing to say, and your horses are stupid. They do not think for themselves because you bind them in saddles and harnesses, and make them pull huge wooden tombs crammed with noisy people. Their spirits are chained, like your women are chained. In my tribe old men died with a full set of teeth. Here, even children’s mouths are rotten.’

  ‘Well, it’s better than being a savage.’

  ‘What exactly do you believe?’ Kingfisher faces her. ‘That we eat babies fresh from the womb? That we garnish our food with their brains and slaughter their mothers to appease some form of animal god? Yet you murdered us by the hundred, perhaps the thousand. You are the interloper in our country: the savage, the barbarian. Your god is foreign and pagan in our eyes. Our land, the ground on which we lived and died and worshipped for generations, has become your killing ground. Now your blood has mingled with the blood of our ancestors and poisoned it.’