Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  But it was with great trepidation that, after months of silence, it was assumed they’d met with some ungodly catastrophe. They hadn’t taken enough supplies for more than four weeks, and none of the company had returned to gather more or seek help. Not even the pick-pocket boys who scoured the filthiest, darkest reaches of the Barathrum had heard a whisper. Beaulac and his men had disappeared.

  A year passed, and still there was no word. Anxiety fell over the church as the party was presumed dead. It was not until thirteen months after their initial descent that, ragged, pale, emaciated and catatonic, Beaulac’s body appeared. He was discovered alone, at the edge of the darkness, in a lower level of the city, helpless and slack as a sacrificial lamb. An inch from death, his body was found splayed in a pool of black water. The darkness had “spewed him out,” they said.

  For many years, he never spoke, falling prey to a nervous condition and remaining a shadow for the rest of his days. It wasn’t until the anniversary of the expedition’s dawn, seven years after his rescue, that he is said to have spoken. Using the little breath left in his body, he uttered the phrase that was thereafter to be the city’s name. One that proclaimed its infamy to all: Barathrum, the devourer of souls. And within a month’s passing, he disappeared.

  ~

  Several levels beneath the earth, a group of officer thieves were gathered. Light was scarce this deep, but so were threats to their safety and sovereignty. Few had the courage to travel this far into the Barathrum’s depths, or the knowledge to navigate it if they dared.

  They were agitated, squabbling there in the firelight. It was because of their men. They were disappearing by the dozens. They’d never lost such great numbers before, not in any fight. And though they didn’t care to admit it, it terrified them. There were few creatures in existence who could challenge their lord. They’d only heard vague stories, tales too fearful to be believed. But the things they’d witnessed of late were turning them into true believers, and it chilled their blood; making the hands of these fierce, worldly men shake. And they resented every second of it.

  Their lord had made no efforts to explain what was happening, or why he was so bent on utilizing manpower and time to retrieve a seemingly useless girl. Handsome or not, she wasn’t worth it. The risk of retrieving her had proven great, claiming lives by the dozens. They had risked their necks for him plenty over the years, and he now repaid them with this dalliance, this indifference. The men weren’t having it. The officers could smell mutiny and discontent, not only in the ranks but among their own company. If something didn’t happen soon, they feared matters would turn violent and undesirable for all. They were here as a last resort, come to seek greatly-needed answers to appease themselves and their men.

  After a short wait, Blackall appeared. He materialized from the shadows, tricking their eyes. Had he appeared out of thin air? None could tell, and it produced it’s usual chilling effect. His steps cracked ominously as he strolled into the room. Angry as they were, they still felt diminished by his arrival. His presence had the most potent ability to subdue those around him. They realized, ever anew, that this should never be underestimated.

  His complexion was markedly pale and his eyes sunken, their look far away and harried. His dark hair hung ragged about his face. As usual, he hadn’t been summoned or made aware of their presence. When they gathered, desirous of his presence, he materialized. The men had grown accustomed to this over the years, knowing that if they got together and waited long enough, he would come.

  He’d been absent from the ranks of late, adding to the appearance of indifference to the men’s plight. The three officers of highest rank, those who reported directly to him, stepped forward: Dossett, Kenward and Barrow.

  Dossett was a tall man with a shock of dark, wavy hair that crept around his eyes. His form was unassuming, his posture a bit concave. But he was a frighteningly clever man. His eyes betrayed a piercing, intelligent ruthlessness that inspired fear in all those who had dealings with him. Any man with half a mind knew never to cross him. For while he was willing to absorb any present defeat humbly and pretend submission, his will would always be exacted in the end. He knew how to wait and plot, no matter how long it took. Crossing him was a crime one would pay for later and suddenly, when all thought of it had gone. Unsurprisingly, his position under Blackall was achieved through cutthroat strategy and cunning. Most assumed Blackall had given it to him to keep a close eye on him. He was Blackall’s fiercest dog.

  Kenward was of a more wholesome stock, though no fool. He was a fair-haired, congenial man who inspired loyalty in all who served him. He’d the air of an innocent badly betrayed by this world, an idealist rent to the heart by injustice and adversity. But it’d taught him to be shrewd and discerning. Though soft at heart, there was nothing soft about his head. He always acted wisely and decisively, for he’d learned to do the meanest of tasks out of necessity. Word was, he’d been an honest man once, but was betrayed by his partner, who pinned a terrible crime upon him. His familial connections were said to be dissolved as well, though none knew why. Taking succor beneath the ground, his quality was soon proven to all around him. Anyone with eyes to see could perceive what burned behind his own - heartbreak and betrayal of the deepest kind. None of the men dared to ask about his past, for their respect and loyalty towards him was great. He was a valuable asset, a brave man, an administer of justice and a keeper of the peace.

  Barrow was the most pitiless and violent of the lot. He put on the appearance of decency, enough to get on with the other men and keep his position. But it was clear what simmered beneath the surface. His brand of ruthlessness, once released, was the kind that took pleasure in the application of violence, and asked forgiveness of no one. It was a weakness, a thoughtlessness acted out through the limbs. But he found an audience in several of the men. They liked his particular brand of irreverent spunk and looked up to him, willing to risk blows by remaining so close. Others sidled past as if he were a rabid animal, fearful of outbursts.

  The high officers had agreed to voice the concerns of their fellows, though they did so with trepidation, for Blackall was a fierce commander. Fearful things came of upsetting him. But the risk of mutiny, though serious, was only a fraction of their true concern. What was this thing, this threat that claimed their numbers? It couldn’t be any of the enemies they knew. It ate away at them, feeding anxiety into their hearts. The men were like frenzied animals, difficult to command. And they knew, somehow, that now was not the time for a breach in the ranks. Something was coming.

  “My lord,” Kenward’s voice rang out diplomatic as always. “We’ve gathered here to... That is, we’ve come, having employed our best efforts to satisfy your desire to recapture the young woman.”

  Kenward pronounced the last word with a touch of scorn, likely without meaning to. But Blackall’s nose turned up at this, his eyes blazing. His look could’ve frightened a devil. Seeing this, Kenward froze and ducked his head in submission. He looked to his brother officers for assistance, so Dossett stepped forward and bowed, biting the bullet. He was by far the boldest of the lot.

  “My lord,” said Dossett in his deep, intelligent voice, “Our men are disappearing. A mysterious threat holds us by the throat, and yet we take these risks. And for what do we take them? Our men are on the verge of mutiny. Why risk their lives, or indeed anything milord, for some young girl? What does she offer? To you, milord, or to this great city? What does our great legion stand to gain from this spoilt child? She is replaceable, and by the simplest of means. If you wish a pretty little thing like her, we could get one off the street for mere pennies. Men could bring one here in moments, a dozen if you like...”

  Blackall’s look hadn’t changed. But something pricked through the air, a sense of electricity all around him. It thinned the air, burning their throats and sending a warning. Their courage began to fold. They sensed, somehow, that their assumptions had been wrong.

  After a pause, Barrow stepped forward to
do his part. He was not one to stand up for another, nor to lay challenge to anyone who could harm his own position. But he must appear to do his part. His voice rang out in the heavy silence.

  “My lord,” he said. “Why do you seek this girl?”

  Blackall’s eyes softened slightly, but the rest of him remained fixed.

  “Bring no more questions to my door,” he warned the officers. “Only trust what I say, for I say it only once. She is essential to the survival of this city.”

  The men’s faces twisted in shock. How could this be true? But they sucked their skeptical looks back in as Blackall’s eyes turned on them.

  “What is known of Edward Daveye?” Blackall demanded sternly.

  The men shifted nervously on their feet, searching each other’s faces for an answer. Kenward stepped forward dutifully.

  “He is gone,” Kenward said. “Presumed dead, sir.”

  Blackall was silent for a moment, his expression pensive.

  “Bringing her back,” Blackall said, his tone grave. “It is the only assurance you shall get, for yourselves and the men.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The Haeg

  Annabelle woke to gusts of wind rattling the window pane. It was a warm, blustery morning, and she remembered excitedly that she was expecting a letter. The thought perked her senses in an instant. Checking the battered time piece on the vanity, she saw it was nearly noon. She’d overslept terribly! She jumped out of bed, anxious to check downstairs for the letter’s arrival. She was sure Mr. Daveye would be able to shed light on all that was happening to her, perhaps even aid her. She felt such joy and relief at the thought of it! Even if he didn’t have all the answers to her questions, it would be such a relief to speak to someone about all this. He’d wished to say so much to her back in that cell, and this would be his chance. She ached to hear his words!

  She dressed herself quickly and scurried downstairs, checking always for the footman she’d entrusted her note to - the amiable and helpful John. She kept a sharp eye out for Ackworth too. Luckily, there was no sign of the housekeeper. She eventually found John in the kitchens, stuffing a biscuit into his mouth as if it was the last he’d ever taste. When he saw her he stood up and, after brushing crumbs from his face crudely with a forearm, pulled a letter from his pocket. Her heart skipped excitedly at the sight of it. John’s mouth was too full to speak before she grabbed it and searched it’s cover. But, her heart sank as she realized it was her own note returned to her.

  “Went to the place you said, miss,” said John apologetically, “And it weren’t an ‘ouse. T’were a museum o‘ some kind. Even asked for this man,” his thick finger pointed to Mr. Daveye’s name written in her own handwriting, care of M. Gurza. “But they said as there was no one by that name associa’ed with the place.”

  Annabelle let out a deep sigh. She checked and rechecked the address. She’d written it correctly, hadn’t she? What did this mean?

  “They said,” he continued, “That it weren’t even a right address. That there’s no existin‘ address as that. Closest to it were the museum, but it takes up the whole 300 block. Even asked if there was a woman by the name o’ Gurza as lived nearby, and they said not in the whole of the neighborhood was there one. The young man seemed to know the neighborhood well, and was quite sure.”

  John patted her consolingly on the shoulder, his ruddy face turning up into a sympathetic smile. Forcing a smile in return, she thanked John for his efforts, took her returned letter and went to get some breakfast of her own. Not that she was terribly hungry anymore. She’d been so encouraged by the thought of Mr. Daveye’s help and guidance, had felt so sure of it promising a clearer future. She was finding it hard not to fall into an attitude of bitter discouragement.

  She dropped onto a stool in the kitchen, and grabbed a biscuit from the plate, sipping discontentedly at some tea while the kitchen staff bustled about their work indifferently. She watched the cook, Abby, knead dough with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and flour peppered over her top half. The woman gazed up briefly, her expression one of distracted apathy. If only there was someone here who could help her like Mr. Daveye could. The staff had been much more friendly to her since her recent disappearance and return, for which she was grateful. But there was no one she could speak to, or ask advice from. If she told them what’d happened, they’d call her mad. She watched as Abby took smaller pieces of the dough, added them to the larger and kneaded them all together. The motion was almost hypnotic. As she watched, something gnawed at her. She felt there was something about this address that she’d missed.

  She couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that Mr. Daveye had given her this name and address on purpose. He didn’t seem the type to make mistakes. Small ones perhaps, but for him to mistake both name and address regarding such an important matter seemed unlikely. He was clearly a clever, educated man.

  Perhaps she was being stubborn, refusing to give up on the only clue that she had. But she felt she must go to this address and investigate. It was her only lead. If she didn’t learn all she could about what was happening to her, and quickly, it would likely be her undoing. There were enemies all about her - closing in, plotting - and they knew how to get inside her uncle’s home. For heaven’s sake, she’d been abducted from this very house while everyone slept in their beds! Dropping what remained of her biscuit, she ran upstairs and dressed herself to go out. She packed her candle and put on her hooded cloak. It would be easy to hide beneath the draping hood and mask her face from enemies. Sidling past the staff, she found her way back down to the front door. No one seemed to notice her departure. She hoped the same would happen with Blackall’s men, if any remained outside. But before she could step out, her arm was grasped in a tight grip.

  “Headed out, miss?”

  It was John.

  “Um, I-I...” She stuttered. In truth, she was never allowed out for any reason. So, inventing an excuse seemed pointless.

  “You ain’t goin‘ after that bad address, are ye?” John asked. “And not on foot?”

  The man sounded scandalized that any inhabitant of Orenn House would consider such a thing. She was strapped for words. He’d guessed her plan exactly. She tried to think up a lie but was taking far too long at it, her eyes shooting about the room for inspiration and her bottom lip laying slack. Interpreting an answer from her silence, John shook his head in reproach.

  “Can’t let ye do that, miss,” he said. “It’s hardly safe. What with you disappearin’ just recently.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant she must be protected from kidnappers or prevented from running away. Likely, to him, it made little difference. Annabelle fumed. Was she to be thwarted in every effort today?

  “I suppose,” he said, “I could take ye in the carriage. Be foolish to let ye roam the streets unaccompanied. Yer uncle’s in the country for a couple days. If ye keep the secret, so shall I.”

  He leaned towards her conspiratorially.

  “If anyone asks,” he said in a whisper. “Ye were quite determined. Er, gone already, like. I saw ye running down the street and caught ye up. Right?”

  Annabelle glowed with gratitude.

  “Yes, of course!” she said enthusiastically.

  John snuck Annabelle out the side of the house. His gray, waist-length cape swayed as he led her stealthily to the porch gate. He pulled her by the hand and opened the carriage door, looking round to make sure no one was watching. Then he jumped on top of the carriage, shaking the whole business as he went. A whip to the horses and they were off. The carriage bumped and rattled down the drive and over the cobbled streets, the horses’ hooves hitting stone in a rhythmic pattern.

  Her heart was singing. She would find her friend, Mr. Daveye! She was on top of the world! She could almost imagine she was a grown, independent woman, riding through the streets in her own carriage, free from the shackles of her young life. The streets passed in thrilling movement. She watched it’s diverse characters, her heart abuzz w
ith excitement and nerves. A few older men tipped their hat to the carriage, likely presuming it carried her uncle, and she watched their faces turn to confusion at the sight of a young woman in it’s window. She was embarrassed the first time it happened. But thereafter, she played it off gracefully, as if it was no strange thing. She imagined she was the Queen of England, benevolently acknowledging her subjects as they passed by.

  The carriage jerked to a halt much too soon for her liking. They stopped in front of an old building with stone pillars in the greek style and a very wide stairway leading to it’s front door. It must be the museum John had spoken of. She stepped out of the carriage and breathed in her surroundings. The streets were bustling with so many people, she hardly knew where to look. There were so many faces and voices. She felt mesmerized by the movement and energy, after being so long cooped up indoors. But despite the activity in the streets, the entrance to the museum was deserted.

  “How long do ye need, miss?”

  John’s face hung over the driver’s perch to speak to her.

  “Mmmm,” she considered. “Half an hour?”

  John nodded. There was plenty of traffic on the street, and their stop seemed to be jamming it up, making it impossible for him to wait.

  “Right. I’ll circle back round in ‘alf an hour’s time,” he said. “But don’t you run off anywhere else, or it’ll be my head.”