I approach him out of breath. ‘Issa! I have found you. I need to cross this river immediately. Can you help me?’
‘Weed. What kind of hurry are you in? Sit with us a while. We were just going to get some bread and butter in while we wait for the night to come. That’s when things get really interesting around the docks.’ His mates laugh at their joke.
‘There’s no time to wait. Little Ruth has gone across the river alone, to a place called the Bleak market.’
At the name Issa’s eyes widen and he looks across the sludge of the Thames. ‘She is a brave one.’ He points to a gloomy settlement clinging to the southern shore downriver. It is swathed in heavy fumes and dank smoke. ‘There’s Rotherhithe. It is a grim place for a little girl. You’ll need a wherry to get across.’
One of his mates says a few words in their language and points to a flat-bottomed boat bobbing at the river’s margin. Issa takes my hand and together we jump in the vessel. ‘These are common currency among the dock workers.’ He winks at me. ‘We will borrow it for the afternoon. If it is missed by an angry captain then we can pay on our return.’
Issa punts us skilfully across the murky waters; they swirl around the bow, cold and oppressive. The Thames is shallow on the south side and approaching the shore black effluence churns, filling the air with stink and rot. There are no docklands of clean-cut stone to mark where the river and the land meet; instead the mudflats emerge from the depths. I see a dingy patchwork of decaying hulls crowding the boggy sludge, dwellings for river gypsies: parasites on this artery of London and its trade. We run our boat aground amongst them and every eye that spies us is filled with suspicion, fear and hate. They regard our wherry enviously. I do not relish the prospect of being stranded here. I turn to Issa. ‘Will you stay, guard the boat and wait for my return?’
‘You’re not going in there alone, Weed. What is little Ruth doing coming here by herself? Very bad things happen to girls on the south side.’
Issa ties up the wherry as best he can and we pick our way downstream along the bank, thick mud jealously sucking at our boots as we go. Wooden shacks and spitting fires slither and coalesce out of the mists until we find ourselves before a grim shanty-town. At its entrance stands a small shrine. A human skull wreathed with posies and lit by votive candles. The words Noli Me Tangere are scrawled on the shrine’s base. I ask Issa, ‘What is that?’
‘It is a shrine to the Magdalene. It says: “Touch me not”.’
‘What do they trade here?’
‘It’s rough trade, Weed. Here is where you come in the city if you want to buy people. It is a dark place. Let us find Ruth and be gone as soon as possible.’
We push our way past the shrouded entranceway and a grisly crowd of men and women squats beyond the threshold. Emaciated faces etched with poverty and sickness stare up at us. I get the awful impression that the skull of the shrine has grown legs and walks in the ruined alleys of Rotherhithe. I stop and ask an old woman: ‘I’m looking for a little girl? She might have been wearing a high-waisted dress.’
‘I can get you as many girls as you please. Though fashionably dressed they aren’t, they’ll satisfy your urges.’ She speaks through blackened teeth. Cowering behind her are the small, bruised faces of children. I do not want to think of Ruth in this ghastly place. I rudely shove the woman from our path but she is only one of many creatures who casually barter the cost of women and men, girls and boys. The degradation is endless and the putrescence of alcohol and hopelessness follows us at every turn.
Even strong-stomached Issa looks grey amid this human foulness. ‘I have seen many wicked things in Europe, in Africa and Asia but this Bleak market is dreadful.’
Together we navigate this labyrinth of sadness until we reach the rear of the market where the crowd thins and the atmosphere lightens. A curious sight shines out from among the universal drabness. Garlands of lilies lie on the mud by the entrance to what looks like a hastily erected tent of white cloth. Issa and I direct ourselves towards an opening cut into the material but we find our way barred by two great African women. They are tall and thin with skin black and burnished as obsidian. They are armed with swords; one has a pistol slung about her waist.
‘Men,’ one spits, ‘are prohibited from entering here. Aren’t there enough pickings for your repulsive desires out in the market? Here the Bleak ends. Turn back or you will be forced back.’
One holds up a scimitar of curved sharp steel and threatens Issa. ‘And you especially. You look like a follower of the prophet. What do you do here among the Anglos? These killers of children. I should cut you down for showing your brown face with these other ones so pasty and besmirched.’
Issa holds up his hands to show that we bear no arms. ‘Fierce ladies. By Allah the all merciful, and by Mohammed, his prophet, peace be upon him. We are here for a purpose. We search for a friend of this man. A young girl. We fear that she has come here by her own volition to the Bleak market.’
‘You lie. All who come here are compulsed to do so. There are no volunteers at the Bleak. Even we are forced to come here; our consciences force us. To bring some salve to the suffering of the dark marketplace is our single intent and you do not belong here.’ As she talks her blade is poised at our faces, flicking from mine to Issa’s. Her eyes never leave ours and her friend’s look is equally as sharp. I peer behind them but I cannot see within the tent. There is a curious smell in the air, strange to the rest of the market but familiar to me. It is the smell of boiling Yarrow root. I look to the muck and see the discarded husks of Tansy, Motherwort and Feverfew littering the ground.
‘What goes on behind these curtains?’
‘Take one step closer and my sword will find you.’
‘Don’t you understand? I must be allowed to enter. I fear for the life of my charge.’ I try to push forward but the guardswoman flashes her blade and I am cut through. Sliced at my breast. I feel the pain of burning poison in my veins. I put my hand to the cut and bring my red stained fingers to my lips and taste. ‘It is Aconitum sap on the blade. Wolf’s Bane. I have been poisoned.’
‘Yes. Your death will be painful and well deserved, Man.’
‘I am not a man. And that poison and those medicines – Ruth is here. Please, I beg of you. Let me in.’ The guards stare at each other for a moment in silent discourse.
The scimitar wielder: ‘You should be doubled over in agony by now.’
‘Poisons don’t affect me like most others. RUTH!’ I shout from between the two women. ‘Are you there?’
A commotion sounds from within and third woman appears at the entranceway. She whips the tent tightly shut behind her and draws herself to full height. She observes me and Issa coldly. She is tall like the guardswomen but has skin the colour of pale apricot. Her eyes are deep pools of black and peer from beneath long dark curls. She is arrestingly beautiful. She addresses the swordswomen. ‘Ajani, Tunde. Why is there a man here standing? Have you not cut him to send him on his way?’
The first woman shows the blood on her blade. ‘But we have cut him and still he stands. He claims to know Ruth.’
‘I am her friend. Her guardian after a fashion. My name is Weed.’ The new arrival turns back to us with one dark eyebrow raised. I am about to speak more but she holds up her hand to prevent me before disappearing again into the tent.
The two swords are held up to prevent further ingress and we are warned calmly. ‘I’m telling you. Others have come before and we dispatched them like any dog. There is no Justice of the Peace who will search for your corpses in this place.’
Moments later the dark lady with eyes of night reappears. There is a new softness to her face but no smile betrays her deep red lips. ‘You may enter briefly. Please, sisters; thank you for your diligence but these two are free to pass. Mark me, though: none other.’
Issa and I are conducted beneath the white canopy and the first thing I notice is the scent. Fires are set with pots of boiling water and a bitter astringent stea
m hangs thickly in the air; it is not the aroma of perfume but the honest clean smell of healing herbs. Everywhere are women and girls huddled together over mugs and cans of hot brew. All cringe and shrink at our passage but we follow our guide until we reach a busy workbench. At the heart of a crowd of rags I behold Ruth handing out doses of dried herbs. I am overjoyed and run to embrace Ruth but she shoos me away, speaking quietly. ‘Weed, it is marvellous to see you.’
‘But what are you doing?’ I gesture at the line of women stretching away from the bench. There is not joy here but there is an absence of the oppressive foreboding that grips the lanes outside.
‘I am administering as best as I can to those in most need.’ She ladles a concoction into a chipped mug and hands it to an outstretched hand.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that you came to this terrible market? I see you are treating wounds.’
‘Wounds are easy to heal. Here you see suffering that is more difficult to mend.’ Ruth takes a bundle of Valerian Root and St John’s Wort, giving it to a woman ahead of her.
‘But I could have helped you.’
‘Weed, I know what I am doing. I have learned so much from you, both here in London and Soutra Aisle. These women are distrustful of men and who can blame them? Even your presence now is disruptive and we may find this clinic devoid of clients next week. And not only that.’ She sighs and turns to look at me directly. ‘We never talk of it but I know that the death of Hannah and Malina’s betrayal have taken their toll on you. Why else would you repair to the city? I thought you might wilt in London but in fact you seem stronger of mind. You are hiding. Or forgetting. Or resting. I understand that you are sick of responsibilities and wish to experience a life free of cares. If only for a short time.’ Ruth’s face loses its steely edge for a moment. ‘Dear Weed, I do not wish to burden you because if there is a lesson to my life, and I’m not sure that there is, it’s that we should take pleasure in our happiness when we can. And that’s all. God knows what the future will bring.’
‘I knew that you were not like other little girls but this is something different.’ It is Issa that speaks. ‘You have bought solace to the most unfortunate. Charity is a silent prayer; it is a perfect act.’
‘Hello Issa.’ Ruth kisses my companion on the cheek. ‘Yes. And that is the third reason why I felt no need to tell you of my efforts here. Because it brings me pleasure to help these people. Remember that Malina used me too.’ Ruth stares into the distance as if contemplating something more horrible than the misery in the tent. ‘And for a lot longer than she used you. I have done many bad things. Here at least I can do good. And it costs us nothing that we can’t afford.’
The lady who led us though the tent returns. ‘Ruth, this little one’s consumption is worsening. What can we do?’ She carries a child more bones than body in her arms. Ruth measures two spoons each of Astralagus root and Rhodiola into a billycan, filling it with boiling water before handing it to the child. She binds two doses of the same and gives it to the dark haired women.
‘Here. Let her mother have this for later. It may help with the symptoms though in this city it is doubtful the child can be finally cured. Let me introduce you. Jessica, this is Weed. Weed, Jessica.’ Jessica acknowledges me with a nod of the head and a half-smile before handing the sickly child and medicines back to a frail looking mother. ‘I help these souls with herbs if I can and if not the boiled water is at least clean to drink. Mostly the women come here because they know that they will be protected from the rabble outside and that is enough.’
I remember the cut on my chest. ‘Your guards are formidable.’
‘They have a frightening countenance. I supply the poisons for their blade. I see you have felt them first-hand, Weed. I am sorry for that.’
‘I will heal.’
Jessica regards my wound. ‘When we first arrived it took more than a frightening countenance to stake out this tent. There was violence but the men are drunken cowards, every one.’ She smiles at Issa and me. ‘In fact it was the women who gave us the most trouble. They grew up amongst this rot and now make their living by perpetuating it. But they don’t want trouble any more than we do, so we exist in truce with them.’
‘It is by force of will and arms that this place remains a sanctuary. And I’m sorry to say it, Weed, but by your entry here, you are upsetting the balance of things. You ought to go. We want no men here, be they well intentioned or ill.’
‘I will escort them out,’ says Jessica, taking Issa and me by the hands. Without another word she picks her way deftly between the cauldrons and patients, leading us back to the entranceway and into the light of day. Once outside I study her striking features. She is no delicate flower; far from it. Her expressive face is a vehicle for deeply felt emotions. It contains within it both a hardness and a humour that I find fascinating. As she breathes in the stink of the Bleak her mouth twists in displeasure to almost comic effect. She speaks in a plain and friendly fashion. ‘Weed and Issa, it was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Will Ruth be safe on her return?’
‘She is something marvellous, that little girl. Beloved by the marketplace. Tunde, Ajani and I will see to her guarded homecoming with steel and pistol if we must.’ She chuckles to herself. ‘The four bitches of the apocalypse.’
‘It was a pleasure to meet you too,’ I say to Jessica’s back as she turns. ‘May we meet again.’ I find myself talking to the closing tent flap. Jessica does not hear me; she has already retreated inside.
Chapter 29
June, First Quarter Moon
The Ball at Manchester House provided good custom, and we have made much money in the last week. I have had to visit the markets of the East End frequently to procure more herbs and Ruth and I work late into the night to complete our orders. Issa has noted that Ruth, though she may act quite the adult, is nevertheless a child and ought to have some time at leisure. He has insisted on ferrying us up the River Lea to Hackney Marshes for a day in the fresh air. I wish to do right by young Ruth, but I do not relish the thought of being among growing things. Lately the effort of blocking even the weak Green voices of London has strained me and I suffer badly from headaches. I fear my strength will be tested in the Marshes today.
The wild hop fields of Hackney Marshes are busy on the Sunday holiday in spite of the light drizzle. Almost everyone who lives in the East End and can get away from the London smog has come here today. The cockney men and women drink brown ale from bottles and sing to each other, competing with the trilling birds that perch in the low trees.
‘How I wish that Nessa and Jim could have joined us,’ says Ruth as she capers a few steps, holding her skirt skilfully.
‘I’m sure she’d have loved to, but she must tend her stall.’ On Ruth’s request the lovely Jessica accompanies us and she joins the child in her playful dance. ‘I am only lucky that there is no matinee performance on a Sunday.’
‘Oh, it must be marvellous to be on the stage, Jessica. I am so jealous.’ Ruth tells me that Jessica makes her living as an actress in Covent Garden’s Theatre Royal. The woman looks exceedingly pretty gambolling in the grasslands and I think glumly that I would rather have met her in that grey square than here in this distraction of nature. ‘Singing and dancing and weaving a spell over your audience. Courting their love and affection.’
‘That is nothing but make-believe, sweet Ruth. One day in the Bleak market means more to me than a whole season at the theatre.’
‘Run on ahead, little one!’ Issa encourages Ruth. ‘It cannot be healthy for a child to be cooped up in the great city all day and night. Try to get some air into your lungs.’
‘Thank you for your concern, but I feel like I have walked and run miles and miles.’ Ruth is studying the butterflies and trying to catch them in her hands. ‘It’s nice to take things slowly.’
‘You are a wonder, child. Sometimes you talk as if you’ve lived a dozen long lives.’ Issa rubs Ruth affectionately on her shoulder. ‘You cannot
save the world, you know, any more than you can call the butterflies into your hands.’
‘Perhaps I will surprise you one day, dear Issa. It is lovely out here. Don’t you think, Weed?’
‘It serves.’ I had hoped to manage an hour or two before the headaches came, but already I walk in agony. All around me are voices of the Green world and I block them out, every one; I do not wish to hear them.
Ruth gazes up at the clouds as they pass overhead, trying to catch raindrops on her tongue. ‘Well I like it. The air barely seems to move in the grey city. It just squats on your head all day. And all the people are out, singing and drinking beer. It’s gayer than a dozen stuffy West End balls put together. I wonder why those lovers never sing to each other.’
Jessica takes Ruth’s hand and they splash around each other in the mud. ‘You are lucky to mix in all sorts of circles, little Ruth, but you’re wise enough to know the difference between them. The folk hereabouts sing because they aren’t afraid of their feelings. It’s very strange in the West End: all grand and yet they’re afraid to laugh or cry. Fancy that? Afraid of everything really, are rich people.’
‘Oh, Jessica. You sing at the theatre. Sing to me, then,’ asks Ruth.
‘Alright I will, then, if you promise to run around a bit later:’ Jessica stops in her tracks and mugs a soppy-stern face. She holds her hand out in front of her and raises it accordingly as her voice skips from note to note, singing scales. ‘Lalalalaaa! Memememeee! Sosososooo!’ Then she jumps on the spot, dances a little jig, and affecting a cockney accent, she sings brightly to the clear air above:
‘Aaaaaaaand:
“Wot a pretty spot!” You’d cry
It’s a pic-ture on a sun-ny sum-mer’s daaay!
With the turnip tops and cabbages
Wot people doesn’t buy
I makes it on a Sun-day all look gaaaay!’
Ruth claps her hands together gleefully like any child would. ‘Oh, Jessica! How I love that song! You sound just like Nessa when you do that voice! You are funny!’ Jessica laughs at herself but I can see that she takes real pleasure in singing. Indeed the silly, simple ditty goes some way toward lightening my own mood. ‘I think I shall run a little bit after all.’ Ruth sprints into the long grass with her white frock flying out behind her.
Weed: The Poison Diaries Page 18