by H C Storrer
Jack looked up at him, his mouth filled with the yeasty warmth of fresh bread. For a while, he just chewed slowly. Jack knew what the cleric wanted. Instead he just sat there looking anywhere but at the priest—he wasn’t altogether sure if he was ready to talk.
“And what is your name?” the Priest finally prodded.
“Jack,” his reply pushed through the food in his mouth.
“Well, Jack. You don’t look the part of a thief. Would you mind telling me what it is that those men want?” John pressed.
Jack put his food down, drank half the cup, and then cleaned his teeth in silence. Slowly, he sat up in his chair, his mother’s memory chiding him for slouching. Straightening his shirt, he pulled back his hair. “I may not look a thief, but I am.”
“Well come now. What could you have stolen that would bring the Runners down upon you?” John was still incredulous.
Jack pulled the karambit from the sheath behind his back and slapped it on the table. “I have been a thieving no-count for the past three years, Sir. I cut purses and pockets on Lombard Street, and I lead a pack of boys who have no bread and no home unless they take it. I am what they say I am, but I don’t think that’s completely wrong.”
The Priest let a kindly smile stretch his wrinkles. “It is against the commandments of God to steal.”
“What about the commandment not to starve to death? Or to freeze on a cold winter night? What are me lost boys supposed to do then?” Jack grew indignant.
The Priest nodded his head slowly. “Well, I see I am in the company of a philosopher.”
“It’s not philosophy. This is the cold, hard facts.” Jack narrowed his eyes and retrieved his knife. “They plan on hanging me. What are those twelve boys… what are those boys going to do when I’m gone?”
With a slight smile, the Priest folded his hands. “You are well spoken. Years on the street have not taken that from you. Judging by the tinge of your tongue, I would say you are from Cornwall. Am I correct?”
Jack paused, his confidence suddenly cold.
John let the question hang in the air as he examined his ornate crucifix, the dim candle light reflecting off the clear stone in the center caught Jack’s eye. “You were not raised poor, but educated—up until three years ago, that is?” He leaned forward, the boy’s vision shifting from the jeweled crucifix to John’s eyes.
“Tell me, son. What happened?”
Chapter 16
“L ook everywhere!” Talmage issued orders to his men as they burst into the entrance chamber.
“This is a house of God!” John shouted, standing with raised arms before Talmage. “You have no business treating it like an ale house!”
Talmage took a step forward and wiped a trickle of blood from his nose, deep purple bruises surrounding each eye. “Tha’s not what ’is judgeship says. ’Ee says as long as we suspect there is a dangerous fugitive in the area, we ’as an obligation to search far and wide to ensure public safety.” He handed a wrinkled paper to the priest and stepped past. “I want this criminal off the streets. You best stay out of our way, old man.”
Jack felt like a mouse, huddled in a barrel in the storage room. Silently, the sweat collected on his eyelids as the moment’s dragged on, his calf muscles burning from his cramped position. The cold of the cellar and the wooden cask about him made it eerily reminiscent of a tomb. “C’mon. ’Ee ain’t down ’ere,” George huffed. As the men scurried up the steps, Jack released the air he had pent up in his lungs in a long, silent sigh. The priest had put his own neck on the line and Jack was not about to move, at least while the Runners were still milling about. Trying to resist the sweating pain, he remained motionless, his eyes welded shut until suddenly the lid to the barrel lifted off.
“They’ve left.” John smiled kindly down at him.
***
Jack rested on his back, staring at the dank walls of his dark chamber, his stone room made all the colder by the vapid expanse of the chapel that lay just beyond. It had been weeks since he had climbed the bell tower, and still the conversation with the priest hummed in the twilight of his thoughts.
‘You have suffered more than…’ John’s voice cracked in his memory. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Sanctuary?’ Jack had asked. ‘More like a prison.’
‘That is a matter of perspective.’ the Good Father replied.
Swinging his feet from his small cot, Jack sat up. With a sigh, he looked around the sparse closet of a room. “Perspective,” Jack exhaled through gritted teeth. In exchange for sanctuary from the Runners, he had agreed to stay at the church, functioning as the caretaker and assistant to the priest when required.
Despite the close call, by the end of his first week the church had not only begun to feel like a prison, the stone walls and poor light made it look like one as well. The only view of the outside came when he climbed the stairs to clean the bells. Unfortunately, a pair of Runners standing guard across the street always spoiled it—evidence that Talmage was not about to give up.
Dressed in some used clothes from the donations box, Jack stepped into the empty expanse before the sanctuary. It was Sunday, and once again the priest had suggested that he come to the services. The words still itched his bones ‘It would do you good to hear the word of God, child.’
“Jack, glad to see you are up early,” John’s voice yanked him from his musings.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Jack argued. “If the Runners see me they might drag me out by my hair!” Attending the services had been at the bottom of his list of things to do and this excuse had proven effective in diswading the priest before.
John nodded. “I do think it might be best if we didn’t draw attention to your presence.” With a jerk of his head, the Priest motioned for Jack to follow as he swiftly led him through the back hall, making for the sanctuary. Coming to a stop in front of a large tapestry embroidered with a huge crucifix, John suddenly turned to face Jack. “I will only show you this if you promise to never use it without my permission. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Jack replied, confused at the Priest’s sudden sternness.
John sighed and hesitantly reached up, pulling on one of the many sconces spaced along the wall. With a grinding pop, the worn tapestry fluttered with a gush of damp, stale air. Pulling the long, embroidered wool aside, John revealed the outline of a door in the masonry. With a light push, he forced the stone to turn on its hinges, revealing a dark staircase behind it. “These stairs lead to a gap halfway up the wall.”
“Where?” Jack’s head twisted on his neck.
Gripping him by the shoulder, John smiled. “You cannot see it from inside the chapel. That is the point, after all. Faith is believing, Jack; it’s there. When the service is over, I’ll let you out.”
***
With a huff, Jack extinguished the dancing flame of his candle and repeatedly blinked his eyes against the afterglow of the wick. Moments later, the humid black of the corridor gave way to the gleaming shafts of light peeking through the stone at intervals along the passageway. Moving to the closest one, he put his eye to the slim crag and was rewarded with a view of the Good Father at the altar preparing the choirboys in their frocks for service.
As the dulcet tones began to echo through the chamber, the chapel quickly filled with a small congregation. With disgust, Jack watched as the rotund Talmage with his faithful dog George strode to the front-most pew and sat with a contented smirk on his face. Jack sighed and leaned back. The blaggard knew what he was doing, his presence a message that Jack could hear loud and clear; his chances of escape were about as slim as the subtle wind whistling through the cracks in the mortar about him. The prison of the church began to drown his spirits in melancholy as John’s voice raised in echo through the chapel. Closing his eyes, Jack started to drift off to sleep, imagining the plight of his boys much like the poor waifs at the rear of the chapel: both dependent on the mercy from the wealthy gentry at the front.
***
&nbs
p; “That was a fine sermon, Your Grace.” Anna approached Father John as he returned to the chapel after seeing the last of his patrons off. Twisting her hands with nervous trepidation, Anna hesitated, not knowing how to say what she needed to say. She had scarcely gone to any form of church service in her youth, and her only interaction with Father John had been as a maid in Lord Cunningham’s home.
“Thank you, my child.” John reached out and took her fidgety hands between his own to steady them. “Is something troubling you?”
“I… I feel as if I have sinned somfin sorely.” The words came out in a tumble as a deep cherry bloomed across her cheeks, her eyes downcast.
“My dear? This is no cathedral and I am no servant of the pope. It is not required that you confess your sins to me, but to God.”
“I know, Your Grace, but I am so confused…” Anna looked up once more to see the priest’s eyes scrutinizing the wall over her shoulder. “I apologize, you must ’ave much more important duties to tend to than listen to a silly girl.”
John’s eyes darted back to hers, “Nonsense, my child. You may not have to confess to me, but that does not mean you cannot seek my counsel. Let me fix us a cup of tea.” John ushered her to his office door, taking one last glance to where he knew Jack was sitting behind the wall, trying to convey his apology.
Deep behind the stone, his eyes welded closed, Jack was oblivious to the pair and only snapped from his slumber as the priest’s office door banged shut. Laying completely still, his breath heavy through his nostrils, Jack started up with the sensation that he had tumbled from the top of the belfry. Briefly licking the dryness from his lips, he pulled the disheveled strands of black hair from his face and peered down into the silent, echoey expanse of the chapel. Rubbing his eyes, he took a second look at the emptiness. The sense of abandonment put him to his feet, and slowly he started down the corridor. “Father,” he whispered hoarsely. Again, after a few steps he repeated a bit louder, “Your Eminence.” Rather than risk capture, he silenced; there had to be a reason the Good Father would have left him hidden where he was. Still, with the blackness consuming him he pressed on, looking for answers to the why. Peeking from cracks in the stone at several intervals, he was no closer to an explanation when he descended the staircase he had remembered.
Stumbling through the dark, he groped his way forward, the back of his mind nudging that this was unfamiliar; he had never been here before. With a cold chill spreading goosebumps across his arms, Jack paused, unsure of why he felt so uneasy. Eventually he would run into the wall at the back of the sanctuary, that he was sure of. If the door had opened from the outside, there had to be a latch from the interior. As his steps continued downward it seemed he had traveled much farther than when John had let him in. It was when he started to go back up that he stopped. He had indeed taken a wrong turn. A tinge of panic pricked his neck as he realized the passageway was not just a secret corridor within the walls of the church—it was a labyrinth, one he had no light to navigate. Just as he was to turn back, he stopped, a sliver of light beckoning. Aiming his eyes at the opening, he continued upward, fresh air leaking in with the daylight. Ahead in the corridor he could feel the lazy breeze upon his face from outside.
“Jack,” John’s voice echoed from somewhere behind him. It was far enough away that the first bit was muffled along the stone. “Jack!” It reverberated once more.
Turning, he peered as best he could into the tunnel. He was sure this was a way out. Not a way back into the church, but a way out, one the Runners would have no mind to find.
“Jack!” John’s voice carried on, growing louder as he ascended the staircase to the overlook. Turning, Jack rushed back to where he’d come from. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain his absence to the priest, but one thing was certain, he wasn’t about to let John know he knew anything more about the hidden chambers.
Chapter 17
J ack rushed about his work, leaning between the pews with his rag. He knew John would have an eye upon the sanctuary. He wouldn’t be able to get back into the corridor from behind the tapestry. However, as he thought about his time in the overlook one little detail continually returned about the ascent. He was sure that part of the staircase wound up near the bell tower. There was one place in particular that he wanted to investigate: the little cabinet he had first hid in weeks before. Something about it beckoned him.
“You seem to be in a hurry, Jack.” Like lightning, Jack dropped the rag and spun into a crouch, the gleaming blade of the karambit poking out from his fist. John stood nearby with a sour look on his face. “I told you I do not want weapons in here, Jack. This is a sanctuary from the world.”
Jack straightened, looking down at the blade now held loosely in his hand. “I’m sorry, Your Eminence. It’s a force of habit. It won’t happen again.”
“There is no need for such things here.” John reached out and took hold of Jack’s hand, securing it around the karambit. “Please, no titles, call me John. Now, I will let you keep hold of the past—I cannot force it from you—but I would wish one day you would hand it and this blade over to me. Be free of who you were, Jack.”
Nodding silently, Jack chewed the side of his cheek and hesitantly put the blade into the back of his belt.
John’s jovial smile returned. “You’ve done a good job today.” Jack looked around. He had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed he was standing at the last row. “That’s enough to be getting along with. I’m not sure what I would do without you.” The Priest held out a worn Bible. “Who knows, you could find a new life in that book, an absolution for the guilt of your past mistakes.”
Jack nodded half-heartedly. “Your Emi… John, I’m not—”
“Take the book, Jack.” The Priest cut him off, shoving the Bible into his chest. “It’s time to polish those rough edges.”
***
It was late afternoon when Jack made his way quietly past John’s office. As usual, the Good Father was well into his nap, snoring loudly. Even so, Jack was under no illusions. The priest was no fool, and when the handles of the bell tower doors refused to budge, his suspicions were confirmed. Setting his lantern silently to the ground, he bent to his knees and retrieved his trusty knife. Along the loop at the end of the handle, Jack slowly unwound a thin stiff wire he kept there just for this purpose. Living on the street had taught him a thing or two: how to throw a punch, how to work as a team, and especially how to pick a lock. Going to work, Jack smirked with satisfaction when, within a few seconds, the tumbler clicked and the door popped ajar. In no time he was quietly through, standing before the white and black chevrons of the little closet. His memory of an empty cupboard with a bit of rope dashed against the reality; it was now filled with all manner of broken furniture and old blankets ready to be cut up for rags. As quietly as he could, Jack shifted the debris enough to spy the metal rings lined across the back of the cabinet. Pausing only a second, Jack smiled to himself as he noticed one of the rings was brass where the others were dull iron. Pressing firmly against the barrier of junk, Jack stretched and looped his middle finger into the ring and twisted, instantly tumbling forward in a muffled heap as everything gave way to the darkened passage behind.
Jack froze where he lay, afraid the sound would draw John to his presence. He only started to move when time ticked by without a noise anywhere to be heard. Gingerly rolling off the pile, he peered along the dark channel that sloped downward, his lantern darkened and useless from the fall. Not wanting to waste a moment, Jack ignored the junk at his feet and closed the door to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He would replace the contents of the cabinet when he returned. Jack took a few steps in measured movements, then a few more, all the while feeling the rough wall as a guide. His confidence grew as the air began to shift from cool and damp to warm and dry as the downward slope of the passage leveled out. Unable to control his eagerness, Jack began to move at a rushed pace, the anticipation of freedom mounting. Running quickly, his excitement c
ame to a jolting halt as his head collided with a wooden beam.
Stars burst across his vision as Jack collapsed to his knees with a groan. With labored effort, he slid back up the wall and braced his hand against the low ceiling while the floor continued to spin. He could feel the beginnings of a bump on the crown of his head as he delicately rubbed a tender hand across his scalp. Refocusing on his mission, Jack tentatively slid his hand along the smooth wood planks above, brushing aside ages of tattered cobwebs, coming to a stop when his fingers found another dangling metal ring. Not sure what he would find on the other side of the hatch, he slowly twisted the ring until it clicked, then cautiously pushed it up a crack, revealing an empty, dimly lit stone chamber. With renewed confidence, Jack pushed the hatch open wide enough to slip out leaving a trail in the dust that coated the floor.
The room was much brighter than he’d initially thought. Looking up, he could make out the thin fissures that ran sporadically through the stone roof of the cavern, allowing enough of the afternoon rays to light the room. Jack stood in the center of the small chamber and rested his hands on his hips, disappointed. He had come all this way and almost knocked himself unconscious for a musty stone room. There was no other exit as far as he could tell. Resigned to the fact that his adventure had come to rather flat end, he moved to the hatch in the floor, but then stopped short. His heart quickening, Jack watched in wonder as a rush of wind spiraled through the room, collecting leaves and debris in gentle swirls as it coursed through the chamber. With hypnotizing rhythm, his hair began to dance in the eddies of fresh air about his head. Jack paused at the sublime sense of peace washing over him. Savoring the experience, he could feel the sound of his heart in his ears like the pounding of waves against the hull of the Black Auger. His trepidation eased to calm as the tranquil memory of his first voyage settled his pulse. The sea spray that night had calmed him against the storm of Nathan’s temper and had been an awakening to his soul. Even now, standing on terra firma, he could once again feel the unmistakable mist of Neptune’s breath upon his cheeks.