The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The other islands between us and the Molly House were of various sizes, and various businesses thrived there. Each jump was different, but each was just possible, even though my boots were soon so thick with mud, I had to kick them each time to clean them for the next leap. Eleven islands in total, and each entirely unexpected. One held a huge shed for wherry-building and repairing, and the tiny adjacent block made the oars. The clutter of wood and metal seemed almost as chaotic as a junkyard, but I could guess that each wherry would be an expensive thing to buy, but also the start of an excellent career. And there was no straight line, one island faced the lower city, another tipped back the way we had come. Then facing south, then jumping north before leaping to the west. We got there of course and immediately I was both glad and sorry.

  The river waters grimed and floating with bird and fish corpses was slurping up the banks towards the Molly House, and there lay a small boy I knew as Tweet, a child not more than five years old, I think, spread half-naked on his back and almost certainly dead or dying. I ran over with a squelch and cradled him. He cuddled into my soft fur lining, and gasped, spat blood and died in my arms. Poor little wretch. Feep grabbed my skirts, and I laid the boy back onto the muddy grass and we both ran to the main doors. I could hear screaming.

  Inside there was a scrummage so thick and so terrifying that I couldn’t even see who was doing what. Feep obviously understood more than I did, for he pelted into the welter of waving arms and legs.

  Feep yelled, “Tis Squimber, the bugger, and three of his uvor buggers onto our lads.”

  “Four grown gangsters fighting some little boys?” I demanded, horrified. But the noise around us was difficult to talk over. For just a brief moment I stood, wondering what I should do – and what I could do. The main chamber, huge and now covered in strewn blankets, slit straw mattresses and kicking bodies, had one wall where a previous window had once been boarded up, the shutters nailed firmly in place. But it was straight through this solid barrier that a rock the size of my head came hurtling and the wooden slats splintered into a gaping hole. The boys leapt from the pitching stone, and stood momentarily, breathing hard. Then they all rushed to the hole, attempting to peer through without being seen from outside. As a crumbling red brick followed the rock, widening the hole, the two youngest children raced for the stairs while Squimber and his three brutes stood and sniggered.

  I stayed where I was and saw very little at first, but I heard the old man’s voice. It was sibilant and threatening. “Is that you, boy? Little Feep showing his nerve? Well then, lad, where’s my Betsy?”

  “You knows exactly where she be,” said Feep, standing solid. “If’n you didn’t know, you wouldn’t be here. T’was your pig-swill as done her in days back, knowing as how Symon ain’t here. But you ain’t taking over, and we doesn’t want yer.”

  “You done her in,” yelled another boy.

  “The river was it?” asked the same voice. “Chucked her in, eh? Well, you’ll get no thanks from me, little prick. You’ll keep quiet and keep working, for every one of you boys belongs to me. This is my shop and my house now.”

  “We doesn’t want you,” yelled another boy. “Tis Symon’s house and reckon he’s coming back bloody soon. He ain’t locked up forever, y’know.”

  There was a pause. Then Squimber said, “You thinking to run the molly shop yourself, lad? Well, you know the business clear enough and from the inside. But as fer Symon, I done talked to them gaolers. He ain’t coming out soon, no way.”

  He was talking fast to cover the sound of his men creeping closer, but we all heard, and secretly made our plans. I was now standing, obscured by shadow and ready to move quickly in any direction. One of the men grabbed Pod, but Pod slammed his head forward, butting the other man, forehead to forehead. Pod grinned as the other tumbled backwards, unconscious. The boys squeezed together, forming a wall around Squimber, who stood looking back, sniffing as though disliking the smell. His back was bent, he was thin, sharp-nosed and bright-eyed, well dressed, clean and white haired beneath his hat. But below his doublet and coat, his legs were as skinny and scrawny as most of the boys, and his short leather boots seemed too large for the ankles that disappeared into them. He did not expect to see a woman and turned to stare at me.

  “Looking for pleasure with little boys too, is it mistress?”

  His voice made me cringe. I had already grabbed the poker from beside the old fire slab, and now pushed Feep behind me. “Your vile business is at an end, Master Squimber,” I said, more bravado than real courage and all I could think of to say.

  Feep, unimpressed at being shoved behind my skirts as if he needed a woman’s protection, now reasserted himself. All of them, even Feep, now carried knives. Feep said loudly, “Remember, old man. You ain’t no one’s master no more.”

  Pod marched forwards. “Dirty old bugger, that’s you, Squimber. From now on you keep your shrivelled prick in your codpiece, for no one wants to see it no more, nor swiving nor pissing. Or I shall cut it off, that I will.”

  The boys gave courage each to the other, and now they all crowded closer, pulling out knives or sticks from the hearth. But Squimber threw out both arms and whirled around, buffeting and slapping the boys as if they were his serving maids. “I know you, every one of you,” he said, still sibilant and soft voiced, not intimidated even though there were now ten boys around him. “I know your tight little arseholes, I know your gobbling little mouths and your sweet soft lips. I’ll not hurt those who gave me such kind loving. Now, boys. Unless you want the spanking only I can give you, put down them nasty weapons, and old Squimber will look after you like always.”

  I couldn’t get near him anymore. Some of the boys still raised their knives, but they had been trained to fear their masters since they were tiny, and not one managed more than threatening. Gripping the poker tighter, I yelled over the boys’ heads, “Symon’s back in two or three days. He’ll – he’ll – he’ll kill you if you harm any more of the boys.”

  Pod gulped, “I’ll kill the bugger meself, no need to wait for Symon.”.

  Feep squeaked, “Get ‘im, get ‘im,” and tried to jab forwards but Squimber turned again, and bent, staring directly into Feep’s eyes, just a finger’s breadth apart.

  “Little paederast. Little prick. Drop that blade. Get onto your knees and beg forgiveness like you should do.”

  For one horrible moment, I thought Feep would do just that. He stood motionless, staring back and biting his lips. Then the unexpected happened again.

  In a flurry of filthy skirts, the smell of many months of sweat and unwashed hair, someone hurtled amongst us, leapt bodily onto Squimber’s back and pushed him headlong onto the fire slab. There was no fire lit, but the ashes were red hot, some drifting, but most lying in a tight hot pile. The old man’s boots squeaked and slid, he tumbled headfirst. The side of his face struck the raised and jagged edge of the hearthstone, and his nose, eyes and mouth were swallowed by embers. He screamed once, long and shrill, terrified and furious at the pain that engulfed him. Now those same red ashes, with something to grab onto, flared into tiny flames. Heat licked around the spotted sepia of his skin and found the lank white hair, melting the wax in his ears and lapping at the little grey curls in his nostrils. His lips drew back in tiny flamelets. Soot and ashes silenced his cries. And Legless Alice stood with one foot to Squimber’s back, pressing him down, and the point of her long knife to the back of his neck. “Burn, you measly snort,” muttered Legless Alice, and Squimber did. He was dazed by the fall to the stone and trapped by heat, foot and steel. I watched in horror as his face disappeared into liquid grease, his hair caught alight and sizzled, and the edge of his shirt collar began to scorch. Pod took one look, smiled very wide, and ran to the open door. “Ain’t nort to fight fer no more,” he shouted. “The nasty old turd is dead. Come and see.”

  Squimber’s remaining men didn’t even bother to look, they knew exactly what had happened and moved away, boots tramping off again to
their own rowing boat. Legless Alice had collapsed on the floor, legs straight out before her. I tried to think of what to say. But Legless Alice spoke first. “Got any beer, then” she suggested, a little slurred, and two of the boys ran to find her a brimming cup.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The rain, the gales and the floods continued, but I stayed only long enough to treat the cuts and bruises that some of the boys had suffered, to make sure that Squimber’s hunks had all left, and to see the old man’s body thrown to the rising waves. Then I took Feep’s hand very firmly in mine, and we walked home.

  We all knew about the king, or rather the lack of one. Few of us south of the castle grounds were much interested. It seemed to make so little difference. Something similar had been the cause of the great invasion, people said. Thanks to all the gods, whether they were growling at us, sniggering at us, or couldn’t even see us because they didn’t exist, I hadn’t been born at that time. Ruined buildings still stood stark against the outskirts of the city, and where the outer wall had been repaired, the new stone was ridiculously clean in contrast to the old grey crumble which they said was well-nigh a thousand years standing. The invasion had nearly massacred half of Eden and half of Shamm’s male citizens. What misery. What absurdity.

  And now perhaps kings didn’t matter. There had been processions in favour of various different members of the family where no end of heirs made one claim after another. They had supporters, every one of them, and some of these marches were violent or abusive. So it seemed that some people cared a lot about kings, or the heirs cared so much they paid the poor to pretend they cared. But not in the Lower City. I had a bitter taste which still slipped over my tongue when I thought of King Ram, and his death., my involvement and my fear. But now nearly one year past the royal pyre, I was no longer nervous and never thought of the king at all.

  Yet I thought of him all over again as the Watchmen marched through the entire city the following morning, proclaiming that the new king had accepted, and in four days’ time, the rightful monarch would sit the throne, receive the anointment and the crown, and ten citizens would be chosen to bring him gifts and swear his proper position on behalf of their neighbours.

  “There will be a respectable citizen chosen to represent the Upper-City. There will be a respectable citizen chosen to represent the Eastern border city. There will be a respectable citizen chosen to represent ---”

  I wasn’t listening because I was worried, not about some dithering king, but about Symon. He was due home but did not appear. Walking over to the riverbank, I took a wherry first to the Molly House and then to the Eden Prison. No, he wasn’t at the Molly-House. I hoped he wasn’t in prison either, but that was unlikely.

  As I scrambled from the wherry, I saw the woman I had seen here once before. She smiled at me, as she had before. Most of the women I’d seen here had either been quite obvious whores, or the elderly, probably mothers, who had no time to smile at anyone. Misery was the principal pastime here. But I smiled back at the woman and liked her face. There was something increasingly familiar about it, and for a stupid and fleeting breath, I glimpsed something in the back of my mind, as if there would be a meaning, an event perhaps, of further understanding in the future. But that didn’t bother me. It was common enough to pass the same neighbours over and over without really looking, and so familiarity was common enough.

  But when I approached the gates and their miserable guards, I joined the misery list. “I don’t have an appointment, but Symon should have been set free by now. Is he still in the dungeons? And when will he be released?”

  The liveried guard trotted off to find out and trotted back quite quickly. “Still here, mistress. No date set for release. Reckon it’ll be a ten-week at least afore the trial since the courts is ever more busy. You his wife, then?”

  “No,” I said, and then, “Yes, I am. Will you take him a message?” The guard, more obliging than most, nodded. So I said, “Tell him everything at home is fine again. Better than fine. Problems solved. We, that’s me and the children, we look forward to seeing him again as soon as possible.”

  Yet another wherry, and this time I went home to Feep, collapsed in the chair by the fire, and closed my eyes.

  “Bin wagers on wot bugger gonna be king,” Feep informed me. “You wanna bet?”

  “I’m totally uninterested,” I said without opening my eyes.

  “I put coin on the bugger Frink,” Feep said, sitting at my feet as usual, his arms folded over my knees. “Go on, have a go.”

  “Oh bother.” I blinked. “Alright, but just a penny or two. And what’s his name? The southern one? Fringe, Frog, Frab?”

  “Frink,” Feep obliged. “But reckon he’s the bugger wot’s bin nasty about it all. Marchin’, throwin’ stones and shouting. Not the one I’d want.” He yawned, showing all those little neat teeth. “When there be a procession wot’s noisy wiv clobbering and throwing stuff, then you can be bloody sure ‘tis fer Frink.”

  “What does a king do anyway?” I asked with genuine confusion.

  “Wears a big gold hat called a crown,” Feep sniggered. “Gets tons o’ coin and wears posh clothes.”

  I decided Feep was probably right and that was about it. However, one of my customers the next day insisted that the king, and the right one, mattered far more than that. “My dear girl,” said Mistress something or other, “which king rules us makes all the difference in the world. We never meet him, naturally, and we know he’s rich and powerful, sits the throne and makes the laws. But he also gives us an heir, which is just as important.”

  That didn’t seem important to me. “So a king makes the laws. I thought that was the council,” I answered.

  She shook her head with a bob of her cap and veil. “No, my dear.” Clearly she thought me a fool. “The king makes the laws, and the council implements those laws. The king also leads the people both by example and by rule. Of course, should there ever be another war, the gods forbid, he would lead us to victory.”

  “Diplomacy?” I asked. “Or with the sword?”

  “Well, both.” She had turned to leave. “Every king travels to make peace with others, or to enforce his own power. Much of what he does is certainly secret.”

  Like visiting the Molly-House. But I didn’t say that. I allowed Feep to back Frink for me, but only a wager of tuppence as I didn’t know anything about any of it. I enjoyed Feep’s company, I enjoyed mixing my medicines, I enjoyed working in the shop and talking to my customers, and I enjoyed going tired to bed and dreaming of floating, flying, or kissing Jak, none of which were going to happen. But the contentment was almost secure, like a blanket of great warmth around me, not as glorious as the feeling of being in love, but delicious in a different way, Safety. Peace.

  Yet there remained one increasing worry for still, Symon did not appear. I was wondering whether I could do something to help and would cheerfully have returned to the prison Island to see him, but since he had not yet even had a trial, I supposed it would be pointless. Nor did I have any desire to return to the Molly-House, where the faces of the boys, those endless little beds, and the knowledge of what went on simply made me sick.

  But I had locked up for the night, Feep was already in bed, and I could hear his tiny dreaming grunts, and I was halfway up the stairs with a lit candle wavering in my hand, when there was a loud knock on the door. Visitors at this time of night were not what I wanted, but with friends like Symon, it was possible that after-dark information could be important.

  Naturally, my thoughts also flicked to Bembitt and the pale man, but I hurried back down the little staircase, stood inside my front door, and called. “Who is it?”

  A very official voice thundered back at me. It certainly wasn’t Bembitt, but it wasn’t Symon either. “Mistress Freia? Please confirm your identity and open your door to council business.”

  “I’m Freia,” I said, but not opening the door. “And who are you?”

  “I represent the High Council
of Eden,” said the voice. “I have important news, mistress, and wish to explain. I carry documentation which will reassure you should you have doubts on this score. But my business is neither threatening nor accusatory. Open the door, Mistress Freia, and I will explain.”

  I didn’t believe a word. Unless this man just happened to be ill, I saw no reason to speak to him. I said, “I’ve never had official business with the High-Council in my life, and there’s no reason why I should now. Come back tomorrow in the daylight when the shop’s open.”

  He sounded slightly irritated. “That would not be private, madam. Which is why I have come at this precise time, even though it has taken me away from my wife and my supper. So open this door, and I can prove my credentials and explain my news.”

  “News?”

  “I believe that is what I said.”

  So now he was annoyed. Against my better judgement, I opened the damned door. And there he stood, little and round-faced, all brilliant in scarlet and golden livery, with a hat carrying the Eden emblem, and a document fluttering between his fingers. He actually looked fairly convincing. With a gulp of doubt, I let him in.

  He stood in the middle of my shop with the candlelight I carried and the remains of the fire’s embers to show up the dark ink scribble, and I read the paper he handed me.

  “Mistress Freia,

  As a well-known doctoring healer and Apothecary, and specifically the benefactor of his late majesty, the noble King Ram, we now invite you to be the official representative of the Lower River-Side City quarter and attend the upcoming coronation of Eden’s new monarch. If you accept this remarkable honour, you will be informed of the date which will be decided by the High-Council for his majesty’s anointment.

  You are free to refuse this considerable honour. If you choose to accept, kindly inform the courier and sign where he indicates.”