Blackened (12 page)

As the sun creeps up, all ice turns to water, dripping from every branch and puddling on the ground.

Soon the sun is centred high in the sky, which itself has evolved into the prettiest of pale blues. Not a cloud exists. It is one of those deceptively pure-looking days when beauty is all around but chilling cold is ever-present to remind one that winter still commands. However, the cold is bearable – just about.

Sick of droplets constantly plopping onto my head, I busily arrange the shawl over my hair and spy, about one hundred yards in the distance on the cusp of a small hill, a church. The first sign of human life!

I surge up the hill, weaving in and out of the trees, enter a culled field and hurry across sloppy mud, making sure not to linger too long lest the mud sucks me in. My ankles and make-shift shoes are soon sodden and it is hard to move quickly, but the church gives me hope that I will find someone, a priest perhaps, who may guide me towards London.

Panting, I walk around to the front of the church and observe a village made up of two small shops, black-timbered cottages and wandering chickens. A cobblestone road runs through the village. The shops appear to be closed and no-one is around. The windows of the cottages are dark. It is unnaturally quiet.

I turn and stare up at the church, at the cobble stone pathway that leads to five steps up to the wooden church. I glance to either side taking in the graveyard; stone upon stone upon stone of the dead. Not a flower in sight. A sea of grey slabs.

I look back at the church. It is a simple affair composed entirely of wooden boards. Nothing about the church is flamboyant, nothing is designed to call attention to itself. It is a modest, plain building. The door frame is shaped like the tail end of a boat as are the two white-framed windows that rest either side of the door like eyes to a nose. The main part of the building is a square with a triangle for the roof, out of which stands the tip of a bell tower. Attached to the right side of the building is a downward sloping structure which I suppose is the prayer room.

The dong of a bell makes me jump. I listen, counting the hours. One, two, three. It must be three o'clock in the afternoon. I wonder if it is Sunday. The day of rest. This would explain the village's ghostly feel.

I walk up the wooden path. My God abandoned me long ago – I try to pinpoint when I stopped praying, asking for guidance, believing in the Lord, but the answer eludes me. I dig deeper into my memories, but all I find is a pit of despair – a terrible black hole in which dwells not one solid event but darkest emotions: grief, anger, terrible distress. I try to remember faces, locations, anything, but cannot. Nothing will come. Nothing prior to my arrival at Blackened Cottage.

I stop at the foot of the church steps. What happened to me before we moved into the cottage? Where did I live? What did I do? Where did I go to school?

I try to remember the last time I saw Mama before she left, but again, there is nothing. My memory is vacuous, useless, utterly frustrating. Try as I might I cannot fill the space before arriving at Blackened Cottage. I cannot recall any details beyond the bare fact that Mama left us before we moved.

I sink down onto the bottom step staring unseeingly. I know that gravestones and cottages stand before me, but I am blind to these physical elements of the world. I hunt for traces of my past. I hunt and hunt and hunt, but all I get are feelings; intangible feelings that hint at something unscrupulous but confirm nothing.

Tension crunches my shoulders and my head begins to pound. I focus on controlling my breathing. I cannot lose to panic right now; not when Eddie's happiness is as stake.    

Dragging myself up, I wearily climb the steps and open the door. It creaks. I freeze, terrified someone will turn and scream, “Imposter! Off with her head!” But the congregation, some fifty men, women and children dressed in their finery, sit along the pews with their heads bowed in silent prayer.

Not a one turns to inspect me. I sneak onto the back pew, which happens to be empty, and wrap my cloak carefully so as to make it cast a shadow over my face.

At the altar, head also bowed, stands a balding Reverend in a black cassock.

Hundreds of candles surround the chapel making the walls dance. The room is warm enough to keep off the chill and there hovers an aura of tranquillity.

I bow my head, try to remember the sort of things I used to think in prayer. Can recall nothing. I look up. In the pew in front sits a little girl of about Eddie's age. She wears a purple bonnet with a yellow ribbon. Golden curls fan out beneath the bonnet. I think back to when I was a little girl. Again, nothing.

“Amen,” booms the Reverend. For a small man, he has a powerful voice.

“Amen.”

All heads look up. No-one speaks or even looks at each other. They are wholly committed to this man. I examine those people's eyes that I can see, and detect love, passion in their gazes. I look at the small, balding man. He must be a special preacher to elicit such a response from his congregation. Visually, he is unremarkable, indistinct. But his deep voice is a voice that could rock the heavens. It is a voice designed to deliver God's message.

As he begins his sermon, I realise it would be difficult to ever forget such a voice.

“And now, I shall end today with a short sermon on the second of the great commandments, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour.’

“Dear friends, remember that man's good requires that you should be kind to your fellow creatures. The best way for you to make the world better is to be kind yourself. Are you a preacher? Preach in a surly way and in a surly tone to your church; a pretty church you will make of it before long! Are you a Sunday-school teacher? Teach your children with a frown on your face; a fine lot they will learn! Now, just wash your face of that black frown, and buy a little essence of summer somewhere, and put it on your face, and have a smile on your lip, and say, ‘I love you. I am no cant, but I love you, and as far as I can I will prove my love to you. What can I do for you? Can I help you over a stile? Can I give you any assistance, or speak a kind word to you?’

“All these kind things would be making the world a little better. Your jails and gibbets, and all that, never made the world better yet. You may hang men as long as you like; you will never stop murder. There is no necessity for hanging any; it will never improve the world. Deal gently, deal kindly, deal lovingly, and there is not a wolf in human shape but will be melted by kindness; and there is not a tiger in woman form but will break down and sue for pardon, if God should bless the love that is brought to bear upon her by her friend. I say again, for the world's good, love your neighbours.

“May God bless you, and be with you, for Jesus' sake!

“Now, good friends, a somewhat weighty suggestion before I leave. Thy good Catholic Father Shepherd tells me that several women have disappeared over the last year and that there is a devil amongst you. Please, heed these words: God may only do so much to protect you and thus, you must stand together. If you unite against evil, good will triumph!

“I shall think of you all in this dark time. Good luck and God be with you!”

*

A moment of silence, then the room comes alive with movement; people turning and embracing one another, exchanging heartfelt messages of good will.

I lean forward and tap the little girl on the back, “Excuse me child. Please can you tell me the preacher's name?”

She turns, a pretty little thing with long blonde lashes.

“Reverend Pettigrew. He is my favourite. This happens every time he visits. Is he not splendid?”

I nod and smile. She smiles at me and turns back to face front. I am still smiling. Reverend Pettigrew. I feel suddenly that I must catch him, speak to him. Perhaps he can offer me guidance that no-one else can.

People start to leave. They leave in happy chatter. I watch them go; jolly faces pink with delight like tulips ripening fatly beneath the sun's celestial gaze.

I am warmed by their happiness. I sit and wait as the Reverend shakes each and every villager's hand at the door. Often the noise is punctuated by his booming laugh.

He bids the last person farewell. I rise and walk towards him. For some reason nerves flutter in my stomach. Reverend Pettigrew begins to shut the door. I reach out to tap his shoulder, but before I reach him someone – no, two persons – force their way inside.

Instinctively, I dash back, crouch down behind the end pew, slip underneath the wooden bench.

My heart bangs against my ribs for I know who has come. I know it because I can smell spice, cinnamon and burnt smoke. Jean-Bernard's rust-coloured cigars.

“Why hello good gentlemen! How may I help you this afternoon? Please, follow me to the altar. I shall listen as I collect my things.”

“No. We do not have much time. I am sorry Reverend,” rushes Jean-Bernard. He is panting. I can hear his panic and anger.

“No time you say? Very well. Please then, be seated.”

Someone sits directly above me, their foot hitting my arm. I almost cry out then I realise it is the Reverend's foot for around it hangs the black material of his cassock.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says, “I think there is something...”

His upside down face appears in front of mine. His eyebrows rise a fraction. I place my finger to my lips and plead with my eyes. He nods discreetly, eyes reassuring, then disappears.

“Now gentlemen, how may I help you?”

“We need to find someone,” says Father. His voice is a terse rumble. There is no friendliness or warmth in its tone.

“Ah. And who may that be?”

“A woman with long black hair. She is a law unto herself. It is not safe for her to be wandering these parts alone. We must find her and bring her home. Have you seen such a woman?”

“What is this woman's name?”

“She answers to the name Lisbeth,” says Jean-Bernard quickly.

“Lisbeth....?”

“Lisbeth Cutteridge,” Father says.

“Well, good gentlemen, I must admit that not once have I been witness to such a woman as fits your description. To be fair, I have been so occupied in delivering my service today that I do not think I would have noticed her had she entered the church. Now I wish you good luck in your search but alas I must bid you both farewell and be on my way. My carriage waits.”

Father and Jean-Bernard grumble their thanks. I tensely listen to their retreating footsteps.

A hand appears before my face and Reverend Pettigrew's powerful voice breaks the silence, “They have gone my dear woman. Please come out.”

I take hold of his hand, which is surprisingly calloused, and let him guide me out.

“I am sorry,” I quickly say, “but I cannot let them find me. Thank you.”

He dismisses my apology with a swipe of his hand, “My dear, no thank you is necessary. I could tell immediately that you were a person in need of kindness and that is the sort of business I deal in!” he laughs – a booming, high-spirited sound.

But I cannot rest easy while Father and Jean-Bernard remain in such close proximity. My face must be full of strain, for Reverend Pettigrew asks nothing. Taking my hand, he sits me down upon the pew and asks if he can get anything to ease my nerves.

“Paper and something with which to write is all I ask for,” I say.

So overcome by tiredness that I can barely speak, I gratefully receive his ink and quill and begin to write.

C
HAPTER 13
G
RAVEYARD

Dear Mama,

I am very sorry that I have not writ you for so long, but recent events have overcome my ability to grasp quill and parchment. Indeed Mama, I must tell you at once that I am no longer a prisoner in a cell in a blackened place. Much has happened, a great deal of it somewhat disturbing.

You may find this development unsettling – as do I – for I am not yet accustomed to the air of this wooden church in which I find myself sitting as I write you, nor am I happy to find myself a fox in a hunt pursued by two blood-hungry hounds who will stop at nothing to capture me. But, rest assured, this kind of freedom is better than remaining trapped in Blackened Cottage. You see, I am on a mission – a mission to find my brother, for Father has sent little Eddie away, never to return. Of course, this is something I cannot bear. And so I am going to London to find him.

Alas, my journey shall not be an easy one. Already, Father and Jean-Bernard are close on my tail. Not an hour ago they stormed this very church and set upon interrogating Reverend Pettigrew. But the good Reverend kept me hidden. Indeed, I owe him my life. Not only did he conceal my presence, he offered me to accompany him on his path back to London.

Of course I accepted at once. The journey will be slow because Reverend Pettigrew must visit some villages en route to preach his message. Yet I think that I shall be in good company. Also, I  believe I shall be safer this way.

Reverend Pettigrew is a righteous man and he does not press me for information about myself. My only worry is that Father and Jean-Bernard will find me. As you said in your letters, Father is not to be trusted; so I fear what he may do if he gets his hands on me. I know he wishes to send me off with Jean-Bernard, but will his anger get the better of him? Perhaps he will decide instead to lock me in the cellar with no Villette, no charcoal, no light, no air, nothing to give me the slightest inkling of hope. Simply the thought of this is enough to turn my insides to ash.

I cannot bear the thought of returning to that light-less place. But I must. After I have rescued Eddie I shall return to that godforsaken cottage to save Bethan who is undoubtedly locked in my room with little food or water to sustain her. Poor, sweet, kind Bethan. All she wished to do was save me and look what happened. And I know it is my fault. If only I had left when she requested it of me...but there is nothing I can do about that now.

There is something that I feel I must tell you before I go. Upon escaping the cottage I discovered an unpleasant thing deep in the woods: a crazy old woman called Sorcha O'Floinn who believed me to be her long lost daughter, Morna. She tried to keep me with her through force, but I got away. However, I cannot stop thinking of her with sadness in my heart. Something pulls my thoughts toward her – such was her loneliness, such was her need. If I get a chance, I think I will visit her when I return. But this is an optimistic plan indeed, for I may never return.