Nevermor (4 page)

Since Wren and
Henry were of age as far as the labor laws were concerned, they were sent to
work at Winchester’s cotton mill with several of the others from the Home.  The
work was hard and tedious, but it was what they had to do if they were to stay
at Miss Nora’s, though Wren often wondered if it was a fair trade.

The mill was hot
and muggy inside, with no cool breeze for relief.  Dust in the air often sent
workers into coughing fits, and she had seen more than one or two carried out
because of it.  The machines were so loud that she often left with a dull roar
in her ears, but the worst thing about the mill was the overseer, Reynald
Worthy, who made the rounds on the floor, keeping an eye out for any who did
not seem to be working hard enough.

Worthy was a
large man, both in height and girth, with a shining bald head and a deep frown
set in his face beneath a black mustache.  He would often take heavy steps
behind them as they worked, waiting for one of them to slip up, fall out of
line or make a mistake.  It seemed to Wren that he was not only trying to keep
them alert, but silently hoping to make them nervous so that they would falter
– so that he would have an excuse to make them bleed.  He carried a club on his
belt, but sometimes he held it in his hand as he came close, reminding them of
what would come.

They were not
allowed to address the overseer, but most wouldn’t have dared.  He was a dark
shadow in their midst, and the workers referred to him amongst themselves as
the
Devil
.

Wren couldn’t
count the number of other children that she had seen beaten by him – especially
if they had come from the workhouse.  She was lucky that she was one of Nora’s,
who at least insisted that they come home in one piece at the end of the day. 
Nora’s arrangements with the factory owner made things a hair better for them,
though Wren often felt sorry for the ones who didn’t have those rules to
protect them.

In the past,
their days in the factory had provided a framework for some of Wren’s stories. 
She used to tell them that they were spinning threads for the bridal gowns of
princesses, and that every strand was important.  The minders and piecers were
descendants of leprechauns, who embedded each strand with gold.  The smaller
children who worked the dangerous job of scavengers beneath the running
machines were in fact from an ancient race of rat-people, and it was their job
to brush out the stray cotton because none could be wasted.  The overseer was a
wretched general who, if he had known about the gold, would want to use it for
himself.  They had to stay clear of him and make sure that he did not discover
their secret.

When a poor
little scavenger had gotten much of her hair – and part of her scalp – ripped
off by one of the machines, Wren couldn’t bring herself to tell those stories
anymore.

Wren and Henry
both worked at the mill at least four days out of the week, sometimes five, and
yet still they were among the lucky ones.  Miss Nora’s arrangement dictated
that they only worked half days because Wren was needed back at the Home and
Henry was not yet fourteen.  It was an ease of burden that most of the factory
children didn’t get, some of them working from morning to night without rest.

Today was not
any different.  Wren’s machine was spinning rapidly beneath her and Henry was
across the oil-slicked floor in his bare feet, doing his job as piecer for one
of the other lines.  Nora’s children were often divided up over the span of the
room to discourage familiarity with one another, but also so they could be
easily replaced at the end of their shift and the lines would never have to be
shut down.

Standing there
now, Wren knew that she was not as rested as she should have been.  The dream
had drained her as if she had not slept at all.  She could feel her head
growing heavier, her knees getting weaker.  Even humming to herself didn’t seem
to work – as if she could hope to hear it over the mechanical roar.

I have to stay
awake
,
she scolded herself as her eyes fluttered.  To slip up could mean death if she
fell into the machine. 
Just a few more hours…

She tried to
keep focused on her work, to keep herself alert, but the streams of white
sweeping by her were hypnotic.  Soothing whispers were drifting all around her,
and though she couldn’t understand the words, she knew that they were trying to
comfort her.  They said it was alright for her to be tired.  She could sleep if
she wanted to – right here, right now…

Wren felt
dizzy.  The room was spinning as rapidly as the cotton mules beneath her.  She
saw a flicker of light and then she was falling forward, straight down into the
machine that would tear her apart.

There was a
shriek, but not from her own mouth, and then Wren was jerked up by her apron
and thrown backward onto the floor.  Knowing she shouldn’t have fallen, she
tried to pull herself up quickly, but a hard blow across her face knocked her
back down.  This time, she stayed there.

Her cheek was
throbbing, and she could feel it filling with fever as it began to swell.  When
she dared to look up, the Devil was standing over her, his large hand still
raised from slapping her face.

“Fallin’ asleep,
are ye?”  Worthy bellowed, and somehow his voice was louder than the machines.

“N—no!” she
stammered.  Wren was already shielding herself, knowing what was to come.  She
had never been beaten before – was always much too careful for that – but she
had seen more than her share of children forced to continue work with broken
bones, or left to lie there on the floor with blood running out their ears.

“I don’t care
whether you’re Nora’s or not.  No one falls asleep on my watch!”

The man was
apparently in a foul humor today and didn’t care for rules.  He wasn’t supposed
to hurt her.  Didn’t he know that?  But Wren could tell by the look in his eyes
that he didn’t care.  She must have been too clean – her skin too smooth.  He
wanted to remedy that, give her a few scars.

He raised the
stick and Wren knew that it was coming down on her, going to break her arm as
she tried to protect herself and beat her senseless until he felt she’d learned
her lesson – if he stopped before he killed her.  She was trembling as she
clenched her eyes shut and held her arms over her face–

A roar of rage
echoed through the room.  From out of nowhere, Henry sprang forward and tackled
the overseer, leaping up on the man’s back and wrapping lissome arms around his
thick neck.

Wren looked up
at the sound of the angry cry, and when she saw Henry clinging to the man’s
shoulders and throat as if to choke him, she knew that all the color had
drained from her face.  Her insides clenched, tangling in a knot that grew
increasingly tighter.  She knew from the first moment that this was not going
to go well.  Teetering one way might send them both into the machine, but even
if they avoided that, she knew Henry would not win.

No, no, Henry!

Worthy did not
go down, for he was much larger than Henry, but he did drop his club, which
slid under the machine where the scavengers lived, disappearing into the dark. 
This gave Wren enough time to get up off the floor, for Worthy had forgotten
her completely, but Henry was not so lucky.  The boy had a lot of anger, but
not much body mass to back it up.  He was easily thwarted by the larger man.

The Devil
flipped him over onto the floor and gave no warning before he began to smash
his heavy fist into Henry, even though the boy was trying to block and kick
with fury – anything he could do to lessen the blows.  A mighty punch in the
gut made Henry drop his guard from his face, and then the blood began to flow.

Wren’s first
instinct was to run, but she knew that she couldn’t leave this as it was, or
she would have nothing more than a broken, bloody mess for a brother.

The man was
hitting Henry in the face with his bare knuckles, the blows slow but forceful. 
Blood was pooling out of his nose and mouth, droplets splattering over the
floor.  Worthy didn’t see that Henry was a child, much smaller than him.  All
he saw was the red of his rage.  The sight of the boy’s blood was only feeding
that fury, and the sadistic grin on his mouth proved it.

Someone do
something!

Wren looked
around frantically at the other workers, many of them women and children who
were too afraid to do anything, thinking the same might happen to them if they
intervened.  Some had not even pulled away from their machines.  This was such
a frequent occurrence that it didn’t faze them – just as long as they weren’t
the ones on the ground.

She was afraid
like the rest of them, but she couldn’t let this happen to Henry.  She didn’t
know what the consequences would be, but she cast that aside.  This man was
going to
kill him
if she didn’t act!

Knowing that she
couldn’t wait for anyone else to step forward, she let her instincts take over. 
Wren pulled herself off the floor and ran toward Worthy, casting off her fear
and inhibitions.  She leaned in with her weight and threw herself into him,
shoving him as hard as she could.

A vengeful wail
burst from her lungs and the man lost his balance, flailing backward.  His
girth made it impossible for him to regain his footing before he fell flat on
his large rump.  That was enough time for her to grab Henry and help him get
out of harm’s way.  He seemed disoriented, but she wasn’t surprised at that
when she considered the amount of blood that was running down his shirt.

That will never
come out
.

“Are you okay? 
Henry?”

She clasped his
head between her hands to force him to look at her.  He managed to nod, and she
saw that his eyes were able to focus on hers.  He was, at least, not too
damaged.

Thank God, he’s–

Her thoughts
were shattered by a piercing yell of agony, and she lent her eyes back to the
scene.  On the floor, Worthy had toppled over and instinctively reached back,
stretching out his hand to catch something for leverage – but he hadn’t been
quick enough to remember the spinning machine.  His scream filled the factory
as his hand was caught in the weave, but the machine did not yield for him, and
within moments, had torn off several of his fingers. 

Blood gushed out
in spurts, dying the weave a hideous red.  Everything seemed to stop then.  The
other workers – so many of them grimy, unclaimed children – were standing back,
simply looking on with horror in their eyes while the overseer writhed on the
floor, clenching what was left of his mangled hand.

Wren was frozen
in place, unable to move or even
breathe
– do anything except stare at
him, knowing she had done it.

This is not
good.  It’s not happening…

She was in a
daze when Henry grabbed her arm, and then they were running through the mill
and out onto the street.  No one stopped them.  No one outside even knew what
they were running from, but Wren knew, and also grasped that it would be better
for them if they didn’t stop.

They ran until
they were tired, and Henry pulled her into an alley before they halted.  He
leaned back on one side of the narrow space and she slumped against the other. 
Breathless, they looked at each other in wild surmise.  They didn’t need words
to know exactly what the other was thinking.  Perhaps they had escaped the
worst of the beating, but the
worst
was to come.  Even as they stood
here, Wren knew that everything she had worked for – everything that she had
tried to preserve – was over.

1

“This disappoints
me,” Miss Nora said.  “It really does.”

Wren and Henry
were sitting in front of her desk, which served as a barrier to keep them
separated from her sympathy.  She was not their mother, and since they had
caused trouble for her, she was also not their friend.  She might have denied
that she knew them at all if not for her contract with the factory.  Wren knew
she must take what she could get from the woman as far as mercy, but already
knew it wouldn’t be much.

Wren had finally
convinced Henry that they had to come back to the Home even despite what might
have been awaiting them.  If for no other reason, they could not simply vanish
and desert Max.  Wren was certain that once Miss Nora had seen how badly Henry
had been beaten, surely they would get some compassion.  She was at least right
about that, though it wasn’t much more than getting Henry doctored properly.

Wren glanced
over at the boy now, and she felt terribly guilty with her small welt compared
to what he looked like.  His cheeks were puffy with bruising, and one eye was
nearly swollen shut.  His bottom lip was split, but he was lucky that he still
had all his teeth – if she had a right to call it
lucky
.

There were
papers on the desk, detailing their release from the factory, giving up all the
discriminating details, which Wren was certain made them seem like the ones
fully at fault.  She didn’t want to read them and there was no real use in
speaking against the charges.  All she could do was beg for mercy.

“I suppose the
only thing I can do now is give you your choices.  Do you want to go to the
workhouse?  Be on the street?  Or do you want to continue to stay here?”