The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I think more than a hundred.”

  “Well, I hope that boy Pod wasn’t killed. Such a lovely voice.”

  “So good magic first. And then bad magic to show us what the devils can do.”

  “T’was the worst storm I ever saw.”

  “There was one the same just forty-one years back. Blew down the church and every house along the Corn. Horrible it was, but maybe this were the same.”

  “Or worse.”

  He walked back into the old barn. The lack of a roof seemed unimportant, but Jak felt tremendous sympathy for the people of the village, every soul now either dead or homeless. Shaking his head at his friends, he lay out, stretching his back on the thick warm straw. “Nowhere else to go, but safe enough here,” he told them. “And after nights sleeping in those wretched seats on the train, I’m happy enough to have a chance to lie flat. Then tomorrow, it’s back on the train.”

  “What a waste of time. How sad,” murmured Tom.

  “Tis life as does the good and the bad,’ said Symon, hands behind his head. “Them’s a mighty load o’ stars up there I’ll well-nigh promise, and sleepin’ under stars suits me proper nice.”

  “Exhaustion, I think,” Udovox said, “will have us asleep before the stars even show up.”

  Although they had no possessions, no change of clothes nor even a cloak, they had brought what they could from the remains of the theatre and from the rubble festooned collapse of the village and the larger town beyond. There was food thrown from inside shops. Where not one wall remained, there would still be two loaves of bread, and a tub of soft cheese. Where the roof was gone and the shutters ripped from the window and slung miles into the sky by the swirling winds, there could still be pies, their pastry dented but their fillings intact, fruit only bruised, and bowls of porridge thick with sand, but creamy and sweetened by honey beneath the sandy crust.

  There were blankets torn and tossed, a pillow still intact, and warm stockings lying in knots on the back of a broken chair.

  Immediate looting had decimated what was already lying ruined, but Pod, feeling no guilt, became one of the looters. So Freya and Pod clutched what they could, and finally found a small cart on two wheels, which could be pulled and would carry anything they wanted to keep.

  “You get tired, or hurt yourself, you can climb on the cart and sleep, while I pull you.”

  “No,” said Freya, “unless I’m really sick, we’ll both pull and we’ll both rest. And I promise I won’t get sick. And you can’t get sick either.”

  “I’m never sick,” said Pod.

  There was no need to hurry since they were going nowhere, and there was no limit to aimless nothingness when there was neither aim nor desire. And so they wandered south, pulled the cart until it became too hot, then lay down together to sleep. The cart made shade and although it was too low to climb beneath but raising it on its side with the belongings on the sand to keep it stable, the shadow was enough for a sweet sleep, and a soft bed of sand could be dug out for greater comfort.

  Sometimes there was the whine of a springtime wind gently dusting the dunes, but no storms threatened their wandering, and although they were slow, they were also comfortable.

  They kept walking during the cool of night, gazing up at the moons and the stars, pointing out the entwining of the moons when it happened, and the spangle of the stars when at their brightest.

  As the heat of the day scorched them and they stopped, sat, and ate before preparing for sleep, there was little to smell but the baked ruin of their food, and the attack of the heat. It burned the nose, cracking the lips. The haze of heat on heat was its own flaming furnace, and the scents of the world were lost. But at night, although the sweet warmth continued, it seemed that nature’s perfumes found the courage to ooze from their hiding places, and like the fairies were once said to do, the fragrances danced and sang beneath the stars. The warmth itself smelled of comfort and safety. The diminishing river smelled of laziness and contentment, while the occasional scrub of thorns and tiny leaf smelled of spice and hope.

  The Corn was shallow now, spreading its banks, while its pebbled bed winked and smiled like newly washed treasures. It was nearing the estuary, which few people had ever seen, but where it spread in lazy surrender into the Southern Ocean.

  The creatures, that had seemed invisible during the day, crawled out at night to drink, and feed, and court. Frogs croaked on the banks, centipedes wriggled from the sands, huge spiders scampered along the sand dunes, searching for prey and for each other, and crabs emerged from the water, dashing sideways over the cooling sands.

  Pod and Freya came to the sea after many, many days, having chosen the pleasure of slow exploration and restful comfort. But mounting the higher dunes and seeing quite suddenly the sparkle of endless blue brilliance before them, they were thrilled, now in love with the ocean, its leisurely waves rolling in and the distant horizon that merged with the sky as though there was no end nor beginning, and as if the sky and the water were the same, with clouds in the ocean and waves in the sky.

  “We’ll camp,” Freya said. “This is – stunning. And the ocean breezes help.”

  “We’ll set up home,” Pod said, “as if we are at home, and we’ll live here until we don’t want to anymore.”

  “Then we’ll walk along the coast, away from the estuary, I suppose. Left? Right? Oh, who cares until we have a reason.”

  The waters of the Cornucopia sank and spread. Trickles burned out on the sand. Others reached the sea. It was almost an adventure. Here it became stronger and caught the waves. There it was so shallow it burnt out and just one drop fizzled under the sun. The depth of colour where the great river flowed through the city was now a pale azure, as pallid as a blink. And the fish which were numerous further north now dithered, gazed in horror at the vast threat of the ocean, and returned up stream.

  Pod was dancing again, the knackerer again. “We can stay here for months, We’ll never count the days. We won’t know when spring ends. Has it trickled out already, like the Corn? It might already be summer. Here there’s no counting the seasons. And we won’t count the days. We’ll live and play, and I’ll teach you the guitar.”

  “Too difficult,” smiled Freya. “Teach me the lute. Then we can both play together.”

  “And we’ll both sing.”

  Freya laughed. “I used to sing when I was a child. I loved running down the hills and making up songs. But my voice is horrible. It doesn’t have tune or melody or even true notes. You have to do the singing. But I’ll tell you stories every night and you’ll play wonderful music. We’ll both paddle when its too hot to walk, and we can go fishing when we need more food. We can collect shellfish and oysters, crabs and edible beetles. And we can make tiny fires from the tumbleweed and cook our dinner. Then cuddle down to sleep.”

  Pod gazed back, nodding and smiling. Then he paused, reached out and took her hand. He began speaking very slowly, watching her face as he spoke. “Freya, you know I love you, don’t you. I do, so very, very much. But I can’t do the real thing, not making love. After years as a child in the Molly House, that sickens me. It was years of nightmare and I feel sick when I remember parts of it. And I expect, after the brothel, you feel a little bit the same.”

  Nodding fiercely, Freya said, “Very, very true. I never want to do that again.”

  “Then marry me,” whispered Pod.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Doria crept through the darkening streets. One of her clogs was lost, so she threw the other away. Without the slightest interest in the dirt they collected as though intentional, she was simply thankful that the weight of wooden shoes no longer echoed on the cobbles, and she could creep as soundlessly as she felt was now necessary.

  It was late spring, and warm enough after a life moving from chill to freeze, and Doria found corners where she could sleep beneath shelter or sit to rest during the tedious days. She stole food, but little of it, and never to her taste, being stale bread without
cheese, a dried crust of pastry fallen from the corner of a pie, a small bunch of grapes, or a wizened apple left from the previous year’s pick. She ate mouldy meat once and was not sick but had to close her eyes as she chewed the green sprigged meat from the rib bone, breathing deeply to ignore the smell. Since birth there had never been good food, and rarely enough of it but she was not accustomed to so little, nor so vile.

  The laneways were noisome, but this never mattered to her, the cobbles were dirty, often wet, and sometimes slippery with vomit and excrement, which she had to notice in the darkness, and avoid. Smelling piss was more common, and impossible to avoid.

  Having killed the old unknown woman in her own home, Doria could not tell when the crime would be discovered. Soon enough, she supposed. But only Kallivan would guess who had dared do such a thing, and she hoped he would not care, and would not drag her to the justice. Thribb, she assumed was still in the charity hospital north east from the city.

  All her life having been abused, by her father, later by her brother before he was killed, by Kallivan, by Thribb, and sometimes by other men who came to the mill to discuss business with her father, Doria believed, as many others believed, this was the inevitable role of a woman, unless she was a queen, a princess, a wealthy lord’s daughter, or a clever child who managed to run away and start her own shop.

  Therefore, she was no whore and had no intention of lowering herself to such a level. Her dream was to attract a man who would take her for his mistress and keep her in comfort for many years. Once too old, she could find a barn, straw, perhaps still retain some savings, and in any case, she decided, old people didn’t care. They had no brains left anyway.

  She had moved downwind from the fat old woman’s rooms, which she had considered luxurious, indeed wondrous, but also intimidating with their proper chairs and velvet cushions. Now in the Lower City, she felt more at home. The river puzzled her, since it seemed to be splattered with islands, a building or more on each, until coming to where everything seemed broken and the river ceased to flow. Climbing over some of the stone slabs, Doria discovered a place almost cavern-like where she could climb into dark shelter with the padding of a broken mattress at its base, and two crumpled blankets. There was no pillow, but she had slept on worse.

  When she opened her eyes after a deep and restful night, she looked into the golden eyes of a large white duck which sat glaring on its nest beside her head. It had also liked the idea of roosting within a padded cavern and sat solid, daring the human to misbehave. Immediately Doria reached forwards. Roast duck for dinner was an idea that made her mouth water, but the duck hissed and flapped its wings. Being fairly sure that she could master a simple duck, Doria smiled, and tucked the dream of roast meat to the back of her mind, reaching forward first for one of the eggs. The duck stood, clacking and hissing. Doria tried to grab an egg. There were three, each blue speckled and quite large, as befitting a duck of impressive size. Her fingers touched the warm shell, but the duck rose on two flapping red feet, swooped at Doria’s fingers, and pecked. Her fingers bled. The beak was sharp.

  Moving back, waiting, she eyed the beak. The duck settled once more onto its nest and folded its wings, the gaze unmoving as it glared at the human thief. Again, Doria stretched out to grab an egg. This time the duck squawked and stabbed. It fastened and pierced the tip of Doria’s nose and hung on. Ferocious tugging by the duck, and Doria tugging in the opposite direction, made Doria sick. The duck released her, and she fell, tumbling back and clutching her nose. It bled and between her fingers she saw a lump of flesh, oozing snot and muck. The blood dripped to her lips. It tasted hot and sour. She scrambled from her night’s rest, and ran back across the rubble to the riverbank. Blood spattered in tiny drops down her tunic and she fell on the dry grass and whimpered.

  Now, she thought bitterly, there was less chance of some rich man choosing a girl without a nose to be his lifelong mistress.

  Men were arriving in a solid wedge, like soldiers ready for battle, climbing the rubble she had just left. They began to pass each piece of debris one to the other, bringing it over the bank, carrying or hurling, shouting and laughing to each other. Hungry and still bleeding, Doria sat and watched. Then one man carried out the nest and the terrified duck, holding it by its neck as it squawked and spat, hissing and hooting.

  “Don’t hurt the bloody thing,” another man called. “Put it back upstream somewhere.”

  “Or wring its fucking neck and give the little bugger to me fer dinner,’ muttered Doria, but nobody heard her.

  Carefully, the man trudged to the opposite bank, stuffed the nest between two thorny bushes just out of the water, cuddled it up neatly, patted the eggs one by one as though wishing them good luck, and deposited the furious bird back on her unhatched babies. Immediately it folded its wings, wriggled until comfortable and fully covering its offspring, and made no further sound.

  The man trudged back to work and Doria carefully traced one finger over her face as she tried to learn how much of her nose was missing.

  The train north was in every way, decided Symon, identical to the train south. Still trundling, rattling, roaring and thumping through a monotonous scene of sand and sky with the sunshine blazing like an incurable disease, there seemed nothing to do except sleep. Or try to. The others talked. Jak less, Tom more. Udovox leaned forwards and tapped Symon’s protruding knee.

  “Well, old friend. We clank nearer to home most days. No Freya, of course. How do you feel? Disappointed or satisfied?”

  Blinking open bright blue eyes, Symon searched for comprehension. “I misses Toby,” he said.

  “Oh indeed,” Udovox answered him. “And I miss my kitten too, such an adorable baby. My little Raani.”

  Saying, “Both your loyal companions are safe and cosy in my city apartment, and I imagine the two women looking after them are passionately in love with them,” Jak did not bother opening his eyes. Travelling by feet, then train, feet again and train again, experiencing sometimes a comfortable inn, sometimes a crowded tavern, occasionally good food but often overcooked meals and cheap ale, Jak had found the search through the southern plains unutterably depressing. He wished never to return, since the heat made simply walking as uncomfortable as he had considered the digging of a pointless tunnel in Giardon.

  The utter failure, the endless sweat and slog, and the inferior conditions had brought dreams of cool water, feather mattresses and platters of roast pork. The journey had begun with enthusiasm. He had thought success as probable as failure, and the delight of opening new hopes to a new future had seemed close. Now those hopes had sunk beneath the sand dunes and the long years of continuing optimism, in retrospect, became the nonsense of youth. He was twenty-six and should do his duty as a lord and marry, produce an heir, and focus only on his position in the Council. Freya would be married. She had spent long years as a prostitute, and this would surely have changed her in every manner. He had wished to help her away from such a life and swing her into dance and song, happiness and beauty. Whether he would want a whore as a wife – as a mistress – even as a friend, he had no idea. This was something he could not decide until he met her again. But she was not to be found.

  “I reckon,” said Symon to the window, “we gets back home and does that place as we done decided afore. One fine day I reckon the lass will turn up. In the meantime, we does wot we can.”

  “Sell pies?” suggested Udovox.

  “And who makes good pies?” demanded Tom, crossing his legs with a flourish. “Not me, that’s for sure. Symon dear, I doubt if you’d even know the difference between a good pie and a bad one. Lord Jak will not be slaving over the cauldron, and my darling Udovox can’t even pour the wine without spilling it.”

  “The girls?” Udovox said. “Sossy, Maggs, Edda, and Freya when she comes.”

  Tom shook his head. “Don’t be daft, my love. None of them can cut cheese. And if Freya finds us, we shall do the apothecary business.”

  “I once knowed a lad
as could sing real pretty,” sighed Symon. “He were a nice lad. We coulda started one o’ them theatres things wot we saw down south in Slud, wot were blowed over by the storm. But that young lad done gone a couple o’ years past.”

  “I have a camp of men waiting outside the city and probably causing trouble, squabbling with our good Eden citizens, and longing to get home to their wives. I intend attempting one more stab at Kallivan, I have one other meeting I must attend, and then I shall take my men back to Lydiard.” He gazed at the other three men. “You have no homes, so I suggest you choose either to travel north with me, or you stay with your women and your animals in my chambers in the city. But,” and his gaze became cold, “my rooms will not become a slum of whores or overnight guests. And I would expect to return within the month.”

  “Suits me,” said Tom. “I thank you for the offer, my lord. I shall sleep sweet and cuddle Udovox and Raani at the same sweet time.”

  “If I get Toby along,” Symon said, “wiv yer permission, m’lor, I reckons as how I likes the idea o’coming up north wiv yer. Like a squire or summint.”

  “As a friend,” Jak corrected him, “with Toby as a welcome guest. You will both be most welcome. But the journey will be on horseback, not by train.”

  “Much better,” smiled Symon. “I done good on that big ‘un last time.”

  His hand felt sweet to her, so warm and soft along the fingers until the horned ridges on the tips, where he plucked the strings of lute and guitar.

  “But I have a confession,” Freya whispered. “My poppy juice, every sweet speck of powder, has gone. Too far away for market, too far away even to explore for another trader, by tomorrow I’ll be sick and screaming. Over the time at the theatre I sometimes had only a half dose, and I could cope with that. I moaned at poor Hawisa. Now I feel guilty about that. But I’m going to be horrible and I feel guilty about that too. I’m not sure exactly what it’ll be like, but I know it’ll be hard. I might – ,”