Darkwater

by Catherine Fisher

  “Indeed no. But consider. Does a person’s soul even exist?”

  “You should know. You’re the alchemist.”

  He smiled. “I am. And science needs experiment. Why not find out? Go on, Sarah. Turn the card.”

  Slowly, she put her hand out. She looked down at the pack, their backs patterned with tiny chevrons that almost mesmerized her. The room was quiet. Outside the open window, a few bats flitted under the eaves. The stars were bright and frosty.

  She touched the cards.

  The cat hunkered down, eyes wide. Far off in the stable, a horse whinnied. And she lifted her hand back and closed it tight.

  “Maybe I should go to church,” she said.

  Azrael smiled again.

  nine

  Church was strange.

  Azrael sat in the Trevelyan pew—she had never seen him there before. Darkly elegant, he listened to the sermon with scholarly reserve, raising an eyebrow now and then, or flicking a speck of dust off his knees, so that old Mr. Martin the rector got flustered and lost his place in his notes.

  In her new dress Sarah felt everyone was looking at her. Mrs. Hubbard certainly was, over the rim of a gilt pince-nez, and behind her Major Fleetwood, his wife, and seven children, all identically dressed. Demure, Sarah smiled down at her gloves.

  Over the chancel arch, there was a Doom painting. She had stared at it countless times before, but today it held her eyes as the doleful hymns of the service were sung, and the sea fog dimmed the candles and made old men cough. On the left a hideous demon grimaced and capered; his black, tailed attendants forcing damned souls into the grinning mouth of a vast hell; inside was all fire and torment. Small naked figures were being pulled out of their graves, wealthy and wailing, some with crowns, some with miters, tearing their hair, wringing their hands. It reminded her of Azrael’s strange eagerness over the cards. She’d heard stories from Martha about men who’d sold their souls. To the devil.

  He hadn’t been joking.

  The fear she had felt swept back, and she fidgeted, dropped a glove and picked it up. And for a moment, as she glanced back up at the picture, she saw herself in it, a small white-faced creature half out of a grave, wailing, and her father and grandfather and all the faces from the paintings screaming silently around her, so that she froze in her seat, eyes widening slowly, the mists of sea fog obscuring the ancient plaster.

  And then they were only small, indistinct sinners again, lost in disintegrating, flaking paint.

  She shivered. On the right, things were better. She preferred this side. Just above Azrael’s head the blessed spirits ascended, ranks of beautifully delicate winged angels in white, guiding the righteous up ladders. The top of the painting was long lost. Ghosts of figures loomed there, brilliant, barely seen.

  Azrael caught her eye, and winked darkly.

  Mr. Martin lost his place again.

  “Are you sure?” Martha said anxiously. “You really like it there?”

  Sarah unpacked the fruit and cake and sweetmeats Azrael’s cook had given her. “Yes, I told you! It’s fine! These are for Papa. Don’t tell him where they came from.”

  “He’ll know,” Martha said drily.

  “How has he been?”

  “Tormented.” The stout woman sighed, hitching the baby up on her hip. “So fretful. Sits all day and says nothing. You’d best see for yourself, Sarah.”

  Reluctant, she turned. Even after only a week at Darkwater the cottage depressed her. She saw now how dim and smoky and filthy it was, and she knew for the first time something of the despair her father must have felt, how heartbroken he and his young bride must have been, on that terrible day fifteen years ago. She stared at the row of cracked plates with loathing. She knew one thing already. She could never live here again. And suddenly she hated it that Martha had to live here, that all of them had to endure it, the squalid cottages, the boys with no shoes, the red raw hands of the fishwives, salt-swollen at the harbor. She hated it that they worked so hard, in the fields, down the mines, Jack out at sea for days, and all for so little. Martha could barely write her own name. And was proud of the cracked plates, because there were six, all matching.

  It made Sarah despair. Because there was nothing she would ever be able to do.

  For any of them.

  Her father was sitting up in the meager bed. He was reading an old newspaper, but he laid it down and looked at her coldly as she came in.

  “New dress, I see. More than I could ever have bought you.”

  She ignored it, and sat on the bed. He seemed weaker.

  “How have you been, Papa?”

  “As you’d expect. I exist, Sarah. I do not live. I think of you, up there. A servant in our house.”

  She felt sure he was desperate to know all about it, but would never ask. She began to describe the wonders of the library but he cut her short at once, angrily. “Please. I have no desire to know the details of my destroyer’s dissolute life.”

  “He’s not like that.” Sarah took an exasperated breath. “He’s quite likeable, really.”

  “Indeed.” Her father coughed painfully. “You seem to have taken to his servitude easily enough. You obviously don’t feel the shame of it. Still”—he waved a bone-frail hand and picked up the newspaper—“that’s to be expected. Your mother had no feeling for the family. You have always taken after her.”

  White-faced with sudden fury she stood, hot tears prickling her eyes. She couldn’t trust herself to say anything. Stalking past Martha she snatched her shawl and said, “I’ll be back next week.”

  But she wondered if she would.

  In Newhaven Cove the wind was whipping up a storm, but she didn’t care. It blew her hair all over and she let it. Tonight was All Hallows Eve. Tonight the wind would blow the ghost ships to land, and all the spirits of the drowned would climb the cliff path to the church. She watched the waves crash on barnacled rocks, spray flying as high as her own anger.

  He was old. All the joy, all the excitement had withered out of him, so that all he could brood on were his misfortunes. She’d never be like that. She’d never let herself grow old. And it would go on until he died, because even twelve shillings all found wouldn’t change things. He’d die in a damp bed in someone else’s cottage, a man with no hope and nothing left but pride. There was nothing she could do about that either.

  Unless she really sold her soul to the devil.

  Turning, tired with anger and a bitter grief, she came across footprints. They crossed the ridged beach, crisscrossed by wandering paws, rock pool to rock pool. She followed them, walking fast, but she had to scramble to the cliff base before she found the tramp. He was sitting on a rock, gazing out to sea.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The tramp turned. His red, coarsened face broke into a toothless grin.

  “Well, if it isn’t the angry girl. Still angry too. Better dressed, though, and a mite cleaner. Saw that in the chapel, I did.”

  She sat by him, kicking sand from her boots. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was there. All watching thee, they were, the parish busies. And how is it, working for the Prince of Darkness?”

  She laughed. “Is that what they call him?”

  “ ’Tis what I call him. Don’t thee trust him, mind. Not an inch. The devil incarnate, that one. Even his Hall built over a chasm that leads straight to hell.”

  Sarah forced down her fear. “Rubbish. You don’t know him.”

  “Don’t I?” The tramp stood up. “That one and I go way back. I could tell ye things about him . . .”

  “What things?”

  The tramp studied her. “How brave art thou?”

  “Brave enough.”

  “Aye?” He nodded gravely. “Well, look now. I’ll be outside, in the Bear Garden, befo
re dark. Don’t come out after. Reckon you can get me summat to eat?” She nodded, rubbing the dog’s dirty fur.

  “Well, bring it. And in return I’ll tell thee some home truths about thy precious Lord Azrael.”

  He shuffled off down the path toward Mamble. At the bend he turned, hitching up his belt of rope. “Be careful. Don’t tha make any agreement with him. No wagers, mind.”

  For a long time, cold, ignoring the rain, she watched him go.

  In the library, Azrael was sitting at the telescope, preoccupied. Behind him Scrab fussed around with a feather duster.

  As she took off her coat, she felt his dark eyes watching her.

  “Sarah,” he asked quietly, “who was that you were talking to?”

  She turned, surprised; saw the lens cap was off, the brass tube tilted down. Scrab, now sweeping a burnt, twisted mass of glass off the floor, grinned to himself.

  “Have you been watching me?” she snapped.

  He looked abashed. “It was accidental.”

  “Oh, was it! Well you’ve got no right. I can talk to whomever I want!” Then she remembered he was her employer and took an angry breath. “It was just some tramp, anyway.”

  Azrael looked worried. He got up and wandered to the fireplace, crunching on the glass shards without noticing. Scrab scowled up at him. “Watch yerself!”

  “I don’t want you to speak to him again,” Azrael said.

  Sarah stared. Then she said, “Why not?”

  He picked up a small glass globe and shook it gently. Hundreds of tiny white snowflakes swirled and drifted inside. “He reminds me of someone I once knew. A troublemaker. A liar.” He looked at her sidelong. “I don’t want him on my land. I don’t want you to speak to him.”

  “You can’t tell me whom to speak to.”

  He put the globe down, watching the flakes settle. Then he said, “You work for me now, Sarah. Don’t forget that.”

  His face was troubled.

  “You don’t own me,” she said. “Yet.”

  But she knew a threat when she heard it.

  ten

  The Bear Garden was cold. And so was she. The tramp was late.

  She glanced up at the house, uneasy and defiant. After sitting in her room for an age telling herself not to be reckless, she’d grabbed her shawl, sped down through the kitchens and out into the smoky purple twilight. Maybe Azrael was afraid of what she’d find out. The yew trees beyond the terrace were already black shapes, monstrous. Small statues of dancing bears capered on columns of stone higher than her head. She didn’t like them, or their stony stillness. She kept thinking the one by the gate had turned its head to look at her.

  An owl hooted in the wood.

  Sarah paced restlessly up and down, trying to keep warm. Her breath smoked and the sky in the west was clouded. It must be getting late. She had no idea of the time; none of the clocks in Darkwater Hall ever worked, even though she’d wound the library clock herself. Tonight was All Hallows Eve—the Night of the Dead. She didn’t want to be out in it. If he didn’t come now, she’d leave the food and go in.

  There was candlelight in the laboratory. As she glanced up at it she saw the window shutters being closed; for a second she caught Scrab’s stooped outline.

  Then a stone rattled on the path.

  The tramp was very quiet. He crept in through the gate like a shadow, slightly breathless, the dog slinking behind.

  “That you, girlie?”

  “Yes. Over here.”

  She’d put the food on the bench in a little wicker shelter she sometimes sat in; there were a few of them around the gardens.

  “There’s none but us?” The tramp sounded wary.

  “No.”

  He came inside and sat down, smelling of wood smoke and onions. It was darker in here; she crouched by his feet, wrapping the shawl tight about her shoulders to keep warm. “I’ve brought bread and potatoes and some cheese. It’s in the sack. Now tell me what you’ve got to tell, and be quick.”

  He rummaged in the dirty sacking, smiling his toothless grin. “Ah, yes. Tonight’s that night, eh?”

  She stared, struck by a thought. “You won’t sleep out in it, will you?”

  “I sleep where I like. On the beach, or his lordship’s woods. Maybe a barn. Maybe the church porch.”

  “But tonight . . .”

  “Oh, I’ve seen many a Hallow night.” He rubbed his red, coarse face with a broad thumb. “None of it ever hurt me. But here”—he glanced around, uneasy—“this is a chancy place.” He nodded at the box hedges. “Look at it. No gardeners, not that you ever see. But the place is dug and hoed and kept like a palace.”

  Sarah nodded. “I’ve noticed.”

  “Servants in the house, is there?”

  “Just a cook. And Scrab.”

  “Ah!” The tramp shook his head. The name seemed to alarm him. “That feller! Summoned up from some hole under the furniture, him. Who needs servants when you can magic your own vermin?”

  Taking out a piece of cheese he began to eat it, sucking at it in a way she found disgusting.

  “Look, say what you came to say. He told me not to talk to you. He might send for me.”

  The tramp’s eyes were bright. “He’ll be too busy tonight. So he knows I’m here?”

  “He saw us through the telescope.”

  “He would.” He swallowed the cheese. “I suppose he’s got around thee. Has he told thee how he got this place?”

  “He won it from my grandfather.”

  “Aye. And I dare say he’s full of remorse and wished to God it had never happened?”

  “So he says.” Sarah felt unease grow inside her like the cold.

  “You believe him?”

  She shrugged. “My grandfather was . . .”

  “Thy granfer, girl, was a fool and braggart.” The tramp looked mournfully out at the darkening garden. “And a good ’un.”

  “You knew him?”

  He gave a toothless wheeze. The dog yapped, and he caught its muzzle quickly with one hand. “Loved him. Oftentimes he’d speak to me, riding by. He let me make hay and help with the shearing. ‘How’s tricks, old villain,’ he’d roar, and then drink from the same cider keg as all of us.”

  “Azrael says”—Sarah pulled cobwebs off her dress—“that he was cruel. That he didn’t care for the people.”

  The tramp glanced at her sidelong. “His lordship should know about cruelty.” He took out a stinking old pipe and began to fill it with some peculiar weed. When he spoke again his voice was low. “I was there, that night.”

  She stared up at him. “Where?”

  “The Black Dog, out on the moor. I was sitting in the corner. Let me tell thee what really went on.”

  The sky was dark now. Far down on the cliffs late kittiwakes gathered. The garden dimmed, minute by minute.

  “Trevelyan was drunk. Azrael was buying. Strong stuff. Cider. Brandy. I watched how he poured it into thy granfer’s tankard, filling again and again. The old man got worse and worse. That’s the truth, girlie!”

  Cold, she waited. He lit the pipe with a tinderbox, and puffed on it noisily. A tiny red ember glowed in the dark.

  “I suppose he told thee different.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tha’ll have to choose who to believe. Anyway, they started the cards. Azrael’s idea. He kept raising the stakes. Kept winning. Every hand turned out his way. The other players dropped out. One of them muttered he’d seen the black arts before, and wanted no part of it. Red as hell it was, with the fire and all, and a strange crowd in there that night. Outside, the wind was roaring, fit to burst.”

  Sarah stood up. She knew what was coming. She walked to the doorway and stood with her back to him, staring tight-lipped at the
dark garden. The bears watched her, peering over the hedges.

  “It was Azrael,” the tramp said carefully, “that made the last wager.”

  “No!” She turned. “My grandfather had a pistol . . .”

  “No gun, girlie. ‘This time,’ Azrael says, all light and keen, ‘we bet everything. House. Estate. Life. Even thy immortal soul, old man. On the turn of a card.’ He and thy granfer sat at that table as if they were only mortals left in Christendom. No one spoke. It was as if some dread lay on us. I remember the fire catching Azrael’s face; dark it was, eager. I’ll tell you this too, he’s not changed. Not a line, not a wrinkle. In all these years.”

  He puffed at the pipe. Sarah glared. “Go on!”

  “Nothing else to say. Trevelyan nodded, befuddled as he was. They drew the cards. Thy granfer’s hand shook so much he could scarce cut the pack. He turned a king. We all knew how it would be, though. How can you play with the devil and win? When Azrael turned the ace the whole room stopped breathing. Thy granfer just stood and staggered to the door. Holding himself stiff he was, his face as if he was already in hell. The door crashed behind him. He never said a word.”

  Sarah turned back to the garden, so he wouldn’t see her dismay. She had no idea what to believe. In the darkness the columns seemed empty. “Why would Azrael lie to me?”

  “Why should I, eh? He’s not like us. He’s the Father of Lies.”

  “Oh stop all that!” She stormed out onto the grass and turned on her heel to face him, quivering with anger. “I know him! I don’t know you!”

  He was a dark outline. Only the pipe glowed, its redness rising and sinking with his breath. “Take care with him.” The tramp stood heavily. “He’s not brought thee here for any good purpose. Has he tried yet, to win thy soul?”

  Fear shot through her.

  “No. At least . . .” She shook her head. “It was a sort of joke . . .”

  “No joke, girlie. Not with Azrael. He’ll try again. He’ll offer thee anything tha wants, and in the end he’ll win thee.”