“Go!” Mollie shouted.
Mags and the girls ran as fast as they could.
Mollie caught up to them where the dense forest opened into a clearing. She was, for a moment, grateful to be out of the tangle of branches and underbrush. But she knew how much easier it was to get a clear line of sight in a landscape such as this.
They all ran across the open space. Mother and daughter reached the other side of the clearing first. They stood at its opposite edge, waving on the girls in their care, rifles at the ready.
Communist soldiers reached the edge of the forest, and Mollie knew all hope was lost. She raised her rifle. “Maggie!”
Gunshots rang out. First one girl and then another fell to the ground. Their bodies flailed in the air then disappeared into the grass.
“Take my ring.” Mollie fired at their pursuers then raised her voice. “If I fall, take my ring. Do you understand?”
Mags dropped into a crouch beside her mother. She chambered a round, fired into the forest, and chambered another. One by one, the girls in her group sprayed blood and fell to the ground. They never made it to the other side of the clearing. Mags could not be sure if she was hitting her targets, but she heard shouting.
“Maggie!”
“Yes, Mama.” All the girls they had tried to save had fallen. Mags felt nothing but hate and sadness. But her mother’s nearness gave her strength. Together, they returned fire at their enemies.
A bullet caught Mollie square in the chest. She fell backwards into the underbrush.
“Mama!”
Mollie sprawled on the broken branches and tangled bushes of the forest floor. Blood gushed from her mouth and down the side of neck into her uniform. “Take it,” she whispered.
Mags would never hear her mother speak another word. Mollie’s hand quivered above her chest, and the silver ring caught what rays of sun could penetrate the forest canopy.
“Mama!” Mags cried out again. But she knew.
Bullets lacerated the air above her head. One lodged itself in the tree over her shoulder.
Mags grabbed her mother’s hand. In one swift motion, she pulled the ring free. Another bullet smacked into Mollie’s corpse. Then another. Blood flowed from the wounds.
Mags ducked into the dirt and crawled away. She heard bullets slice the air above her, and the sickening sound of more bullets smashing into her mother’s lifeless body.
She leapt to her feet and ran. She left her mother’s body there at the edge of the clearing, and she ran harder than she had run in her entire life.
And for that, Mags would never forgive herself.
★ ○•♥•○ ★
January 1938.
On her hands and knees, she lapped water from the cold stream. It tasted clean. She placed her chin and lips just below the surface and gulped it down. Her tail twitched against her leg inside the thick pants she now wore under her stolen coat.
Winter had come, and she slept outside most nights unless she could find a barn or abandoned house to escape the wind. She no longer had her rifle. She vaguely remembered how it had broken into pieces when, out of ammunition, she had defended herself by bludgeoning an attacker with it.
Winter’s arrival meant her fourteenth birthday had come and gone. She had not given it any thought. What few thoughts Mags had this season focused on survival, and little else. Her mind had retreated from a truth she found too painful to face. For seven months, she had lived alone, like an animal. She foraged for food, water, and warm clothing, avoiding the war-torn cities and preying upon more isolated farms across the countryside.
A rustle caught her attention. She raised her head slightly from the water and scanned the opposite bank. There. A movement in the grass. She sniffed the air then lowered her head again to drink. She smelled a bird, but it did her little good on the far side of the stream.
The grass rustled again, and wings beat the air. The bird flew over her head. Mags jumped. Faster than the eye could follow, her hand smacked the bird down from its flight. Stunned, it fell into the grass. She pounced on it, and her fingers closed around it in an instant. She snapped its neck.
Mags was fond of birds, in her own way. Their movements earned her rapt attention. She had grown quite adept at stalking and catching them over the last half a year. She enjoyed their songs, their powers of flight, and their taste. It was this affection which brought them quick deaths at her hands, as opposed to the way most cats play with their prey before eating it.
The taste of blood and raw meat filled her mouth. Had Mags been thinking clearly, she might have headed north to France, toward her grandmother’s estate. But how could she face Gramma when she had run like a coward into the forest, leaving Mama’s body in the hands of her killers? Surely Gramma would be ashamed of her. So terribly ashamed. Ashamed of her spineless granddaughter who ran and ran like a hunted animal.
On the rare occasions she had encountered other people, she heard talk of the civil war which had broken out following the events in Barcelona. But Mags could not think of the revolution without thinking of her mother. Her mother’s body lying still on the ground.
She blotted the thought from her mind. If it were an image on a canvas, she would have painted over it until all its features were buried. Instead, Mags cradled her left hand with her right. She could feel her mother’s ring through the gloves she had stolen. Only that familiar sensation brought her any comfort.
Then she heard gunshots. And again. Her body tensed. She did not know if the shots came from hunters or soldiers. Either way, they were not her friends. Mags had no friends. She only had a countryside filled with potential enemies. She bolted into the forest and ran until it ended at the top of a hill. Below her, a freight train slowly chugged along. Mags ran down the hill as fast as she could.
The train picked up speed. Mags saw a car with an open door, perhaps intended for livestock. She ran alongside the train, trying to match its velocity. She reached for a metal bar on the railcar’s side. It was only inches from her fingertips. Then it pulled away.
With all the strength she could muster, she willed herself to run faster. Suddenly, her hand closed on the bar. Her feet left the ground. She swung her legs up, frantically seeking a foothold. Her other hand snapped shut around the bar. She pulled herself up, flung her legs inside the doorway, and rolled across the floor.
Crouching on all fours, her belly nearly touching the floor, she looked out towards the hills and forest from where she came. Had anyone pursued her? Were the men with guns still following her? She saw no one. But she could not be sure.
That night, huddled in a corner of the railcar, Mags dreamed. She shivered. Her fists clenched and unclenched. The tip of her tail flicked nervously against her leg. She saw a black flag pounded by rain and snapping in a tempest. It bore a white skull above two crossed swords. Its rhythmic dance hypnotized her.
As she watched, the skull and swords turned crimson. The swords liquefied, running like streams of blood to the bottom of the flag. The wind snatched them up and flung them into the storm. But the skull did not run. Instead, it became a heart. It pulsed with a strange light. Mags heard a woman singing, but she could not make out the words above the howling wind. She concentrated, trying to hear the song.
She awoke to find the grey sky glowing with the first pale light of sunrise. Something felt different this morning. For the first time since last summer, Mags felt clear-headed. Faintly, in the back of her mind, she heard the singing woman from her dream. The song slowly burned away her fog of despair just like the rising sun.
She felt an undeniable compulsion to sail, and she caught the scent of the sea. The train had carried her to the coast. Its churning rhythm slowed. Soon it would come to a full stop.
Mags brushed the dirt from her ragged clothes. She did her best to brush her tangled hair away from her face. Then she leapt out of the lazily rolling train. She walked to the sea and stole aboard the first boat she could find.
PART TWO: THE HOUSE
ON METEOR STREET
25 January 1938.
Mags knelt before the grave, a stone cross and a small plaque set in the ground. The boat had taken her to England. Once there, she mingled with the crowds, guided by the softly singing voice in her head. Eventually, she arrived at Victoria Station in London.
Near the station sat St. James Park. Just around the way from the park, Mags discovered a small cemetery. She walked among the graves until she found one with her mother’s name on it. The woman buried there did not share Mollie’s last name, but it was enough for Mags that she shared the first.
“I’m sorry, Mama.” The damp earth felt cold against her knees. A constant drizzle of rain masked her tears. “I was just so scared.” She sniffed. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Just then, a black kitten came running across the gravestones straight toward her. Mags’ eyes lit up. She opened her arms and called to him. The kitten leapt into her arms, panting heavily. Mags held him. He nuzzled into her filthy coat. She huddled over him to protect him from the rain.
The kitten had a splash of white on its face and a single white forepaw. Mags made a fist. She ran her thumb over the kitten’s closed eye while scratching the fuzz near his ear with her curled fingers. His breathing slowed, and he purred. Mags smiled.
“It went this way!”
At the shout, the kitten opened his eyes and squirmed. Mags stood up.
A boy came crashing through the bushes. “Over here!” He looked to one side then the other, and then at Mags. Three more youths came smashing through the hedge, destroying the quiet of the graveyard with their shouting. They were not much older than Mags and, like her, they wore tattered clothes and dirty faces, disheveled hair, and hunger in their eyes.
“There it is!” The boy pointed at Mags.
Through the damaged break in the hedge stepped another girl, taller than the rest, but just as dirty. Where the others had quick, nervous movements, she moved more confidently and slowly. She eyed Mags with vicious hate. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Yeah,” said the boy excitedly. “Who the fuck are you, ya little slag? This is our place. Piss off!”
Mags took a step back, unsure if she should stand her ground or run to protect the kitten.
The big girl raised the crude weapon in her right hand. It was merely a cylinder of wood, some kind of post perhaps, with the end taped up for a grip. She grasped it firmly in her woolen glove with the fingers cut out, and pointed it at Mags. “Not so fast, lassie. You’ll be giving us that kitten now. Hand it over.”
“Tell, her, Emily,” said the boy. “Hand it over!”
The other children glared.
“If he was your kitten,” said Mags, “he wouldn’t be running from you.”
“Oi! Ain’t ya the smart little cunt?” She smacked the boy beside her on the back of the head. “Get her!”
The gang rushed Mags. Startled, the kitten squirmed free and jumped to the ground. He ran towards the trees on the edge of the cemetery. One of the girls let out a howl and chased after him.
Without a second’s hesitation, Mags ran at that girl. The girl ran with the manic speed of a wild dog. She might have caught the cat if left to her own devices. But Mags leapt and tackled her.
The two of them fell to the ground. As they rolled on the ground, Mags’ head slammed into a gravestone. She cried out, but she held her grip on her derelict opponent, who elbowed her in the gut.
Two hands grabbed her hair from behind and pulled her up. She swung her arms and legs, trying to find her footing.
The girl she had tackled began to rise to her feet. Mags kicked her as hard as she could in the mouth. The girl screamed, covering her face. Blood spurted from between her fingers.
The rest of the youth joined the fray. “Hold her,” ordered Emily. She walked over, brandishing her club.
The boy grabbing Mags by the hair tried to put her in a choke hold. He crooked his arm around her neck.
Mags’ fist closed on his hand. She whipped her head back to smash the bridge of his nose. Blood sprayed into her dirty, matted locks.
His grip on her hair loosened enough that she could lean her head forward to his imprisoned hand. She clamped her teeth down on his index finger. He screamed.
Mags bit into the second joint of his finger as hard as she could. Cartilage cracked in her mouth. She forced her teeth together and flung her head to the side.
Emily swung her club. She caught a glancing blow on the side of Mags’ head. The severed finger went flying out of Mags’ mouth into the grass.
“She bit my fookin’ finger off! Aaaaaa!”
“I said hold her, you little sods!”
The blows to the head slowed Mags too much. Before she could charge Emily, the two uninjured youth grabbed her arms.
The girl with the bloodied face punched her in the stomach. She grabbed Mags’ legs to keep them from kicking. “Bash this cunt’s head in,” she yelled. “She knocked my teeth out!”
Mags cursed violently in Spanish, thrashing, trying to free herself. She glared at Emily, who stood before her.
Emily raised her club. “You should have let us have our fun with the cat. When we’re done with you, we’re gonna go find the little mongrel, and I’m gonna beat it anyway. Just like I’m gonna beat you now.”
As the club came down, Mags collapsed, dropping all her weight and pulling her arms in towards her. The boy on her left fell forward, still gripping her. The club came down on the back of his head.
“Bloody fuck,” Emily shouted. “Get out of the way!”
Mags and her assailants tumbled to the ground.
Emily kicked them. “Out of the way,” she said, not caring whom she hurt.
Just then, a man ran toward them. “Hey! Break it up!” He towered over Emily. His coat made his muscular frame appear even bulkier. He swung a cane as he approached. “Stop it right now! You let her go!”
Emily stopped kicking. “Fun time’s over, mates. Let’s go!” She took off in the opposite direction. The tangled bodies on the ground separated. The children scrambled away from Mags. They leapt up to follow Emily, barely escaping the wrath of the man’s swinging cane. Emily stopped to look at him from the edge of the cemetery.
He pulled off the top of the cane to reveal a blade. “Go on, now,” he shouted.
She scowled, then ran off.
He looked down at Mags on the ground. “Are you okay?”
She rolled over onto her hands and knees. “Está bien,” she muttered, coming to her feet. “It’s fine.”
“Are you hurt?”
Mags held her hand to the side of her head. “No,” she lied.
She swayed a little. The man held out his hand to her, but she shrank back from him. “Don’t touch me! I’m not afraid of you.”
The man eyed her thoughtfully and stepped back. “I ain’t here to hurt you, little one.” He placed his blade back in the top of his cane. “You know,” he said, considering the disheveled young woman in front of him, “I was jumped by five guys once. Just minding my own business. Then, out of nowhere, boom. I was fighting for my life. I probably would have died that night. But you know what?”
Mags eyed him cautiously. “What?”
“A friend came to my rescue.”
“They wanted to kill you?”
“They sure did. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time for a man with my skin.”
“What’s wrong with your skin?”
“Not a damn thing. But not everyone back home feels the same way. That’s why I left the States to come here. A man’s a man here in London, and they don’t care so much what color he is.”
Mags did not understand what he meant. But he did not seem to mean her any harm. She asked him, “Did you see the kitten? Did he get away?”
“Is that what you were fighting about? That little black cat that went running out of here like a bat out of hell?”
“They wanted to hurt him.”
“Goddamn street urchins.
I’d hate ’em, if I didn’t know a thing or two about being as hungry as they are. By the way,” he said, holding out his hand. “My name’s Jack.”
Mags eyed his hand.
“Are your parents here? Do you need some help getting home?”
Mags shook her head. “Mama’s… She’s not here anymore. I came here to talk to her.”
“And your daddy?”
“He’s in the States. I never met him.”
“Well. Aren’t you in a pickle?”
“A what?”
“A spot of trouble, you know.”
Mags did not understand all his slang, but she understood the meaning. “Thank you.” She held out her hand. “My name is Mags.”
“A pleasure to meet you, young lady.” He shook her hand gently a few times then let it go. “Mags. I don’t really know what I can do for you, but you’re welcome to join me for lunch and some tea if you like. Maybe we can sort something out for you?”
“No one has been nice to me in a long time.”
Jack laughed softly. “Let’s just say I like to root for the underdog.”
“The what?”
“The underdog. That’s the fighter no one thinks is gonna win. But you know what? He goes into the ring swinging anyway. And every now and then, that fighter proves everyone wrong. He might even take the title!”
“The title of a book?”
“Mags, you don’t follow boxing much, do you?”
She shook her head.
“Why don’t you join me for lunch and get out of this bloody rain for a bit, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Mags considered. “I want to find that kitten. I’m worried about him.”
“You won’t be much use to the kitties of this world if you starve to death, will you?”
She looked out to the street beyond the cemetery and saw no sign of the gang or the cat. They could be anywhere by now. And damn it all if she wasn’t ravenously hungry. “No,” she said. “No, I won’t.”
The two of them walked south to Clapham, Mags at the boxer’s side, and suddenly the rain and the cold and the throbbing in her head did not seem so awful.
Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition Page 27
