Isabella's Heiress

by N. P. Griffiths

  “God, I’m fucked. What am I going to do?”

  “All is not lost, Taryn, they torment and tease but that is all they can do. You have to be strong and stand up to it.”

  Once they got into the main hall, Taryn fell to the floor. Father Eamon caught her and helped her to a nearby bench.

  “Taryn, what happened?”

  The voice came from behind one of the posts; a woman hurried over and sat down next to her. Black hair partially hid her face but her dark eyes shone through. There was a life and energy to them that lit up the surrounding room and Emma felt her spirits lift even though she had no idea who this woman was. Taryn smiled weakly and looked over.

  “The voices, I hate them.”

  “We’ve spoken about this before haven’t we? They cannot do anything except taunt. You must learn to block them out.” The woman’s voice was gentle with a hint of southern European about it. She put an arm around Taryn who was exhausted and sat slumped forward resting her arms on her knees.

  “I know. I try, I do but they’re always there.”

  Emma watched as Taryn laid bare all her fears and anxieties, conscious that she was intruding, but torn between leaving her and staying to lend her support. She settled for stepping back and making herself as invisible as possible.

  “Leave them to their conversation.” Father Eamon was by her side and Emma jolted slightly at the sound of his voice. They moved away to a bench on the far side of the hall

  “How do you feel now you have seen your parents?”

  With the events after they had returned to the plane, she hadn’t thought about the time she had spent at her old family home but Father Eamon’s question brought back a dark mass of feelings. Emma tried not to think of her mum sitting, bereft, at her kitchen table but the more she tried to banish the pictures from her mind, the more stubbornly they hung on, refusing to be dislodged by anything that would make her forget the scene that had held her transfixed. She couldn’t make up her mind as to whether the visit had been a mistake. She had wanted to say goodbye but at what cost? Her final memory would be that of a fractured family trying to pick up the pieces of a ruined life.

  “I don’t know.”

  Guilt was now taking its place alongside loss and grief. Guilt for having, once again, caused her family pain. She knew that it wasn’t her fault and this time there were no accusing looks or pained outbursts but the guilt was there all the same.

  “I shouldn’t have gone.”

  “We all make choices Emma. It isn’t always obvious whether it is the right or wrong choice until we have followed through on it. I do not necessarily think that this was the wrong decision. You no longer have to worry about your family. Had you not gone, it would have been a constant concern for you. You are not the first person to want to see their family after death and you will not be the last. My advice would be to put this behind you and move on.”

  Emma looked over to where Taryn and the woman were sitting. Concern for her friend mixed with worry about her own future. With a twinge of guilt playing in her chest she looked away, trying to concentrate on what mattered to her but not having much joy.

  “Who’s the woman sitting next to her?”

  “Sister Ignacia, her guide.”

  “Oh.” Emma gave a vague shrug whilst looking at the far wall. She was wringing her hands together and starting to yawn, “I’m going to bed”. She headed off towards the door leading to the bedrooms, looking back to see if Taryn took that as her cue to join her but she was still sitting on the bench deep in conversation.

  Emma left for her room alone.

  Chapter Eight

  Shooting The Starlings

  Emma woke to find the light already on. Her clothes were strewn in a tangled mess across the floor and her shoes were lying in a corner, scuffed and covered in dirt and mud.

  She lay on her bed willing herself to return to the blissful numbness of sleep but her body refused to comply so she contented herself instead with looking at the ceiling and drawing her quilt in around her as tight as possible as she fixed her stare on the cracked plasterwork. Her mind tormented her with flashes of the previous day’s events and it seemed that for every picture Emma banished, another two would take its place.

  Eventually Emma gave up trying to hide in her bed, choosing instead to kick the quilt off and throw her legs over the side. For a while she sat there, scrunching her toes through the warm cream carpet, whilst she rested her head on her hands. As the fog of sleep lifted, the familiar swirl of emotions started to settle back into her stomach.

  She headed to the en-suite bathroom, a perk she had never enjoyed while she was alive, she admitted to herself with a wry smile and busied herself washing. Emma used the familiarity of these rituals to banish everything else from her mind, taking minute care when lathering up her favourite soap, which she had found sitting in its dish, before applying it evenly across her face.

  Looking in the mirror, Emma was reminded of a time when, as a child, she had pretended to be the Wicked Queen after watching Snow White, asking it who was the fairest of them all. Of course the mirror would never answer but she would pretend it would and now, looking back, it seemed strange to her that she played the Wicked Queen at all and not Snow White as most other girls did at her age. Now, looking at her reflection, the face looking back was one marked with uncertainty. Emma was no longer the little girl whose most immediate issue was that she was talking to a mute mirror, she was a woman with very real problems and the lines creasing her forehead were compelling evidence.

  She left the bathroom and headed across to the wardrobe. Opening the doors, she ran her eyes across the rows of trousers. She had never really been a skirt person and chose instead a set of jeans she had picked up a few weeks before the accident. She stopped as that thought crossed her mind. The accident. Had she really become that accepting of what had happened to her? Emma pulled the jeans up over her hips before grabbing a red knitted jumper and slipping on some shoes.

  She headed downstairs and entered the main hall. It was early and Emma was alone as she walked across the earth floor and sat on the bench she had been on the previous day. Dust particles hung lazily in the air, highlighted by faint shafts of light that came in from the ceiling above. Emma looked up but couldn’t work out where the light was coming from. It just seemed to be there. She shifted, trying to get comfortable but the bench was hard and unforgiving.

  It surprised Emma how quickly this had become home to her. There was a warmth to her surroundings that seeped into her psyche and she drew comfort in the softness of the damp earth beneath her feet.

  “Hola, you must be Emma.”

  Emma looked around to see Sister Ignacia walking in from the far end of the hall. Shifting on the bench, she turned to face the woman heading towards her.

  The woman was about Emma’s height, with black hair tumbling down to her shoulders, framing a pair of playful brown eyes. Emma caught a warm smile from her and instinctively returned it. Wearing an orange corset over a loose white blouse and a green waistcoat, Sister Ignacia looked like she should be anywhere but here. It was held together with ribbons of the same colour, tapering down to a long white skirt, which flowed around her as she walked, stopping just short of the dirt floor. The bright colours were in stark contrast to the flat complexion of the hall.

  Sister Ignacia sat next to Emma and looked upwards “I love it here in the morning, it is so peaceful.” Leaning back, she closed her eyes and, stretching out her arms, let out a slow sigh. “How are you settling in, Emma? Father Eamon tells me you’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  Emma nearly choked. “Rough? That’s one way of putting it.”

  Sister Ignacia smiled. “Can you think of a better description?”

  “I can think of a few descriptions but…no…I guess rough is pretty apt.”

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Not really.”

  “The voices?”

  “Yeah.”

>   “They are testing you. They do that to all the new initiates, the first time they go out after dark. Father Eamon told me you stood up well to them.”

  “Really? It would have been nice if he’d mentioned them beforehand. You know, just a quick don’t mind the voices, they’re just testing you. They can’t actually touch you.”

  “He was hoping to have you back in the sanctuary before that happened. Unfortunately you all spent longer out than he had anticipated.”

  Emma thought back to the previous evening, sitting on the platform as one after another, three trains were announced as cancelled. Looking back, she now realised that there had been a slight tension in Father Eamon and Taryn as these announcements had been made but she hadn’t been in any condition to notice this at the time.

  And then she remembered.

  “How is Taryn?”

  “She’ll be fine. A good nights sleep will help her recover. She spoke a lot about you last night.”

  Emma felt a chill of apprehension creep in. “What did she say?”

  “She is so pleased to see you. Sad that you have ended up here as well, but happy to see an old friend.”

  A weight lifted off Emma’s shoulders and she leant forward, stifling a yawn. She tried to blot out memories of the previous day, but Emma knew she would have had more luck holding back a high tide.

  “I’m scared.”

  The words seemed to have a will of their own. It surprised her that she would say this to someone who was a complete stranger but she felt no shame or embarrassment despite that.

  Sister Ignacia sat up and looked at Emma, who cast her eyes downward. “Of course, everybody is scared who comes here. You would not be human if you weren’t but you can take heart in the fact that you have Father Eamon as a guide. He never acts as a guide. This is the first time in many years that he has done such a task.”

  “How come I’m so honoured then?”

  “It is not for me to say but in Father Eamon you have the most capable and experienced man I have ever known.”

  Emma felt a slight lightening in her stomach at this and allowed herself a small smile.

  “How long have you known Father Eamon?”

  “Ever since I was an initiate.”

  “You were an initiate?”

  “Si. I went to a sanctuary in Cadiz. There I was taken under the wing of Father Eamon, who helped me through my trial.”

  Emma looked up as she said this. “There are more places like this?”

  “Of course, every city in the world has one. They provide sanctuary for people such as you, when the worst happens to them.”

  This took Emma by surprise. With everything that had happened to her, it had never occurred to her that she wasn’t unusual in this let alone that this was a regular occurrence.

  “And there are people like you in these places?”

  “There are many of us, Emma. We watch and guide and provide comfort in times of great need. We act as shepherds and shepherdesses, guiding initiates on their paths.”

  Emma had so many questions, she felt like she would explode. She was impatient to have them all answered and yet at the same time, she feared what the answers might be.

  “That voice…what was it?”

  “There are those that would see you fail. They are all around but they cannot directly interfere. Instead they use voices. They will pour honey in your ear one minute and venom the next. You must ignore them, Emma; shut them out. These puta’s cannot touch you but they will try to influence and trick you. You will learn more about them from Father Eamon.”

  Sister Ignacia’s eyes flared as she spoke and there was an edge to her voice but as quick as it was there it was gone. Emma was about to ask another question when the door to the stairwell opened and Father Eamon appeared.

  “I see you have met Sister Ignacia. I hope she hasn’t been filling your head with stories.”

  Sister Ignacia had a look of mock outrage on her face “As if I would do something like that! I am hurt that you would make such an accusation.”

  “Ah, the impetuousness of youth. No one wants to wait for anything anymore. They must know everything instantly.”

  “I was merely answering Emma’s questions, she was curious about the situation she finds herself in.”

  “As were you, my dear Ignacia, do you not remember how I had to temper your fire and anger?” Father Eamon smiled as he gently admonished Sister Ignacia “I seem to remember having to teach you the virtue of patience and it would seem that young Emma here has more than a few of your traits herself.”

  “Pah! You say that like it’s a bad thing. What would life be without emotion? Emma is her own woman and all better for it I say.”

  “As you say, Ignacia but too much emotion can cloud a persons judgement, however I concede that life would indeed be dull without it.” Father Eamon smiled before turning to Emma.

  “Tis good to see you up so early, Emma. I take it that you had trouble sleeping.”

  Emma felt a flush coming to her cheeks, not sure if Father Eamon felt angry or betrayed at her having confided in a woman whom she barely knew.

  “Yeah. Couldn’t get the voices out of my head.”

  “Hmm. For that I owe you an apology. I did not realise we would be out so late.”

  “I know, Sister Ignacia said.” If there had been any sense of awkwardness before, it was now gone, replaced by a growing indignation that he had not said anything prior to them leaving yesterday. She was half-inclined to say something but decided against it.

  “Well, as you are awake, we should make the most of the day given to us, do you not think? Let us head out from here.”

  “Out…there?” Emma’s head turned towards the front door.

  “Yes, out there. It is time to start your training.”

  Sister Ignacia stood up. “Go Emma, you are going to be perfectly safe. The voices only come at night and the sun has barely risen.”

  “How would anybody know? It’s constantly dark out there.”

  “For now maybe but I have no doubt you will see the light.”

  Father Eamon guided Emma towards the door, following after her.

  “Will I need a jacket?”

  “No, it is quite warm out there.”

  They stepped through the main door and headed out towards the gated archway. The road outside was full of the same three and four story houses that Emma had seen the previous day. The sun was low, hidden in transition between day and night and shadows played on the ground, their fingers pointing accusingly at the sanctuary gate, as the early mist hung above the grass in the sanctuary grounds. Emma could see the dew still hanging on the branches and leaves of the oak.

  “Please, Emma, take a seat.”

  Father Eamon sat next to her and took her hand in his. “I guess it would be safe to say this is not where you expected to end up when you woke the other morning.”

  That line brought a look of mild disgust from Emma in response.

  “Quite. I think it only fair that you understand what lies beyond these gates before we venture forth.”

  Emma had a pretty good idea what lay beyond the gates and she didn’t like it one bit.

  “This world, our plane, is not unlike the one you left. It has all the subtleties and frailties of the land of the breathing but it has…evolved…over time. As ages have come and gone they have, in their time, passed into the twilight. The more traumatic an era, the bigger its impact on the realm. You saw that yesterday.”

  Emma thought back to the journey she had undertaken through the rubble. Her eyes were locked on Father Eamon’s mouth, devouring every word like a starving child desperately wolfing down a long overdue meal. Father Eamon continued.

  “For many years, this plane was a place of quiet contemplation and gentle healing. That was until there was a schism between those that created this place.

  “This parting of the ways caused a war to break out that has raged until this day. Sometimes it has been in the open, s
ometimes it has been veiled from human eyes, but it has been a war all the same. Ultimately both sides fought each other to a standstill and it was finally agreed that there should be peace.

  “To this end a treaty was signed. In the treaty it was agreed that hostilities should cease. Unfortunately one side, our side, was a little too trusting of the other. A passage was inserted in the text that allowed our adversaries to own the night in the twilight realms. During the day they cannot show their faces much less torment an initiate but after dark it is a different matter. Had I not been with you last night they would have tried to take you for their own.”

  Emma was now looking ahead, her eyes glazing over as she tried to take it all in. How could she have come to this? For all that had happened yesterday, this still felt like a horrendous waking dream but there was no waking up and she knew it. She turned back to face Father Eamon.

  “Who are these people? What has their war got to do with me?”

  “More than you know. It is a war that has raged over millennia for the soul of every man and woman that has ever walked the earth and will be fought out until such time as there is no one left to fight over. Both sides are totally convinced of their righteousness and will stop at nothing to further their cause. The difference lies in the methods that are used to bring people round to their side. Ironic isn’t it? After all the wars and upheaval it all boils down to the human spirit.”

  Emma failed to see the irony. She digested Father Eamon’s words in silence. It was all so unfair. She was supposed to be heading to South Africa in a week for a holiday with friends and now she was sitting under a tree, dead, and finding out that this wasn’t as bad as it could get. She didn’t know whether to cry or to scream. Instead, Emma allowed herself a wry smile as she remembered the times she had told people that life wasn’t fair. Now Emma wondered if this was some kind of screwed up karma and that even if she did pass through here she would end up back on earth as a chair leg or something. Whatever, sitting here wasn’t going to solve anything.