The Progeny of Able (The Burrow of London Series Book 1)

by Peter S. Case

  Two Shadow Foxes stood on either side of the door and as they approached they growled in unison and crossed in front blocking their way. A square piece of wood slid open in the centre of the door and a small head with a long snout poked through the metal grate.

  Ursula stared at it for a moment then presented the pointed metal bar and lowered her head placing it at the paws of the Shadow Foxes. She stayed in that position and waited for them to symbolically bite her on the back of the neck, which they did in unison, thus showing her subservience to the council.

  “The accused has shown her respect and may present herself to the council for judgement and trial,” the small fox said with a nasal whine watching from the window. “Walk to the pedestal in the centre of the chamber, do not raise your head, climb the curving staircase to the podium, do not raise your head, wait, do not speak until spoken to, and do not raise your head.. May justice be served.”

  After the fox emitted three short barks the doors began to open and the sound from behind it increased tenfold.

  She passed through and as her two custodians left her side, Acey said rather boldly, “Good luck madame, good luck”, and gave her a smile. Just before the door swung shut she saw Garr leap upon Acey throwing him against the far brickwork and heard him yell, “You idiot!” before the rest was lost by the roar from the crowd.

  There were thousands of foxes filling the floor of the council rotunda, allowing only a small path for Ursula to follow to the tower in its centre. She walked briskly and stoically past the leers and shouts. The foxes in attendance spat at her, tossing rubbish and bile in her path or over her head. Glancing across the crowd she could see the imposing figure of Daegal poking out in the centre, made larger by the interested but aged Odella standing on his back. Reaching the spiral staircase she began the ascent to the podium at its peak. Spinning round and round she was given a better and better view of the surprisingly well kept array of mosaics on the arching ceiling above. In its centre was a large oculus out of which came a dim light, the knowledge of its source long lost.

  Of all the halls in the palace, thought Ursula, they want to keep this room preserved and imposing in order to give us the feeling that there is still some sort of order.

  Reaching the top, she placed herself behind a slanting piece of wood and dropped the summons into a trough at its top. Taking a breath and defying the order of subservience, she raised her head and looked into the faces of the council of brothers seated in great thrones raised to the same level as her, with a Shadow Fox squatting on the ground at the base of each. They stood facing the crowd, ready to pounce and tear should disorder start to break out.

  The common saying passed through her mind, 'For every Master their Shadow'.

  There were twelve brothers here today. Perhaps there would be more tomorrow as the number of thrones was enough to circle the entire room and at least half were empty.

  She could feel herself shaking and tried to remain poised, to breath evenly. It was a struggle to do nothing but wait. The screams were deafening. The silent prodding stare of the councillors compounded the tension by drawing out the act of inaction. Just as she thought she couldn't take another moment without screaming the twelve each grasped a lead weight on a loop in their jaws, raised them and brought them down in unison with a crash onto bronze plates. The cacophony caused an instant silence amongst the crowd.

  “Now then. Urusula Gontly, daughter of Finan, born into a the Family of Chroniclers and Keeper of the Knowledge of the Burrow, you have been summoned to answer the accusation of treason and attempted murder. How do you plead?”

  He was the oldest of the Council of Brothers and the chairman. He never looked her in the eye and swayed his body back and forth as he spoke, the great chain and amulet of office swinging and gently hitting his chest. His voice was large and steady, belying his aged and weak frame.

  “Not guilty!” she replied emphatically, garnering a gasp from the crowd. “Nor do I see how these charges are relevant to my case. I am neither inciting nor hurting anyone else. How do these charges apply?”

  “The accused will answer the question at hand simply or she will remain silent,” screeched the council member to the right of the chairman. Called Gremian, he was the general of the council and the most ardent in enforcing its policy. A great scar stretched across his face wiping out his right eye, a mark he did not cover with a patch but wore proudly for all to see. His throat, crushed in a fight, emitted a gravelly hiss.

  “She will not ask questions of her own or she will be taken below and judged in absence,” he added, giving his Shadow Fox a commanding nod.

  “Okay, Gremian, okay. Ursula of Sunniva's Womb, you are from a troublesome family. You are not the first to come before this council to be judged. This act is clearly intended to subvert the stability of this government and the people this council represents. This is why the accusation of treason. Murder because you would be the first in our recorded history to knowingly leave the Light of London to give birth to feral foxes who are in fact already citizens of this community.”

  Ursula attempted to hide an ironic smile at his use of the word 'citizen'. There was nothing democratic about the council or what they dispensed.

  “These foxes would be stripped of their right to self-awareness and their short lives would be ruled only by instinct,” the Chairman continued. “What you propose to do has been against our laws from the beginning and is, indeed, against the natural bond of motherhood. I, as the head of this council, would like to know why. You are free to speak your mind.”

  Gremian shook in his seat along with the other members of the council, “Your honour, we have no need to hear what she has to say. Her intentions speak for themselves. Do not allow her a platform from which to preach.” This was greeted by eager nods from the rest.

  Leaning over, he mumbled, “I understand, Gremian, but I would answer what ever she has to say. I would answer and refute her accusations in front of the crowd. I would have all learn there is no power nor any path stronger than that imposed by the council.”

  “As far as I know, I come from a long line of chroniclers,” Ursula began gathering the attention of the councillors and the crowd. “Yet what is there to record any more? Those lucky to birth foxes in the Light are still not whole. Our minds out strip the capabilities of our bodies. This hall, this palace, and ancient rumours of so much more are stifled. There are umours of railways leading to parks and gardens and other larger burrows. Places that may hold the answer to what is lost. With knowledge comes meaning but without knowledge comes despair. The Light is fading and I will not birth Shadow Foxes to serve this council. I intend to save my children from the horrors of this life.”

  Shifting uneasily in his seat Gremian ground his teeth while repeatedly and anxiously looking from the chairman back to Ursula. The chairman meanwhile sat and calmly listened.

  Ursula coughed and continued, “There is no reason to bring a pup into this life or at least not a pup that has any awareness of it. There was hope once. Once there was a fox born out of the Light, out of the Burrow yet born of the light and I would follow his path in hope and...”

  “Silence!” Gremian screamed across from her, standing on all fours.

  The chairman raised his paw at Gremian and then gave her a puckered glance. He stared for a moment then spoke with the booming voice of an elder, “Your family is a troublesome one but it is an ancient one. As such you've been raised with privileges while many others go without. You live in a safe clean community in a den not far from the centre. The Light is strong and your children will not be shadow born but born with a sharp awareness. You dare suggest that the light is dimming and the shadow born increasing. I tell you this is a lie. You imply that we are not meant for this struggle and that the shadow born were not meant to be nor have any right to be. This too is a lie. The fact is the builders of this decadent edifice were driven out long ago. We are meant to embrace the struggle of our animal nature, not to banish it with ar
t and architecture nor subvert it with the writing and reading of books or the development of the science. We live closer to our natures now than we ever have and the shadow born aid us in this endeavour as they have always done. You speak of trams linking communities which never existed. The ancient tunnels were closed and sealed saving us all from the scourge of mange and worse, the frothing sickness. What you speak of is weak and is nothing but the selfish whinings of a spoilt aristocrat. You will speak no more. You will be judged.”

  Giving a loud bark the chairman indicated to the Shadow Foxes below. Each pushing at the chair they guarded, the group of councillors shifted closer together and conferred for a brief moment. They then separated and the chairman rose from his seat.

  “Ursula of Sunniva's Womb, we have reached a verdict. Guilty.” The sentiment was repeated by each member present. He continued, “As you are a child of privilege wanting for nothing so shall we take this away from you. We will spare your life so that you may appreciate the punishment this council brings upon you.” At this the crowd screamed in disapproval and disappointment that there was not to be the show of an execution.

  “Ursula, you shall have what you wish, but you shall not return. As of this moment you are banished from the great Greater Burrow of London to the savagery of the surface where you and your feral foxes can scrounge a life together with the ever present threat of the Hantsa. You shall live to see your pups starve and die above. Some may mate with other ferals and you shall stay to watch the many generations of your kin come and go in pain and suffering. This judgement is proclaimed with the certitude of torture and death should you return. The same fate awaits any who would dare to harbour or to help you.”

  Ursula felt light headed but triumphant. She knew the real reason they feared her decision so much. The idea that no life at all was better than the one they had to offer was an idea that could erode away the very foundations of their rule. They would not put her to death because she would become a martyr and others would follow her path. She could have be a member of this council if she had wanted and would have lent it real legitimacy. So, they were also saving that possibility for a later date. A possibility that lived within her only child. Scarlett would remain and would be safe, she thought.

  After the judgement was heard, a cry of assent came from crowd, and the chairman smiled as he watched Ursula lost in her thoughts. He spoke again, as if reading her mind, but now his voice could be heard by no one but Ursula herself.

  “Furthermore, this banishment extends to any member of your family currently living in the Burrow. Namely your daughter Scarlett. Take her from this place and may she never be seen here again.” He rotated his chair abruptly so his back faced the accused and the rest of the council followed his example.

  As she left the hall, the cries of the crowd were overpowered by the numbing thought of her daughter. This was something she had not planned on. What would she do and where would they go? What sort of life had she cursed upon her child?

  But as she left the washed-out image of the fox in the frescos forced its way into her mind. She could feel the powerful blue eyes watching her pass through the throng and she knew she had done the right thing.

  Chapter Three

  Ten years earlier...

  “You want to make the cut at a forty-five degree angle just above the bud,” smiled the old vicar as he plunged the thorny stem into a brown paper recycling bag. “Make sure it is neat and not ragged, so use a sharp pair of secateurs.”

  The ground, sodden by the grey December weather, covered his shoes in mud and caused the Reverend Edward Leeps to give an impatient cough as he listened to the gardening instructions of the old Vicar.

  “This particular rose should be pruned in the spring, once the forsythia have begun to bloom.”

  “Yes, Tom, I will keep that in mind,” Edward responded, thinking to himself there was a good chance he would be setting up a volunteer committee of parishioners to take over the garden duties once Reverend Haggerty finally ended this week long tour and took his well deserved retirement.

  “In the fifty years I have been Vicar at St. Blaise's I have found the gardening a profoundly satisfying distraction from the stresses of running a London Parish,” sighed the old man, looking at the far away spires of Tower Bridge just visible over the council block. “This must be a challenging step for you. Leaving your church in Somerset and coming to the big city.”

  “It is, yes it is, Tom, but one I am excited to take.” And it was true, at only twenty-eight he was the youngest Priest to be taking on the vicarage of St. Blaise's, at least as noted within the church's incredibly long and complicated recorded history.

  “Let's move on to the shrubs along the north border, shall we?” the Reverend Haggerty said, rising from his knees and hobbling off around the corner. “As you know the church has been rebuilt many times over the past millennium. The addition of these micro flying buttresses was a late nineteenth century addition. It gives the building a solid and stalwart looking grace, does it not?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Haggerty, the building itself as well as its unusual setting were an unexpected surprise for me when I received the call.” As he spoke Edward indicated towards the Tabard's Tail, an ancient tavern which surrounded the church and its grounds on three sides. “It is a fascinating juxtaposition and, in my mind, illustrates faith and its ever present need.”

  A woman wearing roughly severed jeans and a cotton t-shirt, her legs and arms covered in a variety of intricate tattoos, stood upon a ladder and leaned far over in order to clean one of the taverns uppermost windows. She turned, as if sensing their gaze at the establishment, her neatly kept shoulder length dread locks bouncing as she spun. She smiled at the two priests and gave them a wave. One which Haggerty returned for the both of them.

  The old vicar smiled at Edward, giving him a light pat on the shoulder while bolstering himself as they continued to walk. “She is Gwen I believe and took over ownership of the tavern just this past year. She was born in Madagascar from what I have heard but was raised in London. The tavern is as old as the church. They are husband and wife these two.” He paused for a moment looking at the woman as she worked then continued, “You are young, Edward, but so is this community. My flock seems to get older and older, moving slower and slower to their usual pews on a Sunday morning. I hope you can bring some of that youth back to the building, I truly do. I know you have a reputation...”

  “Thank you sir,” he interrupted with a gathering redness.

  “Now listen to me, Edward. People are different here. Its not like a country parish. If you push too hard you might be met with a hardness back you won't appreciate or expect. It is important you take time to observe and to listen. You seem the type that has such a hard focus that the most obvious thing in the world may drift off in front of your eyes.”

  A light drizzle began to powder down from the darkening afternoon sky as the old vicar stopped and looked up thoughtfully at the younger priest.

  “We are given many gifts but few are so sublime as the gift of patience. 'He who has patience has the world.' Somebody wrote that, I believe, on the wall of a cell in the Tower of London.” Reverend Haggerty indicated with his wrinkled and slightly arthritic hand up and off towards the ancient building hidden behind the immensity of London in front of them.

  “On second thought, let's leave the shrubs for now, I think we've done enough outside for today. I believe you are ready and you've been more than patient with my ramblings this past week. Besides, if we traipse around in the rain we'll ruin the grass.”

  Edward smiled thinking about the day they spent on the accounts, the two days on the church's history, as well as the time in mutual prayer. He thought how Mr. Haggerty wanted to familiarize him with every parishioner, their aspirations, careers, financial situations and family histories.

  He replied sincerely, “In retrospect the time we have spent together is incredibly valuable. No, 'valuable' is the wrong word. Meaningful, I should
say. Meaningful and the only way I should have begun my life here.”

  “Good, good, I'm glad. Now let's go inside and have a cup of tea and some biscuits. Before we finish for the day I should go over with you the routine for polishing the interior woodwork.”

  Edward sighed wondering how much longer his induction could possibly last. Helping the Reverend through the double arched doors, with its colourful rose window above he had the same feeling that had been creeping over him ever since he arrived. The feeling of joy in a new home and the daunting excitement that all of this was his responsibility now. With its columns and cross like shape it was a small version of a fully realized cathedral complete with double bell towers and pinnacles that made it look like it had been taken out of a Gothic fairy tale.

  “I'll make the tea this time, Edward. You take a pew near the alter and wait for me. Try to relax a bit for once.”

  Sitting back he looked up to admire, once again, the handsome vaulted ceiling with its exposed wooden beams. Unlike its exterior, the interior of the church was nearly identical to the many others in nearly every village across England. Stone and aged oak giving way to tall stained glass windows which would sparkle with an inspiring brilliance when the sun decided to appear again. As he looked at the beams above he noticed an oddity he had not seen before. At the join of every ceiling joist was the aged oak head of a fox. As he looked around the building the motif of the fox began to pop out at him in a variety of places. The medieval baptismal font had a ring of foxes nose to tail running around its base. In a few of the remaining original stained glass plates there was a fox in the background or looking out in the foreground. Now that he thought of it, he recalled there was a series of foxes, one with a small crown, ringing the main entrance.