Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics

by Jacklyn A. Lo

  Ann lay back again and closed her eyes and, as before, the psychic began to mutter her strange words. The sense of relaxation and calm that Ann had felt seemed, somehow, to increase, as though every concern that she had ever experienced, and every worry she had carried with her in life, began to melt away, leaving her more and more relaxed.

  I wonder if this is how Nirvana feels, she wondered as, little by little, she drifted off to sleep. . .

  Paris, France. XVII Century

  Chapter Sixteen

  She opens her eyes, awoken by a sudden chill gust of wind, and pulls the ragged blanket up around her neck.

  How long have I been asleep? It can’t have been more than a few hours, she thinks. She can’t remember the last time she slept well. The long nights are filled with anxious thoughts and fears of the future that rob her of any sense of peace. The filth of the slums is no place for a girl her age, and even now, her sharpened sense of danger has startled her from her slumber.

  She looks up to see a large man staggering towards her, a lecherous leer on his wet lips. She shrinks back in fear, drawing the blanket up to her eyes as if to ward him off like an evil spirit. As he passes her by, she lets the cover drop away from her face and sighs in relief, her breath hanging in the cold air like smoke.

  The sound of coarse laughter cuts through the night and she glances along the narrow, cobbled street to see a small group of people standing around fire. They look warm, as much due to the fire as to the bottle of cheap brandy they pass among themselves. One man, dressed in filthy rags, grabs at the ass of a woman, laughing drunkenly.

  I wish I was warm, she thinks, shivering in the cold and looking longingly at the glow of the flames. But not at that fire. Look at them, the common brutes of the city slums. I want nothing to do with their sort!

  She turns away, the sight of the fire making her feel even colder than before. Knowing that she will not be able to sleep, she climbs stiffly to her feet and, wrapping the damp blanket around her shoulders, makes her way slowly through the night streets of Paris.

  The night is so cold that a freezing fog has settled over the cobblestones and, despite the dim glow from the street lamps, she has to tread carefully to avoid the debris and muck that litters her way. The sound of her footsteps seems to echo strangely while all other sounds are muffled by the fog. Not that there is much to hear as the streets are mostly deserted at this time of the morning.

  I’m so cold, she thinks, her teeth chattering. Even walking hardly seems to help. I need food, even just a little something, but I’ll just have to wait until sunrise when I can beg a few coins. She tries wrapping her arms tighter around herself in an effort to keep warm, but it causes her blanket to slip from her shoulders onto the filthy cobblestones. As she stoops to pick it up, a huge rat scurries across it, its tail brushing against her hand. She lets out a sharp cry and the rat stops to look at her, its teeth long and yellow.

  “Go away!” she shouts, kicking the blanket at it, and it scurries away across the street. She shivers again, but not from the cold, thought it bites into her, chilling flesh and bone. Rather it is a memory from her childhood that causes her to shudder; the memory of a fingerless man.

  “What happened to your hands?” she had asked the man, filled with a six-year-old’s unashamed curiosity. “Where are your fingers?”

  The man had looked at her with dead, empty eyes and said simply, “Rats, Isabelle! Rats!”

  It isn’t the first rat she has seen, of course. After all, Isabelle has been begging on the streets ever since her parents died twelve years ago. For many years she had done this begging with her aunt, who would earn extra money by singing for passersby. But since her aunt went down with the wasting sickness the previous winter, she has done the work alone. This rat, however, had shown no fear, just like the ones that had gnawed off that man’s fingers all those years ago.

  Please don’t let it attack me, she thinks, as though uttering a silent prayer to an unknown god.

  Keeping a wary eye out for the rat, she walks over to where her blanket lies in the muck and stoops down to pick it up. As she does so, she hears the clatter of hooves on cobbles. The sound is muffled by the fog and, as she straightens up, she realizes it is much closer than she thought. She turns to get out of the way, but it is too late. The horse bursts out of the darkness. She hears someone shout, “Look out!”, then the animal crashes into her shoulder. There is a burst of pain and she is knocked across the street. Landing heavily on her side, she sees hooves clatter past, mere inches from her face.

  “Whoa!” The hoof beats slow to a stop and then approach her at a slower pace.

  “Are you alright, young lady?” asks a voice and she looks up to see a man leaning from his saddle, looking down in concern. “Are you hurt?”

  “I. . .” Isabelle begins, but her head is dizzy and she cannot find the words. Instead she tries to push herself up, to climb to her feet, but the pain in her shoulder makes it too difficult and she sinks back to the cobbles. She looks up again at the man, her eyes slowly focusing on his face. He is handsome, even in her dazed state she can see that. And he is very finely dressed, with a triangle hat as black as his moustache and two beautiful rings set with green and red gemstones. She blinks at him, her head slowly clearing. “I’m okay,” she says at last. “It’s just my shoulder.”

  “Let’s go, Henri!”

  Surprised by the voice, Isabelle peers round to see a plump woman in her thirties sitting behind him, her skirts lifted up and rouge smeared on her face in a vulgar fashion. Her attention is drawn back to the man again as he holds out a hand to her with a number of coins in it.

  Look at those beautiful cuffs, she thinks, wondering how it is possible to get something so perfectly white and making no move to take the money. And those rings!

  Her shoulder still hurts terribly, but she tries to ignore it.

  “Here,” he says, tossing the coins onto the cobbles.

  There is the crack of a whip and, as the horse and its riders continue their journey, Isabelle hears the giggles of the woman before they are swallowed up by the fog and darkness.

  What a man, she thinks, looking down at the coins in her hand. I wonder who he is? She quickly hides them in her clothes, keeping the money from the spying eyes and prying fingers of others. That woman was obviously low-born, far lower than a nobleman like him. How come she gets to ride around in that carriage with him? Finally Isabelle feels able to get up and heaves herself to her feet. I’m younger and prettier than that woman. Surely I have just as much chance of being with a man like that! Maybe even more!

  She brushes some of the muck from her skirt and tries to smooth them down. She is wearing the same clothes her aunt had bought her before she died, after a particularly successful day’s singing. Back then, this skirt had been long and fit for a lady, and Isabelle had been so delighted with it. But that was a long time ago.

  She looks at the money the man gave her. It’s a fortune! Easily ten times the cost of my skirt. She looks at her worn out clothes and the blanket around her. I have to get myself a nice jacket. And maybe a hairbrush. I’ve always wanted one of my own. Yes, that’s what I’ll do! The decision gives her a direction for the coming day.

  ~

  A couple of hours later the sun begins to creep above the houses, melting away the fog and the fears of the night. Ever since she made up her mind to buy herself some new clothes, Isabelle has been excited, making her way to the market stalls and street peddlers in the heart of the city. As Paris slowly wakes up and the streets begin to fill with people, she finds herself in Les Halles. The great market is already bustling with merchants busy setting up their stalls for the day’s trading.

  Such amazing colors, she thinks as she weaves her way through the market. What are all these wonderful things?

  Here are fruits from across the world, many strange and exotic to Isabelle’s eyes, and here all manner of tools for various craftsmen and artisans. Here are animals, geese, pigs and shee
p, all waiting for buyers before they are taken to the butcher’s knife, and here are rolls of silk and satin brought in from the Far East by land and sea. Pottery, metalwork, fabrics, food and wine, the market place is filled with everything anyone could wish to buy, and more.

  When at last she finds the tailors’ stalls, Isabelle is dazzled by the choices of materials and styles. There are all kinds of garments, from dresses and bed clothes for women to trousers and hats for men. There are even delightful children’s clothes and assortments of accessories and ornamentations. One stall in particular captivates her and she stops to finger the material of some of the garments.

  What a beautiful thing! It’s even finer than my own skirt used to be!

  “Away with you!” The man at the stall hurries over to keep such a dirty creature from touching his wares. “Go on! We don’t need your sort around here.”

  “One moment,” says Isabelle, holding up a hand as she pulls the coins from where she has hidden them. “I am looking to buy a bodice.”

  The merchant eyes the coins in her hand. “Well, miss,” he says, his manner suddenly courteous. “You’ve come to the right place. We have the best bodices in the city. What sort of thing did you have in mind?”

  “I’m not sure. Just something second hand.”

  The man gestures to a pile of clothes under a trestle table. “Have a look in there. See what takes your fancy.”

  For the following, wonderful few minutes, Isabelle enjoys trying on different bodices, and eventually settles on one. It is long-sleeved, all the better to protect her from the harsh winter nights. It is mostly black, though it is picked out with bright green embroidery across the chest and down the sleeves. The merchant has his tailor make a few small adjustments to ensure the bodice fits her perfectly.

  “All included in the price, miss,” he explains. The price itself is quite high, and Isabelle hesitates for a moment. The pain in her shoulder, which had dulled earlier, has returned after trying on so many garments, and she is loath to spend so much of the money the injury has cost her. But after a little haggling over the price, something she is used to after years on the streets trying to get the most for the few coins she manages to beg, they agree on a price.

  The merchant accepts the coins and slips them into the money belt around his waist.

  Pleased with her new item of clothing, Isabelle decides to visit a stall nearby, filled with various grooming products and haberdashery and buys a small cake of soap that smells of lavender. She also buys herself a green ribbon for her hair.

  The man running the stall allows her to make use of his washing facilities to scrub as much of her as possible while keeping herself decent. She washes her face with the soap, combs the knots out of her hair and ties it up with the ribbon before looking at herself in the mirror.

  There’s still something missing, she thinks and, thanking the merchant for his kind help and handing over more of her coins, she heads back to the food stalls. Here she uses the last of her money to buy some fruit and a slice of honey cake, and the missing ingredient, a small, red beetroot. This she uses to add color to her lips and cheeks. At last, she looks the part and, delighted at this change in her fortunes, even if it is only for today, and with her shoulder only hurting a little, she heads back across the city to the small shelter she calls home, nibbling her honey-cake.

  Here, hidden from view, she takes off her skirt and tidies it up as best she can, stripping away the parts that are damaged or stained beyond repair. With the bar of soap and water from the Seine, on whose banks her shelter is located, she washes the dirt and filth from the rest of the material and wrings it dry.

  Well, I may have to beg again tomorrow, she thinks, having put the skirt back on. But this has been a good day!

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Get away!” Isabelle pushes a man away from her shelter as he waddles too close. She recognizes him as the fat, lecherous man who had been eyeing her up the previous night. The man backs away.

  “Come on, missy,” he says, flecks of spittle collecting on his lips. “I can show you a good time.”

  She looks at him in disgust and shakes her head. “Get away!” And with that, she emerges from her shelter and walks off, leaving him staring after her, a look of disappointment on his face.

  What a despicable man, she thinks as she weaves through the other makeshift shelters that litter this area of the city. This is exactly why I need to get out of this place, away from the filth of the slums. I want a proper man, a man who will help me. The handsome face of Henri and his elegant hand with the lace cuffs pops into her mind. A man with good manners and proper status. A gentleman. She stops at a junction in the road as she decides which way to go. And I know where to try my luck!

  The sun has already set, releasing darkness into streets of Paris. The people of the city’s daytime are in their homes, settling down to sleep, but the people of the night are just emerging. As Isabelle follows the line of the river towards Notre Dame, she glimpses darkly-dressed people lurking through the poorly-lit streets and hears an occasional shout or harsh laugh from alleyways.

  A large man suddenly lurches from the darkness. In one hand he clutches a nearly empty brandy bottle and the other is held out in an attempt to balance his drunken steps.

  “Evening, my dear,” he says, his voice slurred and Isabelle backs away from him. “It’s alright, my sweet,” he adds, stumbling towards her. “Don’t be afraid.” He lunges forward as if he is going to grab her, though in reality he has just tripped over his own foot and almost collided with her. The stench of his breath—garlic, brandy and bad teeth—fills her nostrils and she hurries away along the street, keeping close to the nearby houses, as though looking to them for protection.

  The harsh world around her fills Isabelle with fear, the darkness of the street, the threat of muggers, even the freezing puddles and the thought of rats worries her, but her greatest fear is of obscurity. What might this night bring? As always, it’s full of danger and the possibility of not making it to tomorrow alive. And the thought of being with a man, of having sex… I’ve heard stories, disgusting stories. And yet I can’t go on as I have. I need to break free from this miserable way of life. I must!

  Out of the darkness looms the massive bulk of Notre Dame, perching on its island. Isabelle crosses the river here, trying not to look at the handful of couples busily engaged in amorous activities in the cathedral grounds. The grunts and moans unnerve her for a moment as she considers where she is headed.

  Once on the north side of the river, she makes her way to Rue Saint Denis, an area well-known for its nightlife, and especially for the higher class of ladies offering their services. She has been here before a few times, when out begging with her aunt, but she was never allowed to hang around. Her aunt would always pull Isabelle along, away from the hungry gaze of men for whom a young girl like her would no doubt be a tasty treat. Tonight, however, she does not hurry along the street, but finds a place to stand between the groups of women who are busy touting for clients.

  “Oi!” Isabelle turns at the shout and sees a large, busty woman approaching her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Isabelle stares at the woman, amazed that any man would ever sleep with such a creature. Her mass of ginger hair is clearly a wig and beneath it her face is powdered white, with cheeks and lips painted on in bright red.

  “Don’t just stand there gawping, girl,” she shouts, despite the fact she is only a couple of feet away. “I asked you a question!”

  Isabelle frowns. “Not that it’s any of your business… I’m looking for a man.”

  “Well, why don’t you sod off and look for one someplace else. There here is my patch, for me and my girls.” The large woman points a fat finger at the cluster of women behind her. They are all looking at Isabelle with unconcealed scorn.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “You don’t have to see why,” the woman shouts, causing flecks of spit to land on Isabelle’s face
. “All you have to see is this hand.” She raises the plump hand in question.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s going to rip that pretty skirt off your scrawny little ass unless you get a move on. Go on! Get!’

  Isabelle steps back into the street and begins to walk away.

  “That’s right!” shouts the woman returning to her group. “Keep on walking!”

  Angry and disappointed, Isabelle turns to shout something back and is surprised to find a horse standing right in front of her.

  “Sorry,” she says, looking up at the rider. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

  “Not at all, young lady,” said the rider, a well-dressed, middle-aged man. “It is I who must apologize for creeping up on you like that.”

  Isabelle turns away, but the man calls out to her.

  “What is your name?”

  “I’m Isabelle.”

  “May I offer you a ride, Isabelle?”

  Isabelle looks up at him again, unsure exactly what he is after. “A ride?”

  “Certainly,” the man smiles at her. “I have food and wine back at my warm house. Will you not accompany me?”

  She considers this for a moment, understanding what he is asking, what he is really after.

  This is definitely more than an invitation for food and wine. He’s quite old, probably old enough to be my father. I have to ask about money first. And a warm house and the promise of food sounds wonderful. She looks up at him and says, “Fifty livres, monsieur.”

  She readies herself to negotiate over the price, which seems enormous to her. But the man simply nods his head and reaches down to help her up onto his mount.

  Fifty livres, she thinks in amazement, taking his hand and half scrambling and half being pulled up onto the horse. That’s a whole month of begging, on days when people are feeling generous! I’ve never even seen that much in my entire life! Even if there is no food and the house is cold and horrible, it’s got to be worth it for fifty livres!