by Clare Daly
‘Please you must.’
‘He gave me a power that night to decide men’s fate. I’m almost tempted to put you out there just to prove you wrong but I already have my next man chosen and I will not be dictated to. Also, your delusions make you unsuitable for the role.’
‘Commander Rako…’
‘I have heard enough. You will not talk of the creature again to me or anyone or I will put you so far below these walls that you will never see daylight again and no amount of money will help you.’
‘You’ll change your mind,’ Vladimir said.
‘Such confidence. We shall see.’
He called for the guards. The door opened immediately and Vladimir stood. He didn’t say any more and Rako could tell from the glint of defiance in his eyes, that for him it was not the last of the matter.
He hadn’t talked about the creature in over three decades. He’d told his story often when it had happened, to convince the other guards, and showed them the body to make them understand. But as the years went by, he told it less and less until he never spoke of it. The sacrifice was the way of Castle Valla now and new guards didn’t need to hear it. They just had to believe it – and they did when they heard the screams for the first time. He was the only one with first-hand knowledge of it. How dare another, and a prisoner at that, think they should know more? He looked to his list, full of possible candidates and thought of all the prisoners that he’d given to the creature over the decades. An army? Chosen by him?
***
Since he and his brother had arrived in Castle Valla, Sasha had witnessed the screams of six sacrifices. Each time he strained his eyes at their window, no more than a long slit in the rock, trying to see what was going on. He found it hard to sleep and would sit there most nights in contemplation of the mysterious creature outside. That evening, he sat, an open book in his hands, his mind unable to read as he looked out into the darkness.
‘Come away from there,’ Vladimir said.
His brother sat at a small table also reading, the flame of the candlelight flickering in the draughty cell.
‘What if one of us is chosen next?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous Alexander,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you, it’s a trick to keep the inmates in line.’
His brother always called him Alexander and he hated it. Every time he said it, he felt as if their father were in the room. He even looked like him when he said it, that same look of disdain he had when he was angry. He didn’t know where his brother had been that afternoon, but when he’d returned he did not look happy and had immediately gone to his shelf for a book to lose himself in. When he was like that, he was best left to his solitude. To his books.
Their mother had always joked that Vladimir had been born with a book in his hand, for he was always reading some text or other – a scholar of the world. He spoke English, though he had never encountered anyone to speak it with, and always seemed to have the answer to any problem. Even here in Castle Valla, Vladimir seemed to have it all worked out. His new-found wealth had afforded them certain privileges, notably elevation to a second story room high above the dungeon which was overrun with rats. They had also been allowed share a cell.
‘I thought I could handle this but I can’t stand it.’
‘Calm down,’ Vladimir said. ‘You’re letting this place get to you.’
‘What do you think it is…out there, this creature?’
‘Come now brother.’
Sasha looked to the window.
‘They say he is a demon collecting the souls of the damned.’
‘Well, he’s in the right place then. You mustn’t listen to them. They are stories to create fear. It’s what this place is about. This creature is no doubt an overgrown mountain cat or a bear who stays in this area because it is fed by the lunatics who run this asylum. And it is an amusement for the guards to take our money for protection.’
Sasha felt comforted by this, his shoulders relaxing. He left the window, his thumb in the page of his book, and sat on his bed, a far cry from the straw bedding given to those below them.
‘How long do we have to stay here?’
Vladimir sighed. ‘Long enough to get what we came for. You know the plan. You just do as I say. Why do you question me?’
Sasha had never doubted his brother but he was beginning to wonder if he’d been honest with him about their scheme. He had promised him riches beyond their wildest dreams with a tale of a mystery benefactor who would fund their mission to the notorious Castle Valla to find an ancient artefact. Vladimir said it would take time to find given the size of the prison and having been six months already, Sasha was beginning to feel that his brother was not being straight with him or perhaps had been given false information and they were trapped there now. Every day he mapped another part of it, handing over his drawings to Vladimir who folded them into a book on his shelf for later consultation. He said there were clues to be followed and that he alone could work out the correct path. Sasha was a patient man but this was getting ridiculous. What was his brother waiting on so calmly and who was his strange benefactor? Whoever it was, they had gone to a lot of trouble to get them in there, arranging their entry on false papers, with a fake sentence handed down by a judge in Omsk.
He supposed it hadn’t been wise to agree to this in the first place, but drunk on blackberry wine it had seemed like the grandest scheme and no one possessed the power of persuasion like his brother. From the time he’d been old enough to walk, he’d been following him from one adventure to the next. Their father, Abram, was an alcoholic with little time for his family, only peering out occasionally through the haze to tell them all how much he hated them with their judging eyes, mocking his failures as they clung to their mother. By the time he was three, his father counted Sasha among those failures and it was Vladimir, just approaching his teens, who stepped in to guide his brother on the best path around him. Their mother tried her best to shelter him from it though it had worn her down, her voice tender in his ear. Be quiet my Sasha, don’t cry. Vladimir eventually became the man of the house and when she died from influenza in the winter of 1818, they left their father, lost to drunken sleep in his chair, with no goodbyes.
Sasha wondered if perhaps his brother’s ego had finally succumbed to a challenge way beyond his skills and they would never be free of Castle Valla.
‘Don’t lose faith in me brother,’ said Vladimir is if reading his mind. ‘It may take a little longer but the rewards at the end of this will be…well...life changing.’
Sasha doubled up his flat pillow under his head and closed his eyes, the latest screams of the sacrifice still ringing in his ears.
5
Evelyn stood in the treeline, halted by the sight of Melmoth Hall, sprawled like a granite beast on the gravel in front of her. She had measured up the chances of getting Lord Stockett to listen to her, against those of dying without a roof over their heads and so she’d set out cross country, determined that the day couldn’t possibly end any worse than it had begun. She hadn’t lied to Michael exactly. She was going to go to call on Father Mercer and tell him what had happened but not until she had made a stop here, and abandoned any sense of self-respect she had. She wondered how hard he’d worked for such a home, if at all. How could one family lay claim to a house with, she guessed, fifty rooms at least? How could Stockett in all conscience throw people, who had nothing to begin with, further into decline by taking their homes and their livelihoods?
She was getting angry and it felt good. It had been building slowly since her father had become ill. Perhaps some of Michael’s fiery nature was rubbing off on her at last. Their father always said he got it from his mother while Evelyn’s even temperament came from him. For all his smarts, Michael tended to react with his quick tongue and clenched fists before his brain had had a chance to catch up, so it was best that he wasn’t here or they would end up in
more trouble with Lord Stockett than ever. When she’d left he was taking the barrow up the hill to the lazy beds and even though he was exhausted, she expected the thought of staying still with time to ponder events was not one he welcomed.
She had taken rest when needed, eating berries from brambles along the forest path. She had no idea if they were edible and so she let her palate decide for surely something so sweet and tasty could not do any harm. Those with a foul bitterness were not to be trusted and so would be spat out. Even the good ones made her stomach ache and she put her last handful away, fearful that she might throw up on Lord Stockett’s doorstep. She had only ever seen him through the window of his carriage as he passed through town, his upper body like the bust of a statue, his beady eyes overlooking a long nose – his expression always one of haughty disdain. Perhaps today would be different. She took a deep breath, pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and rang the bell.
***
Inside, Lord James William Stockett already had a visitor. He had called his ‘middleman’ Jim Corcoran to him for an update in the wake of the blight. He was not someone he would have hired himself but just as he had inherited Melmoth Hall and its lands, so too had he inherited his Uncle’s middleman, and he knew that it was due to Corcoran’s force of determination that all rents were paid on time. He didn’t have to like the man, he’d realised, he just had to let him do the job he was good at. But he was a little rough for Stockett’s liking, one foot in the gentleman class and the other with the farming peasantry, for he too was a tenant, on a large stretch of land with a decent farmhouse and stables.
Both men were of similar age, in their forties, but there they parted ways for Corcoran had neither the manners or the grooming of a gentleman. He wore his hair short, the grey hairs like those of a wire brush standing on end, and his face was ruddy from the outdoors and bloated by the alcohol he was so fond of. Stockett could smell it when he walked in and wondered how the man ever got to do any work but he seemed to function well and if he was suffering the ill effects of last night’s drinking he certainly didn’t show it.
‘So, tell me Corcoran, what’s the situation?’ he said, offering him one of the armchairs by the fire.
The man sat before answering him, his hands out to the flames.
‘Cold out there,’ he said, rubbing his palms. ‘Perhaps a nip of whiskey?’
Stockett almost refused then thought if rumours were true and circumstances were indeed to get tougher, he would need the man’s help. He handed him a small measure from a decanter on the table. Corcoran smiled.
‘I’ll tell it to you sir,’ he said taking a sip. ‘It’s bad. The worst I’ve ever seen. Every field, every potato. Four of them dead this week and I mean families…every last one. Empty stomachs bring sickness. They won’t last.’
‘What’s to be done?’
‘Well sir, even now, they crowd my door, begging for mercy. Their hope is to live free on your land until it passes.’
Free. That was not a word Lord Stockett was fond of. He sat down at his desk, his tenant ledger open in front of him.
‘Then the time has come to protect my assets. Evict those who can no longer pay. Let them try to survive under their own steam. I will not see my lands turned into a mass grave for starving peasants. What good is that land to me then? If I let them stay they will eventually turn on me with their desperate hunger and violent ways and Melmoth would lie in ruins. Let them try their luck elsewhere.’
His clipped English accent was a product of good stock and public-school education, but even he was aware that when it came to conversing with the Irish, he leaned into it more to make the sounds more nasal, bringing an authoritative gap between him and his tenants. Corcoran’s hatred of the English was not lost on him. He’d caught him once in the reflection of a window sneering at him but he had the foresight to not let it get in the way of business. He lived in Ireland now, held lands there, and it was a pleasant country not unlike his own. Until now.
He would need Corcoran. Especially if it was as bad as he said. In truth, he was afraid. Things were changing. His wife Jessica had left Ireland a month before, upon hearing news of riots in the south west. Try as he had to dissuade her, she had left for their London residence with their two children. Now he wished he’d gone with them. Corcoran was married too, he was sure. Certainly, when he’d first arrived in Cularne, he’d seen him with his wife in town, she scurrying a few paces behind him. Since then rumours abound that she had left him and gone to England. Wise perhaps to get the distance of water. He would not have been pleased.
A loud knock came on the study door. The butler announced that a Miss Evelyn Mooney wished to see him on behalf of her father Patrick Mooney. Recognising the surname from his ledgers, he threw a look at Corcoran.
‘Do you want me to deal with it? ‘Corcoran said, standing up.
‘No,’ he sighed. ‘Take a seat.’
***
Evelyn had insisted the butler request her meeting, her face determined as she stood in the doorway. When he tried to shut the door on her foot, she threatened to scream the house down and so he relented, allowing her into the hallway to wait, her tiny form lost in a sea of white marble. Standing there alone she glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall and understood his reluctance to let her in. Her blue eyes, once bright, lay heavy in their sockets, dark circles creeping down her cheeks. To him she must seem a ragged wisp of a girl, her long dark hair matted and pushed behind her ears. Her gauntness wasn’t helped by the clothes that had once fit perfectly and now hung shapeless on her thin frame.
She shuffled from one foot to the other as pins and needles battled in her feet, from the exertion of the walk, she assumed. Rather than lessen, they grew in intensity until her hands too began to tingle. She rubbed them together and was alarmed at their warmth. Her knees felt weak and she grabbed the cool surface of the side table to steady herself, forcing long breaths of air into her lungs as a wave of nausea struck her insides. She cursed the berries, begging them to stay put. She imagined them spilling out – a purple stain on the pristine white floor. Not the impression she wanted to make. When the butler returned, she forced herself upright to follow him down a long corridor to two large ornate doors.
He knocked once and showed her into a room – a man’s room – dark panels of wood lining the walls, closing in on her. Behind a large table sat Lord Stockett, his head bent into a ledger. She stood in front of him, waiting for him to meet her gaze. When he did finally, he cast a look behind her and she turned her head to see Corcoran seated in an armchair. Her heart sank as did any chance of appealing to Stockett’s good graces.
‘Pardon my Lord, but I needed to speak with you urgently,’ she said. She could feel her legs begin to tremble and she willed them to hold strong a little longer. ‘Our crop has blight, all ten acres gone. I beg you to allow us another harvest before our rent.’
‘You’ll be dead by then,’ said Corcoran, unable to resist, his deep voice resonating in the panelled room.
‘I’m afraid Mr Corcoran is a little put out that you didn’t bring this conversation to him. He is after all my middleman,’ Stockett said. ‘Why do you come to my home?’
‘I meant no offence but I didn’t know what else to do. My father has died.’
She fought to keep the tremor from her voice.
‘I have come because this is no ordinary crop failure. We’re starving and we need help. My brother and I will surely die.’
‘So, Mr. Corcoran is correct then. Either way I won’t get my rent.’
He stood up and approached her, looking down his nose.
‘I am sorry for your loss my dear. It is the way of life and we must all face it but business is business and these are harsh times for us all. Therefore, if you cannot pay rent, you leave me no choice but to evict you.’
‘Sir, you can’t. We have nowhere to go and winter is com
ing.’
He raised a hand to silence her, disinterested in her pleas.
‘You have one week to pay or the bailiffs will come. Mr. Corcoran will monitor the standing and visit you in a week’s time. Now leave my house….’ He paused, wrinkling his nose. ‘You pollute the air with your stench.’
He smiled to himself, pleased with his childish insult. Evelyn had heard enough. She took a sudden step towards him.
‘How many are dead because of your greed? If I die because of you, I’m coming back here to take you to hell myself.’
Stockett gasped.
‘Why I’ve never…’
She heard no more of his response. Corcoran grabbed her, pulling her backwards out of the room. The force from his boot sent her sliding across the floor into the hallway.
‘Get her out of here,’ he said to the butler.
‘And don’t think about burying your father on that land,’ he said to her as he walked away. ‘They can throw him on the heap at the workhouse with the rest of them. You’ll join him soon enough.’
Evelyn knew better than to talk back to him. Her side ached from the force of his boot but it was a small price to pay for not allowing that pompous, cruel man have the last word. She picked herself up off the floor. She would not have the butler’s hands on her too. Though he didn’t seem to relish the thought either, for he simply opened the front door as wide as he could, as if the world outside might extract her itself. She straightened her shawl. A young maid was dusting the hall table, trying to ignore the commotion, her attention set wisely on her work. She rubbed a dark stain in the wood and as Evelyn passed her, she saw it was scorched black, the shape not unlike a handprint – small and delicate. Just like her.
6
She didn’t slow her pace until she reached the woods again. She had scurried away, rubbing the palm of her right hand with her thumb. It was no warmer than any other part of her, though she was warm all over. She had lost her temper – not exactly how she had foreseen their meeting would go. Of course, she had expected it to be difficult, but naively she had hoped to get through to the man with a heartfelt, honest and yes, desperate plea for help. He was human after all – wasn’t he?
