Souls Dryft

by Jayne Fresina

  I jumped. Whoever entered the house, uninvited, they weren’t shy about trespassing on our property. I called down from the landing, "This is my great uncle’s house. What are you doing here?"

  He appeared at the foot of the stairs. "Grace?"

  So this is where he was heading on that train. "How did you get in?" I demanded, stomping down the stairs.

  Looking over his shoulder toward the door and then back to me, my torn jeans and scraped knee, he said, "It wasn’t locked. I suppose you didn’t try it first."

  "How did you get here and…what…what are you doing here, Downing?"

  "I got here from Norwich in a hired car and as for the second part of your question – I think I should ask you the same. This is private property."

  Immediately, my hackles were raised. "I beg your pardon?"

  "This house belongs to my family," he replied, faintly bemused.

  "This is our house. Souls Dryft belongs to us."

  "You mean, Saul’s Drift."

  Angry pride coursed through me. "I know what it’s called, because it belongs to my family."

  "Right!"

  He thought I was joking again. I was sickened by the idea of that lovely old place falling into his mercenary, pirate hands. "My great uncle’s wife was given this house as a wedding gift from a relative when they married."

  His eyes narrowed, protecting that plush cobalt from the melting heat of my wrath. "The house belongs to me, and I have the documents to prove it. The people who lived here were only tenants."

  My fingers curled around the banister. What did he know about anything? He was only a figment of my imagination.

  "I’ll probably have it torn down," he added. "We could fit four or five homes on the land." Then he said, "Your mouth’s hanging open."

  My ribs pressed on my heart. "This house belongs to my family."

  He shook his head. "I assure you, it’s mine."

  "Uncle Bob said…"

  "You mean the old guy that lived here? Aren’t they sending him to the nuthouse?"

  I froze.

  "Off his proverbial rocker," he added.

  "And you’re qualified to diagnose that because…?"

  His lips tightened, while he considered whether the sticky-faced child before him was old enough to be told. "He was found sitting in the lane, in a pair of underpants."

  "At least he had something on."

  "Pity they weren’t his underpants."

  "What?"

  "They belonged to the woman who comes in to clean for him three times a week. They were her underpants."

  No one told me that, of course, yet pompous Richard knew. And he meant to take that house away – the house poor Uncle Bob loved and entrusted to me. To me.

  I took a deep breath. "For your information, Uncle Bob died last night."

  He winced, inhaling sharply. "I’m… sorry. That explains why you’re so emotional."

  I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with a construct of my own imagination.

  Of course, he took things that didn’t truly belong to him. Dress it up all you like with fancy names like ‘property developer’, but he was a pirate and that was what pirates did.

  "Where are you going?" he asked, as I pushed by, storming out into the yard. My gaze was fixed on the way ahead, to the castle ruins at the end of the lane. I couldn’t get this straight in my overcrowded head, and I needed time alone, to think.

  Chapter Eleven

  Grace and Genny

  Here in this place there were once stables and a gatehouse. The well that once served the castle residents was now covered with a great stone slab. A broad tree stump was all that remained of the massive, sprawling apple tree that once stood guard over the courtyard, and the ruins were now a hangout at night for teenagers. As Aunt Rose would say in her soft, smooth burr, "The young folk go up there to canoodle."

  I ran my hand over the marks where generations had carved their initials in the ancient bark. Like morning register with a new class, one by one they called out their names, fighting for my attention.

  The tower staircase was just as I remembered; it led to nowhere, weeds and grass growing through the cracks. Each step was a different width, each one dimpled where so many feet had passed before me, but I remembered their contours– the distinctive character of each step being familiar, as if I walked them daily. I took that same journey now, to where the steps turned, disappearing into darkness.

  When I was thirteen and delaying the end of a summer holiday, I’d climbed this tower to the top and met a woman on her way down.

  As I was going up the stair,

  I met a woman who wasn’t there.

  She wasn’t there again today;

  I wish that she would go away.

  For twenty years that little rhyme haunted me. Now I reached the point where she and I once collided under a dying sunset. Sitting on the step, my hand resting on the cool stone, I closed my eyes and listened to the wind trapped in the cracks of the tower. It whistled, wailed and laughed, carrying pollen, seeds and more voices to where I waited, eavesdropping on conversations held long ago.

  One voice separated from the crowd, instantly recognizable, of course, because it was hers, but also because it was my own.

  * * * *

  Come with me.

  There is a step at the turn of the tower staircase, where it is necessary – unless you are of a naturally reckless disposition — to press your hand to the wall for balance. Bear the cold for a while and you might witness the ancient stone move, as it cautiously inhales the scent of a new soul, adding yours to the thousands within its memory. So many have come and gone, in what amounts to little more than a blink in the great span of this tower’s history.

  As your eyes adjust to the dark, you will find many things breathing here – not just the walls. Like my story, this place has no borders, no limit to its length and breadth.

  Look closer.

  Out of the dark it comes, falling amid a mass of quivering silver sheaves. A wave of warm air brushes over it, but valiantly it clings on, waiting for the tremor to pass, hungry for its supper. Surely here is fine harvest; the field of sheaves perfect shelter, the blood pulsing beneath, thrumming a siren’s lure. But as the creature prepares to takes its meal, a great fleshy object casts its shadow across the silver-tinted field of bristles, sweeping down like the Grim Reaper’s scythe and a coarse, blackened fingernail seeks out that bothersome itch. Supper is thwarted – at least from this particular source. The flea leaps away, just in time to avoid the cavernous, stinking depths of a great black hole that opens in the midst of the bristles and yawns wide.

  Here you are introduced to Owen Sydney, Baron Deptford, a man whose bark is worse than his bite, but whose cunning has seldom known its equal.

  Elsewhere in the house, another man rises – the Baron’s steward. Here he comes; rattling, old, disgruntled bones, click into place against their will, feet shuffle through floor rushes and the gelatinous sniffle of an untended nose echoes along the walls. Still half-blinded by sleep, the steward’s first order of business is to unbolt the great door and let in whatever the day brings, which in this case is me and, thereby, you.

  A cat, previously curled under a bench by the hearth, now stretches slowly, her long tail curling gracefully at the very tip, languid as honey from a spoon. Her movement catches the attention of a clumsy all balls-and-bark hound dog, who gallops sloppily across the flagstones to give chase. Disturbed by the noise, the Baron churns to life, grasps blindly for a pewter goblet and throws it hard, cursing at the animals. But they escape through the great door and it is the steward – or more specifically his smarting corns – with which the spinning goblet collides.

  Thus, it is his outraged, bloodcurdling cry that greeted me that day when I, Genny—a plain widder who may, or may not, also be a murderess—finally arrived on the fish cart from Yarmouth.

  It was a fitting welcome, a sign, as I would say, being a great believer in them.r />
  * * * *

  Immediately, the Baron let his disappointment be known. "Not much to look at, are you?"

  "Not much," I agreed.

  He frowned, surprised by my ready acceptance of this unlucky fact. "Aye, well, now you’re here, you’d best make yourself useful and stay out o’ my way." Tossing a lump of cheese into his mouth, he resumed the steady perusal of his toes, stretched out before the rekindled fire. He thought I was dismissed already, no doubt. Little did he know.

  "There are things you must know about me," I said. "They told me I should warn you."

  "Of what?"

  "My sloth, gluttony, anger, avarice, envy, lust…and pride."

  His eyes widened. "Is that all?"

  "’Tis Pride mostly, my undoing."

  He picked up his tankard, only to put it down again. "Come closer then, where I can see you proper." A pause followed, while we matched stare for stare. "How old are you now, girl?"

  I laughed curtly. "Don't you know?" He was supposed to be my uncle and since my birth out of wedlock had caused such scandal I'd expected the date to be burned on his mind.

  But in common with most men, my uncle's time was measured not by the dates on a scribe’s calendar, but by particular events of import in his life. I was born, so he recalled aloud, around harvest time in the same year his best dog died. It was also, if memory served fair, the year the barn above the top field burned to the ground and a thunderstorm sent the ancient yew tree through the chapel stained glass window – all fitting tragedies to mark the occasion, he added wryly.

  "I daresay," he grumbled, "you must be anxious to wed again. You won’t want to be a burden on your family."

  I gave a deep, ill-tempered sigh, hugging my small box of belongings close to my chest. His gaze took sly note of my elbows, worn through my sleeves. It seemed to make him soften, but only briefly. "I daresay you take after your father. He were a sly bugger too."

  There seemed no point in denial. I turned the side of my face to him, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. "Low set ears, you see. ‘Tis a bad sign — the mark of a criminal mind."

  He snorted. "I see you’ve naught to recommend you then." But when I feigned timidity, he put his finger under my chin, lifting it so I could not hide. "Do you know what that says, gell?" He pointed at some words carved around a shield on the wall above. "D’Abord Surtout," he boomed. "First Above All." He waited for my reaction and when none was forthcoming, he leaned closer, bellowing, "The Sydney motto. That’s where you get that ruddy Pride. ‘Tis in your blood – the noble blood o’ Saint Denis. And you should be thankful at bein’ took in by your noble relatives," he added, "you bein’ such a bad apple."

  "Indeed, sir," I said gravely, "your blessed charity overwhelms me."

  His scowl deepened, drawing his black brows together into one long, quizzical caterpillar. Now he produced a crumpled letter from his jerkin. "And there’s more!"

  Thus we came to the reason for his sudden interest.

  Clearing his throat, he read aloud from the letter. "I hear you have a spare wench in Yarmouth of which you are most par— tick— ew— lar keen to be rid. As I owe you a debt, I should gladly take her orf your hands, as soon as I return. As long as she has at least some teeth yet in her head, she will do." He grinned broadly. "This feller owes me a favor and is set to come into a nice property. There now, what say you to this bit o’ luck, eh?"

  Naught.

  "For sure you never expected to be wed again." He curtly reminded me, "Plain wenches must take what they can get and indeed, if they are poor on top o’ that, they’re lucky to get anything at all."

  Still I made no reply.

  I did not know it then, but the sands of time lay heavy in his hourglass that day. Fate had left him with a household of women, aging my uncle before his time, beleaguering him with troubles and responsibilities.

  "In my day, missy, we were glad of any scant reward, for any bit o’ pleasure were slight and hard come by! In times o’ war we never knew when our blood would be spilled, everything we held dear scattered to the four ruddy winds! We said ‘yea’ and ’thank ye, sir’ to our betters and we meant it!"

  Blinking rapidly, I tried to force tears. "With my dear husband, barely cold in his grave, I cannot think of another so soon. I must grieve for the man so suddenly and cruelly taken from me. How can I think of another?"

  "You have no need of thinking!" He snorted. "You have me here to do your thinking for you now." If my eyes could shoot daggers, he might have been used to strain lumps out of custard. "You mean to scrap with me over this, eh?"

  I was silent, plotting.

  Suddenly, he threw back his head and roared with laughter, patting the torn cushion at his side. "Those low set ears look cold. Come and sit by this fire and tell me more about your sins …Scrapper!"

  * * * *

  That afternoon I cornered the messenger lad and threatened him with gruesome torture, until he let me see my uncle’s reply to the would-be suitor. Immediately I penned the mysterious Captain Carver a letter of my own to replace it.

  She had not a hope in his world. It was most tragical. The poor waif lay cold, her visage so pale and ghostly that the bright spots of red blood upon her pillow, where she retched up her lungs, stood out as would poppies in a field of new fallen snow.

  Therefore, ‘tis with great sadness that I report the demise of a young and pure heart – one that looked forward, with such delight, to the day you would have made her a bride.

  Alas, Sir, ‘tis grievous news I bear thee, but such terrible adversity can only make us stronger.

  God Speed.

  Finally, I scribbled a quick footnote to the letter, a little something to cheer the fellow in his moment of grief.

  Take heart, Captain, for sure you will find another bride. Desperate women be common in such places as Yarmouth.

  And then just one more thing. Better be on the safe side.

  We buried the dear lady soon after the ground did thaw, so there be no need for you to come.

  Stay thee away, by all means.

  As long as you like.

  From an arrow slit in the tower wall, I watched the messenger leave with my letter. Then, pleased with a good day’s work, I turned, leaping down the stone steps to follow the tongue- tickling scent of smoked bacon.

  * * * *

  Emerging from the tower, I was surprised to find Richard waiting on the tree stump. "What were you doing up there?" he demanded.

  I could still taste the saltiness of bacon. "Grieving for my lost youth."

  The sun was sinking, the color richer now, the air softer, lazier, and laden with chalky, sweet lavender. A little breeze fluttered through my hair, casually teasing, like a fond relative. I was welcomed there, a returning native. If he thought he was going to take this place away from me, he was sorely mistaken. The spirits of Souls Dryft had always wanted me to stay and I’d promised that I would, one day, when I was an adult and allowed to make my own choices.

  "Now what?" he asked.

  I’d planned to get the late train back, but now I changed my mind. This is where I belonged. I was home. When I closed my eyes, I was running through pine trees; at my feet stretched a thick emerald carpet spread, patterned with vivid blue dots. "Cuckoos boots," I murmured.

  "What?"

  "Cuckoos boots. That’s what Aunt Rose always called bluebells."

  "Ah." He took my nonsensical mutterings in stride already, because he’d long since labeled me a nutter.

  "There’s an Inn around here," I said.

  He nodded, although it wasn’t a question. "The Rogue’s Repentance. Other side of the village."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I’m staying there." Arms folded, he surveyed me in that vaguely puzzled way of his. "Want a ride?"

  "No," I snapped without thinking.

  "Ah yes. I suppose the eternally truculent little person would rather walk the three miles. It might not be dark before she gets there — if sh
e’s lucky. But she’ll cut off her nose to spite her face, of course."

  Three miles? Of course, to young children, distances like that meant nothing. We could take all day over it, delaying the journey to chase butterflies, gather dog daisies and look for fish in the stream. The time was our own, all that nature spread out around us to be explored.

  Now I was an old lady of thirty-three and I didn’t chase butterflies. Besides, the shoes on my feet were not for hiking.

  "That’s alright," I said bravely, "I’ll just stay at the house."

  I marched ahead of him down the lane, back to the gate. He followed, sliding about in his fancy shoes through the dewy grass and mud. Italian leather – I knew because he already told me – as if it was my fault they might be ruined by the countryside. I never asked him to come, did I?

  "You can’t stay in the house," he argued.

  "I’ll do as I please, Mr. Downing. If you’re going to dispute me over this property, you’d better prepare yourself for a fight."

  "I mean, the electricity’s off. The tenant hadn’t been paying his bill."

  I hung on to the bars of the gate. "I don’t care."

  "It’ll be dark out here. And cold. Supposed to be a chilly night."

  "I’ll manage. I’m sure there are candles."

  "It’s drafty in there. The roof has holes, and they forecast rain tonight."

  "Fortunate I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West then, isn’t it?"

  He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure about that. Then, suddenly he sighed, shoulders heaving with the effort. "Grace, let me give you a ride to the Inn."

  "Okay. If it makes you feel better." I knew when to cut my losses and lower my pride.

  In shock, his eyes widened, his jaw twitched. "Thank you."

  "Thank you." I curtsied. "I’ll try not to get any dirt on the seat."

  He unlocked the door, and I got in quickly, before either one of us changed our minds.