Shadowmancer

by G. P. Taylor

  In complete darkness he lay face down, struggling not only to breathe but also to regain consciousness. The wound at the back of his head throbbed and throbbed, and the blinding agony set every nerve in his body on fire. His right shoulder burnt with an excruciating pain. It was as if his flesh had been torn from the bone, and slashed with a thousand cuts. If he could feel pain then he was still alive, he thought to himself as he tried to spit out a mouthful of sodden straw and mud that had somehow got embedded in his teeth. A strong taste of ammonia now filled his mouth; he gulped back the urge to be sick as he realized that his hands had been tied firmly behind his back.

  Raphah could hear the sound of running water and the voices of men somewhere outside. One man with a deep gruff voice was shouting orders, barking like a zealous guard dog. He could hear the wind blasting at the window shutters, which were smashing back and forth against the wall with a heavy thud-thud-thud. In the distance came the clang of a hammer beating against metal, ringing out cold tones. He opened his eyes and searched the darkness for the slightest chink of light. The gloom swirled around him like a thick mist that neither eyes nor light could penetrate.

  Raphah twisted himself around and managed to sit up, leaning back against the cold, wet, slimy stone wall. His hands pressed against the damp floor and he tried to feel his wrists to see how he was bound. From somewhere in the blackness of the room he could hear the quiet sound of someone softly crying. Raphah called out.

  ‘Peace to you. Speak so that I may know your name.’

  There was no answer but the sobbing continued. Raphah heard the rattle and crash of metal chains being dragged over stone stairs. The door of the chamber burst open, and two men in sea boots and long dirty frock coats bustled in. A small thin man with crimped feet carried a storm lamp. The other, a large, tatty, fat man, carried a pair of iron manacles and a riveting hammer. In the light of the lamp, Raphah saw that the sobbing had been that of a young boy huddled in the corner of the room, wrapped in damp straw. He was dressed in a torn shirt and ragged trousers; his hair was matted with dirt and stuck to his face.

  The man with the hammer and chain grabbed Raphah by the hair and pulled him to his feet. He smelt of beer and cold cabbage. His face was rough with a reddish tinge, and silver bristles stuck out from his chin.

  ‘Come on, boy; Demurral wants these on you so you don’t run away.’ He laughed and rattled the chain in front of Raphah. ‘Just don’t think of doing anything stupid. The only way out is through the front door and that’s locked.’

  The man dragged Raphah by the hair across the room, tumbling him into the wall, and then tripping him so that he fell to the floor. Raphah screamed with pain as the wound on his shoulder scraped against the stone wall.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Looks like he’s had too much to drink. Better cool him down.’

  With that the fat man grabbed the slop bucket that was by his feet and tipped the sordid liquid over Raphah’s head.

  ‘That’ll make you smell nice for the ladies. Now come on, let’s get these on yer.’

  The small, thin man looked at Raphah in disgust. He could not understand why Raphah was so quiescent. He did not speak or put up a struggle. In the dim light of the storm lamp, Raphah smiled back through his pain. The two men looked at each other, both wanting to gain some reaction from the young man they so much wanted to torture, wanting to hear him scream for mercy. They looked at each other for a second time, and then at Raphah as he knelt in sodden straw that was scattered over the stone floor.

  Before they could do anything, the boy in the corner of the room jumped up. He kicked out with his bare feet at the backside of the fat man, knocking him to the floor and his head into the slop bucket. The fat man grappled himself to his feet and spun round, the bucket still on his head. He let out a muffled yell and shook it off.

  The boy gave a satisfied grunt that was cut short by the back of the thin man’s hand as he was slapped across the head, sending him spinning to the floor. The boy cowered in the corner of the room, trying to make himself as small as possible against the cold stone, holding his arms tightly against the side of his ribs. He knew that at any moment he would face a deluge of blows as sharp fists and blunt feet poured down on him like winter rain.

  The boy looked across at Raphah. The expected blows came swiftly and forcefully; both men kicked and punched the boy as he lay helpless on the floor.

  ‘Stop – it – now!’ Raphah shouted, his voice so loud that it shot echoes around the room. ‘If you want to fight with someone then fight with me. Or can you only win against children?’

  The thin man gave one last kick that lifted the boy from the floor. They both turned and faced Raphah, who had got to his feet and tried to stand as tall as he could. The thin man looked at him and laughed.

  ‘We would love to give you something to think about. The problem is that Parson Demurral has got other plans. He doesn’t want a hair of your head to be out of place. So we can’t touch you.’ He paused and gave Raphah a nasty look. ‘Well, not yet anyway.’

  They walked towards Raphah. The fat man began to swing the chain in his hand. Raphah bowed his head, waiting for the blow. The fat man grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the wall, pressing his face as close as he could to his. He breathed beer-sodden breath into his face and rubbed the sharp stubble of his chin into Raphah’s soft cheek.

  ‘Listen, boy, there is nothing I’d like more than to squeeze the life out of you, but you are a lamb for slaughter and he wants you without speck or blemish.’

  He spat out the words, and Raphah tensed the muscles of his throat against the strong hand that attempted to stop him breathing.

  ‘Why pick on children? Is it because they can’t fight back?’ he managed to say as the man’s grip grew tighter.

  ‘Why are you so concerned for such a boy? He can’t hear you. He can’t speak. He’s a deaf-mute. He’s completely worthless, should have been drowned at birth.’ He stopped, thought, smiled, and said: ‘Just … like … you.’

  With that the man let go and Raphah fell to the floor. He took in a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears.

  ‘You don’t know what you are doing. You are like sheep without a shepherd. You don’t even know what’s good any more, do you?’ Raphah looked at the boy. ‘What has he ever done to you? Yet you treat him like an animal.’

  The fat man was silent. He bent over and drew out a long thin knife from his belt. He pushed Raphah’s face into the straw. With a quick slice of the blade his hands fell free from the wrist binding. Both men took hold of him and lifted him from the ground. They pressed the bracelets of the manacles over each wrist and hammered in the locking rivets. The thin man took hold of the chain.

  ‘Now, come on, my little lamb. Come to see all the other lambs for slaughter. We’ll even take your little friend with you and you can dig shale together. Then we’ll see how much you love one another.’

  He led Raphah out of the room and down a flight of stone stairs, followed by the fat man dragging the young boy by his hair. Together they were tumbled out of the Alum House and into the bright afternoon. The mine was like a small village, two hundred feet below the Vicarage on a flat ledge of land between the sea and the cliff, surrounded by thick woodland. Two large, gouged quarries dominated the western skyline. They had been hacked from the alum shale by a million ulcerated hands over the past hundred years. They stood out against the beauty of the vale like two giant sores, blistering through the skin of the earth. The dirty red stone scar was incongruous against the soft green and brown of the tree-covered hill. The air was filled with a heavy smoke from the smouldering mounds of alum. This was mixed with the deep scent of stale urine, burnt seaweed, and sulphur.

  Raphah stared at the devastation that had been wreaked on the land. He could feel a rising anger as he looked across at the dirty terrace of miners’ cottages with their broken windows and mud-stained walls. Everywhere he looked was filthy and broken down.

  High above
, the sound of pickaxes chipping away at the stone in the quarry was a constant reminder of the reason for all this decay. As he was being dragged down the muddy path all he could think of was Demurral’s greed.

  The pain in his shoulder grew more intense as the cold of the day dug into his flesh. He couldn’t see what was causing this pain, but he could feel the burning ache penetrating to the bone. The man dragged him faster by the chain, almost pulling him from his feet. He looked at Raphah eye to eye. Raphah smiled in return, but his look was met with contempt.

  At the end of the terrace of cottages was a large stone house with three floors and a grey slate roof. It was dark and forbidding, the windows to the upper floor painted black. Around the faded green front door were scattered the remains of several uneaten meals. Two fat crows pecked at the food and reluctantly flew away as the men approached.

  With their usual impudent style the men kicked at the door and pushed Raphah and the boy into the building. Inside was a large room with a long wooden table and bench seat. At the end of the room was a fireplace set into the stone wall. A small fire crackled in the grate. Around the sides were wooden beds, stacked four high with just enough room to squeeze in between them. Each was covered with a dirty blanket over a straw mattress placed on frail wooden slats.

  At the end of the table sat a wiry red-headed woman. She had a long thin face that was thickly powdered with white lead. Her lips had been dyed bright red by cochineal, which had smeared across the side of her mouth. A black beauty spot had been crudely, almost drunkenly, drawn on the side of her chin. Raphah looked at her and thought it resembled some kind of giant black fly crawling across her face.

  She sat in the oversized wooden chair with her feet resting on the table, and a long clay pipe smoking in her hand. Wisps of grey smoke danced about her face and clung to the strands of red hair that fell untidily over her eyes. By her feet was a small, dark green bottle made of thick glass, half full of liquid.

  She leapt to her feet unsteadily as a shudder of excitement vibrated through her body. Quickly, she patted her long skirt and tidied her collar.

  ‘Mr Consitt, Mr Skerry, to what do I owe this unexpected … pleasure?’

  Mr Consitt, the fat man, smiled, and made a pretend bow, touching his forelock as he bent forward. He always thought he could impress with his fine manners.

  ‘Just the usual, Mrs Landas. This young man would like to sample the finest living accommodation with the most beautiful hostess in the district.’ He brushed the wisps of hair across his bald head. ‘This fine young man is the guest of Parson Demurral, and awaits your pleasant hospitality.’ He slobbered as he spoke, each sarcastic word prefixed by a piece of white spittle.

  ‘Leave him with me, Mr Consitt, I’ll make sure he has a wonderful night before he starts work.’ She placed the pipe on the table and bid the two men leave with a smile and the waving of her hand. They went with a quick goodbye. Mrs Landas, grinning a white-faced grin, scurried to the door, closing it firmly behind them.

  It was when she turned that Raphah noticed the complete change in her mood. Gone was the charm, and gone was the smile. She seemed to grow in stature as anger poured from her. Her chest swelled up, rage spilling across her face, digging deep white furrows into her brow and, looking at Raphah and the boy, she began to scream.

  ‘Don’t think this place is going to be easy for you. You are here to work, my boy, and work you will. Any slacking and it will be the store for you.’

  She pointed to a small wooden door on the opposite wall. The young boy could not hear what she said, but looked as if he understood. He cowered away from her, trying to hide behind Raphah.

  ‘Just because you’re deaf and dumb, doesn’t mean you’ll get off lightly this time. I know you’re not stupid, boy, and there’ll be no running away from me again.’

  With that she picked up the brush-broomstick from beside the door and lashed out at him, catching Raphah a glancing blow on the shoulder. He winced with pain, clutching at the wound. Mrs Landas stopped suddenly. Dropping the broomstick to the floor, she stepped towards Raphah, putting her arm around him.

  ‘You’re hurt. What have they done to you?’ Her voice changed yet again. It was kind, gentle, and almost soft; the brashness had vanished. ‘Let me look, my lovely.’

  She pulled his jacket from his arm and opened his shirt, trying to pull it from his shoulder.

  ‘Better leave it like this,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to get a damp cloth, the wound has stuck to the shirt.’

  Raphah could smell the strong scent of cheap gin and tobacco on her breath. She had crooked, yellow-stained teeth, and a bristly white moustache. Her reddened lips were dry and cracked, the whites of her eyes bloodshot. She helped him to a chair and beckoned to the boy to get a wet cloth, gesturing for him to go to the bucket by the window.

  She pulled Raphah’s jacket back as far as she could, the manacles preventing him slipping out of the sleeves, and then dampened his shirt with the wet cloth the boy had brought her, teasing the material away from the wound. She looked at the fabric of the shirt. ‘This is fine, very fine. I’ve never seen such a fine weave, and expensive too. You must be a very good thief.’

  ‘I’m not a thief; I was shipwrecked,’ Raphah replied.

  ‘You can say what you like, but if you’re in here it is not for doing good. Now let me see what they have done to you.’

  Mrs Landas pulled back the shirt. On the back of his shoulder was a deep and blistered burn in the distinct shape of the letter D.

  ‘My goodness, my goodness. He’s given you the brand. When did he buy you?’ she shrieked in her seagull voice, surprised at the severity of the wound.

  ‘He didn’t buy me. I really was shipwrecked. Two nights ago in a bay just south of here. I am not a slave.’

  ‘As far as it goes around here, if you carry that mark then you’re Demurral’s property. That’s his mark and no one will ever dispute that you belong to him. You better start thinking like a slave or life will get harder for you.’

  She bathed the wound with a wet rag and dressed it the best she could with old strips of cloth gathered from around the kitchen. Raphah realized that the place must be some kind of hostel for the workers in the mine and that Mrs Landas was in charge. In between searching for bandages she would help herself to large gulps of gin from the green bottle. The deaf boy stayed out of her way, curling himself up into the corner of one of the bunk beds, staring out with the large round eyes of a little owl.

  She tied off the final bandage and looked at Raphah wistfully.

  ‘Oh, I wish I had a man of me own. Someone for me to look after when they need it, and someone to look after me when I’m too old …’ Her top lip began to quiver. ‘I’ve got nobody – not a single soul.’ She put her face into her hands and began to cry. Her feelings could change faster than the tide. Anger welled up in her voice. ‘If it hadn’t have been for him dumping me here I could have been a real lady. Wouldn’t have had to be nice to every drunk that walks down here for a good time.’

  She stopped, sat back in the chair and lifted up the nearly empty bottle of gin. ‘If it weren’t for this I wouldn’t know what to do. This is the best friend you can ever have, warms the heart, brings you cheer, and …’

  ‘Who is he?’ Raphah interrupted her, motioning towards the boy.

  ‘He’s nobody, got no name – got no voice, can’t hear you.’ She paused. ‘He’s good for sweeping and carrying washing, but he won’t stop running away. Always runs off and always gets caught.’ She looked at the lad. Raphah noticed that her eyes were now gentle towards him, no anger, almost compassionate.

  ‘Where are his mother and father?’

  ‘From what I know, his father could have been one of five men. His mother was very popular with the men, she always wanted to be in love, but never knew who with.’ She spoke almost dreamily.

  ‘So you knew her?’

  ‘Knew her very well, but her life came to an end eleven years and five mont
hs ago and he’s been here ever since.’ She looked at the boy. ‘I have a soft spot for him. Drives me bloomin’ mad half of the time, love him to bits the rest. Just wish he could hear my voice.’ She stopped and looked at Raphah suspiciously. ‘What is it with you? Why should I tell you these things? Come on, you need to rest and I need some more gin.’ She took the bottle and poured the dregs into the cup. ‘This is going to be the easiest day you’ll ever have in this place.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘Pick a bed, they’ve all got fleas. The higher you climb the less they bite and the better you’ll sleep.’

  She helped Raphah out of the chair and gave him a hand to shin up on to the top bunk. He lay on his good shoulder, hands still chained, and rested his head against the wooden headboard. The straw mattress stuck into his back and itched like nettles.

  He lay to one side and looked across the room as Mrs Landas began to prepare a meal. The light outside began to fade. One by one she lit the lamps around the kitchen and put a candlestick in the window. The deaf boy scurried around after her, collecting wood and carrying flour. She dropped a wooden spoon to the floor, he jumped in with a smile and quickly picked it up, holding it like a trophy for her. They shared a gentle look between them, unaware they were being watched. Mrs Landas stroked his hair and with smiling eyes kissed his forehead. Raphah closed his eyes as sleep called him to another world. The sounds and smell of the mine faded into an abyss of dreams.

  The Hanged Man

  THE sound of the slamming front door woke Thomas from his dream. It shuddered through the whole house like a small earthquake, rattling the flame of the candle and juddering the beaker on the small table next to the bed. The crashing door was followed by the sound of a man’s voice. It had a powerful confident inflection; it spoke of someone who was earthy and rough. It was a voice that he had heard before, and would never forget. It was Jacob Crane.

  Thomas could hear the muffled sound of a conversation coming from the kitchen. Crane was talking to Rueben and Isabella in hushed tones. Thomas got up from the bed and pressed his ear to the floor trying to listen to what was being said. Kate slept on, unaware. No matter how hard he tried he could not make out what was being said. He could only pick out certain words: tonight … the bay … hanged …