Beneath a Bethel

by April-Jane Rowan

  “You should find some clothing in the wardrobe, though I’m unsure if it will fit you. We can always order you some more, but hopefully for now they should suit,” he hummed, looking to the wardrobe then back at me. “After breakfast, come up to the workroom above; I shall leave the door unlocked for you.”

  With that, he strode briskly from the room, leaving me peering over the mound of my white duvet at his retreating form. I was reluctant to abandon the warmth, but the smell of salted fish and eggs pulled me from the pillows. I tiptoed over to the tray, feeling very indulged as I carried it back to the bed, sipping the sweet, scalding tea as I did so. Despite the food I had eaten the night before, my stomach was still not sated—weeks of malnutrition had weakened me—so breakfast was devoured in several massive gulps. The tea I savoured, holding in it both hands and sinking back into the pillows.

  Still, I did not want to risk angering Barnaby by taking too long, so once I had drank even the dregs, I forced myself out into the room again, the low fire providing little warmth. The grand wardrobe stood waiting and when I pulled back the heavy doors, I was presented with rows of jumbled clothing. Men’s breeches and shirts in different shades rested beside women's dresses of light layers, frills and puffs straining to escape the confines of the wardrobe now that it was open. Below was an eccentric collection of boots, both men’s and women’s in varying sizes and states. Some worn, some new; a strange mix of opulence and durability.

  As I took the clothing out to inspect it, focusing on the men's clothing, I noticed it followed a similar pattern to the shoes. Everything was a different size, a heavy brocade jacket nestled beside a simple cloak like what I had worn at home. It was obvious that none of these clothes had belonged to the same person, and surely not to Barnaby himself as the breeches were all too short for his tall frame. As I searched through them, my tail swaying behind me, I couldn’t push away the chilling thoughts that crowded at the corners of my mind. If the clothes weren’t his, then whose were they? Surely he didn't buy dozens of different, second-hand clothes just in case someone might stay with him? Unless he regularly took in people from the streets?

  Once the thought had formed, I couldn’t shake it from my head, even as I slipped on breeches and boots, hiding my clawed feet. Was I not the first? Did that explain his ease in admitting me into his home and more importantly, what had happened to them? As I did up a clean shirt, the cuffs slightly too short, and pulled on a jacket, the brocade heavy and lush, I resolved to ask him. Surely, he could explain himself and put my mind at ease.

  The hallway was as dark as my room, dim candles lighting the way to the stairs and up to the workshop room. I noticed what I hadn't the night before, that the walls were lined with photographs, every available space on the striped wallpaper taken up by frames. I paused while ascending the stairs, peering at the nearest ones. Each one showed a single person in what must have been their best dress, smiling, flashing their ornate teeth that he had no doubt made for them. Some beamed, their joy lighting up their faces, while others only pretended to smile, their eyes blank. Most were young, the photo taken shortly after their Floris ceremony, but some were older, repeat customers or people wealthy enough to afford several sets of teeth. Many displayed their natural teeth before them on cushions, either in lines or fixed in an arrangement of how they would have sat in their jaws. Likewise, some wore mementos of others, a lover’s tooth as a pendant or brooch.

  The most fascinating photos were of the people displaying not only their given teeth, but the collection they had amassed after their Floris. Men posing, grinning with arms folded as before them rested dozens of sets of teeth. Women stood beside boxes specially made to hold their collection, teasing the viewer with a glimpse inside while holding one pair in their hands and smiling with another. Though all the photos were black and white, the teeth in every photo were painted, delicate touches bringing out the true colours of the originals and highlighting the designs and patterns.

  From a distance in the gloom, it made the people indiscernible so it seemed as if I was being followed by hundreds of gleaming sets of teeth, causing me to hurry along.

  I was momentarily stunned when I entered the workroom, due to the huge circular window through which bright sunlight poured, as my eyes had become accustomed to the darkened hallways. I blinked rapidly, noticing Barnaby was already at work, and no wonder if he worked solely alone. It must have been an insurmountable task if the clients photos gathering dust on the walls were anything to go by. That distant doubt crept up on me again, disbelief that this was the first time he had sought an apprentice.

  He was bent over a bench, his shirt sleeves rolled up as he mixed powders together with water in a large bowl, humming softly to himself as he worked.

  “Look around, Angora; acquaint yourself with the place,” he called, his eyes never leaving his work.

  I was happy to heed his words, drawn to the window and the scene beyond. It took up nearly one whole wall of the workshop, the low vaulted ceiling above cradling the immense glass. I stood as close as I dared, able to see the surrounding snow capped roofs and mountains beyond.

  When I had drunk in my fill of the sky, I turned to the room itself, moving between the long tables piled with tools and then the drying shelves. Many teeth were waiting patiently in bright rows, and I got to see his craftsmanship for the first time, though I dared not touch. A gentle hum rose from them, hinting at the magic within, and his minuscule illustrations of animals and fauna unknown to me were startling in their brilliance. I bent closer, my eyes roaming over them as I turned my head to catch them from different angles. It was the first time I had ever seen the teeth like this, not hidden by lips or fingers, and I absorbed the details.

  “I often use books from other countries as inspiration,” he informed me, gesturing to the bookshelf tucked in the corner, the tomes threatening to spill from it. “There is only so much inspiration I can get from ice, fish and seals.”

  I tore myself away from the finished teeth, instead inspecting the ones he had just begun to paint, his tiny brushes laid out with pots of paints in a dazzling array of shades. The teeth sets were made in two pieces, the top set and the bottom set. Though the teeth were fixed to the base that sat on the gums, they didn’t appear so, each one sculpted so that it seemed as if it could be plucked from the base with a strong grip.

  “I thought each one was made individually…” I whispered, mostly to myself, but he heard me and snorted.

  “To begin with they were, but it made them too fragile and costly to repair. This method makes them stronger and many will outlast their owners,” he explained. “Here, come look at these moulds.”

  I moved to his side, watching as he demonstrated how the moulds worked, fixing them together and pouring into them the substance he had been making when I had arrived. He made a unique mould for each client as no jaw was alike, and these were called the master moulds; from them he could make as many sets of teeth as the client desired. I noticed all the moulds, which I had first taken for boxes underneath the tables, each one bearing a label with the client’s name.

  “When a client dies, I discard the mould. Even so, I still have to store some in other rooms of the house. I feel as if they are taking over sometimes,” he laughed.

  He let the mould set for a time, his eyes darting to and from the clock high on the wall, before pouring out the substance into a new bowl and gently cracking open the mould, revealing a dull grey set of teeth within.

  “What was that liquid?” I asked curiously, my tail flicking back and forth, betraying my curiosity.

  “It’s called ‘slip’ and it’s made from quartz, bone and a few other choice powders. That makes the base of porcelain and what I just poured out was the excess water,” he told me, gesturing to the other drying teeth he had made that morning before I rose. “After this initial process where it hardens enough to pour away the water, the teeth will need to dry for a day or two. It’s at this stage that further carving can be d
one, along with sanding and final shaping. Come, I’ll show you some that have had their first firing.”

  “Where does the bone come from?” I questioned as he led me over to the giant kiln that was built into the far corner of the room, its rounded top and smooth sides making it seem plain beside all the colours of the surrounding teeth.

  “Simply animals,” he replied. “Most of the bone we use is ordered in from other countries in bulk.”

  He opened the heavy bolted door, revealing the shelves of teeth already packed inside. Evidently, it wasn’t hot as he reached it and took the nearest one, holding it out for me to see. It was still the dull grey of the previous set he had showed me, though much harder to the touch.

  “These are in very early stages; they need an enamel coating that will protect them and create the shine before being fired again. Lastly, they are painted, and then once again placed in here,” he described, the process beginning to make my head spin. He noticed my confused expression, laughing lightly.

  “Don't worry, there is no rush for you to know everything. Your main responsibilities will be to paint the teeth to my design and to help me with unloading the kiln.” He patted me on the shoulder.

  “It’s a little overwhelming, I will admit,” I laughed nervously as he replaced the teeth in the kiln. I watched him fire it up, the heat slowly building in the room, though he told me it would take many hours for it to reach the right temperature. Afterwards, he led me back over to the table bearing the nearly completed teeth, before offering me one of the stools beneath it.

  “First, you should practice your skills with the paints, a very different medium than newspaper and charcoal. Here.” He handed me a cracked porcelain plate, which was obviously to be my practice board. I felt relived; I had been worrying that he would expect me to begin painting teeth right from the start, but I realised now how foolish a fear that had been. He showed me how to mix the paints and which brushes created which effects, before getting a perfect set of teeth and settling down beside me to work. At first I was nervous; I had never drawn beside someone before, but his relaxed manner soothed my racing heart and soon I was able to work.

  We spent the day painting beside each other and though we seldom talked, I felt our companionship growing steadily, brush stroke by brush stroke. He didn't rush me to complete anything, letting me watch him paint the tiny teeth with such marvellous details as leaping deer and serenading birds, or allowing me to dash back and forth to the shelves of books, pouring over the fascinating art from distant cultures.

  I used that first plate to practice with the paint, dotting images on at random and experimenting, but by the time dusk began to stretch across the sky, I was painting another in earnest. Barnaby himself had finished two sets of teeth and started a third, moving with practised speed despite the intricacy.

  My back ached from bending forward and my stomach was empty as we had only had a light lunch of tea and biscuits at midday, but for all that, I was the most content I had ever felt.

  5

  I was used to this feeling, the combination of the tired happiness of a spent mind and the ache of protesting limbs. I was no stranger to work, the last few years having been spent learning my father’s trade, but it had never pleased me, never worked my brain as well as my body. This was something different; it was the pride of a day well spent.

  We retired to the living room, piling the fire with logs so that it crackled and spat, casting shadows over the wallpaper. The curtains on the round windows were still parted but only darkness was visible, the street lights little more than bright dots. I relaxed into the cushions of the armchair, closing my eyes and listening to the sounds of Barnaby fetching food in the windowless kitchen opposite. I had offered to help him but he had refused, sensing that I was far more tired than he. I realised as I lounged that the day’s toil had pushed my questions from my brain and now that I had stopped, they burst forth once more, worrying away.

  When he returned, carrying a tray laden with steaming bowls of soup and hot buttered bread, I decided to finally ask him, despite the fact that it might shatter the cheer we had built over the day. He sat in the armchair beside me, tugging the low table closer to us with his boot and placing the tray down. The scent of fish and onion soup wafted towards me, reminding me of home, of all I had lost.

  “Angora?” he inquired, noticing my blank expression as he turned, holding a bowl out to me. I pulled myself back from those memories of my mother gutting my first catch I had been so proud of, exclaiming that she would make soup fit for a prince.

  “It’s nothing,” I lied, shaking my head and wiping at my suddenly wet eyes, before taking the bowl he offered. He didn't press me, instead collecting his own bowl and balancing the plate of hot bread carefully between us on the arm-rest.

  We ate in silence, the sound of our glass spoons clinking against the matching glass bowls filling the small room. I was loathe to upset him, barely knowing him really and unsure of his moods or tempers, but finally, I could hold in the questions no longer.

  “The clothes in the wardrobe, they seem made for a great many different people…” I began, shyly looking at him from the corner of my eye, trying to judge his reaction, but his face betrayed nothing.

  “Oh yes, I suppose it would seem rather odd,” he hummed thoughtfully. “I should have mentioned it before; have you been fretting all this time?”

  He smiled at me even as I blushed and shook my head sharply, not wanting him to think that I had been casting his character into doubt the whole time we had worked together.

  “Well, as you know, it is hard to survive in Elbridge when no roof or fire is forthcoming,” he began, turning his body slightly so that he was facing me. “When I find Pariahs like yourself, I bring them here, let them bathe, eat and rest. Recover their spirits, so to speak, before I assist them in finding new positions, homes or jobs. I provide clothing for them, buying cast-offs when I can so that I will always, hopefully, have something that fits. I suppose you think it is very strange of me to do…” he laughed, though I detected a hint of shyness within it.

  “Oh no! I think it is very admirable indeed! To be cast out, so lost and frightened, it is a gift to find such a friend when even family has forsaken you! For those you've helped, well, you would have been such a saviour…” I exclaimed, shaking my head. “I know you are to me.”

  “You are of such pure heart, Angora.” He smiled, taking a bite of bread, the firelight reflecting on his glasses and hiding his eyes from me.

  “Have you had other apprentices before? It seems like such a workload for one,” I mumbled, finishing the last spoonful of soup, placing my bowl upon the table and beginning to tuck into the remaining bread.

  “No, you are the first. I was shocked by your skill, that someone so talented could be thrown aside. The others I have helped before have all left soon after, but I hope you will not,” he confessed. “It is difficult to work by oneself, but as you know, the secrets of teeth are greatly desired, and it is not without some thought that I offered you such a position, though it may have seemed a whim. You are greatly talented Angora, but you are also alone, adrift in this city. Those facts alone make you a perfect candidate to be my apprentice, as with no distractions or ties, you can apply yourself fully and I hope that in time, this craft will become your life. Your days alone, forgotten.”

  I felt wrung out by all the feelings coursing through me, my weeks on my own having numbed me from the agony of my betrayal, of my descent into nothingness, but now, though his words were sweet, they brought forward all those emotions in a rush. Reminding me that I was marked, tainted, and that ultimately, that was what had drawn him to me as much as my talent. I was a set of teeth that had cracked in the kiln, and he was intending to seal those cracks with gold, transforming something damaged into something desired. Was it even possible? Could people look upon me and see the gold, not the rivers of cracks it tried to conceal? Wouldn’t it just draw their eyes to my pain more, a brighter beacon
marking me out more than even my bare gums did?

  Underneath my pain, a spark was growing, a will to salvage what little I could of my life, and it was this that answered his words, not with words of my own but a smile, wide and toothless, exposing my gums.

  We lapsed into silence once more, finishing the last crusts of bread, while our empty bowls sat on the tray. The fire was a comfortable heat, warming our tired limbs as we relaxed. Barnaby rose to make coffee, the strong scent drifting from the kitchen as he searched for slabs of iced rose cake, once again humming to himself. I was beginning to find his humming reassuring, alerting me to his presence, and making the dark, cramped house more welcoming.

  “Ah-ha!” he cried, no doubt having found the cake, and soon he returned, without the tray this time, simply carrying the mugs in his hands, the bag of cakes swaying as he had hooked the handle with one finger.

  I giggled, causing him to raise his eyebrows but I said nothing, not wanting to embarrass him by confessing that I found the sight of him without the tray amusing, as since I had arrived, it always seemed to be about his person.

  “How did you become a master? Did your father train you as mine had in fishing?” I asked finally as I plucked a small square cake from the decorative bag. It was soft and sweet, dissolving in my mouth, the rose flavour complementing the strong coffee.

  “No, I hardly remember my family now; they are like a distant dream, one that I forget upon waking. No, I was chosen.” He shook his head, sipping his coffee and sitting back into the cushions. “To be truthful, I found myself in the same position as you,” he admitted, and it took me a moment to understand.