Cecily lifted the shutter, barely daring to breathe. It slipped and fell on her hand with a thud.
“You’’ll wake them up,” hissed Samson.
“Heard Farriner snore?” retorted Cecily. Her master snored loud enough to rattle the windows. She pulled her hand loose and flexed it.
“Want me to do it?” whispered Samson.
“No,” she retorted, looking him in the eyes through the dark. “Having second thoughts?” He squirmed. She sat on the window sill with a sigh.
“It’s now or never,”
“It’s not so bad here,” he said wretchedly. “We’ve got bed and board.”
“That’s all we have,” she snapped. “It’s alright for you, you get to help in the bakery. I’m the one sweeping, washing clothes, and doing all the drudge work.” He wavered some more. In the gloom, she couldn’t see his face and it made him appear even younger.
“What did we promise Father?”
“That we’d get out of London and move to a place that hadn’t turned its back on God.”
Good. Where’s that?”
“Holland.” She lifted his chin, just like Mother did.
“You’ve forgotten the most important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I love you. So do they. They’re watching over us.”
This seemed to work. He stood up straight, put his shoulders back, and then held out a hand.
“I’ can try. I've been growing my hair long,” he said in reference to his namesake and shook it. Cecily gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts, throwing it open.
The shutter thudded against the side of the house and they both froze. Mr. Farriner had always been a fair master who rarely beat his servants but sneaking out at night could push him over the limit. He might even throw them out into the street. You heard of cruel masters doing that to servants over far less. She pictured the two of them roaming the streets passing boarded-up house after house and shivered.
A faint smell of burning charcoal mixed with baking bread hung in the air but they barely noticed it anymore. The stench and filth quickly overpowered it. Usually, the taverns bustled but they sat quiet tonight due to the curfew. Cecily scrambled down and smiled. Out of her master’s home, she felt free, shaking her role as servant off like an old cloak as she stood taller. No more averting her eyes and trying to keep her head down so as not to be accused of being lazy. Samson looked down at her.
“Leaving me to get attacked in the street?” she whispered. He still only came up to her shoulder but the barb did the trick, he scrambled down shame-faced. Cecily looked around, orientating herself.
Father always told them they’d grown up in the perfect time, the protectorate. But then Tumbledown Dick came after the Protector died and the King was restored. Since then, they’d witnessed England’s decay. First by a dissolute monarch who mocked God in his scandalous lifestyle, then the creeping return of popery, and then finally the judgment of God, the plague. Father had lost his position in society because he’d refused to compromise and never claimed to be anything but a child of God. Why else would anyone choose Puritan as a term of abuse? Father had paid for his conscience, he died leaving them no money or connections let alone a way to get to Holland. They’d had to take up work as servants. Desperate, Cecily had noticed how empty the streets had grown at night and then pondered the unthinkable. She couldn’t bring herself to enter a house to steal with her father’s death so recent. The only way she could rationalise stealing would be from a dissolute family who died to a man and therefore nobody would claim their goods. When she chose the house she prayed for a sign. She dreamt of the parable of the rich fool and felt satisfied that she had her sign.
“Penny for ‘em,” Samson whispered. “But I’ve got no penny to spare. Let’s write an IOU.”
Cecily smiled at him. Lamps cast a faint glow here and there. A carriage rumbled along a great distance away, too far to be a concern. Her lips moved as she retraced the route. Satisfied, she beckoned her brother along and they walked forwards. Above them the great timber houses almost touched at the top, forming an arc that in the gloom looked diabolical. They passed a tannery, a pub, and a few more bakeries. A faint glow could be seen through some of the doors and they flitted past like mountain goats.
They turned left, then right, and then left again. Cecily paused.
“We’re lost, aren’t we? said Samson. Cecily rolled her eyes. She could tell from his tone he just wanted to rib her. Samson loved it when things went wrong because then he could be the hero when things inevitably got tense. When mother and father got into a row he’d have them all laughing within three minutes like a magic trick. She bit her lip at the memory. Who knew you could miss arguments?
“It’s this way,” she pointed and set off, initially half sure but her certainty grew as she picked up the pace. She’d crossed the streets enough times to be able to retrace her steps with no problems. Samson trotted to keep up and they turned, almost colliding with a monstrous apparition.
A strong smell of resin with a sickly smell of herbs assaulted their noses, a sharp contrast with the filth of the streets. The apparition wore a wide, brimmed hat and a long curved beak protruded from the face. It moved stiffly, its ankle-length black robes restricting its movement and long leather gloves. Light from a lamp caught the glass eyes, making them glitter. Cecily shot out a hand and pushed her brother against the side of the house. She could feel his heart beating wildly through her hand as they flattened themselves, trying not to breathe. Darkness and the poor vision from the eye holes of the mask played in their favour. Its great beak swung as if smelling and the doctor swung a cane like a blind man. What must it be like in there? It had been a warm summer and the air still had a stifling feeling to it, like being trapped in an oven. After an eternity he departed, great folds of clothing swirling. Samson ran over first and looked at the ground where the creature had stood.
“Come on!” Cecily called.
“I was looking to see if it laid an egg,” said Samson. “I could eat.” He crouched and looked up at her, grinning. Cecily tugged his arm, trying not to clip around his ear.
As they turned the corner she slowed down. She missed living in Westminster. Pudding Lane made one feel like one lived on top of ten other people. This only grew worse during the plague when it seemed a sick person lurked behind every corner or in this case, a whole household. Cecily looked at the house. It presented a grim sight. All the windows and doors had been nailed shut. A red cross was painted on the door and someone had written underneath “lord have mercy on us.” A rope encircled the house, created by stakes hammered into the ground.
“You sure about this?” Samson’s voice shook now.
“We have no choice,” she said, approaching the rope. “Remember when I dropped the word of truth? Where did it fall open to?”
“Exodus,” he said, with a slow nod. The Geneva Bible had been father’s prize possession and they had bought a box for it with the first pennies they earned.
“Then there was my dream,” she pressed.
“The parable of the rich fool,” he recited. Samson had liked the theatre a little too much and seemed disappointed when the disease had forced its closure but clearly, he wasn’t a lost cause yet. That had shocked Father the most, the presence of women on stage, a warning sign of the moral collapse. She’d been resolved when the bible fell open. They would flee the plague imposed upon them by a righteously vengeful God to a more Godly country.
Cecily climbed over the rope. Samson hung back.
“Come on,” she beckoned.
“No,” he said.
“It’s safe,” she said. “It’s been boarded up for three days now. If the plague didn’t get them then they would be out of supplies.” He glanced at the houses opposite. “Gone to the country,” she said in reply. “Nobody will hear us. Come on!” She looked up and down the street. Something brushed against her ankles and she lashed out. A rat had emerged from the house. It ran down the street, lamps made its shadow flicker eerily.
“You know,” he said slowly. “I think Father died of a broken heart.” Cecily felt a lump in her throat.
“We’re doing what he wanted,” she said, forcing her voice to steady. “We’ll only take what we need for the ticket. The rest we’ll give as alms.” Her voice sounded horribly loud but she didn’t dare move closer in case her own nerve broke and they fled back together.
“There must be another way.” Cecily bit her tongue and dragged her annoyance back with a mental choke chain.
“There is no other way Sammy.” Samson didn’t move, playing with his hair. He stopped as soon as he caught her eye. Mother and father had always warned him about his tendency towards vanity.
A lantern shone into their eyes. Someone had emerged from a side street. A man in his forties with a thick beard, he wore a tricorn hat.
“How now then,” halloed a voice. “Don’t you know there’s a curfew in effect?” Cecily dug her nails into her palms. A constable! Samson looked over and she shook her head slightly. Let me. She turned and smiled at the constable but didn’t say anything. The constable repeated his question, louder this time. He swayed slightly as he walked.
“Spreek je Nederlands?” said Cecily, taking care to say it in the thickest accent she could.
“Yer wot?” said the constable. Cecily repeated the only Dutch she knew, raising her voice in turn. The constable frowned.
“Yer ain’t Jewish are yer?” he demanded. “‘Eard tell Jews been poisoning the wells.” He held the lantern in front of her face, smelling strongly of drink. Cecily continued to smile glassily. The curfew had resulted in the taverns being closed but this fellow had found a way. Dipsomania flourished when men’s basest instincts had been given free rein for years so why would they follow the rules now? Father had always warned about the dangers of disorder. The light continued to shine. Confined to the house she worked in, only emerging after dark or to go to church, Cecily felt confident that few people in the area knew her face. That went double for the past year when many feared going out at all due to fear of the plague. The constable had a medallion with the city’s coat of arms on it. Samson began to move and the constable turned.
“Oi!” Samson ran back the way they had come and after a quick glance back, the constable pursued him. Their footsteps echoed down the streets.
Cecily looked after Samson and then back to the house. She moved as if to go after him. Why hadn’t he followed her? She had promised Mother and Father she would look after him! If she ran now she would catch up but then she recalled that the street forked and how would she know which direction they’d taken? The sound, perhaps but then if she took a wrong turn, everything would be for nothing and she could be caught in the bargain. She felt guilty of her own cowardice after viewing him as a coward but then remembered why they had come. Grimacing, she vaulted the fence, spied a loose board, and started prying at the nails with a hammer. As she worked she imagined her parents watching disapprovingly. She paused, then went on, teeth gritted, casting looks over her shoulder, willing him to come back. But silence had returned to the streets, amplifying her sounds.
As she tore at the nail, a splinter drove itself into her thumb. A penance. If caught, Samson could face a whipping for breaking the curfew. The constable seemed to be spoiling for a fight, what if he decided to minister his own punishment? The streets had nobody to stop him. At last, she got one board free and it swung to one side. She hesitated before climbing over the sill into the living room of the house.
A cloying smell of herbs hit her the second she entered, a futile attempt to combat the disease. Thick drapes covered family portraits and a chill filled the air. A terrible stillness accompanied by clamminess was everything and dust stirred as Cecily walked. A shiver ran up her spine and she felt cold. Every light source had been extinguished and shadows filled the space. A huge fireplace only had ashes which hadn’t been raked and a vase had wilting flowers. In the corner of the room sat a large bookshelf with books strewn, some open on the spine as if someone had been called hastily away. Candles had been purchased but sat unlit. White sheets covered the furniture.
Cecily walked to the door and it opened with a loud retort that made her jump. She made her way down the hallway, muttering a prayer as she walked. The kitchen seemed like a good place to start. She pulled a drawer open to reveal silver cutlery. As she did, she expected a hand to fall on her shoulder and even looked behind. Then she recalled her father’s anguish at losing his position with the admiralty after the King’s restoration. Her expression hardened. Pulling out a small bag from under her skirts, she began to fill it.
“This isn’t stealing,” she told herself sternly as she took a deep, pained breath. “The whole family died. Nobody is coming to claim this. You’ve planned for this.” So she had. The whole house had been quarantined and everyone spoke how the whole family had been infected. They also talked about wicked they’d been. Always drinking, carousing, and not going to church. So sad, to see the whole line die like that but it had happened so often, it had lost a lot of its emotional clout. She emptied the drawer. This seemed like a lot but how much would passage to Holland cost? What if the pawnbroker cheated her? She could see the staircase leading upstairs. Tightening her fists, then loosening them, she made her way up.
Each step sounded like thunder. Her scalp prickled and she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
The scene with the constable chasing Samson replayed in her head relentlessly and Cecily scratched at her face. She would check one more room and then not rest until she found him. She’d promised Father. A tapestry at the top of the staircase had a coating of soot. Forcing herself to walk on with a great effort of will she came to the largest bedroom. The damp air felt colder and clammier upstairs. Had the bad air traveled up here and now burrowed into her lungs? The plague seemed to strike without warning. Did it plan to wait to strike when she brought it home so it could do the most damage possible?
The largest bedroom had a door slightly ajar. Cecily crept forward. Glancing down the hallway, more rooms could be seen but she couldn’t bear the thought of walking past more doors. Each one surely contained a body. A sour smell emitted from the bedroom and she covered her mouth to keep out the miasma. She’d look for more valuables and then leave. The bag with silver clinked, the sound deafening in the stillness. Pushing open the door fully revealed a great bed with a dressing table immediately to the left. Cecily placed the bag on the floor and took two steps forward, hardly daring to breathe. What wickedness possessed the age, driving someone like her to do this?
She pulled the first drawer open hard, revealing a glint of gold. A snuffbox. Worth several pounds. Picking it up with shaking hands, she fumbled and the snuff box fell to the ground with a thud, spilling its contents, including the ornate spoon. A low moaning sound made her look up. It seemed to come from the four-poster bed. Cecily felt cold, bile rose in her throat. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. Then silence, blessed silence. Bodies make sounds all the time. Nothing to worry about. She admired the snuff box. Good quality. Beautiful carvings. It would fetch an excellent price. She got down on all fours to pick it up and heard the sound again. Her pulse thrashed in her ears, tremors wracked her body and black spots appeared in her vision. A creak sounded from the bed. A low voice, trembling, like a death rattle, called out.
“Who’s there?” Cecily froze, rooted to the spot on all fours, wondering if she could be seen given the bed sat several feet off the floor. The occupant of the bed reached out to the table placed by the side of the bed and knocked over a jug. It fell to the ground with a great clatter and the sound broke the spell.
Cecily snatched up the snuffbox, turned around, still on all fours and springing to her feet, and staggered towards the window, tripping over a footstool. The window at the rear of the property hadn’t been fastened and she ran to it. The sight below made her breathe rapid, shallow breaths, her legs shaking, and fear grab her in a vice-like grip. The stairs had taken her higher than she anticipated. The occupant of the bed had fallen silent but what if someone else had heard them and even now made their way up to attack?
“It’s not that far down,” she repeated under her breath. Sit on the window sill, lower herself down, and then let got to drop to safety. She moved towards the window but immediately retreated, feeling dizzy. A low moaning accompanied by retching came from the bed and she raced out of the room towards the stairs. Almost stumbling as she ran, she saw wakers in every shadow.
Back in the drawing room, the light had been blocked out. Had someone nailed the board back in place? She clawed at it, aggravating the part of her hand she’d injured, only to find the board had only fallen back into place. She scrambled over the sill, tripping over it and falling on her face, a volcano of pain erupted in her nose, and stones drove their way in.
Scrambling to her feet, removing the stones with gritted teeth a wave of guilt crashed over her about Samson, closely followed by shame over her inability to jump. Years ago, when mother and father were alive she’d climbed a tree. Going up hadn’t been so bad until she looked down. It had taken Mother and Father working together to pry her off the branch and bring her down. Samson had teased her for a week. She assumed that one day it would leave her but it never did. Her throat felt thick. Then the revelation that she’d stolen from someone, broke one of the ten commandments slammed into her. Any reassurance that she hadn’t intended to steal didn’t help and she cradled her head, groaning. She had to find Samson. That would be the only way to vindicate herself.
The encounter made her skittish. Any shadow made her jump and try to hide until the threat passed. Her nose kept bleeding and she had to clamp her cap to it. Her hair stood up, a visible reminder of how far she’d fallen. She did her best to walk towards where Samson had fled and then tried to guess. Having done two loops of the immediate neighbourhood she made her way back home, a chill running down her spine. It felt like a hundred spies watched her as she processed.
When she got back to the house, someone stepped out of the shadows. She jumped and let out a small shriek.
“Shut up!” hissed the shadow. “It’s me!” Samson! Cecily ran forward and embraced him, making her nose bleed again but she’d found herself too relieved to care.
“You’re alright!”
“Of course I’m alright. That fat old constable couldn’t keep up with me for a single street. You’ve been gone for ages.” He drew back and saw her face. “What happened?” She held up the snuffbox and realised as she did, she’d left the silverware on the bedroom floor.
“I got this,” she said after a long pause. “It will buy us passage to Holland. We’ll get out of here.” His face chased away any doubt. Samson wore a look of awe that she’d never seen before. Against all odds and expectations, she’d delivered on her promise. If there was any sin here, she’d make it right.
“How?” he whispered.
“I’ll tell you in the morning,” said Cecily. Now it was his turn to hug her. Everything would be alright now. For all his silly jokes, he always would be there when it mattered. She finally allowed herself to relax and let him to help her back through the window. Once inside, she collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly.
Cecily opened her eyes and looked around. She was back in the bedroom of the plague-stricken house. Her feet seemed to move under their own power and she stood in front of the drapes. She pulled them open to reveal a monstrous man, pitch black from head to foot, sitting up in bed. He crossed his legs, revealing cloven feet, great horns curved from his head, and monstrous wings flapped a hot breeze in her direction. He tipped his head back and bellowed a great roar. As he did, the heat from the room increased.
Her eyes flew open and she sat up coughing. The heat from her dream had arrived in reality and she didn’t seem able to catch her breath. A crackling sound made her turn towards the sound. Samson and she both slept in the smallest room at the top of the house. Smoke, the source of her cough billowed into the room. She shook her brother violently.
“Wake up, Sammy! The bakery is on fire.” Samson sat up in turn, almost crashing into her face. At that moment, their master Thomas Farriner entered, his two daughters and son close behind. They all coughed and spluttered as they came. Cecily caught Samson by the arm. He clung to her and she positioned herself in front, blocking the flames, thinking of her promise to Father.
“The window,” Mr. Farriner greeted them, gesturing and coughing.
“What about the stairs?” asked Cecily. As if in answer, they collapsed with a roar, sparks flying into the room. Mr. Farriner brushed past her. Smoke continued to pour into the room and Cecily coughed harder. Her nose had begun to bleed again, making breathing almost impossible. She spluttered and hacked blood which ran down her nose and into her throat.
Mr. Farriner disappeared out the window and then his voice could be heard outside. Everyone else ran to the window. All class distinctions had been forgotten in the attempt to escape. An eerie glow lit the side of the building from the fire. The children climbed out the window, crouched, and leaped across. One of the daughters stumbled as she landed, her father caught her and the momentum almost made them topple off. Cecily felt her own legs grow weak at the thought of her turn. Her brother scrambled up onto the window sill and turned to her.
“We’ll make it,” he said, holding up his right hand. In his fist, he clutched a handkerchief with the snuff box. Then he jumped, almost falling short. Mr. Farriner reached out and pulled him to safety. Samson turned and held his hands out. The heat at Cecily’s back had grown fiercer. His face could be seen clearly through the light thrown by the growing blaze. Hands shaking, she climbed on the window sill. The fire roared behind her like a ravenous lion. Looking across she saw the family and her brother reaching out to her. Then she looked down at the chasm below and terror seized her at the sight of the gap. Moaning she took small, jerky steps backward.
She looked around, eyes streaming in search of another way out. None. The door where the Farriners had appeared had become a wall of flames. She knew that she should pray for strength but instead, she just felt terror and guilt at having abandoned Samson. How would he get by without her? The fire completely surrounded her now, blocking off the path to the window. She sank to her knees. No way out. Her thoughts returned to the plague house from earlier in the night. “Lord had mercy on us.” Maybe the Lord had been warning her of her destiny. Samson screamed her name but the roar of the flames along with the crashing debris drowned it out. She closed her eyes.
Amazing stuff dude.
This is excellent. You created such a vivid atmosphere, and an exceptionally compelling story for a short piece.