Chapter 25
London, England
"Where is my ward?" Turpin questioned as he slipped inside of his home and was stiffly welcomed by his maid.
The woman clasped her hands, frowned, and replied coolly, "She was not feeling well, so I allowed her to sit in the library…"
Shaking his head, the judge massaged his large hands and quietly spoke, "She shouldn't be there."
Irritated, the maid retorted, "The Beadle is right with her, he won't let her out of his sight."
A pang of jealousy, a sigh of agitation, and the judge was imagining strangling the life out of his maid.
Without another word, Turpin swung from the room and began to prowl the ornate hallways. After strutting forward and swiveling to face the hall's lavishly decorated walkway, Turpin sighed deeply and, summoning more courage than willpower, advanced towards the library door.
Silent as the hand of death itself, he pulled the door open and ran his eyes over the explicit pictures of intercourse plastered to the walls. He then averted his intent gaze to the occupants of the room, nodding slightly towards the Beadle, who was positioned in the corner, comfortably slouched. The man grinned coyly and gestured with his hand towards the library's seat window. There, Turpin gazed at the slumped figure of his Johanna, her petite body curled in a welcoming position.
He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat, but none of these actions seemed to slow the furious beating of his heart, the cool beads of sweat that had begun to drip down head.
Tenderly, like a common gentleman, Turpin rapped on the door's frame and waited for the blonde head to twist towards him and beckon him inside with a smile of affection, or at least a word of acknowledgement.
She said nothing.
Patience slipped from him as easily as water through his fingers. He stepped inside, half surprised to see Johanna turn to him slowly, half pleased that she did not fear him as he had imagined he would.
He then noticed the tears that pooled within her eyes, the almost natural way in which her body recoiled from him and harshly slammed into the wood behind her.
"Hello," Turpin offered lightly.
She nodded jerkily, as if afraid that a wrong word would lead to punishment.
"You've kept the curtains closed," he observed, slightly glad that she did not put her misery on display for all of London to see.
"Yes," she squeaked, her blue eyes shooting to the Beadle quickly before racing to the comfort of the wooden floors.
Another breath, a steady step; even Turpin had to admit, he was clutching onto his control rather well.
"Well, if you are in the library, should not you be reading a book?" he suggested lightly while turning toward the rows of displayed books. Upon instinct, his eyes strained to observe the various volumes of pornography he had stored on the shelves. The oily illustrations were delightful, depicting the erotic pleasures one would receive through such behaviors, all on a piece of crisp paper.
Instead, his hand brushed the binding of a book that consisted of songs and hymns.
Turning to Johanna, he went to question the girl on his selection, but stopped.
Her eyes, widened with horror, stared at the face of Beadle Bamford as she clasped her hands tightly. The Beadle caught notice of the Judge's stares and pretended innocence as he turned to his superior and smiled with sickening sweetness. The Judge stared from Beadle's face to that of his Johanna's, and for the first time, he did not study her petite figure, her chaste lips, or her hair the glorious color of shining gold. This time, he studied her.
Johanna's eyes, red rimmed and swollen, stared back at him. She held a profound amount of alarm in her tired irises; her face had gone from a tempting tan color to a pasty, pale complexion. Around her beautiful eyes, the eyes that he had worshiped for years, dark shadows had begun to form. Was he the cause of this?
Her face was a condemnation all in itself.
"Beadle, leave us."
The portly man stood, spine straight and rigid. "Of course, sir," he hissed with smothered antagonism as he turned from the pair and exited the room. The door would have slammed shut if the Beadle had not slowed his arm's movements. With forced gentility, the door clicked closed.
The girl's gaze flicked to Turpin's, immediately falling away from him and shutting tightly as his footsteps sounded with each step.
He assessed her fear as well as his own actions before quietly inquiring, "May I sit with you?"
She gawked at him. Was he actually asking for her permission? What would he do to her if she refused?
"Yes, sir," she obliged as she receded into the farthest corner of the seat and waited, biting back her terror as he sat beside her and leisurely opened the book of literature collections.
"Woodman, Spare That Tree," he selected after squinting at the lyrics he had chosen.
Curious, Johanna leaned forward ever so slightly and stared at the opened book on her guardian's lap.
Turpin turned his head to study her hesitance and as a form of encouragement, he pointed towards the words. "It is about a man, you see, who wishes to save a tree from destruction for it holds many cherished memories of his youth."
Cherished, youthful memories…
She inched towards him, but made certain that there remained a space between the two. Silently, she read over the lyrics and let a bouncing melody compose within her mind. She always loved that, singing songs in her mind…
"Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot:
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!"
A small, divine smile spread over her lips, though her brow remained scrunched.
For a while, the two sat there, reading humorous poems or melancholy tunes of lost lovers. Turpin would occasionally spare her a grin, eyes dancing as she giggled at the comic selections. She had laughed in delight at the jokes imbedded within the harmonies; her laughter was like the calm chiming of heaven's bells.
This was how it should be.
The page crinkled as it turned. The next selection was a written tune, however Turpin had told her that the words had been written, but a melody had yet to be chosen and written for the general public. "More of a poem," he had said.
The title, she read, was "Throw out the life-line." So entranced was she by the written word, that she had yet to notice how close she sat next to her guardian. The heat that radiated from his body had yet to grasp her attention. She devoured the words with her eyes.
"Throw out the lifeline! Throw out the lifeline!
Someone is drifting away;
Throw out the lifeline! Throw out the lifeline!
Someone is sinking today.
Throw out the lifeline with hand quick and strong:
Why do you tarry, why linger so long?
See! He is sinking; oh, hasten today
And out with the life boat! Away, then, away!
Throw out the lifeline to danger-fraught men,
Sinking in anguish where you've never been;
Winds of temptation and billows of woe
Will soon hurl them out where the dark waters flow."
A sinister, foreboding premonition had Johanna breathing quickly until she could not gather the ability to think properly. She clutched at her throat and felt the air tearing through her windpipe. Why had the words held such a connection to her? Why would a song about sailors rescuing a lone man irk her so?
A hand fell upon her shoulder. "Johanna? What is wrong?"
The girl faced Turpin, her expressions contorted with torment. She stared, for a moment, at the hand on her shoulder, a mix of scorn and sorrow visibly battling in her emotion filled eyes. "I think…that…"
He silenced her with a shake of his head. "If you are not well then you must let me know. I will seek medical attention of you have taken ill."
His concern seemed to pluck at the very strings of her control. She was torn, brutally twisted between the man that had viciously…hurt her in the enclosed space of her bedroom and then held the passion of a father as she sat beside him, seeking the love that every daughter yearned for.
Their eyes met as he grasped her chin within his fingers and stared coolly into her eyes. He said absolutely nothing, and yet, he did not have to say anything. All of the sensations ran through his gaze and into her own eyes, feeding the fire of conflict in her mind.
Once upon a time, she would have caressed that face and placed a wet kiss on his cheek as he held her to him, chest rumbling form his deep chuckles. But now…What did her heart hold for this man other than fear? Could terror possibly turn into respect, into love?
"My lord, there is an official to see you on your current case," Bamford informed as he poked his head inside.
Turpin, with great difficulty, stood and stared down at his ward. In return, she uncertainly gazed up at him and burdened him with the roaring emotions that burst from her blue eyes. The pain, the grief, the horror…the masked adoration...
One look into her eyes and he was finished. Bending forward, he brought his lips to the crown of her head. To his shock, she had not pulled away but leaned forward. He kissed her with the undying sentiment of a father, a protector. Beneath his head, she faced his brood chest and parted her lips as tears slipped down her cheeks.
"I love you," he whispered into her hair.
And then he was gone. With nothing more than a soft kiss and a parting word of reverence, he had glided from the room, leaving her alone with a silly book as her company.
She leafed through the pages, eyes barely skimming the imprinted words until one title did manage to catch her interest.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning had been a growing storm of controversy in London, for there were not many women poets accepted into society with the title of excellence proudly bestowed upon them. The thought of a female conquering the world of criticizing men and successfully making her career without lifting a hand, but rather her mind, was invigorating to Johanna. Smiling in awe, she began to read the excerpts from the woman's first book, the lengthy poem, Aurora Leigh.
Within the first few lines, Johanna already felt tears misting in her eyes once more at the mention of Aurora's mother and her tragic death whilst Aurora was but a young child living in Italy. Aurora could feel no grief for the death of her mother due to the fact that she was simply too young to understand the concept of bereavement, and yet, the child still felt a void in her life afterward.
Curious, Johanna thought to herself; a child who had lost her mother at a young age but had not ability to mourn the loss because of childish ignorance.
Johanna's throat went dry; she swallowed thickly and read on. Outside, the growing voice of a beggar woman shrilled her desperation to the slumbering city of London.
The next few excerpts described Aurora alone with her father, a prominent English man who cherished her above all others. Their love was beautiful, almost too glorious to be accepted as true. When Aurora was an older child, her father had died a tragic death with his daughter's name pressed upon his lips. Aurora was left alone, holding no other option than to be torn from the home of her father and to the strange land of England. She felt nothing; her mind was stripped of thought from the loss of losing her world, her father.
Like the fictional Aurora, Johanna was robbed of thought. All that was left was the engulfing sorrow and the same daunting book in her lap, the consistent memories that she had strived to bury if she had any desire to keep her heart from shattering.
Tears may have blurred her vision, but she did not give them permission to fall. Persistent, she read on.
Only upon Aurora's arrival could she grieve the loss of her father, only when she heard the strangers around her conversing in the English language; the language in which her father spoke to her in Italy, a brief but mournful reminder of the life she had once had. The words that were once overflowing with feeling from the mouth of her father were now the words of aliens, of nonentities, cold, heartless individuals.
"And when I heard my father's language first
From alien lips which had no kiss for mine,
I wept aloud, then laughed, then wept, then wept, —
And some one near me said the child was mad
Through much sea-sickness"
And with the conclusion of that passage, Johanna's resistance had crumpled to ruins. She was broken.
Clutching the book to her breast, she wept bitter tears that she had choked back for what seemed her entire life. The salty water splashed onto the book and blotted the ink. The words were now distorted, undecipherable even to her.
She was no longer a child, she wept with the anguish of an elderly woman, bitter and alone. Long ago, she had once held the pleasure of holding the last of her family to her, savoring his touch and the compassion that was as foreign as the desert air or the streaming, Australian sun. And then he was gone, like a piece of heaven offered to her before the cold recesses of her past wrenched her back into its pit of horrors.
She had no mother; she no longer had a father. Even if he lived, it was as he had once said, they would never be reunited. Even if the hands of Fate permitted his survival, they would turn from her. It was as if Turpin was an exception, as if he ruled higher than the so-called "devout" forces of justice and truth.
The world bowed to the Judge of Corruptness and succumbed to the immorality of which he practiced.
The sliver of love she had held for her guardian was now banned from her soul like the purging of an infection. Had she truly believed the tainted words of affection he had spoken after the countless acts of defiling tortures? Her true father had never done such repulsive things; he had shielded her from them!
"Alms!" the beggar cried from outside of the house. Johanna strained her ears to mute the sound, but not even her vain efforts could silence the dejected voice that rang through the streets.
London could crumble around her into a pile of rubble and she would still remain there, book in hand, tears of loathing and bereavement dripping from her dimmed eyes.
With cries still resounding throughout the room, she held the book in a tighter grip and remained in the same position until the sobs had worn her through. She slept like that, jumping awake when the door to the library had closed shut.
She only realized that someone had been inside the room when she noticed the absence of her book and the blanket wrapped around her slight figure. Curling into the soft material, she shut her swollen eyes shut and welcomed each and every shrill note that slipped from the outside beggar woman's lips.
Within the darkness, beneath the harsh tone of the beggar's song, Johanna detected that the woman's voice had once been soft and gentle, a familiar, feminine…motherly sound.
And suddenly, a raspy cry for alms at the darkest hour became the most precious of lullabies.
The Bountiful
Anthony Hope had never been a boy of attachment; it was not the way of a sailor. Towns and people would be but a memory once a ship had left its harbor and the only attachment a man would ever dream to feel was that of his soul to the sea.
This was no longer the case.
Sweeney Todd, a mere stranger that had barely muttered anything more than a word of acknowledgment when spoken to, had the boy by his side each and every moment that time permitted him a chance of relaxation from his duties. Perhaps it was the strange man's silence that had the sailor by his cot, eagerly waiting for an opportunity to speak of the man's past. He had spent days in this fashion, like a trained dog by the side of an indifferent owner.
At night, Anthony had insisted that his guest take the bed so that he may obtain proper rest. He assured Mr. Todd that he would sleep in the small armchair in the corner because a sailor was "trained to do so" and "easily slept in the worst of conditions".
After a series of suffocating stares, the young sailor would take the cot and Todd the armchair, his body rigid and tensed, never once relaxing. The boy soon learned that a disagreement with Sweeney Todd was like battling an uncontrolled storm: a mere mortal could never triumph, let alone a sailor boy.
The physician had remained true to his word and returned for Todd's inspections. The man had cured Sweeney of his burned skin, cut up feet, and, after noticing the long, infected gash in his arm, had cleansed and dressed the wound.
He failed to mention that the wound had been inflicted in a dark, African town after he had been fleeing from a group of enraged guards, intent on seeing his body amongst the piles of his unidentified comrades. Perhaps it would be best if he left that minor detail out.
Surprisingly, Sweeney Todd had made a miraculous recovery from his severe state of malnutrition, or at least, he had not died like many had predicted. Anthony Hope had even been informed of a wager below the decks, mainly focusing on the fate of the unknown stranger. Apparently, many had bet that Mr. Todd would be dead before the day was out, a bet which was later moved up to "dead before the week is out". Many men would be bitter over the loss of money in their pockets.
Just as the doctor had said, though, the man's eating patterns were mostly, if not completely, altered. Never again would he be able to down a meal without becoming violently sick, due to his dangerously shrunken stomach. Let alone the fact that meager morsels were acceptable; Sweeney hardly ever welcomed a piece of food into his mouth. He felt no hunger; his raw, vindictive emotions seemed to devour the desire to fill his stomach.
When he was stable enough, the captain confronted their newest guest. Sweeney Todd had managed to conjure up a bogus story of him being a man upon a boat of merchant traders from London. He made deep efforts to hide the smirk that crept to his face as he informed Hoyt that his ship had sunk off the coast of South Africa due to a violent storm. To ensure his act was successful, the man went as far as adding quickened breaths and stuttered words, like his charade was indeed authentic and terrifying beyond imagination.
It was not that the simplicity of it all that pleasured Todd in the end; it was the fact that they all had believed every single word he had spoken.
When asked if there any other possible survivors, he had replied, "No," after a very long and solemn pause. The Captain had continued to interrogate him on the names of his crew members and his merchant ship, as well as stops along the way and such, all to which Sweeney had retorted that he "simply could not remember".
The physician had agreed that his failure to recollect was due to his malnutrition.
After the intense interrogation, the physician had departed to treat to his food poisoning patients and Anthony Hope had returned, fatigued and worn from his working period. It was almost humorous: watching grown men stupidly believe a sham that he had conjured up in his frazzled mind within a minute.
Disgruntled, the ex-con leaned by the cabin window and observed the splashing waters and shining sunlight. He had always hated the sunlight, how it ruthlessly pealed his skin, burned his vision…but that was after he was taken from his home, from his wife and…
"Sir," Hoyt began, grinning as he placed himself to the side of Todd, "Yeh said yeh wished to go to London, did yeh?"
The man's dark eyes studied the captain with distain, even distrust, before the flame of spite in his irises was doused. "Yes, sir," he agreed coolly, eyes flicking to Anthony Hope, who had remained impassive beside his captain.
The boy smiled in return. Sweeney Todd's eyes shot away from him, like a child caught in the wrong.
"Well, you're in luck, Mr. Todd…Your name is Todd, I am right?" Hoyt raised a thick brow.
"Sweeney Todd."
"Ah, yes. Pardon me, sir, but the name is quite unusual…"
The responding silence was ominous, daring the captain to continue his speech.
In a rich, Cockney accent, the captain continued. "London," a thoughtful pause, "You're in luck, sir. Our final destination is to be London; in fact, we're 'eading there now!"
Quiet, Sweeney burned the air with his unfaltering gaze and croaked, "How long?"
"Of course we 'ave to make a few docks on the way before we reach the city…"
The fire returned. "How long?" Todd repeated in a forceful, irate tone.
A frown creased Hoyt's face. "I can't say for sure, Mr. Todd. A month or two at the very most, I suppose."
Anthony curiously studied his head crew member, realizing something he had not seen before. For the first time, the captain seemed uncomfortable in the presence of another. A captain always maintained stability even in the most horrendous of situations! But now, his own captain was shifting uncomfortable under the pressure of another man's stares. One side of Hope's mind sent signals to him, stating that Mr. Todd was obviously dangerous and should be treated as a possible threat. The other side simply marveled at the man and his mysterious ways.
"Now, we also 'ave to discuss your payment for passage, if yeh can. My apologies, Mr. Todd, sir, but I can't be simply cartin' yeh around the world without some sort of fee." A small, regretful smile spread to his face; a disarming smile, a nervous smile.
Todd, gnashing his teeth together, tore his mind for possibilities of payment. "I could work," he suggested. He had not turned to face any of them.
"Nonsense," Anthony objected lightly, "Mr. Todd, I cannot allow you to work after, and pardon me, sir, your horrid illness that easily could have claimed your life. I will work extra hours in order to pay for Mr. Todd's voyage." Proud, he stared back into the eyes of his captain, though he did not receive the preferred expression that he had hoped for. Instead, Captain Hoyt seemed to study him with nothing short of panic.
What was wrong?
Sweeney gruffly objected. "No, I will work."
"Mr. Todd, please, I spotted you that day out on the ocean. To deny me the responsibility of assisting you in your time of need would be….please, Mr. Todd."
This time, the man studied the sailor with an intensity that forced Anthony to stare at his folded hands rather than his invigorating glare.
The man's silence was his surrender.
Hoyt sighed, "Very well, Anthony. You will work extra time to pay for Mr. Todd's passage." An inflection crept into his voice. "But I will not 'ear of anything more than a few extra hours in the nest, yeh 'ear me? Only a few more hours, that is all!"
"Yes, sir."
Sweeney darkly studied the outside world, infuriated that the boy had muted him with his pleading eyes and hopeful expression. A young man, no, a child had the power to weaken him like the idiotic fool that he was. And now, he had to sit back as that same child worked for his right to sail the sea as if he were a cripple incapable of such labor. He had worked the bloody desert for fifteen years, damn it!
"Yeh 'ave any family back home, Mr. Todd?"
The question had robbed Todd of thought, of sight. All that remained was pain, so much anguish that came crashing into his chest at the utterance of a simple word: Family.
In a deep, breathy voice, he rasped, "Yes."
Did he, though? Could he say for certain that his wife and daughter were still living? He had seen the despair in his daughter's eyes; he knew that her life was almost too fragile to suffer anymore than she already had. What of his wife? Did his daughter not hint that Lucy may have taken her life to escape the horrors that he had yet to know?
But the truth, as it usually had, remained unchanged. If his wife and child were lying, dead in the ground, he would still have a family; a deceased family, but, nonetheless, a family.
"Ah, yeh do, do yeh? A wife…a son, perhaps?"
"No, a wife and-" he paused, cleared his throat, and wiped at his eyes. They were beginning to burn, "A daughter."
Hoyt leaned in as Anthony merrily listened in the back. For some strange reason, the thought of a strange man, such as Mr. Todd, having a family was almost perplexing.
"I take it they were beauties. How old is your girl?" A deep grin spread the captain's lips.
"Sixteen." The moist heartbreak within his voice was shrill against Anthony's ears. What had happened to this man?
"Oh, a small, blushing rose by the sound of it."
Instinctively, Sweeney Todd placed the pads of his fingers on the window's glass. The sunlight sent warm shiver down his spine, the cabin faded away.
He stood before his Johanna now.
She did not speak, yet her lips spread with a glorious smile that made his heart throb. Her blonde hair billowed behind her as she approached him, her blue eyes danced with the golden rays that caressed her skin. This was the first time he had seen her. The first time she had walked into his barrack, displaying virtue that the deprived convicts had not seen for years, possibly their entire lives.
He felt her nestled in his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder as she always did. He stroked her silken tresses and stroked her soft cheek as he always did. The small body vibrated with laughter, soundless giggles of bliss.
He would give anything to feel his angel locked in his embrace, to hear the sounds of her breathing when she slept or the ringing of her entrancing giggles. These small comforts, that most took for granted, were his lone source of sanctuary. Only a father could feel these comforts or the taught bond that kept him tied to his child whether she was near him or across the oceans in a distant land.
He may have forgotten Lucy's face, but never would he forget Johanna's.
"Mr. Todd, can you hear me?"
The sound of the young sailor's voice had shattered his world. The sunshine fell away, the breeze, the joy. His daughter backed away from him, bruised and bloodied. Those same blue eyes were darkened from nights of unending terror; she was paler than the skin of a dead man. This was the result of the truth he did not know, the fate that Johanna had refused to tell him of.
She was dead.
He had killed her.
"Mr. Todd!"
Whirling to face the boy, wiping his face with his sleeve, the man demanded, "What do you want?!"
The boy was taken aback. "I am sorry; you were shaking…I did not know if you were alright…"
As he gnawed on his lip, Sweeney mumbled, "I need to be alone…right now." His tight grimace wavered and for a moment, it appeared as if he were about to sob.
"Yes, of course," Hoyt agreed as he pulled the sailor from the room.
Before the door could shut behind them, Anthony managed to glimpse at Todd. The man stood beside his cot, staring intently at the mattress as if he thought that someone rested within its soft material.
Did you catch all that symbolism? Wow…anyway, please review! Thank you everyone!