Voices
I don't own them, so don't even bother.
The rain continued to patter on the roadway and make a quagmire of mud that I had to trudge through. My horse, an old nag of the first order, plopped and slogged through the slurry of brown ooze and stopped just outside the fence, her shaggy ears thrust forward, listening. The wind had died down, thank god, or I would be freezing; as it was, Nag had refused to cross into the yard and I had tied her up at the gate, the old creaking iron colder than a witch's tits.
I smirked at that thought, wondering just how anyone would know how cold a witch's breasts could be. Some drunkard in a bar had said that, and the laughter was appropriate for a stupid joke at a woman's expense. Not that I care. Not that they know about me. Just as well.
Overhead the sky was still a mass of grays and whites, with clouds lowering with pregnant bellies to dump their snow and rain. In the highlands, the snow was deep and thick; fortunately, I was only just out of Edinburgh, Scotland and it was more rain than snow. But rain… damn the Scots for having more rain than England. Damn the Scots for living so far north, and for having graveyards older than history, and for having ghosts, and just for being Scots! I was not in a good mood, and the weather did not help. I left Nag and slogged through the slippery mud up to the house, an older house built of stone and mortar and a lot of tears, no doubt. I looked around what could have been a pleasant garden with tall evergreen and a walkway of gravel, and then looked at the drive going up from the street and scowled. Mud. More mud. Damn the Scots anyway!
I finally made the house, stomping my muddy boots on the stone verge and looking in through dingy glass windows. No one had lived here for a while and the glass was crusty with dirt. Inside, I could barely make out furnishings covered with cloths.
"Well, this must be the place," I muttered and went to the front door, but it was heavy and well bolted. With a shrug, I headed around the back for the servant's entry. There the door was less sturdy and not so well bolted and I entered. The kitchen and pantry smelled musty with a touch of mold. I looked around, pausing to rummage in the cabinets until I found a box of matches and a storm lantern. There was a light slosh from the lantern showing very little fuel, and it was slow in starting to burn – it would not last long but perhaps enough for me to finish and get out of here.
Flickering light cast yellow and black along the hallway out to the front of the house and I took a cursory look around the ground floor. What furnishings there were had been covered and dust covered everything in a thick layer. My boots left a wet, sloppy trail from the back of the house and followed me up the stairs where patterned carpet now absorbed the mess. The second floor was as dusty as the first, and I stopped to look in the first room, turning the dingy brass handle. It was a child's playroom, toys and child-size furnishings left haphazard on the floor. I stepped in, checking the small dresser and vanity, the toy box next to the window with its wooden animals, tops, trains and other assorted things. I thought how lucky the child had been to have such treasures in his possession. Then I left, checking the next room down the hall and the next after. Finally, I reached the end and returned, taking the opposite side. Here I found the master bedroom.
Nothing different here; the bedding was covered with a dust cloth and I pulled it up to reveal the plush feather coverlet. The pillows were covered in lace – rich, delicate and intricately worked – a fortune in handwork rotting on the bed. There was a small chair in one corner and I set the lantern down on the dresser and sat down, looking at this room where a man and woman had slept and made love. I breathed in the cold dust, the mold from the moisture of the winter, and the feeling of oppressive silence, and wondered why anyone would think this place haunted.
I was traveling while my teacher remained out of the country, earning my way any way I could, sometimes as a scullery maid, sometimes as a whore, but this time, as a clairvoyant. The word still stuck in my mouth, so strange, so mystical, and so full of lies. I think of myself as a medium, but with so many charlatans and frauds using that term, I had begun to use the lie of clairvoyant. It didn't matter. It paid me pennies to do the work, a good meal, a warm bed. And sometimes, not always, but sometimes, I could help people - not that I wanted to.
My gift, my curse, was my ability to see. Sight was a powerful tool for the Rom, many of my village had the second sight and I, from birth, was cursed with it. But now, with the training I had of Lady Helena, and my own meager experiences, I was improving enough to get by. This time, a message had come of a haunting – a house left bereft by the death of children and ghostly occurrences leaving the house empty and un-sellable. Looking at the dust and accumulation of a past occupancy, I could see why. Sitting there, my elbows resting on my knees, I let my mind go, relaxing into the silence. There were no voices, no children, no ghosts here, only the silence.
I sat back, letting my head rest against the wall, not caring if I left a wet smear on the white paper. Sighing, I thought I could rest here a moment, since my trip here was for nothing, and I let my eyes close. My breath came slower, the chill of the winter making my chest tight, and I could feel the beginnings of a cold sneaking into my bones. If I wasn't careful I would become ill and then what would I do? My breath came more slowly and I could feel myself drifting off until I was nearly asleep. The weight on my chest made me open my eyes.
The stones blocks were larger than before, the shards of glass in them piercing my chest. It hurt, oh god it hurt and I wanted to scream, but there was something wrong with my mouth. I opened my cracked lips and mouthed the pain I was feeling but my tongue would not move... my tongue was gone – I remember! Ripped from my mouth by pinchers and flames and now, tortured! Oh God, why have you forsaken me to this place of suffering and damnation?
They took me from behind, my hands and feet bound by coarse ropes, and they raped me – my own guards! They cut me, cut my genitals off and waved them in my face as they raped me and then, as I lay in my own blood, they cut my chest open, removing my still beating heart.
They cut my fingers off, then my hands, slowly working up my arms and legs an inch at a time. Hack, cut, saw... how I could live through such pain and maiming! An inch at a time they cut me until I was a stump, until finally they began to cut out my organs, one by one by one...
Help me! Oh God help me! No, don't do this! Please! Please, oh god! No!
A seed, a weed, a tree, so dark, so old, so cursed. What have I done? What have I done?
Can you hear me? Can you help me?
Can you hear me?
I jerked to my feet, suddenly awake and shivering with the cold. Sweat ran down my body like rain and, without conscious thought, I ran from the house, leaving the lantern to gutter into darkness behind me. It wasn't until I reached old Nag and pulled her free from the gate, pulling myself up into the saddle that I realized I had dreamed it all. Dreamed it all, except the last.
I pulled Nag back with the reigns, pausing to look at the dark house and the soggy grounds. Here was no haunting. But what had I seen? What had I heard?
Can you hear me? That had been distinct. Not just a dream. A sending. My heart was still pounding like a drum in my chest, and I felt sick to my stomach, leaning over the side of my knee and throwing up into the nearby bushes. When I was done, I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and turned Nag toward the road south toward London.