Bells of St. Paul's
I don't own Koudelka or Shadow Hearts and I get really tired admitting to that. … It's mine I tell you! Mine!
Roger asked me if I should follow him, follow Edward back to - wherever he was riding to on my sway-backed old nag. As the old monastery had burned, we had spent the night together, as men and woman will, and he was, after all, a handsome man, if a bit rough around the edges. We had flung ourselves beneath the blankets and came together with a fire and passion that rivaled the burning Nemeton. But when the sun rose brightly the next morning, we had our breakfast and I said goodbye. I told Roger I'd see him again someday, as if it were a premonition, a vision of the future, without hope or need to change. But it was a lie.
Oh, it truly was a vision. I felt we would meet again in the fullness of time. But deep within me, within the core of me that still shivered at his touch, was the niggling thought that yes, I would follow him.
I spent a little more time at the monastery, helping Roger and listening to his wizened voice nattering on about wizards, bishops, experiments and, of course, himself. I laughed to think that this old monk could talk up a storm, but eventually I moved on, leaving Roger to his new life.
And so, winter turned to spring and I was once again in London, the muddy roads leading me relentlessly to my old home. Of course, my teacher was not there. She had been dead this past eight years and there was really nothing to interest me in this horrible cesspool of a city. Except that I was drawn here by my own purpose, my own visions and something else I was never able to name. I did know several people here, prostitutes and harlots, women of ill repute and my friends. When my teacher had died, leaving me nothing to fall back on, I found myself in the deepest poverty imaginable, selling myself for a meal or a warm blanket. Nothing I had not done before, but at least here, in London, I had company.
Lizzie owned a small pub in Whitechapel in the East End of London. Not the safest place, not the nicest place, but certainly cheap; not much more than a dirt floor with a few barrels and boards for tables and benches. She served the local workers, the black-faced factory men, a few draymen and of course their doxies. She also owned the local house situated conveniently behind the tavern and with a houseful of willing women to service the neighborhood. Well, as willing as poverty can make a girl. I went to work for her serving tables and cleaning slops. It paid pennies a day, but I had no choice. I had never had choices so it really didn't affect me. I stayed in the house with the rest of the whores, taking the upper attic room to share with two other women - the main rooms downstairs on the second storey were reserved for "paying customers" who we were all obligated to bring in, even me.
Things went on this way until late spring. One of the girls at the brothel got pregnant and took a vacation somewhere until she could return, ready to work. We all knew about these vacations: Maddy told us about them one night over soup. Some men liked the women full of child, but Lizzie said it cost her more to deal with the problems and shipped them off to have the child removed. None of us thought she meant giving birth. I was serving in the bar, taking in what few tips I could and offering a warm smile, a negligent caress to whatever man was willing to pay the price, when he walked in.
I almost didn't recognize him, cleaned up and wearing a suit. But it was Edward. He dropped a travel bag on the floor next to a table and sat, tapping the table with a Sovereign. Never one to resist gold, I sidled up to him and sat on his lap. It was worth it for the look on his face.
He had a sense of humor did Edward. After he got over the shock, we laughed and he bought supper and drinks and, when my work was over, we went walking, his bags tucked securely in my shabby room in the brothel. The East End is still the roughest part of London, with neither pleasant walkways nor pleasant people. Ruffians and roust-abouts inhabit every nook and cranny of the place, but it also is home to some of the homiest people around. We found our steps taking us up Pettycoat Lane, the shop fronts closed and barred at this hour, and the street faire long gone. In the near distance were houses, some with lights, many without, and not a few dilapidated old manse's that had seen better days.
Edward took me by the hand and lead me to the littered lawn of one old house, the front stone works falling down and the old gnarled oak in the yard dead for many years, its last leaves having fallen before I left London some years ago. He broke in a ground floor window and we climbed in.
The house was full of trash, broken furniture and toys, a rolled up carpet against one wall and a fireplace filled with refuse. The floor was covered in dusty dirt, but we didn't care, we both knew why we had come to this desolate place and home decor was not on our minds.
In Nemeton, I had found Edward half dead. I saved him, even as he saved me by lending me his gun. I was a lousy shot, but managed to kill the monster that had attacked him. Together we had braved the horrors of that old monastery, together we had fought for our lives, our very souls, - to free the one trapped there: Elaine Heyworth. And together we had escaped the ravaging fires only to find a fire of our own in his tent. That was then, our coming together in a passion for life, a celebration of our survival; this was now, our drive, our need for each other more lust than love. I cared for this man, found his rough and brutal side attractive, his willingness to kill to protect his life or any other's was exciting. Yet I was also drawn to the poet within him, the one that could quote Byron while fighting for his survival against hell's minions.
Edward had also been forceful in the time I'd known him. He wanted to live life his way, without regrets. I had lots of regrets, but at this moment, I cared nothing for them. At this moment, watching him push aside some trash and pulling down the ratty carpeting, I knew that nothing we did here tonight could ever bring me regrets.
When the carpet was ready, we rolled ourselves into its dusty depths, not caring about our clothing, or how dirty it was. We were too busy coming together in an explosion of desire, our bodies melding and melting into each other; the fire in my belly rose to match his hard maleness and we were together again, surviving the hell of Nemeton, outliving all our foes and stoking the fires of Heaven's perdition. Fire and passion ruled us, our breathing as one, our bodies, slick with sweat and the fluids of our lovemaking, and when it was finally over, when we had slaked our hunger and thirst for each other, he pulled his jacket over us and we slept.
I could say we went our separate ways after that, but it wouldn't be true. The next day he slipped out and came back with a boxed meal; hot bread, soup and two crisp winter apples. We shared the repast and, leaning close beneath his jacket, we warmed each other. He told me stories of his sordid youth, much like he had that drunken night in Nemeton - both of us in our cups that night, my own head buzzing with the voices of ghosts and the taste of expensive wines - while I remained silent. He knew what I was doing and why. He knew me for a moment of our lives, and the gleam in his eyes told me volumes; he was enjoying our time together, another conquest, another story to add to his history of stories. But I didn't mind. No regrets.
After we ate we made love again, riding the waves to crest again and again until, long after nightfall, we sank into the oblivion of satiation. And that's when he told me.
"I'm taking a ship out tomorrow. Leaving for America."
The words no more than a statement, no preamble, no explanation… but truthfully I didn't need one. This time together was a mere tick of the clock; he had his life to live while I… I was looking for something else. I hadn't realized it until that moment.
The next morning we arose to rain, a solid downpour that drenched everything in wet and grey. We ran back to the bar for his bag and I went with him to the docks. On the way he nattered on about his plans for the future, his ideas for a book, or a magazine article. It was all a quiet, yet enthusiastic drone in the sodden morning and I paid little attention to it, my thoughts on the moment, on the soon-to-be parting and on the empty darkness that had been my lot before and would be again. Finally, we were there, the dark water splashing cold onto the quay and the grey downpour diminishing not a bit despite our discomfort.
We said our goodbyes beneath the raindrops, his strong arms enveloping me, his warmth washing over me as our lips meet, our faces wet with just a taste of salt. Was I crying? And then he was gone, climbing aboard, waving to me from the deck and I, huddled in my short coat, waved back, watching over the long minutes as the boat pulled free of its moorings and began to float ever so slowly into the Thames.
I stood there, watching the boat as it chugged down past the Tower Bridge before turning to leave. And just as suddenly, the rain stopped, the spit and spatter of raindrops abating and the clouds overhead rending themselves as they pulled apart, the winds picking up and carrying them along toward the coast. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself, standing like a soaked kitten on the quay, the bustle around me a backdrop to a sudden loneliness. I could feel the years behind me and the years ahead of me stretching like an unbroken line and I turned toward the dock and knelt in the puddles, throwing up into the dark water below.
Later, cold and alone, I walked back up the quay, the wind whipping what little I wore and making me shake with icy shivers. The clouds still scudded overhead, bellies no longer pregnant with rain, but with an occasional rent here and there letting in the grey daylight. Pausing, I looked back down the river, my body and mind numb when, in the distance, I could hear the peals of Saint Paul's, the bells chiming the call to service, their deep boom an echo in the wind, like the crash and peel of those great bells at Nemeton as they fell to the stones below, as the earth itself screamed in pain as the great machine rose into the storm-tossed sky... Visions, always visions. Shivering, I turned away and headed for home.