PART THREE

By Suzanna Stanbury

The fog was waiting for her outside the shop, swirling into tendrils, curling around the market folk as it tried to keep its hold. She traipsed on through the market. People loomed up at her, some bumped against her, almost knocking her sideways. Sylvie sniffed the air, she could smell meat. Her feet carried her towards the source of the delicious wafts of mouth-watering aroma. A large, sweaty faced man was standing over a griddle, cooking up patties of meat and potatoes. Sylvie’s mouth watered, she could feel her eyes widening as she stared at a man wolfing down a meat pattie. He spotted her and laughed.

“Ere, lad, anyone’ud think you’d nivver seen a pattie afore. Take a bit o’mine.” He pulled off a plump corner passing it to Sylvie.

“Thank you,” she took the food and placed it in her mouth, it was red hot. She blew out her cheeks, puffing noisily.

“Phew – it’s hot,” she desperately tried to suck cool air inside her steaming mouth. The man laughed at her and Sylvie sighed. She was feeling a little happier now. Maybe, if she was stuck here, she wouldn’t starve after all. In about half an hour she had found an apple, earned some money, and been given free food. Not a bad result. Sylvie wandered on trying to see what was being sold on the many stalls.

Her mind raced wildly as she strolled back down through the market, wondering if she really could survive in this strange place. She reached the last of the stalls and quickly realised her proximity to the river by its pungent smell, the rank odour invading her nostrils. She choked on the thick noxious stench. The fog seemed to suck the reek of the river within its folds, intensifying it to an almost unbearable strength. She gagged, her stomach lurching painfully as she tried to walk away from the river, to escape the vile smell. The land became much lower, the fog grew thick again and she tried to gauge where she was in proximity to Gentian square – it couldn’t be far from here.

A horse neighed very close by, she stopped and listened, coughing loudly to let the rider know she was there. She felt the horse pass her by, she felt its heat; the hay rich smell was comforting and for a moment masked the stench of the river. Sylvie felt a tear trickle down her cheek, the warmth of the horse had released the feeling of desolation within her, she realised with horror the extent of her plight.

“Why me?” she muttered out loud, then her thoughts raged on internally as she mumbled. “Why did I have to end up in this place? What about all those other people, why did none of them come through with me? Why am I so damn special that I sunk into this hell-hole?”

As the tears coursed down her cheeks, she brushed them away with the back of her hand and stopped walking for a moment. A noise made her turn. She could see some steps to her right; they looked like the entrance to a church. A sudden hope sprang up inside Sylvie. Maybe she could sleep inside the church tonight; it would at least be safe. She ascended the steps to a strong wooden door. Her hand felt for the ring of the handle, turning it she went inside. A few tendrils of fog crept in to the church with her, pushing them away she looked around at her new surroundings. It was a good feeling to be able to see properly again.

Inside the church, there was no-one in sight. She began to walk slowly down the aisle between the lines of pews, until she reached the nave where she paused, looking up at the wonderful carved ceiling.

“What do you want, boy?” The crisp voice startled her.

She swung round, hitting a pew with her elbow. She squealed, the noise amplified in the quiet church and her elbow hurt like hell. The echo bounced up into the roof space, the acoustics making it last for almost as long as the pain that seared through her arm. The priest was tall, he wore long dark robes that gave his slender form a look of a carrion crow, a look that was enhanced still further by far set eyes and a beaky nose.

“I came in to get away from the fog.” That sounded reasonable enough, she thought. The priest continued to stare at her, stripping flesh from her bones with the intensity of his gaze.

“You can’t stay in here,” he warned. Sylvie suddenly began to cough again. “Are you consumptive?” She shook her head, unable to answer due him to her sudden coughing fit.

“No, sir,” she gasped out at last. “It’s the smell from the river, the stench from the fog. I can’t bear it.”

She looked up at the priest, holding his stare with her own. She tried to summon up every ounce of strength within her; she wanted so desperately to stay inside the church, to smell its clean scent of beeswaxed wood, to stay safe amongst the statues and the tapestries adorning its walls. She saw something soften within the priest’s cold eyes. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “Follow me.” He led her back across the flagstones to where a curtain was draped over the wall. He jerked the curtain away with a flourish revealing a door, she was swiftly ushered into a small, cosy room where a fire burned brightly in the hearth, and upon a range bubbled a pot of delicious smelling stew.

Sylvie sniffed the air appreciatively, her stomach rumbled with eager anticipation. The priest chuckled. It was an odd noise, stranger still to hear mirth from such an austere personage as he. Sylvie looked curiously at him waiting for him to speak.

“Sit,” he gestured to a wooden chair. Sylvie quickly whipped the chair out from under the table, seating herself before he could change his mind. She perched on the very edge of the seat, her back as straight as a ram-rod. The priest dished her up a small bowl of stew, placing the food in front of her. Sylvie fought back the urge to dive into the food to sate her punishing hunger. She waited until he too had scraped back a chair and was facing her across the table, leaning over his own bowl of steaming stew.

The priest said a prayer of thanks that seemed to last for such an interminable time Sylvie feared the stew would cool to a congealing mess of gloop. But still, she waited patiently for him to finish uttering the words of grace that would allow them to eat. Finally, he waved a hand for her to start her food. Sylvie gratefully plunged her spoon into the bowl and felt each nourishing mouthful slide warmly, thickly down her throat. She could never remember a meal where food had tasted so good, but the small bowl was soon empty and she knew better than to ask for a second helping. This was not a time for greed, it was a time for gratitude. She emptied her cup of weak beer and sighed with relief.

“Thank you,” she said softly, then adding, “Can I help you to clear away the dishes?”

This seemed to please the priest greatly, a smile forced creases to appear upon his face. His skin seemed to crinkle up in resentment at the unknown expression. She took up the bowls and other vessels to a sink set in the wall, pouring in water from a jug, she proceeded to wash the various pieces with a clatter as her hands tried to clean away the sticky residues that clung to each dish she washed.

“Have you a place to stay tonight?” the priest asked her.

“No, sir. I only arrived today. I have not yet found a place to sleep.”

Sylvie felt a rush of nerves creep over her skin. Would she be able to hide from the priest the fact that she was not a boy? She fought back the fear lest it show on her face. The priest seemed to have a knack for seeing into one’s very soul and she worried he may be able to read her thoughts, as they were so very loud.

“You can sleep here tonight,” he said. “On the mat by the range, it’s warm enough for comfort. Many would be glad to sleep at all, let alone enjoy comfort like this.”

Sylvie eyed the rush matting by the range, comfort indeed, he must be joking. But her thoughts immediately sprang back to the alternative – a night outside in the freezing fog, on stone or on a hard and icy ground. She knew which of the two choices she preferred.

Sylvie helped the priest to light the candles and prepare the church for the evening service. She hid far back by the walls under the tapestries watching the people file inside the church to worship. She heard the voices sing hymns and mutter prayers up to an unseen God. She raised her eyes to the rafters and threw up her own desperate prayer to escape this place, this time and the awful dread of uncertainty that blighted her very existence.

At last the church was empty. Sylvie helped the priest to close down a place still resounding with the recent words of prayer. At last, she sank gratefully onto the rush matting by the gently glowing range as the priest closed the door. He left her alone, in silence for the night. Sylvie felt her eyelids closing at once and sleep overcame her. Her muscles ached with the exertions of the day - a day that had seemed to last longer than she had lived. She drifted into a deep sleep, waves of memories danced behind her eyes as she fell further down into black unconsciousness. Under the door a few tendrils of mist crept inside the room and began to swirl towards her.

                                              *

A bright light roused Sylvie from her slumbers. Her eyes blinked open and she frowned under the intensity of the fierce glare. A face loomed into her view. She felt confused and her head throbbed painfully.

“Look. There’s a girl down here asleep,” said a voice. “Over here, come and look.”

“Where am I?” mumbled Sylvie, her words coming out thick and awkwardly, like she was out of practice. She tried to remember what had happened, she remembered the church and the warmth of the fire. She sat up straight, the air was cold but the sun was beaming down brightly, blinding her as her eyes slowly grew accustomed to its brilliance.

She looked at the three figures standing looking at her, two girls and a boy.

“Who are you?” Sylvie asked them as she looked around her at the crumbling stone walls surrounding them. “Where are we? Where’s the church?”

“This was a church. It’s the ruins of St Bartholomew’s. It’s a history marker building now.”

“A what?” she asked, looking bemusedly at the young man. He was wearing jeans and a bizarre jelly-like jacket.

“For learning about history, you know.” He turned to one of the two girls who were both staring curiously at her. “Give me a hand, Selina.” He and the girl helped Sylvie to her feet.

“Thanks,” she said. “I'm Sylvie.”

“Mark,” said the young man, he nodded at the girls, “This is Selina and Rix.”

Sylvie nodded at them. Grinning at the two girls, she looked across the ruined church to the road that lay beyond, her eyes widened in surprise and her smile faded at the sight of low sleek vehicles passing by. She sighed and rolled her eyes. Where on earth was she this time? It was the future - that much was obvious. But, there was no mist, she felt desperately scared as she looked at the unknown world before her. How long would she have to stay here, before the fog descended?

The End

Copyright Suzanna Stanbury 2009 All Rights Reserved