Chapters:

Chapter 1

The wind swept through London’s streets much as it had for the last hundred years. Micheal paused to marvel at the city which had grown around him. The streets slowly turning from small well worn cart paths to the now wide cobblestone streets littered with vendors hawking their meager wares. Nature had been consumed by locusts called humanity. Their grasping hands had ripped limb from tree and torn stone from earth. They had reshaped all in their path to suit their needs, and in turn their population had exploded which had served his need.

The past decades, fraught with danger and superstition, fires had burned through the long winter nights as innocents had been slain. All burned in the name of a new god, vengeful and spiteful of any who might defy the will of his instruments here on earth. Witch was the name given to some, concubines of Satan, children of the devil, the name for others still. Vampire, lycanthrope, succubus, so many names, and yet no true monster ever felt the lash of humanities judgment. The innocent burned in this new god’s holy war against the unnatural, and those they hunted had merely bided their time, skulking in the shadows, as the mobs with their holy warriors marched the streets.

As the bonfires had died down and the intellect of these children grew an age of reason had finally led the way to peace. The once vengeful god now spoke of love and forgiveness and the sins of the past were being laid to rest. A smile curled up on his lips as he thought of how wonderful it must be to be able to just write a new chapter and have everyone suddenly forget the monstrosities of one’s past.

He stepped out of the shadowed alley and entered the throng of people who buzzed around the market stalls like so many flies. Portly women in lightly soiled aprons jostled about balancing baskets laden with meats and breads, mostly all servants, cooks in one home or another. All working class, none of the aging aristocracy whom wouldn’t dare be seen in such a place.

He looked down to see the small boy careen into his leg, the impact sending the willowy unkempt lad tumbling across the cobblestones at his feet. His dark hair whipped at his eyes as he shook his head, much like a hound after being brained by branch. Recovering his wits the boy looked up his eyes widening with dread as they came to the dusty smear where he had impacted against the gentleman’s fine black trousers.

“Henry!” A feminine voice trilled out over the bustle, as boy and man locked eyes. “Henry! Now where did that child run off too?”

The lad started, turning sharply in the direction of the approaching voice. As quick as a jack rabbit he jumped to his feet. Brushing off the dirt from his backside, he looked sheepishly up at the icy stare of the nobleman in front of him. “Beggin’ your pardon Sir, I meant no offence.” He turned, the hard sole of his shoe grating the fine sand under his heel and made to run off before he could be furthered delayed. His feet peddled the air ineffectively as the man hoisted him effortlessly by the scruff of his scrawny neck.

The boys emerald eyes opened wide as the realization sank in. He was caught. “I believe someone is looking for you boy.” The man’s grip was iron and though he wriggled like a worm on a hook, Henry could not escape the vice-like hand about the back of his neck. “Henry, is it?” Micheal studied the squirming child, a curious glint in his dark eyes as he waiting for the boy to cease his pointless struggle.

“Yes, sir.” His feet slowed, finally stopping altogether, leaving him hanging, a fish on the line accepting its fate.

“Henry!” The woman called, closer than before, yet still hidden amongst the tangled mass of morning shoppers.

“Over here Madam. I believe I have found that which you seek.” His voice was emotionless as it cut through the chatter all around him.

Within moments the bobbing head of a woman began to make its way toward the duo, breaking through the wall of people. Her chestnut hair wound up into a loose bun, although many of the strands now hung in loose disobedience. The soot smudges on her flushed cheeks and brow gave her an unkempt appearance. Her clothes, a modest dress and apron were of middle class, at best. Her pale face would have been pretty if not for the obvious place where her nose must have been broken a few times in the distant past. A near murderous rage burned in her eyes as they fixed on the now rigid boy. “Henry Chapel! You get over here right now!”

The boy squirmed again, his heart racing as Micheal deposited him on the ground squarely in front of the woman. “Madam, I take it this belongs to you.” His hand still firmly locked around the boy’s collar. The boy tensed in his grip, muscles coiling, just waiting for a chance to make a break for it.

The woman paused, her glare fixed squarely on the boy. She took a deep breath before looking up to acknowledge the man holding Henry, a polite smile lightening the harsh appearance of the previous moment. She had the same deep emerald eyes as the boy who sat in the dust between them. “Thank you, Sir. He has a great deal of explaining to do.” She reached down and grasped the boy’s small wrist. The muscles in the boy went still instantly, all their previous tension gone. He had lost and surrendered to his fate.

“I’m sorry Mama. I didn’t mean to…” She cut him off with a single sharp glance. His eyes shone with tears and he quickly looked to his feet. Refusing to allow anyone to see him cry Henry bit down on his trembling lip.

“Thank you again, Sir. You have my most sincere gratitude for helping me catch my son.”

“It was no trouble Madam. I had already detained him for running wild and dirtying my trousers.” The woman looked down and for the first time noticed the dusty child sized smudge on his otherwise spotless pant leg. In a single practiced motion she pulled Henry about to face the man.

“Henry, what have your father and I taught you?”

Henry looked up sullenly, letting the tears shine in his eyes. “I already apologized to him, Mama. I apologized and he grabbed me anyway.” Henry didn’t dare smirk, but he waited to see if he could turn the situation to his advantage.

Henry’s hopes dashed almost at once. “And a good thing too I bet otherwise you’d be half way to Ripon by now.” She turned her attention back to the man who stood silently watching the exchange between mother and son. “Sir, if I may, let me see to your trousers. I will get them laundered and pressed. I will not have a son of mine wreaking havoc on the streets of London like some common hooligan.”

Micheal waved her offer away with a motion of his hand. “Thank you, that’s not necessary, I have plenty more at home, and I am sure that a bit of dust will come right out. There is no real damage done. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. Good day…” He paused realizing he had not gotten her name.

“Mrs. Mary Chapel, and you sir?” She held out her free hand in a proper greeting.

“Micheal Samualson at your service.” He removed his hat and bowed low, before taking Mary’s hand in his and placing a gentle kiss upon the back of it. “I must be on my way. Good day, Mrs. Chapel, young Henry.” He placed his hat back upon his dark brown hair and was lost in the crowd before either Chapel could think to wish him a good day in return.

No longer distracted by the presence of Mr. Samualson, Mary turned her full attention back to her son, who looked up at her like a terrified dog. In the blink of an eye the startled boy was swept off his feet and cradled safely in his mother’s arms. “Don’t you ever run off like that again, Henry Chapel, or next time you’ll get the switch. I have been so worried. Why on earth did you run off?” All past transgressions began to melt away in an instant as she hugged him tight to her chest, her stern gaze softening.

Henry said nothing as the pair made their way through the shoppers, back to their tiny home on Varden Street. It wasn’t much, a simple two room clapboard building. In the Whitechapel Ward however, it was far more than many had to call their own. The unfortunates of the city populated the alleys like the innumerable stones that made up the winding streets. To have even a small home was luxury in this forgotten section of town.

The two steps led up to the timber door were crooked and worn from years of steady foot traffic. Despite the ramshackle exterior, inside was as comforting as an old blanket. The scent of fresh baked bread wafted from the oven filling the dimly lit room with the warmth that transforms a house into a home. Henry sat sullenly in the worn chair at the hearthside, warily eyeing the pile of root vegetables he knew he would soon be tasked with washing for tomorrow’s dinner.

Silence hung between mother and son while Mary set to stocking the fire and unconsciously straightening her apron. After a few minutes Mary stood in front of the hearth, eyes fixed on the glowing logs. The soft glow from the fire illuminated each line of concern, each of which stood in sharp contrast to the rest of her fair face. “Henry, what could possibly have made you take off like? Do you know how worried I have been about you?” She didn’t look at her son; motherly intuition told her of the silent tears running down his dirt smeared face.

Henry looked up, eyes glistening in the firelight. “I don’t want to be sent to the work houses Mama.” His voice cracked as a bout of hiccups overtook him. His small body quaked with each hiccup. “I heard you and papa talking. I know he wants me to go to the workhouse.” The little of his composure that remained crumbled away as the words hung in the still air unable to be unspoken.

Unable to restrain herself any longer Mary dropped the edge of her apron from her hands and swooped down to comfort her son, who sat shaking like a leaf about to fall from the autumn branch. She murmured softly as she stroked his chestnut hair. “Oh, my dear sweet child.” She lifted him into her arms as she sat down into the seat he had only moments ago occupied, rocking him back and forth in her slender arms. “We aren’t sending you away, not ever, and certainly never to one of those awful places. Your father arranged an apprenticeship for you. Real work, under a real master, in a counting house. This is the best we can do to give you a better chance at a life then you would ever have in the shadows of Whitechapel.” She held him close as slowly his shuddering ceased.

He sniffed his nose a few times and took a few deep breaths. “I don’t have to go to the workhouse?” His emerald eyes glistened, and his dark lashes, damp with tears clumped together. He looked up into her eyes, searching their depths for some sign of deception.

“No, my little love, I would never send you off to a workhouse. Surely, you must know that.” She picked him up, set him on his feet. She knelt down on the hard plank floor so that they were eye to eye and gave him an appraising look. Like snow in spring the fear in his eyes was melting away. “Now off with you. Wash your face before your father gets home. You would not want him to see you in this state, would you?” Henry shook his head solemnly sending his shaggy brown hair down into his eyes. “Then come help me wash the vegetables.”

Henry nodded as he bounded off to wash his face and his hands. He glanced down at his hand in amazement. The filth he of the streets he had been swimming in over the last two days had crusted under his nails and into each of the fine lines on his hands. Henry stomach was a tumult as he stood studying his hands. Hunger pains warred with his guilt over making his parents worry. Guilt was winning, now more than ever knowing that he had misunderstood their whispered conversation.

The wash basin was where his mother always kept it, stored with care on the magnificent dressing stand his father had built for her birthday two years ago. The stand had been the one thing she had always dreamed of having. Each day when she would be cleaning the spacious estates of the manor houses she would find herself drawn to the intricate woodwork and gilt highlights painted of the ornate woodwork. No other item held such a fixed place in her dreams, none of the other fine furniture or the imported silken pillows, just the dressing stand. He and Henry had spent nearly a year, doing side jobs and running errands to get the beautiful walnut panels for the body of the surprise. For a few months they worked side by side, secret conspirators, carving and painting the near priceless panels with such exquisite detail that the stand had seemed out of place in the tiny house, at first. Now Henry could not imagine their home without it.

A smile warmed Henry’s face as he remembered how she had cried tears of joyful surprise when she laid her eyes upon the beautiful painted accents on the dark stained wooden panels. Rose vines encircled the beaten brass knobs on the two drawers. Delicate ivory roses in various states of bloom dotted the length of the twisting vines. Even on evenings when she would come home exhausted from a day spent scouring floors, she would still take the time to polish and dust every inch of the woodwork with a loving touch.

Henry washed with care, inspecting his hands for dirt and mud, paying mind not to splash any of the dirty water on the surface of the stand. Looking down as he finished he could barely make out his own reflection such was the state of the water within the basin. He lifted it careful and dumped it out into the street beyond, its contents flowing down the street, a tiny river of dirt and pointless tears. Carefully he placed the bowl back down emptied the nearby pitcher into it.

“Mama, shall I run to the pump? The water pitcher is empty.” He walked into the kitchen the empty pitcher upside down in his hands as if to prove his words.

“Yes child, please, but hurry back. I still believe you owe me some assistance with the vegetables for your behavior.” The tone in her voice left no room for argument, even though he would have been expected to help whether he had run off or not. She returned to stirring the porridge a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, Mama.” Henry jumped out the door in a flash and was gone before she could look back again. Mary shook her head as she began washing a few of the potatoes, taking care to remove the eyes which had begun to grow.

Micheal wandered the bustling streets like a ghost. His dark eyes looking ahead fixed on some unknown goal as he wound his way through the press of humanity all about him. Only the dusty smear on his leg gave any indication that he was, in fact, part of this world and not the untouched specter he appeared to be.

His mind drifted back to the boy he had known so long ago. The dark shaggy hair hanging untamed over wild peridot eyes that had stared at authority with such defiance. He had been a winter or two older then the boy back in the market. Such disobedience in youth, how that boy had survived into adulthood was a mystery. Micheal’s lips curled into a faint smile as he remembered the past. Despite the smile which lingered on his lips no warmth of recollection reached his eyes. His eyes stayed locked on the gate he had drawn to a stop at.

The wrought iron curled in upon itself, elaborate vines of cold metal winding into an aging gate. Rusted hinges were the only joint connecting the chipped stone walls that surrounded the church yard. The stones, ancient behemoths that they were, sat suffocating under the ivy which had long ago eaten away the mortar.

Though covered in rust the hinges made no sound as Micheal swung the gate open and stepped into the cemetery beyond. Tombstones littered the ground, their surfaces worn smooth with age. All memory of those who lie below obliterated along with the words that had once told a tale of another’s life. Brambles and weeds choked the ground as if nature had twisted and grown dark in its attempt to reclaim the forgotten area.

He paid the stones no mind as he made his way through the overgrowth. Each step placed where no bramble could tear at his leg as he passed. His movement through the yard was fluid, the practiced motion of one who knew the path by heart.

Micheal slowed and looked up at the willow tree that stood barring his path. He ran his hand over the bark feeling the ragged texture of the tree’s surface. The tree was an old friend, its scars mirroring his own scarred soul. After a moment of silent commune Micheal brushed aside the curtain of branches and ducked into the shadowed glen beyond. The curtain fell behind him shutting him off from the rest of the world.