A
Novel
by Smcallis
This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.
Chapter 2
OF BARROWS AND WIGHTS
CELTIC ORAL TRADITION TELLS when a person in a village died, a woman came to sing a lament. I was now dead. Legend has it that, for the five great Gaelic families an airy woman sang this lament; having foresight, she would appear before the death and keen. I can still remember on late winter evenings, all the kids, the grown-ups, the cousins would gather around the crackling fire and tell scary stories. Sometimes there was a drop of beer or a scrape of cheese toast. I mostly remember the stories my Grandmother told, stories of old Celtic legends, what she called "Screams" stories to frighten young children before bedtime. We sat wide-eyed and white cheeked and listened to terrifying ghost stories, tales of long past recounting a woman, though called a ghost, she was more often a specific woman murdered in a most gruesome way or a woman who died in childbirth. This is the tale of the Banshee Wail―this was I, this was my revenge.Mr. Squeers was not so easily put off, least not anyways by a ten-year-old going-on-eleven snot nosed girl. I was now coin to him. He seized me by the back of my shirt and literally dragged me kicking and screaming out of my home. I cried, my piteous wails must have sounded exactly like that airy woman from one of my Grandmother's ghost stories. I screamed like a banshee.
My brothers looked on, a frightened huddled mass. I was dragged kicking and screaming out of the house, I thought for sure Jonathan, Daniel or Thomas might come to my rescue. They were my bestest brothers, we did everything together; they were my brothers, and my friends. In their defense, I think at least Thomas and Jonathan were numb with shock; Daniel may have still been too young to comprehend what was happening. I think on some level, it must have been a primordial base reaction, with Papa gone; Wallace and Dewey both killed in a mine cave-in, Mama took in what washing she could, we kids worked from dawn to dusk, none of that seemed to make one whit of difference. There was no money, and by the fall of 1875 the family found itself on the virtual edge of starvation. I was one less mouth to feed; I was four pounds nine shillings. “Better her than me . . .”
I was a lamb led to the slaughter. I was alone; my plight was absolute, I was utterly sold down the river. Mr. Squeers, he seized me by the arm and wrestled me to the ground. I was strong and Mr. Squeers, soon found out just how strong I was. His long boney fingers grasp at my hair, he dragged me across the dust and dirt towards his shinny black lacquered buggy.
So violent was my abduction, my shirt, my hand-me-down shirt, Thomas’ shirt made a tearing sound to the extent my blouse ripped open exposing my modesty. Not that at ten-years-old going-on-eleven, I had all that much womanly voluptuousness to expose. I was pretty much a girl with a boy’s dirty face. Even still, a girl, even a rough and tumble tomboy girl like myself, does like to maintain an air of dignity. At that point, in my life, I had come to the realization that I was a girl, and the difference between boys and girls is: That girls don’t go around flaunting their naked chest.
None of this seemed to make one whit of difference to Mr. Squeers, I was no more significant than a stick of furniture. He dragged me across the yard kicking and screaming, so intent was he on procuring me, he stuffed me into the buggy like a prized Christmas turkey. That he had ripped off my clothes, that I was naked, he didn't care. I didn't care.
"Mama, don’t make me go!” I pleaded.
My Mother said nothing; I will never know the anguish of her soul. She stood in the doorway of the three room wooden shack that had been my home for eleven years. I will tell you, the level of betrayal knows no bound. Mama stood there, grim faced, in stoic silence, not a tear in her eye, a silent accomplice to her only daughter's sale into indentured servitude. The four-pound note and the nine shillings I was worth spoke louder than my pleas.
“You will go! You are bought and sold!” Mr. Squeers slapped me across the face, pulled my hair and forced me, torn and disheveled in to the buggy.
Jack charged.
I think back to that day, out of everyone in my family, Jack was the only one who knew what was happening and tried to stop it. I think if Jack had not been tied to the porch, he might have killed Mr. Squeers. I sometimes wished he had. Jack charged, Jack charged so hard he nearly throttled himself. It was then I saw Mr. Squeers had a pepperbox, a kind of pistol that gentlemen carried, except that Mr. Squeers was no gentleman.
“Call off your dog!”
“No Jack! Go back!” Poor Jack, he didn’t know what to do. Jack growled, he whined, he pulled on the rope. He didn’t understand why I was being taken; he was such a good dog. I never saw Jack again.
It was then that Mr. Squeers forced me into the buggy, into the seat next to him. He produced a pair of cruel manacles and chained me to the floor. He grabbed me by the cheeks and squeezed so hard my face resembled a fish gasping for breath.
“You've caused me a great deal of trouble you miserable little brat, you will stay here and do as you’re told!”
There I sat, disheveled, forlorn, my clothing torn ripped, practically naked, a manacled prisoner of Mr. Squeers. Squeers, he wiped his brow, the physical exertion of my abduction seemed to have taken its toll. He took an aperitif from a silver flask, then lashed the horses with his cruel whip. He lashed those beautiful brown horses with exactly the same contempt and cruelty of which he had treated me. He cracked his whip and drove away. Four pounds and nine shillings, I had never known I was worth so much.
I sat in sullen silence, clutched my rags to my naked chest all through out the fifteen-mile ride to Cardiff. Mr. Squeers, he said nothing, he drank whiskey and smoked cigars. When I told him I had to pee, his reaction was such, I thought later I should have asked for the crown jewels! Squeers puffed his cigar with an exasperated air, he spat a bit of tobacco as if to punctuate the point, that I was a little nothing and a damn nuisance. He stopped the buggy. Before he allowed me to climb out, he tied a noose around my neck only then did he allow me to venture into the bushes. I shot a quick glance back to make sure he wasn't watching. Even still, the rope was so short and Mr. Squeers so close, as I squatted to pee, I was sure he could hear as I spattered on the ground.
* * *
Mr. Squeers, he thought himself so clever, a consummate businessman. Well, I will tell you there was nothing short of highway robbery about his business practice. Any idiot could make money-doing business the Wallace Squeers way. If I could sell you milk without actually delivering the milk; I could make a small fortune, and call myself clever. No, there was nothing so clever, moral or upstanding about Mr. Squeers, he amounted to nothing more than a thief and a robber, a high society bandit, above the board, robber criminal. He extorted money from those who were most vulnerable, the helpless and destitute. He was the worst kind of criminal. Therefore, I concluded that Mr. Squeers loved money. What I wasn’t sure, was, to what extent he was willing to pursue it.
I told you I was going to speak about Barrows and Wights. A barrows is a Neolithic term for a burial mound, and wights are the supposed restless spirits of the long dead warriors buried in them. Half way to Tresimwn, I decided to strike up a conversation with sour old Mr. Squeers, not really so much a conversation, as a travelogue. I pointed out different points of interest, various Roman roads, pubs, inns and establishments of gentlemanly pursuits. Mr. Squeers, he seemed oblivious, disinterested in me as if I were a mere cricket chirping. It wasn’t until I mentioned the barrows, and that my brothers and I had explored the ancient iron-age burial mounds. For the first time, Mr. Squeers showed the slightness bit of interest.
“What kind of caves?”
“All kinds of caves, dead people, mostly.” I lied.
The buggy slowed. It came to a halt.
“You’ve been to these caves?” For the first time I knew his interest was piqued.
“Hundreds of times.”
Mr. Squeers, his piercing black eyes sized me up and down as if to penetrate the few remaining scraps of cloth I had clutched to my chest.
"If this is a trick you lying wench, I will thrash you to with in an inch of your life!"
"No, honest, it is true." I brushed my blonde hair out of my eyes, "Over there, just beyond that thicket."
He checked his pocket watch; there were still five hours before the London train from Cardiff. His tongue clicked, the horses gait picked up. The buggy turned around. I reeled him in like a fish on a line.
We pulled in front of a particularly impressive burial mound. Squeers by this time was thoroughly infatuated with the notion of pre-iron age gold and relics. He mumbled something about an Earl he knew, one of the Carnarvons who paid good money for ancient relics. It took little further convincing to cause him to venture into the depth. We made our way, by flickering candle light, into the dark creepy depth of the barrow. I thought of death, and my Grandmother’s warnings of wights, the spirits who inhabited such mounds. Mr. Squeers pushed me forward; there was more to worry about than phantom wights. I felt a cold steel press against the base of my spine. It was the pepperbox pistol. Was Mr. Squeers really planning to shoot me, here in the depth of a burial mound?
Mr. Squeers and I descended deeper into the depth of the burial mound. There was a glint by candle light; it could have been gold.
“Look! Over there.”
“Where?”
Mr. Squeers turned to look. I seized my opportunity and crashed him on the head with a rock. I fished in his coat pockets and found his pocket-watch, his purse. Eighty-nine pounds and thirty shillings, I danced a little jig, I had never dreamed of so much money in my entire life! I was a bloody millionaire! I found the key to the manacles. I released myself, tossed the pepperbox down a dark hole and made my escape. I left Mr. Squeers and the money behind, all save four pounds and nine shillings. I figured that was what I was worth . . . he owed me as much. I was not a thief.
I unhitched those beautiful chestnut horses and slapped them hard on the rump. I didn't go home; with four pounds nine shillings in my pocket, I resolved to make my own way in the world. This was a stupid decision on my part, I was still very naive. The crushers picked me up in Cardiff, four days later. There were no murder charges. Apparently, Mr. Squeers survived. I found myself summarily delivered without due process to London station, into the custody of a Mrs. Mixer, matron, supervisor, of the women's work detail of London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory.
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