The Isis Knot Page 5
Weakness still dominated her bones, Viv still drove his wagon in the opposite direction of Brown’s, and too many questions pinged inside her mind.
She stretched out on one side, cradling her head on her arm. She was not hiding, not giving up, but now was not the time to go charging into the unknown.
She kept watch on the spot where the blond man was last seen until her eyes closed on their own.
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“Sera. Sera.”
Someone called to her from the dark. An uneven, wheezing voice that vibrated on the R. She knew that voice. Sort of.
“Sera. I’ve brought you home.”
Home. She did not know the meaning of that word. Or, at least, how it applied to her.
She opened her eyes, but the scenery provided no definition. Rutted patches of dirt sat between a tilting wooden shack on the left and an only slightly less tilting barn on the right. The wall slats of both were roughly hewn and gray, and none of them matched up correctly. In the near distance, a fence enclosed a few sheep. In the far distance…nothing. Miles and miles of nothing. Bushes of all shapes and shades of green. Trees with drooping boughs and trunks of peeling white bark. Far beyond that loomed layered hills that shimmered with a faint blue haze.
Silence permeated everything.
“It’s not much,” Viv said with a cough. When he smiled, it seemed like his brown skin might crack and crumble like an autumn leaf. “But it’s mine. Mary would’ve been so proud.”
Proud came out sounding like prood.
She realized, in a moment that felt like a punch to the gut, that he sounded different to her because he was British, or possibly Scottish.
And she was American.
Yes. She was. Mentally she grabbed for more facts, more memories, desperate for the tiniest hint about her life. But as quickly as they yawned open, the doors to her past slammed closed and sealed up tight, not allowing anything else through.
She tried to sit up, the rest having done her mind good, even though her blood still felt like old wine, thick and vinegary. But when she lifted her head from her arm, a sharp pain yanked at her scalp.
Viv waved a gnarled finger at her head. “Your hair is caught.” He swallowed and glanced away. “On that.”
While she’d slept and been jostled around, her sleeve had inched up again. The long tangle of her hair had gotten caught on the gold—on some sort of symbol that rose in bas-relief from the shiny surface. Her face was too close to the design to make it out.
Sera awkwardly pushed to sit up, then unsuccessfully tried to unwind her hair from the trap. Finally she just gave it a good rip, and a chunk of hair broke off around her shoulder. She picked the snapped-off strands of black from the gold and stared at the symbol.
It looked like a segment of rope with three loops—one standing up, the other two drooping to the sides—knotted and tied around the middle, with the cut rope ends dangling out the bottom.
So frighteningly, achingly familiar. And yet still utterly foreign.
The moment she touched it, the stroke nothing more than the skim of a feather, a voice filled her head. A woman’s voice. Melodious and strong, saying nonsensical words.
“Remember what I said.” Viv broke Sera out of the trance.
Her head snapped up, her finger dropping from the symbol. The voice instantly went silent.
The old man’s face had gone dark again. “About keeping that out of sight. Come. I’ll get you some water. I may have some tea. Somewhere.” Then he turned and limped toward the shack.
Sera just sat there, the looped symbol sparkling in the sun. She nudged the edge of the cuff and it slid down to her wrist. The gold had left a mark on her skin, an indentation caused by the weight of her head on it as she’d slept. Only this picture was far more detailed, and apparently it had been carved into the underside of the cuff.
She tried to slide the gold off her hand to look at the design directly, but could not get it past her wrist. It seemed—if that were possible, and given all the shit that seemed to be happening to her, maybe it was—that it actually changed size, tightening and narrowing as she pushed it toward her fingertips. No matter where she positioned it on her arm, it seemed to mold to her skin perfectly. There was no clasp or hinge.
The lines on her skin were fading, but they made the shapes of two people with boxy, awkwardly positioned bodies in profile. One of the figures wore some kind of helmet or something, with horns curling upward. The other had an animal’s head. Their stance indicated they might be fighting.
Viv’s voice called across the yard. “Are you coming? Do you need help down?”
Rolling her sleeve over the gold, she scooted to the edge of the wagon, then set her feet on the ground. Her flat shoes had straps across her feet, and she remembered Viv commenting about them as he’d driven the wagon through a completely empty land. Her mind insisted they were not strange, but looking at them now, in this dusty place, all she felt was different. Out of place.
She slowly crossed the farmyard. Viv waited for her by a set of small, slanted steps leading up to the wide boardwalk surrounding the shack. Calling the boardwalk a porch and the shack a house would have been too kind on both accounts.
He limped up the steps—thump thump thump thump—and went inside, leaving the door open. With a long glance around the farm’s surrounding emptiness, she followed.
Inside was even more depressing—dark and cramped and primitive. Late-day sunlight entered in dusty streams through mismatched cracks in the walls. A cot with a smelly blanket was pushed in the corner to the right, and a rounded stove and a faded green cupboard sat against the opposite wall.
“I’ll sleep in the barn,” he said as he tottered toward the cupboard.
Sera guessed that meant the cot was hers, and she wondered how long she could stomach sleeping in this place. The gesture was generous, but there was a spot under a nearby tree that looked cleaner and more comfortable than what was inside. And this didn’t seem right, staying here.
When she considered what did seem right, a man’s face, framed by matted blond curls, came to mind.
From the cupboard Viv removed a misshapen mug and a brown bottle with no label. He tilted the bottle toward the mug and amber liquid sloshed out. Then he lifted the mug to his lips and downed the drink in one swig. He made a sound of satisfaction and heaved a deep sigh, then seemed to remember he wasn’t alone. As he looked over to her, his already ruddy face deepened in color.
“Promised you tea, didn’t I?” He shuffled around again in the cupboard, coming out with a small tin. He caught her staring at the bottle, because she was starting to wonder if a drink—a real drink—might be good.
“The tea is better for you.” He tapped a too-long fingernail against the bottle. “This…this is my medicine. Sit. Please sit. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to take care of someone and I find I rather miss it.”
He turned toward the stove, but not before she saw the wistful pain in his eyes, the emotion that said he missed the woman, his Mary, more than the act of caring.
A lone stool sat by the cot and Sera lowered herself onto it, the three legs uneven. Sweat trickled down her spine as her gaze shifted quickly around the shack. The light breeze played with the loose door, slapping it against the ill-fitted jamb in a lulling rhythm. There was no bathroom. No running water. Just a bucket in the corner into which Viv now dipped an old kettle.
Running water. She touched the deep grooves that formed between her eyebrows. There should be a faucet somewhere. But there wasn’t.
Viv limped to the round-bellied stove—thump thump thump thump, sending little plumes of dust up from under his heels—and started a fire by striking two objects together. When that was done, he went for the bottle again. Tipped more into the mug. She wondered why he didn’t just gulp straight from the bottle, but then she remembered that sometimes sadness and loneliness made everything sluggish and slow. They sucked speed and life from you, and made you think there was little hop
e for much else. So why hurry?
And that, she knew, was another memory.
Viv drained another mug almost lovingly. He hissed through his teeth at the end, then exhaled through his mouth. She could smell the sharp, alcoholic vapor from across the small room. He did it again. And again.
She began to grow antsy, a sickly disquiet settling in her soul. She had to get out of this farm.
She had to find the blond man.
She looked down to find her fingers running lightly over the gold cuff, still hidden beneath her shirt. Bothered by the unconscious move, she sat on her hand.
“You mentioned a factory,” she said shakily.
Viv’s mug paused halfway to his mouth. He eyed her sidelong. “You really don’t remember?”
She licked her lips. “Please tell me.”
“The Female Factory. Aye.” He leaned against the cupboard and it rocked a little. “When the ships with the women convicts arrive, they’re sorted like the men are. Many are taken as wives. Chosen by the emancipists and colonists right then and there on the dock. The ones who aren’t, and usually they’re the worst kind of criminal, the most disagreeable, the ugly ones, they go to live in the Factory in Parramatta. Macquarie has them working, like he does the men.” He cocked his head and his wispy silver hair swished at his grizzly cheeks. “But you didn’t come from there, did you?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
He reached blindly for the bottle but his hand instead grazed a wooden bowl. It toppled to the floor and he blinked down at it, his body listing a bit. “I’d take you for wife,” he mumbled, “if I could. For the company.”
That sent a wave of panic through her, until she remembered what he’d said about “it” not working anymore, and how little danger she felt in his presence. The dread and fear came from within her. From what, she didn’t know. From the gold thing clamped around her arm and the whispers and urges that seemed to emanate from it.
Viv was trying to bend down to get the bowl, but she could tell his knee was bothering him. He bent over too far and had to catch himself on the cupboard. The angle opened the small front pocket in his pants and out tumbled a few coins. They rolled across the wood and stopped, spinning, at her feet.
Quickly she scooped them up, then took his bony elbow and help him straighten. He absolutely reeked of drink.
In her palm, the coins were growing warm. Something in the back of her mind said that their shape and weight didn’t feel right. She unfurled her fingers.
They were both silver, with some sort of plant and another language other than English ringed on the outside. A hole had been cut in the center of both, with New South Wales stamped along the inner edge.
The year 1796 stared up at her from the bottom. Near the central hole, the year 1813 had been added.
That was when she knew for sure. This was not her country. And this was not her time.
CHAPTER 5
Elizabeth did not belong in New South Wales. True, she’d stolen much in her three and twenty years—a pair of shoes on London’s Cable Street had been the thing to send her across the ocean to the colony—but every dishonest thing she’d ever done was to put food in her mouth or to make Mr. Moore smile. And she’d always confessed to him afterward. Surely there was pity and forgiveness to be found in that.
It had stormed all night and the Remembrance had bucked mightily where it had been anchored in Sydney Cove for two weeks. The John Barry, which had arrived after the Remembrance, had been unloaded three days ago. This morning the clouds lingered.
She stood at the stern. Her hair, gone pale and scraggly from months on the open ocean, whipped at her eyes. Her yellow dress, the fancy one the sailors had kept in storage these past months only to pull it out this morning, smelled of mildew. She’d tried to bathe with the rest of the women last night but the stagnant water on board and the salty stuff surrounding them did little for hygiene, so she was certain she smelled no better than the dress.
The one hundred or so other female convicts shuffled about the deck, fidgeting nervously. They gathered in small clusters, combing each other’s hair and pinching one another’s cheeks to make them glow. A few of the younger women tittered about being whisked away to a grand estate and growing into a new position among colonial society. Looking out at the bleak town of Sydney, Elizabeth saw no society to speak of.
Fifteen women—the favorites of the sailors, and those with either children in hand or in the womb—had gone ashore immediately upon the Remembrance’s arrival weeks earlier. Some had brought their children with them from England. Others had gotten pregnant in London’s Newgate Jail or during the sea journey. One had given birth during a storm just after departing Cape Town, and two others in Rio de Janeiro. The mothers of those bastards considered themselves lucky. Blessed even.
They had no concept of blessings. They had no idea what it meant to be chosen by a worthy man.
Elizabeth wasn’t jealous of the other women’s liaisons, for she belonged to someone already. She was special. Mr. Moore made her so.
A sailor approached. Like many men, he was shorter than she. It did not matter how much she rounded her shoulders or hunched down. “Elizabeth,” he said. “Time to go ashore.”
A line of rowboats carrying the first of the female convicts bobbed toward the beach. “What’s to become of us over there?”
“That’s for them to decide.” The sailor jutted a thumb toward the crowd that bloomed around the harbor. As the first boat of women struck shore, the crowd cheered. A few hats flew into the air. All men. Elizabeth began to shake.
How could the women around her look so excited to rush into the arms of strangers? The men on shore made her ill and afraid. None would ever compare to Mr. Moore.
At the thought of him, her love and master, her hand went to her chest, to the bulge under her dress where his ring hung on a rope. Once, when they’d been together, she’d worn it on her thumb.
But then, foolishly, he’d turned her away. Told her he no longer wanted her because she’d failed him. He was mistaken, of course, and had merely given in to years of frustration. A sentiment she echoed. Except that she had not failed him; she just hadn’t succeeded yet.
After he’d told her he was done with her, he took the ring of his that she’d worn for so many years and banished her from his estate. But late that very night she broke into his home and stole the ring back.
She’d left, but only because she meant to prove herself to him. The world had brought them together all those years ago for a specific purpose that she had yet to fulfill. She would finish it without him, no matter how long it took. She would find the thing he’d always wanted her to, and then he would see how right they were for each other. He would come back to her.
Silly man, didn’t he know that their souls were intertwined?
Now she kept the ring looped on a rope and tucked under her clothes to hide it from the other women, the pickpockets and bullies, and the unsavory men who would take it from her.
The ring wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was quite bulky and ugly. But it was his. And one day, it would bring her back to him. He’d promised her that long ago. Even here, on the other side of the world from him, she meant for that promise to come true. She would do everything she could to make it so. Even if she had to wait out her seven-year sentence.
She was among the last to be lowered into a boat and rowed to shore. The anxious crowd wore eager, dirty faces. British sailors in uniform and others in black who were likely colony police held the common folk back from rushing into the water. Elizabeth’s little boat came aground and someone plucked her out, setting her back on solid earth. Numb and confused, she went were she was led, which was to a muddy patch of land between the wet of the harbor and the sandy-colored buildings set against a cliff of rock. That cliff rose high above the storehouses and private homes and other similar buildings, and curved around to jut into the water, caging Sydney Town in this little speck of land. Caging Elizabeth in.
Thinking of her father made her think of Stumpy, which was odd because she hadn’t thought of him in years. Little Stumpy, all short and pudgy and insecure. She wondered what he looked like now, what sort of man her baby brother had grown into. Whether Father had ended up dragging him into his world of depression and drink. Elizabeth would wager on yes.
None of the men of New South Wales remotely resembled Moore. They were not handsome or strong, capable or protective. Rotting teeth lined their mouths. Ugly desire burned in their eyes. The way they reached for the female convicts who paraded past reminded her of starved animals grasping for scraps from behind bars.
When all the women were grouped together, a Scottish man who called himself Macquarie arrived. He smiled a lot and spoke well of opportunity and rehabilitation, but Elizabeth only heard the word “auction.” When the soldiers started to divide the women, her heart plummeted.
The old and unstable were immediately led back to a different part of the harbor, to where a smaller boat was tied to a tilting dock. As they were being loaded into the boat, their faces twisted in confusion and resistance over having to go back out onto the water, Macquarie spouted off about a “beneficial” home upriver in a town called Parramatta. The name, the Female Factory, inspired no such confidence in Elizabeth.
And then the worst happened. One by one, the remainder of the women were lifted atop a crate, above the heads of the ogling colonists. The women were auctioned off like livestock.
The crowd of men gradually diminished, taking the noise and Elizabeth’s shipmates with them. She knew she would be one of the last. Few men, if any, had ever recognized her gifts or fostered her potential or looked upon her with trust as Moore had. She expected no different here, and it made her chest heavy. She missed Moore more than ever, and truly believed that if he could see how far she’d fallen, he would regret acting hastily and sending her away. If he could see her now, he would sweep in, take her hand, remove her from that crate, and tell her he needed her. That was what absence did, after all. It made you see the truth of things.