Inez and the Forgotten from the Quarry

Black. Muffled black. Under this wretched bag over my head I hear whimpers, wood scratching cobblestone and the pitter pattering of water from a leaking roof. Wherever they took me, I’m still in the prison. The smell is hard to mask. It’s a uniqueness that doesn’t allow you to get used to it. Feces and rotting flesh is one thing, it’s the desperation that lingers. Maybe they took me to a different floor, a different wing, a cell where they don’t keep those who were forgotten. Either way there is a twinge of fresh air, a barred window perhaps, a view of the sky peering in from the city floor.  “Alright, alright. Shut her up.” A man says. He does not sound like he was from the Quarry. There were footsteps, a thump, the whimpering stopped.  “You can all get off your knees. Guards if you can release them from their restraints?” Another man says. He too does not sound like he was from the Quarry. He has a lighter voice than the first. It was a distinct type of light voice. I heard a man from the Quarry once describe it as too literate for their own good: “And you’re sure you aren’t too close? Showing off the old rust and whatnot? You’re not as young and as spring as you think you are.” “Why yes, of course. For these are gentlemen and fine ladies now? Nothing a bath and some new trousers wouldn’t fix.” “At this point the old dog is more scared of consumption than anything else.” “And not stumbling upon it the fun way either.” Laughter. There are men not from here and they laugh at us with bags over our heads. Like we’re animals. Like we’re play-things. I stand, I hear other bodies ruffle and fidget as well. Hands unlock the metal cuffs from my wrists. The bag is lifted from my head like a veil. The light burns my eyes. The saying about levels of darkness feels never more true. The men standing before me look like they sound. Posh lords. Men with gloves on their hands holding handkerchiefs over their noses. The look that screams I’m not from here. The look that could get you tossed or at the very least pickpocketed by some orphan.  Their gaze makes me feel naked. The clothing that keeps me covered and warm becomes rags. The state of me surviving in this hole becomes filth. The insignia on the left of his chest said, poor little creature. The side eyes hissed, witch.  “Why the long faces? You’re free now.” The older of the lords says. He is scruffier than the other two. Grey in his beard, unkempt hair for a man of his status, bloated drunk face, swollen and red from wine.  “Our knights in shining armor.” A deep, raspy voice says. It is one of the men standing beside me. A prisoner like I was. Typical Quarry trash like I am. He looks terrible for his age. A youngish man, can’t be more than thirty years old.  I can tell he moves around. He has the type of look and sound of a man who lives to swindle and cheat and lie. The way he smirks in this moment, this isn’t his first time. He winks at the lack of control, comfortable with his fate in the palm of someone else’s hands. He has been on the brink of death before.  “I can see you are a man with pride. I understand the need for pride for...clever men as yourself.” The lord chuckles. “I would advise you however, free men are not free from self preservation. I would tread lightly if I were you.” “I’ll humbly take that advice. I was always known for having a heavy foot.” His raspy voice curls every word mimicking the lord. He tipped an imaginary hat.  “You’re a dog, but you’ll clean up nice.” The lord smiles. He paces around the room looking at us lot. “You’ll refer to me as Lord Bernard. Nothing more, nothing less.” He now stands behind us, I could just picture his arrogant, smug face. “Look to the people you’re standing next to. They will be your accomplices during this venture of ours.” I look to the left of me. A young man and another woman. The young man is around my age. He has short dark curly hair, brooding, hiding his soft yet hard face from the rest of us. He looks like a typical forgotten boy from the Quarry. A bastard, chiseled by circumstance, forced to survive in a world that might not even know he exists. The woman looks slightly older than me, she frantically looks at everyone as if she were told to sketch our faces from memory. She was the whimpering sound from earlier. She reminds me of the postulants in white habits you’d see sweeping outside of the convents. The women who were the butt of jokes from cruel drunks and bachelors frequenting bars and brothels. “Too pretty to be a nun but not pretty enough to be a wife.”  I look to the right of me. A tall man with a mask on and, toward the end, the raspy voiced man from earlier. The tall man has wavy blonde hair, his mask is tight cowhide leather with two thin holes for his eyes and three slits where his mouth would be. Such measures usually taken for the heinous ones. The dangerous, mad men who have a cell to themselves, who are chained to the wall by their neck as if they’ll begin metamorphosing into a blood thirsty beast turn moonfall. And of course the raspy voice man who thinks he’s charming. And like all horrible men who think they’re charming, he is finding enjoyment and comfort in the awkwardness of strangers forced to interact. “Each of you will have new names, new professions, statutes, completely new lives. Under our jurisdiction of course--” “Why?” The words slip from my lips. “What’s in it for you?” “Why?” Lord Bernard scoffs. “The short answer? Because we can. The long answer? Because behind the kingdom walls can get boring.  Surely you can’t blame us for wanting a little excitement in our lives, right?” He says stroking his pointer finger across my chin. “Plus, it’s a win win for you lot.” One of the other lords says. “You should be so lucky.” “Lord Davies is right. You have no other choice but to rub our backs, but undoubtedly we would be scratching yours.” Lord Bernard followed up. “You are no longer beggars, thieves, bastards, killers...a witch. ”  So far, except for “killer”, he only described me. The way he said witch, I could feel the whole room look at me.  “I have a name. I am not forgotten, I am Inez.” I say. “You are who I say you are.” Lord Bernard shuffles some papers out of his pockets. “Which is Emma, one of the princess’ new ladies. Niece to Adelaide and Chester.” He points to the crying woman and the masked man. “Now doesn’t that sound more lady-like?” “The man in the mask gets a title? He doesn’t even resemble a Chester. And I’ve known many Chesters in my day.” The raspy voiced man speaks out. “You have a title too. Maurice, head of a terribly run but efficient factory. Your business is in textiles.” Lord Bernard says. “What type of textiles?” “Does it matter?” “If I’m playing the role of a businessman, how do I not know what business I’m venturing in?” “Because you’re a buffoon. A fool. Someone to make the room laugh. A mere street performer who has stumbled upon a little wealth and is already watching it slip from his fingers.” “Alright, thank you my lord. Now I can get in character.” The newly named Maurice chuckles. “You underestimate the summers I spent in a performance group. Us bohemians were the talk of town. Far less tomatoes were thrown at us than the others. That’s high regard, is that not?” “I’m glad you find this a laugh.” My assigned aunt Adelaide sniffles. “You don’t live twenty five years as a forgotten and not learn that life is what you make of it.” Maurice’s grin was awfully comfortable. “Go to hell.” I say to his smug face. “Already there with you, witch.” Maurice laughs. Confirming my guttural suspicion. “Save it for the performance.” Lord Bernard grins. “You there, boy, on the end. You're Olliver now. A bit of a renaissance man--” “I don’t care what you do to me.” Olliver’s trembling voice made the Lord look like a deranged bastard. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just write a letter to my sister. Her name is Marjorie, hair like mine, she helps my neighbor, they all work at the huge mill down there. Tell her I’m alright, that I’ll see her soon. Even if it’s a lie.” Here is this teenage boy I’ve probably passed a million times. Probably a thief like me or a con man like Maurice. We lived on the same side of the Quarry. Probably saw the same man get his head split open like a melon by the falling factory beam that one time five years ago. Probably jacked coin from kids with missing fingers, who’d gotten the job they wouldn’t give us forgotten ones. I’ve probably heard him in the dark, fighting for scraps with the other men down in the cells. Hearing his plea reminded me that if we were born of the same royalty we are pretending to be, if we weren’t trash from the Quarry, they’d probably call us kids.  “That isn’t too unreasonable.” Lord Bernard scoffs. He looks at his pocket watch as if we summoned him, then nods at the other lords like they’re late.  “Do we also get one of those?” Maurice says in jest. Lord Bernard ignores him. “We’ll make our way toward the kingdom first thing in the morning. You all will wash up, change, get a good night’s rest, then we’ll take the earliest train out of here.” Lord Bernard’s grin fades. “Listen. This is rather entertaining for us, but, if you prove to be more work than your worth you all will be sent back here. Got it?” He waits for us to nod. “ Even if it’s just one of you, you’re all coming back. Those are the rules.” We all nod. There’s no other choice but to nod. We take one last look at the cramped, leaking room and head up the stone stairwell. We ascend out of the hole, up to the light. I had forgotten what the layout of the entrance was. What it looked like, how steep the stairwell was, the feel of the pattern etched on the stone wall. All leading to the pit, descending toward hell, as close to complete darkness as you could find. In reality I was probably in there for several months. But the lack of time, the lost sense of day and night, the isolation from human contact, the separation from my mothers and sisters, the absence of mores or any kind of nature, even in Quarry standards, made several months feel like years. It probably only took days to forget what outside felt like on my skin and what my name sounded like from my sisters’ tongues. But down here, it felt like nights after night after endless nights. I could cry. A part of me might be crying. But Adelaide is blubbering enough for the five of us.  A gang of soldiers and coppers wait for us at the top of the stairs. Maybe in case we tried anything funny like Quarry people are known to do. We get closer and closer to daylight. Cold air whips us. Icicles hang from the arches like stalactites. It was winter. Seasons have passed, just like the world passes us without batting an eye. We enter the world again.  Before making it to the main road we make our way around the enormous gallow. Fitting.  It takes a few seconds, but the taste of metal prys open every orifice on my face. Welcome to the Quarry.  The tight streets of the Quarry both feel larger and smaller than I remember. The thick air is thicker. The long stares are longer. The hapless covered in soot, the vagrant children fighting to keep themselves occupied, the factory cogs, the women of the night, the drunks sleeping the day away, the gossipers sitting beside their windows, the familiar sickly faces. I can feel them all following us, watching us the whole way. Passing the stacked homes encased in brick, the work strips, the shops and the vendors. Even in this place littered with forgotten people we are out of place.                                                                                           *** We rest at a tavern close to the station. We got what I can only assume was the posh, royalty treatment for a local shabby place like this. The tavern cleaned up as nice as it could. It was emptied out just for us, we each had our own room for the night, clothes to change into, oils and perfumes for after we bathed. The owners’ treatment of us would be considered kind and generous if it weren’t for them being forced to do it. They would never treat people who weren’t able to pay, which would be most people, like this. It would be nice if I can forget about this and just enjoy this night of luxury, but I can not. We take turns using the pale in our separate rooms. Adelaide and I were told to use it first, then the men. Something about chivalry. When we were finished we were to leave it outside the door and knock. A maiden would then come and bring it to the next room. It all seemed too fancy and convoluted to me. The young girl who passed the pale to my room was probably the owners’ daughter, she looked like she was used to moving around heavy things. She looked like she could’ve been a sister of mine. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a proper wash. In the pit, they’d throw water in the cells when the stink got too unbearable, but that was about it. The wet rag instantly felt right, as if my body had been screaming for it. I thought of the summers where the springs were still cold and us sisters would enjoy the water on our liberated skins.  The scrubbing felt good, a coating of grime slid off every inch of me. Layers I didn’t need anymore. I felt lighter, shaper, more of myself. I could feel my intuition coming back. They want me to be new, this caricature. They have no idea. The maiden knocks on my door and asks if I needed anything. I could tell she’s curious. Someone who doesn’t have many girls around her age. Granted, I have at least five years on her, but I remember being a young girl in a grownup world with no one to talk to. What is she eleven? Twelve? Hell, by that age nature lured me to her with her whispers. I had the coven, sisters who welcomed me with open arms. “You can come in.” I say. “I need help deciding what to wear.” I stand behind the partition. Privacy is still new to me. I ask what her name is, she says Charlotte. She comes in and her eyes light up. Pretty dresses laid out on the bed. The type of dresses you see in paintings and out of town strangers passing by. They are big, frilly and girly, with splashes of color the Quarry never sees. I was never one for dresses like these, but seeing the look on her face makes me smile. “I don’t know. They’re all so pretty.” She giggles. “Alright, that’s fair. How about this? Which one do you think I would prefer?” I stick my head out from the partition. Like a big smiling floating head.  “Hmm,” She looks at each one carefully, feeling their cotton and silk fabrics, their lace collars and cuffs, their stitched floral patterning, “I think this one. This looks like you.” She picks the devilishly dark velvet one with the long sleeves. She hands it to me and I get dressed. Minutes later I walk out from behind the partition to model it for her. “What do you think?” “You look so pretty.” She looks up at me. “Why thank you Charlotte. I have to say, I’m happy you choose this one for me. It feels the closest to something I would wear.” I say, looking at my reflection in the glass of a lantern resting on the nightstand.  “Can I ask you something?” She looks down toward the floor, embarrassed. “Yes, of course.” I sit on the bed, I am now at her eye level. “What’s on your mind?” “I saw you all come in. You’re from the Quarry, yeah?” “Aye. Lived here for most of my life.” “And you’re leaving? With all these dresses and fancy people?” “Well, I don’t plan on staying long. It’s not really my kind of place.” “What did you do to...you think anybody can leave here?” She looks at me with doe eyes. “Like...anybody?”  “If you really want to. If you’re adamant on a different place, a different life, then yeah. Anyone can leave here.” I look at her, sigh then smile. “I left here before, you know. Long time ago. I came back. It’s hard to leave, but possible.” “Me? I’m never coming back.”  “Well young lady, then you’re going to be much prettier and much fancier than I or anyone will ever be.” I say. She smiles.  I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m being forced against my will. After all, the first time I left here I wasn’t. It's just that time wouldn’t look like the glamorous fantasy life that this one appears to be. Especially to this little girl. She’s called to help out downstairs, she tells me that they are preparing food for us, a feast before our days journey.  I stare at my bare feet under this massive dress. They don’t look like how I remember them, all flat and soft on the wood floor. Flashes of me, running through the woods and the city streets, my feet hardened, cut, bruised, freed, enter my mind. My old self is boiling to the surface. Find your sisters, find your sisters, whispers come to me. I hear sniffling in the room next to me. It’s Adelaide, my “lovely aunt”. Reluctantly I check on her. She is staring out of her window. I help tie the back of her dress together. She thanks me. I notice she has a slightly bigger room than me. The little I know of her, she probably requested it. I don’t mind or feel cheated. I wouldn’t know what to do with the extra space. “I don’t think I can do this.” She says. “Yeah. It’s going to be hard.” Cleaned up she looked a lot less like the innocent nuns I remembered. She looks more mature, fuller, an experienced woman, despite all the crying. Her shape was meant to fit dresses like these. I wonder what Charlotte would’ve said if she saw me after Adelaide.  “What do we know about being all posh and elbow rubbing with royalty?” She asks. I nod. “I mean, look at me. I’m a mess. I don’t even know what to do with my hair. How am I supposed to fool anyone?” “Let me take a look.”  I look at some of the oils she has on her nightstand. Nothing I recognize but it’s good stuff nonetheless. We sit down on the bed and I finish her hair for her. Moisturizing the scalp and ends with the oils. She has longer, more fuller hair than I do, so the braid I am able to make is elegantly voluptuous. A twist of amber and blonde. I can’t see her face but she seems to have calmed down just a bit. “You know, I was never able to braid my daughter’s hair. She’s old now so it doesn’t matter. She’s off with her own family, probably being a better mother.” She sighs. “I wouldn’t say that. She probably appreciates some things you did--” “No, I was a bad mother. Had her young. Too young. Most likely younger than you are right now. How things go I guess.” She says.  I finish the braid and she looks at her reflection in a brass handle on her nightstand.  “How did you…” “I’ve done this many times before.” “But so quickly?” “One winter, my sisters and I traveled east. We needed to blend in with the people there and everyone was wearing these french braids. We would practice on each other until we got it right. We had to get it right. The little things can get you caught.” I tell her.  “Oh. That makes sense. Thank you.” She says. She gets up from the bed and her tone shifts. I can feel it, the tension in the air. My intuition. “You know, this doesn’t change anything. This was nice and all...but you’re still a witch. I can’t forget that.” “You’re assuming I’m the witch he was referring to?” I say playing dumb. “Can you blame me?” “I guess not. You can’t be too careful.” I grin. She doesn’t like that. I forgot how good it felt to see the looks on people’s faces when I’d tell them I am a witch. When my intuition would kick in and I would know everything about them. Like I was reading a book. I leave her room. She’s right, somewhat. I have to keep my guard up too. Why should I trust any of these people either. It is the first rule of surviving. Besides, when I get my coven back, she’d be right.