Inez and the Forgotten from the Quarry

How Do You Dress Up Your Cell?

The lords and their guards have their food first. We were told to wait for them to finish. Give the lords time to head to their rooms and the guards to go on post outside. The way you would train a dog. We stay upstairs in our rooms until the owner calls us down. By the time we get down the tavern is left a mess. The young girl Charlotte cleans up the pints and scraps of food left on the table for us. For such fancy men, they eat like anyone else here in the Quarry. Maybe even worse. 

Olliver and “my uncle” Chester are waiting at the lone table. Olliver is half dressed, wearing his pants and undershirt. Of course he wouldn’t know how to dress like those men. How can one blame him? Chester is fully dressed but he still wears his mask. The mask looks more unsettling in the light. And with his fancy garb the mask looks more like something hiding his face rather than protection from others. The two men look bizarre sitting there. This is my company now, we’re going to have to make this work.

“This isn’t going to work.” Adelaide says coming down the stairs. “I mean, where’s his shirt? And why does he have the mask on?” She makes a scene, plopping herself down at the table. Chester was silent as ever.

“I have my shirt on.” Olliver says. Poor Quarry boy.

One of the guards comes back inside, he forgot his helmet. Olliver runs to him. 

“Sir, has Lord Bernard said anything about a letter? A letter to my sister?” 

“No.” The guard makes his way outside.

“Wait.” Olliver gets in his way. “It’s really important. Surely he’s said something?”

“Do you not understand the meaning of no, boy?” The soldier pushes him out of the way.

“Please sir, if she doesn’t get this letter she won’t know I’m alive. I’m the only person she’s got.”

The soldier looks at him then sighs. “Look don’t get your hopes up, he’s probably not going to do it. You’d be better off writing your own letter and somebody could send it for you.”

“Sir I know a few words, but I’m not literate.”

“And there’s no one who can write for you?”

Olliver turns to us. “Any of you literate?”

The three of us shake our heads.

“Sorry love. Wish I was. Always wanted to be the little girl with all the books stacked up to the ceiling. Like the ones in the fairytales.” Adelaide says, not being helpful.

“Even you?” Olliver looks directly at me.

“No. Sorry.” I say. I lied.

“And you wouldn’t be able to do it sir?” Olliver tries one last plea.

“I know just as much as any you lot would.” The soldier says. “There’ll be other chances surely.” He says before leaving. 

I feel a little awful for lying. Olliver sinks into his seat. I wouldn’t say I am a reader, but I am literate. I learned a long time ago, people will use you if they know you’re able to do something like read or write. It’ll start off as a favor and then escalate to subservience. I don’t believe Olliver is that type of person, but Maurice? Let’s just say, I’m keeping a safe distance.

The owner of the tavern and little Charlotte come out shortly and hand us bowls of stew, bread and pints filled to the brim. Charlotte smiles at me, her father gives her a stern look for being distracted. 

She looks up to me, she shouldn’t. I’m not really the role model type. A part of me wonders if she would be disappointed if she found out I was a witch. If she would feel betrayed. I can’t help how people feel about witches, even if how they feel is based on things that aren’t true. Still, there’s an innocence to Charlotte’s smile, where I believe just being an adult will be disappointing enough.

“I’m a man of my word. So I’m feeding you, and I am giving you a place to rest your heads. I won’t break that.” The owner says. I look in his eyes, waiting for the “but..”

“Thank you sir.” Olliver says. His politeness is not an act, it’s not part of his role we’re forced to partake. It’s genuine. He’s a gentleman.

“Now it ain’t up to me. If it were? None of you would see the light of day.” His face curls as if he smelled something horrid. But then he grins. “However, if you try anything funny or even drink more ale than you’re allotted, I’ll send you all to the gallows myself. Watch you hang like the forgotten scum you are.”

He leaves us with that thought. Charlotte follows, her head down. She makes eye contact with me one last time, then runs toward the back with her father. 

We lived around men like him for our entire lives. Men who play judge because of their better hand; even if they know their better hand was given to them by chance. Nothing more than the luck of the draw. But it isn’t just about us being forgotten. Forgotten are just bastards, orphans, widows, undesirables. Your modern day lepers. Men like him try their best to distance themselves from the Quarry. At some point they believe that they are somehow more worthy, that they are exempt from being looked down upon. What they fail to realize is that no matter who they are, what they do, how successful they become, men like Lord Bernard will alway see them as Quarry trash. It would be sad if it wasn’t so pathetic. 

“Well, well, would you look at that.” Maurice saunters down the stairs, fashionably late, making an entrance like the prima donna he is. “We look good. This is going to work, swimmingly.”

“Oh shut up. You dirty man.” Adelaide says, digging into her food.

“You literate?” Olliver asks him.

“Sorry their son. In a past life I believe I was--”

“Oh great. That’s fantastic.” Adelaide begins to cry like a child not getting their way. 

“What is she on about?” Maurice chuckles as he takes a large swig of his pint like it was water.

“What am I on about? We’re going to fail this...whatever this is. They’re going to send us right back to that pit.” She hops out of her seat hysterically. “My niece is a witch, my husband is a masked freak of nature, and the company that we keep is a street urchin and a foul mouthed, disgusting business man who can’t read or write.”

“And your problem is?” 

“Are you...how can you sit there and be calm? Any of you? This is mental. I mean how are you going to fool anyone Maurice? You’re illiterate.”

“Who says I need to be literate to run a business?”

“How can you be a businessman and not read or write?”

“How can I be a businessman and not have someone read or write for me?” Maurice chuckles. “That’s the first thing about business love. I collect the money, others do the work. It’s a win-win. For me at least.” 

He slops up a chunk of bread in his stew like a man who grew up having to eat quickly, or otherwise older, hungrier men will take his food right from under him.

“This is a nightmare.” Adelaide plops down and whines in her bowl.

“Give it a rest, aunty.” I wish I immediately regretted inserting myself in the conversation. But I didn’t. It feels good.

“Easy for you to say. You’re young. A princess’ lady. You aren’t chained to a beast for a husband.” Adelaide says. Chester grunts, gets up from the table and heads upstairs. All without saying a word. “Did he just growl at me?”

“That was a little odd.” Olliver tries not to giggle. The first time I’ve seen him smile since meeting him.

“Go on, go after him dear. Don’t let a good husband leave. You’re not that young anymore. A good man like him is hard to come by.” Maurice says in jest. We can’t help but laugh. An exhausted, stressed, hopeless laugh. But a laugh nonetheless.

Out of the five of us, Maurice looks the most comfortable playing bourgeois. It could be because he is a born liar, but even someone dedicated to living a lie would appreciate Maurice’s transformation. Looks alone it’s like he is a different person. His mouth is foul but one would agree that there’s something attractive about him. He looks exactly like the lords who have stolen our freedom. Almost as if he were a lord pretending to be one of us. The more time I spend around him, the more intrigued yet worried I become.

“You know it’s good meat when it soaks up the broth.” Maurice wipes his mouth clean. “This is what freedom is all about. Just think. This is going to be our lives but tenfold.” 

“We’re not free.” Olliver mutters.

“We’re not? I could’ve sworn otherwise.”

“We’re just a different kind of prisoner now. If we were free, we would have more choice in the matter. We would choose to be here. Choose to dress like this. Choose to eat their food, play their game.”

“Ah. You see boy, life is but illusions of choice. There are very few choices we as people can make. And those choices make us feel like there’s an infinite amount of choices. The fact is, we’re always free because we’re never free. We’re born prisoners, the key is, how do you dress up your cell?” 

“Me? A bit of lavender, a few doilies, a candle here and there.” I couldn’t help but join in and be glib as Maurice. 

“You see? That’s the spirit.” Maurice chuckles. “All I need in my cell is drink, a game of chance and men who aren’t used to taking risks.”

“Sometimes I have my tiny pagan idols littered all over the place, my shackles and cage bars wrapped in garland, and at least a view of the woods. Preferably by a creek or a spot where I could see the moon rise.” I say. I’m actually having fun with this.

“Don’t listen to them. They’re just trying to trick you.” Adelaide wipes her face. “We might as well have sold our souls to the devil. Of course a witch and a pirate would feel right at home.”

“Contrary to what some may believe, I have not sold my soul to the devil nor do I worship him. Let’s just say, our kind worships nature and all its beauty.” I say. 

“So you’re not denying yourself a witch?” She says, thinking she has cornered me into some confession of guilt.

“I never denied being a witch. Never did, never will.”

“Tough talk from a girl living in a world where men have moved on from superstition.” Maurice grins, I’m already getting used to the way he gets under one’s skin. It’s not just arrogance, he knows people. Deep down to their core. This we have in common. “Would you have that same candor a hundred years ago, where men burned your kind like kindling? In front of everyone to see?”

“I would be so honored.” I say in jest with a grin. He grins back.

“Ha. You see there...Olliver or whatever your name is now. We are prisoners in hell. No amount of dressing these tricksters put on this situation of ours changes that. We are doomed. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. You think I would choose to live with a witch for a niece.” Adelaide says. Clearly not understanding the prompt.

“You’d be lucky to have a witch for a niece.” I say.

“Is that so? Figures you’d say that. With your raven hair and your freakish tall figure. All you’re missing is your mangy little black cat.”

“Yes, you truly understand witches. Your witch niece would be strong and confident and can hold her own. Can survive in nature need be. Won’t blow away in a storm because she’s tall and has her cat. You’re doing a great job already.”

“You think you’re so clever with your sarcasm and whatnot. I see right through all that tough exterior.” Adelaide gets up from the table. “I have...however long to deal with you people. I don’t have to deal with you now.” She stomps her way upstairs. 

With it just being the three of us, we realize how empty and quiet the tavern was. Not a peep from the lords in their rooms. Not a peep from the guards out front. The tavern’s massive size also became more apparent. In our condition, where there is nowhere to go or hide, everything tends to feel like a confined trap. Seeing the long desolate space, I thought of the owner hating his own kind, spiting the regulars, with their ragged clothes and soot covered hands, who come in for a drink to warm their bodies against the cold. I also thought of Charlotte, this little girl with all this imagination, watching hundreds of faces coming in and out of this place and feeling no wonder at all. 

After a minute or so Olliver clears his throat. “You really a witch?”

“Why do you ask? I don’t seem like a witch to you?”

“Not really.”

“Why? Humor me.” I lean forward in my seat.

“I don’t know. You don’t really look like one. You’re really clever. Sorry if I’m...look I never seen a witch. Was curious, that’s all.” He says. He’s genuine, sweet hearted. This is the second time in an hour he’s made me feel like a terrible person.

“Luckily I speak eighteen year old boy. He’s trying to say that he’s surprised. Not because you’re pretty smart but because you’re smart and pretty.” Maurice says. “And the idea of you luring men into the woods toward their death sounds a little more intriguing.”

“Don’t worry. We bewitch women as well.” I grin. Maurice grins back. 

Olliver’s face turns red. “I think she had the right idea. It’s getting late, I think I should head up.” He says. He stacks the bowls and pints together and puts them on the bar before heading up.

“Sweet kid.” Maurice says.

“You didn’t need to do that.” 

“Oh stop. You liked toying with him as much as I did. The same way you liked toying with that mess of a woman.”

“I did not.” I did. “It was all in fun. Besides, those two were different.”

“Who said you had to have the same reasons for toying with someone?” 

I look at him. A casted shadow looms over his face, like it was showing his true colors. The conman he is. “It is getting late. What would they say if they saw us here? Alone together? You know, chivalry and whatnot.”

“Hmph. You don’t need to worry about that.” He winked. “Let’s just say you’re a little too young and a little too feminine for my taste.” 

“What a gentleman.”

“I like you Emma.”

“It’s Inez.”

“You see that? That right there? That snap? You got everyone else fooled except me.” His raspy voice shakes the table, a low rumble like thunder in the distance.

“What are you on about?”

“You’re way more than a little clever. We have a lot in common.”

“Yeah? I guess that makes us soulmates?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t deflect. Not now, not with me. I can see it in your eyes.” He leans forward. He whispers so the guards won’t hear us. I can feel his breath on my fingers. “We like people, we like them a lot. But only because they’re strange, kind of simple, and a little interesting yet for all the wrong reasons.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m flushed. He is right. My intuition is coursing through my veins. It’s passed boiling. I am spilling over, leaking, waiting to explode. 

“You see, you and I are the exact thing these people fear. We’re curious little devils. Nameless, devious bastards with nothing to lose.” He grins.

“I’m not a nameless bastard.”

“But you have nothing to lose? Or, should I say, everything to gain?”

“I’m doing this for my sisters. To get my coven back.” 

“Sure, I’d believe you. If I didn’t already know that’s not all you want.”

“I’m afraid to ask. But are you going to tell me how we’ll dress up our cells?” I say, he does not mind my sarcasm. I lean forward. Our faces meet in the middle of this table. 

“Let’s do the long con. We’d be partners, helping one another, making sure that each other is exceeding in their role. Meanwhile we’ll beat them at their own game.” He picks up my hand, gentler than I’d expect, and kisses my knuckles. “That way you could infect and seed your way into as many minds as you desire. Like a good witch.”

“And what do you get out of all of this?” I say. My stomach rattles from the excitement.

“Me? Love, I’m going to rob them blind.” He laughs. He gets up from the table slowly. “Don’t get up. They see us walk up together, they’ll gossip.” He says in jest.

“Chivalry is alive and well with you pirate.” 

“And just so you know, the offer is for you and you only. I don’t need the deadweight getting in the way. I’m going to do it regardless. But I think us, together...we’d be unstoppable.”

The smug bastard hums his way upstairs. I look at my hands, stare at the spot he laid his lips on. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it felt good. It feels as right as scrubbing the grime off my shoulders and legs. It feels as right as my body reuniting with my intuition. Something about this makes me feel full and weightless again.

                                                                                            ***

When we leave for the train it is the time of morning where it is still dark. Where the moon and the sun share the same sky and reminds us all they are never not together. A thick fog hovers over the road. We stay close to each other. Rows and rows of lanterns lead the way. Street lamps, lanterns in windows of shops opening up and brothels closing in, lanterns from lively city folks slowly turning nocturnal, lanterns in the hands of our posh guards. 

My sisters and I used to live for the night. Watching the sun rise on many mornings like this. Where the chilling dew would freeze our bare feet slapping against cobblestone, running free toward trouble or anything that either was or needed liberating. 

I take in the last of my city. The drunks swaying in the winter streets. The whistling from prostitutes hanging out from windows, heckling men with promises of temporary love or, better yet, temporary warmth from between their legs. The clopping of the night-man’s horse as he makes his last rounds collecting from the cesspits. The shouts from working men, the laughter of degenerates, the slow tremble of a waking city. I take in all of this and smile. How much I hated the Quarry for driving our coven apart, forcing us on the run, destroying our beautiful forest. Right now, a part of me is going to miss the few pretty shards in this rough of a city.