The Business of Perdition

Chapter 2: One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

I began my newfound and faithless life unburdened by the ever-amassing weight and ire of God's divine judgement. No longer held captive by the tenets that once shackled my everyday life, I trod a far more interesting and liberating path through a once meager reality. Freeing as it was, English society held a singular disdain for the occult and taboo, I however, was far more open-minded. Though despised as it was to deal with self-proclaimed spirit healers and misunderstood charlatans, their frequent comings and goings at my office on Drury Lane seemed much like any other day; nothing more than mere clients to add in the ledger books. They became my navigators in those undiscovered black waters; teachers and guides for a newfound and most enthusiastic pupil. It was earnest at first, but it had not taken long for my boundless means to fuel grand ambitions.

I had not considered so many possibilities at the beginning. After leaving the misery and grinding mendacity of the church behind, it was on those cold stone steps of Saint Paul, following that belligerent exchange with the reverend, that came an epiphany. There was an empty, dark light glowing that morning. The burning sun was naught but a dim and anemic shadow in a gray and billowing sky. A chilling wind bit at the exposed skin of my cheeks as distant thunder rumbled and rolled across the far-flung countryside. On most other days, I might have cursed that weather, thinking always of the haggard crawlers beneath the windows of my office, left to shiver and sop in unrelenting hardship, but on that day those thoughts didn't come.

I was greeted on that forlorn and frigid morning by a single crow perched upon the rusted wrought iron fence of the churchyard. Calm and inviting it was. It cawed at me, once, twice, thrice - a most kind and proper greeting as I strolled down those timeworn steps. Similar in such, that Peter had denied Jesus thrice at the crowing of a rooster, now the thrice called cawing of a crow affirmed my rebirth. Thus, the satisfying face of irony offered me its most hearty greeting by way of corvid curiosity.

Unbothered by my passing it was. 'Twas most peculiar, as crows and rooks were always timid and watchful, ever unwary and untrusting of strangers. That one, however, seemed more like a familiar acquaintance. Preening and grooming itself 'twixt each slow step I took closer to his roost. I expected it to fly away as I came ever closer, but it remained stoic and vigil only offering the politest of interests to my cautious approach. Such a deep black, smooth and silken, like ink spilled in placid water. It was all I could do to resist the allure of such simple yet exquisite beauty, but my own curiosity would not allow it.

Each step I took, it cocked its head, silent and unafraid, inspecting my person as though judging some unforeseen worthiness. It took flight as I reached to touch it. The abrupt fluttering of wings was a lightning bolt in my drifting, awestruck mind. A jagged, icy breath shocked its way into my lungs as I started out from my stupor. The biting fangs of the wind had ceased as I stood there, admiring the helical fall of but a single feather. Lightning cracked across the sky, striking a fierce white light through the cold gloom of that tired, and infirm morning glow as the feather came to rest in the brown, dried grass of the churchyard.

The deep, beleaguering chime of Saint George's bell rang through the pervasive rolling thunder. Each strike hung in the air, rattling my ears as the ringing ebbed like waves on the shore before it struck again. Startling though it was, there was a remarkable comfort in it. As I bent over, the kiss of the cold dew of that morning caressed my fingertips as I pinched the feather 'twixt thumb and forefinger, plucking it from the ground. I spun it back and forth in my grasp as I appreciated its simple and elegant beauty. Droning on, the warming rhythm of the church bell pealed like the steady, somber heartbeat of the earth.

One for sorrow.

The saying hung in my mind like dangled from a string, twirling about like the feather in my hand. It was the beginning of an old, superstitious nursery rhyme about crows. I recalled it as I thought of the old, black-veiled gypsy woman who would recite it as she comforted babes of the working women of her family. Always she sat at the stoops of the Drury Lane workhouses, whispers and rumors blanketing her dark and unsettling mystique. Those loquacious lots of the simple masses always talked of her being a spell weaver; a channeler of the mysterious and unseen things beyond.

Tucking the feather into the ribbon of my top hat, I drew in a slow and delicious breath of that icy air. I tightened my waistcoat as one drop of rain tapped upon my shoulder, then another. Settling on my new course, I strolled through the roar of stormy rains, untroubling and untroubled by whatever misery it had meant to bring. I had my inspiration—my newfound purpose, and I had my first peak in which to plant my flag. At each toll of the church's bell, I continued the rhyme as I strolled through those forlorn, stormy streets.

Two for joy.

Three for a girl.

Four for a boy.

Five for silver.

Six for gold.

Seven for a secret, ne'er to be told...

********************

The old, beggarly gypsy woman was as always at her haunt, crumpled and bent. She leaned against the dilapidated threshold of a dirty and decaying building, quietly rotting away at the corner of Drury Lane and Long Acre. Her veiled head hung low as she pulled her black rags tight against herself, trying in vain to seek a meager ward from the freezing storm. She was drenched, head to foot and shivering as she curled there in the doorway, paying no mind to my gentle approach. I had never spoken to her nor paid her any form of attention for that matter, as she was like all the other crawlers, an ambiguous face. Yet another anonymous shadow cast upon the dark horizon of the stormy moonlit seas of misery.

"Pardon, ma'am," I called through the roaring of the rain and thunder.

Coarse coughs interrupted her contemptuous silence as she pulled her rags tighter, only peering up a moment to take me in. "You are the one from that office," her voice was raked out like the scraping of dirt beneath wood planks.

"I am, ma'am."

She rubbed her feeble hands together before tucking them back inside of her soaking rags as she looked toward the direction of my office. "And what do you want with me?"

I gestured toward my office away in the distance. "I wish to offer you a place out of this rain and cold, and the pleasure of your company, ma'am."

She scoffed and shook her head. "You folk hardly give us a glance. What is it you truly want?"

I scanned the rain-soaked street. Shadows and blurred silhouettes dotted each corner and crevice, one destitute soul after the other, each seeking what little shelter was to be had from the storm. She was after all, correct, for we hardly paid them any mind. It was simply the way of things, and there was naught I could do to change that.

I relented to her indifference, understanding she knew I had other motives beyond simply offering a charitable shelter. "Is it true what the others say about you?"

Another cough shattered the cadence of the rain as she choked out a light laugh. "They're always afraid. They're always afraid until they want their fortunes told. I'm not a fortune teller."

"What are you?"

She shook her head as she curled into her rags. "An old, tired woman who only wishes to be left in peace."

"I think you're more than that."

Her dark eyes shot up to meet mine. "Leave it be, boy. Leave me be!"

The cackles and cawing of a crow cut through the din of the morning storm. It carried on the air uninterrupted and unblemished by the ruckus. Creases and fissures in her brow curled and deepened as she tilted her head at the sound. Taking me in, she fixed her gaze at the feather in my hat.

"One for sorrow," she said, shifting her weight on her perch before freeing her wrinkled, twisted hands from her drenched wrappings. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at that feather.

I didn't understand, but the sound and feather in my hat had roused something in her. An interest, or perhaps a fear. Whatever it was, broke her free from that stark indifference and the callous disregard for her meager situation and my irritating presence. Her iciness melted away to a far more agreeable woman.

I offered her my hand as I bent low, a thin stream of rainwater washing from the brim of my hat cut my vision before me as I gave her a gentle smile. "Two for Joy," I replied.

Her icy hand grasped mine, feeble and thin was her grip, but she managed to pull herself up. She hadn't returned her own smile, only deeper sternness sunk into her already sunken face. "You've no idea what you're asking me."

"I'm asking how many crows you see with me, ma'am."

She rubbed her hands again before looking to the sky. "Everyone wants to know, until they know."

I offered her my arm, and her pale, bony hand hooked around it as she pulled her feeble frame toward mine. An odd heat wormed its way about us. I couldn't deduce if it was from some internal zeal she managed to disguise, or the curious and prying eyes of those sodden silhouettes hunkered in the nooks and recesses of the street, but it followed us as we made our way down Drury Lane. Two crows, awash upon the shallow floods of the storm ridden street en route to a homely nest.

Two for joy.

It rattled in my head as we carried on. Black and drowned we were. Like a funeral procession on the seas, it must of have seemed to those leering glances and cautious considerations. Odd as a pair we might have been with both dapper and drab intertwined like tendrils on a fencepost, her company was in fact a slight comfort to the inundating anonymity of London. 'Twas an unexperienced sensation to have someone at my side, as equally undissolved in the frothing chaos as I. Though her station was far beneath mine in society, she was my equal or more rightly in that environment, my superior. There was coarse judgement that stirred about as we sopped our way through the flooded streets, but whatever zeal that may have garnered amongst the raddled onlookers, weather stole it away as quick as it could formulate to anything more than an annoyed mutter or superstitious glean.

'Twas not long before we'd reached my office. Nervousness and rigidity consumed my ragged companion, and her posture tightened and straightened as she looked through into the smoky dimness of the lower common room. Perhaps it was only trepidation as to what this encounter might bring or the uncertainty of my intentions, there was no telling, but the mild reluctance in each step toward the door was markedly noticeable.

"Mr. Pickett ought to have the coals burning fierce on a morning like this." I'd hoped that the promise of a warm interior would relieve her worries, and though they did linger for a moment, the chance to shelter from the weather proved to be a decisive blow against her nervousness.

Her each step was looser, and each swing of her free arm more pronounced than the last. Even her breathing was more paced and calculated rather than panicked and uncertain. A degree of youthful giddiness compelled her every motion as we made for the door. I had not considered it, but hardly did a crawler ever have any respite from the hard and cumbersome life of the street, and such promises of warmth and shelter provoked a remarkable transformation in her.

The puffed and cloudy silhouette of Mr. Pickett darkened the window as he cupped his hands over his eyes, staring through the glass. I couldn't quite make out his words, but his lips uttered some curse or another when he saw us. The brass bell stung through the low and humming drum of the rain as he opened the door.

"For God's sake, sir, come inside! You're going to make yourself ill standing out there like a buffoon." He held open the door for us as we slid by him, pressing his back hard against the wall to avoid our oceans shedding themselves from our clothing. "Sir, shall I take your coats? You're bloody soaked."

"No, Mr. Pickett, we'll remove them ourselves, there's no need to wet yourself. Could you please get a pot of tea going for our guest?" I tilted my head toward her, as I fought to free myself from the damp and heavy waistcoat.

He eyed her up, down, and up again. His wrinkled brow curled and twisted as he glared at her. Like most others, he heard the whispers as well, and no doubt he was leery of the reputation she carried with her. His lips curled in on themselves as whistling breath exhaled through his hairy nostrils, before sidling his way around us to fetch the kettle. Off he was to the backrooms to fetch water all the while, he muttered and cursed under his breath as he was wont to do.

I had hung my hat and coat on the hooks by the door while the gypsy woman was still removing one layer after the other of soaked black wrappings. So many waterlogged shawls draped over her free arm I thought she might tip over from the weight. One after another, each one slurping and dripping all over the floor, as she shed them until finally the last layer peeled away. She held a small bundle in her arms, rolled up and wrinkled, sticking to itself as rainwater wrung out of the fabrics, leaving a small sea beneath her. Her eyes scanned each side of her, along the floor, along the walls, all around searching for a place to discard her wrappings. It was awkward and nervous, a mannerism of one completely unaccustomed to indoor etiquette.

"Please, ma'am. I'll take those for you," I said as I walked toward her with my arms out.

She hauled them over, meeting me half the distance and dumped them into my arms. Shocked as I was at how heavy they were from the rain I was more shocked that someone so feeble and emaciated could even bear them. They were supple, soaking iron, a chained anchor pulling down on my arms as I held them. I carried them over to the fire in the hearth. Mr. Pickett busied himself with the kettle hanging above the flames. I hung as many as I could. One on each hook from one end to the other on the hearth, half remained in my arms, but I was glad to lighten the tremendous load. The others I contented to drape over the meeting table in the middle of the room. It would take ages for them to dry, but it was better than leaving them balled up and knotted.

Her eyes followed me the whole time modest and mild they were behind her veil. It was odd she left it on, but I did not feel the need to press her, she was after all likely as nervous as a sinner in confession. At last, the final one of her many soaking cloths was stretched out on the table.

"Mr. Pickett, please fetch her a seat, will you?"

Carrying a chair over toward the heart, I made room 'twixt her and I for Mr. Pickett. He gave me one of his many condescending, annoyed glares as he walked by. A silent scolding it was for bringing this person into the office. Though I was his employer, I allowed him his callous disregard for propriety, more often than not, I admired his unrestrained demeanor. Though he was tight-lipped, he had about him a wit like no other though it usually hid behind stern silence or quieted ire.

His stomps were stones from the sky. So hard and heavy they were on the boards I thought he might splinter them. He was clearly agitated with me, or with her. Mr. Pickett was merely a grumpy elder, but he had his misgivings like anyone else. The gypsy woman was often a common denominator with everyone, at least to my knowledge, she was feared and the subject of many tales and whispers. Wood scraped against wood, wailing and whining as he slid a chair from under the table. Just like his steps, the chair was another boulder slammed against the floor. Exaggerated and angry and every bit of it was his absurd way of communicating to me.

"Thank you," I said.

He only rolled his eyes before shrinking away into the backrooms.

I turned to her, amidst Mr. Pickett and I's boorish and secret exchange, she'd been a silent witness. Offering little more than the occasional cough and the pitter-patter of water dripping from her black dress. Freed from the hulking bundles she wore about her, I beheld the woman beneath. She was old, old as the very word, but there was within her, an imperceptible youth. She carried none of the weight of her years. Straight and relaxed was her posture, and she held it in such a way that hardly seemed at all like she was one of the many raddled masses of the London alleys, but more like a lady of the lofty aristocracy. One of us. Had all I to go on was a shadow or silhouette, I'd have mistaken her for someone much, much younger.

Taken in by such odd and calm elegance, I couldn't bring myself to form any words. Stuttering and stupid as only fragments and syllables managed to form from my lips, I offered her a seat by the fire. Similar to her odd and light posture, now unburned by her outer garments, she walked as silent as the cosmos, wispy and weightless like mist hovering above the ground. Even the way she sat down was not like a crawler. 'Twas neither labored nor tired but rather filled with grace and purpose. I took a seat beside her. Our strange, awkward and silent company was only interrupted with Mr. Pickett's clattering and clanging in the backrooms.

"Why did you bring me here?" Her question was so sudden and abrupt I nearly jumped out of my seat. Light and airy was her voice now, nothing like the harsh and abrasive raspiness from before, but smoother, keener.

"I saw a crow this morning." The warm and bright glows of the coals burned my vision, but I kept staring at the fire. I don't know what kept me from looking toward her, but I couldn't bring myself to look her way.

"What's that to do with me?"

I rubbed the wetness from my hair and off the back of my neck before looking down at the growing puddle beneath my seat. "It reminded me of you. For some reason when it called to me, I thought of you huddled in your corner, saying that rhyme."

She sighed so hard I thought she might blow the fire out. "Look at me."

I met the dark shadows of her eyes behind her black veil, I was reluctant, but I dare not refuse her. "I want—"

"You want to know what it meant," she interrupted, "The crow calling you."

"I've heard you have talents."

She slid her chair closer to the fire, rubbing away the cold dampness of her dress. "Crows aren't just birds. Well, most of them are, but some are watchers, some are messengers, and some are other things." Her tone softened and her voice lowered. It carried a heat and a resonance of regrets. "I can't tell you if it was just a bird, or if it was something else."

How terribly disappointing that was for my new beginning to already be lackluster, stormy, and soaking wet. The fire offered no more warmth, and the cold kisses of water droplets running down my skin were now branding irons.

"But there are ways we can find out," she interjected. "You may not like the answers you seek."

"Better to know." I said, excitement back in my voice like I were a child about to receive a treat.

She chuckled. "Not really." Her gaze looked away from mine and her left hand hooked around her arm. She caressed her upper arm against the fabric of her dress, over and over she kept tracing her finger over the same spots as though she were drawing in sand. A circle and zigzags, intersecting and converging so chaotic but deliberate and practiced.

"I shall require some things," she said. "We will need a room. I will need payment."

I nodded. It was a fair exchange. Business wasn't often that good natured, but I welcomed it. "Whatever you require. I can offer you board and food as well."

"So shines a good deed in a weary world." Her voice trailed off as if uncaring for the offer of shelter and sustenance.

It occurred that we hadn't even exchanged introductions, which was quite impolite, but I gathered that politeness was likely something she was scarcely accustomed. "What should I call you?"

"Barbara."

I stood and bowed, as absurd as it likely was to her, it seemed only proper to offer her the same courtesies I practiced with all my acquaintances. "My name is Jeremiah."

The bargain was struck, and the wheels were in motion. A new, unfamiliar business venture was founded, and I was set to begin this new partnership of discovery.