The Mask of White and Red - Part 5

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Ilsa ran until her lungs burned and her legs ached from fighting the stiff ocean breeze. The wind brought with it a few rain-filled clouds that settled above the town, dumping their contents in a brief squall before being shredded into wisps and blown off to the west. By the time she reached the top of Market Street, the rain had stopped, but she was puffing and tired and stopped to catch her breath.

From the crest of the hill, the harbor district spread out before her like a moth-eaten patchwork quilt. Roads converged near the docks where ancient warehouses seemed to have sprouted from the earth around the main central pier like mushrooms about a fallen log. Brightly colored flags hung on tall posts in front of the terraced two-story houses, their lower stories open as shops or restaurants. She had a vague memory of standing here with her mother and father watching as the wind pounced and swirled its way between the flags all the way down the street to the harbor. This would always be her favorite view.

She loved the play of shadows and light across the city, as the racing clouds flitted past, the energy of the harbor district, with its shouting foremen and long lines of brightly-clad porters lugging trunks, baskets and hauling carts from the docks to the holding yards beside the docks.

It was the only place in the city where it was possible to see the full stretch of Chalk Bay, with its crags of crystalline rocks and characteristic band of aquamarine water. Ships lay at anchor in the lee of Tern Rock, their shadows dark against the clear water. A pure white silica beach faded into ocean—a short gradation from blindingly pure white through bottle green, until finally reaching the deep indigo waters of the Farrow channel.

Pastor Beckford’s Hospice occupied an old workman’s cottage on a bluff at the rear of the church grounds, looking out over Chalk Bay. The church, cottage and a scattering of dilapidated stables and outbuildings were said to be all that was left of the ruined bluff keep. All the buildings were constructed from the same granite blocks. Ilsa had a single clear memory of spending hours wandering around the bluff in the early morning, waiting until the sun lit up the rocks in vibrant sparkles, but even that memory seemed as if it belonged to someone else. And now Pastor Beckford had moved in there instead of living in the big church near the city hall. It brought him closer than ever, and if it weren't for her father she would never go near the place again.

A shout went up and passersby pointed to a column of smoke rising from the warehouse district. Shading her eyes she could make out a line of brown-jacketed soldiers herding what looked to be a large group of porters. It was too far away to see clearly but it seemed the unrest had spread to the port, a place that until now had seemed to enjoy a unique immunity.

“You watch out, girl, or you’ll be next. You’ve southern blood in you or I'm a parrot.”

Ilsa jumped. The speaker was a younger woman, hair tied back under a white head cloth the way Pastor Beckford’s nuns wore it, nose wrinkled as if she’d eaten something that hadn’t agreed with her. Not daring to stand around another minute under that hate-filled gaze, Ilsa bolted. She wouldn't stop again until she was at the hospice. Avoiding the main thoroughfares also seemed a good idea. Behind her she heard the woman call, “You run while you can, and keep on running. The sooner your lot are sent back where you came from the better. You may as well get a good head start.”

Ilsa ran, trying not to think about the woman. Maybe that was how they thought of her and her father, that they were expendable and unnecessary. Or worse, that they were foreign bodies needing to be excised the way her father had once removed a roach from the ear of Principal Marsh, the school master, after he’d woken up from falling drunk into a haystack. That couldn’t be right, could it?

The smoke was still visible, but the closer she got, the harder it was to see as the buildings closed in, reducing the sky to a thin slice. The air against her face no longer felt welcoming. There was a cold, sharp edge to it, and a bitter taste in her mouth.

She was nearly at the turnoff to the bluff when an old woman reached out to catch her sleeve. “Dearie, where are you heading at such a pace?”

Ilsa took a moment to catch her breath. The woman seemed ancient—a crone—her back bent nearly parallel to the ground. Her withered face was haloed in a shock of wispy white hair, so fine and thin that Ilsa could see right through it to the liver-spotted skin beneath. She smelled of spices—pepper and bay leaf. When Ilsa looked at her face the hardness in her eyes was enough to steal Ilsa’s breath.

“You’re a young one, you.” The crone hadn't let go of Ilsa’s sleeve and she used it to pull her in close. The spice smell was even stronger. “Strong too. Nyree means you no harm. But you can do an old woman a good turn.” She fumbled with something in her other hand. It looked like a short tube. “Take this,” she said. “Give it to your father.”

Ilsa’s eyes widened. “You—”

The crone laughed. It was a sweet, gentle laugh despite the fierceness in her eyes and tightness of the grip on Ilsa’s sleeve. “Yes, dearie. I know who you are. You kept an old woman waiting in the rain.” She tutted. “For shame. But you can make it up to me. Bring me back his answer.” She slipped the tube into Ilsa’s hand. It was a small roll of finely textured paper, sealed with a daub of green wax. It crinkled slightly as Ilsa closed her fingers around it.

The pressure of the crone’s fingers on her sleeve vanished. The old woman said, “Take this also.” From beneath her woolen shawl the old woman removed a small leather box. “Keep this hidden,” she said. She flipped up the lid of the box to reveal a dozen oddly shaped, black pills. “Don't go eating these unless you want to meet your maker.You keep these safe for me.” Her steely fingers poked Ilsa’s pocket. “Keep the box on you at all times. One day, you’ll know what you need to do. You’ll remember this box and this conversation. Say it.” Her eyes felt like lodestones. Try as she might, Ilsa could not break her gaze.

The crone’s deep set eyes seemed to flash with an inner light. “Say it!”

Shocked, Ilsa felt herself respond. “I’ll remember.” What she wanted to do was cry, but her answer seemed to have satisfied the old woman who was now smiling.

“Now go,” the crone said. “I'll wait for you at the Eastwinds coffee shop. Off with you, scamp.”

Ilsa left, sparing one glance back at the old woman who stood watching her, hands behind her bent back.

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Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed Part 5 of The Mask of White and Red. I'm writing as fast as I can, so hopefully you will come back for Part 6. If you did enjoy this episode, please do upvote, resteem and comment. This story would not be possible without the crew from the MSP Fiction Workshop on Discord. You are the best. If you love writing and haven't visited, please stop by. I highly recommend it.

Part 1 is here, please do go and check it out: https://steemit.com/fiction/@thinknzombie/the-mask-of-white-and-red-part-1-make-a-minnow-sbd-pledge-special-edition
Part 2 is here.
Part 3 is here.
Part 4 is here.

-- @thinknzombie

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