Chapter Five
First I was treated to the luxury of another warm bath. Three days in a row! I was in a state of pure bliss. I had soaked only a few minutes when there was a knock. The door to the bath cracked open and a dark-skinned arm removed my clothes from where they hung.
"Don't dally, lad," said Bedford. " When you're through, put these on and meet me in the next room." He replaced my clothes with a set of long johns.
"I'll be there in just a minute, sir." When I put the undergarments on I found they weren't baggy like normal long johns. They were made of a loose-weave cotton that fitted me like a second skin. I squatted, stretched, twisted, and bent. No matter what, the skivvies moved with me. Impressed, I went to meet Bedford.
"I've never seen a weave like this, sir."
"That's because it's not woven. It's knitted." He threw me four calf-length wool socks, a knit shirt with a collar that could be rolled down, or extended to cover the entire neck, and a pair of tan canvas pants. "These should fit you fine. Now mind you, put on one set of socks, then the pants, tighten the straps on the pant legs, and then put the second pair of socks over the pants."
When I put the pants on, I discovered they had a wide band of material at the waist that was folded down like a shirt collar over a wide leather belt. I didn’t know if this flap was functional or some sort of weird cittá fashion.
As if he had read my mind, Bedford said, "Tighten your belt, and fold the waist flap back down for now, like I have. See?"
I pulled a puzzled face.
"It'll make sense in a bit, lad. Just cinch your pant legs and pull those outer socks on." He was sitting on a bench, lacing up a pair of boots. "Then come over here and find a pair of boots that fit comfortably."
Strangely enough, the workmanlike leather boots were only ankle high.
I gave Bedford another look. As he was about to respond, I said in my best attempt at a baritone voice, "It'll make sense in a bit, lad."
Bedford laughed. "C'mon, and you'll see. The others are probably waiting in the cellars." He led me back through the house, across the entrance hall, and into the kitchen to a heavy door constructed of solid timbers and straps of iron.
Bedford retrieved a cast iron key from a pants pocket, inserted it into the door lock, and gave it a twist. With a loud clank of tumblers falling into place, the door swung open, surprisingly, without a sound. Beyond was a winding, wood-paneled stairwell that was illuminated by a single gas lamp. Bedford motioned me through, then closed and latched the door behind us. This time the clank of the lock struck a note of dread within me. It was the sound of imprisonment.
I looked Bedford in the eyes. "The cellars seem a strange place to start a journey.”
He looked back. “You surely speak the truth there, lad. I can understand your fears…"
"I'm not afraid…" I said sharply
"Your concerns, then. Is that all right? Concerns?"
I nodded sheepishly.
"I assure you, lad, you have not fallen in with a den of thieves, if that is your concern. We are honorable people with honorable intentions." As he spoke he never broke eye contact. I hoped he was not like me in this respect. "Do you believe me, Fallon? 'Cause, if you don't, I'll unlock this door right now, and you are free to leave."
My brain told me I should trust him and Missus Grier, too, but my pounding heart wasn't so sure. "No, I'm fine. I mean, yes, I believe you."
"Well then? Lead on, lad." He clapped me on the shoulder. "The stairs aren't wide enough for me ta get around you. There's no place to go but down.”
Down! My heart still raced. I found it hard to breath. I hated the tomb-like cellars at the Mount. They were dank and depressing, filled with rats, spiders, and the detritus of life at the school. The cellar here was much different. It wasn't damp or musty, gas lamps lit it brightly, and there was no evidence of vermin. It had the feeling of active use, not neglect. There was an area to store wines, cure meats, and mill grains.
I felt a sudden wave of foolishness. Here I was 10-and-half cycles, nearly sixteen annums, almost an adult, and I was acting like a kid. My heart began to slow. I took a deep breath.
“Looks like we needn’t have hurried. No one else is here yet.”
Bedford shot me a curious smile as we entered the curing room and wound our way between rows of hanging carcasses. Just when I was starting to believe everything was on the level, things had to get all sinister again. At the far end of the room was a metal butcher's table that drained into a blood-stained grate in the floor. A rack that held an assortment of knives, saws, and cleavers was mounted above the table. Bedford stepped across the bloody grate and reached for a cleaver that was deeply embedded in a support timber.
My pulse accelerated and my chest tightened, I quickly flashed through the images in my mind, cataloging every carcass we had passed: six pigs, twelve sides of beef, two lambs, no humans. That was a bit of a relief, but I considered my options just the same. I could lunge for the table, grab a knife or cleaver, and defend myself, or I could run — but to where? The only exit from the cellars was locked.
(Chapters 6-9)
