A sister's prayer

A tale of sibling rivalry and revenge, prequel to The Black Falls. Merchant's daughter Dorothy is tired of sewing and sitting quietly. But then a prayer is answered in a devestating fashion...

‘Miss Dorothy. Are you paying attention?’

Dorothy swung her legs forward and kicked her younger sister Kitty in the back of the calf; Kitty kicked back viciously.

‘Miss Dorothy!’

The slipper smacked down on the desk, narrowly avoiding Dorothy’s fingers. The hand holding it was gnarled and spotty, but its grip was sure.

‘Your needlework is slovenly, young lady.’ The slipper came down again with a vicious swipe, making its mark this time. ‘And you have an uncommon habit of excessive movement. Sit nicely and sew in silence, like your sister.’

Kitty beamed. Dorothy scowled at the back of her governess’ head. She had no interest in sewing, only in jabbing the point of her needle into the back of Kitty’s neck. She could not fathom how no one could see how sly and irritating her sister was. Where they ought to see a crawling spider, they saw only a plump cheeked angel. Even now, Kitty turned when their governess was not looking and pulled a rude face, hoping to goad her sister into receiving further punishment.

Dorothy turned away to spite her, shaking her wild red hair and staring out at the miserable rain. Green fields rolled beyond, and she thought of happier times, before her mother had hired a governess. Back then, she could escape the clutches of the nursemaid with ease, taking long walks in the meadows or climbing the great oak trees at the edge of the woods.

The slipper came down on her knuckles. Unlike nursemaids, governesses always had their eyes on you.

‘Cease in your labour once more and I shall thrash you with more than a slipper,’ the governess snarled, pointing at the iron poker near the fire. It was most likely an empty threat, but the unpredictable wildness in her dark eyes suggested it was best to obey.

Dorothy jabbed at her work with sullen venom. Whatever she did, the stitch remained crooked, the thread continuously slipping from the needle. Kitty gave her a pitying smile, displaying her perfectly stitched verse: ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’

‘The Lord Himself has indeed blessed your hand, Miss Kitty.’ The governess traced a withered finger across the fabric. ‘Such fine work... and these delicate rosebuds at the edging. Dorothy, examine your sister’s handicraft and learn from it.’

Dorothy bowed her head in false acquiescence. But as the old woman moved to her seat at the front of the schoolroom, Dorothy muttered a poisoned prayer.

‘Dear Jesus. Release me from the eternal torment of embroidery and governesses. And may Kitty fall into a pit of venomous serpents. Forever and ever. Amen.’

That night, Dorothy’s prayer was mysteriously answered – at least in part.

The letter was born by a solitary rider on a black mare. Her mother read it and promptly sat down, unable to utter a word. Kitty prised it from her hands and attempted to make out the letters, frowning with deep concentration. Dorothy allowed it; her sister was the better reader.

At last, her sister sat, mouth agape, the letter clutched tight in her little while fist.

‘Father is dead,’ she said at last.

‘We are undone,’ said their mother.

The unspoken word crackled in the fire: ruin. Their father perished at sea, taking his cargo and all hopes of paying off his extensive debts with him.

Kitty leaned over and cried, at least outwardly with grief, but more likely at the anticipated loss of her pretty dresses. Dorothy stood in the centre of the room, mouth set, her back to the fire. She sensed the ground shifting under her, and the sensation, while uncomfortable, was not unpleasant. Like freeing your foot from a bog.

She looked up. The eyes of her mother and sister were upon her, and not with their usual disdain or exasperation. They were looking at her with attention, with deference. Almost as if she were Father.

The Lord is indeed our shepherd, Dorothy thought, taking sister and mother by the hand. But in His apparent absence, perhaps I can lead them.

Dorothy had always thought that death should be a quiet, reflective affair, and was shocked to find it a flurry of activity without respite. First there was the period of mourning, the funeral with its varied relations, reminiscent of crows in their false black. Then came the gutting of the carcass: the house sold, precious heirlooms flogged, the governess (to both girls’ delight) dismissed, along with all the other servants. Nothing was spared to pay the debts. Nothing, except a small wooden trunk, which contain all of their joined belongings.

For a time, they lodged with an elderly aunt on their father’s side, a cold, unfeeling widow who took against Dorothy and her bright red hair from the moment she set her watery eyes upon her.

‘That girl will come to no good,’ she pronounced, as soon as Dorothy walked through the door. ‘Unless it is beaten into her.’

She was as good as her word. But Dorothy had her revenge, hiding a dead spider in her aunt’s stocking when the servants weren’t looking. The shrieks were delightful, but short lived.

‘Accursed monsters,’ the aunt shrieked, as she threw all their possessions out of a window. ‘Unchristian she devils! Go wither the wind takes you, and never darken my door again.’

The three sorry souls made their way to the nearest town, where they spent most of their remaining money on lodgings. From there, Dorothy went to enquire for suitable work. She thought vaguely that she and her sister could be companions for lonely old women, but it seemed that no women in that town were lonely, or if they were, that they had no money to pay someone to comfort them. It immediately became clear that sights would have to be lowered, and that was how Dorothy fell upon the idea of washing.

‘We shall wash and mend clothes,’ she said to her meekly waiting family, remembering the embroidery needle pricking her fingers. ‘Mother and I shall wash and you shall sew Kitty – your stitching was always the prettiest.’

And to Dorothy’s great surprise, her sister smiled a little, nodding her head in acceptance of the sacred task. But her mother, skin shiny and cracked from sobbing, seemed utterly wretched. It was as if some part of her soul had vacated, leaving a translucent husk with soft, delicate hands and the eyes of a man who will hang tomorrow.

Morning dawns cold and damp when you are poor and have no servants.

Dorothy stared at her hands, red from washing and calloused from hard work. It was odd how little she had considered the people who made her life easy, and now she was one of them. Life was cleaning and washing, washing and cleaning. The work was monotonous and physically draining. It gave her no joy and little accomplishment.

Mornings reminded her of what she had lost. But as the sun climbed, so did her hopes. They had enough coin for tomorrow’s dinner, tomorrow’s bed, and that was enough. Wasn’t it?

A giggling outside attracted her attention. Three local girls, pink cheeked from the cold, stared at her through the glassless window.

‘Little lady examining her fine fingers?’ said one, grinning.

It didn’t matter that Dorothy had never truly been a lady and that she and her family were only a hair breadth away from destitution; to them, anyone who came from outside town and spoke as they did had airs.

‘Look how delicate and pale she is,’ said the second girl, in a falsely posh voice. ‘I think she may soon swoon.’

‘She should take care,’ said the third, her voice squeaky with suppressed giggles. ‘A lady like her would not wish to land in shit!’

The girls laughed until they cried, and acidic fire burned in Dorothy’s stomach. She wanted to grab her father’s knife, rusty and blunt as it now was, and plunge it into their maws one by one until her hand soaked in blood. But the memory of her sister’s words stayed her hand.

Do not rise to it. We have to set an example. Remember, they have not had the chances we have.

With great reluctance, Dorothy busied herself with the washing, ignoring their taunts.

The first rotten fish head landed on the white dress she was scrubbing, soiling the front. The second landed in her hair. Soon the air was thick with pelted stinking rancid fish heads and the sound of pealing laughter.

Dorothy pulled a fish head from her hair and made to throw at in their mocking faces. But they had already sped away. She dropped it on the floor in disgust and kicked it at the wall.

That night, a terrible storm came. Roaring clouds flowed across the sky, the cracking booming thunder reverberating across their thin walls. Kitty and Dorothy, who slept top to tail in the same bed, shuffled and wriggled but could not sleep.

At last, Dorothy got up and took the remaining stub of candle.

‘Where are you going?’ Kitty hissed, quietly so not to wake their mother who lay in a stupor on the other bed.

Dorothy was not so concerned. Sleeping or waking, their mother seemed very much the same these days – dull and listless with melancholy.

‘I’m going to see the storm,’ she said calmly.

‘Are you quite the lunatic? What if you are struck by lightning?’ There was real concern in her voice. Since their changed circumstances, Kitty had become less of a spider and more of a companion.

‘I shall be careful.’

‘All right. But if you stay out too long, I will follow.’

Dorothy allowed herself a small smile as answer. She slipped out into the night, the pelting rain soaking her nightdress through immediately and snuffing out the candle. But a crack of lightning soon lit up the entire sky.

In the dark, Dorothy scrambled up to the roof and sat there, feet dangling. She leaned back and let the driving rain rush over her, the feeling of pounding water on her face like a baptism. She shut her eyes and listened to the roar of the wind.

‘Dear Jesus,’ she prayed, as she had in that schoolroom. ‘I know Kitty said I should be a good meek Christian, but you know that is not my nature. Please Lord, if you love me, as I know you love all of your creatures, let me take my revenge. Let me grind their skulls to powder and string up their guts like clothes on a washing line. And when I am done, may I fly free on this wind to the ends of the earth.’

The prayer flung up into the stormy heavens, and was answered by a boom of thunder, as lightning struck a nearby tree. And in that flaming light, there was a man.

Dorothy’s body tensed. She wished she had a knife, or even a fish hook. But she only had a candle stub. She readied that, just in case she needed to throw it.

The man approached her on silent feet. As he grew closer, she realised was not only lit by the fire; his very skin seemed to glow from within. All his clothes were in tatters, his blue coat threadbare, his shirt ripped, his black tricorn hat askew with a hole in the front. Even his wig was in ruins, hanging loose and uneven.

Suddenly she gasped. She knew that coat, and the wig too. They had been her father’s

She stared down at the unearthly man, seemingly impervious to the rain. It was impossible to get a clear view of his face, like a fleeting impression running through her fingers. So she focused on his hat.

‘Father?’ she asked, ashamed to find her voice was trembling.

The figure looked at her with black eyes, then shook its head.

‘Who are you then?’ Again, her voice quivered.

The man did not reply. Instead, he beckoned her to come down.

Dorothy slid off the roof, landing clumsily in the mud. She got up quickly, her eyes catching sight of the sword and dagger at the stranger’s hip, but he made no move to use them. Instead, he held out his hand. On his palm was a strange large silver coin with a hole through the middle.

With hesitation, she took the coin, which was oddly warm and dry, then put it in her pocket. It felt as if it belonged there, as if she had owned it all her life.

‘Thank you, sir. But if you are not my father, then who-?’

The stranger placed a skeletal finger to his lips. Then he whirled around and strode back into the whirling storm, his light fading.

It seemed like mere fancy, a hallucination. But the coin in her hand was very much real. And when she took it inside, relit the candle and examined it, she saw that it was stained with a brownish red that seemed very much like blood.

‘Fish faced tart.’

Dorothy eyed up her tormentors. They’d caught her on her way back from purchasing more lye – a gang of boys and girls, animal malevolence in their eyes. The boys had sticks or small stones in their hands. Nothing lethal, but enough to hurt her. Some of the girls had rotting vegetables in their baskets. They circled her, with no way through.

‘Little lady thinks she’s better than the likes of us,’ said a boy. ‘Turning up her pig snout.’

A ripple of laughter and a chant. ‘Pig snout. Pig snout.’

Dorothy gritted her teeth, as Kitty’s words echoed in her mind. Never rise to it. Pretend that they do not exist.

But that only seemed to make it worse.

‘Hey, pig snout, listen when we’re talking to you.’

She looked up at the sky. This was a mistake; the first stone narrowly missed her shoulder, but there were more, coming thick and fast. Something foul and slimy smashed against her cheek; a rotten cabbage, perhaps.

As the children roared with laughter, a small gap opened up in the circle: a chance. Dorothy leapt for it, but one of the girls was quicker, yanking her back by her long red hair, which had come loose from under her cap during the onslaught.

‘Slattern!’ shrieked the girl, as another shoved Dorothy down. They pelted whatever they could at her: insults, stones, vegetables. It hurt to breathe. Blood trickled from her a gash on her forehead into her mouth.

Deep inside, a small voice said: No.

Dorothy sprang up, startling the girls holding her. She whacked one with an elbow, kicked another in a stomach, bit a third on the arm. More whirlwind than human, she beat back her attackers, but there were too many, and together they were strong. They pinned her down again, on her front this time, and one of the boys stood over her.

‘Think I need to piss,’ he said, and laughter echoed.

But he never got the chance.

Because Dorothy’s hand found the silver coin, buried in an apron pocket. As though on instinct, she rubbed it with her thumb.

The boy immediately fell to the ground, jerking. Something like beer froth came out his mouth. The crowd of children backed up, fear in their eyes.

‘A demon,’ one whispered. ‘A demon’s in him.’

They turned tail and ran. And as they did, Dorothy caught sight of Kitty, running with them.

That night, Dorothy bent over the coin, eyeing her sleeping sister.

Kitty did not know she’d seen her, of that she was sure. But there had been a wariness in her eyes that evening, as if she believed Dorothy might transform into a wildcat and claw her.

A straightforward confrontation was considered, but dismissed – she knew her sister would deny it, run to Mother and rain tears on her skirts. No, she would have to ape the spider her sister had become.

In the candlelight, Dorothy saw the pale faced boy twitching like an insect, arm jutting out at a right angle. A strong urge to rub the coin again took hold. She allowed it to pass.

When I take my revenge, I want Kitty to know I am doing it.

The coin lay heavy and warm in her hand, its bloody stain a little larger than before.

The next day was a Sunday – the Lord’s Day, and therefore not one for mending or washing. Traipsing back from the service in the itchy woollen dresses that now passed as Sunday best, Dorothy whispered in Kitty’s ear.

‘Let’s go for a walk on the cliffs this afternoon.’

Kitty seemed a little unsure. They both looked back at their mother, who walked slowly, unaware of a long strand of greying hair poking from her cap. Despite Dorothy own lack of interest in silks and ribbons, it twisted her heart to see a woman who had once taken such pride in personal appearance look so dishevelled.

‘She will be all right,’ she said, patting Kitty’s shoulder. ‘We can ask her to come with us.’

She said this in the full knowledge that her mother had no interest in going for a stroll, as she had no interest in any pursuit. She would simply sit on her chair, perhaps attempting to sew, but more likely staring out the window without a trace of emotion. It was like living with a ghost.

The air was warm with the promise of coming summer as they walked up the rocks towards the cliffs, Dorothy clambering with ease, Kitty following behind with a little more difficulty. As expected, their mother had not come walking with them, but allowed them to go with barely a word. She had not specified when they should return; Dorothy suspected she had forgotten their existence as soon as the door closed.

At last, the top of the cliff came into view. Dorothy helped Kitty with the final step, and they stood at the top, gazing down at the sparkling sea. Seeing no one was near, they removed their caps and allowed the scandalous wind to billow out their hair. Kitty’s golden-brown curls flowed behind her like a legendary lion’s, and for a moment Dorothy forgot her plan of vengeance, simply holding her sister’s hand.

Then the wind changed, bringing grey clouds across the blue sky. Their hands broke apart and the coin in Dorothy’s pocket seemed to burn.

‘Look out there,’ she said, pointing. ‘There’s a galleon.’

Kitty bit her lip, uncertain. For a moment she seemed much younger, and Dorothy remembered swinging her round and round in her arms.

‘Where?’ she said at last.

‘There.’ Dorothy pointed again. ‘But you won’t see it from there. Take a step closer, ahead of me.’

At that moment, a ray of sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the girls’ faces in gold. Kitty took a hesitant step towards the edge, her boot scattering small stones.

‘That’s it. One more.’

Kitty took another step, more confident now. She shielded her eyes against the ray of sun.

‘I cannot see it. Dorothy, are you-?’

The edge of a rusted knife nicked Kitty’s throat.

‘You liar,’ Dorothy whispered in her ear. ‘I saw you.’

Kitty trembled. But she did not reply.

‘Tell me,’ Dorothy said, the acid in her stomach creeping towards her throat. ‘Would you have let that boy piss on me to save your own hide? Or perhaps you put him up to it.’

The knife dug in harder. Kitty whimpered like a kicked pup and Dorothy blinked back shameful tears, hoping her sister couldn’t see. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She ought to feel vindicated, righteous, even gleeful. Instead, the remains of breakfast were threatening to re-emerge. She fought for mastery, taming her girlish dread into submission.

‘Why did you betray me, Kitty?’ she said at last, and the words sounded more tragic than terrifying. ‘I thought you were my sister.’

Kitty tried to speak, but only a little cough came out. An unwilling tremor ran down Dorothy’s arm, threatening to loose the knife. She gritted her teeth and steeled her courage. They stood like that, motionless, for some time. Until at last, as the wind whipped and tossed her pretty gold curls, Kitty finally found her voice.

‘It is you who are the betrayer,’ she said.

The voice was barely more than a whisper. But she turned her head a little despite the knife, and looked Dorothy in the eye.

‘I heard you utter that prayer, in the schoolroom,’ she said, with unfamiliar bitterness. ‘Your thoughtless prattle killed Father.’

Something twisted in Dorothy’s stomach; she felt the wooden chair beneath her, the feel of the linen in her fingers. That was not how I meant it. Surely you know that, Kitty?

But the spark in Kitty’s eye was not of the sun; it was an inner madness.

‘You killed our father with wicked blasphemy,’ she hissed, lip curling. ‘You had our aunt abandon us thanks to your defiance. And now we scratch out an existence, our mother a walking shadow, and do you taste humility as the Lord intended? No, you walk around with your nose in the air as if we are all but the shit on your shoe.’

A small trickle of blood snaked down Kitty’s throat. She hardly seemed to feel it.

‘Go on then, viper,’ she whispered. ‘Have your revenge as you did with the boy who tried to piss upon you. But know this. Whatever you to me, I pray that all of heaven reaps my suffering upon your head a thousandfold. For you are no sister of mine.’

For a moment, Dorothy could not speak. The knife grew slippery in her hand, almost falling from her grasp. But at the last moment, it held.

‘I wanted us to be good sisters, Kitty,’ she said. ‘Truly I did. But it seems you have decided otherwise.’

Her free hand reached into her pocket, finding the coin. She looked at it a moment, her thumb hovering over its face. The sunlight glinted off the metal.

Then, with a swish of her arm, she hurled it into the sea.

‘Goodbye Kitty.’ The knife dropped to the stones beside her. ‘I will never see you or Mother again.’

She turned away, the chill wind whistling in her ears. But before she could take a step, her sister’s hands grabbed her throat.

Dorothy dropped to the floor, bringing her sister with her. They wrestled on the stony scrubby ground, Dorothy reaching for the knife, but Kitty kicking it away. All the while Kitty’s hands pressed against her windpipe, making the world swim. Dorothy writhed like a caught fish, but Kitty was resolute. Those little hands had a grip of iron. Soon she would lose consciousness and all this would be over.

No, said a still small voice. No.

Dorothy dug her elbows hard into Kitty’s chest, loosening her sister’s grip enough to free herself. Gasping, she lunged for the knife. She grabbed its bone handle but Kitty stepped on her hand with a heavy boot. Dorothy shrieked, releasing the knife, and Kitty swiped it up.

The smile on that pretty face. Pure animal malevolence.

‘Go to Hell, she devil,’ Kitty whispered, bringing the blade down upon Dorothy’s waiting throat.

What occurred next happened so fast that Dorothy could hardly recount it after, only in disparate images.

Something shimmering in the air. A hand, made on bones, closing around Kitty’s wrist. A scream. A stumble. Rocks falling. Then silence.

Panting on the scrubby grass clinging to the rocks, Dorothy lay dazed, staring at the clouds. At last, she pushed herself upright and crawled on her belly to the edge, looking down. There was only the sea, oddly calm. Briny air filled her nose. She scrambled back, reeling.

Kitty is gone.

Unwilling biting tears filled her eyes. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She only meant to scare Kitty really, to threaten her a little. Not…

A dark cloud passed over, and in its shadow stood a man. He wore a tattered blue jacket, and a tricorn hat with a hole in it. In his hand, he held a silver blood stained coin.

Dorothy got to her feet, red hair flashing behind her.

‘Murderer!’

It felt good to shout. She did it again.

‘Murderer! Murderer!’

She flung herself at the man, beating his skeletal chest with her fists. Anger spent, she sunk to her knees, sobbing into his coat. She sobbed until there were no tears left, knowing in her heart that this was the last time she would ever cry.

At last, a bony hand touched her shoulder. She looked into his black eyes.

‘You summoned me.’

The voice seemed to come not from the man, but the wind and the waves.

‘When you threw the coin into the sea, I felt your thirst for revenge and I came.’

Dorothy shook her head in mute despair. Shame rose, flushing her skin red. ‘I did not mean it,’ she whispered.

‘I know. But she did. I saw her heart.’

Those dark eyes, pupilless. They somehow seemed sad.

‘Sir? Will you answer me one question?’

The head dipped, the tricorn sliding towards the being’s indistinct nose.

‘Who are you?’

There was a deep quiet, as if the ocean took a breath. Then came the roar.

Dorothy pressed her hands against her ears, but nothing could stop the full might of the sea.  It swept over her, filling her nose and mouth, pummelling her black and blue and pulling apart her limbs. She wanted to scream but the sheer power of the water prevented it.

And then it stopped. She shuddered uncontrollably, freezing despite the warm May day. Her skin was dry as a bone, but she could feel the salt encrusting her, the invisible seaweed tangling her arms and legs.

Then, with a sudden violence, the face before her took sharp form, revealing a long proud nose, deep set brown eyes and thick furrowed brows. The dark hair hung long and lank beneath the hat.

Despite her terror, Dorothy felt a sense of disappointment. It was not, after all, her father in disguise. She stood before the stranger, and with a courage she did not feel, held her head up high to face him.

‘Tell me your name,’ she demanded.

For a moment, the sullen man did not say a word. Then with a throaty chuckle, he began his story. ‘My name is David Sullivan,’ he rasped. ‘But you may call me thief and murderer.’ He gave a mocking smile, revealing two metal teeth. ‘I killed your father. Stuck him like a pig, and took his gold. But my crew betrayed me and my body lies in the drink. With my last breath, I vowed to torment the men who killed me.’

The features blurred again, taking the appearance of a skull.

‘Many of his kind form me,’ said the strange man, his voice now light and rippling as quiet midnight water. ‘In death, their souls clamour for revenge. And for that, they will have no rest.’

The skulllike face convulsed, its hair growing long and curled, cheeks softening, eyes turning bright. Kitty’s pretty red mouth opened, screaming for blood. Skeleton hands reached for Dorothy’s throat. And then the vision was gone.

Dorothy looked down at the sea. For a moment she considered joining her sister, as if it might prevent Kitty’s terrible fate. But her feet remained firmly planted on stones.

‘You must go now,’ said the strange man. ‘They will find Kitty soon and you will be blamed. Board the next departing ship and do not look back.’

And with those words, the air shimmered and the man faded, gathered by a gust of wind and sent out to sea. It was Dorothy’s destiny to follow. And who knew where such a wind might take her?