The Farthing and The Devil

I hear a distant scream echo through the village. It is the call of the tribal leader, signalling the start of the Voodoo ceremony. As his scream cuts off others mirror his primitive cry. The drums begin; a slow steady beat that calls through the torrid air. Others join the cause, beating their drums in unmelodious harmony. The distant beat grows stronger as they dance through the dusty streets. Soon the drums surround my hut, pounding through the earthen walls, beating their indelicate rhythm into my battered soul. My eyes flicker open, coming to rest upon the last rays of a blood-red sun flaming through a glassless window, the dancing men casting ferocious forms on the cobwebbed wall. Tribal men call to Fa as women sing. I can feel hundreds of bare feet pound sun seared ground as they dance, the fever spilling out to the masses; the dry taste of tainted is earth thick in my mouth from upturned soil. I place my hands upon the rough table and feel the vibrations singing through the wood, my cup of water a mass of ripples fighting for escape in the fevered festival. The crowd are screaming, chanting their words to the heavens. The drums grow louder and faster as the tribes meet, the dancing becoming frenzied as the Voodoo Spirit’s take possession of their souls. I hear a howl spring from amid the crowd as flames consume wood, the smell of blazing timber overwhelming the stench of dry earth and hot human odour. The flames lash their shadows against the wall, throwing the forms of painted men into sharp relief as they dance amid the setting sun. I cautiously make my way to the ornate, out of place, cabinet that has been pushed against the far wall. How had it come to be here? I wonder idly as I run my forefinger over the intricately carved wood that had once been polished to a high finish. Slowly my hand falls to the cool brass handle. My hand stills, for a moment, before dragging the draw open with an echoing groan that is lost amid the frenetic rhythm. It is where I left it. The dark leather shines softly in the light from the blaze outside; for me it holds so many secrets; so much history. I gently lift the book from its shadowy confines and carry it back to the table. I take my time, first setting down a cloth so as not to damage the leather on any unseen splinters of wood, before laying open the book. I light the old tarnished candelabrum that is sat atop the dresser and place it in the centre of the table. Pulling open another draw I take out my dip pen and ink. I walk back to the table and sit, carefully, deliberately. I pull the candelabra closer, until I can see the page clearly. With the drums infecting me, pushing me on, I place pen to parchment. I begin to write. Chapter 1 I was staring through the grimy window of a chemist’s shop. I could see minute spots of dirt that had clung to imperfections in the glass giving life to blisters of fungi. The window was encased in crystals of ice that had formed around its edges. Casting my eyes up the street I admired the frozen iron brackets that decorated the shops. In summer they would be full of flowers, flowing like vibrant juices from elaborate baskets. For now they held glittering stalactites, reaching their tenuous limbs towards the frosty ground. I took the corner of my torn shirt and rubbed an area of glass free from frost as fresh snow settled on my numbed hands. Disregarding the cold I took my time to examine the trinkets on display in the window. There were glass jars stoppered with cork, offering protection from typhoid, influenza, scarlet fever and whooping cough. Each label had been carefully hand written in elaborate black lettering. I knew one of these potions would save my sister but it was only the rich who could afford such luxuries. Behind the miracle cures were many more charm boxes and bottles, all cleaned to a sparkling finish. On the shelf above were three vast jars. The first contained a thick crimson liquid; the second, an emerald green potion; the third was like looking into a beautiful blue haze. I could have stayed for hours, examining the tiny chests, pretty wrappings and extravagant lotions. Looking past the window dressing I gazed in awe as a woman glided past in a handsome dress. The deep purple, tightly-fitted bodice had black flowers lovingly embroidered into the soft material. The stems flowing up from her waist curved into beautiful bouquets around her cleavage, exaggerating her shapely proportions. A full skirt fanned from her waist with banks of fabric flowing out behind her. As she floated past I caught a glimpse of the proprietor in the window. The look in his eye was certainly not a welcoming one. I stood frozen, not from cold but dread, my encrusted toes curling in anticipation of what was about to befall me. The manager stormed through the door and advanced. I shrunk back, lifting my hands instinctively to protect myself. “Get out of here kid. Go on, GO!” he shouted, hand high in warning. Striding towards me he pushed me further into the main street and into oncoming carriages. Stumbling away from him I barely missed a dray as the shire horses pulling it thundered past at a vigorous trot, the barrels of beer it was carrying dancing precariously upon its bare boards. I quickly scurried to the other side of the immaculate street. I ran through the town, my bare feet slapping painfully on the hard cobbled path.