Lamplighter Page 2

  Ophelia had memorised the plaque long ago.

  CASTORO: OUR COURAGEOUS ARCHITECT.

  Coward, Ophelia thought, would describe him more suitably.

  The city was now everything but the utopia their God had promised. Much of it had fallen into disrepair. The stone bricks that made the walls of houses, or the wall of the city itself were marred by chips and moss that had grown on them from the rain that constantly plagued the city. Ophelia had heard and read of times before when the city had been a sprawling metropolis, with the overcity for the upper class, Blessed and priests, while the undercity was meant for the lower class. Now, what remained of the undercity were drowned ruins. What had once been streets and tunnels were now canals and underground caves. Bridges had even been built since the Great Flood of the City to accommodate for this more aquatic environment.

  Not all had been doom-and-gloom. The Architect, in his knowledge, had utilised these newly made canals, allowing for quick and easy transport of people and goods about the metropolis.

  For a fleeting moment, she felt sorry for the Architect.

  He’s still a coward, Ophelia reminded herself. He’s hiding from his own mistakes.

  Turning away from the statue, she looked west, where a tall, singular tower stood, untouched by the age and trouble that tarnished the remainder of the city. At the very top of the massive tower was the Great Beacon, a cauldron filled with a bright, golden inferno, casting its light like their King’s apparently omniscient eyes. A small sense of hope. If he is watching, the citizens are safe.

  Ophelia made her way calmly to the next lamp, stepping quietly, showing no fear for the creatures that surrounded her. She looked out of the corner of her eye and saw them standing, their bodies humanoid, but ruined. Some were furry, with bear-like features, while others were emaciated, their skin turning yellow and bruised in places as if diseased. There were amalgamations of creatures—beasts part stag, part swine, part lion—and a collection that had become like insects or arachnids, crawling about on six or eight legs, with clicking pincers and compound eyes, all shifting through shadows, avoiding natural light. Even those that had become more powerful were cursed by what had been initially a Blessing.

  She rose her hook up, and as she opened the small latch she heard a whistling and then something that sounded like a breath catching as the light from her gas-stick was extinguished. For a moment, a mere, single heartbeat, Ophelia was alone in the shadows. Hearthflies flew high above, their long, thin thoraxes each holding a flaming cauldron in a curled grasp. The light was too distant to save her, though.

  She swore.

  The monsters closed in on her, breaking free of the alleyways and alcoves. They circled about her, biting at her, taunting her, all their expressions the same—fury. These were once people, but who knew what they were capable of now? She moved quickly, unscrewing the gas pouch at her waist, and fastening it into the next one. The first of the monsters made their move, leaping at her with their sharpened claws pointing at her, its eyes glowing red from the taint that had been absorbed into the blood stream.

  Opehelia struck at it with the pointed end of the hook she had used only moments ago to open the air shutter. Holding the cane tightly, she stabbed at the creature, feeling as it embedded itself into its tattooed face. Hot, red warmth ran down her arms, burning lightly on her pale skin. Spinning away, striking another monster across the face, Ophelia pushed at the sparking mechanism, hoping for a light to ignite at the end. She felt her hood fall away, exposing her pale face and long black hair, but her exposure did not worry her. Not now while she was facing death.

  Was this the Architect punishing her for her heretical thoughts? If it was, it really wouldn’t surprise her.

  “No, no, no,” she muttered, as another diseased creature flung at her. Moments before it crashed into her, the flame ignited, sending out a combined, deafening scream from all around. She watched as the yellowed, almost bruise-like marks sizzled across the airborne creature’s face, forcing it recoil, it’s eyes ruined by the light. There were barks and howls and hisses and growls as the monsters retreated once more into the shadows, leaving their comrade on the ground, his face almost completely disintegrated, ink-black blood pooling in the cracks in the cobblestones.

  Ophelia let out a loud sigh, relieved. It had not been the first time she had been attacked since becoming a Lamplighter, but nor would it be the last. That particular fight, however, had been frightening. It was why she always carried six gas bags with her, tied tightly to her belt.

  She ignited the last street lamp in the huge square and closed up the shutter, smiling at the flickering flame.

  The city had electricity, created from the turbines that the channels flowed through, but it seemed that the fiends were only affected by light made by fire or the sun. Electrical light from incandescent light bulbs did little, so many homes kept candles burning through the night, and a lamp above the lintel. As Ophelia looked about the square, she noticed that one particular house had forgotten to light their own lamp. It was a family she knew quite well: the Earlan’s. She quickly ignited it herself, and quietly closed the shutter, but it seemed she had not been quiet enough.

  “What are you doing?” asked Mrs. Earlan as she flung the door open, staring down at Ophelia with anger in her eyes. Ophelia noticed she still did not have her hood up, so she downcast her face and pulled the hood about her. She hoped her face had not been seen. It would not do well for her family.

  Deepening her voice, she said, “I apologise. I simply saw the light off and…”

  “And thought you could light it yourself. Do you want my family killed? I was just about to do it myself, thank you very much.” She slammed the door, seeming too angry to recognise the hooded figure as Ophelia.

  Ophelia sighed, relieved.

  Much time had passed since beginning her job, and Ophelia had experienced food scraps thrown at her from high windows by disdainful home-owners and had been cursed at by contemptuous and ungrateful citizens, but Ophelia now had a skin of steel. She had been a Lamplighter for four years now, becoming the breadwinner for her family ever since her brother, a Blue, had been murdered by the very people he had once called colleagues. She did not know her father at all—he had left some time ago—making her the only person left who could have a job. Her mother was a cripple, and so despite having a very positive attitude, she was unable to do any job that could provide the family with a descent amount of money to live on. Being a Lamplighter was enough, though. The pay was good, considering the amount of danger she was in and the high death rate of her profession, and it kept her and her mother comfortable.

  She had never questioned where her father had gone, nor what had happened, but then again, very few people questioned anything in the city of Castore. Questioning was out of the question. That was the rule. And if there were questions, they would have to be put to the Vindicators; the Architects’s own honour guard, made of the five most powerful of the Blessed, who seemed untouched by the Curse that wracked many of the creature’s that filled the streets. Many said these five almost mystical figures helped the Architect himself build Castore, but everything was shrouded in mystery, so it was all really a matter of speculation. The Vindicators were still frightening to see, though—even more so than the Cursed monsters—and happening upon one in the streets was never a pleasant experience.

  Marching down the roads in heavy black boots, Ophelia felt safe so long as she had the light of the lamps keeping the strange beasts at bay. She also felt very boyish, what with the uniform she wore. The uniform of a LampLighter was a blue, double-breasted jacket, with golden buttons, and a pair of billowy, brown pants, tucked into the shiny, black, leather boots. It was very similar to a Blue’s uniform, in fact, which was done to confuse the ruder Castorians. Even then, though, the Blues had just as much of a reputation as the LampLighter, for less noble reasons. Around her belt hung pouches made from swine bladders covered in swede, filled with gas. They were sealed by
metal attachments, through which the gas funnelled to be lit at the tip of the gas stick. It was a rather ingenious design, when one thought about it. The funnel could regulate the amount of gas flowing through the baton, so the gas could last for the duration of the LampLighter’s shift. It was both her tool and her time bomb. If it died, so would she. There was a terrible beauty to that metaphor. The life of a fire was hers as well; that was the bond of a Lamplighter with the light.

  She arrived home late, the backlit clock tower chiming eight o’clock—most Lamplighters were home and in bed by half-past seven. She ignited the lamp above her doorway, as her mother was unable. She looked up to the small flame as it released its soft, warm light over their doorway, and for a moment, worried about nothing. The hearthflies began to gather quickly, warding her home, somehow drawn to the firelight. She closed the door to the softly humming creatures and immersed herself in the warmth of her home.

  There was enough light thrown off by the candles in their living room to allow her through without tripping over the coffee table, and enough light to see a pot on the stove, filled with chicken soup. She held her hand over the top and found it warm still. She ladled out a bowl of soup, sliced some of the crusty bread, and made herself comfortable, switching on the light so she could see better. It would not wake her mother up—she was at the other end of the house—so switching on the light did not worry her.

  Once she was finished she cleaned her plate up, and placed the remainder of the soup in the stoneware refrigerator, she checked the lamp at their front door one last time—as she always did—before locking the door shut. She then inspected every window, insuring that the candles set into the sills were lit and would last the night. Then, drawing the curtains, she trudged her way upstairs in preparation for her early start the next day.

  *

  Ophelia awoke to the pulsing wing beats of the hearthflies gathered at her window. She groaned, checking the timepiece sitting on the bedside table. It was four in the morning—early for some, right on time for her. She’d had trouble getting to sleep the night before, though, and from the feel of things, had only managed five hours sleep at most. She had a task to perform now, and the sooner she got it done, the sooner she could retreat back into the warmth of her room.

  She dressed into the uniform she had worn the night before, opening her window as she did so to inspect the candle sitting there. It would have to be replaced. But for now, it would do.

  The hearthflies came closer to the window, drawn to the light spilling through the frost-covered glass. They were like dragonflies, except they carried a cauldron of fire in their curled tails. No one knew where they came from, or if they were even natural, but nevertheless they were magical to look at. The chain and flame-filled bowl was made from silver, and the two-pairs of wings beat more slowly than seemed natural. Surely to carry such a burdensome weight as the cauldron would mean their wings would need to be stronger, or that they needed to beat faster, and yet they moved with the grace and power of an eagle gliding through the sky. And despite the rain which continually pelted down, their fires never died, just like the Great Beacon atop the Architects Tower.

  Pulling the coat’s hood about her face, Ophelia stepped into the cold dawn rain and began her way down the street, her gas stick ignited with a soft flame as a safeguard against any of the more foolish fiends.

  Needless to say, the heavy rain had dredged more fiends from within the undercity. They may have been monstrous, but they were still essentially human, and only a small number had developed the capacity to breathe underwater. So when the undercity flooded, many fiends were brought to the streets, safe from drowning. The alleyways Ophelia passed were gorged with the bestial creatures, all teeth, fur and claws, and a number of them had managed to clamber atop the houses, scouring the rooftops for human flesh to feed upon.

  As she looked up to the Architects tower, she saw fiends clambering that, too. Hundreds, if not, thousands were moving up the dark bricks, gripping to the cracks in the mortar, as if drawn to the Great beacon. None would dare enter the tower, though, for in every window was a candle, its nascent flame precaution enough to keep the fiends at bay.

  In a way, Ophelia thought of the people of Castore—including herself—as imitators of the Architect. The reason there was a strange stigma surrounding others lighting the lamps on their lintels was based upon the knowledge that the Architect lit his own lamp. To not imitate would be heretical, and therefore risk destruction at the hands of the Vindicators—the Architects secret police, so to speak. The Lamplighter Guild had been created by the Architect to protect the city, and yet being a Lamplighter meant that one was held to a certain stigma.

  But Ophelia knew that being a LampLighter was a risky job. Her father had been one, and though she could only just see his face—to her, it seemed perpetually sad—she knew he had warned her once of the dangers of being a Lamplighter. She had once told him she had wanted to grow up and be just like him.

  “To light the streets in Castore,” he had replied, “is to hold the responsibility of a thousand lives in your flame. If you fail to keep the oil full, or fail to ignite the wicks, then you are named and shamed as the one that caused the deaths of an entire street. Execution at the city square is certain.”

  She had only been young…six at the time, maybe…and yet she understood everything perfectly. Nothing had ever been sugar-coated for her. She wasn’t sure even now, though, whether he had been trying to swear her off lamplighting, or whether he was simply laying a deep sense of duty upon her shoulders.

  She turned the street corner, staring down the row of lamps with a sigh.

  Time to start, she thought to herself.

  She approached the first one to her left, taking up the cane she had used to stab a fiend with the previous night. On the other end was a small, cup-like instrument. She used the hook to open the lamp’s shutter and with the cup extinguished the flame. With the gas-stick still lit, she climbed the pole, using the small metal rods that extended either side of the pole to help herself up. With one arm wrapped around the pole, she then reached at her waist to the oil sack, filling the lamp, before descending the pole once more.

  As she moved away from the lamp, the beasts began to converge on the newly created darkness. The people would be safe in their houses while they kept their candles burning, but so long as the rain fell, the streets would be overrun by fiends. Ophelia hoped, though, that the rain would clear once the sun began to rise. Even if it was overcast, the fiends would retreat into the deepest shadows to escape the soft light of the day.

  There were rarely any sunny days in Castore—so few in fact that Ophelia could not remember the last one they had enjoyed. But even sunlight refracted and dispersed through overcast clouds was enough to force the fiends into hiding.

  The fiends continued behind her, keeping just barely out of reach of the flame she held.

  They’re no longer human, she reminded herself, keeping one hand on the flame regulator and another on the gas stick. One of the more common phrases about the fiends was that they no longer knew the weight of a heart, reminding citizens that the death of a fiend is not the death of a human being, as some might argue.

  Despite the flames, the fiends continued to converge upon her, but she knew she was safe. A handful of hearthflies fluttered about her, their bright, warm glow bathing her in safety. It was almost like these animals knew to protect her from the fiends, as if the Lamplighter and heathflies were bound with a similar task—to protect.

  “Thank you,” she murmured to the hearthflies as she began to climb the next pole along.

  Dancing with Faeries

  Being told you come from God, you speak to God and yet you are God so constantly does not weaken the words to meaninglessness. Rather, it solidifies what my people know and what I am certain of.

  The beings were tall and sinuous, with an almost luminescent quality to their skin. Their eyes were bright, as if lit from behind by a brilliant white flame,
and their clothes were wonderfully opulent, ribbons and corsets and colourful vests and beads shimmering beneath the lights of the chandeliers above.

  Nataniel felt so mundane before them, dressed only in the grey-striped pyjamas he had climbed into bed in. As they swirled across the wooden floor, changing partners regularly in their oddly graceful dance, he remained watchful, silent and a little confused. Was he dreaming, or had he woken up and not noticed his journey here? Not only that, but everyone was dressed so brilliantly. He felt very out of place in his pyjamas. Would they throw him out for being underdressed? What about his age? He was only fourteen. Was he allowed here? There was an orchestra on a stage behind the dancers, conducted by a tall, thin man dressed in a coat with tails and a long stick in his hand. His arm movements were vigorous and grand, just like the music being produced by the orchestra.

  “Where am I?” he asked himself, keeping quiet so as not to be heard for fear of being expelled from the ballroom.

  All the men wore suits and vests, shoes shined so that they could reflect a person’s face like a mirror, while the women’s dresses were covered in lace and ribbons, their hair styled to flow about their shoulders in waves, and their hands and wrists covered in rings and bangles.

  Nataniel could not help but notice how tightly the women wore their corsets, their waists shaped with a smooth, but very unnatural curve. They looked very hourglass-like in shape, as if their insides had decided to implode on themselves, drawing the skin around inwards with them.