Ward of the White Worm

Olli had, as soon as she realized how bad the trouble was outside, done what she always did when trouble reared its head. She had hidden herself.

Truthfully there was not much space to hide within the carriage, even for a skinny child whose diet had consisted largely of lightly buttered stale bread and very sour powder stirred into tea. Her eye did glance at a small latch beneath Theodore’s seat, and she pulled on it, finding a small door swinging open and immediately a strange swamp-like smell directed over her. It seemed just slightly too small for her.

However she did through willpower and an impressive ability to bend her limbs in somewhat worrisome contortions manage to lodge herself safely into the small spot.

All the talking outside was very muffled, but did not sound very friendly either. She was reminded, just a little, of similar situations of being hidden in some small dark space while muffled voices rose and fell in anger.

But this never quite reached the same volume as what she was accustomed to.

In fact it seemed to taper off after a little while, replaced briefly with another loud muffled voice, which itself receded back. Olli remained in her cramped position, one arm over her head, her legs folded up against herself, the side of her head pressed to her knees.

The door to the carriage opened up, and the floor tilted ever so slightly as someone climbed in. “Olli?” Theodore sounded exhausted.

“I’m here,” she wheezed from her small spot.

“What are you doing there?” His shoes came into view, then his hair crept down from above like a slowly falling curtain, and then his face. In the poor light within, he looked cadaverous with gaunt cheeks and heavy black circles under his eyes that had not been there before. Olli’s own eyes widened in shock. “What is that face?” He asked, frowning before drawing away.

Olli climbed from her hiding spot… or she tried to at least. She found that with her arm wedged over her head, and her legs so tightly drawn against herself and pressed in by the solid wood on either side, she could not so easily climb out as she had crawled in. “Help!”

“What?”

“I’m stuck!”

Theodore’s feet shuffled a little, so they would be further from her. “Well why are you stuck?”

“I was hiding!”

“Where we usually keep the soil pot?”

“What’s a soil pot?” Olli did not like the sound of that item.

“Goodness, you really do not know despite living with me for so long now,” Theodore sighed.

“You don’t tell me ANYTHING!”

“Do not yell at me young lady, or you will remain there all night,” Theodore’s voice was hoarse as he got down onto the floor of the carriage. His gloved hands wrapped around Olli’s leg and arm awkwardly as he started pulling.

“Ow!” Olli pulled back, but Theodore pulled again, yanking at her limbs like he was going to pop the legs off of a poorly made doll. “Stop!” She yelled as she was yanked free from the little space.

“Do you want me to put you back in?” Theodore asked, pulling off his gloves.

“No!”

“Well then,” he sat back down on his seat, leaned against the side of the carriage, and went back to his normal half-awake posture.

Olli scrambled onto her seat, with only the books she could now barely make out in the growing darkness around them. The swampy scent remained on her, and she resolutely decided to breathe through her mouth and glare at Theodore’s resting face in the hope that her eyes’ glare could somehow inflict a small bit of pain on him in return.

It was dark when the horses pulled the lone carriage into the town of Paeth. The smell of the lake’s fish and waters wafted down the streets dimly lit by the oil lamps placed in an uneven pattern of intervals that felt randomly chosen. Here a wine-shop muggily lit by four flanking oil lamps, there a poorhouse with only one meager lamp to cast a meek yet hellishly orange glow upon its door. There was the road, oily black with lonely puddles of greasy light.

Paeth had once been a humble fishing town on the Ceald Lake, where it would take in the ocean fish coming in from the Brynesea to pickle them and then send them further down the lake and into the Murmur River, perhaps to its sister-town Stowell on the other side of the lake. Its more important products back then were the lake fish and oysters and the making of ceald salt which gave a pleasantly fishy flavor to pies and allegedly cooled the body of passions and fever. In fact it was fair to say at some points, especially in plagues, ceald salt brought in far more to the town than its fish or pickled fish ever did.

Of course this did not mean that Paeth had been in piscatory obscurity for its entire history. The Treaty of Paeth, which brought the War of Three Sisters to an end after thousands dead, had been signed and sealed with blood and under the eyes of the Distant Gods above within Paeth. It was where Bishop Hartnoll had been hanged after twenty years of tyranny. Paeth was also the birthplace of Blessed Saint Jacob of Fifty Wounds, sharing this unique distinction with the four other towns on various other lakes that claimed to be that such place.

But the town had in the past century experienced a sudden leap of importance. Not for a revolutionary new way of pickling fish, or for new discoveries of ceald salt (although chemists and apothecaries still bought such by the barrel), but for a discovery near the edge of the moor. A dark hard substance deep under the earth called coal.

Practically overnight had Paeth’s population doubled upon that discovery, and the plethora of work had created a new tradition where younger sons would not join their fathers on the fishing boats, but would instead go into the mines during the autumn and winter. Small shantytowns of tents rose like weeds in the colder months, full of both sons of Paeth and those travelers who took what work they could get. The coal would be taken to Paeth, placed on fish-scented barges, and sent down the Murmur River along with those boats of pickled fish and ceald salt. Even in the warmer months, the flow of coal down the river shrunk to a trickle but never ceased.

The streets were not as deserted as they first looked. Had Olli not fallen asleep, she would have seen rough-clothed men walking along donkey carts, pulling along fresh-caught bore-trout that had been netted by the light of the moon. Or women sitting under the oil-lamps, taking advantage of what light they can to continue their piecework with thread-in-hand to stitch away at clothing, curtains, blankets, and nets.

None raised their heads at the passing carriage, which eventually came to a ponderous stop before a large building that seemed to take up too much space compared to the more slender buildings beside it. It boasted three floors, white stone and elegant columns that were fashionable sixty years ago, and windows currently covered by by thick curtains which allowed no sight in. The dark oak doors were opened quickly as the footmen leapt off their stands, several men coming out from the building to start pulling the luggage away from the carriage. An elderly man stood at the threshold, awaiting two new brief lodgers for his inn.

Theodore came out from the carriage, awkwardly carrying Olli as he made his way to the door.

“Lord Brynebourne,” the elderly man bowed. “You are later than expected, did some incident occur?”

“Yes, I have to speak with Captain Rourke later, is the room ready?”

The man nodded, “indeed it is. Freshly cleaned and fitted for your stay. Is there anything else that I may do for you?” He sniffed the air, as if he had a cold, before his face puckered a little from a scent.

Theodore did not even think about it before he spoke, “if possible, could you have two baths drawn?”