St. Barnabus’ Church

St. Andrew’s Cathedral

Force Crag Mine

An Unseen Censer

I

The narrative of Mordecai F. Fogg

1876

I know the answer. I knew it all along, there was no doubt. No question. I watch in silence as they rearrange themselves along the polished oak pews, their faces grave and expressionless. Vultures, picking my bones clean. It doesn’t matter to them. Not that it matters to me.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock on the wall rhythmically counts away my last moments. Tick. Tick.

“How do you, men of the jury, find this man?”

Guilty, of course. Guilty. Guilty.

“Guilty, my lord.”

Guilty. Finally, guilty.

“Very well.” The hand outstretches, clasping a small square of black silk. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“By the power vested in me, I sentence you, Mordecai Francis Fogg, to be taken to the place whence you came and from there to a place of lawful execution to be hanged by the neck until dead, and may the lord have mercy on your soul. Amen.” The judge bows his head. “Take him away.”

Keswick Museum

Florence Mine

From Out That Shadow

I

The narrative of Samuel C. Maybank

1876

I find her by the river. Out on the edge of town, where the cobbles meet the trees and the houses dwindle, giving way to gnarled oaks and spreading willows, reaching their delicate boughs across the water like skeletal fingers. Where the rushes burst from the river bank, far from the smoke and steam of the city, far from the creeping crimson blanket of decay.

A thick curtain of mist hangs about the water’s edge, shrouding the far bank in a ghostly veil. No birds can be heard in the chill morning air; its breath sharp as a razor against my pale face, my bare forearms. My shirt hangs damp and heavy from my shoulders, mist clinging limpet-like to my skin.

A low bell tolls mournfully through the fog, muffled, distorted. I slump to my knees on the bank, scooping ice-cold water through my hands, washing my face of the Lowtown smog, letting it run down my shirt, through my fingers. The water is as clear as crystal, glittering below the swirling mist.

Angels in Apprehension

I

The narrative of Francis Lamb

1892

I am alone, at last. The bustle of the street shut out behind me, no fierce ringing upon the ears, no cry of street sellers, no rattle of horse’s hooves. Silence.

A thick curtain of decay surrounds me, filling my mind, my nose, my mouth. Putrefaction, lingering, hanging in the air like mist. Mould clings to the walls, bushy grey-green growths bursting from peeling plaster, creeping across the doors, across the festering pile of playbills heaped in the corner, across the overturned ticket desk, the broken wine bottles littering the rotted floorboards.

A crumpled top hat lies in the middle of the foyer, on its side, the brim bent and twisted. A thick layer of dust is upon it, the scent of mould thick as I bend low and curl my fingers around the brim. Lifting it to my eyes, a cloud of dust bursts into the air, swirling and shimmering in the dim light. Mould clings to the rotting felt, sticking to my fingers as I turn the hat over in my hands.