1874: The house of Arthur Anatin

She gently brushed the greasy hair away from his forehead with her finger.  Her heart clutched in fear as she felt the coolness of the dried blood.  His skin was clammy and looked waxen.  Deftly she checked his pulse.  Her own heart almost stopped but then she felt it, faintly beating its steady drum.  She laid his head back down on the rushes that were strewn across the stone floor and hurried out of the room.  She didn't want to leave the boy for a second. He could not have seen more than eight summers old; so young.

When she returned it was with a small bowl of water.  She ripped off a piece of cloth from her apron and soaked it in the water.  Bringing him up to meet her with her arm around him, she dabbed at his forehead with the sodden cloth.  His breathing was slightly deeper now; she could hear it clearly as her sense was sharpened listening for any noise of someone else in the house awake.  If she was found, she shuddered at the thought.

Gently she washed his neck and down his arms, noting with concern the bruises remnant of someone grabbing him roughly.  But these she knew would heal; they always did.  Tears began to form in her eyes as she washed down his sore, limp body.  He had been beaten and knocked over the head.  She guessed he had struggled; the bruises on his arm were all too familiar to her.  Struggling always led to pain.

It startled her to hear him groan and see his eyelids flutter when she gently wiped his face.  The cut to his forehead was not as deep as she had first supposed.  Laying his now stirring form back down, she retreated to the far wall of the small and dirty cellar.  She watched him wake as though she was somewhere else, watching the scene as it unfolded from a distance; a distance which brought safety. 

The young boy's eyes opened slowly and he propped himself on his arms.  Peering around the dimly lit room his eyes locked on her.  She watched with mild interest as his head cocked to one side in confusion before he remembered with pain the blow to his head.  His hand flew to his forehead and he felt the congealing blood with growing apprehension.  His anxiety only increased when he realized his arms and legs were manacled and he was chained to the wall.  His gaze seemed to glaze over as the memories returned; he closed his eyes and went to shake his head before checking himself, the throbbing in his head only intensified with movement.

"What happened?" he murmured softly, frightened. "Wh- where am I?"  Tears began to form in his wide eyes as he begged her to deny what he already knew.

She sadly moved to kneel at the boy's side.  Cupping his cheek in her hand, she leaned in and kissed his forehead.  "It's all right, I'm a friend.  You're going to be all right."

She held him to her chest, embracing him in her arms.  She could feel his tears soaking through her thin pinafore, the sobs racking his entire body.  She muttered soothing words into his ear.  Soon he had calmed down somewhat; he remained silent and still.  She began to softly hum a sweet lilting melody.

He could hear her heart beat, feel the warmth of her embrace; it gave him courage.  He started when he heard her humming; he recognized the tune, although it was slightly different, as one of the lullabies his mother would occasionally sing to him.  He smiled and pulled his head back to look at her.  He had thought she was pretty at first glance, but now she seemed so much more beautiful.  The sad and haunted look he had seen was now replaced with a loving compassion that comforted him.

His smile broadened with a child's innocence, "'scuse me miss, but are you my guardian angel?" he asked honestly.

The girl rearranged her legs and drew the small boy onto her lap.  "'fraid not.  I’m Nikola."

"Samuel J. Johnson, but my brother calls me Sammy.  You can too."  He paused for a moment considering.  "Is that why I’m here?  'cos I’m a Johnson?  My father…they mentioned my father."

"Who mentioned your father Sammy?" she questioned warily.

"I don't know, there were two men, two large men, they grabbed me.  I was dragged into a car.  I don't really remember anything else 'cept that I woke up here."  Suddenly something occurred to him.  He began to scramble away from the girl; his chains dully clanking as he dragged himself along the dried and soiled rushes that covered the cold stone floor.

"And … and you were here…so you – you must know them."  Sammy stuttered, his head shaking from side to side confusedly.

"Shhh.  Sammy I'm not in league with 'em.  I swear it.  I'm not going to hurt you.  I would never hurt you."  She whispered firmly.  "I do know them though, but I don’t have anything to do with them and their business.  Nor do I ever want to; they're mixed up in something dark Sammy.  You need to get out of here."

Sammy cautiously crept over to her.  "Who are they?"

Nikola sighed sadly, unable to meet his eyes.  "My step-mother and her brother, most likely his son as well, I suspect.  The three of 'em are horrible.  Father doesn’t know, he spends most of his time in the Americas; has done ever since-" She paused.  "My step-mother and –sister are upstairs sleeping right now.  Uncle left earlier, he would be at his own house by now.  They must have forgotten I have the key to this room."

Nikola reached over and picked up the bowl of water and the rag.  She took the cloth out of the water and began wringing it gently.  Carefully she began to dab at the boy's forehead again; wiping the blood and dirt away from the gash on his head.

"I'm going to help you," she whispered.  "I may not have the key to your…chains," She pointed uselessly at her wrists, not knowing what to call the chains that bound him.  "Well maybe if you…do you know where you are?"

Sammy lightly shook his head from side to side.

"You're in Stonehouse, Plymouth.  Do you know how to get home from here?"

He shook his head again; tears brimming in his eyes.

"Shhhh," she soothed. "It'll be all right, trust me."  She cupped his face in her hand.  "Can you tell me your address and your parents' names?" He nodded. "I'll go and get a pen and paper, it'll be all right." She leant down and kissed his forehead.

Gracefully Nikola rose to her feet and left the room, her long skirt trailing in the thick layer of dirt and grime that covered the floor of the rarely cleaned cellar.  She quietly made her way down the dark hall.  She had left her lamp in the cellar with the boy; it would provide him with small comfort though, the house could be very cold at night.  The door to her father's study was slightly ajar and she gently pushed it open.

She gasped as the door gave a small squeak.  Not moving a muscle she waited tensely for the sound of movement upstairs.  After a few terrifying moments Nikola realized that the house was still all asleep.  She breathed a deep sigh of relief.  Entering the room, she hurried over to the desk.  She quickly snatched what she needed and then rushed out of the room, not daring to close the door behind her lest it let out another sound.  She made a mental note, as she tip-toed down the hall, to oil the hinges of every door in the house the moment she got the chance; somehow she doubted she would ever have the time.  There were too many other things in the house demanding her attention that were much more immediate.

Nikola stepped lightly down the steps into the cellar, holding her skirts up with one hand, trying to manage the writing tools with the other.  The lamp cast a small pool of light before her feet and she could hear Sammy's soft whimpers.  He raised his head and smiled slightly when he saw her; his nose was running. She put the writing tools down and dabbed at his face with the sleeve of her dress.

"That's better," she smiled.  "I'm going to send a note to your family, Sammy.  Who should I address it to?"

"My mother, Ruth Johnson." He sniffled.

Nikola felt a pang of anguish stab at her heart; nevertheless, she picked up the pen and began to write.  "Where do you live?" She managed softly.

"In Eggbuckland, Plymouth." He mumbled.

For a moment there was silence as she scribbled away on the paper, as best she could.  When she was finished, she held the letter closer to the lamp, squinting to see the message clearer.  She nodded slightly in approval and tucked the note into the fold of her apron.

"I'll make sure that your mother gets the letter, I promise, and she'll have you out of here like that." Nikola snapped her fingers soundlessly.  "I have to go now," She tried to explain.  "If they catch me in here they might hurt you more, and I don't want that to happen." She left unspoken the way she would be treated if she were to be found, she didn't want to think about that just then.  She took a deep breath, "I'm going to have to take the lamp," She cringed as he started grabbing at her legs, quietly pleading her not to leave him, not to take away the light.  "If they see the lamp, they'll know I've been here.  They can't know I've been here, they just can't." She cried.

Nikola leaned forward and drew him into a tight hug.  Her heart beat erratically in pain, anguish and fear.  Without a word she stood, picked up the bowl, the lamp and the writing tools, balancing them precariously in her arms and left.  Her sight was clouded with tears and her ears filled with the sniffling whimpers of a young, distraught, little boy.

~*~