Samael (2) is written by Alicia E. Goranson and read by Soleil Golden.
Transcript:
George Gataker spent two days on the road from London to Norwich where he had been sent to work. Night passengers might find a carriage and driver comfortable enough to risk attacks, pot-holes, and wheel-damage under the moon-sky with miles between villages and farmers unlikely to help a stranger of even George’s standing. He was hardly a noble or a captain of industry; the son of a moderately successful storekeep and tanner in a wool suit too fine for him, sent to Norfolk county for purposes that seemed even unclear to him. William, his employer, wished for him to “maintain a presence in Norfolk, watch for newcomers, and especially those landing in seaside towns without announcement or papers.”
George clutched a bound ledger of the contacts he was to meet. They were scattered throughout the coast, far enough apart that it was impossible to see more than two a day. Exhausted, buttocks numb from the coach’s rocking, he was relieved to see the spire of Norwich Cathedral piercing up through the darkened city that was to become his home.
(“His.” They never liked “his.” There was something demoralizing about it, a host of duties for which they were not prepared nor interested in serving.)
The coach pulled to a stop by the short town estate coated in stones pressed into concrete. It wouldn’t keep warm, but nothing did, even in London; not that George needed heat anymore. Still, he looked forward to spreading the contents of his suitcase around rooms ten times the size of his former flat. He stepped from the carriage and was promptly handed his bag.
“I’ve got to get to my cousin’s for the night,” the driver said, and waited on the coins George had ready to press into his palm.
George almost broke off the heavy iron key in the ancient door’s lock. Inside, the place smelled foul, of mildew and mice, obviously kept in William’s family from long before the Restoration and only now opened in the past hundred years. George checked room after room, guest quarters, servant quarters, kitchen, for a space where there would be no guests but he, no servants but he, for a man who did not eat from kitchens. In the basement, a mouse-eaten straw bed lay in stupor, collapsing into dust when George sat on it. He groaned. For all of William’s pretty promises, George had been dumped to the coast of England where he would have to make the best of it. Certainly no one here would help. The nearest address in George’s ledger was a three hour carriage ride away. And George was hungry.
He bundled himself up to disguise his tall proportions and took to the streets. The cathedral was a short walk away; a stone wonder to the glory of man and god. But no, the town vicar would be easily missed and the driver would have announced George’s arrival to someone.
George wandered the streets, alone, a house cat taken far away and abandoned in the woods, unfamiliar with scent or space, unsure how he would make a new life here. George rested on a small wooden staircase, put his head in his hands, and if he could have, he would have wept.
-END-
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