Chapter 6
We left the Central Hospital in a police car. I was seated in the back with my luggage, Mrs. Cole was in the front, and behind the wheel was a policeman, a man in his forties. He looked ordinary, like someone you’d see and forget in five minutes.
According to the officer, the shelter was on the outskirts of Crawley, fifty kilometers from London, and it would take us about two hours to get there due to traffic. The name of the town seemed familiar to me; I’ll try to remember it later, but for now, I’ll enjoy the summer views of the UK capital. In my previous life, I’d never been abroad, and in this one, I wasn’t allowed beyond the front lawn. So, naturally, I was glued to the window and staring, childish curiosity kicking in.
The ride was relatively quiet; police cars weren’t allowed to carry music, and the officer had turned off his radio. For the first half hour, the woman from child welfare tried to flirt with or engage the officer, but he steadfastly ignored her. Then the woman decided to turn her attention to me and started telling me how lucky I was to be in the orphanage, how child welfare services care for every unfortunate child left without parents, and how I should behave in my new home. I simply remained silent; exploring London was much more interesting. The city was truly captivating: double-decker buses, red telephone boxes, vintage taxis, and all sorts of pub signs. It all seemed so natural, I wanted to get out of the car and just stroll around these streets for an hour or two, then go into a pub for a glass of mead… Wait, I won’t get that last one for another ten years. Hold on, Rigel, youth is a disadvantage that quickly passes.
A touch on my shoulder distracted me, and I jerked back and turned toward the intruder on my contemplative mood. This Mrs. Cole jerked her hand away and glared at me. It seemed my indifference to sweet talk had infuriated her. She sighed a couple of times, then smiled cloyingly and said sarcastically:
“Behave well at the shelter, ‘girl.’ Remember, corporal punishment is practiced in such respectable institutions. Troublemakers are flogged with rods, and their wounds are sprinkled with salt to make the punishment last a long time.” She said this with such a dreamy smile; maybe she was a masochist or a closeted BDSM mistress? I shrugged and smiled at her words, but for some reason the woman flinched in fear and turned away from me.
For the rest of the ride, the car was pleasantly quiet, as I pondered “what’s wrong with my smile?” Why do adults flinch and turn away? The first thing I’ll do at the shelter is practice in front of the mirror. You never know, it’s a church-run shelter, and the last thing I need is an exorcist for my soul. Yeah, funny, a witch in a Christian shelter, though the presence of magic still needs to be verified, but how can I do that without attracting the attention of the orderlies —or, excuse me, the nuns? Oh well, we’ll figure it out when we get there.
I liked the town of Crawley; it’s a very clean and decent place, and very wealthy, too. As we drove past, I saw only two- and three-story cottages and expensive cars. The few shops looked very organic and expensive, and the people on the street were clearly not dressed by designer Raskladushkin. I shouldn’t walk here; a homeless orphan from an orphanage would be out of place at this celebration of life.
The shelter was located on the outskirts of Crawley and occupied a very large area, surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall. We drove along it for about five hundred meters and stopped in front of tall wrought-iron gates with a small wicket. The three of us approached the gate: the policeman rang the bell, Mrs. Cole stood next to him with obvious anticipation, and I studied the shelter grounds through the bars.
Directly opposite the entrance to the grounds stands an ancient two-story mansion, its walls covered in green ivy, or whatever this climbing plant is called. To the right is an ancient cathedral or temple, built in some Gothic style. Tall stained-glass windows, stone darkened by time, and a tall bell tower topped with a cross. It’s immediately obvious that this building is several hundred years old, but it’s very well maintained. In front of the cathedral gates stood a statue similar in appearance to the “Motherland” statue, only much smaller and more graceful. It seemed as if just a little while longer this girl in a tunic, holding a huge sword, would emerge to greet us. To the left of the mansion stood a large, more modern-looking three-story building, its walls also draped in a carpet of climbing plants. Unfortunately, from the gates, nothing more was visible. Only a neatly trimmed lawn and paved paths.
The doors of the ancient mansion opened, and Queen Victoria emerged—no, I can’t call this woman, this true Lady, anything else. She looked majestic: tall, about fifty, with a tight, dark braid with gray strands falling over her shoulder and onto her chest. A black cap covered her head, and she wore a tight, black, floor-length dress with long sleeves and a high collar. But the most important thing was her gait! She seemed to float slowly, her back perfectly straight, her chin raised, making her sharp features seem even more predatory. And her haughty gaze! Her blue eyes looked us up and down, like an entomologist studying a new species of cockroach, debating whether to rip off its legs or pin them and put them under glass. Under this gaze, the policeman straightened his uniform, buttoned his shirt, and stood at attention. The guardian lady took a step back and hid behind me, using my frail frame as a shield. I stared stubbornly at the awe-inspiring Lady; I want to look like her in my old age! All attention was focused on her, and it took me a moment to notice the elderly man following behind me, limping noticeably. He was gray-haired, wearing a black priest’s suit with a white collar, his clean-shaven face disfigured by numerous scars. He looked more like a seasoned inquisitor than a holy father. Give him a flamethrower, and he’d be inspired to purge heresy from the neighboring town, along with its inhabitants. Brrr… His brown eyes scanned us like X-rays, studying us carefully.
“Good afternoon! I am the orphanage’s manager, Lady Priscilla Sellon, and this is my husband, Father Benedict, the rector of St. Ursula’s Church.” “Queen Victoria” introduced herself majestically, the man behind her nodding to us.
– I… I… My name is Mrs. Cole, – the unpleasant woman began to stutter from fear and excitement: – I am from the guardianship department and I brought…
“I know the purpose of your visit,” Lady Sellon interrupted her haughtily.
“Documents,” Mrs. Cole squeaked.
“We received all the necessary papers this morning, by fax,” seeing our surprised look, she continued proudly: “Don’t look at us like that, the Church is not against technical progress and we have had a fax machine for a long time, Father Benedict personally blessed this device, which has been working properly ever since!”
“This girl survived…” the guardianship representative continued, but was interrupted again.
“They bring us newspapers, and I can read,” the Lady said sternly. “Church ministers have been the most literate and educated citizens in the country since ancient times. As for this girl, we know that her body is tainted with the filth of sin, and her soul has fallen into the Darkness of the Tempter. We will help her; true Faith, Holy Scripture, and pious prayer to our Lord will help return this poor child to the Light! With faith and prayer, we will cleanse this young body and soul from the filth of sin.”
After this speech, the three of us stood there, mouths open, drenched in shock. I was definitely going to be burned at the stake here, right next to the statue. The lady glanced at the policeman, who ran to the car for my things, while Mrs. Cole began pushing me into the arms of the mother superior. As soon as I and my things were outside the gates, on the grounds of the orphanage, the policeman and the woman from the guardianship quickly said goodbye to the lady and her husband, the mother superior, who hadn’t said a word during the entire conversation. The police car screeched its tires and sped off toward London, leaving me alone with the religious fanatics.
There are no words, only curses…
