Light Once Lost
By Noren Haq
Historical Fiction
I am the shadow of death and ruin and everything I touch turns to dust. I can give no account of what has happened this day, for my mind lies trapped, immersed in rolling waves of exquisite agony. What I once was, I am no longer. My courage, strength and power, all my fine faculties lie wasted, in ruins. I see now how I have deceived myself. A raven, a dark native of this country, sits with me and keeps watch. I dare not stir lest he too may perish. Hours pass within a moment and the creature bursts out his plaintive cry. Only then do I fall and swallow the earth as my heart consumes me.
Chapter One
The sky battled the coming darkness. Zaheena stood serenely still within the landscape of fading light, her gaze fixed upon the house. There was nothing remarkable about it. In fact, the grime and dilapidation of the building caused it to melt into the background of poverty and despair, familiar companions in this neighbourhood. Zaheena forced herself to do as she always did when overwhelmed by emotion. She listened to her breathing, feeling the air leave her body and enter once more. She sought mastery over it.
Zaheena’s relentless march finally stopped on Blacke Street. Her spirits were low; her tired limbs weighed down with sorrow. She had avoided passing through the Flesh Market, yet the air here was still tainted by the raw stench that carried the earthy whispers of death. The street was empty and silent, save the distant echo of a passing carriage. The last light of the sky lingered, allowing her an unhampered view of the house. It stood abandoned and yet the dark memory of what happened here, and the knowledge of the pain endured within those walls flowed through her. She felt it press down on the periphery of her heart. She had been here, on this spot only three days since.
She had walked briskly that day too, battling the chill wind that blew through her skirts and headscarf as she struggled with the dictates of conscience. Why should she not read the letter? She often corresponded with her uncle after all. And it was not idle curiosity that led her to this, but growing concern for her father, his uncharacteristic silence and the change in his pallor as he dwelt on his brother’s words. Zaheena held the purloined letter tightly and realised she must return it unread though her palms burned with the secrets it contained. She looked again at the postmark: June 1810 Northumberland and passed her fingers over the elegant lettering of her uncle’s hand. James Pemberton. Yunnan Province. Southwest China. What caused her father to shout out that day, all those months ago? To uproot them both and return them to a land he had fled thirty years since? And what now stayed their journey? They had come ashore at Newcastle docks a week ago and still they remained in this bustling city. What was her father afraid of?