My Name is not Midnight

By J.P. Reedman

Esmerelda Midnight.
Not her true name, but the one she must bear. She is 12, shy, overweight, ungainly. Her destiny is to be a servant to the wealthy Snows and Midwinters, the chief worshippers of Our Lady of the Snows, whose sacred mountain overlooks the bay.
Her teacher, the cruel Sestren Agrippa, is her bane, and also the mistress of the orphanage where Esme lives--the crumbling, mouldering manor where Bloody Bones lives in the cellar, eating bad kids. It seems life will never get better...
Then Esme meets an old man, Reynard the Fox. Mr Reynard turns out to be a wizard, one of the very last. When the land of Adanica fell to ice and fire, his daughter Rosamunda was lost--the last wizard's child with vast powers untapped. He is bound to his mansion of Hall i' the Wood, watched by evil beings...but he begs Esme to find his missing child for him.
The Rose's powers are needed swiftly...for the Sestren are planning for the Great Feast where all humankind will perish. On Hallowmas Night, full of fear and oppression, Esmerelda must get a new Rose to refresh the old Rose's failing powers...but she must climb the Tree of Life on the Island of the Dead.
Then the great Whale-King Skan-ar must bear her across the waves to halt a terrible Sacrifice...

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.P. Reedman
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215671382

Book preview

My Name is not Midnight

J.P. Reedman

Published by J.P. Reedman, 2023.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

MY NAME IS NOT MIDNIGHT

First edition. March 2, 2023.

Copyright © 2023 J.P. Reedman.

ISBN: 979-8215671382

Written by J.P. Reedman.

Table of Contents

MY NAME IS NOT MIDNIGHT

MY NAME IS NOT MIDNIGHT::

A DYSTOPIAN FANTASY

––––––––

BY

J.P. REEDMAN

––––––––

C 2015 by HERNE’S CAVE PUBLISHING

SECOND EDITION 2016

(FIRST PUBLISHED AS ‘THE QUEST FOR THE ROSE’)

CHAPTER ONE-THE EMPORIUM

––––––––

The school bus bumped across the potholes in the derelict parking lot before pulling into a parking bay in a squeal of brakes. Doors clanged open, and a mob of screaming, unruly children charged across the uneven tarmac toward the nearby ‘Chubby Chicken’ diner. Hatchet-faced waitresses glowered out at them through the grease-rimed windows of the cafe, visibly annoyed to see rambunctious youngsters heading their way, yet desperate for their custom; the first (and probably last) of the day.

Only one child stayed away, wandering disconsolately beside the bus in the drizzling, icy rain. Esmerelda Midnight couldn’t afford the luxury of a chicken leg—even at a cheap greasy-spoon like Chubby’s. She was an orphan, a ward of the Sestren of St. Tarcissian, and the Pfennies the Sestren occasionally chucked her for scrubbing floors or boiling sheets at The Blessed Home for Orphaned Infants wouldn’t even buy a shrivelled drumstick at the Chubby Chicken.

Not that Esme wanted to eat with her schoolmates. Mates in name only; they were no friends of hers. She was a Midnight, named by the Sestren, her real last name unknown, discarded, a thing to be ashamed of. She was a fish out of water beside the proud Snows, Frosts and Midwinters; the children of proper families. She was different, and different was definitely bad in the country of Adanica.

Zipping her threadbare jacket against the wind, she started to explore the parking lot, with its ruts and graffiti-stained girders. Litter blew about her legs; bushes waved, forcing themselves through cracks in the pavement. A line of wooden shops, timbers damp and shiny in the drizzle, leaned against a billboard drowning in a sea of brambles. All the shops had been boarded shut years ago, their signs defaced and riddled with woodworm.

Save one.

‘The Emporium’.

Esmerelda mouthed the unfamiliar word as she eyed the shop sigh, creaking on rusty bolts above her head.

She had noticed the Emporium when the bus pulled into the parking lot. The very last shop in the dilapidated row, with a round green door and smoky windows emitting just the faintest hint of electric light.

Esme wandered over, hesitating at the door, which had a gargoyle-head knocker made of green-stained brass. A raindrop blew into the gargoyle’s eye; it seemed to wink knowingly, as if beckoning her to partake of the shop’s secrets. She shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. She had no money to spend, but it was freezing outside and her jacket needed darning.

Quietly she entered the shop, the door handle cold as a lump of ice against her palm. Inside, the Emporium was bigger than she had imagined. The air smelled musty, of dark incense and tallow. A bare light bulb cast a pallid glow over walls and display cases, while antique gas-lamps made an ominous hiss.

No sales clerk manned the counter, which was awash with papers and knick-knacks. Indeed, the whole shop was a bit of a shambles, a treasure trove of the strange, the obsolete and the unwanted. Suits of armour leaned drunkenly, their gauntlets crimson with the wax of burnt down candles, while mounted animal heads hung on plaques, glass eyes shining hazily through dust—a shrivelled grey rhino, a toothless tiger, a  sad, patchy old lion.

There were also items from the Great War twenty-five years ago, which made  Esme gape in surprise, for the Sestren had banned such memorabilia from display or sale. Flags embroidered with heraldic devices hung down, masking holes in the decaying walls, while dusty portraits of Patriots gazed out at her with forlorn expressions.

A faded photograph of Princess Elexina, whose death in a tragic carriage accident in the harbour had sparked the Great War, smiled wistfully down at Esme. Elexina looked about nineteen, her honey-blonde hair bobbed, her limpid eyes deep pools of sweet sadness. She carried a bouquet of flowers—roses, bluebells and lilies—and behind her white-clad shoulder the sun was shining.

Were you as bad as the Sestren said? murmured Esme wistfully, gazing up at the image of the long-dead princess. ‘Was life so wicked when the sun shone and the town trusted in magic?’

Elexina’s photograph remained silent. A spider with a humpy carapace whizzed down a thin strand of gossamer to tickle her pert, unfeeling nose.

Esme stumbled on into the shop, almost too scared to breathe. The Emporium felt strange, somehow magical, as if it might vanish in a puff of smoke, or turn into an enchanter’s castle, filled with elves and genies and other unearthly beings. But that was impossible, of course. Magic was Evil, and the Sestren had put paid to it long before she was born.

Passing down a corridor of bookcases, Esme entered a second room. This one was filled with hundreds of glass lamps, some alight; shadows bent and twisted while colours darted up the peeling walls like broken jewels. Behind the lamp-tray stood several ceramic mannequins modelling rings and bracelets on outstretched fingers. Esme felt uneasy in the mannequins’ presence; their faces were scarily blank, featureless, and their hands looked too mobile, ready to clutch and claw at unwelcome intruders.

On one mannequin’s hand, she noticed a cluster of dusty rings with big bezels and even bigger stones. Glints of white fire, red, green, lit the dusty darkness. Esme felt strangely attracted to them, under their haze of long-undisturbed dust. Gently she blew the greyness away, her breath making a small sighing noise in the stillness.

She peered closer. The rings were all lovely, but one in particular drew her attention. It was not the most expensive-looking or the most ornate: a simple silver band decorated with a pattern of leaves. A spherical crystal filled with rainbow hues crowned the modest bezel. Gazing into its heart, she fancied she could see figures, the images fragmented by the sharply-cut facets.

Her face flushed and her breathing quickened. Surely this was the magic of the Wistren, the Wizards, who the blessed Sestren had destroyed in Holy War...

She knew she should run back to the bus at once, tell her teacher of this sinfulness and say a prayer....and yet...and yet... she desperately wanted to see more...

Esmerelda was about to slide the ring from the figure’s hand when the door of the Emporium banged open with a resounding crash. Arctic winds flooded the shop, making the flags flutter and papers fly. Dust-motes whirled and the lamps guttered as two of her classmates from St. Tarcissian's school stormed in on an errand of destruction.

Ooh, what do you think of this, Melenie! shrieked Jerusha Wyndrush, grabbing an antique theatrical mask from a tray and jamming it over her face. Feathers and paste beads crumbled beneath her careless touch.

You don’t need a mask, Jeri, retorted Melenie Mooney, the Sestren’s star pupil—and the school bully. She was snow-blonde and petite, a dainty fairy with malicious eyes. "That’s for ugly people...like Esmerelda Midnight. Oh look, there she is, next door, gawking at us! And  look—I don’t believe it—she was going to steal that ring!"

Esme flushed. I wasn’t! I was just looking!

Smug and imperious, Melenie swirled towards Esme, the heels of her shiny pink shoes clacking on the tile floor. Her father, Henriq Mooney, was the Mayor of Sophronia Town, hence she was in the highest Echelon of the Sestren’s flock—the Snows, the pure ones nearest the heart of the Deity, the Lady of the Snows. In Melenie’s mind, this meant she could do what she wanted, anywhere, to anyone.

Oh come on, she taunted Esme. Of course you were going to steal it. Why else would you have snuck in here?

I was cold, Esme said feebly.

You could’ve warmed up in Chubby’s! But you don’t like being with the rest of us, do you? retorted Melenie. You think you’re better than us, despite being a Midnight. Despite that your parents were criminals and it looks like you’re going the same way!

By now, Melenie’s mate Jerusha, a Frost from the second highest rank, had joined her friend. I dunno, she shrugged. "Maybe the Midnight wasn’t gonna take it...she’s too much of a wimp! Just look at her, her face is like a startled sheep’s. Poor dumb Midnight! Baaaa...baah..." Both girls laughed uproariously as if this was the funniest joke of all time.

Esme tried to sidle toward the front door but the two girls cut her off. They circled like wolves, snickering and tittering. Come on, Esme, we’re only having a bit of fun! wheedled Jerusha. Let’s see this ring-thing you wanted. Do Midnights have good taste?

Not a chance, snickered Melenie Mooney. Just look at her big dirty shoes. And that coat! I can smell it from here!

But she’s poor, don’t forget! Jerusha said.. Just a sad little orphan.

Not so little! giggled Melenie.

Esme’s eyes blurred with tears, but she forced herself to remain expressionless, not wanting the others to see and revel in her distress. She was big, but that’s because the Orphanicum fed the inmates a horrible diet of bread and dripping, and pasta oozing with sauce that reeked of rank socks. She hung her head, pigtails hiding her face. What could she say in her defence? Nothing. Fear made her words clumsy, and anything she said would be used against her—like a criminal.

You never answer. Melenie’s tone suddenly became openly hostile. She resembled a sugary pink-and-white cake, pretty to look at from a distance but sickly and unpleasant inside; decidedly bad for you in every way imaginable. What’s wrong, you a retard or something? Speak when you’re spoken to!

Esme bit her lip. "L...leave me alone. Why do you care what I’m doing!"

Because... Melenie paused and then sneered with dramatic gusto: "because we hate Midnights. Because you’re fat...and clumsy... Just like this!"

Melenie’s fist shot out and struck the nearest ring mannequin, dashing it to the floor. The ceramic model smashed to pieces on the tiles, pointing fingers skittering across the ground, rings shooting off right and left under the furniture.

Oh no! Esmerelda fell to her knees and tried to grab the rings before they were lost forever in the clutter of the Emporium.

At that moment a door slammed somewhere in the back of the Emporium. Behind the counter, a moth-eaten velvet drape twitched aside and the shop’s proprietor appeared – an old man with a craggy face and untamed ivory hair that made a halo around his head. He wore an outmoded maroon waistcoat with a carved ivory rose pinned to the lapel.

What’s going on in here? he rumbled in an authoritative voice, folding his arms. His gaze raked over the now-silent children.

"She did it! Melenie pointed accusingly at Esme. She knocked your display over. On  purpose."

Did she now? The old man took a step forward, staring straight into Melenie’s eyes. His eyes were like blue lanterns, showering clear, pure light. She blinked rapidly, trying to conjure up fake tears.

You can’t possibly think it was me, Sir, she whimpered, twirling one of her golden curls on her finger. I’m a Snow...

The proprietor glanced from the girl to the broken mannequin. Its fingers, ringless now, lay scattered everywhere. He stooped and picked up an index finger, stroking it gently. The finger of truth points where blame is due. A false smile doesn’t hide the deceit in your eyes. Now get out of my shop!

Melenie gave a wail of stunned rage and looked for a second as if she’d attack either the old man or Esme. Seeing her friend’s imminent meltdown, Jerusha grabbed her arms and propelled her, towards the front door as she began to flail and sob in a temper tantrum.

Esmerelda went to leave too, but the proprietor turned around clamped a firm hand on her shoulder, hauling her back.

"You stay here. I want to talk to you."

Esme paled. She was in deep trouble now. Even though the proprietor had sussed Melenie, he must think she was a vandal, too—or a thief. If he had her arrested, she could end up in a worse place than an Orphanicum: a Young Miscreants’ camp on the remote Gulfstream isles, where kids got mauled by cougars or bears or wandered off into the woods to die. And it was said they were the lucky ones. The unlucky remained in the camps with their electric prods and drugs and penances.

Here, child, help me find my rings. The proprietor did not sound so menacing now. He got down on hands and knees and peered under the counters. Ah, here we go...cat’s eye, garnet, lapis...

I’m really sorry about what happened. Esme hunkered down beside him and gathered up amethyst, opal, pearl, handing them over to the old man. It was an accident. Honest.

I know. The proprietor nodded, his white hair flowing cloud-like in the dim lighting. And it was no accident, my dear. You’ll find very little in Adanica happens by mere chance. Hmm.... One ring is missing, which was it?

Oh, I know! My favourite! The rainbow crystal.

The crystal? Interesting... Ah, look, silly me, there it is, right by your shoe. He plucked the ring from a crack in the tiles and held it up to the light. Colours flashed and flared around the room. I’ll put it in a little pouch for you.

Esme flushed. Oh no, sir, I can’t possibly afford it. I was only looking.

The proprietor slowly got up from the floor and took the ring to the counter, where he popped it into a tiny velvet bag. The ring is yours, I think. It’s been here in The Emporium for a very long time, but it has jumped off a clay finger in its longing to be on one of flesh again. Don’t let any of the Sestren see it. They would take it from you. They have no love of...beautiful things.

He paused suddenly, sighing, and by the look on his face, Esme imagined he was seeing beautiful things all right. Beautiful...but long gone.

Sir? she asked tentatively.

The old man shook his head as if to clear it of visions. He wiped at his eyes—was that a tear Esme saw? What’s your name, child? he asked gruffly.

Esme, Esmerelda Midnight,’ she replied shyly. She hoped he would not be offended by her lowly status.

He looked intrigued. Midnight, eh? In a Home, are you?

She nodded. Inness Manor. I lived in a proper house once, when my parents were alive, but I don’t recall it at all. My guardian, Sestra Agrippa, says I mustn’t try to remember because my parents were such wicked people.

The old man snorted. Remembering is good. Reminds us who we really are, where we came from, and what really matters. Even when the memories aren’t all roses and sunshine. Here...let me give you some rosemary. Rosemary herbs.  They are for remembrance and may help you one day....

He picked up an old music box from the counter, its woodwork eaten by worms, its inlaid patterns of dancing ladies nearly worn away. Freeing the catch, he took out a sprig of dried herbs tied with a frayed silver ribbon and pressed it into Esme’s hand. "Keep this with the ring and remember.... Rosemary... Promise me."

Thank you, sir. I, uh, will. Embarrassed, Esme crammed the herb into the little bag with the ring. She wasn’t used to gifts, not even on birthdays or Yuletide. Midnights were not worthy of gifts.

The old man peered at her red, embarrassed face then suddenly tutted. No wonder you’re upset, child. I’ve been remiss. I haven’t introduced myself, and you’re too polite to take gifts from a stranger!  I am Alboine Reynard, known to my friends as Reynard the Fox.  He chuckled as if at some private joke.

Reynard was a Fox in a folktale, Esme said. I read it before the Sestren burned those books as wicked. He was a trickster who always got the better of his enemies!

Reynard Fox grinned, but his smile was bitter. That goes for me too, my dear. If only I could tell you the whole tale. But it’s too long and sad for a brief chance meeting....

Outside the shop, there was the sudden BLAAATT of a horn. Esme jumped in fright as she recognised its strident blare. The bus! They might leave me behind!

Reynard frowned. Yes, you’d better go...but listen, why don’t you come and visit me at my home? I live nearby, at Witchness Lagoon. I hope you don’t think me impertinent, but I had a daughter your age... His eyes misted. She’d have liked you, Esmerelda; she’d have wanted you to visit.

I wouldn’t be allowed, Esme said sadly. Orphan Midnights are bound to their Orphanicums.

Sometimes our feet take us on strange routes, permitted or not. His frown faded and he smiled; this time it reached his eyes, which danced like blue flames. Just remember my name—Reynard Fox—and that I live in Hall I’ the Wood near Witchness Lagoon. If you’re meant to come, then come you will.

I’ll try.... she whispered, clutching the pouch with the ring and sprig of Rosemary. It felt warm against her palm. I promise!

Outside the bus horn roared again, insistent, impatient. I’ve got to run! Esme gasped, and she scuttled out of the Emporium into the freezing rain. The bus was idling right up next to the door, engine chugging noisily, exhaust belching oily smelling blue smoke. Melenie’s glowering, tear-streaked face was pressed to a window, a malign gargoyle.

Come on, Esmerelda! Master Wytherspoon, the math teacher, grabbed Esme’s arm and hauled her up the bus steps, while the driver chewed gum and glared from his cab at the latecomer. What’s got into you? Not only late but scrapping with your betters. It’ll all come back on you, mark my words! You’ll be lucky if you eat tonight!

He shoved her into an empty seat and the bus rumbled onto the Highway that led back into Sophronia Town. Esme hunched over in her seat, fingers stroking her new crystal ring through the folds of the velvet bag. It felt comforting...and exciting too. She had a secret.

She, a Midnight of no consequence, had been chosen.

And in that instant she knew, somehow, she had to find a way to visit Hall I’ the Wood.

––––––––

An hour later, the school bus reached the junction of Foulness Road, where Oakleaf Bay, traditional home of the wealthy Snow clans, was separated from mundane Sophronia Town by a gigantic tweed curtain. The curtain was drawn on pulleys across the High Street every night at eleven—a kind of symbolic curfew which defined the essential and oh-so-important differences in the two communities.

Esmerelda jumped off the bus and fled across the crosswalk, uncaring that the ‘green man’ light wasn’t showing. The red hand flashed a warning; a car horn honked angrily as she fled.

Behind her, she heard Melenie yell an unintelligible threat from the bus window. She didn’t dare look back; she knew all her classmates would be pressed to the glass, making faces at her. Passing the tweed curtains on their massive telegraph poles, she raced up Foulness Bay road toward Inness Manor, the most notorious Blessed Home for Orphaned Infants in town—and the place where she was forced to live.

As she hurried along the path, the winds rose in a howl and the oaks on the roadside disgorged a painful hail of acorns that struck against her shoulders. Snowflakes whirled out of the sky to melt in her snarled pigtails. The only warmth in the entire world came from the bag she carried, soft, hidden, secret.

Warmth...it reminded her of the fabled Olden Days, the times the Sestren damned as wicked, when summers on Seagarth were long and hot, with round, potato-chip moons, calm, sapphire-blue seas, and people who trusted in magic and joy.

Years long before the bleak years of the Great War, when Maralba, Lady of the Sea, was worshipped in the Kathedra with its great rose windows. The Lady with the cerulean robe and bronzed face, who ruled tides and the moon, and was mother to the Sun itself.

Esme sighed, breath fogging around her chapped lips. She had seen one of Maralba’s idols in a museum—just a head, battered and broken, like that of a discarded doll. Not worthy of worship...not worth anything, just a curiosity. Princess Elexina’s untimely death had made the people reject Maralba and seek a sterner faith, one that kept them righteous and pure.

When War had broken out, a mysterious female religious order called the Sestren emerged from the wilds of the north. Despite being religious, they were fierce fighters who claimed they fought for justice and morality, for a return to far distant times when Men Knew Their Place and were humble in the presence of their deity. The Sestren and their followers fought the Wistren and won, bringing an uneasy peace and a harsh moral regime to Adanica. Maralba’s altars were smashed and the Sestren replaced her with their god, the Lady of the Snows, whose sacred mountain frowned down upon mankind across the grey waves of the Jordian Straits. The Lady was a dour figure, depicted weeping ice-tears and with her head rayed by piercing icicles. Her austerity was mirrored by her faithful Sestren, who ran Adanica’s schools and orphanages and much of the country.

Along with this new religion, the Sestren had brought the chilling cold, an eternal winter. In the War’s aftermath, Adanica’s climate deteriorated and the snows came, deep in winter and stretching into the edges of summer. Even August was often overcast, the sun a jaundiced eye peeping between threatening clouds.

The change must have been for our own good, Esme thought, pulling her jacket closer until the seams groaned. That’s what the Sestren teach. And they are good. At least they keep telling us they are...

But things did not feel ‘good’ in Adanica. Not only the land but the people around her seemed so cold... so unfriendly....some seemed almost inhuman in their sternness and lack of compassion. The Sestren in particular, as sacrilegious at that though was; they though all warmth was ‘weak’ and would lead to grave sin.

She picked up her pace; now she was nearly running. She had almost reached Inness Manor. Hurrying across the road, she followed a line of overgrown pine trees to the Home’s gates and stood looking in.

A hundred years ago, when Queen Sophronia the Wise ruled the Motherland and half the known world, Inness Manor had been a splendid private home, with parties held on the veranda and musicians playing patriotic airs from the Widow’s Walk. Now the Manor’s glory was gone: its last master, Alfredus Tower, had thrown himself into the town harbour after the War, leaving his impoverished widow Jowan to fend for herself. She became a recluse in the garret, and in desperation rented the stripped-down rooms to students attending the local university. Several years later Jowan died, and the Sestren evicted the students and converted the manor into a Blessed Infants’  Home.

Untended by its Sestren owners, the Manor resembled every kid’s idea of a haunted house. Weeds rioted in the garden, while tree-roots pushed paving-stones out of their beds until they jutted up like tombstones. An ancient car stood rusting in the drive, its roof furred with moss. The porch and veranda sagged, while around the guttering hung clumps of dried lichen that rattled like bones in the wind.

Esme’s gaze wandered to the squat ‘witches hat’ dormer in the middle of the pitched roof. Jowan had lived there, gone mad in her small closed room. One window was boarded up, giving the dormer the appearance of a gaunt head with a blinded eye. Directly below was the ivy-cocooned balcony fronting Sestra Agrippa’s private suite, and below that, the old smoking room and breakfast chambers, which had been converted into dorms for the children. Their windows, some still retaining broken panes of antique glass, were covered in yellowing newspapers to help keep out the chill, unlike Agrippa’s chamber which had fitted frosted glass doors and heavy, draft-excluding drapes. Her room was a warm cocoon where no child was ever invited, her private life hidden from their eyes.

But the orphans didn’t complain. Didn’t dare. Complaining was out...unless one wanted to be