Heed the Wind (Heed the Wind Series): Heed the Wind, #1

By Wendy Dolch

She lost her entire family, he destroyed his. Now the battle for redemption begins.

 

What vagrant violinist Staletta Burns wants most is to find her missing brothers, but the streets of London are cold and unforgiving and the moon hanging over the dark waters of the Thames can't tell her where they are. So, she trades her last few coins for a pain-numbing drink…and wakes up to find herself in jail.

 

Rescued by the sole witness to her unjust imprisonment, Daniel May attempts to help her turn her life around by getting her a job at Bobs & Co Manufactory. But she would rather play her violin for the patrons of London's mangiest pubs, than work at the factory where Smitherton Bobs reigns god-like over his workers. And Bobs is a crow from her past, a man that will kill her, the white chimp that destroyed his family. 

 

With raking claws, he stole her brothers away and with a snapping beak, he'll take Daniel, too. Locked in this war of hatred and remorse, Staletta must learn the meaning of redemption before the faces of the dead plunge her into the deepest, coldest darkness she has ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bramble Bird
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215744451

Book preview

Prologue

September 1846, Dublin, Ireland

DURING THE NIGHT, A dense fog blew in from the South, shrouding the fields and clachans in silent white. The sun rose in the morning but had not the power to burn it all away at once. The fog slithered along the ground, twining between the leaves of the potato plants. The Autumn chill lent a bitterness to the air, a feeling of winter sure to come to slowly steal the breath away. Even the crows knew it was coming and they hastened near, like great, black crucifixes stamped against the gray sky.

A young girl skipped through the field despite the dreary weather, her blue dress catching on the stubby stems of the potato plants, the plaid shawl slipping down over her shoulders. Her pale hair hung loose, dangling down her back, tangling in the wind.

Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow... she sang as she skipped along joyfully through the field. 

Giant, black birds descending on the crop, stopped her in her tracks. Though her voice quavered, she continued to sing as she turned her feet and marched towards the birds, "Oh winds of the night may your fury be crossed..."

She had told her father that she would not be afraid of them this time. She drew in a breath and rushed at the birds, screaming, Go away, beasts! Go away! 

Pale hair streamed out behind her, her arms open wide, then flashing forwards and waving back and forth. The birds made their horrid caws, lifted into the air, then flapped away. Réalta, breathless, stilled to a halt, hands on hips, smiling into the bright blue sky ahead. 

"May no one who’s dear to our island be lost..." She continued skipping, following in the direction of the crows. Blow the winds gently, calm be the foam, shine the light brightly and guide them back home.

After wandering for miles around the fields, she came to a dead halt. Reaching forward, her fingers brushed blackened and withered leaves. She lifted her eyes to the field ahead...a wasteland, stretching to the horizon.

Please, not again! she lamented, remembering all too clearly the blight of the year before that had decimated their potato crop, forcing them to ration and sell their livestock to buy food.

Thinking of turning around and reporting it immediately to her father, she took a step back from the plants. She gasped as the crows screeched from above. Taking another step back, she shook her head.

I’m not afraid. But her legs trembled beneath her as she turned on her heels and ran for home.

WINTER CAME, FURIOUS and wild, unprecedented blizzards burying the clachans time and time again. The noxious scent of rotten potato filled the air in the Burns’ mud cabin along with the putrid scent of sickness. The ten members of the Burns family huddled for warmth on a bed of straw in the one room cabin, while the south wind dropped snow upon their rooftop. Risteárd and Sorcha crouched beside their youngest son, Séamus. A high fever and a cough plagued him, and his body, covered in a red rash, shivered and shook. Sorcha petted her son’s hair, weeping as quietly as she could.

The bodies of the older boys, Matha, Marcas, Lúcás, Sean, Peadar, and Pól had wasted away, leaving nothing but dry bones behind. Réalta, huddled under her father’s arm, sang in a small voice: 

"There’s a tear in your eye,

And I’m wondering why,

For it never should be there at all..."

A tear ran down her father’s cheek, splashing on the top of her head. We aren’t going to make it, he stated and swallowed the lump in his throat, unless we can find a way to make some money.

Sorcha sobbed and buried her face in the blanket swaddling Séamus. 

But there is no work to be had, he continued. We’ll be thrown into prison if we don’t pay our rent. He tightened his grip around Réalta. We have decided that the four youngest will go to England. Séamus needs help we can’t provide. Peadar, you will be in charge of them, do you hear?

Dadaí, I can’t! Peadar, sitting on the dirt floor, wrapped his arms around his legs.

You can, Peadar. You have to. You must find work there and you must send back money. Their father’s voice faltered. As soon as a job opens up here, I will send for you immediately. Do you understand?

Peadar’s throat was dry. Yes, his voice cracked.

The family fell into a dismal silence, listened to the howling wind, and watched the shadows grow tall. Though she did not smile at all, Réalta continued her song: 

"When Irish eyes are smiling, 

sure ‘tis like the morn in Spring. 

In the lilt of Irish laughter 

you can hear the angels sing."

THE COFFIN SHIP WAITED for them in the still and dark waters of the Irish sea, its masts creaking in the winter wind. Réalta, Séamus, Peadar, and Pól hugged their parent’s one last time and as they stood back, their father spoke a blessing over their heads:

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

A sob caught in Réalta’s throat and she threw herself at her father’s legs.

My little scarecrow! He fell to his knee, holding her tightly against him. Don’t be afraid! She clung tighter to him. Peadar, take her!

Peadar scooped her into his arms and the four children, like sheep, were herded on board in a great drove of sick and wasted bodies. A crewman pushed Séamus hard from behind, sending him toppling onto the deck. Peadar set Réalta down, hauling Séamus to his feet, using the last of his own energy to drag him over to a corner where they crouched down with the other desperate folk.

The boat set off across the sea and Réalta tried to be brave like her brothers tried to be brave. She told herself the ship and the sea were just crows. She didn’t need to be afraid. But Séamus lay on the floor, his eyes sunken, his skin shriveled. The tossing of the waves made him vomit. There were people crowding all around, stepping on him, or slipping in his vomit. In the second hour aboard ship, he went into convulsions, twisting like a worm in a crow’s beak. Wide-eyed, Peadar and Pól tried to calm him. Réalta grasped his hand and would not let go, her chest heaving with deep, panicked breaths. After a few moments, he stilled, eyes staring up into the sky.

One of the crewmen spotted the dead boy and advanced to remove him from the ship, but Réalta would not let go as the sailor hauled the child onto his shoulder. Séamus’ arms dangled lifelessly behind the man’s back. Réalta jolted up and grabbed her brother’s hand. 

They reached the railing. Without stopping, the crewman threw Séamus overboard, his hand slipping effortlessly out of hers. Réalta reached after him, watching in horror as his lifeless body crashed into the sea. Réalta screamed, taking shelter in Peadar’s arms as on either side of her, another ten bodies were thrown over the railing in quick succession. The bodies bobbed in the grey waters and were soon lost out in the unfathomable depths of the sea.

HAND-IN-HAND, EYES clouded with grief, the Burns children stepped off the ship and into Liverpool; three children amongst thousands of haggard Irish walking the streets like skeletons, shuffling towards old cellars, abandoned buildings, or alleyways where they could rest. A great cloud of dirt and disease seemed to follow in their wake. Their mouths hung open, dry and desperate for food. Many pounded on doors and windows, begging for money, for food, for shelter. At each door, they met with snarling lips and vicious words.

Some yelled, Get away from ‘ere! and dragged their children away, while others spat, Swine!, You drunken mules!, or Savage brutes!

The Burns children wandered deep into the city, following in the wake of the masses, desperate to find shelter before the sun disappeared below the tops of the buildings. They wandered aimlessly until the darkness fully descended, and Peadar gave up the search for shelter. He led them to an alley already filled with homeless Irish sleeping out beside the rivers of sewage running freely through the streets. He sat down on the ground, back against the wall, pulling Réalta against his chest in a vain attempt to shelter her from the cold.

That night, Peadar found a rock, waited patiently out on the street, and when he heard the tell-tale squeaking of a rat, he threw it. He drew near to the rat, raised the rock once more, smashing its skull. Drawing out his pocket knife, he skinned it, hacked off the tail, stuck the rat on a stick, and placed it over a small fire Pól had started from the refuse in the street. When it had finished roasting, Peadar cut it into pieces and the three children ate.

Réalta wrapped her arms around her legs, casting her eyes up to a smog-choked sky. She started to sing: "I see the moon; the moon sees somebody I want to see." After giving her brothers a small smile, they, too, began to sing:

God bless the moon and God bless me, and God bless the somebody I want to see.

Réalta huddled between her brothers. Peadar pulled a tattered blanket up to her chin and kissed her on the forehead. Good night, Réalta, he said gently, grateful when Pól when pulled his cap down over his eyes so that he would not see the tears slipping down his cheeks as snow fell from the sky.

1

December 1857, London

Dressed like the night , Staletta Burns stepped along the deserted streets, her breath billowing up to meet the snow falling from the sky. A blue hat sat on the top of her head and strapped to her back was an old violin. In a gown of dark blue, embellished with glass beads, she stopped outside the pub listening for the sound of the wind, and finding it silent, walked inside.

A hot fire blazed on the hearth and yellow light lit the room from sconces on the wall. The sharp scent of unwashed man, alcohol, fish, and potatoes perfumed the room. The faces of the men turned as she entered, watching her stride round the tables and move up close to the bar where the piano man had been playing moments before.

Nodding to him, she pulled her violin from the strap on her back, fitted it beneath her chin, and leveled her bow. The man nodded back.

Playing a fast tempo, she started to dance around the tables, murky strands of hair flying around her. She stepped lightly on well-worn shoes, her skirts, blackened by the muck of the streets, flowing around her.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

let me hide myself in thee;

let the water and the blood,

from thy wounded side which flowed,

be of sin the double cure;

save from wrath and make me pure..."

The song grew as the notes climbed higher and higher, reaching for the something it so desperately needed to grasp, and higher, until just out of reach, it failed, and it broke mid-air, trembling in the cold, and all the notes broke down around it, falling quickly, trembling as the final note sank.

The listeners raised their foamy mugs, muttered Amen and took another drink.

She swept into a bow as the men applauded and whistled. The hat on her head toppled into her hand. Rising from her bow, she winked and held out the hat as she made her way around the room.

Empty out your pockets, now, gents. That’s it. She encouraged, moving quickly round the tables.

Eh, what’s yer name, sweetheart? A man called out from the crowd.

She don’t tell no one her name, came a man’s response. I heard of some what calls her the North Star.

The North Star echoed around the room.

I’m just a girl looking for some coin, she responded, shaking her head and continuing her rounds. And to pass along a message from the Almighty. He says to prepare your souls, gents, this could be your last drink.

Bah! I’ll give ye some coin, girl, lots of coin if ye’ll just come a little closer, a drunken man slobbered as she neared, and slithered an arm around her waist.

Whipping out the bow of her violin, she placed it against his throat. He choked as the sharp tip dug into the hollow of his neck, his arm releasing her instantly.

I heard she don’t like bein’ touched, neither, the former man commented, throwing his head back and laughing.

Staletta tipped her head at him, put her bow down and continued circling the room.

Where are you from? She heard someone ask.

She comes off the streets, out of the mist of the Thames, some say, and to it she returns each night, a voice answered.

Raising her eyebrows, she considered it, neither confirming nor denying the statement. Come on, now, gents, ante-up. She continued making her way through the crowd, aware of the not-so-quiet whispers swirling around her:

Where’d you learn to play like that?

Aye, she’d be a pretty one, if she’d only take a bath.

What’d ye gonna do with the money?

She don’t keep none of it. Gives it all away, I heard.

Why’d someone do somefin like that, I wonder?

She nodded to the man at the piano. He winked and began to play loudly, drowning out the sound of their voices and distracting their attention for the briefest of moments. In that moment, she slipped quietly into the street and disappeared into the shadows.

ANOTHER GOOD SHOW, she said quietly to herself after slipping out the door. The wintry air settled over her instantaneously, and she shivered. Setting off like a shadow in the night, she dumped the coins in her hand, smiling at the coppery sheen.

She walked on for some time, past the dilapidated buildings bordering the Thames, the cold growing colder, her nose beginning to burn. Sniffing, she counted the coin in her hand. As she rounded a corner, she stopped short at the sight of a small boy in the street, perhaps only four years of age. The sound of coughing coming from the alley notified her that he wasn’t alone.

Better get back to your mum, lad, she told him.

The boy looked up at her but did not speak. His teeth chattered in the cold.

Do you need help? She reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

Get away from him! A woman’s voice shot through the stillness. He is sick.

The woman appeared out of the shadows, her words causing her a fit of coughs. She hobbled forward, grabbed the boy’s arm, and hauled him back towards the alley. He resisted a little, looking back over his shoulder at the strange girl, his eyes betraying his unwillingness to follow his mother.

Wait! She called after the mother, then ran towards her, grabbing her shoulder until she spun around, pressing coins into her hand. Buy him medicine, she said, holding her gaze.

After one last look at the boy, she turned on her heel, colliding with a man and woman walking together on the sidewalk.

Oh, now, really! The woman declared, brushing herself off as if she’d been contaminated. She’s filthy!

Excuse me, ma’am, Staletta stepped back, her cheeks burning.

No need to apologize, the man said gently, and their eyes met, only for an instant, before she blinked it away. We saw what you did for that boy. That was kind of you.

She lowered her head, turned her face away, and walked off without another word.

How rude, she heard the woman say. Come on, Daniel, let’s get out of here before we catch their diseases.

Hush, Claire, he whispered loudly, then raised his voice, calling towards her, Merry Christmas.

Is it Christmas night? Shocked, Staletta looked back over her shoulder, watching the couple walk away. Shaking off the encounter, she continued down the street, glancing up every so often to see families in the window, laughing beside the warm glow of their fires. A sharp pain pierced her chest and she made a point to keep her eyes averted.

She walked until she met the Thames and leaned her elbows on a stone barricade, looking out over the frozen river as if searching for something long lost. The moon hung there, half-shrouded by shadow.

I see the moon and the moon sees me. The moon sees somebody I want to see. 

Breaking into sudden sobs, she crumbled at the base of the barrier.

When the tears ended, she tilted her head back to see the stars, but the stars did not shine. Yes, Merry Christmas, Staletta.

Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she had given all her coin to that boy. There was none left to buy food, so she would fast, praying that she would see her brothers again one day. Wrapping a thin shawl tightly about herself, she shivered, teeth chattering as she laid down on the ground and curled into a ball, fresh tears melting the newly fallen snow.

2

Staletta’s violin flashed in the sun. A great crowd had gathered around her, clapping and dancing along with the music.

"There once was a ship that put to sea

And the name of that ship was the Billy o' Tea

The winds blew hard, her bow dipped down

Blow, me bully boys, blow."

She paused between verses, coughing into her arm, as she whirled in a circle. Her throat ached, but she swallowed it down, smiling at the crowd as she sang the next verse, her voice growing raspier with each word. She paused again, playing just the instrumental as she whirled in another circle, her breath clouding around her in the cold air.

Through the cloud, she caught sight of two familiar faces in the crowd, watching her. Her feet faltered as she spun back around. It was that man and woman from a week ago...from Christmas night. Snatching her gaze away, she focused once more on the next verse.

"Soon may the Wellerman come

To bring us sugar and tea and rum

One day, when the tonguin' is done

We'll take our leave and go..."

Go on, clear out of here! a policeman shouted, pushing his way through the too-crowded street, scattering people as he went. Enough of that, he waved a hand towards Staletta, but she ignored him.

Staletta played faster and danced in a circle until a clamor of noise broke Staletta’s concentration and her bow slipped off the violin strings with a shriek.

What? she scowled.

I said move on, lass, he pushed forward, scowling back.

Why? Her violin sagged towards the ground as her shoulders slumped.

Because I said so, that’s why, the officer replied, sneering at her now.

Am I doing something illegal?

The officer licked his lips and took a breath. You’re mucking up the street here, lass, people can’t get through. Disturbing the peace and all that. Move along now, please.

She hadn’t been able to finish her song. The people hadn’t had a chance to pay her. Peering down into her hat, she found it as empty as her growling stomach. Please, Sir, I need the money.

Then get a real job like the rest of us. You’re a waste of space, you are. The officer grabbed her arm, escorting her a few steps away. Get on now and don’t let me catch you out here again.

Pulling away, she crossed her arms over her chest, growing angrier. I will not. Glaring up at him, she pointed a finger at her chest. I have every right to play my violin on this street corner and there is nothing you can do about it.

Is that so? The officer said, adjusting his belt. Would you like to come down to the station with me, see what the boss has to say about this?

I’m staying right here, Staletta put her violin back up on her shoulder and started to play.

Angry now, the officer approached, wrenching the violin from her hand.

Quickly, she grabbed it and tugged back. The officer glared and pulled with greater strength than she could muster. Staletta hurtled forwards, slipped on the ice, and crashed to the ground in a swirl of blue skirts. Cheeks flaming red, she sat up, avoiding the eyes of the people laughing at the display.

Here, let me help you, came a voice beside her.

She looked up to see a hand in front of her, then looked up higher, sagging with humiliation. The man named Daniel stood in front of her, hand extended towards her, honey-brown eyes looking down at her with pity. She didn’t need to be pitied. Scoffing, Staletta knocked his hand away, placing her hands underneath herself to push up off the ground. Her foot slipped out from underneath and she collapsed back onto the ground with a whimper.

Blimey! She slapped the ice and reddened further as the crowd around her sniggered.

A voice in the crowd called out, The North Star ain’t shining so bright now, is she? Followed by a fit of laughter.

Come on, Daniel knelt beside her, grabbing her arm before she could resist, pulling her to her feet with ease. Steadying her with a hand on her elbow, he walked her off the patch of ice and let go as she yanked her arm away, coughs making her shoulders bob.

Oh, Daniel, she might have diseases! Claire whined with disgust. Go straight home and wash up, please.

Ignoring her, Daniel pulled a few bills from the inside of his coat and held them out towards her. Her eyes fixated on the money. Money for food. Pain clenched her stomach, but she ignored it. Hardening her heart, she knocked his hand away for the second time and turned away.

What an old hag...

Claire’s insult stung like a wasp. Staletta wanted nothing more than to turn and slug her in the face, but she did nothing. Staletta collected her hat from the ground, took the violin the officer extended towards her, and stalked off down the street, going to find a new spot to play her violin.

GOOD JOB TODAY, STALETTA, she said to herself that night, walking towards a pub. You made a right spectacle of yourself. Hope you’re proud. She shook her head and wiped away a tear. Can’t believe you’d be so stupid.

The people she passed gave her an odd look as she mumbled. She glared at them, pushing through the pub door with no subtlety this night, and walked straight up to the bar.

Not tonight, George, she said in response to the piano man’s confused look.

If you aren’t playing tonight, then why are you here? He asked.

Staletta slapped a coin on the bar top and flicked her eyes up at the bar keep. She had found another street corner to play on and had earned a few coins. She needed food more than anything, but... I’m here for a drink.

Amused, the barkeep raised his eyebrows. What’ll it be?

Surprise me, she placed a hand to her head, closing her eyes momentarily. When she opened them, a glass was already in front of her. She threw back the drink, tasting the citrusy notes of a gin. She pushed the glass back and nodded for more. The piano stopped and she looked over to find George staring at her. I’ve had a bad day, alright.

George said nothing, turning back to his piano, picking up where he left off.

Three glasses later, Staletta’s eyes had gone blurry. Fumbling with her bag of coins, she dug inside for more, but her fingers came up empty. Give me another, I’ll pay you back tomorrow.

The barkeep shook his head. You’ve had enough. George, will you walk her home?

George stopped playing and rose immediately. Of course.

Ha! Jokes on you, boys. Staletta stood, wobbling slightly. I don’t have a home to be walked to.

You can hardly stand, George pointed out.

I feel fantastic, George, no need to worry, Staletta turned her face into her arm, coughs barking from the depths of her chest. Once recovered, she patted George on the shoulder. Sssee you tomorrow.

Staletta stumbled out of the pub, blinking at the light of the streetlamps. Taking a moment to orient herself, she stumbled down the street, not exactly sure where she was going. A door closed behind her. She turned around and saw a man walking out of the pub, a puff of smoke rising from his pipe.

She turned back around, pacing a few steps further. The footsteps followed behind her. Staletta