The Fleet in Flood
Apr. 28th, 2006 12:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosiphelee*pokes snippet* Hmm. If all else fails, I'm still an Arthurian geek. Yes, I know I said red hot pokers would be required to make me write any more from this setting, but...
Setting: The Charnel house of St Bride's Church, Fleet Street, London-Under-the-Water, about 100 years from now. Jenny, Artie and Lance are about fourteen here, and an adventure has not quite gone as planned...
Note: I haven't actually been into the crypt of St Bride's, so this may be inaccurate. I'm fairly confident that it would be very close to a resurgent River Fleet, especially in the sort of disaster scenario I set up in The Flowering of the May.
1458 words
“Look on the bright side,” Lance said, raising his chin above the encroaching water. “At least we’re not dead yet.”
If she hadn’t been treading water desperately, Jenny would have hit him.
Artie did it for her.
“What was that for?” Lance protested.
“Because you deserved it,” Jenny gasped, tilting her head back. Even the ceiling of the charnel house was lined with bones. “I don’t want to die in here.”
“We’ll have to swim for it,” Artie said. “Chin up, Jenny-girl.”
“My chin won’t go any further up!”
“No point swimming against the flow of the water,” Lance said. “It’ll just force us back again.”
“Think of something better, then,” Artie suggested mildly.
Why the hell was she the only one panicking?
Lance shrugged, and a wave filled her mouth. She choked, and went down, into the darkness.
Two sets of arms grabbed, and dragged her up. She grabbed Artie’s shoulder and coughed water up onto Lance, chest heaving. They closed in around her, and she curled an arm around each of their necks, letting them hold her above the water.
“Both too bloody tall,” she gasped, and Lance squeezed her hand, looking sheepish.
“Which is why you’re diving first,” Artie said, passing her the torch. “Don’t drop that.”
She lifted a finger at him, weakly.
“You okay to swim it?” Lance asked.
“I’m a Londoner, aren’t I?” she said, and managed to toss her head, though her wet hair, darkened to brown by the water, hit them all in the face. “But I’m not taking the torch. You have to get out, too. Shine it at the door. I’ll be fine.”
“Right,” Artie said, his face grim, and took the torch back. “Get your breath.”
She took a deep breath, and another, and another, trying to fill her lungs. Then she lifted her arms away from them, and dived.
She felt them both push her forward, and arrowed through the darkness, shoving her way through the low doorway. The yellow beam faded and she fought the urge to breath and went up.
Her hands found rough stone, and only water. She shuddered and felt air slip past her lips. Her jeans weighed more than she did.
Shit, shit, shit.
There were stairs. She’d come down them.
She grappled across the ceiling, blind and hoping.
Then there was water above her hands, and the force of it shoved her down, pressing her against the floor. She had to take a breath.
Instead she shoved up. Her hand rose into air, and she touched something hard. She grabbed, and pulled, bursting out of the water.
She shrieked with glee, and then choked on the air, wheezing with relief. Her hand had found a pew and she clung to it and gasped for air as the water buffeted her. Then she scrambled free, kneeling on the pew as water rushed around her knees, peering down the stairway. Where were the boys?
There was a shadow in the water, and Lance came roaring out, gangly limbs splashing sheets of water up. She seized his sleeve and towed him onto the pew beside her.
“Where’s Artie?”
“Made me go first,” Lance gasped. “We’re out of air down there, Jen.”
She leant further forward, rocking the pew dangerously. Where was he?
Still no sign of the torch, and she began to jerk open her jeans. “Hang on to these. I’m going down.”
“Jenny!”
“They’re too heavy.”
“Give me your belt.” He was wriggling out of his. “Link ‘em. You have one end. I’ll have the other.”
“Too short,” Jenny said, preparing to slide back into the water.
“Tough.” He shoved the end into her hand and slithered down beside her. “I’m not telling the Merlin I’ve lost you both.”
She nodded shortly, and took a breath, bracing herself against the force of the river.
There was a soft splash, and Artie was staggering towards them. He grabbed the end of the pew, and blinked. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Only a rescue party,” Jenny said, climbing back onto the pew. “What took you so long?”
“Dropped the torch.”
“Nice one,” Lance said, punching him in the arm.
“Where’s my trousers?”
They both turned to look at her.
She crouched down, hiding behind the back of the pew. “Lance!”
“I put them right there.”
“In the water!”
Artie rolled his eyes. “The water’s coming in. They can’t have gone far.”
They all looked around.
The river was flowing in the front door of St Bride’s, fast and dark. The doors, open since the wave came, showed the rain crashing down outside. The pews heaped halfway along the church were beginning to stir under the water. Outside, Fleet Street was deep under the flood.
“Whose idea was this anyway?” Jenny said, shivering.
“Yours,” Lance said. “You said that nobody had been down here since the Great Flood, and we should have a look while it was dry.”
She glared at him. “You said you’d checked times with the Merrows, and they weren’t going to reopen the sluices until tomorrow.”
He scowled, crossing his arms. “Not my fault they’re all lying tideys.”
“Cut it out,” Artie said, wading past them. “Start thinking about how to get out of here. We don’t have a boat.”
“Where are you going?” Jenny called after him, shuffling round on her pew.
“Your jeans. Altar rail.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank. Think.”
“Ooh,” Lance said. “Soundbites. I don’t think, mate, sorry. I’m brawn, she’s beauty. You’re brains.”
She couldn’t help feeling feeling a little warmer at the compliment. All the same – “Yesterday I was brains and he was brawn.”
“Yeah, well,” Artie said, hooking her jeans down and pulling himself back down the aisle towards her. “No one in their right minds would believe Lance was beauty, and you’re a titch, so we changed it.”
“I am not a titch,” Jenny said with dignity, taking the sodden mass back. “I am small and perfectly formed, thank you very much.”
The boys exchanged a look and said, in chorus, “Titch.”
She turned her back on them, and tried to get back into her jeans. Wet denim was not a cooperative fabric.
“Are those strawberries on your knickers or hearts?” Lance asked.
She heard Artie hit him. “You’re not supposed to be looking at her knickers.” Then, after a moment where she seriously considered diving back into the crypt to drown in peace, he added, “I thought they were cherries.”
“Cherries are round, man.”
“I hate you both,” Jenny said to the wall. It wouldn’t work – her blushes would evaporate the Fleet, if not old King Thames himself.
“Poor titch,” Artie said solemnly, but she could tell he was laughing under it, the git.
“So,” she said, still not turning round. “What now?”
“Water’s still coming up,” Lance said, serious now. “We go up first, and then find an out.”
“Up the steeple, then,” Artie said.
She splashed back along the top of the pew, and linked arms with them, her lips pursed. Artie grabbed one pew, and Lance splashed across to grab one on the other side of the aisle. Jenny dangled between them, trying to ignore their smirks as they worked their way towards the stairs.
The tower, thankfully, was dry, and they squelched up it in silence, past dirty, glassed-in windows. At last they came to an unglazed window. Artie nodded, and they all sagged down onto the steps.
“Right,” Artie said.
“Right,” Lance echoed hopefully.
They both looked at her. She sighed and said, “Right. Plan?”
“Lean out the window, and shout for help,” Artie said promptly.
“Who made him leader?” Lance grumbled.
“You both agreed,” Artie said stiffly.
It hadn’t been so much agreement, Jenny thought, as recognition of the inevitable.
“Will anyone hear us?” she asked.
Lance shrugged. “The Merrows will be back on the water when the torrent eases.”
“Might not be until tomorrow,” Artie said, glancing out. The light was beginning to fade.
Jenny shivered.
“There’s always the Merlin,” Lance said.
They all winced.
“He’ll do that thing,” Jenny said gloomily. “With his eyebrows.”
“Then he’ll be all pointedly disappointed at us,” added Artie.
“And then,” Lance added, with a groan. “if he’s really pissed off, he’ll tell Morgan.”
Silence reigned. Jenny shivered. Her legs were clammy. Even if she leant on one of them, they weren’t much warmer than she was. And it was only May.
Artie sighed heavily. “Nope. Can’t think of anything better.”
“Damn,” Lance said slumping down. “Let’s just wait for the Merrows.”
“I’m cold,” Jenny said, trying to sound unconcerned.
Lance leered at her. “I’ll keep you warm, Jen.”
This time she hit him.
Artie stood up, and leant out the window. “You two joining me?”
They squashed in beside him, and, as one, began to yell for help.
Setting: The Charnel house of St Bride's Church, Fleet Street, London-Under-the-Water, about 100 years from now. Jenny, Artie and Lance are about fourteen here, and an adventure has not quite gone as planned...
Note: I haven't actually been into the crypt of St Bride's, so this may be inaccurate. I'm fairly confident that it would be very close to a resurgent River Fleet, especially in the sort of disaster scenario I set up in The Flowering of the May.
1458 words
“Look on the bright side,” Lance said, raising his chin above the encroaching water. “At least we’re not dead yet.”
If she hadn’t been treading water desperately, Jenny would have hit him.
Artie did it for her.
“What was that for?” Lance protested.
“Because you deserved it,” Jenny gasped, tilting her head back. Even the ceiling of the charnel house was lined with bones. “I don’t want to die in here.”
“We’ll have to swim for it,” Artie said. “Chin up, Jenny-girl.”
“My chin won’t go any further up!”
“No point swimming against the flow of the water,” Lance said. “It’ll just force us back again.”
“Think of something better, then,” Artie suggested mildly.
Why the hell was she the only one panicking?
Lance shrugged, and a wave filled her mouth. She choked, and went down, into the darkness.
Two sets of arms grabbed, and dragged her up. She grabbed Artie’s shoulder and coughed water up onto Lance, chest heaving. They closed in around her, and she curled an arm around each of their necks, letting them hold her above the water.
“Both too bloody tall,” she gasped, and Lance squeezed her hand, looking sheepish.
“Which is why you’re diving first,” Artie said, passing her the torch. “Don’t drop that.”
She lifted a finger at him, weakly.
“You okay to swim it?” Lance asked.
“I’m a Londoner, aren’t I?” she said, and managed to toss her head, though her wet hair, darkened to brown by the water, hit them all in the face. “But I’m not taking the torch. You have to get out, too. Shine it at the door. I’ll be fine.”
“Right,” Artie said, his face grim, and took the torch back. “Get your breath.”
She took a deep breath, and another, and another, trying to fill her lungs. Then she lifted her arms away from them, and dived.
She felt them both push her forward, and arrowed through the darkness, shoving her way through the low doorway. The yellow beam faded and she fought the urge to breath and went up.
Her hands found rough stone, and only water. She shuddered and felt air slip past her lips. Her jeans weighed more than she did.
Shit, shit, shit.
There were stairs. She’d come down them.
She grappled across the ceiling, blind and hoping.
Then there was water above her hands, and the force of it shoved her down, pressing her against the floor. She had to take a breath.
Instead she shoved up. Her hand rose into air, and she touched something hard. She grabbed, and pulled, bursting out of the water.
She shrieked with glee, and then choked on the air, wheezing with relief. Her hand had found a pew and she clung to it and gasped for air as the water buffeted her. Then she scrambled free, kneeling on the pew as water rushed around her knees, peering down the stairway. Where were the boys?
There was a shadow in the water, and Lance came roaring out, gangly limbs splashing sheets of water up. She seized his sleeve and towed him onto the pew beside her.
“Where’s Artie?”
“Made me go first,” Lance gasped. “We’re out of air down there, Jen.”
She leant further forward, rocking the pew dangerously. Where was he?
Still no sign of the torch, and she began to jerk open her jeans. “Hang on to these. I’m going down.”
“Jenny!”
“They’re too heavy.”
“Give me your belt.” He was wriggling out of his. “Link ‘em. You have one end. I’ll have the other.”
“Too short,” Jenny said, preparing to slide back into the water.
“Tough.” He shoved the end into her hand and slithered down beside her. “I’m not telling the Merlin I’ve lost you both.”
She nodded shortly, and took a breath, bracing herself against the force of the river.
There was a soft splash, and Artie was staggering towards them. He grabbed the end of the pew, and blinked. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Only a rescue party,” Jenny said, climbing back onto the pew. “What took you so long?”
“Dropped the torch.”
“Nice one,” Lance said, punching him in the arm.
“Where’s my trousers?”
They both turned to look at her.
She crouched down, hiding behind the back of the pew. “Lance!”
“I put them right there.”
“In the water!”
Artie rolled his eyes. “The water’s coming in. They can’t have gone far.”
They all looked around.
The river was flowing in the front door of St Bride’s, fast and dark. The doors, open since the wave came, showed the rain crashing down outside. The pews heaped halfway along the church were beginning to stir under the water. Outside, Fleet Street was deep under the flood.
“Whose idea was this anyway?” Jenny said, shivering.
“Yours,” Lance said. “You said that nobody had been down here since the Great Flood, and we should have a look while it was dry.”
She glared at him. “You said you’d checked times with the Merrows, and they weren’t going to reopen the sluices until tomorrow.”
He scowled, crossing his arms. “Not my fault they’re all lying tideys.”
“Cut it out,” Artie said, wading past them. “Start thinking about how to get out of here. We don’t have a boat.”
“Where are you going?” Jenny called after him, shuffling round on her pew.
“Your jeans. Altar rail.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank. Think.”
“Ooh,” Lance said. “Soundbites. I don’t think, mate, sorry. I’m brawn, she’s beauty. You’re brains.”
She couldn’t help feeling feeling a little warmer at the compliment. All the same – “Yesterday I was brains and he was brawn.”
“Yeah, well,” Artie said, hooking her jeans down and pulling himself back down the aisle towards her. “No one in their right minds would believe Lance was beauty, and you’re a titch, so we changed it.”
“I am not a titch,” Jenny said with dignity, taking the sodden mass back. “I am small and perfectly formed, thank you very much.”
The boys exchanged a look and said, in chorus, “Titch.”
She turned her back on them, and tried to get back into her jeans. Wet denim was not a cooperative fabric.
“Are those strawberries on your knickers or hearts?” Lance asked.
She heard Artie hit him. “You’re not supposed to be looking at her knickers.” Then, after a moment where she seriously considered diving back into the crypt to drown in peace, he added, “I thought they were cherries.”
“Cherries are round, man.”
“I hate you both,” Jenny said to the wall. It wouldn’t work – her blushes would evaporate the Fleet, if not old King Thames himself.
“Poor titch,” Artie said solemnly, but she could tell he was laughing under it, the git.
“So,” she said, still not turning round. “What now?”
“Water’s still coming up,” Lance said, serious now. “We go up first, and then find an out.”
“Up the steeple, then,” Artie said.
She splashed back along the top of the pew, and linked arms with them, her lips pursed. Artie grabbed one pew, and Lance splashed across to grab one on the other side of the aisle. Jenny dangled between them, trying to ignore their smirks as they worked their way towards the stairs.
The tower, thankfully, was dry, and they squelched up it in silence, past dirty, glassed-in windows. At last they came to an unglazed window. Artie nodded, and they all sagged down onto the steps.
“Right,” Artie said.
“Right,” Lance echoed hopefully.
They both looked at her. She sighed and said, “Right. Plan?”
“Lean out the window, and shout for help,” Artie said promptly.
“Who made him leader?” Lance grumbled.
“You both agreed,” Artie said stiffly.
It hadn’t been so much agreement, Jenny thought, as recognition of the inevitable.
“Will anyone hear us?” she asked.
Lance shrugged. “The Merrows will be back on the water when the torrent eases.”
“Might not be until tomorrow,” Artie said, glancing out. The light was beginning to fade.
Jenny shivered.
“There’s always the Merlin,” Lance said.
They all winced.
“He’ll do that thing,” Jenny said gloomily. “With his eyebrows.”
“Then he’ll be all pointedly disappointed at us,” added Artie.
“And then,” Lance added, with a groan. “if he’s really pissed off, he’ll tell Morgan.”
Silence reigned. Jenny shivered. Her legs were clammy. Even if she leant on one of them, they weren’t much warmer than she was. And it was only May.
Artie sighed heavily. “Nope. Can’t think of anything better.”
“Damn,” Lance said slumping down. “Let’s just wait for the Merrows.”
“I’m cold,” Jenny said, trying to sound unconcerned.
Lance leered at her. “I’ll keep you warm, Jen.”
This time she hit him.
Artie stood up, and leant out the window. “You two joining me?”
They squashed in beside him, and, as one, began to yell for help.
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-28 12:16 pm (UTC)Poor Jenny. I don't think she was expecting a commentary on her undies when she left home that morning.
Glad you enjoyed it ^_^ Thanks for the comment.