While the warrens beneath Edinburgh were the only home I knew as a child, I was not born in them. Nor would my mother ever tell me how she had come to that place.
“That’s a dark tale, James, and it’s already dark as Hell down here,” she would mutter. “Do not ask me of it again.”
However, even as a small boy, I had a way of getting others to tell me their secrets. Over the years I prodded and probed, and when she was tired or ill or drunk–all of which happened often enough–my mother would let things slip, so that in time I pieced together the story myself.
It was a simple enough tale. Throughout her youth she lived with her father: a former sailor who owned a shop on Candlemaker Row. Who her own mother was, she did not know. People along the Row claimed that, when her father returned from his last voyage at sea, he had carried a baby in his arms, swaddled in a fine silver cloth. He said the girl’s name was Rose, and that was all he ever said when anyone asked where the child had come from.
When Rose was seventeen, her father perished of the fever that had swept Edinburgh that winter. One of his cousins inherited the shop, and as the man was not inclined to charity, Rose was forced to manage for herself. Thinking herself fortunate, she took a position as maid in the house of a well‑respected judge. However, neither her status as maid nor the judge’s respectability lasted long. Though I can recall her only as a hunched and withered thing, others told me that my mother was beautiful in her youth, with raven hair and sea‑green eyes. Barely a year after her arrival at the judge’s household, she gave birth to a son with striking gold hair–a match to the master’s own glided locks.
His adultery revealed, the judge promptly repented his sins and proclaimed he had been placed under a spell by the lovely young maid. No one doubted him. Rather than find herself on Grassmarket Street hanging by her neck for witchcraft, Rose fled into the sewers with her infant son and found her way into the labyrinth beneath the city.
The warrens were populated by beggars, whores, thieves, and murderers who preyed as often upon those dwelling below as those living above. What Rose did to ensure the survival of her and her baby, I will never know. That knowledge even I could never pry from my mother. She would cackle with laughter when I asked her about her first days in the dark, then weep and pull at her snarled hair. I grew weary of her muttering and moaning, and as I grew older I ceased asking.
One morning–I was about ten, I suppose, though I did not know it at the time–I nudged her shoulder to wake her, and she did not move. This was in the cramped niche where we made our home: a hollow barely large enough for us both to curl up in, carved into the wall of a tunnel that, if you followed it upward, led all the way to a drain in Covenant Close.
I gave her a hard shove and yelled at her, but still she did not move, and I knew by her coldness that she was not simply in one of her drunken stupors. For a time I stared at her, listening to distant, wicked laughter echoing down the passage. Finally I rummaged in our niche and found the last bit of bread we possessed. I sat cross‑legged and ate both my share and hers, and after that I looted the body.
There wasn’t much on her. A single halfpence, a small knife with a worn bone handle, and–tucked inside her filthy dress– a carefully folded piece of cloth. It was the size of a kerchief, and exceedingly fine, shimmering like silver in the gloom. The cloth was unsoiled, and even my dirty fingers left no mark on it.
The laughter drew closer. The sound was crude–a man’s laughter. Others joined in.
I wadded up the cloth and shoved it inside my shirt, then tucked the knife and halfpence into the pocket of my breeches. Often men would poke their heads into our little niche while we were there, looking to steal from us, or worse. My mother would brandish the knife, driving them back. Except it was the light in her eyes that kept them at bay more than the blade. They would spark green in the blackness, and even I would be afraid of her. The men would snarl and curse. Witch, they’d call her, and Jezebel. But they would leave us alone.
A woman’s scream echoed up the tunnel, drowned out by the sound of rude jeers. That would keep them occupied, at least for a short while. I crawled through the niche’s opening and lowered myself down to the floor of the tunnel, making no noise. Red light flickered from down the passage, and shadows writhed there. I turned and ran up the tunnel as fast as my short legs would take me.
“Hey, there!” a rough voice shouted behind me. “I see you, little rat. Come back here!”
The heavy sound of boots thumped behind me, and I heard the grunting of breath, but I didn’t look back. I kept my head down, pumping my arms, and rounded a bend in the tunnel. Just ahead was a crack in the wall. It was barely more than two hands wide, but I was such a skinny little thing that I slithered through, quick as a snake.
A hand shot in after me, clamping around my ankle.
“Now I got you,” said a man’s voice, thick and slurred from whiskey. “No need to wait my turn. There’s nothing they can do with a lady I can’t do with you. Now come back here, little rat.”
Another hand pawed up my leg. I kicked back with my bare foot, contacting something soft and fleshy, mashing it beneath my heel. By the wet cry of pain I guessed it was his nose. The hands let go.
Free of his grasp, I wriggled up the passage, which had been carved into the stone not by human hands but by the action of flowing water long ago. There were many such ways, connecting with the crypts and passages that had been hewn beneath the foundations of the city, and like all the children who dwelled down there–the ones who survived, at any rate–I had explored many of them. I knew that crack connected to a drain that spilled out on Grassmarket Street, in the shadow of the castle.
However, it had been at least a year since I had last used that particular passage, and I had grown. Bony as I was, I came to a bend where my chest became wedged. Panic gripped me, and I feared I would have to shimmy back down. Or worse yet, that I was stuck, and that some smaller child in years to come would find my bones and take the knife and coin and silver cloth even as I had taken them from the corpse of my mother.
I strained with all the might in my skinny limbs, bracing my feet against either side of the crack. Stone sliced though my shirt and bit into my chest, drawing blood, and the fluid acted as a lubricant. My body popped through the narrows and tumbled down the crack into a larger way–a clay pipe slicked with water and mold. Out of control, I slid down the pipe toward a circle of gray light that rapidly dilated before me. I shot through the hole, landing on hard stones, wet with slime like a newborn baby. Air rushed into my lungs, hard and shuddering, as if they had never drawn a breath before.
I looked up, squinting against the sullen daylight, which seemed inordinately bright to my dark‑adjusted eyes. When was the last time my mother had brought me up to the surface? I could not remember. People walked by, but no one paid me more heed than they would a rat that had just crawled from the sewer. I touched my chest, wincing, and my hand came away red with blood. It hurt, but I had suffered worse. I was alive, and indeed I was like an infant again, wet with ichor, birthed from the canal of the drain, with an entire new life before me.
It was not, as I would come to learn, the last time in my existence I would be reborn.
I spent that first morning on the surface lurking in the stairs and walled closes along the Grassmarket. Horses trotted down the muddy street, pulling glossy carriages; trinkets of gold and silver shone behind shop windows. Though tempted to venture closer, I kept to the shadows, watching as folk in fine clothes passed by, conscious of the soiled rags that clad my own raw‑boned form. This world was strange to me, and though it seemed fair compared to the labyrinth below, I sensed it was every bit as perilous.