SCHLIMAZL (n.) Yiddish — a chronically unlucky person 

— Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie —

October 23, 1781

Caerdydd, Wales

     The last thing he remembered was somebody crying above him. Not his dad- his dad seemed to make it a mission to not show emotions near his children. Not anymore, at least. Not his older siblings- they had cursed his name, wished him death. Not his younger siblings- he had done them wrong, this he knew and accepted. He wasn't expecting any tears of sympathy. Outside, the wind howled.

     He was so, so sick. He sunk into the floor, back aching from hours of laying on the thin mattress digging into its frame. His skin was melting. His joints were stiff. Every blink was like pouring acid straight into his eyes, every breath set his heart on fire. With blurry eyesight he managed to make out a vague blob, its shadow weaving back and forth in front of the candlelight.

     His sister. After everything, she came to take care of him. After everything, she loved him. How selfish he was.

     "Stay awake," she sniffled, setting down her candlestick in order to angrily smack his chest with a pillow. "Get up! Get up!" All he could do was let out a pained whimper as she wailed. "You are such a... a..." her half-hearted insult was interrupted by another shower of tears, which fell onto his frozen face, rolling pathetically onto the floor.

     Like this they stayed for an embarrassing amount of time, brother and sister, reunited by nothing but sheer desperation, listening to rhythmical pattering of rain on the window.

     "Huna'n dawel, heno... huna," she started to sing softly, voice cracking on the last word. Fat tears gathered into her eyes as she continued to force out the words. "Huna'n fwyn, y tlws ei lun. Pam yr wyt yn awr yn gwenu-" she broke off with a sob. How he wished he could move. All he could manage was to stare up at her with misty eyes of regret and apologies.

     Speak, goddammit! Why couldn't he speak anymore?

     "Gwenu'n dirion yn dy hun?" his sister managed to finish. Her eyes told him that she knew he was sorry. Why are you smiling, gently in your sleep? Are angels smiling above you?

     She waited for him to say something. He didn't. With a disappointed sigh, she stood above him. She crossed herself. She recited the Hail Mary a couple of times. She left, hesitating at the doorway before disappearing from sight.

     He felt himself drift into unconsciousness, and about an hour later, woke to see his youngest sibling, his sister Irene, standing above him. In her hands was a glass.

     "Why won't he die yet?" She asked, frowning with childlike curiosity, curls falling out of its delicate ponytail. The second youngest of his siblings, Eilwen, gasped.

     "You can't say that!" he hissed.

     "But that's what Father is asking!" Irene retorted. He felt his heart break. "He says we should just forget about 'im."

     "Well, I don't want him to die," Eilwen said with crossed arms, scowling at his little sister. "Don't you want that, too?"

     "I dunno," Irene shrugged, avoiding her brother's gaze. If he had any bit of hope left, it was now completely gone. There was nothing left to live for. In a desperate attempt to make them realize he was awake, he tried to make a sound low in his throat, his body burning from the effort.

     By a miracle, he started to wail.

     The two children screamed and jumped back, having believed their brother was incapable of making sound anymore. Eilwen hit him with a pillow, over and over again. Like he was a monster. Inhumane. He started to sob harder. Irene picked up a candlestick, holding it high over her head. Eilwen screamed, but it was too late.

     She struck her big brother on the forehead, a nasty gash appearing where it hit. His sobs turned to screams- he couldn't move. God, why couldn't he move? He was scared- so scared-

     His legs went numb. Then his arms. His hearing went, then his vision. So, so many thoughts- then none at all. A terrifying limbo between loud awakeness and a loss of senses. The pain of his sickness amplified 10 times, 50, 100. He couldn't hold on anymore.

     Then there was nothing.

—-------

     Vincent Rhys Pennel considered himself to have expertise in the act of being a ninnyhammer, thank you very much.

     Don't go into the woods, Vincent Rhys, his mother would scold as she stabbed her sewing needle through wool, grimacing as seconds later he ran into the bush. Stay away from those boys, she would warn, as he left to go play with his friends.

     That cake is for later, his father would remind lightly with a deep laugh, before his son put a fistful into his mouth.

     I would not encourage you to eat that, big sister Winnifred sniffed with disdain, as her brother stuck her tongue out at her and ate a leaf.

     Don't touch that, Rhys!, big brother Emyr would yelp, every time Vincent came trampling into his studio.

     Stay awake, Vincent, don't go, stay awake, be strong, little sister Siân- his dearest friend- begged, everytime he took a nap, afraid that this time would be the last.

     He was never one to follow the rules. They shrunk from him, hissing as he sashayed past. Past the gates of home, past the boundaries, over the metaphorical lines. He was a bullet of a Brown Bess, shaky and unstable, moving faster than God intended anything to move. He was Odysseus, man of many devices. Narcissus, his siblings called him with disdain, a name he wouldn't correct. As the third-oldest of seven children, he learned how to blend in when he needed to, how to make sure the whole damn world saw him when he wanted to.

     He wasn't one to get frightened- he was always the one frightening others. But a terrible feeling settled in the extremities of his body the longer he stayed here, this strange new world, so different from his home of Caerdydd, Wales, 1781.

     He wasn't sick anymore- that was certainly nice. Every breath pulled into his body he took in with a habitual wince, yet there was no pain. His face, once swollen and covered in horrible red welts, warts and pus was now as clean shaven as a newborn. At the time of his earthly departure, Vincent was certain he had lost nearly 50 pounds, and was so, so weak... now he could stand on his own, walk on his own- it was almost embarrassing how giddy it made him to see the flesh on his bones, how his arms, free of pockmarks and welts, almost brought tears to his eyes.

     His body had walked itself into a hallway of constricting size. His dead body. Was he a ghost now? Some sort of horrible apparition? Frowning, Vincent wondered if his life of contumacious tendencies had banished him to this quizzical hell. Was this hell? It smelled too nice to be hell, he thought. Standing in front of a nondescript door- he needed this door, he knew it, but he didn't know why- the smell of spices like those fancy Lords imported from the Mughals wafted through the air.

     For the first time in his life, he felt pure terror.

     "Should we go in?"

     Oh, yeah.

     Vincent casually glanced over to his companion, who he had completely forgotten about. If anything, she was following him, he thought bitterly. She was Indian, with a strong, round face and muscled upper body, and, embarrassingly, about 8 centimeters taller than him. Her black hair was slicked back into a long braid, and she wore a ensemble of different fabrics- when he had inquired, she had listed off words he had never heard before- kameez for the top, salwars for the bottoms, dupatta for the blue shawl draped over her shoulders.

     "I'm never opposed to going into strange places," Vincent replied, crossing his arms as he leaned back. "But... I... well, I don't know. This doesn't feel right." The words of caution felt foreign on his tongue. Maybe his life of sin was finally catching up to him, he thought with a sick feeling.

     He never second-guessed, never thought before he acted. So why were his feet weighed down like anchors, stubbornly stuck to the floor as they stood awkwardly listening to the voices inside? Looking back and forth down the long, seemingly endless hallway, he wondered if he would be stuck here forever. He didn't make a move to open the door or even to knock, instead staring at it intensely like it would open on its own. Above, the artificial lights glowed with a yellow aura that made him nauseous.

     "What, they didn't have doors in England?" the girl jested, breaking the silence. "Do you not know how they work?

     "Wales, actually."

     "Same thing."

     "No, it is most definitely not!"

     "Saaaame thing."

     "Dos i chwarae dy nain," he sniffed. Even though he knew it was impossible, Vincent found himself glancing around to make sure the ghost of his mother hadn't heard her son telling a girl to go sleep with her grandmother.

     "I'm going to assume that means 'wow, Lipika, you're so beautiful and amazing and smart','" she replied, a mischievous smirk growing on her face. Vincent glared.

     "You, ma'am, are an arse."

     Lipika snorted- very unladylike, Vincent thought with a mental scoff. Any woman from his home would shrink from her brashness. He wondered if they were from the same place at all. Then again, it also wasn't too polite of himself to call her an arse, even if she was one. But since when was he any bit proper?

     "I can definitely see where you're coming from, though," she mumbled, voice laced with a thick accent he couldn't quite place. She leaned forward, heavily relying on two mahogany canes, normal looking except for the parts that wrapped around her forearm. He wondered if it was some new invention- walking braces to help the paralyzed.

     He knew it was also quite possible she was from a different time than him- when you were dead, could you not interact with anyone and everyone? But truthfully, he didn't want to think of that. At least, not right now.

     Shrugging, Lipika took a few steps forward, her canes making a clicking sound with each contact with the floor.

     "Alright then, let's go. We can deal with this later," she suggested.

     "Huh? Really?"

     "Yes? You don't need my permission, you know. I don't even know you."

     Vincent scoffed.

     "I know, you beef-head," he grumbled, although secretly relieved that she suggested leaving before he did. "Mayhaps there are better endeavors to be found down the hall."

     "I'm sorry, did you just use 'mayhaps' in a sentence unironically?" Lipika blinked, a hint of mockery dancing in her eyes.

     "It is a perfectly reputable word! You wouldn't get this kind of proper diction from an Englishman, you know."

     She stared. He stared. She blinked. He wondered where this strange girl was from- he was certain she was thinking the same of him. And just like that, as if a silent word was spoken between them, they set off down the hallway.

—--------

     "How'd you die?"

     "Scarlet fever," Vincent answered, arms out wide as he tried to balance on a rock. They had made their way out of the strange building, now exploring a quaint creek, where no one could bother them except the mallards noisily flapping as they walked past. He was almost surprised he admitted his sickness so easily- death had a strange effect on his thoughts, didn't it? A while ago, he would have been terribly embarrassed to admit anything to anyone, in fear they would treat him like glass. Thankfully, Lipika didn't do that.

     "Oh, yuck," Lipika responded casually, nose wrinkling. "You're not contagious, are you?"

     He was about to snark back that of course he wasn't, but suddenly stopped, realizing that he actually wasn't sure. He didn't think so. He didn't feel sick anymore.

     "I was hit by a train," she continued in that lighthearted tone, using her right cane to push a small stone into the water. "If you were wondering. I mean, they threw me onto the tracks after I died, but it still counts."

     "What in the world is a train? Some sort of beast? Is it the name of a profession?" Vincent asked, genuinely confused. To his shame, his companion laughed.

     "Baap re baap-" Lipika mumbled, trying to control her giggles. "You're old old."

     "I am not!" Vincent retorted, face flushing.

     "Oh yeah? What year is it?"

     Vincent halted, almost certain that Lipika was from the future. She threw her pretty braid over her shoulder as she waited for his answer, dark eyes boring into him like bullet holes. (He had shot someone once himself. It was an accident, promise.)

     "I'm not gonna make fun of you," she finally said, voice soft. "I'm honestly just curious at this point." Vincent raised an eyebrow, but for once, Lipika's face seemed genuinely kind.

     "I-" he started, almost scared to tell her. Slowly, he continued. "The last I remembered, it was October 23, 1781." Lipika's eyes widened greatly, exhaling sharply, but to his relief, she didn't tease him. Instead, she silently mouthed an 'oh,' eyes darting around in what he assumed was thought. "...why? Where do you think you are?"

     "April 2, 1947," She said, quickly and quietly. Vincent felt faint. He sat down, harder than he intended, his tailbone smacking against a flat stone. He barely felt it, staring down at his reflection in the water.

     "No," he answered with a forced laugh , as if he could make her admit that she was lying to him. "No, no that's not possible, it's- no!"

     "I could say the same to you, grandpa," she responded, tapping her left cane on the ground with a frown as she sat down next to him. "It's something monstrous, isn't it? This new world."

     "Do not talk to me as if you know any better than I do," Vincent snapped, feeling rather on edge all of a sudden. Lipika laughed starkly.

     "Please, I made no such claim," she retorted. "If anything, you impress me greatly. Where did you learn Hindi?"

     What?

     Looking up from the stream, he was rather confused to see the genuinity on her face. When had he said a word in Hindi? Whoever this girl thought she was, she was getting on his nerves. Is she, or are you just not used to feeling fear?

     "I... I don't," He answered dumbly, not sure what else to say. She glared. "I've been speaking English this whole time," he added, his sentence sounding more like a question than anything. "I mean, I heard you speak it, I think. Once or twice. Never more than a sentence, though." Each word just made him feel like he was digging himself a deeper hole, though he wasn't sure why. He was telling the truth.

     "British men are insufferable!" She huffed. "You all are the same! I try to be nice, but every time, without fail, trying to make us feel like we're the dumb ones-"

     "Well, good thing I'm not British, then."

     "Oh, whatever!"

     Frustrated, she chucked a small pebble into the water, the rock overshooting and landing on the opposite bank. Unhooking her forearms from their aides, she brought her knees to her chest and buried her face into them childishly. Did he do something wrong?

     Awkwardly, Vincent took to staring down at the flowing water, wincing at his appearance. His hair was much too long, sticking up at weird ends. Although a trivial matter, he was rather upset that he hadn't died with his coat on- he looked ridiculous in his undershirt.

     It also would've been nice to die with shoes on. He had been trying to ignore it, but his socks were filthy now, and he was sure no one would be able to take him seriously. They'd probably call him Soggy Sock Vincent now. It wouldn't be the worst nickname he's ever received.

     "So." Vincent started slowly, picking up a pebble and offering it to the girl in a sort of odd peace offering. "The future, huh? What ever is it like?" Lipika snorted, taking the pebble and chucking it harshly into the water along with the others. Poor pebbles.

     "Not perfect, I'll tell you that much," she grumbled, still staring down at her bent knees. "You're older than Pride and Prejudice, how am I supposed to tell anything without... you know, spoiling it?"

     "I'm already dead," he reminded her.

     "Oh." Lipika rested her cheek on her knees. "Right. In that case, I guess I'm not sure what to say without giving your old heart a scare."

     "Is Wales independent by now?!"

     "Ah, well."

     "Damn it all. What happened to the Holy Roman Empire? Kingdom of Naples? Prussia? Wallachia? The Ottoman's, for Christ's sake!" He had tried throwing in the biggest nations he knew.

     "You're making this a lot harder than it has to be, man. They did invent airplanes, so that was neat. I think you'd have a heart attack if you saw one." Vincent nodded, pretending he understood a single word of what she said, not wanting to threaten the relatively stable peace they were at right now. He just let her ramble on about some 'airplane trip' she had taken, lazily drawing circles in the shallow water with his finger as she listed off city and mountain and sibling names, and aunts and uncles and dogs and cats. Every so often she'd ask if he was following, and he'd responded with a yes, although truthfully, he had stopped listening, finding some small joy in watching a toad hop onto a nearby rock. He had always loved toads- his mother had a fit when he brought a pocketful of them into the house a couple years ago.

     (Thankfully) Lipika's story finally ended, something about a 'hot air balloon' and a pack of goats in the Himalayas. She looked very proud of herself. Even better than the story finally ending, a sudden, curious noise arose from afar. 

     "Oh, bugger!" A voice wailed from downstream. "Oh, Himmel, Arsch und Zwirn!"

     "What in the world was that?" Lipika jumped, startled, her peace ruined once and for all. She started to reach back to her forearm crutches.

     "No, no you stay here-" Vincent insisted, already standing up, habitually wincing at his creaking joints. Maybe he was old. "I got it. Probably some other dead person- I don't want you to have to... you know, have to hurry. With your stick things." Saying that was odd, to say the least (the dead person part, not the being nice part). Lipika made a face at him, grabbing onto a large rock to brace herself as she stood up, looking much like the baby giraffe he once saw as a boy.

     "I'm not about to miss this," she grinned, pushing aside her obviously hurt pride. "Maybe they know where we are!" Once again totally ignoring all proper social norms- he supposed in 1947, there were no more manners- she grabbed his shoulder for support as she fit her crutches into place, watching his ankle with the cane when she was done to signify him to start moving forward. His heart beat- this is what he needed! A good, hopefully-not-too-dangerous, being-nosy-about-other-people's-lives adventure.

     That's when they heard the boom. 

————

Sorry for the wait 

...and the shortness/shallowness of this one

The intro chapters have to come before the big plot things and I'm finding it hard to fit interesting character introductions in lmao. Thank you so much for sticking with me!!! <33 Hope you're well!! Would love to see any comments/suggestions y'all have :-)

Vincent "Soggy Sock Vincent" Pennel reminds everyone he isn't British, the novel.