Tenebrae Manor (10 page)

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Further out in the forest, where Tenebrae Manor stands only as a prominent backdrop rather than an all encompassing surrounding, the hut of the hermit Crow is alight with an orange glow. Its sickly light illuminates the undersides of pine branches, forming an intermingling tartan of orange and black. The shadows expand and retract with each crackle of the fire lit within the outdoor furnace.

As smoke spirals lazily into the night air, a sharp sound can be discerned; Crow is tempering his blade with hammer strokes. The sword has taken shape since the hermit's awkward meeting with Bordeaux, obtaining a fine edge that will soon be honed further into an enviable sharpness. The fire was beginning to die, until Crow threw more kindling to the flames. His firewood, much to his chagrin, was composed of wood golems he had slain recently. His skewbald mare brayed uneasily from its stall. Crow winced at the ever-growing pile of scrap wood and gazed anxiously out into the trees, where the calls of ravens echoed through the dry atmosphere.

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Flanking the western wall of Tenebrae Manor, a crude trail of sorts rides up alongside, covered by a cold stone roofing formed by the bulging overhang of the auditorium above. A pair of forgotten carriages lay cobwebbed beneath the lot, shielded by rain to an extent, though the muddy ground about their wheels had splashed up to the axles.

A macabre carriage saunters up the path from the trees as a does a bear crawling from the hibernating mouth of a cave. The clatter and snort of horses quenches the silence and the carriage groans in agony under the weight of its cargo.

The driver is curious specimen; an impish fellow hunched and frail, spine curved to such extent that he seemed to be coiling towards complete omission from any mind. His eyes balloon forth, locked forever in an expressionless gawk. Pocked with the evidence of removed stitches, his lips protrude - yet the mouth never moves. The imp has clearly lost the ability to speak - perhaps out of fear of punishment of the anonymous tyrant who had stitched his mouth previously, so that he was regarded as completely mute.

He pulls at the reins of his horses; they come to a stop beneath the canopy of stone, where an enormous pair of doors opened up into the cellars of the manor. And, as though he premeditated the imp's arrival, the doors creaked open and the mute chef shuffled out onto the drive. The chef pushed heavily on the doors, though even with his ample weight they were difficult to budge.

He then moved to assist the small visitor, who had drawn the cloak from his cargo and revealed the quarterly larder of Tenebrae's supplies. The mute chef pouted, not of disappointment, rather concentration as he counted with his pudgy fingers. Crates of wine, barrels of fish, sacks of grains, hefty cuts of meat, wheels of cheese, assortments of vegetables; it all seemed in order. They nodded silently to each other and proceeded to unload the larder - laborious work for such decrepit souls. And once the last barrel was rolled down into the cellar, the imp man mounted his carriage once again. The reins cracked, the horses brayed and away he went back into the trees from whence he came. The mute chef waved him off and closed the doors; the driveway was still and no words were spoken to give evidence that the scene had ever changed - only the newly imprinted tracks in the mud betrayed as such.

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The night sky above Tenebrae Manor was still but beneath, the currents were moving. The pull of water streams interwove and stitched together, an ominous foreboding that was stirring something; the atmosphere thick with a sense of forthcoming change. The undertow pulled in all directions, it was only a matter of time before the seams frayed and tore apart into unmitigated anarchy.

The doors swung wide open and a gust of air was sucked into the vacuous auditorium, its presence felt only by the leaves and feathers that hung from the ceiling. There was an empty echo, repetitive and solemn, that of fine leather footsteps clicking on the floor.

             
Bordeaux glided to the stage where he was able to look out on the arena where Libra's guests would gather in a few hours. The spotlight shone down on him, his fiery hair alight with cherry red curls. Shadows cast by the sharp contours of his face were thrown in a way that accentuated his gauntness. Of streamlined refinement, his coat and trousers clung to his slight body as he moved from the spotlight and continued to pace about the stage. In the umbrageous darkness next to the spotlight, Bordeaux could not shake a sense of impending doom, a cloud of forbearance hung above his shoulders. Were he to turn his head to confirm the storm’s existence, the clouds would shift about their axis, remaining hidden in the umbra, the dark side of the moon, so to say, behind his head. He felt his senses sharpen in the silence; his ears filled with a quiet as encompassing as a roaring ocean, only the soft sound of snores were detectable.

             
Up in his loft, Arpage was sleeping. Head down on the desk, his quill smearing ink across a score sheet. The ruff about his neck had ridden up in his slumbers and was now the victim of his dribbling mouth that expanded and retracted with each breath.

On hearing the composer's gentle snores, the corner of Bordeaux's mouth upturned into a grin. He only hoped that the proceedings would run without hitch and that life could return to its usual lull afterward. Matters were waiting to be acknowledged; too much time had been exhausted in this fickle celebration. Bordeaux gritted his teeth and swallowed back a choke of angst, before flinging his arms in the air and calmly making his exit from the theatre.

The light sought refuge from the night tide and just as the dull orange glow of a candle brooded in the presence of its own exposure, so too did Edweena lament in her isolated drawing room. Through the mirror, the full-length portal into an opposite reality, she critiqued her profile. She brushed dust from her grey pants, adjusted a ribbon upon her black bodice and ran her arms down the tight black sleeves of her undershirt. Her hair, a crop of onyx, coupled with her practical dress sense could have her mistaken for a figure of masculinity. However, one look at her slim curved frame and there was no doubt she was woman. A woman who, upon staring into her reflection, realised that there was no opposing reality, the glass was merely a cold reminder of what was. And even if this fanciful notion of a happy dreamland were true, the figure staring back at her did not show the signs of such heightened joviality.

Her inspections were brought to a halt by the emergence of a series of dull thumps, not unlike the sound of scratching on sandpaper. Beyond the sealed windows of silent room, the night wind uttered no breath. It could not be the wind that tapped so impatiently on the panes. She strode to the window and cautiously peered about.

It took a moment for her vision to focus beyond the reflection of her own haunted face and eventually there came into view a twisted branch. On observing the branch, its undeniable movement in the absence of wind, Edweena was dumbstruck. Before her, this ligneous limb clawed at the outer wall of the manor. It was grasping blindly just as one fumbles for light in a dark room.

There was then a sharp crack, a piercing through the air that made Edweena jump. From the gap created by the probing arm, a sinewy tendril curled into the room, weaving like a green snake before settling itself close to the floor. The vine clung to the interiors as ivy is wont to do and as Edweena regained her composure, she noticed more sounds, more scratching. All along the windowed wall there crawled ivy vines and skeletal branches attempting to find any ingress to Tenebrae Manor.

The wall transformed, streaked now in a green hue that bulged its ruffles in shoots of ivy leaves, until one side of the drawing room looked like a forest itself. The glass broke further; the branches that had been tapping so urgently seemed at peace now that they had found entry into the room.

Edweena stood bewildered, although a steeled resolve prompted her to inspect the verdure phenomenon that had so suddenly intruded upon her musing. Her slender hand reached for the wall, until her white fingers brushed against a vine. It shivered under her touch before returning to stillness. Edweena snatched her hand away stared perplexedly. How long she would have remained there was unknown but her trance was broken when the boom of the foyer's clock came echoing through the halls, its fainted whisper reaching her ears. She was expected in the auditorium. Absorbing one last glance at the green wall, she strode swiftly back out into the halls.

The clock had indeed blasted out its battle cry and down in the foyer, a mountain stirred and began to move. The very idea of a mountain moving presented a most unusual picture but that was indeed what was happening. A hulking figure that had stood steadfast indefinitely now groaned into life. It is of course, Usher. The hour of Libra's celebration was nigh; his duties were required at another door, namely that of the auditorium.

There was a twitch in his thumb and a creak in his neck as he slowly lifted his leg to make the first step towards his summons. Usher's limbs ached from disuse and though his face still held fast to its eternal deadpan, a new feature had augmented with it. A faint detection of cripplingly determined focus; he simply must reach the auditorium to welcome the guests. He ambled forward like an invalid, his suited shoulders snow-capped with dust; the light reflecting from atop his scalp, where only a few black reeds lay plastered in slimy grease.

Reaching the stairs was the easiest part but now as he stood at the foot of the mountain. He sighed perplexedly and attempted to lift his foot high enough to gain elevation. Gripping the banister for balance allowed him to take the first step with minimal struggle but his celebrations of such an effort were snuffed out as a brisk green shadow rushing past him.

Crow had entered the house and sprung out of the blocks in the race to the summit. The wood hermit barely noticed the Usher, who received a rather rude brush on the face by Crow's golden cape as it fluttered like a flag behind his shoulders. Up the stairs he flew, shrinking from Usher's view towards the distant pinnacle.

It had taken Usher a quarter of an hour to reach the first landing. He paused for breath and tried to ignore the taunts of the candelabrum-hung bats that squealed at the blundering disturbance. They mocked his stunted attempts, shook the darkness from their wings and settled back into sleep. As he continued to climb, another apparition stormed past; Edweena in all her sullen beauty spared a word for Usher at the very least, unlike Crow before her.

"Come now, slowpoke... That's you, you know..."

Her appearance startled Usher, her intimidating eyes thrown over her shoulder as she ascended above him before she too was lost to the upper shadows.

Surely he must be close to the top. He was presently overtaken again, this time by Deadsol and Comets. The imp jester imitated Usher's sluggishness by jumping up the steps with both feet, one at a time until Deadsol snatched the runt by the ear and hauled him up the stairs. Next came Rune, the ancient zombie, Tenebrae's mummified librarian, who was not known to venture farther than the confines of his books. Still, despite the old age of Rune, he still shuffled with greater speed than the doorman.

Usher had reached the top floor of the manor and now shuffled urgently towards his destination. The goal was so close now. Again he found himself giving way, this time to an enormous cake propped on a trolley. The ghastly thing towered like a sickly ghost of cream and sugar, quivering as it rocketed down the hall as though of its own accord. But no, the sweet slab was not endowed with such ability, for hidden behind the thing and pushing the trolley with meaty hands, came the mute chef. Despite his speed, the man moved with precision, deftly rebalancing the cake whenever it threatened to tip. Madlyn trailed behind, somewhat amiably dressed in her smock and dress of white and navy blue.

By now the Usher was forlorn. Who was there left to arrive? His frustration welled within him, were he capable of secreting a tear of emotional ventilation he would by now have drowned Tenebrae Manor.

Finally, Bordeaux arrived beside him. Prim as always, the demon gave Usher an encouraging pat on the back before entering the auditorium, which was now a few feet away. Usher’s face showed nothing but inside he was smiling. He triumphantly clasped the handle of the great door and hauled it open. This action of victory was met not with applause but rather an unearthly quiet, broken occasionally by the sporadic coughs of those already inside. Soon Bordeaux returned to his side.

"Usher."

The doorman directed his gaze to the crimson demon. "Yes, Master Bordeaux?"

"Usher, we are all here. Come inside and take a seat."

With all the haste he had left to muster, Usher joined those sitting amongst the seats. Though they all sat together, the characters appeared so isolated in the sea of vast red felt. The seats jutted their heads above one another like ripples in a mounting ocean wave where each row pushed further towards the crest. Busts of the characters floated above the tide, attaining to no particular pattern, just as jettisoned barrels bob in the sea. Upwards the wave rose to its tipping point, where it remained inert. Above, the cobwebs lay draped in such thickness as to emulate a storm, the feathers thrown by Deadsol could very well have been seagulls trying to escape the coming rains that would inflate the turgid red sea beneath.

And now, from the zenith of the wave appeared a prominent shadow that blotted out the entrance with its roundness.

On the stage, Bordeaux stood tall and announced with a voice of smooth baritone, “Lovely ladies and grand gentlemen. I present to you, our approbated Lady Libra.”

The shadow at the door moved and exposed itself in the light to be none other than the Lady herself. Met with a flaccid applause, she marched with a grandiose oblivion down the aisle to the jubilant chords of Arpage’s piano. Libra was dressed magnificently and adorned with trinkets of jewelry that reflected the light as she moved. She was a confronting sight, somewhat jarring in her protuberance; the pot of her fleshy paunch lay generously bulging over the waist of her black and billowy pantaloons. In all, she had attained the look akin to a gypsy belly dancer, her hair tied high on her head where dark curls burst forth like reeds of a pineapple or the lava of a long dormant volcano. Her arms remained aloft, absorbing what applause and cheers she could hear, until she reached the steps of the stage. Hereupon she required Bordeaux’s assistance up the stairs, for she was so heavy that such effort brought about fatigue. So much so that once she had reached the stage where a throne awaited her ensconcing, she stood for a moment panting for breath. Soon enough though, she sat, flushed with a light sweat on her face and brushed a strand of hair daintily from her face.

“Lady Libra,” Bordeaux recited, “You, our glorious mistress, our steadfast leader. To you we cling in the epochs of uncertainty. To you we turn for the assurance of blissful night. May Tenebrae never disintegrate under your reign, may our ancient home outlast time itself. To you, on this day (although we really mean night), we celebrate the anniversary of you and no other. May the evening be a most excellent jubilee! May the night know no end!”

Libra was grinning as feverishly as a child, though she was not listening entirely to Bordeaux and his well-rehearsed speech. Rather, she had spied the mountainous cake that stood centre stage in a glistening glory.

“Yes, very good Bordeaux. Now you there! Wheel that cake this way!”

She was of course speaking to the mute chef, who stood with his arms behind his back next to his masterpiece, unhearing and therefore unmoving to Libra’s request.

“The imbecile! Never mind!” she huffed. “Madlyn!”

The servant girl spluttered into action, pushing the cake to within reach of Libra. In her clumsiness, she had almost tumbled headlong into the thing, until a merciful regaining of balance held her upright.

Libra produced a fork as if from nowhere and proceeded to pick away a prominent mouthful from the body of the cake. As she placed it into her mouth her eyes rolled back with gluttonous delight.

“Oh my. That blind buffoon did it again!”

“He isn’t blind,” said Madlyn.

Libra’s eyes cut through to the servant girl’s very core, “You correct me?”

Madlyn was startled back into an attentive stance, her eyes wide and anxious after speaking out of line. All the while the chef stood unknowing of the conversation going on and that it had been he who had been readily insulted by the person he had worked for weeks to please.

“Moving on.” Bordeaux swept in just in time to save Madlyn from punishment. “As you were all readily informed, you will now line up to present our Lady Libra with presents. Who would like to go first?”

It was Comets who made the first movement, leaping from his chair and scuttling down the aisle cradling something dark in his gloved hands. Whatever it was, he held it like a newborn or perhaps a bird that had broken its wing; his usual erratic nature seemed to have been replaced by a doting regard.