Tenebrae Manor (12 page)

No door shielded the entrance to the hut, so Bordeaux rapped his clawed knuckles on the frame and called out.

Inside the house was one large and very bare room, lit in shafts by ribbons of moonlight piercing through the holes in the roof. The air smelt of rotted wood and earth and to the immediate horror of both Arpage and Jethro, a crouched figure stirred in the far corner. Remaining low to the ground, the emaciated figure moved two steps forward and, still concealed by darkness, called out in a chilling and raspy voice, "Who is there?"

"It is I, old friend. Bordeaux."

In a flash the figure shot forward towards them, as if in one frame. Arpage tottered back in fright and fell on his haunches. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the face of the figure; it was a weathered portrait and skin sagged like old leather, of orange faded to brown. Straw like hair arrowed downwards from under a black-rimmed hat. But it was the eyes that were the most frightening. The eyes or lack thereof one should say, were merely black hollows in the old leather, for the head of this creature was indeed a pumpkin; before them stood the scarecrow, Sinders.

"Bordeaux! My old friend! Why would you venture out into the snow with this dismal field as your destination? This must be an errand of vital importance."

Bordeaux dumped the dead weight Jethro to the floor and shook hands warmly with the scarecrow.

"By the order of the Lady Libra, these two are to work the fields under your supervision."

Sinders eagerly clasped at Jethro's hand and shook it. "How do you do my lad? Ah! A human! So warm, a dead give away! Or rather a live one, ah ha!"

In his barely conscious daze, the human was petrified to find clumps of straw in his hand after the scarecrow withdrew.

Arpage backed into a corner and whimpered pathetically as Sinders crept up to him. The scarecrow probed the composer's limbs with sharp prods before seizing up as though from an electric shock.

"Wait! The Lady Libra? Pooh on her, I say! Why should I listen to her?"

"First, I was hoping you could explain your absence from her party," Bordeaux said firmly.

Sinders shielded his head, though there were none attempting to strike him, "No sir! Have mercy, I merely didn't attend because, well, because I simply can't stand her! My attendance is nothing, Bordeaux. I'm all the way out here, no one remembers lamentable old Sinders!"

"Damn you, fool. Enough of this charade," Bordeaux barked. "Fact being that you should have been there. Considering the circumstances, I'd say that having these two lackeys under your feet should serve punishment enough for you."

Sinders scraped his foot along the groaning floorboards and let his arms swing dead from slumped shoulders.

Jethro, who must have passed out on the journey to the pumpkin field, roused presently and joined Arpage cowering against the wall.

"Oh lord! Dear God what is that thing? What is it? Oh save me, wake me up from this nightmare!" he cried.

"None too social, is he?" said Sinders.

"He'll learn soon enough. Now. He is human. As such, he needs warmth. Food. Water. You will make sure his needs are at hand."

"Soft little things, people are," said Sinders. "Erm, there's a fireplace over there and I suppose most of the pumpkins are ok to eat. Why he'd want to eat them though is beside me..."

Bordeaux peered grimly into the ashen fireplace. "There's your first task, Arpage. Go get firewood."

The composer lay on the floor in fetal position and moaned softly, "No..."

"Now!"

At Bordeaux's command, Arpage started up and dashed out the doorway. Leaning upon one wall were a variety of gardening tools and it was here that Sinders retrieved a sickle and made egress too. Bordeaux following him out into the moonlight.

"Well until Mr. Man over there finds his wits, I'll have to pick up his slack," said Sinders.

The field was a mine of exquisite gemstones, for the sparkling crystals of snow speckling the choking ivy of the house capped the scalps of pumpkins and lay upon the leaves like dew drops.

Arpage wandered about cautiously; seemingly eager to fulfill his task (for fear of punishment alone), yet he was too inadequate to get his hands dirty. A pile of logs lay vigil nearby to the hut and the composer inspected them with a wince.

"Eek! There are spiders here!"

"Spiders; hairy, gaunt and tiny," chanted Sinders, swinging his sickle amongst the pumpkins with questionable aim and purpose. It was true; at a second glance, the brilliant crystals glittering in the moonlight were not only snow granules. Closer inspection would discern the presence of thousands of minuscule arachnida plaguing all surfaces. The smallest embodiment of life - legged white capsules so fragile and camouflaged that their presence was forgettable despite all encompassing.

Still dancing about with his scythe, Sinders swung the blade sickeningly close to Arpage's face.

"There's the wood, Mr. Arpage. Hop to it! They won't harm you!"

Arpage hesitated, complying eventually and attempting to lift the first log. His arms quivered, matchstick thin next to the burly timber and unable to exert the strength necessary to lift. In an effort to hide his feebleness, the composer quickly hopped to a smaller scrap, more branch than trunk and placed it on his shoulder. As he stumbled for balance his neck ruff tangled with his green cardigan, his swampy hair drooped at from its usual horizontal jutting but he seemed to hold an air of accomplishment. Arpage was doing all he could to ignore the spiders, which now, disturbed from their host log began to crawl all over his person.

"Tell me, Mr. Arpage, what malevolence brings you here? I say, why are you being punished?" asked Sinders.

"Stupid beast that I was," moaned Arpage, "That I had the hide to insult Lady Libra in song."

Sinders convulsed with laughter, "Splendid! Ah ha! Then you and I will get along just fine."

Here the scarecrow broke into a tune;

There are spiders on the lawn,

But love, don't look forlorn!

Though their webs may be a tangled mess,

Intent was to adorn!

Arpage smiled and joined in;

There are spiders on the lawn

Don't look at them with scorn.

Beads of dew beset silver ribbons

Glowing in the dawn.

Sinders, in a mounting crescendo;

There are spiders on the lawn

And one would think they warn

That to forget life's simple beauties

Is your heart left torn to mourn!

Arpage finished with a grandeur coda, dropping his log and puffing out his chest;

There are spiders on the lawn!

I accept them with a yawn.

Where web ends, eight legs defend

Waiting static in the morn!

Jethro remained in a fitful sleep, yet Arpage had already begun to enjoy his supposed punishment. He found himself thinking that it wasn't all so bad and surely he would get used to the cold of the ivy crippled hut and its field of demoniac pumpkins.

"Marvellous!" said Sinders. "Bordeaux, now I know you can hold a note. Have you a verse to contribute?"

But his words were lost to the night, for neither he or Arpage had noticed that Bordeaux had taken his leave some time ago and was presently wandering back through the trees to Tenebrae Manor.

In the forest, the night was aglow with a phosphorous blue that hung in wreaths through the frigid air, betwixt branches that reached for one another, uniting against the deep freeze.               Through his sharp vision, Bordeaux was able to discern the clustered members of a nocturnal company; owls of ruffled distinction burying their heads deep in the savored warmth of tawny plumage and the bats; jet black ornaments inverted in the canopy, shielded from the wind's bite by leathery wings.

The breath of the crimson demon lingered in the air, he shivered and pulled tighter the confines of his fine burgundy coat. His charcoal scarf and fiery hair were crusted with dusty snow that had fallen so gently onto him; the flakes were mild mannered, brutal in their potent frost yet intruding softly onto the warmth of his body like a guest who feels he has outstayed his welcome.

The night held no fear for the tireless demon, though the particular hour harboured the chill of uneasiness; perhaps it was only the winter weather but Bordeaux felt possessed by the idea of evil lurking in the gloom. Was there any foundation on which to lay down his concerns? Or was it merely a fanciful flight that enraptured his soul?

Tenebrae Manor emerged like a shipwreck in the distance, the house that Bordeaux had called home for centuries, sturdy and immemorial. The sharp angles of the roof could quite easily be mistaken in the darkness as more pine trees, though Bordeaux knew the lay of the land well enough to find comfort in the camouflage of his home. He was only a few minutes away from the front door.

Steadying himself with his cane, Bordeaux scaled the steep incline on which the manor stood king, the southern cliff face breaking away to his left as the house towered on the brink of the precipice. The frontage of the house was less tree-choked than the surrounding forest, yet as the demon wound his way up the crooked path towards the threshold, he became aware of a certain unusual occurrence. Those trees that stood closest to Tenebrae Manor seemed to be leaning inward, as though reaching for the house with petiolar limb. Whether this was worth considering, Bordeaux had no time, for another strange happening entered his senses. A sound, one of scratching.

Veering from the pathway Bordeaux crept, apprehensively following the noise that seemed to arise from the side of the house. A creature, a flitting shadow of bemused grunts was huddled against the wall, preoccupied with a hasty endeavour. It did not take Bordeaux long to realise, with a sinking heart, that the creature was a wood golem. His pulse raced; what was this thing doing here and so close to the house? Never had he seen such practicality and determination in what was usually a mindless monster. The golem had heard the intrusion of Bordeaux and turned its bulged eyes towards him.

Turning to leave, Bordeaux would rue a momentary lapse in reflex that saw the golem lunge at him, grasping him by the throat and wrestling him to the ground. He and the monster struggled in the dirty snow. The cruel hand of the beast closed its grip about Bordeaux's neck with vice-like strength and left him gasping frantically for breath.

Bordeaux pressed his free hand into the wood golem's face, trying desperately to gain an advantage. Despite his best efforts to ward away his panic, it
 was mounting as each of his frantic efforts to fight off the monster fell short of effect. The demon managed to withdraw the rapier from his sword cane and soon his wild swings found contact with the wood golem's body. The creature's hide was of thick wood and his best blows seemed wastrel and ineffective. He needed to breathe, his vision began to blur, until, by freakish luck, he was somehow able to thrust forth his sword into the beast's side. It was the moment he needed, as the wood golem reeled away but for a moment and Bordeaux stole away his throat from its clutches and gained back precious ground. He leapt adroitly to his feet and charged, his instincts kicked in and landed a calculated blow on the neck of the golem. It attempted a counter shot with a lumbering swing of its cudgel arm but Bordeaux was too swift. The crimson demon kicked forcefully at the beast's chest, throwing it helplessly onto its back, before plunging his blade straight through the chest, impaling it to the ground where it expelled a deathly groan.

Bordeaux
 gaped for breath, keeping his cautious eyes fixed on the dying wood golem. His strength was sufficiently exhausted and feeling not the fangs of the cold snow, collapsed to the ground. He had won; his life had been spared. 

Dazed as he was, eventually he made a move to inspect just what the golem had been doing before its death. He stepped past where his sword jutted like a flagpole from the lifeless golem and ran his hand over the wall of Tenebrae Manor. The rough touch of wood and stone was blistered with shards of snow, unchanged under the touch of Bordeaux’s fingers until for a moment, when his hand slipped into nothingness. Nothingness where there very much should be
something
. With a realisation both confused and concerned, Bordeaux understood immediately;
the wood golem had been tearing apart a wall of the manor.

Spread like a spilt pot of ink, Tenebrae’s night creeps across the land, staining the hills black and the trees a mess of greys, deepest greens and navy blues. The manor is that pot - exuding the darkness from its very core, standing at the centre of the stain as the antithesis of the sun. From the summit of the house itself, where Libra resided in luxury, the ancient spell channeled the murk in its impenetrable shades bereft of geniality.

Through the icy forest came the sound of slow footsteps, crunching softly in the deep snow. A svelte shadow slid between the trees, head hung in deep and melancholic thought. What possible reason could this figure have to be out in the harsh taiga, roaming with such directionless and mechanical strides? Such remained a mystery. Where the warmth of mortal would soon perish from the chilling fatigue of the winter snows, the bloodless soma of Edweena was indifferent.

Edweena’s movements lacked the tenacity of her mission, her steps were heavy and weighed down upon by the thick snow, which rose to her waist at some points. Haste was noticeably absent, the vampiress was fighting an internal apprehension that possessed her faculties and prevented her usual enthuse - namely leaping with speed through the treetops. It was this apprehension that nagged in the back of her mind.
Turn back,
it said;
naught will come of this little expedition.
And while Edweena was most certainly within her own element out in this unpredictable wilderness, she felt now a looming vulnerability, a disclosure of mortal weakness. She had walked further in the last few hours than she usually dared to, each step bringing her closer to peril; she was toying with her own death. For the concealment that came with the night’s darkness did indeed have its outer limit, Edweena knew that every step away from Tenebrae Manor brought her towards the wide world, where blackness encompassed only half the time and hours of deadly daylight would instantly disintegrate her body to ash.

What was it about this very moment that directed the sails of her determination towards this destination? Her brooding had found a channel and, no longer willing to remain in an idle ferment, had churned to life and surged headlong into ambition. It may have been that the sky was indeed a shade lighter, though perhaps it was naught but a trick of the mind. She had not kept track of time. And why should she? When Tenebrae was so indifferent to advancement, content in its shadows, why would Edweena bother herself with acknowledgement of hours? Yet there lingered the frustration of her oversight; had she taken note of the time when she left the house she might have been able to gauge the progression of her journey somewhat more effectively.

There was something so foreign about the sky, as though it had been replaced with a twin so subtly differing in appearance, yet altered enough to evoke a nagging in the back of the mind and suspect the trickery of a duo of charlatans. Yes, there was something unusual about its hue. For the first time, Edweena became aware of the clouds that stretched across the canvas of sky but it was a certain reflective quality that held her transfixed. It was only a colour, a simple pink that lined the clouds on one side and contrasted brilliantly with black shadows opposing it.

Edweena's breath slipped from her lips in an exhalation of intrigue; could she have reached this fabled perimeter, which had eluded her until now? Her Valhalla, the unseen reward of the faithful, could very well greet her over the crest of the next hill. She was by now quite unable to disguise her excitement and her slow trudge broke out into a dash. The slope and the hindering depth of the snow made her ripe with frustration, though it did not slow the pace of ambling, nor the pace of her racing mind.

The crest was several metres away, at which point stood two pine trees that were not unlike any others in the forest, yet held the significance of a gateway, parted to form a path over the summit.

Edweena stopped suddenly, her reckless legs restrained by a flood of caution. Her life was at risk; she had to remember that she was indeed a vampire and that she would be swallowed up by the very power she hoped to observe if she were not careful.

As she crept up the last steps of the hill, she felt a strange heat, not of the weather surrounding, for it was still most certainly wintry but a heat from within her core. Edweena winced at the sting of this heat that only increased as she neared the peak. Then, steeling herself, she took the last step that brought her to the top.

The other side of the hill was exactly the same - an ocean of trees heaved by the waves of mountains. But this did not concern Edweena, for she was hypnotised by the light before her - the dawn. She had reached the outer perimeter of Tenebrae's night.

The sunlight was subtle, only as discernible as the hour before dawn, though Edweena had to squint her eyes to absorb what lay before her. The sky was a magnificent forum of pinks, oranges, navy and grey. True, there was no sun visible; it would appear if she travelled a few miles further but its presence was undeniable in this twilit portion of Tenebrae Forest. The pines glistened with snow like fragile figurines in a stain-glass scene. Not since the commencement of her accursed vampiric afterlife had Edweena gazed at such marvellous colour. The earth that had covered memories of a life long past was shoveled away, leaving behind a euphoric realisation; the world was still out there. With all its rapid pace, its inconsiderate change, the globe spun and naught was stagnant outside the Tenebrae night.

Sweat soaked Edweena's skin as the heat from within her being increased to near unbearable limits. Still she stared in wonder at the morning and its endless possibility. Her skin was aglow with a vermillion that smothered her usual whiteness with its vibrant brushstroke. It was only when the pain became all too much and her skin began to burn and hiss that she took a few steps backwards into the shade of the hill. With a sigh she drank in the darkness of the umbra as feverishly as she had the dawn, the burns on her skin suddenly more intense, as though her amazement had numbed her pain receptors hitherto.

It was there in the gloom that she pondered the possibilities laid out before her. Would she wait until the outside world fell under the coverage of nightfall? Only then would she be able to make a break for it, run the risk of instant incineration and pray some refuge from daylight would appear to her in time. There would be twelve hours of darkness at her disposal, surely she would run into some cave where the sun's rays wouldn't reach and she could hide safely until the next night. The restrictions were there to be sure but the challenge they imposed excited her; dashing from refuge to refuge with no promise of a tomorrow. There would be no more boredom; the idea of mortality was almost relieving to her.

Either way, she had hours to wait until the dusky horizon fell into blackness and the ensuing time added hesitancy to her ambition. She had responsibilities at Tenebrae Manor; what if her vagabond nature ended up being accountable for the revealing of the manor to the world, of its supernatural oddities, of its impossible residents? If the forest were revealed, what hope of refuge would these immortal wayfarers have and where would they go if their immemorial home no longer offered concealment?

Edweena turned her gaze to the crest of the hill, where the light shone like a halo between the two trees. No, she was not ready to meet the challenge. Not this time.

With the pang of defeat she turned her back on the dawn and trudged back into the oily tide of darkness. Her stride was slow and crestfallen, her composure drained significantly by the physical sting of sunlight and the harsh criticism she so often struck herself with.

The vampiress felt painfully daunted by the endless sea of trees surrounding her, unchanging as she moved like a somnambulant. Anguish tore at her heart with an aggression that threatened to burst from reticent ribcage. The trunks of black trees stood dominant over her until it all became too much and she collapsed down onto a fallen log. The rotted wood gave slightly under the dead weight of her exhaustion; she buried her face in her hands. Edweena could not recall a time when she felt so lethargic and it was this weakness in her carnal disposition that only heightened the sense of failure in her mind. The arch of her slouched back heaved with laboured breathing, as she convulsed with sobs an ignorant squirrel descended the neighbouring tree and nosed about Edweena with a perilous mixture of confusion and curiosity.

Even in her debilitated state she made no error in seizing the rodent in a flash and savagely snapping its spine, leaving it lifeless in her hands. She tore at its flesh eagerly and sighed as the red life fluid filled her with renewed vitality.

Edweena stood, strong again, focused suddenly on her present; she was bound to Tenebrae Manor. The scales had tipped back in favour of her ancient home and the fresh ideas of a new world of danger to explore seemed less appealing. Perhaps it would only be a short time until the yearning to escape crept up on her again but until then, the darkness had won.