Tenebrae Manor (25 page)

"Scoundrel!" chuckled Deadsol. "Magnificent scoundrel! Come then, boy. Don't delay, the manor demands it."

Catlike, Comets jumped up and hung from the chains of the ceiling so that he could reach Deadsol's locks. The shackles groaned and snapped open with Deadsol, forgetting to place his feet flat upon the ground, falling to his face. A sprightly leap and he was again on his feet, bristling with the renewed energy that came with the sweet taste of freedom.

"Now then!" said Deadsol. "You say that Crow wants us? We shan't keep him waiting, left to defend our walls by himself. Tenebrae Manor is in need! All puns intended, this is our darkest hour. To the crow's nest!"

"You look terrible," replied Comets.

"Such awful words, beast. I should clock you. Though you are correct, one surely cannot pose for victory looking like this!"

It was as though he had never been imprisoned; Deadsol sprinted recklessly into the darkness with Comets struggling to keep up. The copper demon, reunited with his diligent lackey, ran until his lungs burned. His laughter filled the sobered void of the manor.

They reached their favourite drawing room and Deadsol pranced into an adjoining ensuite.

"What a disgrace this is," he muttered.

"How can you complain now?"

"Ah, true that the dungeon was dank. But it is nothing compared to the state of this bathroom. Look at this grime!"

"It hasn't been used since you left," replied Comets.

Deadsol turned the handle of a gold tap where, after a considerable pause, followed but an expulsion of dirty fluid, clear water ran freely. His reflection in the mirror portrayed a haggard ruffian that was startling to gaze upon.

"This will not do at all, deary," he said. Turning to Comets, he continued. "Really Comets, can I buy a moment of peace to attend to this unshaven monster in dire need of whittling?"

The jester did not need to be told twice, leaving Deadsol to attend to his ablutions. As the door slammed briskly behind him, Comets ensconced on the nearby floor and waited patiently. A cheery conglomerate of hums and whistles entangled with the rushing water and whispered under the doorframe in a wisp of steam.

Deadsol's voice was muffled by the wall that divided them. "It seems a grey fire has spread atop the forest of my scalp! Far more salt than pepper these days, my boy."

"Do hurry up, D," replied Comets.

Deadsol appeared to have ignored his friend and resumed his humming. The crisp glass clink of a razor on basin was heard, not before the snip of scissors and the duck-like snort of Deadsol as he rinsed his face in his hands.

"This dishevelment is a most unpardonable offense."

The minutes ticked by and Comets grew impatient. "Why do you tarry so?"

"Art cannot be rushed, dear lad. I must prim myself for battle."

In the corner of the drawing room, a great clock bellowed out its hour call and Comets could not wait any longer. He slammed his fists against the door with such force that the wood might splinter.

"Move, move!"

The door opened just as Comets swung his fists again and he fell to the floor. Gazing up, he saw the copper demon standing akimbo with unmatched pomp. Deadsol had removed his beard so all that remained was his thick moustache, which was trimmed straight to impeccable perfection. His hair had been combed with a neat part on the side, enwrapping his stately head. A clean cravat blossomed from the chest of an ironed brown coat and complemented his accessories - fresh leather shoes and a magnificent rose gold ring on his right hand.

Comets stared in awe at his friend. He knew Deadsol to be proper in his own lunacy but never had he seen him dressed so well.

"Excuse my delay, Comets. Our lady Tenebrae needs us and a gentleman should always give importance to his appearance."

"You are excused," replied Comets, who suddenly felt more bedraggled than he had ever felt before.

Deadsol strode gaily to the mantelpiece, where his favourite walking cane awaited his grasp. Its reddish gold handle matched the beauty of his ring and, after bouncing the point of the cane on the ground he raised it above his head, "To the crow's nest!"

And Comets cawed with tenacity.

****

Even with the winds of chaos lashing at the house, below it the mute chef remained oblivious. Ignorant as he remained to the peril placed under his home - and by extension himself, he had pottered about his kitchens. Like a crab on the floor of the deep sea, he scuttled and who was he to be perturbed by the vicious currents that stirred the upper waters? None had informed him of any intercepting command that would conflict with his usual station and as such, he continued to carry on in his duties.

It was only once he had taken note of a certain silence that he pursed his bulldog-like brow and began feeling discomforted. A certain silence that had little to do with noise itself but rather a change in the bustle of the sweat stained kitchens. Even in his deafness the chef could discern this silence. It was as though the seemingly living organism that was the kitchen had been dissected of something. A benign something, to be sure, as one who loses a tooth can acknowledge its absence and continue with full functionality of mouth.

Disoriented by this void, the chef sorely felt a phantom strike at his nerve endings. Not even the realisation of what nagged him could satisfy this itch; when he finally noticed that the girl was missing, his thoughts shifted immediately to the where and why.

Madlyn had disappeared so discreetly from his life that he scarcely paid mind, to the point that he had reveled in the systematic order it procured. His work had been far more efficient without her clumsiness and the mere fact that Libra had not complained to him recently stood as proof.

Ever busy, he remained in the tireless effort involved in quenching Libra's appetite. This, coinciding with his job of providing food for the other house members meant that he was working endlessly. When Madlyn had come into his life little over a year previous, the chef had seen it as an opportunity to relinquish some responsibility onto another; giving him some well earned rest in the process. But Madlyn's frailty of mind and ability eventually meant that the chef was doing even more work to make up for the girl's shortcomings. All the same, he had noticed her absence and felt the fluttering of nostalgia in his heart. He wouldn't mind having her around again, she was hopeless to be sure but he certainly enjoyed the company. It was true that he could not talk or hear; yet the presence of another was most welcome to his aging and lonely heart, particularly given their similarly hindered intellect.

The mute chef did not know Madlyn had died. In the heat of the moment, none had thought to inform the man who spent the most time with her and, as such, he obliviously waddled to the small room where Madlyn had slept. The room had always been bare, though now it seemed emptier than ever. Where was Madlyn? Why hadn't anybody told the chef of her fate?

There was nothing on the old rotted desk, save a small sheet of paper that, in the absence of wind or other disturbance, had sat unprovoked with the dust settling on its surface. The mute chef picked the paper up in his meaty fingers. He was not much for a vocabulary, nor did his sight permit extensive reading. Yet he could read the elementary scribbles of Madlyn quite easily. The note was addressed to him -

Dear Chefy,

I am gone forever.

- M.

The mute chef, despite his ignorance towards Madlyn's death, took this note as a permanent parting word. And when he had finished reading, his body convulsed into huge and heavy sobs.

And at that moment, the years of loneliness overwhelmed him completely.

28: Old Town

Above him came the clatter of busy feet on the boardwalks. For his eyes, the fulgurant sunlight that threw its luminance in stripes betwixt the wooden planks, shifting and changing as the shadows of people slid along atop. Throughout the dreary narcosis, befriended by the muffled voices of other beings, the low droning of the sea washed onwards. Bordeaux drifted in and out of sleep like a newborn, comforted by the cradling bay waters that slapped carelessly against nearby boat hulls. He could not move yet. Having been thrown into some sort of loading dock, the demon chose to await the coming night before venturing further. The sweet cries of seagulls rang like Christmas bells; the warm air about him evoked a sensation of bustling festivity. Though exceedingly eager, yet Bordeaux remained in concealment lest he was prematurely discovered for the demon he was. And suffering of crippling fatigue, his body convinced his mind to stay still a little while longer.

As the sea carried on its restless rocking, the bustle of the harbour began to subside as the evening interluded. Bordeaux steadily stood on his feet and stretched his limbs, sucking in the calm of the salty air. Physically he was looking a tad worse for wear; his coat was dirty, his shoes were scuffed and the first signs of five o'clock shadow speckled his gaunt jaw. Yet he remained primarily concerned with the covering of his small horns. He ruffled the long red curls of his hair so that the horns were disguised somewhat, before climbing a small rope ladder to the wharf above. No living being met his entrance, lest one were to count the now silent seagulls nesting high on the masts of boats.

The crimson demon surveyed his surroundings; he had been brought to some small port town. The bay was tangled with the buoyant traffic of sailboats whose masts crisscrossed the scene as they bounced on the water’s surface. Ropes were strewn everywhere across a cluttering of barrels and crates.

The night was sick with the stench of low tide and an enormous ship that sat anchored in the bay caught Bordeaux’s attention. Its sails were flaccid in the still calm, yet it exuded dominance over the entire town. Buildings spread from the shore and up a mountain that nestled in the backdrop.

Bordeaux gazed with awe at the first town he had seen in centuries. The steps he took towards the streets were slow and cautious, though it seemed that the townsfolk had retired indoors for the night. As such, he was soon walking freely in the dim glow of moth clustered street lanterns, until the sound of a door opening made him leap for the shadows of an alleyway. Bordeaux saw the door in question, the frontage of a double storey wooden building that he took for a shop or hotel. A man had stepped through the threshold and stood farewelling an unseen figure within. They spoke in that same distant language that Bordeaux could not understand; yet it was the hat and coat held by the man that the demon desired. Pleasantries finished, the door closed and the man stood in darkness readying himself to put on his coat. Bordeaux saw his chance and dashed towards him, snatching both hat and coat from the startled man, who had little time to react to such thievery. Though the man shouted at Bordeaux and wrung his fists, the demon had already disappeared into the dank alley mists and was gone.

When he was convinced that no one had followed him, Bordeaux squatted in a lane and analysed his bounty. The fedora hat was beige, as was the rather shabby coat. He concluded that the man must have been of a middle class status, likely to be able to buy himself a new coat and hat. These thoughts abated Bordeaux's guilt, though it was soon renewed when he found a certain coat pocket full of currency. His palm opened and he prodded at its contents like one cradling an injured bird. Two bank notes unfurled, housing a fistful of copper and silver coins. Bordeaux praised his luck, albeit he did not know just how valuable the money he had was. Stuffing the money back into the coat, he stood and dressed himself with the hat using a puddle to observe his reflection. The hat fit him well, perhaps both it and the coat were a little too large for him but they at least left him looking like nothing more than an ordinary man.

It was with great anxiety that Bordeaux braved the social pool of an old tavern; nonetheless the night was wearing on at this point, which meant that only a few straggling drunkards remained at the bar. Despite his fears, none turned to take notice of his entrance, so he moved toward the bar and took a seat. A rather roughshod bartender acknowledged him and Bordeaux clasped at his throat to feign an inability to talk. He motioned for a drink and held his money in his open palm at the bartender. A seemingly perfunctory response came from the bartender, much to Bordeaux's relief and, taking a few of the coins from the demon's hand, he returned in time with a stein of beer and a small loaf of bread. It was a simple act of servitude, yet it had such an effect on Bordeaux that he felt his eyes become wet with gratitude.

He tore ravenously at the bread and although he had no seasoning or spread, after days of malnourishment, it was, to him, the sweetest thing he had ever eaten. This overwhelming of his senses was ever increasing, inasmuch as he feared he would be unable to restrain himself and cry out - cry with glee, torment, sorrow; he could not tell which. The remaining coins lay on the table next to his beer mug. By looking at them it became apparent that they were dull with years of use. Depicting some figure of royalty unknown to him, the circling letters on the coin faces were also foreign. He was however, able to read the years that the coins were minted and was shocked at the results.

"1793... 1801... 1779..." he muttered in awe.

Had he really been gone from the world so long? In a night so unending, he had never taken note of time at Tenebrae Manor. The demon had long considered the mansion a permanent home and the very concept of time had grown so alien to him. These coins told the story of the outside world; several centuries had passed since Bordeaux had last bothered to remember the year. It made him shudder to think of the world around him that may as well have been another planet.

"I have to get home," he whispered.

For days he had mused on the best plan of action. He wondered whether a map would help him. But who could say how many miles separated him from the manor? There was every chance that any map he discovered would be of slim help. Stargazing was another option; perhaps he could look to the heavens and see a constellation he recognised, one that could lead him in the correct direction. Again this idea seemed too small a thought. This was a massive world, Bordeaux knew as such from his travellings in the days before Tenebrae. Days when he was newly demonic and his life as a human had recently ended. His best and only hope remained in simply choosing a direction that felt right; it may be that instinct would reign over all.

The thought of lodging in a comfortable bed tempted Bordeaux, until he realised the sheer foolishness of spending his remaining money. Bearing that, he returned to the loading dock by the wharves and curled up behind a few sacks and barrels.

However, he did not sleep for long. Soon he awoke in the full light of mid-morning and decided that he should explore this town and plan his next move. His hat and coat meant he was disguised splendidly, for he looked like nothing more than a pale stranger. The harbour was alive with commotion. Children ran through a forest of legs, laughing as they tried to hide from their friends in the crowd. Women yelled from awning-covered stalls and advertised their wares of food and fabric. Burly mariners loaded their rowboats, ready to stride out to the massive sail ship that awaited them. At his feet, chickens sauntered aimlessly with seagulls, pecking at the ground for vagabond grains with the same pluckiness of pick pockets that lurked amongst the townsfolk.

It took Bordeaux an entire morning to circle the bay-hugged crescent of the village. From his wanderings he discovered two roads that led out of town, one at either end to the north and south. The south road, which coincidentally revealed itself to him first, appeared to be that very road in which he had entered as a stowaway. This, he knew, would throw him back into the swampy hills from whence he had come. A sense of foreboding shuddered down his back as the stale sun shone down on the road. It was no doubt the fear of being lost in those ghastly marshes again that made him turn back into the town and try again to find an exit route.

The northern road was different. Granted, he could not see very far along it until it curved around a grassy mound. A dusty trail that lay flat until it curved away from the coast and into parts unseen behind a row of tall juniper trees. In all, there was nothing unusual about this road. Yet Bordeaux was impossibly transfixed on it and that point where it turned behind the hill and out of sight beckoned him to pursue. Could he trust his instincts?

There was no time to lose. The longer he tarried, the less likely he was to find Tenebrae Manor and greater the chance of his friends perishing at the hands of that rebelling forest. Bordeaux needed a means of transportation if he were to cover enough ground. Starting down the road in a brisk walk he pondered to himself.

"I could stow away on that ship... No! I am certain that I am still within reach of Tenebrae by land. Surely Libra's power was not so great as to throw me across oceans. But I cannot wait for another cargo cart as before! What I need is a horse..."

If it were indeed a Slavonic dialect he was hearing from the townsfolk, then that would surely place him within his known world; that he was somewhere on that great Eurasian landmass.

Bordeaux strained to recall those final few years before he had concealed himself in Tenebrae Forest. How was it that he could not remember the location of the manor? Trees - conifers everywhere, Tenebrae Manor may as well have been a desert island in an endless ocean. The crimson demon remembered little about how he came to be in the grasp of the eternal night; all that remained behind in the residue of his mind was a ghostly image of Malistorm, the former baron. The one who had introduced him to that infernal world of shadows and dark flames.

Memories clouded the vision of Bordeaux, so that he soon had to check himself and pull to a halt on the road. He was not thinking straight; it would be unwise to just hurl himself down this road and hope for the best. What would he eat? How would he shelter himself? How did he assume to cover so much ground on foot?

He looked back towards the town, then again at the road beyond, when something caught his eye. Perhaps merely the fleeting hallucination of weariness, or a phantom’s trickery, Bordeaux could have sworn that he discerned the figure of a familiar girl on the road ahead. But when he looked properly, there was of course nothing to see but the muddy trail across the winding hills.

With a nagging tug at his heartstrings, he turned his feet back towards the harbour and headed back into the village.