Tenebrae Manor Page 10

  “No! Why should I care what happens to this place? After such mean things were said about me!”

  “Then perhaps you’d be right in relieving yourself of such lofty echelon. I’m sure someone else would enjoy such privileges even more than yourself.”

  Bordeaux got the reaction he wanted. Libra shot up and kicked the blankets away, staring at him imploringly. The mascara on her eyes ran in streams down her full face, riddled with days of tears; her hair was disheveled in its mess of curls in agreement to the hours spent pressed into the pillow.

  “But I’m the queen here! No one else!” she whimpered. “Don’t they realise that? Oh, Bordeaux! Did you hear what he called me? Fat girl, he said. Fat! You don’t think I’m fat do you, Bordeaux?”

  The crimson demon spied the empty cake pan that sat on the table next to her bed. A fork lay across its icing dotted face and pointed accusingly at Libra, who looked visibly plumper than the last time he had seen her. Libra had seen his hesitance in answering her question and flung herself back under the blankets and began to sob some more.

  “This cold front has seized hold of our very bones,” said Bordeaux. “Surely you see it is quite, hmm, coincidental that it arrived on the moment of your exit from the party?”

  “Go away, B,” moaned Libra.

  “You assured me that you had nothing to do with the insufferable heat. I can only curse my own gullibility for believing you.”

  “I only wanted to instill the emphasis of the occasion! Keep you all focused on the work before you; surely you see nothing wrong with applying a little pressure to ensure a good job. Yet you all failed!”

  “I’d call it oppression,” said Bordeaux.

  Libra only grunted in return and remained huddled in her shell of quilt.

  “Oppression, Libra,” he continued. “And now you’ve inundated us with this freeze, why must you maltreat your supposed subjects so?”

  “What have you done with that piteous little composer?” asked Libra, sitting up again and seemingly ignoring Bordeaux’s accusations.

  Bordeaux sighed and paced the room. “What would you have done with him?”

  She slammed her fist down onto the table, sending the fork flying from the cake pan and caking her fist with remnants of icing that she presently licked clean.

  “Why punishment of course!” howled Libra, “Put him out in the wilderness for all I care! Let him freeze. He can slave away in the pumpkin patch with that belligerent scarecrow.”

  Bordeaux started. “Work with Sinders? Surely no. Arpage is not one for physical labour.”

  “Exactly! Let his foppish hands toil in the cold until they crack and bleed, let his timorous voice break with cries of his own anguish!”

  She made little effort to hide her mounting excitement, flinging the cake pan with deadly swiftness until the silver discus hit the wall with a clatter. Libra now stood so close to Bordeaux as to make him uncomfortable, he could not discern what made the gorgon smell so sugary. Perhaps it were a well suiting perfume she had adorned or, more likely, the scent of sweetness on her lips, which were encircled subtly with icing sugar as they spoke.

  “See that he is reprimanded severely, B,” she whispered. “The lout Sinders just might be the ticket…”

  Bordeaux shrugged his shoulders, clearly displaying an air of defeat. There would be no reasoning with Libra but could he really doom Arpage to work through this blizzard?

  “As for Deadsol and Comets,” continued Libra, “Because I know they had some influence on that musical fool, well, I’ll let you choose the penalty.”

  “Miss.” Bordeaux nodded reluctantly.

  He turned to leave before the dusky voice of Libra’s voice chilled the back of his neck again. “And B.”

  “Miss?”

  “Take that boy with you. That human boy.”

  “To the pumpkin field? Is that wise? He would be free to escape at will!”

  “With Sinders nearby? Ha, I think he’d more likely die of fright!” laughed Libra. “Do you really think he’s going anywhere in this snow?”

  Bordeaux rubbed his hand over his forehead, “As you wish, my lady.”

  That seems foolish though, he added, though only to himself.

  ****

  "Really sir, I fail to see the justification in this! I have begged apology, pleaded! I did not mean, I mean I did not intend to express such malice!"

  Bordeaux pressed open the doors of the ground floor drawing room with Arpage sniveling in his wake. The composer's reluctance in leaving his auditorium was more than obvious as he had shuffled behind Bordeaux, sometimes on his knees, sometimes crawling and other times dragging his feet along with shoulders slumped.

  Inside the drawing room, Deadsol sat smoking his pipe while Comets tested his endurance by holding his hands out into the fireplace. The hands of the jester quivered with pain before the flames became too much and he would snatch them away, only to try again moments later.

  "Bordeaux, my good man! I bid you the finest health!" paraded Deadsol. "And our master of eloquence, none other than the composer himself, Arpage!"

  "Ignore him, Arpage," said Bordeaux.

  From his comfortable vantage point, Deadsol watched with disinterest as Bordeaux removed the barricades of the forgotten closet and opened its doors. Jethro tumbled out and his defeated body hit the floor forcefully with a clump.

  "See here, Bordeaux. Look at this mess you've made," said Deadsol from his chair.

  "Mess, a mess. His mind's a mess!" Comets sung quietly as though only to himself. His eyes remained transfixed on the fireplace.

  Bordeaux prodded the human with the end of his fine sword cane, which was topped with the golden head of a falcon.

  "Jethro," said Bordeaux, "Do you remember where you are?"

  "Where he is?" laughed Deadsol. "He never found that out in the first place!"

  The human looked up at the crimson demon and whimpered softly; he remembered this nightmare too well. He had hoped it had all been the fabric of a violent imagination but the cold floor under his hands confirmed a reality all too real.

  "Oh dear God! Who are you people?"

  "There he goes again about that God fellow. Mentions him every time we throw him a scrap of food. Haven't the slightest clue to whom he refers," said Deadsol.

  "Home," whimpered Jethro. "I want to go home..."

  "And here I was thinking confinement might speed up the onslaught of insanity… I've a new home for you lad, on the authority of Lady Libra. Come with me."

  Bordeaux grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, pulling him to his feet before flinging him over his shoulder with a surprising strength.

  "Good tidings, Deadsol, Comets," Bordeaux nodded. "Come along, Arpage."

  ****

  The rugged hills that riddled the southwest topography of Tenebrae presented a scene far more devoid of life than the other regions of pine-speckled country. One mile in this treacherous direction will bring the foolhardy adventurer to a clearing where the ancient pines disperse, as though the soil in this brief circumference were poisoned, leaving behind a silent field. Somewhat offset from the centre of this circle, yet still noticeable to even the most unobservant spectator, there stands a decayed facade of brick and mud.

  Crippled with ivy, this small house stands merely as an outer shell, gutted from the inside so as to leave naught but rotted wooden flooring behind. The foliage of parasitic vine clotted so thickly to this shell, the host had been drained and overcome by their creeping tendrils.

  Encircling the hut and reflecting the moonlight with crystalline luminance, there jutted the orange skulls of a thousand pumpkins. Distended to awkward shapes, the vegetables groaned as if they were the living dead climbing out of the ground with the gaunt and leafy arms that were their vines. Worm eaten holes gave the pumpkins eyes and wailing mouths, locked silent in a twisted expression of mortal agony.

  Hung across Bordeaux's shoulder like a sack of grain, Jethro whimpered in fear; Arpage too, s
eemed unsettled by this place.

  "Keep up, Arpage," said Bordeaux.

  The composer followed apprehensively. "Master B, it is so cold, so very cold. And my feet! They’re unfamiliar to walks of this length. Rest, sir! That is what I need. But this place, something about it gives me the jitters."

  The hut drew closer, Bordeaux weaving his steps carefully between the pumpkins, which grew in no particular pattern.

  "Eyes, sir," Arpage continued to ramble. "They are staring, sir. Erm, that is the pumpkins. They are staring is what I mean."

  "Be quiet, Arpage. You're less coherent with every syllable. I would get used to this place if I were you, for this will be your new home until Libra sees fit for you to return to the manor."

  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 tre
es 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.