Tenebrae Manor Read online

  Bordeaux had to grin at the beast. “Always a steadfast servant, dear Usher.”

  “Thank you sir.” Usher grunted in return, his hulking hand remained latched to the doorknob, as though he were awaiting another order.

  “News?” asked Bordeaux.

  “A message. The Lady Libra wishes to see you, sir.”

  “The self-absorbed gourmand. Very well.”

  He took a step further into the entry hall and Usher dutifully closed the door with a thud, resuming his erect stance as doorman of the manor. So lifeless was the Usher’s expression that he could easily be mistaken for mere decoration, not unlike the suits of armour that lined the wall against which he stood. Ever vigilant, the Usher had become just another part of the furniture in Tenebrae Manor. Not the most physically pleasant receptionist to newcomers to the manor but unmatched in quality of service. It was these traits that Bordeaux admired greatly and found himself thinking of as he began his ascent of Tenebrae’s main staircase.

  No light shone down on the stairs at the present point and the house was as silent as it was dark. Flits of charcoal grey night sky illuminated the windows to some small extent, casting shadows that sculpted dimensions into bannister and step. The stairs slid down hypnotically beneath Bordeaux’s shoes, black then white, black then white, as his ascent to the higher floors of Tenebrae drawled on.

  He came presently upon a junction in the staircase, a landing where a vast arch window looked out upon the southern forest. Bordeaux came to a stand still to absorb the adrenalin that came from such a dizzying height. Below the window, sheer wall dropped for the four storeys he had already climbed, before plummeting further down over the cliff face to jagged pines and boulders below. The edge of the world, with Tenebrae Manor teetering upon the precipice, a sea of black trees and mountains spreading further than vision permitted and threatening to obliterate any who may fall into the pitch.

  Bordeaux pursed his lips and looked back the way he had come, the black and white steps trailing down until black conquered and light penetrated as far as it could. Forgotten candelabra stood soldier silent in the four corners of the landing, ancient tallow gripping their vine-like arms. One such candelabrum had become the inverted perch for a colony of bats that squalled affectionately to Bordeaux’s caressing claw.

  “My pretty little things,” he whispered, as one bat gave its leathery wings a good stretch before hugging itself back into slumber.

  Bordeaux knew that the left junction of the landing would take him to the quarters of the awaiting Lady Libra. Yet, again he felt deterred from his duties. A fatigue had enveloped him, one quenchable only by a glass of red and a dusty old tome awaiting him in his own room.

  But things had to be done, such was the responsibility of his position and, as such, he decided to inquire upon another of the preparations for Libra’s birthday, undertaken by another of the manor’s darkled characters. So it was the right hand stairs he took, stairs that ascended ever higher to the very zenith of the house, into the immense auditorium at its pinnacle.

  At a glance, it seemed that the auditorium in question had been a poorly calculated add-on to Tenebrae Manor’s façade. So garish and out of place it did seem that it stood like a boil upon otherwise blemish free skin. A mighty, vacuous cavern, ghosts of an echoed past were all that occupied its dark red seats. Every sound was discernable from its outer circumference, proving it to be more than acoustically sound. But so unnecessary it was, a theatre of such size. Forgiving the fact that Tenebrae’s residents were small of count already and that visitors were indeed so rare as to render the auditorium redundant to all but one apparition.

  As Bordeaux passed row upon row of empty seats, he found a soothing relief in the soft echoes of his footfalls accompanied by the muffled sound of gentle piano keys nearby.

  “Such a capacity, this cave could certainly house my woes.”

  His whispers surprised him; though low, they were still carried far in the ever-hearing eardrum of a hall. On the stage, a spotlight shone down onto nothing save for flakes of dust that captured its rays along a cyclical journey through the air. A loft in the high corner of stage left, hidden amongst rafters so that only a dull candlelight betrayed its existence, concealed the perpetrator of the aforementioned piano sounds.

  Bordeaux stopped at the foot of the ladder up to the loft and cringed at observation of its rungs. He was not a man of physical exertion; even more so, he was not one for sullying his prim appearance. Nonetheless, he rose to the task and made his way to the loft as the sounds of music grew ever louder.

  The simple and dusty loft greeted him, in such untidy state as to leave him hesitant to handle any objects with his bare hands. Across the floorboards, sheets of musical score lay everywhere as if thrown in a fit of rage. The piano, or rather, the immense pipe organ that stood with all its girth along an entire wall of the loft, had seated before it a passionate mantis-like man hurling his fingers along the keys with apt precision and speed. The tails of the man’s green cardigan shifted and swayed over the bench where he perched; waves of sickly brown hair sprouted and spread horizontally from a part where the roots of said hair bore deep into the magnificent mind of its owner, the composer.

  Bordeaux stood silently for a moment, admiring the elegant tones floating forth from the instrument, before clearing his throat loudly.

  The composer started. “Who is it? Who, I ask disturbs the melodic thought train of the irrepressible Arpage Espirando Notturno?”

  He rose with emaciated hands aloft, convulsing, yearning for some lost and impossible dream. Green lights flew from betwixt the keys of the pipe organ, wisps of curled haze spewed from the pipes and a new sound, a ghastly wail exhumed from the composer’s cadaverous mouth. His mouth appeared to contort itself to inhumane dimensions, perhaps by a trick of the lights.

  He now turned to face his intruder and, as if his jaw were merely elastic, the shriek increased in volume as his mouth stretched wider.

  Unperturbed to this monstrous behaviour, Bordeaux clicked the thumb and forefinger upon his crimson hued hand and the lights, the flames, the wails from the composer and his instrument ceased.

  “I…”

  “Sit down, Arpage.”

  “Sir.”

  Arpage slouched back upon his stool and swung lazily around to face the keys.

  “I am honoured by your visit, sir. Indeed, honoured! My apologies, Master B,” he mused, poking apathetically at a key on his piano, where a B note sounded over and over again. Bernt, bernt, bernt…

  “It is just this blasted humidity,” he continued. “It places both my mind and instrument positively out of tune.”

  “Arpage.”

  “How can one think in this stifling heat?” Arpage interrupted, hissing through his teeth at the abhorred adjective. The B note rang again and again. Bernt, bernt, bernt…

  “Arpage,” drawled Bordeaux.

  “… When this dank auditorium alters the very sounds of my vision! Sounds of my vision? How perfectly ridiculous!”

  “Arpage!”

  The composer leapt from his reverie with a start, the monotonous B note breaking into a disconcerted squeal. “Oh, sir! Sir! A thousand pardons!”

  Bordeaux grinned. “How is the composition coming along?”

  Arpage was nonplussed by the question, “T-t-the composition?”

  “You are a composer, are you not?” Bordeaux mocked. “The irrepressible Arpage Espirando Notturno?”

  Abashed, Arpage was struck with realisation. “Oh, the composition! Of course, of course!”

  Here, Arpage stood and strode to the cobweb encrusted writing desk in the corner of his small abode. He scratched at his head and stroked his ruff before his hands set into actions more erratic than those of his delicate music making. Rummaging through papers and knocking over one unfortunate vile of ink, the jittery man turned about face and threw his chest out with pomp and circumstance. The tails of his bottle green cardigan swayed to a halt and he straighten
ed out a sheet of paper in his hands.

  Inhaling to speak, he hesitated on a sudden. “Ah sir, I must warn, it is rather… Erm how to say? Unfinished?”

  “Just what you have so far will be fine, my friend.”

  The composer grinned, cleared his throat and proceeded to fling his limbs about himself in some whimsical dance. His voice boomed in baritone:

  ‘tis blood I’m told

  that perks the soul

  with life entwined

  upon the divine

  As eternal epoch

  Tick-tocks the clock

  A jubilant lark

  Springs forth from the dark!

  Radiant lass

  Of luminous class

  Tonight we boast

  To your beauty, a toast!

  Arpage finished his recital by holding himself in position similar to that of a flamingo standing upon one foot and spreading its wings.

  Bordeaux’s thin mouth curled at one corner before peeling open into a smirk of fangs, his hands clapping in slow applause.

  “Very good sir,” he said. “The Lady will be most pleased.”

  “Yes, Yes. Thank you, Master B. Yes,” stuttered Arpage. “But the length, sir. The length is not quite, hmm, long? As to its continuation, I find myself suffering from writer’s block! Oh woe! Oh the intolerable!”

  “There there, my good friend. Patience, good citizen!” Bordeaux reassured, “You have plenty of time remaining until Libra’s birthday to complete your task! I merely arrived into your quarters to inquire on the progress!”

  “You are kind, Bordeaux, sir.” Arpage rubbed his hands together.

  “There’s a good lad.”

  The slit of Arpage’s mouth split open like a wound, his ghastly crooked teeth beamed in a sour and yellowed smile. A hesitant utterance escaped betwixt those two craggy rows before the corners of his mouth collapsed as if of exertion and his shoulders hunched ever further.

  “Now now, Arpage, there’s no need to be uncivil. A few minutes of entertainment is all that is asked. Surely you can hide your tepid feelings towards this project behind tricky lyrics and giddy strains.”

  Arpage was feebly indignant, throwing an arm into the air and turning his back to the demon visitor. “Sir, I am afraid that goes against all my musical instincts. I’m troubled, sir. Troubled, I say again! To conjure this, this, piece! This piffle! How can one summon passion to draw forth quality when one is so, so…”

  “Indifferent?” offered Bordeaux.

  “Indifferent! Marvellous, sir!”

  The loquacious Arpage seemed set to roll off into another prattle, before Bordeaux silenced him with a finger to his lips and a hush. “My dear friend - confidentially, all of us are somewhat, disinclined, shall we say, towards the lofty importance Libra has placed upon her birthday. But need I remind you of her position in Tenebrae? It is she who keeps this night sky strong for us, only she knows the spell!”

  “She could do something about this heat, surely.”

  “Ha, my friend. Your churlishness amuses me. There are things we simply must withstand with Libra at our hierarchic zenith and her birthday is but once a year.”

  “But Master B! Each year it is more! More and more she wants! I cannot keep up at this rate!”

  Arpage was becoming flustered, stamping his feet like an unruly child.

  “Arpage, I am aware of her increased appetite for all things but what are we to do? Surely you see the predicament I am in?”

  Arpage considered his master’s words a moment before sighing longingly and, having been beaten into submission, returned to his post at the foot of the monumental instrument.

  Bordeaux clapped his hand upon the composer’s back before striding back to the ladder, sighing. He retrieved his red silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his skeletal brow. “It is hotter here than outside,” he groaned.

  Arpage had ceased to remember his master’s appearance all but immediately, the notes of intense invention again spewed from the garish instrument and Bordeaux took it upon himself to leave the composer to his work.

  3: The Lady Libra

  It could be delayed no longer. Bordeaux had to act upon the Lady Libra’s summons.

  As the distance closed between their inevitable meeting through step by spidery step of Bordeaux’s skeletal legs, the perpetrator of the forthcoming meeting lounged lazily within her quarters at the top of the mansion in Tenebrae’s finest wing. Reclining on a chaise lounge dwarfed beneath her ample girth, Lady Libra, the mistress of Tenebrae Manor, stretched her arms luxuriously. Her dusky eyes were like pools of dark amber; this accompanying her plump red lips, upturned ever so slightly at the corners, gave her an air of unshakable confidence, of peerless wisdom. Her body, hugely fat, curved sinuously beneath her alarmingly snug charcoal dress, clinging to her like a second skin. She was all things beauty in a woman, albeit exaggerated to their polar extremes, so as to create a sort of overripe diva - like a piece of fruit left upon its branch but a day too long, so as to be left too sweet, too ripe. Hedonistic in all respects, Libra was not wont to being denied her sensual surfeits and her lofty position within Tenebrae left her lapping up all luxuries her reluctant servants languished upon her.

  She lay now, fanning herself apathetically with one hand, draining a glass of cherry wine with the other. Surrounded as she was in her comforts, Libra was a shade flustered, attributing to the stifling heat wave. “Madlyn,” she called shiftlessly.

  Seconds passed and only a vacuum devoid of sound came in reply. She shifted her weight onto her elbow. “Madlyn,” she called, louder this time but to similar result.

  Libra squeezed as many seconds out at she could before her patience was exhausted and struggled into a sitting position. Her movements were graceful, albeit lumbering in a way. Slowly, heavily, she rose to her feet and stiflingly gave her back a stretch; it had been some time since she had stood up. “Where is that wretched girl?”

  She took two steps forward before an answer came, though not in the form she had anticipated. A courteous knock upon the oak door of her bedroom was followed by Bordeaux’s imposing entrance, whereupon the demon stood formally and awaited acknowledgement.

  “Oh, it’s Bordeaux,” murmured Libra, as if to herself and she slowly flopped herself back onto her chaise lounge.

  “My Lady, how do you fair this hour?” Bordeaux bowed with great panache and stepped closer to Libra.

  “Surely something can be done about the heat, Bordeaux?”

  “Others were hoping that you would remedy the situation.”

  “Ah, B. I never catch a break now, do I?” she sighed.

  Hold your tongue, Bordeaux, he thought. Since ascending to Tenebrae’s highest perch, the gorgon had shown little activity in the way of leadership.

  “Well, don’t just stand there being so formal, take a seat.” Libra gestured to a less than comfortable wooden stool, upon which Bordeaux propped himself and planted his chin into his hand.

  “Futile as it may be, for the sake of the others, I must ask; can you do nothing about the heat wave?” he asked.

  “Madlyn!” screeched Libra.

  Bordeaux moaned inwardly, his attempt was indeed futile.

  This time though, at least for Libra, an answer came to her request, as a young blonde girl in a navy blue dress and white apron staggered in on clumsy legs. Her knees seemed to buckle under the load she carried, that of a platter of glistening pastries. The girl placed the platter down onto a low table next to Libra, who proceeded to greedily grasp a delicacy in her fingers and stuff it generously into her plump mouth.

  “Coffee, my lady?” the girl asked.

  “Where have you been, Madlyn?” spat Libra.

  The girl’s empty, sunken eyes rolled back mischievously. “Oh nowhere, really… Hi Bordeaux.”

  “My dear Madlyn, how do you fair?”

  She tried to hide her smile, yet her attention was so arrested on Bordeaux that the coffee cup beneath her overflowed with
a hiss.

  “Stupid girl,” hissed Libra. “You may take your leave, once you tell me where you have been hiding, ignoring my calls.”

  “The kitchens are busy is all. There’s talk of another human in the house.” Madlyn brushed her hands on her smock and pulled at the blonde pigtail that sprouted out the side of her head.

  “A human? Is that all? Is that the reason for your tardiness? Your depriving me of these fine sweets? Go now, silly girl.”

  “Bye Bordeaux,” simpered Madlyn, paying no attention to Libra.

  The order must have settled into her feeble brain somewhere though, as the girl tottered out through the door she had entered with a silver tea tray in hand.

  “She is so insane, one could mistake her for a monster,” said Libra.

  “Yes, well those humans do have fragile temperaments. I believe it is safe to say that her year at Tenebrae Manor has frightened out what was left of her wits.”

  “Stupid girl to begin with, really. But she is dutiful when she feels like it and lord knows, I’ve needed a servant true to their duty.”

  Bordeaux sipped his coffee quietly as Libra crammed another cake into her overweight body. The demon was not surprised that she had not offered him one. Libra’s ravenous appetite was startling to nobody.

  “Now, about my birthday…” she began.

  “My lady, please. I must interject. This matter of the human.”

  She threw her arms into the air. “Oh, the human, the human. What of him?”

  “As master of affairs, I feel I must deal with him swiftly so as to carry out more important matters,” said Bordeaux.

  “Well I don’t know much,” replied Libra. “Only that the lad is scampering about the walls somewhere. Like a rat in a maze, trying to escape I’d say. I had thought you’d be more informed. How did he get in here?”

  “I would hazard the guess that Usher let him in.”

  “The halfwit.”

  “A youthful sort, from what I gather, “ added Bordeaux. “Probably a simple farmhand. Not rugged enough to be a wrangler.”