Tenebrae Manor Page 7

  "I find that you've drained me proficiently of said benevolence. I say again, leave."

  Deadsol made for the door. "Why yes! Rest, my dear; regain the reasoning! The sleep of reason produces monsters!"

  The door slammed, its voluminous blast taking all sound with it, so that only echoes were left reverberating in the now silent room.

  ****

  The jester and Madlyn lingered on the stairwell. Their gazing upon one another was intense, wide-eyed and silent, that is until Madlyn wrested the energy out of the dreamy atmosphere and uttered, “Who are you?”

  As though Comets were indeed her reflection, his reply came. “Who,” he mimicked, “Are you?”

  “I am Mad,” said the girl.

  “So am I.”

  “How is that so? When we are so very different?”

  “Who says we are different?”

  Madlyn had to think. “Why… Nature. In our appearances. We are different.”

  “You saw the black rose,” said Comets.

  “Yes. It was very pretty.”

  “I saw it too. We are the same in that way… If only that way.”

  But their reverie was broken by the emergence of Deadsol. He raced by them and swiftly swooped up Comets by the ear of his cap.

  “Come along, my boy. Bustle, I say! We’ve errands!”

  Madlyn watched as they sailed off down the hall, Comets never removing his gaze from her.

  ****

  Edweena and Bordeaux had returned to ground floor, away from the stifling air and into a realm much dryer, arid even. The dust of neglect clung to every surface in Tenebrae’s foyer and cutting through the melancholia came an anguished wail from the direction of the rooftops. A spider stirred, a suit of knight’s armour rattled, an ancient portrait of a forgotten baron appeared to incline his painted face in the direction of the noise.

  From his vigil post at the front door, Usher turned his head slowly and emitted a barely audible grunt.

  “That sound,” Edweena whispered.

  Again there was a shout, preceding a rumble like that of a great stone column tipping over. Bordeaux stood and focused on the noises echoing through the mansion.

  There was no doubt in his mind who the perpetrator of such obnoxious volume was, as he and Edweena begun the ascent of the central staircase. Bordeaux’s leather shoes clicked rhythmically on each step, washed over with the hush of Edweena’s long black scarf trailing behind her. The years of unending movement about the house and its surroundings had left both of them in peak physical condition, svelte and tiring not to the overwhelming summit of stairs.

  The noise was coming from the auditorium, its expansive brouhaha increasing evermore as demon and vampiress drew closer. It became discernible that there were a multitude of voices, rumbling about the other, trying to gain dominance through increased volume.

  The great door to the theatre was ajar and Bordeaux, taking a look at the face of Edweena, who stood bemused, pushed it open.

  8: Decorating The Auditorium

  The auditorium - an introverted atmosphere and cavern of acoustic desolation, a monstrous eardrum infinitely scouting, searching for a change in the ominous quiet. Where any difference in the still atmosphere would have it transformed into that of a menace of booming throat bellowing. Spewing forth echoes of tremendous bass that reverberate in the common time signature. The seats red and empty, hollowed out like upturned mollusks. Its lights, draped through high ceiling as glow worms trapped in the silk of a spider's thread. And the composer Arpage - ensconced in his loft and staring blankly at a scribble cluttered score sheet.

  This cave where time is frozen, all is silent, a vacuum devoid of sound and all is still save the dust motes sailing endlessly about the walls, seemed to portray within its confines a small galaxy. A forgotten void as dimly lit as the heavens with their faraway stars.

  When it appeared that nothing could penetrate this curtain of laconism, when the very idea of sound was fast becoming lost to the ages, there came a low drawl. It was that of a man singing and increasing in volume as he drew nearer to the auditorium. Then, with a blast of prominence came Deadsol in mid-song.

  "... And the night mourned the sorrows of the earth! Now here's a cadaverous colosseum! What say you, Comets?"

  The jester trailed in behind him. "Dusty, sneezy but we can manage."

  Deadsol clapped his hands and at once there was a burst of light about the theatre, all unlit lights shot up with a fresh glare that gave the room a dull gold glow.

  "Now see here, this place is simply not up to scratch. Surely you'll agree Miss Libra deserves a tidier jubilee? Comets, you scoundrel, what are you doing?"

  Deadsol's lackey had clambered onto the stage and was scaling the curtain to its summit. Perhaps he was exerting some form of downward tug, because his light frame alone could not have encouraged what followed, that of the curtain rod dislodging from its perch at one end and sending Comets crashing to the stage with it. Deadsol could do nothing but guffaw as the imp jester struggled to untangle himself from the curtains. Overcoming any structure or patience shown in his attempted egress, he simply tore at the cloth with his teeth and ripped his own escape from the threads. Deadsol laughed so loudly that his shoulder made forceful impact on the nearby wall and caused several lights to plummet earthbound like meteorites and shatter on the floor. The general clamour that followed echoed about the interiors of the theatre and instantly destroyed the reveries undertaken by Arpage, who remained hidden in his loft as the unseen third inhabitant of the auditorium.

  The musician had, of course, heard the commotion beneath him and a switch had been struck in his composition, one that threw him from quiet contemplation into a pool of artistic frustration. His rage was suppressed into his core until the pressure was all too much and something snapped. Maybe it was his neck twitching involuntarily, his pencil breaking entwine under his furious grasp or perhaps this snap was merely an onomatopoeia best suiting to his sudden mood swing. In any account, the composer flew upright and stormed to the entrance of his loft to discover the instigators of such racket. Deadsol and Comets had created from the orderly auditorium a chaotic ruin and Arpage's yellow teeth bit down on his lip until the blood trickled to his chin.

  "What is this? This impropriety? Here I am, the boulder barricading artistic flow just beginning to give when this, this! This commotion that tickles my very underarms, drains my strength and all ideas go up in puffs of smoke!"

  Arpage carried on in his fury. "This heat enrapturing, suffocating! These demands, demands for a magnum opus expunged from my bones, gifted to her, her of all undeserved people."

  Here, he broke into sobs. "I am so weary; sleep beckons me! But how? How can I engage in slumberous activities when time drags me screaming closer to the date of my doom! How, when such noise whips at my ears?"

  Comets jumped on one foot and tittered softly, as though reciting a lullaby,

  The composer grows weary,

  But fret not, my deary.

  For in his dreams and slumbers

  Come his greatest scores and numbers!

  In response to this poem, Arpage felt his eye flinch and his brain thrown backwards in time. It was as though he was reminiscing of a forgotten childhood, memories of a young poet flexing his academic grey matter and concocting his first works.

  "Such phonics! Such locution!" he stammered. "You! Little man! Meteors may just be my salvation."

  "His name is Comets," said Deadsol.

  "Pah! Irrelevant! The point is this little man has inspired me! More, more, I say! Uh, if it please, of course... Ah he he, yes." Arpage's hands flailed upon his skinny wrists as he dashed back to his piano and called "Another verse, young Comets!"

  The jester turned to Deadsol, who shrugged his shoulders. Comets thought a moment before inflating his chest with pomp,

  Slaving away through toil and trial

  In such heat! Gives rise to my bile.

  And all for a girl so mean and fat


  And incredibly cranky at that!

  "Yes! Eureka!" Arpage called from his loft.

  An eerie green glow gave ushering to a sombre legato of notes from the piano. The composer played a carnivalesque waltz most haunting in its lumbering. Comets continued in time;

  A reluctant posse

  At her feet, so to see,

  Mutiny! They pray, we'll betray in the day

  But victorious morn' is astray.

  The music continued and Comets flung his body about the auditorium, throwing confetti conjured as if from nowhere. Deadsol laughed like a hyena as the room began to look more and more like it had been struck down by a gusty blizzard. A whirlwind of chaos had descended, with Comets in the eye of the storm as a figurehead - a deity of tornados. From the keys and pipes of Arpage's instrument came zephyrs of colour and butterflies of noise.

  Comets was swinging from a rope whereupon a light sat at its end resembling the luminary lure of a deep-sea angler. Back and forth he swung, until there appeared in view a pair of figures draped in maroon and black, standing vigilant at the door of the auditorium. Despite his vantage point, the jester could see naught but a pair of deep red eyes penetrating him with intensity to paralyse. Close then far, big then small as he swung.

  The music stopped, the confetti settled to the floor and three rebels stood stunned under the piercing glare of Bordeaux.

  "Who fashioned this disobedience?"

  Deadsol turned to him nervously. "Ah, Bordeaux! Just in time, I dare say."

  Behind him came a dull thump. Comets had plummeted to the floor.

  "This place must be presentable for the jubilee! What have you done?" Bordeaux said.

  "A calculated adornment, Mr. B,” replied Deadsol. “A verbal contract, as it was. Libra instructed us to prepare the auditorium for her birthday."

  Edweena, who stood with Bordeaux, snorted. "Prepare, indeed. This place is a wreck."

  "Where is Arpage?" said Bordeaux.

  None replied and in the little loft above, the composer crouched frantically behind his piano. Deadsol and Comets inclined their heads slowly in time towards the loft. Bordeaux followed suit.

  "Arpage."

  The composer would have remained concealed, had his cowardly sobs not betrayed his location. He stood upright and, shaking woefully, he moved in sight of the crimson demon at the top of the ladder to the loft.

  "There's our man," smirked Edweena.

  "Master B, please -"

  "Enough." Bordeaux silenced Arpage with the uprising of his palm. "My boy, what part did you play in these shenanigans? Or are you innocent?"

  "Guilty! Guilty!" Comets cried. "A trio of deeds, most awful indeed!" He realised no one was paying him any attention and began to jump about the place.

  "Oh sir!" wailed Arpage. "Young Meteors is right! They pranced in here and encouraged such blasphemy against my lady."

  "Blasphemy, you say? I referred to the destruction of this very theatre. Perhaps there is more I should be livid of?" said Bordeaux.

  Arpage flung his hand to his forehead. "Sir! Forgiveness, I implore! A song, sir. A most insulting song towards Libra!"

  "The turncoat!" said Deadsol. "He's ratted on us!"

  "Turncoat! Spin! Spin!" Comets twirled until he was dizzy.

  Bordeaux pondered a moment with Edweena grinning beside him. Rebellious as these three had been, she found much humour in the degrading of her former ally, Libra.

  "But why should that matter?" said Deadsol. "She isn't here to hear. Here to hear! Oh my! Besides, she is but a mere shadow of what she used to be."

  "Shadow! Shadow! What is shadow, when all is night? Nothing is shadow at all!" cried Comets.

  "Alas, a lumpy midday shadow at that," said Deadsol.

  "Midday! Midday! What is midday? So long in the dark! I've forgotten!"

  Bordeaux had heard enough. "That will do, Deadsol. In any account, this room must be made presentable."

  He now pointed at both Deadsol and Comets. "You and you. Tidy up or I will lock you both in the cellar until you deafen yourselves with the sound of your screams!"

  Arpage tittered.

  "Arpage," said Bordeaux.

  "Ahh! Master B?"

  "Concentrate, sir! We have spoken already about this! And you know better than to involve yourself with these two misfits."

  Comets moved to shout something in defense, only to be silenced by Deadsol.

  "As much as all of us dislike these annual demands of Libra, we must abide by them!"

  "The night is quite essential for some of us," added Edweena. "If not for Libra, do it for Bordeaux. The man is exhausted!"

  "I did not seek pity, my dear Edweena but I thank you," said Bordeaux. "The show must go on. The reward is another year’s reprieve from the wrath of Libra. I ask that you would all galvanise yourselves with me. We can do it together."

  "Here, here!" cried Arpage.

  "Well said!" echoed Deadsol.

  Five silhouettes gathered close in the vast auditorium and, lit by the glowworm lights that remained overhead, they conversed. The reprimanding was at its end and now this quintet stood and permitted themselves but a few minutes grace from their individual demands. The eleventh hour was near, soon the fruits of their labour, which had been nourished with a sickening heat wave, would blossom for better or worse. The yearly episode that they had grown to dread was beating upon the door to their composure. Soon it would break through and, like a blast of southerly gale, it would pass on by and exit through an opposite window. The results of its chaos would remain but the threat itself would be gone and recovery could commence.

  9: The Undercurrents

  In the palatial cosmic, the baubles of celestial beauty dangle about their orbits as though on the strings of a mobile. Megaton spheres contradict their own weight with an effortless float through vast expanse. The host star bristles from its own heat with fiery needles like that of the porcupine, spewing forth spectres of light, of energy. The sun blisters the closest pair of satellites with searing flame until their surfaces crack and weep the pus-like magma of their boiling insides. And pertaining to similar tragedy, those orbs furthest from the sun’s proximity dwell in vacuous and forgotten darkness. The cold locks them in an eternal sleep, their frigid expanses sustaining no life.

  In a fortunate setting, riding a slipstream of equilibrium, the final rock in the host star’s initial treble glides comfortably like a leaf on a breeze. Slowly it spins, on axis and orbit, a dancer so carefree, so oblivious to the seething envy of the other planets. It is of a perfect balance, one hemisphere sleeps peacefully in the umbra, one soaks in the warmth of the sun’s rays and each take their turns, selfless in their swapping. A deity twirls the sphere in his mighty hand, taking notice of a blemish upon the surface. It is polished again and again, yet the blackened spot remains as a dirty bruise on the skin of this apple. A sun spot, the surface of a dark, deep sea.

  It is the eternal night of Tenebrae blanketing its portion of earth’s surface. The sky is still, the surface of this impenetrable ocean. Stars skim the shallows in ignorance to the mournful souls who are drowning in the depths. Their lungs fill with the water of regret as they press for the surface, for breath, for life. It is too late - their struggle is in vain, they wallow in their despair. The surface is still; below, the currents pull and tug in restless wanderings.

  Our characters are unmoored. Be they pertaining to a calculated chart, or aimless in their off-course drifting, their individual vignettes share a similar destination. A celebration draws near and they are each in varying moods relating to this forthcoming jubilee. Their accounts hang like ornaments on a tree, enveloped in their own mysterious beauty - a red globe for Bordeaux, the crimson demon. And what else? There is a copper coloured globe for Deadsol. A smaller one trails behind it in motley red and yellow; it is Comet’s bauble. A brooding black for Edweena and verdant greens for Arpage and Crow. And on a branch far lower than the rest, where the lack of light robs it of any distin
ct colour, is a bauble representing the Mute Chef.

  Above them all, a certain branch sags under the weight of a dusky charcoal sphere. It is of course the elevated Libra, a honey-eyed Venus. They sit together on the same tree, leaves of a common bole, though perfectly encapsulated within their individual spheres, unaware of each other’s presence.

  ****

  A candle burned, its tall and slender frame diminishing slowly, spreading horizontally as it spiraled downward. On the wooden surface of the vanity, where wax was beginning to congeal and stick, two elbows rested. The forearm pillars held within their hands a head of remarkable beauty and the mirror reflected the face of the Lady Libra. Within her fingers, a tangled curl of darkled brown hair wove its serpentine form, one of many elegant strands that dangled gracefully about her neck. Her face a perfect form, softened in its contours, heart shaped and full with a pair of hypnotic topaz eyes. Their pupils were drowned, swallowed up by an encompassing pool of amber that could lull weak of will mortals into submission.

  It was these eyes that gazed distantly into their own reflection. Did their own beauty amaze them? Or was Libra merely off in pleasant reverie, dreaming of a future more extravagant than her present? The mirror was a canvas, a portrait of the voluptuous, a celebration of life. But what else had the procurator of such a portrait hidden amongst his brushstrokes?

  The background, the half lit gloom of Libra's bedroom, camouflaged another being. A being noticeable only at a second glance, a deeper look. Yes, there she is. Madlyn is behind Libra. The candlelight was not strong enough to illuminate her gaunt features, despite a white gloss of Madlyn’s own eyes emerging from shadows. Her hands performed a different kind of brushstroke, brushing through Libra's cascading curls.

  "It will be an extraordinary event. A jubilee of abundance!" announced Libra.

  "Yes, Miss," replied Madlyn.

  "A splendiferous episode of worship! Worship of me!"

  "Yes, miss."

  "And everyone will be in awe of my beauty and announce unyielding devotion and love to their perfect mistress!"