Tenebrae Manor Read online

  Crow had entered the house and sprung out of the blocks in the race to the summit. The wood hermit barely noticed the Usher, who received a rather rude brush on the face by Crow's golden cape as it fluttered like a flag behind his shoulders. Up the stairs he flew, shrinking from Usher's view towards the distant pinnacle.

  It had taken Usher a quarter of an hour to reach the first landing. He paused for breath and tried to ignore the taunts of the candelabrum-hung bats that squealed at the blundering disturbance. They mocked his stunted attempts, shook the darkness from their wings and settled back into sleep. As he continued to climb, another apparition stormed past; Edweena in all her sullen beauty spared a word for Usher at the very least, unlike Crow before her.

  "Come now, slowpoke... That's you, you know..."

  Her appearance startled Usher, her intimidating eyes thrown over her shoulder as she ascended above him before she too was lost to the upper shadows.

  Surely he must be close to the top. He was presently overtaken again, this time by Deadsol and Comets. The imp jester imitated Usher's sluggishness by jumping up the steps with both feet, one at a time until Deadsol snatched the runt by the ear and hauled him up the stairs. Next came Rune, the ancient zombie, Tenebrae's mummified librarian, who was not known to venture farther than the confines of his books. Still, despite the old age of Rune, he still shuffled with greater speed than the doorman.

  Usher had reached the top floor of the manor and now shuffled urgently towards his destination. The goal was so close now. Again he found himself giving way, this time to an enormous cake propped on a trolley. The ghastly thing towered like a sickly ghost of cream and sugar, quivering as it rocketed down the hall as though of its own accord. But no, the sweet slab was not endowed with such ability, for hidden behind the thing and pushing the trolley with meaty hands, came the mute chef. Despite his speed, the man moved with precision, deftly rebalancing the cake whenever it threatened to tip. Madlyn trailed behind, somewhat amiably dressed in her smock and dress of white and navy blue.

  By now the Usher was forlorn. Who was there left to arrive? His frustration welled within him, were he capable of secreting a tear of emotional ventilation he would by now have drowned Tenebrae Manor.

  Finally, Bordeaux arrived beside him. Prim as always, the demon gave Usher an encouraging pat on the back before entering the auditorium, which was now a few feet away. Usher’s face showed nothing but inside he was smiling. He triumphantly clasped the handle of the great door and hauled it open. This action of victory was met not with applause but rather an unearthly quiet, broken occasionally by the sporadic coughs of those already inside. Soon Bordeaux returned to his side.

  "Usher."

  The doorman directed his gaze to the crimson demon. "Yes, Master Bordeaux?"

  "Usher, we are all here. Come inside and take a seat."

  With all the haste he had left to muster, Usher joined those sitting amongst the seats. Though they all sat together, the characters appeared so isolated in the sea of vast red felt. The seats jutted their heads above one another like ripples in a mounting ocean wave where each row pushed further towards the crest. Busts of the characters floated above the tide, attaining to no particular pattern, just as jettisoned barrels bob in the sea. Upwards the wave rose to its tipping point, where it remained inert. Above, the cobwebs lay draped in such thickness as to emulate a storm, the feathers thrown by Deadsol could very well have been seagulls trying to escape the coming rains that would inflate the turgid red sea beneath.

  And now, from the zenith of the wave appeared a prominent shadow that blotted out the entrance with its roundness.

  On the stage, Bordeaux stood tall and announced with a voice of smooth baritone, “Lovely ladies and grand gentlemen. I present to you, our approbated Lady Libra.”

  The shadow at the door moved and exposed itself in the light to be none other than the Lady herself. Met with a flaccid applause, she marched with a grandiose oblivion down the aisle to the jubilant chords of Arpage’s piano. Libra was dressed magnificently and adorned with trinkets of jewelry that reflected the light as she moved. She was a confronting sight, somewhat jarring in her protuberance; the pot of her fleshy paunch lay generously bulging over the waist of her black and billowy pantaloons. In all, she had attained the look akin to a gypsy belly dancer, her hair tied high on her head where dark curls burst forth like reeds of a pineapple or the lava of a long dormant volcano. Her arms remained aloft, absorbing what applause and cheers she could hear, until she reached the steps of the stage. Hereupon she required Bordeaux’s assistance up the stairs, for she was so heavy that such effort brought about fatigue. So much so that once she had reached the stage where a throne awaited her ensconcing, she stood for a moment panting for breath. Soon enough though, she sat, flushed with a light sweat on her face and brushed a strand of hair daintily from her face.

  “Lady Libra,” Bordeaux recited, “You, our glorious mistress, our steadfast leader. To you we cling in the epochs of uncertainty. To you we turn for the assurance of blissful night. May Tenebrae never disintegrate under your reign, may our ancient home outlast time itself. To you, on this day (although we really mean night), we celebrate the anniversary of you and no other. May the evening be a most excellent jubilee! May the night know no end!”

  Libra was grinning as feverishly as a child, though she was not listening entirely to Bordeaux and his well-rehearsed speech. Rather, she had spied the mountainous cake that stood centre stage in a glistening glory.

  “Yes, very good Bordeaux. Now you there! Wheel that cake this way!”

  She was of course speaking to the mute chef, who stood with his arms behind his back next to his masterpiece, unhearing and therefore unmoving to Libra’s request.

  “The imbecile! Never mind!” she huffed. “Madlyn!”

  The servant girl spluttered into action, pushing the cake to within reach of Libra. In her clumsiness, she had almost tumbled headlong into the thing, until a merciful regaining of balance held her upright.

  Libra produced a fork as if from nowhere and proceeded to pick away a prominent mouthful from the body of the cake. As she placed it into her mouth her eyes rolled back with gluttonous delight.

  “Oh my. That blind buffoon did it again!”

  “He isn’t blind,” said Madlyn.

  Libra’s eyes cut through to the servant girl’s very core, “You correct me?”

  Madlyn was startled back into an attentive stance, her eyes wide and anxious after speaking out of line. All the while the chef stood unknowing of the conversation going on and that it had been he who had been readily insulted by the person he had worked for weeks to please.

  “Moving on.” Bordeaux swept in just in time to save Madlyn from punishment. “As you were all readily informed, you will now line up to present our Lady Libra with presents. Who would like to go first?”

  It was Comets who made the first movement, leaping from his chair and scuttling down the aisle cradling something dark in his gloved hands. Whatever it was, he held it like a newborn or perhaps a bird that had broken its wing; his usual erratic nature seemed to have been replaced by a doting regard.

  Libra watched him sullenly as he approached the throne and laid at her feet a large pinecone, before turning and leaving the stage.

  The silence that ensured was varied in its chief emotion - Bordeaux’s brow raised bemusedly, Libra’s lip curled with disdain, Madlyn stared absently at the ceiling. Comets was unmoved by any of this and simply returned to his seat.

  “Bordeaux…” hissed Libra.

  For a moment, Bordeaux was frazzled. “Uh, perhaps we should move on? Our always astute composer, Arpage Espirando Notturno has prepared yet another of his resplendent musical pieces. Let us welcome him now!”

  Up in the loft, Arpage kicked at his instrument and the pipes bellowed into life; the piano was playing of its own accord. Arpage slid down to the stage by means of a well-placed rope, his legs kicking frantically as he did so, until he plopped
onto the same level as Libra and Bordeaux.

  “Ahem!” he cried. “My lady, it is always an honour! My only hope is that you enjoy the fruits of my long hours!”

  The spotlight that shone down onto Arpage did little to hinder the prominence of his unappealing features. His eyes lay sandwiched betwixt a bony bulge of cheek and brow and seemed possessed with a demoniac focus. And from his dried and cracked lips, which did little to cover the glossy yellow crags of his teeth, came phonics of beautiful cohesion. The auditorium became hazy as his words flowed like quicksilver to the metronome of his flailing hands.

  Those in the audience fell into a spellbinding trance - Crow paid no heed to a large spider that was crawling across his tunic. Rune the mummy was distracted so much that he failed to notice Comets attempting to pluck at the fabric strips that bound him together.

  Bordeaux found himself standing static, though confused by an unshakeable feeling that he was swaying; he too was oblivious to that of Madlyn staring longingly at him from across the room.

  There were in fact only two citizens present that seemed uninspired by Arpage's recital; the rascal Comets of course and the Lady Libra herself. The pompous mistress of Tenebrae Manor rolled her eyes and puffed her exhalations with frustrated boredom. Her black fingernails tapped on the armrest of the throne as she grew increasingly impatient. She looked to Arpage and saw he had finished and was taking his bow. The piano keys ceased their sounds and the audience applauded louder than they had at any point that evening, much to Libra's envy.

  "Thank you, Arpage," said Bordeaux. "I believe we can all agree that you've surpassed all previous efforts with that stunning recital. Lady Libra, we hope you are impressed."

  Libra snorted, "Impressed? I could barely stay awake through that senseless dribble. More praise! Bad, just bad! I demand you all stop applauding him at once!"

  Arpage took each verbal blow like a punch to his person, keeling further down with each assault. "B-but, Madam Libra," he stammered. "That opus took me months to complete!"

  "Well it sounded like you slapped it together without thought or consideration, you dullard!"

  The audience watched with increased intrigue as Bordeaux stepped in to defend the quivering composer.

  "Now Libra, be reasonable! Surely you see -"

  "Silence!" stormed Libra, "This is my birthday! You should all be on your knees! Not trashing this auditorium with filthy feathers! Not presenting me with pinecones! And not piddling out worthless piffle!"

  Her fury was as directionless as a toddler's tantrum but Arpage’s shoulders convulsed in a mounting rage, his narrow chest wrapped in cardigan heaved violently; his hair went flaccid and disheveled as he tore at his own scalp.

  "This will not stand!" he cried.

  Libra's eyes began to smolder, her own misguided outrage alive in her features; her lips contorting, her neck twitching, "Mind your words, little man."

  Arpage's animosity extinguished his usual cowardice and he stamped his foot defiantly. "No! I will not mind my words. Minding my words is all I've done for weeks, months! And for what? Some selfish beast of a woman accusing me of piddling out piffle! Well you Miss Libra; are a right villain! A big, selfish waste! You, you, you fat girl!"

  Libra's bristled with disbelief, "You insolent -"

  "Ah! But wait!" interrupted the composer, "Since my composition displeased you so, perhaps I should read the other song I wrote, the song I wrote with Deadsol and Comets as they decorated this lovely venue."

  Confounded with disbelief, Bordeaux was powerlessly slow to intervene, for Arpage had already withdrawn a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and begun to spew forth a torrent of insults towards Libra.

  The others gaped, fearing Libra's inevitable wrath yet were infatuated by such rebellion from the usually tepid composer. Edweena tried to hide her smile, Deadsol and Comets cackled like hyenas and Bordeaux could only cringe and wait for this disaster to be over.

  Once Arpage had finished his outburst, all eyes were on Libra - what colossal punishment awaited the renegade composer? What monumental reprimand? With bated breath they moved to the edge of their seats and waited.

  Libra stared venomously at Arpage, then scanned the room and felt the ocean of eyes boring into her. But it was not the attention she had demanded. On the nonce, she felt completely exposed and intimidated and, in an inverse reaction to what anyone would have expected, her face winced and she burst into tears. Sobbing wretchedly, she rose to her feet with a struggle and ran, or rather, waddled to the exit.

  There were none who tried to stop her as she wailed uncontrollably and disappeared out into the halls. Bordeaux was left incredulous; the night had been chaos. He had failed, though it had been others who had dragged him down to such depths. The crimson demon considered this a moment, before his obliging hands helped Arpage to his feet. Deadsol and Comets were still laughing, though all present began to feel a change in the air.

  It was a forgotten ardor, déjà vu as it were, like a dream long passed that lingers in the back of the mind until its emergence years later and it is though it was never absent. It became cold. The heat wave, seemingly unending, had, in a split moment, abated and the residents of Tenebrae Manor felt the anticipated soothing of a winter wind. However, the effect was all too temporary. For only a few minutes later, the air turned sharper still, the temperature plunged into boreal depths.

  In the confusion of the theatre, Madlyn, more out of curiosity rather than care for her sovereign, had wandered out into the halls briefly. Only she would dash back immediately, having observed something that everyone simply must know.

  Though her voice failed to prevail over the verbose ramblings of the others, still she yelled excitedly. “It’s snowing, everyone! It’s snowing outside!”

  END OF PART ONE.

  PART TWO

  11: Out In The Field Of Pumpkins

  The blizzard that struck its blows on Tenebrae Forest was as unrelenting as it was potent. As though the planet had been hurled to some far corner of space in remote proximity to the sun’s warmth, no such life giving fire would welcome the now freezing citizens of the manor. What had been a punishing summer heat wave had somersaulted so abruptly into its opposing season that one had barely enough time to appreciate the relief from the heat before lamenting the unbearable chill. As red hot steel is quenched in soothing water, the forest of Tenebrae, littered as it were with pine needles, singed upon contact with those first few snow flakes, flinching as warm flesh convulses in reaction to a cold hand. The wind carried its savage bite and wormed its way through every nook and permitted no relief from its icy jaws.

  Tenebrae Manor stood inundated with flurries, its shoulders burdened with the heavy cloak of snow. The drifts grew plump with baroque crystals of beautiful powder until the forest was near unrecognisable. Conifers drooped with excess weight; rooted feet were hidden, as the boles were buried trunk deep in the wintery tide. They remained upright, yet were undeniably slipping into a hibernated state, silenced by the gripping fatigue; disintegrating away from life’s pulse by the firn’s lull.

  Subsequent to the apparent death of the trees came the disturbed silence, peering out from around each corner, as though it had been in waiting for the heat to dissipate. The quiet was so encompassing, a nightjar’s breath was free to echo over the drifts and added to the ghostly firmament that was Tenebrae. The night sighed and the façade of the jaded manor creaked softly under its gelid burden.

  Libra had ordered the cake be delivered to her bedroom, a task that Madlyn apprehensively completed; the wails of Libra’s melancholia poisoning the manor with their sombrous echoes as Madlyn brought the cake to her bedside.

  “Miss?” she tittered.

  “What do you want?” sobbed Libra.

  “Um, the cake.”

  “Leave it there and go away!”

  And besides this brief colloquy, none had made contact with the Lady of Tenebrae Manor since her disastrous celebration. Bordeaux had initially b
een relieved to see the back end of this abhorred party; he was finally alleviated of its stresses and able to perform what he had deemed more important errands about the manor. Regardless of how calamitous it had been, the allaying of his anxiety had been worth it. Even so, a pang of remorse struck in his heart and in spite of Libra’s less than respected image in the eyes of the residents, he still felt somehow responsible for assuring her happiness as though she were any other friend of his. He was making his way down the hallway towards Libra’s room when his countenance reversed on him yet again.

  Why do I trouble myself with the extent of her mirth? When there still remains the issue of this human intruder? And when wood golems are running amok about the manor?

  Bordeaux walked crestfallen, the silhouette of his slouched shoulders illuminated by the dull candle glow of the chandelier above Libra’s door. About the floor beneath his feet lay puddles of fresh tallow from the dripping candles above and he did not concern himself to knock on the great door.

  The light in the bedroom was just as dim, a gloom hung in the air - a gloom that shouldered a significant warmth when comparison to the rest of the house. The Lady had not denied herself the pleasure of warmth in her days of isolation. Lit by the fire that crackled in the mantelpiece, a mountain of frumpy sheets lay upon the opulent mattress of Libra’s bed, cut with trails leading between valleys and also to the summit of this mound of cloth. The mountain was too large to consist only of sheet and this was, of course, due to the sniveling virago that sobbed pathetically beneath.

  Bordeaux bided his time, glancing at the destruction of the room with an indifferent patience. It was clear that Libra had broken any number of her possessions in a fit of temper.

  “Libra.”

  A whimper of acknowledgement responded from the pile of quilts.

  “Come now, this is improper behaviour for the one who claims to be our leader,” said Bordeaux. “Leave your quarters. Get up and about. Tenebrae requires it.”