Tenebrae Manor (11 page)

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 been 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.”

“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, seemed 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."