The Eyeball Collector (23 page)

He finished with a gloriously cacophonous triad and a stiff bow. Hector shook his head in disbelief as the hall resounded with cheers and applause. It was a full four minutes before His Lordship could take his seat again at the table. But then Lady Mandible rose from her seat and silence descended once more.

‘I have something to show you too, dear husband. I will return,’ she said with an enigmatic smile and left the hall.

In the dining hall, where fames roared in three huge fireplaces and the noise of laughter raised the roof, the Midwinter Feast continued in the absence of Lysandra as yet more dishes were served.

Lord Mandible found his appetite quadrupled by his state of elation following the rapturous reception of his performance on the harpsichord. The applause, the acclaim – it had brought tears to his eyes. He ate hungrily, licking and sucking the grease from his fingers.

My, but it was hot in here tonight! He could feel the sweat running down his forehead. He mopped at his brow again with a sleeve. He felt slightly sick. The hog, what was left of it, stared at him mournfully from the other end of the table but suddenly he couldn’t eat another morsel. He took a deep breath. He was sure the feeling would pass. Perhaps the excitement was just a little too much. ‘I’m an artist after all,’ he said to himself. ‘I am highly strung.’

Just then the hall doors began to swing open again. The master of ceremonies rapped twice upon the marble floor with his staff and announced, ‘Her Ladyship, Lady Lysandra Mandible.’

Every head turned towards the well-oiled doors as each travelled silently along its slow arc, just skimming the floor. Only when they were fully open did Lady Mandible finally step into view. At first glance she hardly looked any different. She was wearing the same dress as before. She was not holding anything. Lord Mandible was confused.

He sat heavily. He was beginning to wish this was all over. He badly felt the need to lie down. He watched as his wife advanced slowly towards him and noted for the first time, as did the rest of the guests, that she had put on a cloak.

The cloak was made of rich cream velvet and trimmed with snow-white ermine. It sparkled with two silver buttons at her throat and silver thread criss-crossed its expanse of material. But none looked at the buttons, none considered the quality of the ermine, none remarked on the velvet or the way the cloak fell from her shoulders and flowed like water out behind her moving softly over the floor. Instead they wondered aloud, ‘What sorcery has a cloak shimmer like that?’

For, as Lady Mandible continued her approach, it truly seemed that the cloak was alive with incandescent colour, and she herself seemed to be surrounded by a misty cloud of sparkling hues. The guests were both bemused and entranced by its beauty. Then, like a wave building as it travelled to shore, the realization of what they beheld slowly dawned on them. Hector, his waistcoat still stuffed with the cat, shook his head in anguished disbelief.

‘It cannot be!’ they whispered. ‘It cannot be!’

For the cloak did move, and it did shimmer, because it really
was
alive, though already in the throes of death. Lysandra held out her arms and slowly turned to fully reveal to her astounded audience the true magnificence of her creation. Her face was a picture of triumph and cruel beauty. Now everyone could see clearly what she had done. Bovrik was rooted to the spot, gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the vision before them.

‘Oh no!’ whispered Hector in utter horror. Attached to the fabric, with pins so fine they were invisible, covering almost every inch, from the shoulder to the furthest hem, were huge living butterflies, each flapping uselessly as it slowly released its tenuous grip on life. And the fine colourful mist around Lysandra’s head that settled as a glittery powder on her skin was composed of the myriad nacreous scales from their frantic wings.

Hector wrenched his gaze from the awful sight, unable to bear it, and saw instead Bovrik. He was standing as still as the numerous statues that decorated the dining hall, utterly entranced by the butterfly cloak.

Suddenly Lord Mandible pushed back his chair and stood up. Pale and sweating, trembling visibly, he mopped his face repeatedly with his wet silk handkerchief as he stumbled forward. He seemed to be in pain. Two servants tried to come to his aid but he shook them off. He staggered out from behind the table, using the carved chair backs for support. Lady Mandible didn’t move; instead she watched him come to her, her glinting eyes as sharp as blades. Hector, along with the guests around the hall, was shocked into numbed stillness. Mandible was dragging both feet by now but seemed determined to keep going. His eyes were fixed on his wife. ‘Lysandra,’ he gasped as at last he reached her side, ‘I am not so well. Help me.’ Then he clutched wildly at his constricted throat, groaned once and fell to the floor as lifeless as the marble tile upon which his head now lay.

The silence was punctuated by a lone hiccup from one of the tables. Lysandra looked upon the body of her husband and sank, rather dramatically, into the arms of Gerulphus who was standing nearby.

‘Call for the castle physician!’ ordered the manservant authoritatively. ‘Fetch some water!’

The drunken revellers looked on in bleary-eyed confusion and the servants ran hither and thither. Lady Mandible had been taken to her throne where she was being revived with salts by one servant and rapid fanning by another. Someone else was waving a burnt feather under her nose. The cloak lay spread all about her, its terrible beauty stilling as the pinned butterflies were crushed and died.

The physician arrived quickly. He had not far to come, being asleep further down the table (it was he who had hiccuped). He knelt unsteadily beside the motionless body and announced fearfully, ‘Lord Mandible is dead.’

Bovrik was the first to react. The faux Baron dashed towards Lady Mandible, pushed aside the servants and with a wild flourish ripped off his eyepatch. So desperate was he to display his new eye that he tilted his head at such an acute angle the diamonds and gold caught the light and instantly his whole head seemed to be surrounded by a glittering, blinding halo. Those nearby actually put up their hands to shield their eyes from the glare. Even Hector, at some distance, had to squint.

‘Lysandra,’ Bovrik spoke at last, ‘do not fear. Your husband may be dead but you will not be alone.’ He touched his forefinger to his eye. ‘See,’ he said. ‘My new eye. It is for you, Lysandra; consider it a gift. Impressive, don’t you agree? I too can be grand. Am I not worthy of you? Together we could—’

Suddenly Lady Mandible raised a hand and slapped Bovrik hard about the face. Caught off guard he lost his balance and staggered sideways. Something shot past him to land on the floor. And all eyes followed the glittering orb as it rolled across the marble to come to a halt at the dead Lord Mandible’s foot: it was Bovrik’s golden, bejewelled eyeball.

Spots of colour had come back into Lady Mandible’s cheeks and her eyes danced. She stood up. ‘Lord Mandible dead?’ she roared. ‘But how? He was in the best of health only moments ago!’ She turned to Bovrik, a look of exaggerated horror on her face. ‘And did I hear you correctly? Did you say you wished to step into my dead husband’s shoes? Only moments after he passed away? You insolent thieving scoundrel!’

Bovrik dropped to the floor and crawled on his hands and knees to retrieve his precious eye. He dusted it off quickly and pushed it back into the empty socket. He got to his feet. ‘No, no,’ he tried to protest. ‘I merely meant . . .’ His voice tailed off. No one was listening to him. All ears were attuned to Lady Mandible. An almost imperceptible smile manifested itself on her lips, and with that smile Bovrik suddenly understood that something truly dreadful was happening.

‘I wonder, Baron,’ mused Lysandra coldly and clearly for everyone to hear, ‘if perhaps
you
had something to do with my husband’s death.’

‘It could be a case of poisoning,’ said the physician helpfully. ‘His Lordship’s lips are quite blue.’

Poison! Murder! The Baron? The guests gasped as one. But Hector could only shake his head in disbelief. Was that why Bovrik had been sneaking about at night? To plot the murder of Lord Mandible? He could hardly believe he hadn’t thought of it before. But, even if he had, would it have made any difference? Would he have done something to stop it? Hector was confused. He couldn’t answer these questions. His thoughts were lost in a fog.

Bovrik’s face was by now drained of all colour as the full horror of what was happening sank in. ‘Lady Mandible,’ he was whispering, ‘surely you cannot believe . . . surely you wouldn’t accuse me . . .’

‘It would suit you to have him gone, wouldn’t it, Baron?’ she hissed back.

Bovrik looked around the hall, at the flushed faces watching his every move, at the servants whose lives he had made hell, at Lady Mandible who had turned against him, and he knew he had no chance. With a cry like a wounded animal he turned and fed.

Slowly, with the aid of Gerulphus, Lysandra walked over to Lord Mandible’s body. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she sighed with a very small sob, ‘what shall I do without you?’

Hector took one last look at the guests about him . . . and he saw no true sorrow or regret. His stomach turned and he felt only utter revulsion and self-loathing.

‘I have become a wolf,’ he whispered, and despair coursed through his veins. He thought he might collapse. Is it really too late? he wondered. A slight glimmer of hope began to surface. Perhaps not, he thought. But before he could do anything, from the corridor beyond the dining hall came the sound of galloping hoofs and deep throaty grunts, breaking glass and crockery and high-pitched screams of terror. Up and down the table the guests turned their gaze from Lysandra and the motionless Mandible to hearken at the discord beyond the doors.

And it was not what they heard that struck fear into their hearts but what they saw: a long-tusked monster of enormous proportions hurtling into the hall and skidding to a halt on the marble floor. For the second time in his life, Hector found himself staring into the narrow yellow eyes of a Hairy-Backed Hog. And, unlike the one on the silver platter, this pig was most definitely alive.