The Gift of Volkeye (7 page)

1

A
dwarf-sized boy, fourteen-winters-old, sat staring into a clear glass tank and angrily slammed his fist upon the table as he watched the two creatures within run about in a nonsensical fashion. They were black and lizard-like, several inches in length with large eyes that spun slowly round due to their state.

In frenzy, the creatures clawed at one another and continuously ran into the glass walls. They were doing any and everything except what the boy wanted. Normally, a failed experiment like this would have been quite amusing to him, but on this particular day he had something special in mind, and his failure would only put a damper on his plans.

“Bloody hell, why won’t you two die? Blast!”

In a swearing fit, the boy stormed about his quarters in the cottage. Had his parents been home, he’d have received a severe tongue lashing for his antics, for they did not tolerate his potty mouth. They’d gone out for the day, but they were soon due back. Knowing he was pressed for time frustrated him all the more, for if this didn’t work, he’d have to abandon his plan for another day.

He left his room and ran outside through an incessant spell of hard, freezing rain, which had begun that morning. Drenched, he made his way to the shed and began digging through his father’s farming supplies.

The boy dug in a box and tossed aside any item he hadn’t yet tested, going straight for the chemicals he was used to. Until today, he’d only used his newest creation on plants and bugs, and therefore thought that he might need a much stronger dose for animals or the like.

He’d begun testing a year ago and started with the simplest of elements. Rat poison. That was the base for his homemade killer. It was this, combined with many different insecticide pellets, ground to a fine powder, and then finally doused with moderate amounts of hydrogen cyanide, that became the most ambitious and lethal accomplishment of anyone his age.

Though he was just a boy, he’d been self-aware for some time now. He enjoyed reading everything he could on scientific matters and discovered he could borrow the ideas of another and easily apply them to his own projects with remarkable results. He was not an
innovator
by any means, but an exceptional
imitator
.

Along with the disposable syringes he kept on his person at all times (stolen property of his father’s), the boy now had all he needed and meant to get back to the attic—the place that his folks assumed was merely a spot in which he liked to read. It was, but aside from that small detail, it was also a miniature laboratory where he tested his chemicals on the house vermin and other small creatures. (The lizards now in his bedroom tank had been up here, being injected, not long ago.)

The boy stuffed the items in a burlap sack and turned to exit the shed only to face a most unpleasant surprise.

“What you doing, boy?” the man said with accusatory eyes.

“Nothing, Papa…just digging around for a few things.”

“Bloody hell! What you be needin’ with all me chemicals, boy? I knew I wasn’t crazy…thought me supplies was running short quicker than necessary!”

The boy’s father leered at him and snatched the sack, examining the contents.

“Do you know what you got in here, boy? These ain’t no blasted toys, fool! Enough of this stuff here will kill a man!”

A feeling of eeriness interrupted the father in his tongue-lashing, as he could’ve sworn that he saw his son grin at his last remark. Dismissing the possibility of something so absurd, the man grabbed his son by the arm, rushing him to the house.

“Wait’ll you see what your son was playing with in me shed!” he said to his wife, who’d just come running up the muddy hill. She followed them indoors.

Murlach’s father pushed him down firmly in a chair at the kitchen table. Then he watched his parents exit only to return minutes later, changed out of their clothes, robed and towel drying their heads.

“What’s this your father says about you playing with the farming chemicals?” his mother asked, hands on her hips.

“Well, I wasn’t really
playing
, mother,” he said, grimacing with anger.

Murlach hated the fact that his intellect was so far ahead of his parents that they hadn’t the slightest clue as to what he was: brilliant. He could hardly stomach them thinking his interest in these chemicals was just childish fun. And if they weren’t getting on his nerves with this, they were constantly pestering him to help with the crops…as if he was in mind to follow in their footsteps and completely waste his intellect, growing cabbages! The fools, what did they take him for?

“I told you, it’s all them blasted books he been reading, making him funny in the head, ya know?” His father tapped his index finger on his temple several times. “That’s where he’s been getting the idea that it’s okay to play with me chems!”

“The word is ‘CHEMICALS,’ father, and it just so happens that I understand them and all they can do much more than you!” Murlach growled. “So please do not try to lecture me on how dangerous they are! You’ll only hurt yourself!”

Murlach stalked off to his quarters, while his folks just stood there dumbfounded. Being that they’d never witnessed this level of direct disrespect from him, they were unsure of how to punish him. In the past, if they ever laid a hand on Murlach for anything it was merely because they may have overheard him swearing or the like. And even then the extent of their discipline was a whack on the back of the head and grounding him for a weekend. However, due to the fact that his heart was in his work, Murlach never left the house anyway, so their efforts were pointless.

Flustered, they each uttered the first chastisement that came to mind, whether they actually meant to live up to their word or not.

“…And you’ll bloody stay in there, you will, until you’ve learned some manners, boy!” his mother snapped.

“Yeah, and…no…er…ummm…no supper for you. In fact, I don’t even want to see you tonight, as I just may loosen me belt and tan your ass!” the father yelled, scratching his head, wondering if he’d sounded convincing. “There’s a first time for everything, boy!” he added in a harsher tone, not stumbling over his words this time.

Murlach, throwing them obscene gestures from behind his bedroom door, was about to retort when he noticed that the lizards were no longer making a racket. He turned to inspect the matter and was more than pleased at what he found.

Excellent!
he thought, clasping his hands over his mouth, holding in a hysterically wicked laugh that nearly escaped. He calmed himself.

Now all he needed to do was wait and see.

**

A few hours passed, and he’d paced his room the entire time. Sure enough, like clockwork, as soon as the timers hit nine hours past midday, he heard the rap at is door.

“Lights out, boy,” his father said, “And we gon’ talk about that lip o’ yours tomorrow!”

Murlach could hear his father walking away, heading to bed with his mother. Their door echoed as it slammed shut, and with that sound Murlach lay back on his bed, wondering what the night would bring.

He lay in darkness for what seemed an eternity (but what was really just short of another hour). He’d already given up, and lay swearing at himself for being stupid enough to have been caught. Now his father had confiscated his supplies! What was he to do?

Damn it, now I’ll have to start from scratch, which means at least another year!

No sooner than thinking this did Murlach hear his mother crying out, followed by a volley of panicking statements from his father. But then his father, too, was
taken.

As he got out of bed and switched on his light, Murlach’s smile nearly stretched ear-to-ear. He was already dressed, so all he needed was his portable trunk. It contained: the books he most referenced; a year’s worth of allowance; and several vials of different concoctions that he was still testing, all carefully wrapped in fluffy cloth.

Once he’d put on his furs and boots, Murlach casually stepped out of his room and went to look in on his parents. They now lay in their bed, gagging with bubbly, white, blood-spotted foam running from their mouths and noses, soiling their bedclothes and the sheets beneath them.

Murlach looked upon each of them, smirking. “Mama, Papa…did we enjoy our evening tea?”

His father’s eyes widened with realization.

Before she passed, his mother gathered the strength to turn her head and gaze upon him. A violent tremble was her final gesture, and she now laid rigid, tears sliding down her face. Her lifeless, glassy eyes and horror stricken expression begged the question:
How could you?

However, having a heart of stone, Murlach was immune to such sentiments and therefore could never possibly have read her expression. Pleased, he turned his attention away from her and began to taunt his father.

Murlach was tapping his little fingers against his thigh. “Blast, old man, could you hurry? I don’t have all night!”

His father spit up more bloody foam, shaking his head. He too held an expression of utter bewilderment.

They never saw this coming, for Murlach (until this day) had never given any indication he was so sadistic. Always obedient and maintaining a cool head, they believed he was a good child for the most part. It was only when they felt a vicious poison begin coursing its way throughout their bodies that they knew otherwise.

It had been easy for Murlach. His concoction of powder-ground poison with hydrogen cyanide had become a clear liquid. Therefore it was simple for him to mix it with the sugar syrup that his parents used in their tea every night.

That morning, he’d spent hours trying to figure the appropriate dosage, finally deciding to skip the mathematical details and keep the amount small as possible. This was critical just in case his concoction was a failure and made his parents sick rather than killing them. A proper doctor would discover that they’d been poisoned, and his plan would backfire all the easier. His best bet was to mix a miniscule dose with a large amount of food or liquid, as it would be much harder to trace.

The syrup was in a big jar and very thick. Murlach only added enough to avoid tainting the flavour and then vigorously stirred the mix so there could be no detection. He put a few drops of the poisoned syrup in one of his syringes, and, once he was finished, he sat the jar back in its place and went up to the attic to inject the two lizard-like creatures he’d captured earlier.

The remainder of the day had been nothing short of frustrating for him, because (up until four hours previous) it had seemed that he’d failed again. Even as brilliant as Murlach always knew he was, it was only now that his mother and father lay before him that he truly felt accomplished.

This is my calling,
he thought to himself, sneering at his father in his last moments.

With all the strength he had left, the father sat up, clawing the air for his son, who didn’t even flinch at the gesture. Instead Murlach came closer, whispering in his ear.

“Are you done, old man?”

His eyes had begun to bleed at the edges, and he turned for a final glare at his son, shaking his head in horrid disbelief. With one last violent convulsion, the father spit up a large puddle of foamy blood. His body then went limp, and he fell backwards to the mattress, his head smacking the headboard with a thud.

Murlach stood idle a moment, elated but surprised with his victory, almost unable to believe that his plans had gone so perfectly. He then expelled a shrill cackle of laughter and went about his business, wasting no extra time.

**

He now stood outside the cottage with his remote controlled trunk, hovering at his side. He was in a fabulous mood, as it seemed the weather was even on his side now, for the rain had finally stopped. Smiling, his teeth gleamed with the reflection of the moonlight.

He’d already given the place another quick run through as to make sure he had all the things that he couldn’t bear to live without. Except his precious laboratory, Murlach now knew he had everything, and it was time to go.

He wrinkled his nose at the stink of the air—a mix of tar, alcohol, insecticides, and several other flammable substances that he’d dragged from the innards of his father’s shed. Having placed many small barrels indoors, prying off the lids and kicking them over in the process, the mass of liquid had now seeped its way outdoors. It formed a long shallow pool in front of the house, slowly running all the way to the shed.

Perfect.

Then he struck the match and tossed it over his shoulder. The explosive roar of the flames was enough to let him know that his work was done. Not even bothering to look back, Murlach disappeared into the night.

2

Over three decades had passed now. For the last twenty-five years, Murlach had found himself with a comfortable position amidst the Xyecah family—his talents and personality fit them. He was entrusted with every detail of their lives and exposed to all of their deepest secrets.

In fact, Murlach had become so efficient in most aspects of his job that it was a rarity that Phyllamon intervened for anything at all…unless it was to claim sexual favours from some female involved. However, the girl standing before Murlach and his minions was far too young for such things.