by R Mountebank
Chapter 4
The road home
She alternated between kicking stones and throwing them at birds for the remaining walk home. In her mind she formed a range of penetrating questions to grill her father with. She would need to strike fast and hard, with tact and cunning. He would undoubtedly try to brush her off but she would press the issue. Eventually he would break down and tell her everything. Then they would leave Pennysworth forever and find her brother. She could also stay up late and eat cake. It was all so easy in her imagined scenarios.
She picked up a particularly big rock and threw it at a road sign twenty meters in front of her. It missed so she threw another. To her right she could hear laughter. A dozen men sat outside of a long wooden hall drinking from tankards and talking with loud, animated voices. Mary sneered in disgust. The men were all from the Archer family, the local ale and cider brewers. All they did was brew alcohol in various shades of potency and drink it. Sometimes they sold it to the public bar in Pennysworth town. A toast was announced by a large barrel chested fellow with drooping red moustaches. His fellows stood and knocked tankards together after a short unintelligible speech was given. A tussle started after ale was spilled over someone’s shoes. Fists started to fly and voices were raised. More men in leather aprons burst out of the building’s doors, the tools of their trade still in their hands. To Mary it appeared that there were different factions among the throng as the groups rallied then charged in a beer-fuelled frenzy. Mary snorted in disgust. Only an Archer could stand to be around another Archer. She couldn’t see what her father saw in them.
One of Mary’s (many) chores was to empty the letterbox of its contents and sort them for her father. As she arrived at the entrance to her family estate, she unlocked the arched iron-gate using a large key attached to a long chain which she hung around her neck. Taking a canvas sack from a hook behind the stone wall she began to fill it with the dozens of letters and small parcels from the red letterbox. The blue one never had anything in it. Mary assumed it was for outgoing mail but she never put anything in it, nor saw her father do so. After securing the gate and locking it, she hoisted the now bulging sack over her shoulder. She trudged onwards towards her home down a road of crushed white coral.
The estate’s gardens spread out to her left and right, overgrown and in disrepair. The once proud and beautifully sculpted gardens had been left to nature’s devices well before Mary was born. There were marble fountains and cunning mazes somewhere amongst the shambles of thorny rosebushes, flowing vines and bulging shrubbery that had not been seen by human eyes for years. To Mary it didn’t matter: the gardens had a chaotic beauty that blended the best parts of man and nature. Strict lines had softened, what was comfortable was now wild and what had been easy was now dangerous.
Beside her the statues of long dead ancestors stood sentinel along the edge of the road. The oldest statues, closer to the arched gates of Horn, were barely recognisable after decades of rain and wind had scoured their features back to humanities most basic of shapes. As she walked down the coral road to the manor the statues became more detailed and whole, only the odd missing limb or head showed time’s cruel passage. Mary knew most of their names and histories thanks to a lexicon of the family history in the library. Several pages had been torn out, however, and her father couldn’t or wouldn’t divulge their secrets.
Her favourite was a large buxom woman wearing layered dresses with crossed bandoliers strapped over her ample chest and a flintlock pistol in each raised hand. ‘Black June’ was inscribed into the stone plinth of the statue. June was something of a rogue and a highway-woman in these parts many years ago. Much of the current family wealth could be attributed to her lifestyle for which Mary assumed she should be grateful. One day her father’s sombre figure would stand guard with her ancestors, though Mary hoped she would never have to look at it. She planned to be long gone by then, never to return. Would she have her own statue one day? She shuddered at the thought.
Ahead of her the House of Horn loomed, a two-storey Georgian mansion of grey stone and white marble trim. Lichen and moss had found purchase in the mortar and cracks of the walls and amongst the gargoyles which clung to the top storey, giving them manic green hairstyles and wispy beards. Sometimes she could swear she saw the little stone men move to watch her better but it was always dismissed as idle fantasy.
Flowering vines covered most of the bottom floor, obscuring several windows. Mary climbed the six wide marble steps to the double doors of oak. Using the same key on her neck chain she unlocked the doors and strode in. The large, high-studded foyer was panelled in dark mahogany with carved scenes of woodlands and animals. Old oil paintings of strange landscapes and stranger relatives in gold-relief framing sat in clusters on both walls. It was an oppressive place made worse by her father’s insistence of keeping it unlit.
Mary hung her school coat on the rack and dragged the mail sack towards the sunroom. Here she upended the sack onto a felt-topped table and sorted the mail into the various names of its intended recipient before they were then transferred to a large wooden pigeonhole. Mary didn’t know why her father worked under so many different names. It was all to do with his mysterious occupation. Sometimes she wondered if he was a spy and the letters came from his network of moles and snitches. Whoever the correspondence came from, they were consistent. Every other day there was another mountain of mail for Mary to organise.
She sorted and filed quickly so she could confront her father while her courage was still with her. While the mail pile was divided into tidy stacks she came across an odd envelope. Her breath stopped as she read her own name scrawled across the envelope in a vaguely familiar writing. With a trembling hand she turned it over to check the sender’s details before she realised it was a waste of time. All correspondence to Pennysworth was destined to a P.O Box in the Cotswolds under the fictional name of P.W Holdings as the real postmen in the ‘outside’ wouldn’t have a chance of finding the county. Pennysworth’s own postman collected the mail from the P.O Box and distributed it himself, his wage paid for by the council enforced tax. It was the return to sender details that held the true recipients address.
But who could it be from?
A warm smile blossomed on her face and her heart started to beat so furiously it hurt. She tore it open eagerly.
There was only one person she knew of in the ‘outside’.
Mary. This letter heralds my return. Before the moon is full I expect to be home. Do not tell him anything. It will only complicate matters. I look forward to our reunion.
Sincerely
R
P.S There will be a little surprise for you. Two in fact.
Remy was coming home! A trill laugh erupted out of her at the thought of it. Her brother! The only true companion she had in this backwards village growing up. How long had it been since he left? Nine years? Ten?
Her father would not utter his son’s name and even to this day still refused to talk about him and why he left. He would be mad to see him again, or madder than usual, Mary thought sourly. Still, the thought of her father sulking around the house couldn’t bring her down. Taking the letter, she stuffed it back in its envelope and hid it in her skirt pocket. The remaining mail for her father was dealt with quickly. She tugged on a rope rigged up to a bell in the study to signal that the precious cargo was in place. He would be down shortly to go through his haul. Mary decided to wait for him, taking a seat on a leather sofa that faced the brimming pigeonhole cupboard.
Moments later there was the sound of several doors slamming. A fitful gust of wind picked up inside the house, seemingly from nowhere, setting the chandeliers to chime crazily and rattling the picture frames. An almighty stench of acrid herbs and sulphur wafted Mary’s way, bringing tears to her eyes. Soon she could hear the heavy footfalls of her father’s shoes and the sharp click of his cane tattooing its imprint into the worn floorboards. Stephen Horn burst into the sunroom, his face a thunderhead, his eyes
alight with repressed rage. His black hair was beginning to show white at the temples. It was loose and hung limp in sweaty curls. He wore a battered and stained leather apron overtop a white cotton shirt and faded blue denim jeans.
He immediately strode over to the cache of correspondence and tore into the letters, a dagger at his hip cleanly slicing the envelopes. He read furiously, his eyes scanning over the pages without pause. Only the noise of dismissive grunts or short bursts of laughter showed that any information was digested. Mary cleared her throat after she realised her father hadn’t noticed her.
Stephen raised his head and slowly turned to peer over his shoulder at her. Nothing in his face softened as his eyes met hers. “Oh. You’re here.” he said.
“I had a good day. Thank you for asking. How are you, Father?” asked Mary bitterly.
Stephen’s lip curled in a smile before dropping back into a sneer. “I’m fine. Just fine… As always.” He turned back to his correspondence.
Mary clenched her teeth. This man is impossible to talk to. But I have to try…
“Father, I must ask you something.”
“What is it?” Stephen did not pause to look up from his work.
“I met a boy today a…. strange boy. We talked about things.”
“You? Speaking to a boy? Now that is strange.”
Mary didn’t know what to make of the obvious insult. She crossed her arms and stamped her feet. “I speak to boys all the time, I’ll have you know!” she said rather more defensively than she had wanted to.
Stephen chuckled. “Sure. And what did you talk about, this strange boy and you?”
Mary paused. How best to approach this? Might as well come out and say it.
“We talked about life outside of Pennysworth, magic and why we need to stay here.”
Stephen’s dagger dropped to the floor in a clatter. He spun on Mary in a whirlwind of letters, his cane pointed at her breast. “Who did you speak to? Tell me, child!”
Mary shrank back in the sofa as far as the soft leather would allow. Her voice faltered. She had never seen him this angry, had never had his wrath directed at her.
“What name did he give? What did he look like? Speak!”
“John. His name is John Smith. He’s the new boy at school,” said Mary meekly.
Stephen shook his head. “John Smith? Somehow I doubt that’s his real name. What did he look like?”
Hugging her knees Mary spoke, “He was quite tall and he had golden skin, pointy ears, spoke with a funny voice.”
Biting his lip, Stephen nodded and lowered his cane. “Did he make you speak an oath or promise? Did he trick you in any way?”
“No. We just spoke. He was nice to me. Who is he, Father?”
Holding his arms behind his back, Stephen turned and looked out the window. “He is a refugee, an important one at that.”
“A refugee of what?” said Mary sitting up.
“Forget about that. What did he say? What did he tell you?”
She shrugged. “Not much actually. He was very cryptic. He told me he was from the outside. That it wasn’t safe to leave. That he could hypnotise people with magic energy and light and ancestor spirits. That you had many things to tell me. The magic bit was the weirdest part. Yes, that definitely won the prize for most weird.”
Stephen slammed a fist against the felt topped table, sending it crashing to the floor as its legs collapsed. Frightened by the sudden outburst, Mary felt a flash of pain and she shrunk an inch.
“He performed in front of you!? The little blighter! I’ll have strong words to his father for this. Mark my words.” Stephen rubbed his fist menacingly as he glanced out the window.
Mary shook her head as she rose to her feet, her clothes hanging off her loosely. “No Father. Forget about that. I fixed it all up. What I need to know is why. Why are we here? Why can’t we leave? Why has John’s family come here?”
Stephen’s gaze returned back to her. “You’re too young, Mary. You know that. When the time comes I will tell you.”
“You always say that! I’m not too young! What is so important that you need to keep it secret?”
Stephen looked at her a while, weighing and measuring her or so it seemed before he spoke softly. “The whole truth would break your heart and drive you mad. I will tell you but only at my own pace. Leave it at that.”
Mary’s remaining hopes were sufficiently snuffed. She turned her back without a word and left the room. The staccato of her leather shoes echoed through the house and back to Stephen; he heard Mary’s mood darken even more as she had slammed enough doors to drown out all sound. Stephen sighed and ran rough, blistered hands through his hair.
All the women in my life are driving me to ruin!
He surveyed the mess he had made of the table and mail. Stephen raised his cane to chest height and flicked a hidden switch below the ornamental gargoyle head. A blue light began to glow down the length of the shaft and a low gentle hum slowly filled the room. His hair stood on end as he raised his arms and the hum intensified. Directing the cane like a conductor’s baton, Stephen coaxed the table back upright and the letters into a tidy pile. His little chore done, he switched the cane off and tucking the small parcels under one arm, returned to his study to work on finding his lady love.
Mary’s bedroom was on the top storey of the east wing, the furthest room from her father’s study. She ran up a wide stone staircase and down a hallway lined with rusted suits of armour. Most of the pieces were from Europe, the armour plain but functional. The oldest suits were smaller than Mary, barely the height of a twelve year old boy. Her father explained that people ate more meat these days, and as a result were much taller than their ancestors. There were several exotic pieces, dressed on wooden mannequins as well. They had a Roman legionnaire complete with spear and shield, a Japanese Samurai with a fearsome mask, a Zulu warrior with a leopards pelt and the helmet of a Greek warrior, its horsehair plume tatty and falling to pieces.
Mary’s bedroom had once been a storeroom of assorted ancestral knickknacks. She had taken it for her own use several years ago. Her old bedroom was uncomfortably close to her father’s study. Whatever mad experiments he did had kept her awake at night and given her headaches and nosebleeds. The move had been her own decision and she doubted her Father even cared. Mary had removed the worst of the junk herself, spreading it around the house and storing it in cupboards. The more exotic and interesting objects she kept for herself. Some were just too heavy to move. Her bed was nestled between a giant jade elephant that was as tall as her shoulders and a spiked iron cage that was big enough to house a grown man, though not comfortably. A weapons rack furnished with swords, axes and pikes, some ornamental, some practical, dominated the farthest wall. Coats and jackets hung from foam balls impaled on the weapons.
The rapier, epee, foil and sabre Mary practiced her sword-work with, sat at one end of the rack. Pennysworth Normal School demanded their students to be adept in either archery or fencing. Mary chose the latter as she did not have the upper body strength required to pull a longbow, nor did she want the lopsided physique which came with said strength. It was an archaic law which dated back to the schools founding. The people of Pennysworth still clung to their obsolete sports with zeal, the two events taking pride of place during the county fete.
Above Mary’s bed hung a metal shield that bore her family crest, a chequered background of black and gold with what looked like a giraffe sprouting two long horns painted in the centre. Beneath the monster-giraffe was the motto ‘Secretum Nos Vigent’. Mary had roughly translated it as ‘secret lives’. It fit her father perfectly.
On the wall opposite her bed was a large oak table, scarred and burnt from Mary’s “experiments”. Vials of liquid in tidy rows sat beside various measuring instruments, mortars, distilleries, knives and metal rods.
Her most precious objects, two atlases which showed entirely different geographies on their surfaces, sat on a wide stone plinth
in the centre of the room. One depicted the world as was shown to Mary in her school books. The other was handmade from leather and bore only vague similarities to the first. All of the continents on the leather globe were stretched out of shape, islands large and small filled the oceans and places were frequently marked with the icon of a dragon. To make matters worse, the writing was an unintelligible blur. Mary assumed the two atlases were so drastically different because cartography had improved greatly since the older one was made. Her father had no idea she was in possession of the atlases and would probably take them should he ever find out. That would involve checking up on her which was unlikely.
Mary had fantasies of leaving England and traveling to America, if or when she was granted freedom. Her magazines were filled with celebrities from a magical place called Los Angeles. The idea of palm trees, white sand beaches and high rise buildings enticed her. She also wanted to watch movies in a real theatre and meet real film stars to see what all the fuss was about. Pennysworth didn’t have reliable television reception and the Horns didn’t own a video player. Mary wanted to see what was so special about these people.
Flinging herself upon the bed, Mary buried her head into the pillow and screamed. She had had enough of her father and his pig-headed ways. The only time he noticed her was when he was looking through her or talking down to her. At least he didn’t cane her like he had Remy.
It’s no wonder he left, thought Mary.
Father and son had always been at each other’s throats. Mary didn’t know what had caused the rift between them so long ago but if her father’s general attitude was anything to go by it wasn’t caused by her brother. After wiping her nose and eyes on her sleeve Mary took out the letter Remy had sent her. She reread it, puzzling over what surprises he could possibly have in store for her.
And he would return before the moon was full?
Mary checked her calendar which charted the major celestial movements as well. The next full moon was only five days away. Five days! And he could be home sooner! She smiled again at the thought of seeing Remy. She had so many things to ask him, so many years to catch up on. And even better, he knew how to leave this miserable place. Her eyes wandered over to a bag she kept in the corner of the room, packed and ready; a hiker’s backpack filled with all the provisions and tools she could get her hands on. It was the bag she had carried with her so many times before on failed expeditions to find a way out of Pennysworth for good. The bag was always at the ready. She was always at the ready.
This time it would be different.
This time she would not be alone.