Tales of the Horns: Part 1 The Berserk Beast

by R Mountebank

  Chapter 6

  Homecoming

  Mary found it hard to concentrate on her school work all morning, her thoughts kept returning to John and his magic. They had parted ways earlier for their different classes as John was in the year above Mary.

  “What can a magician learn at school?” she had asked him as they walked to class.

  John only shrugged his shoulders in reply.

  “Then why bother? Why not stay home?”

  “I wanted to fit in. I wanted to meet people. I couldn’t do that at home. Magic can’t save me from feeling alone.”

  Mary felt a chill crawl up her spine every time she thought of her strange new friend’s revelations.

  Magic was real.

  She could hardly believe it but the truth spoke for itself. It was all around her, just as John had said. Her eyes wandered about the room searching for wards or fetishes that the school masters could be using on the unknowing students. Did those flowers on the teacher’s desk lull their senses? Did the patterns in the carpet keep them in their seats? How far did the conspiracy go?

  As she searched the room distractedly she began to notice the furtive glances from Deirdre and her friends – who had been unusually restrained in her presence. In fact the whole school seemed to be leaving her alone today.

  Mary considered that this was what being ‘normal’ was like; nobody caring if you were in the room or not, nothing being thrown at you or spat on you, no nasty words or jibes as you walked past. It was a welcome change, even if the silence around her came as a result of fear. Mary smiled a big wolfish grin at every stolen glance that came her way.

  When the lunch bell rang she stopped by her locker to stow her books and pick up her lunch. All talk died as she walked down the school corridors only to resume in fevered whispers after she had passed. Outside and under a clear sky, she made her usual trip to the trees on the school boundary. Clusters of children parted as she approached or turned and walked away from her very briskly.

  Let them wonder, she thought. Let them fear me for once.

  She found John sitting in a low tree branch, watching birds fighting over his unwanted sandwich crusts.

  “I do love the birds here.” John said distractedly. “They seem so ignorant, so innocent. No pomp and ceremony. They are just simple birds simply being birds.”

  Mary hoisted herself onto the tree branch beside John and sat dangling her legs. “They do anything for a morsel of bread,” chimed Mary. “Beats the pants out of eating bugs I guess.”

  “Birds eat bugs?” asked John, his eyes wide with disgust.

  “Yeah… of course they do. What do they eat where you are from?”

  “Berries and cream I guess. Not bugs. That’s for certain,” said John shuddering.

  Mary sighed. “One more thing I probably will never get to see ˗ stuck up birds…”

  “Oh don’t be so melodramatic. You will probably be allowed out one day, Mary Horn.”

  “Yes. One day. Good behaviour and all…” replied Mary sullenly.

  John rolled his eyes and looked up at the sky, entreating the gods.

  Do you see what I have to put up with?

  “Again with the boundaries, Mary Horn. What is so dreadful about this place? It is a paradise. Can’t you see?”

  Mary dropped her head and studied her swinging feet. “I can see. It is beautiful. But it’s also full of ugly, mean people. I have no friends or family that care about me. I’m an outsider stuck on the inside. I may as well be out there for all the good it does me being trapped here.”

  John smiled at her. “You are different, Mary Horn, I will give you that. The same things that draw me to you probably scare regular people away. Besides, I care.”

  Mary turned her head to hide her blushing cheeks.

  He cares about me? What does he mean?

  Wiping the grin from her face, she turned back to face John. John had missed whatever moment Mary thought they just shared and was staring at the sky. Mary’s feelings of hope suddenly deflated.

  What were we talking about?

  “It’s more than just the people though,” sighed Mary, filling the silence. “I’ve got nothing to look forward to here. What will I do after school? Work for my father doing God-knows-what? I can barely stand him as it is. And the knowledge that there is a whole, wide world out there just waiting for me to explore… It drives me mad just thinking about it. So mad in fact, I have dug escape tunnels and considered kidnapping the postman for information!”

  John nodded as he listened to her talk. “I suppose I understand you, Mary Horn. Where I am from, we are quite isolated from the rest of the world too. I am very happy to be away from it. Even if it is only temporary.”

  Mary’s spirits took another nosedive at the thought of her new and only friend departing. “You’re leaving too? When?”

  John shrugged his shoulders. “When it is safe to return.”

  “Safe from what?” asked Mary in a whisper.

  “War. Death. Famine. Political assassination. The usual stuff,” replied John flatly.

  Mary turned away and cast her gaze over the rolling farmland towards the forest of Pennysworth.

  “You’re not going to tell me a thing are you?” she asked finally.

  “Not a word more,” replied John.

  They sat silently for a while, taking in their surroundings. Mary grew restless and produced a wrapped bundle of sandwiches from her schoolbag. They spent the rest of the lunch break laughing at the birds squabbling over the crumbs and crusts they dropped from the tree branch. For the first time in a long while, Mary forgot about her desires to flee Pennysworth and settled next to her friend with a feeling she would call, if she considered it closely, enjoyment.

  After school Mary waited patiently for John by the main gate. Her schoolmates filed past her sheepishly and shuffled onto the waiting school bus without a word. Deidre stopped in front of her. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and her skin was pale. Mary thought she looked broken, barely strong enough to stand. Deidre made to speak, choked, tried again.

  “How?” she asked in a soft voice.

  Mary shook her head. “Not me.”

  Deidre regarded her coldly. Mary began to feel uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure how she was meant to feel for the girl that had caused her so much misery. She wasn’t going to apologise. That was for certain. Deidre deserved to be brought down a peg or six for all the pranks and abuse Mary had received throughout the years. Mary began to sneer back at her enemy’s face. Deidre seemed to deflate further. Her icy gaze melted to the point she was staring at the ground. “I’m sorry, Mary. For everything…”

  Mary felt as though she had been slapped. Her bitter thoughts crumbled, lost their edge. For a fleeting moment, a feeling of elation coursed through her.

  Deirdre apologised!

  Before she could allow herself a nasty smile or a poke of the tongue, however, Mary realised just how cheap the victory was. A curse had broken the girl’s spirits. Magic and fear had bought Mary’s respite. It disappointed her to think that, even for a second, she had been glad to see Deidre in some sort of pain.

  The words tumbled out of Mary’s mouth without thinking. “I’m sorry too, Deidre. I stopped him afterwards… Made him take it back.”

  Deidre sniffed and nodded her downturned head. “Well… thanks… I guess.” She walked away as fast as her laconic gait could take her.

  Mary watched her mount the stairs of the bus unsteadily just before the doors closed and the engine rattled to life. As the bus left her behind, Mary turned her thoughts to John. He was nowhere in sight. She waited several more minutes, hoping she would have company on her long walk home and perhaps the chance to talk more about magic and life on the outside. But the seconds turned into minutes, and it soon became apparent that John would not be joining her. Mary hefted her bag high on her shoulder and started on her way.

  Dark clouds blew in from the north, promising wild rain. Mary quick
ened her step. Pennysworth town seemed on the brink of desertion. Shop-keepers were already bringing in signs and display tables. The few townsfolk she saw scuttled past head down, making fast for home. Nobody noticed her. Nobody stopped to point or spit at her. Just at the edge of town, Mary felt the first spattering of rain on her head. She gripped her arms to her chest for warmth.

  As she left the outskirts of Pennysworth town the winds picked up and the heavens opened. Great sheets of rain pelted her. Mary squealed in dismay and ran. Her hard leather school shoes offered little in the way of comfort. The soles of her feet were soon tender from the pounding rhythm of her flight. The road before her was obscured beneath a slick of water. The drainage culverts were overwhelmed, rivers of water lapped at her tar-sealed island. Driving rain stung Mary’s eyes. She blinked the pain away and pressed on, head bowed low and shoulders hunched forward.

  Hedgerows and farms sped past her in a grey wash. Only morose livestock huddled beneath windbreaks witnessed her mad dash for home. She made it past the crossroads as a stitch in her stomach began to nag. Passing the Archer’s brewery, she became aware of her lungs growing hot and heavy. She had to slow a bit, and she saw the erratic brewers were outside their longhouse, singing in the downpour, swilling rain-diluted bear. A wavering cheer went up as some of the more coherent of the party noticed Mary. She ignored them and carried on.

  Near the gates of the House of Horn, her stamina finally gave out and she slowed to a walk, breathing hard through raw lungs. The last twenty meters to the gate seemed to take an age to cover. With trembling hands she unlocked the gate and slipped in. The canvas mail bag waited for her on its hook. Mary wasn’t in the mood for dragging its bulk through the rain. However she knew her father would not tolerate any excuse when it came to receiving his mystery mail. She worked as fast as she could to transfer the envelopes and parcels from the red box to the oiled bag to minimize potential rain damage to their contents. The haul was blessedly light today. She flipped the bag over her shoulder and started her final leg of the journey past her glistening ancestors of alabaster and marble. Rain dripped from their noses, filled in their manic grins, and sheeted off shirts and petticoats. Black June looked like a pirate marooned on a tiny reef, a sea of muddy water lapping at the rocks.

  Mary ran the last few steps to the door, unlocked it and let herself in. She left the mail sack in the foyer and went to her bedroom to change. Her room was freezing cold. Shivering, she peeled off her soaking wet clothes and dried off. She dressed herself in an old grey cotton track suit then ventured to the sunroom to complete her chore, collecting the mail sack on the way. Today the mail was sorted without finding anything addressed from Remy.

  It doesn’t matter. He will be here soon enough, she thought.

  She tugged on the bell rope signalling her father and withdrew from the room, finding herself unwilling to stomach his usual mood.

  Mary gave the hallway a quick inspection to see if the Brownie had done any work. It was surprisingly clean. Mary ran her finger along several picture frames and suits of ceremonial armour. Not a speck of dust. And yet, in the corridor on the way to the kitchen, she came to a photograph of her on the wall that was completely covered in dust – so much so that it appeared to be the whole hallway’s worth of dust collected into this one space. She knew this photo well: there sat a younger version of herself, a small girl with the same untamed hair in an incongruously frilly dress, holding her long-lost cat, Sparkles.

  Mary missed that cat. It disappeared suddenly when she was ten. Her father claimed his innocence afterwards but Mary had her suspicions.

  Mary flicked the photo with her finger sending a shower of loose debris to the floor. The picture now had her wearing a dunce’s cap and a long flowing beard, all made from dust. Mary tried to rub the graffiti off with her fingernail but it stuck. The Brownie had glued it on somehow. A cackling laugher erupted behind her and echoed down the hall. Mary snorted and marched into the kitchen.

  After a quick stock-take of the fridge and pantry she decided on a meal of sausages, fried vegetables and mashed potatoes. Halfway through chopping the vegetables and peeling the potatoes, a little bell rang.

  Does that man think I’m a dog or something? I’m sure he would only communicate through the medium of bells if given a chance.

  Mary groaned in frustration and started to double the quantities. A dumbwaiter on squeaky pulleys dropped down to the kitchen with a loud rattle of dirty plates and cutlery. Mary swept the old stuff aside and plonked on a steaming bowl of food, adding a cup of water for good measure. She pulled a bell rope which signalled her father that the dumbwaiter was ready. After a pause she heard another bell ring in response, meaning that he wanted Mary to haul the dumbwaiter up. Growling, Mary proceeded to yank the rope repeatedly until the dumbwaiter set off, its pulleys squeaking in protest.

  Mary ate her own meal in silence in the kitchen. After cleaning up she returned to the sunroom. Her father must have lit a fire while reading his correspondence. The room was delightfully warm. Mary selected a book at random from the overburdened shelves and curled up on a couch to read.

  Outside the wind and rain howled. The house shook with the violence of the storm. Its windows flexed inwards under the strain of the raging wind. Doors slammed shut or rattled on their hinges. Great rivulets of water cut through the lawns in brown swathes, feeding foundling ponds on the lower grounds. Tree branches cracked and broke under the building storm’s pressure. Leaf litter and debris plastered every surface.

  Just when Mary thought it couldn’t get any worse, great forks of barbed lighting split the sky, and an almighty, thunderous boom rang out scant moments afterwards. Mary shrank back into the couch at the noise. It struck again and again, shattering the dark night. Mary could see the fierce light stabbing down at the woods beyond the window, small fires blooming and dying under the torrential rain. A door slammed open behind her. Stephen stood in the arch, one hand gripping his cane, the other holding him upright. He scanned the room hastily, an intense cast to his face. His eyes locked onto Mary’s and he surged towards her. “There you are. Something is horribly wrong. Come with me.”

  Mary dropped her book on the floor and rose to her feet. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “This storm…” said Stephen pointing his cane at the window. “There is something very off about it, something unnatural. I want you close.”

  Frowning, Mary looked out the window and back at her father. “What could be so bad? It’s only a storm. I promise not to go out holding a golf club or anything.”

  “Don’t get cute with me. It’s not just a storm. There is a smell... a tingle... a hint of the unknown in the air. I don’t know what it means but I know it’s dangerous.”

  “Do you mean it's magic?” Mary said her words slowly so as to be sure he heard her.

  Stephen studied her coldly. “Yes,” he finally replied. “I suppose you could call it magic. If you follow that line of thinking…”

  He maintained his cool scrutiny of Mary. “You don’t seem very shocked. You’ve been talking to that boy again, haven’t you?

  Mary’s hands balled into fists. She wanted to punch her father in the mouth – anything to wipe that permanent, superior sneer clean off his face.

  “You didn’t say that I couldn’t,” replied Mary hotly. “In fact you didn’t tell me anything. You just brushed me off and told me to ask again when I’m older.” Now her ire was really up and she carried on. “Well, I’m not a child any more, Father. I deserve some answers.”

  Stephen crossed his arms, his trademark sneer broadening. “Look at you. Getting so bold. I’m not sure I like it.”

  Mary trembled with all the pent-up rage boiling inside of her. A flash of pain washed over her as her size increased. Mary gritted her teeth and fought through the discomfort. Then the floodgates opened and she heard herself scream, “Why do you hate me so much?!”

  She was surprised when her father snapped back, “Because
you ruined everything, you miserable little whelp! You and your brother represent the biggest failure in my life! And I’ve been stuck here raising you when there are far more important matters for me to fix!”

  Mary shrank back from the heartless words gushing from her father’s cruel mouth. Too stunned for tears, she simply stared at Stephen, her mouth gaping. Somewhere a door banged open and a cold wind blew into the room. The fireplace sent a shower of sparks over the hearth, singing the carpet. Crystal chandeliers chimed fitfully in the draft.

  Then ˗ heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

  A dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, water dripping into small puddles at their feet. Mary shifted her gaze away from her father to the intruder. The stranger surveyed the room before removing a water-logged hood from his face.

  Mary shrieked.

  “What?” asked Stephen in surprise.

  Remigius Stephan Horn stood in his ancestral home for the first time in a decade. He didn’t bear much resemblance to Stephen, his eyes much darker and wider, his face slightly vulpine. He did have the haughty half-smile, half sneer ˗ that all-knowing look that all Horns possessed.

  Mary skirted around her father and threw her arms around her long-lost brother. She cried then, burying her face into Remy’s neck. Remy hugged her back, awkwardly patting her head when she didn’t let go. “It’s good to see you too, Mary.”

  Releasing her iron embrace ever so slightly, Mary looked up into the eyes of her brother and pleaded. “Remy, you have to take me away from here. Please, I’m begging you.”

  Remy turned his gaze to the older man. “What’s going on here?”

  “Just the usual theatrics,” Stephen replied with a wry grin. “This storm… I’m guessing it’s your handiwork? It’s quite the mess.”

  Remy inclined his head slightly. “I needed to. We were being pursued by something…had to throw them off our trail on the Semita Mortuis. I didn’t want to risk them following us here.”

  Mary tugged on her brother’s arm impatiently. “Remy! Will you listen to me? I want to leave! Now!”

  Remy plucked her clutching hands off him. “Not now, Mary. We’ll talk later.”

  Stephen shook his head angrily. “I’m sorry… We? Who are we? Have you brought someone with you? And what is this pursuit nonsense?”

  “Oh right. I’m sorry. You can come in, Darling,” said Remy backing out into the hall. He returned holding the hand of the most beautiful woman Mary had ever seen, despite her being soaked to the skin. She had long silver hair plastered wetly to a noble face. Through the wet strands Mary could see high cheek bones, finely arched eyebrows and plush bee-stung lips. Her skin was an odd ashen grey, as though she were terribly cold. She was tall for a woman and very slimly proportioned. All except for her stomach which bulged out over her pelvis. Her brother’s face beamed with joy. “Stephen. Mary. This is my wife, Laedwynn.”

  Laedwynn smiled nervously at Mary and offered a delicate hand to shake. Mary ignored the hand and went for a full body hug. “I’ve got a sister in law?!”

  Laedwynn, who seemed more than a little confused, returned the embrace reluctantly. “Nice meet you,” she stammered with an oddly melodic voice.

  “English isn’t her first language,” whispered Remy confidingly, “nor second or third, I think.”

  Mary smiled at her older brother and clapped him on the back. It was then that Mary heard a low, terrible groaning. She turned around and saw her father on his knees, weeping into his hands. Mary took a step towards him uncertain of what she was seeing.

  “Father? What’s the matter?”

  Stephen pounded his fists on the floor, his face white and screwed up in a picture of agony.

  “It’s all coming true! I’m out of time!” he screamed. “He’ll be coming for me.” He staggered to his feet, his cane lifting up to his hands by itself. He pointed an accusatory finger at Remy. “This is all your fault. You should have listened to me when you had the chance.”

  Remy stood in front of Laedwynn, instinctively shielding her. “What are you raving about, you old fool?”

  “He’s coming to take it away from me!” said Stephen gesturing wildly. Beads of sweat stuck out on his forehead and his skin grew redder. The older man’s eyes were wide open, rolling to and fro with a hint of madness behind them.

  "He knows how close I am to breaking the veil between worlds. But he’ll steal it back for himself. I’ve got to do it! I’ve got to try!”

  He lurched towards the door brandishing his cane like a club. “Out of my way, damn you all!”

  The others stepped away from his furious path. Stephen clomped out of the room, swinging his cane at everything breakable in his path. Remy held his trembling wife tightly. She spoke to him softly in a language that Mary didn’t recognise, tears forming in her eyes. Remy shook his head several times and rubbed her shoulders consolingly. He spoke the odd language back to her. Whatever he said seemed to calm Laedwynn.

  Mary turned from them and looked at the door her father had so angrily departed through. She was at a loss as to what just happened. “Do you think I should go after him?”

  “No. Leave him be. We have much to talk about, sis.”