by Cale Madison
“You’re mad. Where is she?” I asked again.
“I could scream, alerting the guards who would storm the manor, slit your throat and leave you gutted for the hunting dogs but first, I must know why you’ve come after my beloved?” Bartok asked, turning towards me again, his tone darkening.
He was a tall man in stature with broad shoulders, a nasty scar strung across his face and sporting a spaniard’s mustache. This character was nothing like the stories portrayed him as: thin, malnourished, living off the remains of his deceased family and pale as the moon.
“I was sent by a Djinn to return her to him.” I answered, firmly.
“Couldn’t possibly be the same Djinn from so long ago.”
“He claims you never settled your debt.”
Bartok breathed deeply, resting into a chair across from me. He ran his tattooed fingers through his thick, jet-black hair and returned his gaze to me, saying, “You don’t realize what you’ve gotten yourself into with this fiend. As tantalizing as his promises are, they’re never what you think.”
“I don’t care about past promises. Where is Rubia?”
Bortak turned suddenly and pointed at the painting.
“She’s there.”
In a bewildered state, I approached the painting, keeping my eyes drawn on Bortak as I moved, swiftly yet cautiously. “Ask and she shall appear.” Bortak whispered from his chair. The painting was of the Quinn Manor, captured in all of its glorious decadence, with trees swaying in the apparent breeze. It must have been in the months of autumn as I noticed from the multitude of various leaf colors, painted with grace and delicacy.
“What do you mean, she’s here?” I asked the man behind me.
Bortak then hurried to my side and looked into the artwork himself. His eyes darted back and forth, searching until he scowled in disgust.
“Damnit, she’s gone! She was here before you showed up!” he yelled before rushing out of the room. Assuming I had just been played for a fool, I followed him with my sword drawn and ready.
Bortak ran through the hallway, tearing the tattered cloths from the paintings and studying their every aspect before moving to the next one. Was this man insane from the years of solitude or was he just a tortured soul? Determined to learn which one he was, I kept my distance but watched from afar as he stopped at one particular painting. He pressed his forehead against it and breathed heavily.
“There’s my beloved. There you are.” he said to himself.
“What?” I asked in confusion.
“See for yourself.”
Within the confines of colorful paint and brush strokes, I saw a stream as blue as the clearest sky, the sun’s reflection against the water and a woman standing, looking back at me from the darkened woods. She was lovely, her eyes bright as the sun and colorful as the painting she resided.
“Truly remarkable artwork, I must say, but where is your wife now? Not this painting of her.” I said, turning to Bortak.
He sighed and with a heavy heart, answered me in full, “Rubia can never return to our world. The Djinn who sent you condemned her life to the paintings of this damned house, never to see the light of day. I speak to her, I read to her every night and have looked upon the same confused expression on her face for years. The final face before he took her.”
Shocked, I then asked, “Wait, so she’s trapped within the paintings? How does she move through them?”
“That, I cannot tell you. Some strange apparition in the dark magic he placed upon the manor, perhaps. Rubia is now free to enjoy her favorite memories. Each painting in our home is a captured moment: the river we used to lay beside in our youth, her childhood home...it’s all for her. What evils await us in this world cannot harm her in there.” said Bartok.
“The Djinn needs her. Your debt will not be settled.” I reminded him.
“He’s been waiting outside for many years, my friend. He can stand to wait a couple more,” the man argued, “he’s dangerous, this friend of yours.”
I placed my blade at his chest, replying, “I’m taking this painting, Bartok. You will not stop me. My world depends on it, now step aside.”
Bartok shook his head, aggressively slamming his hand on the table beside us. The glare in his eyes was fiery and vicious, as if he longed for a fight. I noticed many irregularities in the man standing before me: his rings were priceless, too expensive to have been purchased in Mercia and the tattoos scrawled across his arms were written in some foreign language. He was a man of the world, not a recluse as the stories described him as.
“You really think steel frightens me?” Bartok snapped, snatching the hilt of my sword with a tight fist. He thrusted the blade against his chest and impaled himself slowly. I watched in horror as he drew closer to me, the blade steadily pushing through his skin. “Look at what he made me. You think his blessings are a cure for anything, you daft son of a bitch? Look..” Bartok shouted as he twisted the blade inside of his body before withdrawing it, but I saw no blood spewing from the gaping wound.
“That twisted, conniving fuck that sent you did this to me! I was once his errand boy like you. He asks for three tasks, yes? Well one of mine was to kill a family of three, a wife and her two small children because of an unsettled debt between him and another man. I would not murder them, thus he condemns me to this life of loneliness and regret. The love of my life is trapped away within the walls of our home while I wait around for an impossible death to take me.”
“So he’s made you immortal?” I asked.
“Hah...immortal is hardly the word I would use. I’m not happy with this life. Far from it actually. To be immortal is to never die, but I neither die nor live. It’s not nearly as enticing as it may sound.”
Unprepared for the depth of this situation, I could only stammer out, “What if Rubia feels the same as you?”
“What do you mean?” Bartok asked, caught off-guard.
“I mean, what if she’s unhappy in there? What if she’s ready to be free like you?” I paused before quietly continuing, “we could free her together.”
He shook his head in anger, “Impossible. How on earth could we save her?”
“Allow the Djinn back into your home. He could help reverse the curse if he was the one who sent her. Neither of you want to be here, at least we know this for you certainly. What could it hurt?” I suggested, still sensing distrust in his movement and words.
“What if he only means to take me with her? I never settled on our contract so he may just hang the code and never return Rubia. How can you be certain?” he asked. I pondered a moment before I answered him.
“I’m not, but I know that the Djinn knows honor and a structured code. He will hear you out before making any rash decisions. I’m certain of this.” I told him.
Bartok gritted his teeth, then finally nodded. “Perhaps you’re right,” he replied, “I’ve ran from this fight for too long. I cannot bear another day seeing her like this. What’s your name, friend?”
“Caine Mercer.”
I had not anticipated to make a friend in this strange endeavour, but none the less I had found one. Bartok disappeared into one of the locked rooms and returned with a dusty journal. After a few minutes of flipping through pages, he found what he had been searching for.
“Wzywam cię , wolę mistrza, aby odsłonić.” he read aloud.
I recognized the scripture from when I summoned the Djinn outside of his cave a day before. Bortak repeated the words until we were no longer the only ones in that hallway. A strong gust of wind blew open the window shutters, shaking the paintings on the walls and blowing clouds of dust into the air. It felt as if the entire manor had sprung new life in that very instance.
“Feels strange being here after so long.” the Djinn announced, smiling. He moved forward, glancing into the several paintings before he discovered Rubia. She had jumped into another frame, hiding behind an orchard wall.
“There’s our girl,” he said to it, creepily, “right where I
left you.”
Bartok looked him over, fiercely commanding, “I want you to bring her back, Djinn. Then, you may take my soul in her place.”
I turned to him, understanding his position in the bargain, yet fearful of what was to come, now that the Djinn was allowed inside of his home. There would be no escape for Bartok, but my loyalty lies with the keeper of Aketa’s health and safety.
“I much prefer this side of you,” the Djinn told him, “has the beauty of immortality gotten the best of you after these years? Perhaps you’ve run out of whores and wine in the basement cellar.”
The tortured man shook his head, staring at the floorboards as if he was studying the nails and wooden patterns. He looked to be in a moment of unease.
“You’re to go in after her?” I asked the Djinn.
“I am not allowed to enter a place of magic, placed within an already forbidden residence such as this, at least until the spell has subsided or if I’m summoned by a non-magical being. We must answer the call when summoned.” he replied, speaking as if we already knew his guidelines. Always something.
Alarmed, I asked him, “How long would it take?”
“Three or four weeks at the very earliest. Time is a fickle thing. A human of non-magic descent would have to be sent into that realm to return her in time.”
He had lured me right into a trap and he knew it.
“Send me,” Bartok demanded, “she’s my responsibility. I’ll bring her back.”
The Djinn broke with laughter before shaking his head, replying, “By the Gods, you are delusional, sir! You’ve proven yourself to be untrustworthy, Quinn. I cannot allow you to escape my sight. Send you to where I cannot follow? You must think me to be a fool.”
I understood what he meant. He had planned this from the very beginning, as soon as he told me the details of his first task. Cunning as he was, the Djinn seemed to always have a strategy to every move.
“I’ll go,” I announced, “you cannot trust him, but I have much to lose from failure. Send me and I’ll find her.”
“Not the worst idea you’ve had, Caine, but it might work. The only reason I haven’t collected my debt from Bartok, here, is because you still owe me a completed task,” he said, turning towards Bartok, “he finds Rubia and our pact will be settled.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult right?” I nervously asked, peering into the painting of Rubia still eavesdropping from the oiled orchard.
The Djinn turned to me, warning, “You realize that within this world, it will not the same as anything you’ve known? In there, time will cease to be an understandable unit of function. There is no sunlight, only vague memories you will not recognize - incomprehensible creatures and nightmares, trapped within the recessed subconscious of that woman.”
“It’s simple: send me inside and I’ll summon you once there.”
“Not quite so simple,” the Djinn rebuttled, “only Rubia can summon me from there. She holds the power from inside and, being someone held under a curse, is the only one who can allow my safe passage. Are you certain you’re up for this task, Caine? Once you go, there is no coming back without finding her.”
I turned to him, “What other choice do I have?”
Chapter Three
A PRISON OF PAINT
The last words I remembered hearing were wishes of luck and godspeed before a burning, gut-wrenching sensation and a multitude of flashing lights. I opened my eyes, straining to see straight as I viewed my surroundings. Everything around me appeared to be blurry or sliding downwards, similar to wax dripping from a candle. The sky appeared in a mixture of blue and grey; constantly swirling above in a beautiful, endless vortex. A river lay before me, the water still and unchanging, with the dark trees swaying from a gusting breeze of wind. I grazed my hand along the ground, feeling an oily substance in place of natural blades of grass. I had to remind myself that this was not a dream, nor a hallucination; I was delivered into this strange realm to rescue Rubia.
Across the water, I spotted a shadowy figure facing the forest.
“Hey! You there!” I called out but with no response; the apparition then rushed into the woods, out of sight. I darted across the stream, which neither ruptured nor soaked my garments in water, and followed it through an endless maze of trees. The dark figure was now sprinting at full speed and this alarmed me. I cried out for it to stop, revealing my intentions were only to talk for a moment, but it continued running. I noticed the skyline above the trees were shifting between shades of violet, a dark blue and green color - whoever designed this world proved to be thoroughly artistic.
I followed the figure into an orchard, no doubt another of Rubia’s memories; a painting of orange trees and empty baskets. Lovely flower beds lined the yard, leading towards a white, cobblestone fountain. The figure halted for a moment, appearing to be caressing something in one of the trees. As I neared this suspicious area, it darted away as if wishing for me to follow; what the figure was reaching for was a torn piece of parchment protruding from the tree branches, but the writing was too blurry to comprehend.
“Hey, stop!” I called out to the shadow, which was now almost too far ahead. It led me to the steps of the Quinn Manor. We must have been in Bartok’s courtyard orchard behind the estate. I took notice of the changing colors in the sky, changing from light grey to a dark, royal blue as they swirled together above me.
I ascended the stairs to the large doors and shoved them open. Inside was something I had not expected: shimmering lights from chandeliers that brightened every crevice, chambers filled with people dancing remaining frozen in time and eerie smiles on lifeless characters scattered across the house. This was nothing similar to the current condition of the home. The patons enjoying their evening stood motionless; spilt drinks lingering in the air, unchanging facial expressions and eyes that never blinked with their movements remaining at a standstill.
It felt as if time had instantly stopped.
“Where are you from?” a woman’s voice suddenly asked.
Startled, I fell backwards against the doors behind me. She was truly beautiful, her features stunning at first glance: brunette hair, tied behind her head in tight braids and wearing a white wedding gown. This must have been the mistress of the house. I asked her, “Are you Rubia?”
The woman tilted her head slowly, repeating, “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Mercia, rather, eh, outside of the city. My name is Caine and, for the love of God I hope you’re Rubia.”
She did not blink, nor appear to breathe. The woman glanced at the lifeless crowds that filled the room before returning her gaze to me, asking, “Mercia? Is that by the river or at the mountain foothill?”
“Neither,” I said, “I’m not sure where it is, or where we are, exactly. Your husband sent me to help bring you home and that’s why I’ve come.”
The woman appeared puzzled, replying, “What on earth do you mean? I am home and I am not married.”
“Your husband, Bartok has sent me here to save you. Do you not remember?”
“I know none bearing that name. My name is Rubia Pennigrad but friends in the town square call me Ruby. Some of the boys are downright nasty with the names they call me,” she continued saying to me as she floated through the room, “my mother wants me to marry into a wealthy family but father will not have it. He insists I sail with him to the Southern Isles, as if a harbor life is a life for me at all.”
I tried to interrupt without angering her but my determination overpowered my sensibility. I replied, “You were locked away in this world a very long time ago, Rubia. I’m not sure what you’re talking about but I need to get you home.” I said, digging through my pack to retrieve Bartok’s journal. I finally found it and then presented it to her.
“This is your husband’s. I need you to read these words carefully.” I told her, beginning to read the summoning words.
“I’m only seven years old. I am not married, sir you must be mistaken.” Rubia interrupted,
a darkness creeping across her face. The frozen characters in the room began to shift and move as she became increasingly more agitated with me - their eyes twitching and eerie grins steadily beginning to scowl.
“Bartok misses you, Rubia. Please come home to him.” I pleaded, realizing that the dancing patrons were turning their heads in our direction while the walls of the manor began to rumble.
“I will not allow this in my father’s home. I must ask you to leave.” Rubia argued, her face becoming enshrouded in a shade of misty blue.
“Rubia, we-”
“No…”
“Please, if you’d just-”
“I said, no, sir. My father will be home soon and if he finds you here…”
“Rubia, listen to me!”
The woman suddenly began screaming and tearing at her face, her nails ripping off her flesh until bare bone was showing. I cried out and began running as she drifted towards me, hovering off the floors beneath her. This strange dream descended into a nightmare within mere seconds as paint crumbled from the walls of the house, cascading down towards the floor in broken fragments while the diamond-encrusted chandelier swayed above. Rubia was behind me, piercingly shrieking while pulling the skin from her arms and throat. The lifeless characters in the room began to quickly melt into puddles of paint on the floor; I sprinted around corners and lept down a staircase, unfamiliar with the intricate design of the Quinn Manor, until I reached an open door. Once I had slammed it closed behind me, I collapsed onto the floor in disbelief.
“Look at what he did to me!” she shouted repeatedly from outside.
Through the keyhole of the door, I watched Rubia drift away in utter silence as if she had forgotten I was hiding there. Looking around the room I had barged into, I noticed some irregularities. On the bed were several rose petals and an empty bottle of white wine. Another blurry piece of parchment was pinned against the wall above the bed’s headboard; blood-stains were clearly visible on the paper and along the floorboards.
What happened here?
All of a sudden, sharp banging sounds erupted against the four walls of this tiny room, as if there were large hands pounding from the outside. Rubia’s screams sharply echoed in overpowering waves from every direction. I pocketed the parchment before dropping to my knees in agony; the pain was unbearable, like knives slicing through my eardrums,