The Eyeball Collector

by F. E. Higgins

  Seemingly unconcerned by the reaction, Lady Mandible acknowledged her guests with a nod and the slightest of smiles, then took her place at the centre of the table on one of the bespoke thrones that she had ordered solely for this occasion. Now all eyes turned back to the doors in readiness for her husband. And for once he didn’t disappoint. In fact, tonight Lord Mandible actually upstaged his wife.

  And how did he do that? What was so marvellous about his entrance? Was it that he came into the dining hall on horseback? Certainly that caught the guests’ attention. Or maybe it was his attire, for he had chosen to ape a primitive hunter with a huge bearskin over his shoulders and a horned helmet on his head.

  In fact, it was neither of these, but that which came in his wake: a Hairy-Backed Forest Hog – the biggest ever – carried aloft on a silver platter by six serving men. At the sight of it Lord Mandible received a standing ovation. It was certainly deserving of this reaction. The hog, its crackling still hissing and spitting from the roasting and shining with honey glaze, sat on a bed of golden ivy leaves. It wore a rather surprised expression on its elongated face, as if even in death it did not expect to be here. On the tip of each lower curved canine there was a large golden apple (Lord Mandible’s idea) and on its head a sort of glittering tiara (also Mandible’s idea). Arranged along its sides were roasted piglets with live thrushes stuffed in their mouths which kept escaping to the hall ceiling and roosting up there. Several guests looked a bit flummoxed by this, particularly when they had to dodge droppings, but it seemed best not to say anything out loud.

  The men carrying the platter placed it carefully on a prepared raised stand at the end of the table where it could be seen by all. Lord Mandible dismounted, in his usual (perhaps better described as ‘unusual’ on account of his leg) fashion, and joined his wife on his matching throne. There was more cheering and applause and general uproar until he held up his hand for attention. In the past it was well known that Lord Mandible had found the Midwinter Feast a bit of a chore but his Hairy-Back triumph had evidently changed that, and he was about to make a speech.

  Hector couldn’t help noticing, however, that Lady Mandible was watching everything in uncharacteristic silence. He was immediately suspicious. Where were the butterflies? His frayed nerves could hardly stand the suspense. It was time for her to reveal all.

  ‘My dear guests,’ Lord Mandible declared, ‘it is my great pleasure to welcome you all to this, the Withypitts Hall Annual Midwinter Feast. Tonight, however, it is my even greater pleasure to present to you the finest specimen of Hairy-Backed Hog ever seen, felled this day by my own hand.’ A great hurrah went up, everyone clashed their goblets and clinked their glasses, and it was some minutes before there was quiet enough for Mandible to continue.

  ‘Now,’ he shouted at last, his eyes shining, ‘let the Midwinter Feast begin!’

  And they set to as if they had suffered months of famine. The hog was carved and before long the room was filled with the sound of flesh being torn apart, teeth gnawing on bone and the chewing of sticky juicy meat. The meat from the middle wasn’t even properly cooked, the hog having arrived so late in the day, but the guests were oblivious to this. Other plates kept coming; from strange fish dishes to piles of tarts and honey cakes so high that they threatened to topple and subject all those in the vicinity to a vicious pastry assault. By the time Lord Mandible stood up and rapped on a goblet to get his guests’ attention, it was no longer the table that groaned but those who sat at it. His overstuffed audience sat back with shining faces and greasy chins, trying to focus their bloodshot eyes, sucking and picking at their teeth with silver toothpicks. Lady Lysandra seemed to manage a brief smile that could have been interpreted as gracious, but then again could merely have been a twitch. Hector was sickened to his stomach by it all.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple of servants pull aside a panelled screen at the end of the room to reveal Mandible’s harpsichord. But what was that on the floor by the pedals? The servants, too close to notice it at their feet, were busy arranging the music. Hector walked slowly, unobtrusively, over to the instrument. There was something familiar about that shape and colour. ‘Oh no!’ he muttered with a sinking feeling, for the odd-looking bundle on the floor was none other than Percy, Mandible’s remaining cat!

  And he was as dead as the Hairy-Backed Hog.

  ‘Tartri flammis!’ hissed Hector, and quickly he bent and scooped the cat up as Mandible’s words came to him on the hot and heavy air.

  ‘Now in Lady Lysandra’s honour I am going to play a tune I composed myself for the harpsichord, the very instrument my poor father used to play to me. The words I composed only today, so you will forgive me if the verses are not as polished as they could be.’

  Hector froze. He could hardly let Mandible see that his one remaining cat was dead. There was a time and place for such a revelation. This was neither. In the blink of an eye Hector stuffed the still warm cat down the front of his waistcoat and tightened his belt so it wouldn’t fall out. He would have to find an opportunity later to dispose of the animal. He drew back against the drapes as Mandible came limping and rustling over to take his seat. He cut a strange figure in his bearskin cloak and horned hat, now slightly askew, but the guests were past caring. He began to play and sing, sort of:

  I took my musket one winter’s morn,

  And filled my pouch with lead.

  ‘Where to, my lord?’ my servant asked,

  ‘To the forest of oak,’ I said.

  ‘Saddle up my horse, my lad,

  And call my trusty dog.

  I vow today to keep my oath

  And catch me a Hairy-Backed Hog.’

  I rode all day and rode all night,

  And rode all day once more.

  And finally when dusk came down

  I heard a porcine roar.

  From the forest’s depths the monster came

  Yellow of eye and brown of tusk it

  Charged at me with spit and snarls,

  So I shot it with my musket.

  One shot it took to wound the beast

  One more and down it fell,

  Its meat for me to roast and eat,

  Its soul bound straight for hell!

  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.

  Chapter Thirty

  A Very Special Gift

  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 looke
d 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.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Running with Wolves

  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 d
oors.

  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.

  Nobody moved a muscle. The beast advanced slowly, breathing heavily, towards the table, its head turning from side to side until its gaze fell on the ravaged skeleton of the roast hog. It gave a long shrill squeal of unmitigated anguish until the crystal chandeliers above shattered and fell like rain on the paralysed crowd below. And then the hog charged.

  As Hector ran from the hall the last thing he saw was Gerulphus throwing himself between Lady Mandible and the stampeding hog.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Revelation

  Hector knew he had to reach Bovrik’s tower quickly. His father was right, Polly was right, the strange prisoner in the tower was right, but it had taken this dreadful night for Hector to realize it.

  And now he might be too late.

  By the time he reached Bovrik’s room, having ascended the stairs three and four at a time, he could hardly speak. But he could smell Bovrik’s perfume persisting in the air outside the door, so he knew he was still there.

  ‘Let me in,’ he gasped. ‘It’s Hector.’ He slumped against the door. It opened under his weight and he fell forward into the room.

  Bovrik was standing by the window, his garish and obscene eye reflecting the candlelight. It looked odd, somehow, and Hector suddenly realized there was a huge crack across the surface of the glass.