‘You don’t look well, dear brother.’ She clapped her hands and a servant arrived carrying a flask. ‘Here, perhaps this will calm you.’
I sipped from the cup and after a few moments my mind was clearer. ‘I’m sorry, Oleander. It’s just that much has happened since I left the island and sometimes I am unsure what is real and what is not.’
‘It is most likely exhaustion. The cold and the distance have probably affected you. Sometimes a sleepless night can change your perception. You need to rest.’
I struggled to remember what else I wanted to speak to her about. Celeste. ‘I need to find my friend, and wonder if you could help me. I would like to return her to her family.’ I then proceeded to tell her briefly about Celeste’s life.
Oleander widened her eyes. ‘How tragic for the poor girl,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Of course, Marek, I will help you. But first there are things we need to teach you about your craft. I simply cannot let you go off without the knowledge. It would be completely irresponsible of me.’
‘But it is important that we help Celeste first. I do not want her to find trouble in her travels for I have seen much in the way of barbarism and she is so young…’ I stood up too quickly and again had a dizzy spell.
Oleander steadied me and I was surprised at her strength. ‘Relax, dearest boy. You know you are my brother and I will help you in any way I can. Last night was just the beginning. We have so many festivities ahead of us.’
I agreed for it was harder not to, but I vowed to continue with this conversation later when I was feeling better.
‘Good. Now go and have some breakfast in the dining hall, then get some sleep before the small affair I have planned for this evening. I will not join you for breakfast. Jean and your little friend, Zeke will keep you company.’ The thought of Jean discouraged me but I was looking forward to seeing Zeke again.
I headed toward the rooms off the foyer to find a lavish dining room with a table for over thirty people. I was all alone and wandered around the room lifting up vases and silver and looking at miniature portraits of strangers.
Oleander’s maid walked in carrying a tray to the far sideboard. I guessed she was of middling years or older, but the lines in her face and her knuckled hands told of life with hard work and drudgery.
How would I have looked – an overgrown island boy in velvet and stockings and lace at my sleeves. The telltale that I was not of this house was my wild black hair, once again loose.
I turned back to view figurines in a glass case. Reaching in to examine one, something touched my elbow and I turned quickly to find the servant looking up at me, her eyes roaming my face frantically.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘You must leave here,’ she hissed.
I asked her to repeat her words, so low and desperate was her tone, but she turned back towards the doorway. Her thoughts were unreadable: nothing but a jumbled mass of colour and random words.
‘Ah Irene, Oleander requires you urgently,’ said Jean tersely. His face was powdered white to match his hair, his jacket the palest of yellows with gold thread, and lace at his cuffs. Although his tone sounded joyous, there was subtle menace in Jean’s insistence.
Irene scurried away and I was positive that Jean did not see her press an object hard into my hand as she passed. I tucked this into the base of my sleeve before Jean turned to give her a warning look upon reaching the door.
Zeke was clad in dark blue velvet with his strawberry-gold hair combed straight. He looked as one born to comforts, so easy was he slipping into his new role as a pampered pet. There was no talk about his parents; those memories of another life put to the back of his mind. I could not help but think that we should be finding a proper family in a town where he could run with sticks, joining other boys, and tending geese and gardens among his chores.
Irene returned carrying trays with small bowls of creamy soup, pastries filled with bacon, and fried breads. Trays of cheeses and dates were also served with sweet rolls made from sunflower seeds, and honeyed water poured into painted floral cups. The drink was heavily spiced and more aromatic than the mead I was used to; and oddly addictive. Zeke reached for food hungrily but was stopped by Jean who explained that it was rude to grab. He showed Zeke how to elegantly use a soupspoon, and keep the hot liquid steady, and the polite use of a napkin to delicately wipe the grease from his mouth and fingers. His lessons were only partially mastered as Zeke’s eyes darted anxiously at the food as if it might disappear before he got a chance to eat it all.
‘So, Marek,’ said Jean. ‘What shall we do today? Perhaps some hunting? I would like to teach Zeke to ride a horse today. Can you ride?’
‘Yes I can. I used to ride the wild horses on the island. However, I think I might sleep a while.’
‘Life is too short for sleeping,’ he urged. ‘Oh well, it is just Zeke and I.’
This last comment bothered me. The thought of Zeke spending time alone with Jean hunting did not sit well. He did not strike me as someone to whom a child’s welfare should be entrusted. Strangely though, I was feeling revitalised since I had drunk Oleander’s wine and relished the idea of breathing in cold pine air, away from the staleness within the castle. An odour not unlike old meat seemed to line its walls. I finally agreed to accompany them.
After breakfast I headed to my room and unwrapped the object from the servant to find it was a small doll much like the ones I had seen around the castle. It was intriguing to say the least. This clandestine trinket was just another strange occurrence in my life so far. I would find the woman later for an explanation.
I met Jean and Zeke at the castle entrance. Zeke sat on the horse in front of Jean holding a crossbow too large for him and pretending to shoot things. Both the man and boy were fair and could be mistaken for father and son. A stable lad brought me my mount, a beautiful black horse. He snorted close to my hand taking in my scent before tossing his head indifferently. I climbed into the saddle. At first there was a moment of resistance and then he settled. Already I suspected he knew something of me, which was enough to relax him. I had an understanding of such beasts.
We weaved through lines of trees on never-ending trails of freshly fallen snow. Travelling deep into the forest, I sensed an animal just ahead of us.
Jean, also aware, kicked his horse sharply on the rump. My horse needed just a tap with my heel to be prompted to canter after Jean. The muscles in my beast’s back rippled with power, and his head lowered for speed.
We bore down on the deer, her body colour much lighter than the tree trunks. I was almost upon Jean as the doe began to slow, her gangly legs stepping tiredly in front of one another. We surrounded her and I raised my bow to level my arrow. One frightened lustrous eye met mine and I hesitated.
‘Go on,’ Jean goaded.
‘Deer,’ shouted Zeke with glee.
Jean climbed off his mount then lifted down the boy. This action did not disturb the deer, which stayed motionless. She did not turn to flee but took a step towards Jean, sniffing the air and examining his face.
Come and pat her,’ said Jean smiling encouragingly at Zeke, who rushed towards the doe, mashing the snow with heavy boots. Even this sudden rush of movement did not cause the deer to baulk, so deep was the spell. The boy stroked her head and received a gentle nuzzle as reward. ‘I think she likes you,’ said Jean.
I had lowered my bow. The sight of this child’s joy at touching the animal told me that killing it would just be recreational. As with the last encounter with such a creature, unless I planned to eat this deer, which I did not, I would not take her life. Hunting was for necessity only, not a pastime, and I would never again participate in such a chase.
Jean crouched down near the doe running his white-gloved hand across the high ridge of its back while Zeke talked to her, asking if she would like to come and live with them. The next few seconds came and went as if in slow motion. Jean grabbed the deer around its neck and twisted it with his strong hands. I hea
rd the snapping of bone and then it was dead. Her body lay still in the snow, head twisted towards me, and dark eyes looking fixed, as when she first knew she was cornered.
Tears formed in Zeke’s eyes and Jean started laughing. ‘What are you crying for?’ he said. ‘It no longer feels the cold. And it no longer feels its empty belly.’ Jean picked up its front legs and swung them around pretending it was dancing. The display bordered on the macabre and Zeke was unsure whether to laugh or cry.
I jumped off my horse. ‘That is enough, Jean!’ I said in anger. ‘It was unnecessary to kill this beast in the end. It was hardly a challenge offering its trust up to you. You abuse your magic and this is something I cannot condone.’
I took Zeke’s hand and led him back to my horse but Jean appeared suddenly in front of me, blocking the way. His eyes were an ominous shade of grey, almost colourless, his expression as rigid as stone: a hunter’s look just before a kill.
‘Do not take the boy,’ he said. ‘He comes with me.’
‘It is time the boy went home.’
‘Let go of him,’ said Jean, unruffled. There was something deadly in this threat.
I bent down to Zeke who wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Do you want to go back with me now?’
Zeke looked up at Jean for approval but saw none.
‘No. I want to ride with Jean.’ Jean smiled and his menacing demeanour turned to one of sweetness once more. ‘Wonderful, my little foxy,’ he said taking Zeke’s hand and leading him away. ‘Let’s go.’ I was still on the ground when they both mounted and disappeared behind a spray of snow.
I stood there thinking that I no longer wished to be here and longed to go home to my father. If it wasn’t for Oleander I would have left this unholy place that day.
There was a sound behind me. I had noticed that my smell was keener than before, and I sensed what type of animal it was before it stepped cautiously from its camouflage. His eyes luminous in the misty shadows, and as the rest of him took shape, I realised we had met before.
The wolf looked at me unafraid. I wondered of its thinking for he seemed too familiar with me. If only I had been able to read animal thoughts too. He sniffed the air and perched in the snow, before walking casually past me a few yards to feed on the deer.
I returned slowly to the castle with the decision to tell Oleander that I wished to leave, and give her directions to find my island should she decide to visit. I did not belong here.
As I entered the hallway I heard music once more. Oleander was not in her library. I noticed some of her dolls had been given faces and others I had seen earlier were missing. These miniature artworks were something that must have occupied much of her time. On her desk were several books: ancient volumes with animal skin covers and yellowing pages. There was one open book in particular that took my interest.
In the first picture there was a man in garments I had never seen before, worn long before I walked the earth. He was talking to a child. A dog lay dead on the floor beside them, blood trickling from its mouth. On the next page the man was carrying the limp body of the child and the dog was leaving the entrance by an archway. I looked closely at the man with his narrow demented eyes and hollow cheeks. His fingers more like long twigs, and tiny horns protruded from his forehead. He had no hair but for a few tendrils, which fell across one ear.
The text was in another language, with letters dotted, dashed and even. Perhaps this was ancient witch speak. I turned to the next page and felt a chill. The man had the child on some kind of altar with smoke gushing from his mouth and flames surrounding his small body. He was burning alive. Laughter sounded in the distance distracting me. I shut the horrific book and hastened from the room.
Outside a carriage had pulled up at the entrance. Several people stepped out. They did not look like the kind Oleander would invite. Older people not so finely attired, looking bewildered but not reluctant. I stood back into the shadows before they saw me. I would ask Zola about these guests later.
The ballroom doors were opened by servants, and once again the colour overwhelmed me. The room was smoky from scented candles and full of people once more. Oleander beckoned me over as I was handed food from a tray and another glass of wine. This was Oleander’s definition of a ‘small affair’. I saw Zeke smiling again and Zola gave me that look suggesting she wanted more than my friendship. For the first time that day my shoulders relaxed. As before, I was consumed with desire and thrilled to be among these people. It all seemed so unnatural yet these luxuries and excitements forced my former life to fade into the background once more. It seemed like days since I had slept a full night.
Celeste
It was so dark. Sometimes I thought I could hear crying in another room near my own. Other times there were strange screeching and scratching sounds. I knew I was not the only one imprisoned down here. The screeching was sometimes so loud I had to cover my ears. It was fearsome, like wild animals fighting. And the more noises they made the more my stomach tightened. I hoped I would never see the source of these sounds.
At certain times, I could hear revelry upstairs, fiddlers, shouting, and what I suspected was the clinking of glasses. Though, all of this was faint. When I was perfectly still I thought I could hear Marek’s voice, but assuming it was my imagination playing tricks in the dark. Often I thought I heard heavy breathing just outside my door. There were moments I wondered whether any sound was real.
There was a putrid smell of rotting meat, and the sounds of rats scurrying around the wood shavings that served for my bed.
The stone walls were cold and rough. There was a small flap at the base of the metal door. I lifted it sometimes to get some distant candlelight from the hallway, and I could see the silhouette of my fingers when I held them before the gap. This was the same place where a plate of vinegar bread was placed each morning and a glass of milk. It was my only meal and the longer I was kept here the more I began to look forward to it.
From the delivery of food each day I could decide roughly how long I had been imprisoned. I scratched it blindly into the floor: eleven days, though it was still impossible to tell the time of day.
Finally, there was the sound I had been expecting. It was contact with the outside world. Footsteps – different from the shuffling sound of the servants bringing my food – descended the tight stairway leading into this cellar. The owner was light-footed, with steps sounding small and precise as they tapped softly in my direction.
A key turned in the lock. I shielded my face with my arms from the bright light of the torch, which pained my eyes. The light headed towards me and was then raised higher on the wall and fastened.
I adjusted to my surrounds, eyes struggling to open. A rat darted into a small hole at the base of the wall blackened with mould. This did not seem to concern the visitor. Though to see such daintiness and pale beauty you would think such a person to be squeamish if not repulsed.
‘I am Oleander.’
I could not look at her face. Instead I pulled nervously at the threads of my soiled skirt.
‘I’m sorry you do not have a view here. It’s just the others…if they saw you it would send them wild. It is for your own protection. Already they smell you here.
‘I know you cannot speak so let me speak for you. I am Marek’s sister. He has taken quite a liking to you. Thinks you are far far away by now. That is why I have decided that you and he should meet again. That you both deserve a chance to meet again.’
I was afraid to look up, yet at the sound of Marek’s name I could not help myself. I so desperately wanted to see him, relieved that he was alive. Was he still the same? Was he still with Zola?
‘He is very handsome, Celestina. He will be so excited to meet you again.’
She was another mind-reader like Jean and Zola, and I shrank back suddenly suspecting that I was near something even more impure than the others.
‘That’s right. Humans I can read. I cannot read my brother or my own kind. I can talk with him i
n my mind if he allows it but I cannot see his thoughts. Oh, you poor dear. Do not look so frightened and confused. Both Zola and Marek carry magic. They were born with it. You and your kind will torture us for it but the strigoi have a place in this world just like you.
‘I want you to join us. It will be so wonderful, for you are a lovely girl to look at and Marek certainly thinks so. Just wait till I am finished with you.’
There were more sounds coming from down the hallway. Light and heavy footsteps but they turned a different way before they reached my door. There was much commotion and scuffling before someone, or something, moaned in pain.
‘Do not worry about that! Just another runaway caught. It is useless to try and escape from the cellar.’ Her hand was outstretched. ‘Come. We must prepare you.’
I placed one dirty hand with torn fingernails into the mind-reader’s pure pearlescent one. It felt smooth and hard as marble. She was another fallen angel not to be trusted. I could see this if Marek could not. But I could not afford thoughts of fear or disgust. To protect myself from her prying magic, I had to disguise my thoughts of her. I tried hard to remember my mother singing and dancing, and the sunlight that bounced off the silver in her ears. When I was small I would watch her practising for hours, mesmerised and hoping that I would grow up to be just like her.
I followed the dark angel down the passage and this time we turned into a hall, which ended at two large wooden doors. She drew them open to reveal a large room. Like a church, there were cushioned benches and candles fixed to the walls. Several people who I had not seen before stood around an altar in the centre.
Oleander rested her hand on my arm and looked so long and hard at me as calmness washed over me.
She led me across to the altar. What I saw revolted me and I felt the soured contents of my stomach lurch upwards. I wanted to run but there was a strong force that compelled me to stay. It was as if I was fighting with myself. I was hexed.
Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) Page 13