Tenebrae Manor

by P. Clinen

  On the small table next to her lounge there sat an empty platter, the latest in a long line of gluttonous episodes involving the Lady of Tenebrae Manor and it directed Libra’s thoughts towards a chance for personal redemption. She could try to enter the passage again and prove to herself that she still fit. No! It would be a foolish move. What if she became stuck again? That would certainly be the end of any restoration of dignity amongst her attendants and scullions.

  Libra pondered how a life of such grandiose excess, of such lavish luxuries could carry such hefty consequences. Had she not earned her echelon at the apex of Tenebrae’s hierarchy?

  With the strange glow still filing out of the small entryway, Libra became self-assured. There remained but a single reprieve - she still had power. Having obtained such vast magical knowledge and with it, power, Libra knew that these qualities kept her at a distinct advantage over Bordeaux and the others.

  She had staked her claim and whilst that still stood, Libra had time on her side. The room throbbed with the glow that pulsated from the tunnel and Libra realised the importance of staunching the wounds of her dominance before they hemorrhaged. So long as no other discovered the patron of her vast magical skills, Tenebrae would remain under her dictatorship.

  Swiftly she leapt to action. With the thrust of her outgoing palm, the wardrobe, as if of its own accord, slid back into its original position. The Illuminant miasma of light that channeled from the passageway was concealed and for a second, Libra was in complete darkness. A candle came to life in her hand and she slithered like a cobra around the perimeter of the room, lighting any and all torches she discovered. A rope, rather a bell-pull next to her bed became adumbrated by her ominous shadow as she moved towards it. As the rope was plucked, a cold echoing resonated somewhere far away. The vibrations of the rope raced downwards from Libra's hand, through a small hole in the floor and down into the inaccessible bowels of the castle. The rope shook its way about corners where it was held by elaborate cogs and pulleys, plummeting down dusty shafts shut off for centuries. The head of this snake, a rusted bell, peeled into shrill discord and startled the occupants who were there to hear it - a scattering of silent spiders, cockroaches and the exhausted Madlyn.

  She had settled into a restless doze, face down on the pillow with heart burdened with fretful fancies. The bell rattled her room; her original startling dissipating into a recalcitrant apathy, for the bell meant only one thing. The Lady Libra required her presence.

  The bell chime had originally carried a dire dread on its resonate wavelengths, at a time when Madlyn was new to the manor and eager to impress her superiors. Yet as the months went on, Libra's demands became insufferable and Madlyn's mind became more preoccupied with impressing Bordeaux. As such, this present bell cry caused barely a twitch in the kitchen girl as opposed to the usual urgency it expected.

  Madlyn clawed hesitantly to her feet and groaned inwardly, before removing her shoe and violently throwing it at the obnoxious bell.

  Up in her room, Libra sat down on her chaise lounge and waited. In the oceanic silence that hung heavily around her, she thought that she could momentarily discern the distant peel of the bell. Yet she knew it must have been a trick of her senses; the castle was a vacuum of isolated echoes but that bell was far too distant from her to be heard clearly. She must simply wait for Madlyn's appearance.

  A flustered sigh escaped her lips as she propped her head upon her hand. The fingers of her other hand tapped impatiently on the edge of the lounge; her black nails producing a satisfying click on the leather.

  The minutes dripped by and Libra became increasingly frustrated; Madlyn usually did not take this long in arriving. There was a mountain of stairs between the apex and nadir of Tenebrae Manor - Libra of course knew this, having appointed Madlyn to carry out her errands for her instead. But there was something suspicious about the girl's tardiness.

  Libra growled through her teeth; she had plans to carry out! She refused to be hindered by such stupidity. She cursed all reliance on anybody but herself and moved to stand up, before Madlyn entered that very second.

  "Miss?"

  "Madlyn. You are slow. Always so slow!"

  "Yes miss."

  "Explain yourself."

  "Just tired is all, Miss Libra. The hour is late and I was sleeping." Madlyn remained close to the door.

  Libra stood akimbo, "When the bell rings, you move. Is that clear?"

  "Yes miss."

  "The very idea that you must be reminded! Stupid... Anyhow, I have a new task for you. You will ready a cell in the dungeon."

  Madlyn's eyes widened. "Ready?"

  "Yes ready, you silly," replied Libra. "Clear out a cell and have it ready to receive a prisoner."

  "W-which prisoner?"

  "Deadsol."

  Madlyn sighed in relief; she had feared that it was her that Libra intended to lock up.

  "The cells have been in disuse for years now. Ever since Bordeaux decided that confinement within Tenebrae Manor alone was imprisonment enough - a laughable notion if you ask me."

  "Yes miss."

  Libra began to move closer to the kitchen girl, her eyes locked fast in an intimidating leer.

  "Deadsol is a rebel, Madlyn," said Libra. "Do you understand what I intend to do with rebels in my mansion?"

  Madlyn stumbled for words, struck dumb by the imposing presence of her Lady superior.

  Libra eventually turned away, deeming the colloquy as complete and Madlyn spent a few seconds processing her orders. The kitchen girl remembered the embarrassment written on Libra's face but a few hours earlier and was, of a sudden, endowed with a flurry of courage. Libra had needed the assistance of the castle residents; she wasn't so daunting after all. Why did she so readily yield to every one of Libra's commands?

  "I don't think I will, miss," she uttered.

  Libra paused and turned back to face her, "You don't think what?"

  Madlyn realised the finality of her statement; the leap of faith had been made, she had no choice but to lurch further into the darkness.

  "I won't get the cell ready," she said. "Deadsol shouldn't be locked away... He didn't do anything wrong."

  Libra seemed lost for words; Madlyn had never spoken back to her as such. A sound rattled through the air - that of Madlyn's knees clipping together as her legs shook with fear and defiance.

  "You dare defy me?" came Libra's icy voice.

  A rush of adrenaline pushed Madlyn into further throes of courage. "Deadsol said you're a bombastic mega-glutton."

  Libra felt her nails dig painfully into her palms as her fists clenched. Her teeth ground together and a convulsion made her neck twitch, a vein on her forehead bulged. Her fury reached a cataclysmic pinnacle.

  Madlyn feared she had pushed once too hard and would bear the onslaught of Libra's torrential anger. But Libra composed herself, stayed her menace and decided there and then to pursue a more tactical avenue. She needed to wrest authority back for herself and with a girl as dim as Madlyn, a Machiavellian approach would prove the difference. A sinuous smile forced its way across her pale face. "Did he now? Well Bordeaux certainly doesn't think as such."

  It was only a small movement - the corner of Madlyn's mouth flinched but it was with the mention of the crimson demon that Libra knew she had steadied the ship.

  "Bordeaux..." said Madlyn.

  "Has proposed, my deary" said Libra. "To me."

  "Proposed?"

  "Yes, proposed. To be wed."

  "Wed?"

  "Married, stupid!"

  The word cut Madlyn like a knife; Libra knew full well that she would buy into such deceit.

  "Not t-true." Madlyn stammered. Her lips quivered uncontrollably.

  "Oh but I'm afraid it is true, Madlyn. Bordeaux said my beauty was matched by no other and that he wanted no more than to worship me as his queen!"

  Madlyn stood dumbfounded; her shoulders slouched with defeat. Libra waited patiently for a reaction in case of any rebutta
l but knew she had Madlyn defeated. She wanted to laugh, almost in disbelief of the ease in which she could trick the kitchen girl. But she remained coldly composed until the oceanic silence of the room returned, which was soon broken by the off-tempo sound of Madlyn's foot on flagstone as she ran deliriously back through the corridors.

  ****

  When he took his first step from the front doors of the manor, Bordeaux was immediately aware of a certain baleful latency around him. The moaning of the golems had become as omnipresent as wind rustling through darkled branches, though their foreign call could hardly be dismissed so easily.

  The sky poured down onto the forest in endless murk; no moon lit the path for the belaboured Bordeaux and no lunar light shone to kiss the blade of his sword cane with cold lustre. The crimson demon withdrew the weapon blatantly and held it before him as a warning to the violent creatures that observed him from the shadows.

  Scattered they stood, in no predetermined formation, yet they were innumerable. From their petiolar heads, where twisted branches sprouted with gnarled deformity, the eyes of the wood golems stared with deadpan benevolence. They stood still with the patience of Venus-flytraps as their asymmetrical eyes met those of the demon. Bordeaux's eyes, the colour of blood, scanned the surroundings like a sentry and he boldly moved forward through the trees with a threatening defiance. His cold footsteps seemed to issue a challenge to any monster that might lurch from concealment and attack. He could hear the scrape of root-like feet of those few golems who moved on occasion and that of another sound - the loose end of the noose that draped the golems brushing against the ground. Yet none approached him. He moved through the darkness with patient ease, his vision keen in the pitch black; the path before him memorised.

  And slow as his journey had been, Bordeaux eventually reached the plain where the lightning-struck pedestal of the tree stump awaited his arrival.

  The black rose brooch was gone and still the wood golems were everywhere. Bordeaux’s heart sank - his flawed plan of propitiation had failed. The disappointment that filled him was not entirely despairing; he had known from the start that his idea had been hopeful at best. What bemused him now was how to approach the situation from here on in. There had to be some reason for the forest's assailment on Tenebrae Manor. Bordeaux had hoped in vain that by returning the relic to the mindless wood golems, they would recede back to whence they came and return to being a rare and docile sight.

  In a flash of anger he lashed out at the tree stump with a vigorous cut of his rapier. Until recently, it had not been necessary to equip arms upon leaving the manor but since his random encounter with a violent golem and the increased aggression of its brethren, a weapon had become imperative.

  Bordeaux heard the grunt of an alien presence frighteningly close to his person and he turned to find himself greeted by a quartet of wood golems. The monsters were all different in various ways; some more squat than lank, others of thicker bole - however they all pertained to the common characteristics of their kind. They all wore rope nooses about their necks and the bodies of the four before him were clotted with fresh soil, as though they had only recently been brought to life and ripped from the earth.

  Bordeaux was swift to act; he would not be caught off guard as in his previous encounter. He leapt upon the first golem and swung his sword cane, the rotted wooden skull of the thing splitting with ease. The headless body falling to the ground seemed to enrage the trio that remained and they moved to surround the crimson demon. One approached and grabbed at Bordeaux's free arm; though the strength of its grip was horrific, the sluggish swinging of its other bludgeoning arm would be its undoing. Bordeaux plunged his blade through the chest of the beast and his arm was free again. Two remained; he skewered the head of his first victim upon the end of his sword and ignited it with a flash of fire from his hand. The head smoldered with flames as it was hurled at the pair of golems. Its strike ignited one of them who in its panic, thrashed onto the other and left both covered in fire. They began to writhe about with a speed that startled Bordeaux and the crimson demon soon realised the foolishness of hurling flames so carelessly into the taiga.

  He had to act fast, lest the forest go up in flames. He frantically kicked both golems so that they lost footing and tumbled backwards down a slight incline at the meadow's edge. By freak fortune, the golems landed not on dry grass but a dusty surface that extinguished the fire as fast as it had been lit.

  Clouds of disturbed dirt soon settled and Bordeaux feverishly drank in the quiet that descended; the golems did not move, he was safe for now.

  The trek back to Tenebrae Manor was carried out at a quicker pace. The vines that choked the house had robbed it of its usual dominance, a sight that made Bordeaux cringe in anguish. What was left for him to do? Never had he felt so powerless, Tenebrae Manor was wasting away with nothing to save it.

  From the highest window of the mansion, the crimson demon observed the menacing silhouette of Lady Libra, lit by the candles that guttered behind her. He could not discern whether the shadow was looking at him from the window or just gazing into the night but his mind soon swelled with thoughts of freedom. A realisation dawned on him and though the relief of that realisation was minuscule, Bordeaux suddenly felt the comfort of one final idea - a last ditch attempt to save Tenebrae.

  ****

  From the vantage point of two copper eyes, a squat glass held aloft by a silent demon shone in the firelight with crystalline colours. Swirled by gentle gyrations of the hand, the cognac within mixed its liquid luminance with the reflections cast by gloomy ice and the glass sweated with the feverish heat of its surroundings.

  Behind the glass, the fireplace danced with the shadows and within the confines of the cradling arm chair, Deadsol seemed so small, shielded by the ghastly shadows that played their tricks on the wallpaper. The infantile trust placed in the sturdy nestles of the chair was one that possessed the copper demon into an intoxicating lull.

  Am I drunk? How can I be? This is the first I've had...

  Like moth to flame he stared, the glass cutting a kaleidoscope of sinuous patterns with the curl of the flames contorting in the backdrop. When it appeared that nothing would arrest Deadsol's attention from the charcoal glow, his torpid head turned to the other arm where a pipe was slowly dying in his grasp. Wisps of stale smoke crept from it and sketched leaden shades onto the red fire behind it.

  Deadsol sat up presently, his sudden jolt startling the runty shape of Comets, who had been sitting quietly at the demon's feet. Deadsol's eyes betrayed his lack of cognitive sense, his pupils dilated to minuscule dots that gave the impression of a trance.

  "It's time for me to go, my boy."

  A bemused sneer peeled onto Comets' face and he scratched his head. "Go where, D?"

  "Go, yes, you are right!" replied Deadsol. "Go. Goal. To the goal, I have to go."

  "What trick is this, charlatan? Snap out of it, fool."

  Deadsol got to his feet and somnambulated towards the door of the drawing room. The fire shuddered with the draft of cold air that rushed in as the doors opened, the hypnotised Deadsol turning his head this way and that as though scouting for some faraway treasure.

  "This caravan of charlatans, rumbling across the steppes of Little Russia," he rambled. "I need a kopeck from mother, the carnival is in the village tonight. And here it is today but gone tomorrow! Like chaff on the late summer breeze."

  Comets dashed to the door in an attempt to block his friend from leaving.

  "You're not making sense, Deadsol," he cried. "Come friend, sit please. Cease this sleepwalk and rest before the fire."

  "Take your being from out my path, clown! It's the gypsies I want to see."

  The demon shuffled into the hall and left Comets in his wake.

  "Where are you going?" cried the jester.

  "My home. So sick, sick for home," Deadsol's voice dropped to a mutter. "My past taunts me, rips at the very fabric of my soul, to tatters, ribbons! Shattered like glass t
hat cuts me deep with its poetry. Oh son, the son of a gypsy risen to the rank of baron. But where are my lands? I must return, to home. I drift like a maudlin wayfarer."

  A horrible insanity clung to him, yet Deadsol did not fight against it. There was a forgotten comfort in his hypnotism and he felt no need to rebel. His legs cycled of their own accord beneath him, carrying him through rooms he had never seen before, down corridors dusty with neglect. Haunting sounds reached his ears, though whether they were fabricated in his imagination or not, he could not tell. Screams rang faintly from distant corners of the manor with Deadsol walking dreamily though the haze. Though his legs shuffled onwards, he felt as though he had forgotten how to move.

  Behind his head, forever out of his own line of sight, he felt the presence of his hypnotist, whose dusky reeds of hair curled about with no gravity as bane. The dark tide washed over him and he was pulled down, down further into the depths of the house, until ancient smells of rotted wood, petrified stone and rusted iron permeated through his prominent nostrils. His moustache twitched, his eyes saw nothing for all their distant focus and it was then he realised that it was not the smells of his old home but rather something more sinister.

  A cell. This is a cell. What ghost has led me to incarceration? To trick the trickster... I’d tip my hat, well done sir. But my hat is at home. Or perhaps I never wore a hat at all.

  Deadsol rambled deliriously, never had he felt so powerless. In his daze there appeared before him blurry visions of some wicked figure. For a moment he was fearful, yet the sight of soft white hands swaying before him reminded him of a woman of his childhood, centuries ago when he was still mortal. The hands held his arms aloft almost affectionately, yet their engagement was that of chaining him to a wall. He became drunk with melancholia and despairingly wondered how many years his mother had been dead.

  Ambling through the eternity… Salvation was naught, woe to this forgotten demon…

  The hands were so strong and in this state he was completely unable to fight back, as they effortlessly turned archaic key through lock and the weight of disintegrating chains burdened Deadsol’s shoulders. Soon his vision worsened, flashing between blackness and blurred sight; the foreign hands fell to the sides of their owner. Those dusky curls of hair sighed through the dark cell like seaweed under a pier, a pair of heavy breasts before him lulled Deadsol further into child-like nostalgia. The ghost drifted from the cell and he heard one last crank of key turning. It was all over now. He was locked away, left to sleep a deathly sleep where he was not sure whether he would wake up.