by P. Clinen
The double storey building would have been taken as a rather simple structure on its own, had it not been surrounded by a multitude of inferior huts. The clock, high up on the front façade of the place was dilapidated at best. Yet its hands still turned and the bell in the high tower remained silent for now.
Rummaging through his satchel, Bordeaux pressed the fedora hat over his horns and stood in the darkness before the building. The night had swallowed all else; the only lights shining in the village squirmed sinuously from its windows. Bordeaux assumed it to be both a town hall that doubled as a tavern of sorts, for he heard the voices of a ruckus within and the clinking of glasses on bar top. The voices were merry and, when he focused, Bordeaux felt his heart skip a beat - he understood what they spoke. He could not believe it! Here, of all places, after months of silence, of miscommunication, he was within earshot of people he could speak to.
In a moment, his wariness left him, yet it was not long before it crept back. Needless to say, he was still a stranger in this isolated town. Would they accept him or eye him with suspicion? Shuddering at the recollection of the hanged women, Bordeaux decided it would be the latter.
He peered through the door and eyed the crowd; it must have been everyone in the town. A plan formulated in his mind - he would slip into the crowd and remain scarce, perhaps he could overhear any important information and finally figure out where he was.
There was a certain haze permeating about the interior, the scent of beer and tobacco smoke adding to the soupy atmosphere. Outside, the bell sung with the coming hour and with it, a commotion scuttled through the room. People moved to find a seat wherever they could.
Bordeaux took a moment to grasp whatever activity this strange troupe of villagers were about to undertake. He watched as they gathered in a crowd around a sort of stage area, where two rather haggard men sat tuning crude musical instruments. From the darkest corner of the tavern there stood a man of such short stature that, were it not for the hint of recognition, Bordeaux may not have noticed him at all. And it seemed that this impish creature recognised him too, for he stared blankly from goggled eyes, his pockmarked mouth curling perplexedly. Then all at once the imp man looked away and instead chose to focus his attention to the stage.
The two musicians that had ensconced on stools upon the stage did not exactly carry the same sort of eloquence associated with men of such culture. Where someone like Arpage may have dusted the seat, plucked at the ruff of his neck and ceremoniously bowed deeply to the audience, these two men sat in a vile dishevelment that left them indistinguishable from the other villagers. One of them, a bulky and well-bearded man tested a few notes on a greasy flute - stained with years of use. The other man, sombre shouldered and despondent, turned the tuning pegs of a splintered guitar with an ear inclined towards the instrument, giving the appearance of a fatigued mother cradling a baby.
The rambunctious crowd was reaching an animalistic pitch when the flautist, with a voice that doused the fever of the audience, bellowed forth.
"My pretty people!"
The intoxicated crowd roared a rousing reply. "Fiddler!"
The Fiddler smiled humbly and capped the excitement with a motion of his palm. "Listen me pretties, lend your ears to your darling Fiddler and his most passionate accomplice, Razorback."
"Razorback!" roared the crowd and the guitarist raised his hand in response.
Then, as a teacher scolds a mischievous class, the Fiddler's face contorted in malice and he shouted, "Enough!"
The crowd fell quiet and the smile curled its way back onto the Fiddler's face. Those in the audience stared with adoration, with anticipation and Bordeaux was utterly nonplussed at the control these two bards had over the strange villagers.
Fiddler adjusted the sleeve of his more than haggard brown coat and proceeded to play a series of ornaments on his flute.
"The world has forgotten us, darlings," he continued.
The crowd booed.
"They say!" cried Fiddler. "They say our ways are archaic to point of irrelevance! That we of this little shire are narrow-minded!"
"And worthy of neglect," added Razorback.
Again the crowd was irate and Razorback brushed his knuckled fingers over the strings of his guitar. Although the instrument was worn, it produced a beautiful tone and the minor chord he strummed again and again filled the room ominously.
"But we are not without our reasons," said Fiddler. "For we know, we know, this world is indeed darker than the heartless void of the devil's very chest!"
Here the crowd began to act peculiar; many of the women crossed themselves or muttered unintelligible oaths. The men, though they all appeared rugged, quivered at the knees and shook their heads.
"The forest is full of horrors," Razorback proclaimed.
"It's true!" bellowed an old man from the audience. "They took my Madeline!"
"Yes sir," said Fiddler. "The ghosts that lurk in those nightmarish trees are merciless - many have been lost."
For a moment the room was silent.
"Yet tonight we celebrate," said Fiddler. "Rejoice! For one of our own returns to us! One of us who we had given up as lost! But this is no phantom you see before you, nor some miraculous Lazarus. No! This is a man who was swallowed by the trees and lived to return; Jethro!"
As the audience cheered at a feverish level, a frail youth climbed onto the stage and smiled nervously. Even with his white and shocked hair, his hollow eyes fraught with terrors he could never forget; even with the emaciated features of his outcast face, Bordeaux instantly recognised the man. It was the very same Jethro, the man who had stumbled upon Tenebrae Manor and its ghoulish residents!
While the crowd shouted in jubilee, he could only attempt to ward away the paralysis of disbelief that constricted him. A mixture of varying emotions rushed through him; foremost being a knee-jerk thought, how had this man come to be here? And when that immediate reaction had subsided, Bordeaux realised he must indeed be very close to Tenebrae Manor, the thought filling him with glee. Yet if this were the very same Jethro, then Bordeaux was in far greater peril than he had anticipated; this man knew of the house where night covers eternal. What if he led the villagers to Tenebrae? What if they came with pitchfork and flame and drove him and his friends from their home? Furthermore; say the villagers approached common society with the matter. Tenebrae Manor would be exposed, no longer could its residents reside in exile. Such thoughts were most dreadful to Bordeaux.
Jethro stood on the stage and waved at the crowd, oblivious to the presence of Bordeaux. The effect of his sojourn under the endless night sky had aged him severely, yet now that he had escaped back to his hometown, he managed a weary smile. The once blonde hairs on his head had faded to a fear-induced white and he was visibly thin and frail. He was being bombarded with a barrage of questions.
"Where have you been?"
"What have you seen?"
The Fiddler placed a hand on Jethro's shoulder, the farmhand flinching involuntarily at the touch.
"Our prodigal son is but too exhausted to regale us with his adventure."
The crowd groaned.
"Fear not!" Fiddler snapped. "For he told this bard the entire story!"
He spat out a few notes on his flute in tune with Razorback's ever calling strums.
"He spoke of a night that never ends," said the Fiddler. "Though the world turns, this place knows no days - it is forever shrouded in a blanket of darkness!"
The crowd shuddered but clung to every word.
"And worse, those that lurk in this night... Shadows more monster than man!"
"What do these shadows look like?" gaped a woman from the audience.
"Where do they live?" cried another.
"Hush, my pets!" said Fiddler. "Patience is virtuous. These shadows live in a house of nightmares! Of horrible corridors that drag forever, of rooms long left to the mercy of spiders!"
"Then we must destroy this place! Expunge it from our world!" called a
man.
"You won't get me galloping into darkness like a fool," replied another spectator. "Surely God will eradicate this evil for us! He will protect us!"
"There's witchcraft afoot, I knew it!"
"We cannot risk the vanquishing of our village..."
Here, the crowd fell into a bitter quarreling. Bordeaux dragged his hat down further onto his head; he too, felt the fear of the villagers, albeit for different reasons. He struggled to clear his mind but the ruckus was so loud that he clasped his skull.
"Everyone," cried a voice. "Everyone please be quiet!"
The voice was timorous above the commotion, yet when the villagers saw Jethro attempting to speak, they fell back to a low muttering.
"You don’t understand," said Jethro. "I can't remember where I've been. I can hardly be sure it was real! I've been sick and delirious for days. We are so isolated and the forest is so big! I could never find this place again."
Those in the audience surrounding Bordeaux sighed with disappointment.
Grateful to have had no attention drawn to himself, the crimson demon slipped out the door of the tavern and slumped against the wall. The night was blacker than he had seen since his exile from Tenebrae Manor, paying to the utter isolation of the village. The stars in the sky were overwhelmingly infinite and with each one separated from the next by insurmountable distance, Bordeaux was soothed by their relatable loneliness.
The Fiddler and Razorback had commenced a long and mournful tune that drifted to Bordeaux’s ears in a muffled drone. The music, on a sudden, became clearer as the door of the tavern opened and shut again quickly.
Bordeaux realised he was not alone in the darkness; he discerned the wispy shape of another being strolling slowly down the main street. He knew immediately that it was Jethro, the man must have had need to escape the groping of the villagers and clear his head. In any account he was walking with uncertainty, dream-like in his gait. The shock of his adventure would have carried a toll on him.
Yet Bordeaux felt nothing of the man’s emotions. This was his chance to discover how to get back to the manor; he could not pass up such fortune. He took no patience with him in his stride, merely gliding up to Jethro and grasping at his shoulders.
“Jethro. I knew it was you.”
Jethro shuddered. A raw fear overcame him, as it was apparent that he recognised the voice of the stranger approaching. And when he turned to confirm that it was, in fact, Bordeaux standing before him, he turned so pale he might have been transparent.
“Y-you, no…”
“Jethro listen, I won’t hurt you,” pleaded Bordeaux. “But you must tell me, which way to Tenebrae Manor? Surely you remember something!”
Jethro stammered, his face contorting to one of child-like terror. Although he tried to speak, Bordeaux could not be patient and shook him by the shoulders eagerly.
“Come on, man. You have to help me! I will leave you alone forever after this. Just tell me, how do I get home? Where am I?”
“N-no! No! Help!” blurted Jethro, paralysed with horror.
The commotion had collected the attention of several villagers who rushed to see what was going on.
“Demon!” cried Jethro.
Bordeaux tried to silence him but it was no use. Jethro thrashed like a drowning man, the villagers advancing to his aid and, in the commotion, Bordeaux’s hat fell off.
Those surrounding him dropped back immediately and gasped. The crimson demon’s horns were on display for all to see.
“Beast of Beelzebub!”
Several of the men raced towards him and struck him fiercely with their fists, Bordeaux struggling to escape the gang and run away. What followed was a blur in Bordeaux’s memory. He heard the shouts of angry townsfolk; saw the flash of torch fire as he plunged out of the town into the forest. Dogs snapped at his heals, those faster men caught up with him and struck him in the back with shovels and pitchforks. Yet still he ran, each abusive cry and blow breaking down his composure until he felt utterly hated. He cursed them with bitter cries, begged them to stop and leave him be. Onwards he ran, until the cries of the villagers grew fainter, his senses became hazy, until he eventually collapsed, exhausted into a muddy creek. The snarling of dogs roared in his ears and though the beasts were far away, their barking was all he could comprehend as his vision faded to nothing.
The villagers had long since returned to the village empty-handed, leaving Bordeaux face down and defeated in muddy creek. Despondent he lay, engulfed by a sense of maudlin rejection. He tried to lift himself up but fell quickly back into the dirty water. He felt as though his heart had caved in on itself, crushed by the blows of loneliness and depression. His face twitched involuntarily until tears began to secrete from his long dry eyes; soon he was sobbing wretchedly in the creek, kicked down one last time and left behind. It was not only the days he had spent banished from Tenebrae that crushed him; no, this was much more. The weight of his ever-suffering afterlife had become all at once, too heavy for his shoulders and he could not longer pretend that he was content in any way with how his years had played out, how long he had felt unloved and hated.
As he lay still in the grime, his mind was thrown back in time as far as he could remember. Only snippets of his former life remained – the flash of a sunny vineyard, the afternoon light shining on his long hair, the smiles on the faces of his long dead family as they gazed at their simple house.
Bordeaux was overcome with sobs again; so many centuries had passed since he had passed from his first life, the life where he had lived happily in the most blissful ignorance. What deity had forsaken him to this unending eternity? No matter where he had been over the years, he had never been truly content. Tenebrae Manor had been a tolerable way to pass the hours but the demon could not deny that his happiest days had abandoned him long ago.
Rolling onto his back, he stared at the patches of night sky that penetrated betwixt the looming conifers. From his perspective, the trees seemed to lean over him, peering down on him like he was some foreign creature washed up on a distant shoreline. Bordeaux remembered the god he had heard of in his previous life, the greater being that he had never really understood and was reminded suddenly of an old verse he had read, his lips mouthing the words deliriously from the creek bed;
Why is light given to those in misery,
And life to the bitter of soul,
To those who long for death that does not come,
Who search for it more than for hidden treasure,
Who are filled with gladness
And rejoice when they reach the grave?
Why is life given to a man whose way is hidden,
Whom God has hedged in?
His sobbing had stopped but still the tears fell quietly from his vacant eyes. He lay so perfectly still and expressionless, he may as well have been dead.
With the shadows of the trees and flickering of the stars holding Bordeaux hypnotised, he did not remember falling to sleep.
The sickening and revolting daylight woke him from his fitful sleep. Feeling completely sorry for himself and giving up his will to carry on, Bordeaux decided he would just lay right there forever.
But soon, as it always is with the impulsive nature of intelligent life, he grew bored and irritable. The sun cut his face with its rays, the dryness in his throat becoming too much. Then, as if only to pass the unending time he had, he stood up groggily and began to trudge through the difficult forest.
Bordeaux had lost his grip on higher consciousness, remiss in his counting of the days that passed overhead, merely walking in no particular direction until fatigue made him sleep again. The words of his prophet continued to play repeatedly in his head and Bordeaux soon knew that he was setting himself up to become the closest thing he could know of death. He was doomed, he would wander without food and drink and shelter until he was a husk of a man, a bitter and anti-supernal demon. Bitter acceptance shrouded him; he would wander forever in exile.
When it seemed his
fate had been sealed and when all his hope had flown away from him, a change in the forest crept upon him. It was a change he, at first, wrote off as the ramblings of his decreasing sanity but soon began to believe again. An ember of hope had reignited from the ashes, in his mind he truly began to believe he was onto something.
It was but a simple observation - he could not remember the last time he had seen the sun.
Had delirium stretched the length of the night, so he assumed himself to be back within his homeland? Or was this, in fact, reality?
Bordeaux sat down on a rotted log on the forest floor, his head pounding with confusion. Yes, the night had been unusually long. He was close! He had to be! Bordeaux gritted his teeth in anguish; he was still so lost. The forest was deeper than the inkiest oceans; how he would ever find Tenebrae Manor he did not know.
Again his vision blurred, yet he believed himself to be in the presence of a silent shade shrouded in a dim blue light. The ghost hovered before him in the distance, although he could feel it staring at him with owl-like eyes – wide and impressionable. Like a pulse, the shroud of light ebbed and flowed and when it receded, Bordeaux knew that he recognised the face of the apparition.
His delirium weakened his memory but the gaunt face of the girl with eyes that bulged from sunken hovels was one that he indeed knew. And when she turned and floated away over a small incline, Bordeaux was instantly compelled to follow her.
The ghost floated betwixt the trees with her white hair flowing as though underwater, her eyes never leaving the demon that chased in tow.
Bordeaux’s thoughts mounted with glee That girl. Libra’s servant. The kitchen girl. What was she doing here? I knew her once! I knew that face!
The girl drifted silently and never wavered in speed, despite Bordeaux’s desperate racing to keep up. He tripped over roots, struggled down slopes and ran with all his might through thick grasses. He felt as though he was running through a dream, eyes fixed on the ghost until she, all at once, dissipated into the night.