Ancient Appetites

by Oisin McGann

  Then he noticed the man standing to his left. The man's left hand held a short white stick from which smoke was rising lazily. His right hand was in his hair and he was staring at Brutus in what looked like awe.

  'My God,' the man said in a low voice. 'You're awake!'

  He was dressed in strange, straight-edged clothes unlike any Brutus had seen before, and he knew now that he had fallen into foreign hands. He was among enemies. A violent rage came over him, old battle instincts coming to the fore. His powerful muscles bunched, the hand holding the saw swung back.

  Gerald stumbled backwards an instant before the naked seven-foot-tall medieval ogre, with gold needles protruding from his skin, slashed at the young doctor's neck with the bone-saw. Brutus let out a cry of savage aggression as the saw embedded itself in the top of the table. He pulled it free, his newly awakened body moving with a raw but cumbersome power. Staggering forward, he made to attack again.

  'Wait! Wait! I can take you to your family!' Gerald cried.

  The giant hesitated, breathing heavily. The fist holding the saw was poised in midair.

  'That's what you want, isn't it?' Gerald said softly. 'To be with your brother, Hugo, and your two sisters, Elizabeth and Brunhilde?'

  Brutus was still for a moment, but then he nodded.

  'Yhheeess,' he croaked with vocal chords that hadn't worked in centuries.

  'Come with me then, and I'll take you to them.'

  Brutus stood unmoving for what seemed like an age… and then lowered the blade. Gerald could see just how weak the giant was; the initial effort of the attack had emptied him out and it was taking all his strength to stand upright. But maybe he had enough left in him to make it to the elevator. Once Gerald had walked him down to the cellars, he was sure the ogre would have no fight left in him and could be subdued with a minimum of effort.

  'That's it,' Gerald said in an encouraging voice. 'That's a good fellow. You'll be safe with me.'

  Brutus rested his right arm on Gerald's shoulders, causing the younger man to stoop under the giant's enormous weight. The claw opened and clicked closed again, inches from Gerald's face. He patted the arm nervously and started to lead his research subject towards the door. Brutus's fingers loosened their grip on the saw and it clattered to the floor.

  Clancy woke to see Gerald crumpling under the weight of the ogre, one giant arm wrapped around his neck. Slowly, to avoid attracting attention, the manservant swung his legs off the bed.

  Brutus slipped and lost his footing, bringing his whole weight down on Gerald's shoulders. Gerald let out a loud grunt as he tried to remain standing. A moment later, Clancy piled into Brutus, knocking Gerald aside. The young doctor watched in despair as Clancy charged the howling giant straight towards the window and, with a crash of glass, shoved him through. Clancy nearly followed him out, but Gerald darted forward, grabbed him and pulled him back. They both leaned out of the window to see the remains of the ogre splayed on the ground several storeys below. There had been no conveniently placed gargoyle this time.

  'Well…' Gerald gasped, straightening up unsteadily. 'That's the end of that.'

  Gulping air, he nodded his thanks to Clancy. The pale-faced footman sank back onto the bed, clutching his bandaged chest. Gerald hurried out of the door and along to the elevator, eager to see if there was anything of Brutus's body to salvage.

  'I suppose that was one way of getting him downstairs.'

  *

  Francie had gone to great pains to assure his father that the Wildensterns would not be coming after him. Shay found it hard to believe: the Wildensterns were not known for their forgiveness. It was only after Francie had informed him that Master Nathaniel not only knew the full story of the botched robberies and had kept quiet about it, but had also promoted Francie to the position of groom in the engimals' stable, that Shay finally had to admit that it sounded like they were in the clear. Even so, he persisted, it was all a bit fishy if you asked him.

  Francie still felt a wave of cold fear come over him when Patrick Slattery walked in as they were sitting over pints of stout in McAuley's. Shay went tense beside him, gripping the edge of the rough-hewn table. But the bailiff was a changed man. McAuley's was the local for many of the Wildenstern staff, and word had got round in the week since the catastrophic train wreck that Slattery had been fired by the family and that his name had been blackened by rumours of murder, so he could not find work anywhere else. Everyone knew that the disaster on the railway had been caused by Trom and everyone knew who drove the bull-razer. Slattery's expensive suit was dirty and dishevelled and he wore bandages on his head and one hand. There was a sullen look in his eyes that dared anyone to give him grief. Despite his loss of status, he could still inspire fear. He stood by the bar and ordered a whisky, downed it in one and then demanded another.

  Francie was struck by a sudden need to empty his bladder. He slid out from behind the table. He had to walk past Slattery, and the bailiff glanced down at him as he made his way out. He imagined the man's gaze drilling into his back as he unlatched the door and stepped outside. It was a damp night; a light drizzle was falling and Francie trudged through the mud round to the back of the pub. There was always a stench from the outhouse so he avoided it, choosing to relieve himself into the hedge behind it.

  Someone came out after him: he heard footsteps in the mud and then the sound of two horses trotting towards the pub. There had been no sign of them on the road when Francie had come out; they must have been down under the trees at the bend. The outhouse door opened and there was an indrawn breath and a curse. Francie recognized Slattery's voice just a few feet away. He froze. He didn't want to go bumping into that fellow in the dark. Before the door could close again, the horses drew up.

  'Patrick Slattery?' a man called out.

  'Who's askin'?' Slattery snapped back.

  'A friend of Eoin Duffy's,' the man replied.

  Francie flinched as a shot rang out and then another. Something heavy fell against the outhouse door and there were three more shots. The horses whinnied and their riders shouted and then they were gone, galloping away into the drizzling night.

  Francie cautiously looked round the end of the wall. Slattery lay dead against the toilet, his body across the threshold, his chin pressed against his chest as if he were asleep. Men were coming out of the pub; there were excited shouts, questions and fearful warnings.

  'Jaysus, it's Slattery,' someone said. 'Someone's done 'im in.'

  They formed a semicircle around the corpse, and for some time there wasn't a word. They took off their hats, shifting their feet and looking uncomfortably at one another. Then, at last, Shay said:

  'Sure, it was the best cure for 'im, God rest 'is soul. Let's get 'im out of there now – it's no fit place for the deceased.'

  And so men who had despised the bailiff while he lived gathered to lift his body up and carry it inside, finally treating Patrick Slattery with all the consideration, respect and diffidence he could have wished for… had he not been dead.

  Epilogue

  THE NEW PATRIARCH

  Daisy was waiting in a chair by Roberto's bedside when he finally regained his senses. He had been feverish for more than a week, racked by pain from his injuries. His sleep was troubled by nightmares, and when he woke, he would suffer delusions brought on by his agony or the laudanum given him to ease it.

  Even as she nursed him, she wondered about their future. How could she forgive him for his infidelity? It was hugely humiliating for her and the greatest betrayal of her trust. If word got out about it – as it surely would – she would hear whispers and muffled laughs wherever she went. But worse was the knowledge that she was trapped in a marriage with a man who did not love her – who was in love with another man, one old enough to be his father. She had heard of this kind of thing before, of course; the upper classes had all sorts of strange habits, but Roberto was her husband. She'd be giving him a piece of her mind, he could count on that.

  Then one da
y he opened his eyes and looked over from his bed at his wife and smiled weakly, and she knew that it was an argument that could wait until he was better prepared for it. As a friend, she owed him that much at least.

  'How are you feeling?' she asked, smiling back at him.

  'I'm starving… Thirsty too,' he replied. 'Other than that…'

  His voice drifted off as he tried to move his legs. A look of sorrow came over him.

  'Gerald says there might still be hope,' Daisy told him, getting on her knees by his side and taking his hand. 'You have your ancestors' blood in you. He said anything is possible.'

  'Having met my ancestors, I'm inclined to agree,' Berto snorted. 'That said, I'm not sure I'm happy having their blood crawling around in my veins. Heaven knows what it's getting up to in there. Is everyone else all right? Tatty? Nate? What about Clancy? Did he make it?'

  'They're all fine,' she reassured him. 'Although Clancy refuses to stay in bed even though he still has a hole in his chest, and Tatty ordered a suit of boy's clothes to be made for her the other day. I'm not sure quite what to make of that. Nate and I have been busy putting the house in order for you.'

  What do you mean?'

  'Darling,' she said, squeezing his hand. 'You're the Patriarch now.'

  'Oh, bugger,' he sighed.

  The door opened and Nathaniel peeked in.

  'Bloody hell! He's back from the dead!' he exclaimed, rushing across to his brother.

  'God! Don't say that!' Berto protested, grinning as he clutched his brother's hand. 'There's been quite enough of that, I think. What… what's happened to them, anyway?' His face went suddenly sombre. 'Are they…?'

  'It's over,' Nate told him, his hand going self-consciously to the fast-healing wound in his side.

  And it was over, for the most part. They saw no reason to trouble Berto yet with the news that Elizabeth had escaped somehow, despite her injuries, and that Gideon was trying to have Nate exiled for his very public duel with Hugo. A blatant breach of the Rules of Ascension, he argued, even if Hugo had instigated it – not that the family were in a mood to listen to him. They still weren't sure whether or not he had actually sent the telegram to the Viceroy. The British were outraged over the train crash and were demanding answers, and the entire family were at each other's throats over the whole affair.

  Abraham and his two brothers were gone too. The last time Daisy had seen them was boarding a ship for Southampton, from where they hoped to find passage to Kenya. They had said something about wanting to kill a lion.

  Daisy had been pressing Nate to help her persuade Berto to do away with the family's barbaric Rules once and for all. And he seemed inclined to agree with her, although they both doubted if it could be achieved so simply. It was more likely to take generations to filter all the conspirators, traitors and murderers out of the family. Gerald continued to insist that, as a woman, it was none of Daisy's business anyway.

  Not that he was very interested himself. He had personally disposed of Brutus's body in the house's boilers and was now immersed in his studies to investigate the so-called 'intelligent particles'. Whatever Nate and Daisy decided to do about the family's traditions was apparently of no concern to him.

  But it seemed that Berto, even in his fragile state, was one step ahead of them.

  'If I'm going to be in charge, I want to change a few things around here,' he said abruptly. 'I'm tired of all this one-upmanship and back-stabbing. It's absurd, the way we live in fear of one another. There's no need for it and it… it just gets in the way of everything. I'm absolutely sick of it. It's time this family just got along with one another. I'm going to put a stop to this fighting once and for all.'

  'Absolutely!' Nate said, clenching his fists. 'You're absolutely right, Berto! And if they don't want to stop, then by God, we'll make them.'

  And that, thought Daisy, is why some things will never change.

  Oisín McGann

  ***

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