The corners of Rain’s mouth turned up into a slight smile, but his eyes showed sadness so profound it nearly made Lita want to turn away. “When you’re a monster, no one sees what kind of man you are.”
With that, he pulled the door closed, leaving Lita alone to think things over.
THIRD INTERLUDE
Didst thou watch a flower die?
Did thy tears bid it goodbye?
Tremble not, for ’tis not gone
In morrow’s blooms it carries on
Laughter was a thing not often heard in this house.
The two brothers giggled as they ran across the living room of a three-story abode in rural England. The younger of the two laughed cheerfully as his bare feet danced around a corner and he took off running down a hallway. He was a small child, barely six years old. His shaggy black hair fell in a mess upon his forehead, threatening to obscure his dark blue eyes and possibly prevent foresight of dangers that might lie in his giddy path.
The boy giving chase was five years his senior. He moved with the spry but awkward gait of a prepubescent lad, quickly gaining on the child he pursued. His own blond locks were unruly as well, but he had the presence of mind to keep them brushed away from his line of sight.
“You’re it!” the older brother said as he tapped the younger lightly on the shoulder. However, the little one didn’t appear to notice. In fact, he had stopped running altogether and was now staring at something more interesting than their game. The older brother followed his gaze up toward the long, dark flight of stairs that led to the third floor.
“You know we’re not allowed to go up there,” the older brother said. He placed a hand on the younger brother’s shoulder and tried to turn him away from his fixation, but to no avail.
The younger brother pulled away, still staring intently up the stairs. His gaze was piercing, the keen fascination of a child who has stumbled across something he knows he’s not supposed to do, but will end up doing anyway.
The older brother knelt in front of him. “If we go up there and Father finds out, he’ll be angry. You know we should not make him angry.” His gaze trailed down to his younger brother’s lower lip, which had a three-day-old split still healing in it. The little boy’s own eyes went to his elder’s right wrist, which bore a yellowing bruise in the distinctive shape of a large handprint.
“But Father is not to be home for a long while, and I very much wish to see what’s up there.” His eyes went back to the stairs. “Do you not?”
The older brother chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and glanced towards the stairs himself.
“Could we not go up and straight back down?” the younger brother implored. “He would never know. Please?”
Sighing resignedly, the older brother finally nodded. “Very well. Only to the top to see what’s there, then straight back down. We mustn’t tarry long.” The younger brother grinned and nodded eagerly. “Stay behind me,” the elder said. Leading the way, he went to the stairs, took a deep breath, and began the ascent towards whatever mysteries lie ahead.
There were fifteen steps, the older brother knew. He had counted them on several occasions, but had never been brave enough to attempt the defiant voyage. What a wonder that a child nearly half his age had finally talked him into it.
Halfway up, the older brother stepped on the eighth wooden stair and it screeched loudly, seeming to call out their crime to whomever might be listening. Both boys tensed, and the younger even started to turn to run screaming from whatever horrible beast had made that noise.
As soon as they realized what the sound had been, they both sighed and exchanged glances and nervous laughter before resuming their voyage. Though neither would admit it to the other, they both felt the same fear crawling up their spines. They worried that the moment they reached the top step, some hairy beast that had clawed its way free from their nightmares would lurch out of the darkness and steal them away. Some scaly creature from a black place between worlds that had breath like decay and a special taste for curious little blue-eyed boys. Something worse than they could ever imagine. Something worse than their father.
But as the older brother’s line of sight finally crested the top step, he realized there was no evil here. In fact, there was nearly nothing at all, save for a long hallway that came to an end at a lonely door. Somehow that was more disconcerting. For all their bravery, they had merely replaced one mystery with another.
“Now, let us return downstairs and find a new game to play,” the older brother said.
“No!” the younger brother cried. “We must see what’s behind that door. We cannot turn around now!”
The older brother glanced back down the stairs. He didn’t like this at all. But as he looked back to his brother, he was once more met with that pleading face he could not bear to deny. “Straight to the door, look inside, and then back down. We cannot stay up here much longer.” The younger brother nodded emphatically, but didn’t budge. He was waiting for his big brother to lead the way, as he always did, though the older brother didn’t know why. He wasn’t anything special. He couldn’t even protect his little brother from their own father. He wished he could; seeing the younger boy take the brunt of Father’s rage was far more painful than any bruise laid upon his own flesh, but he was still too afraid to stop it. Maybe in a year or two. Maybe when he was bigger, stronger. Maybe…
With a deep breath and a nod, the older brother began leading the way down the hall. There wasn’t much to the narrow expanse, he realized. Low-burning sconce oil lamps cast their glow from near each of the four corners. A pair of floral paintings hung opposite one another at the middle point of the two long walls. Under the painting to their right was a standalone oak sideboard with three cabinets, one large between two small. Its top was bare save for a thin layer of dust and a very large, very expensive-looking vase. The decorative piece, which was big enough to be an urn, was dark blue with a black inlay of elaborate swirling patterns. The younger brother regarded this with some interest as they hurried by.
Finally reaching the door, the older brother paused to once more glance over his shoulder, wondering how they had possibly trekked this far. He looked to his brother, who nodded slowly, encouragingly. Then his gaze shifted back to the door in front of them. In his mind, he suddenly conjured up the frightening image of opening this door only to find another long hallway with another door at the end. This would lead to another, and another after that. An endless linear maze of curiosity designed by their father for the sole purpose of catching them trespassing where they didn’t belong.
The older brother bit his tongue forcefully, hoping the flash of pain would deter him from his wild and frightening imagination. It worked long enough for him to will his palm to the dingy brass doorknob and his fingers to encircle it. But as he moved to turn it, it protested, uttering a soft click and refusing to budge more than a fraction of an inch.
“It’s locked,” the older brother muttered, but when he looked to the younger, he saw that the boy’s gaze was fixated just below the doorknob.
“The keyhole,” the younger boy whispered, his eyes bright with wonder. The older brother looked down and noticed it too. From somewhere past that tiny opening, a light was flickering, casting an orange glow at them. The brothers exchanged a glance and a nod, and the elder knelt down to peer inside.
His pupil strained with the change of light and depth. It was surprisingly bright inside, and as his eye adjusted he saw that it was due to a fiercely blazing fire inside a grey stone fireplace across the room. He felt great surprise at the revelation that there was a fireplace up here he’d never known of, but even greater was his curiosity as to how it could be burning with such passion. Father had been away for hours.
A long minute crept by as the older brother gazed onward. The younger brother tugged at his sleeve insistently a couple of times, wanting his own turn to look, but the elder refused to budge. He was just about to give up and pull away when a cold sound of rattling metal
touched his ear and something moved into his line of sight, blackening the orange keyhole shape that had been casting over his eye. As the younger boy watched, all the color drained from his elder’s face. He jerked backwards, falling onto his rear, but continued to stare wide-eyed at the keyhole from a distance.
“What is it?” the younger brother asked. When he received no answer, the boy moved to take a closer look for himself.
“No!” the older brother cried out, lunging with such force that his little brother jumped.
“But I want to see what’s in there!”
“No, we must go back. We must go back downstairs before—”
Both children suddenly froze in unimaginable terror as they heard the front door slam two floors below.
“Boys! Come!” a deep, booming voice echoed, causing both of them to break out in gooseflesh immediately.
“Go! Run!” the older brother whispered sharply as he scrambled to his own feet. The younger did not protest this time, not for a second. He immediately broke into a dead sprint towards the stairs. The elder moved to follow him, but suddenly called out, “Wait!” to warn him not to pound down the stairs.
The younger boy looked over his shoulder at his brother’s cry, but in his panic he forgot to stop running first, and his feet became intertwined, sending him flying forward. With a crashing pain, his shoulder collided with the sideboard and he landed flat on his stomach, all the air rushing from him in a sharp gasp. The pair looked up simultaneously and watched in hopeless horror as the large vase began rocking atop the cabinet. It tottered forward, then back, and for a moment looked like it might right itself, seeming to move in sickeningly slow motion. But despite the mental pleas of both children, it finally fell forward and shattered on the hardwood floor.
Not a second later, the boys could hear their father’s heavy footsteps echo across the ground floor, and then come pounding up the first flight of stairs. Fear gripped the older brother’s insides, but something instinctual kicked in and then he was moving. He rushed to his little brother, pulled open the sideboard’s large center cabinet, and quickly thanked God it was completely empty inside.
“Get inside, now!” he whispered urgently to his little brother.
“But you—”
“I’ll be fine. Just get in there, and no matter what happens, don’t you make a sound.”
Tears welling in the little brother’s eyes, he nodded and scrambled to squeeze into the confined space. Once he was inside, the elder closed the door, then was on his feet headed towards the stairs, intent on putting some distance between himself and his brother’s hiding place. He made it just four paces before the looming form of his father came into view at the end of the hall.
To a small boy, Father looked like the embodiment of a force of nature. A blacksmith by trade, his body had been hardened through years of work. Thick ropes of muscles lined arms that led to large, calloused hands. Even after he had attained notable success and wealth when his renowned work was commissioned by the King himself two years before, he had never eased in his tireless work ethic. He might as well have been cast from the very silver and steel he pounded down every day.
But swords and blacksmithing were the furthest things from their minds right now. Father had reached the hallway, and was no more than five paces from the older brother. The man glared down at his son contemptuously, his hands balling into fists that appeared to the child to be the size of boulders.
“Explain yourself, boy.” His voice was not raised, but that was somehow more frightening than if it were. It was even, flat, and nearly overpowering in its booming depth.
“I…uh…that is, I was…” the boy stammered, trying to force something, anything, to come out.
“Out with it, boy, and don’t dare lie. You’ll only worsen matters for yourself.” That chilling evenness remained in his voice. Like the calm before a storm.
The boy dropped his eyes. “We were p-playing a h-hiding game. I c-came up h-here to m-make s-sure he did not hide h-here. I know w-we’re n-not allowed t-to—”
“Look at me when you speak!” Father suddenly yelled. The boy flinched, then cautiously raised his eyes to meet the man’s furious gaze. “Good,” he said, that flatness returning. “Now stop stuttering and explain how you broke this vase.”
The boy swallowed hard. “When I heard you c-c-” he paused for a deep breath, then went on, “When I heard you come in I was frightened and I bumped it and it fell, sir.” Though he controlled the stutter, his voice began to crack and he could feel his eyes starting to burn.
“It seems the time has come for a lesson about trespassing. Do you agree, boy?”
“Yes, Father,” the boy replied obediently. He had learned long ago that this was the required response to such a question. Failing to provide it would only double the punishment about to be doled out. His gaze fell once more to his feet. Handcrafted leather shoes, brown and soft. He was due for a new pair soon. As he watched, a salty drop of wetness fell upon one of them.
Father’s hand moved to his belt, but not to remove it. He was reaching for the arsenal he kept there. His three favorite weapons.
First, there was the switch. He had stripped and soaked in water three slender, foot-long pieces of willow tree branch. Once they were pliable, he had braided them and tanned them in the sun. It had created a fierce beating tool as flexible as it was stinging. It had not cracked once in nearly a decade of use.
Next was the bullwhip. There was nothing particularly special in its design—just six feet of brown leather—but Father was good with this. Though he could remove a great deal of flesh with its crack, he always kept his blows shallow enough that the boys could still do chores the following day. God forbid their punishment turn into some sort of holiday.
Finally, there was the dagger. As with the switch, Father had made it himself. Were it detached from its frightening owner, it would have been lovely to behold. Small but razor-sharp, its solid silver blade was six inches long, stemming from a black oak handle with spiraling silver inlay.
On good days, he reached for the switch. On bad days, he reached for the whip. Never had a day been so horrible that he had reached for the dagger.
Today, he took up the whip.
The boy sighed as Father yanked the small leather tie that held the coiled whip to his belt, and his heart started quickening at the sound of the loose end falling to the floor. Knowing what he was expected to do, he unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands, then let it slip off his slender frame and fall to the side. As he turned around and placed his hands on top of his head, he dimly wondered how many lashes he would receive. Father never divulged such information, only doled out the punishment. The most he had ever gotten was five, for not chopping enough firewood before a long snowstorm.
He closed his eyes upon hearing the tip of the leather slide across the floor, then clenched his teeth and tensed at the hiss of the whip cutting through the air, and finally cried out as it sliced decisively from his right shoulder blade down left to his lower back. There was a brief moment of fleeting hope after each strike until he heard the leather slide across the floor again as it was drawn back for another lash. The second came, drawing another cry, but not as bad as the first. Then a third, the moans growing quieter each time. On came the fourth, not so bad now; his back was getting hot and numb. After the fifth, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
But the whip dragged back once more. He screamed at the sixth, as he wasn’t expecting it at all. Seventh and eighth brought more terrible cries. The numbness had disappeared, and his nerves felt like they were on fire. Ninth now, and it nearly drove him to his knees. His breath came in short, shallow sobs. The tenth, however, was the worst by far. The sharp tip slipped around the back of his neck and licked him just below the ear. For a moment, his vision faded out, and when it came back the crotch of his pants was warm and wet. His face flushed with hot shame.
Finally, as he heard Father begin coiling up his hateful tool, the boy collaps
ed to his hands and knees. Wetness coursed down his sides and soaked into the back of his pants. Beneath his hitching sobs, he could hear the faint sound of small droplets falling on the floor.
“Did you learn your lesson?” Father asked sternly.
“Y-Yes, Father,” the boy replied. He slowly raised his head, and as his gaze fell on the sideboard, his eyes widened.
The large cabinet door was open just a sliver, and from within a single eye stared at him, shimmering slightly in the hallway’s dim light. As the older brother watched, that eye turned upward to look past him, and then there was a small gasp before the door clicked shut once more. Rising to his knees, the older brother looked up in horror at the realization that his father had seen this as well, and was starting towards the sideboard.
Then something happened. Perhaps it was the ten lashings that finally pushed him over the edge. Perhaps he could not bear the thought of watching his little brother receive the same punishment. Perhaps it was that horrible thing he had seen behind the door at the end of this hall. Whatever the cause, for the first time in his eleven years, the boy did the one thing he’d always dreamed of. He made a move to fight back.
Scrambling to his feet, he lunged for the dagger on Father’s belt. For a fraction of a second, he thought he had it, and then Father’s massive hand clasped around his wrist. His head whipped around, his eyes locking with his eldest son’s. Those eyes grew wide with momentary surprise, and then the rage took over.
What happened next was as new to the boy as his own defiance was to his father. In an instant, the eyes staring down at him shifted hue from deep blue to a dark violet that almost seemed to glow with fury.
The Crimes of Orphans Page 15