When the meal was completed and Lady Madeline and Sandrine were sufficiently warmed and dried from the down pour that had brought them into The Holly & The Ivy, Constance came over with their check, curtsying to Lady Madeline as she put it on the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Farrow, your pasty was a delight. I’m so pleased I had the chance to try one.”
“And I’m so pleased you enjoyed it, your Ladyship, it’s been an honor having you and the young Miss to tea,” Constance twittered, flushed with the pride of having actually served the wife of a peer of the realm.
“Now if you could do us one last favor,” Lady Madeline said. “With the possibility of another heavy rain, my friend and I were wondering if there might be an antique shop nearby that we could visit without having to worry about getting too wet.”
“Well, as a matter of fact there is, your Ladyship, just two streets down, on the corner. It’s called ‘Sir Henry’s Boot’ after the clue from The Hound of the Baskervilles, since much of the story was set over in Dartmoor and the prison and all.” Constance said, once again not being able to resist adding some local color to her guest’s day in the village. Sandrine nodded, having read the book. “The gentleman who runs it is named Ransom, Mr. Timothy Ransom.”
Lady Madeline then paid the bill and they were off down the street on the lookout for ‘Sir Henry’s Boot’ before the rain could come down on them again. As soon as the door closed behind them, Constance Farrow was on the phone. “Tim, you’ll never guess who’s on her way. . .”
***
When they walked through the door, an overhead bell rang announcing their arrival into Sir Henry’s Boot. They were immediately greeted by a man Lady Madeline would have guessed to be in his mid or late forties, dressed all in black with short, wavy golden hair, a ginger-colored goatee and tortoiseshell, horn-rimmed glasses worn low on his nose. “Lady Cotswold, welcome to Sir Henry’s,” he said taking her hand and bowing. “I’m Tim Ransom. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ransom. It’s a pleasure to meet you, as well. I take it you were expecting us?” she said, smiling slyly, then not waiting for an answer she said, “And this is my assistant, Miss Boucher.”
“Delighted, Miss Boucher,” Ransom said, taking Sandrine’s hand, bowing again. She nodded. “Is there anything in particular that I can show you, or would you rather browse?” he asked as he led them into the front of the deceptively small-looking shop filled with long rows of antique and curio cases at the front and leading to a larger area with furniture and larger pieces in the back; a small spiral staircase made of wrought iron close to the back apparently leading to an upstairs space.
“Thank you, Mr. Ransom, I think we’ll just browse. I can’t think of a better way to spend a rainy afternoon than taking our time seeking out your treasures.”
“I’m flattered, Lady Cotswold, and if you don’t mind my saying so, the pictures of you I’ve seen in the newspapers do not do you justice.” Ransom said, bowing again.
“Ah, now it’s my turn to be flattered, Mr. Ransom,” Lady Madeline replied, smiling as she walked away, starting slowly down the center row, looking into each cabinet as she passed.
Having spent years with Lady Madeline in shops, Sandrine knew that Lady Madeline liked to take her time and that made her free to go her own way, so she went down the last row.
As Lady Madeline went down each row, stopping at each case, she noticed Mr. Ransom always remaining a respectable distance behind her, keys in hand, ready to open any case where there might be an item she might like to examine more closely. Lady Madeline figured that since she and Sandrine were the only two other people in the shop, she might take the opportunity to avail herself of a personal guide and waved the man to come closer. “If it’s not too much trouble, Mr. Ransom, could I see that lovely black bust of Queen Victoria?” The man rushed to her side and opened the case.
While Lady Madeline was being given the Royal tour, picking up an item that interested her here and there, Sandrine headed more to the back of the shop, not looking for anything in particular, but interested in what she saw, nevertheless. She’d learned a great deal about antiques from Lady Madeline in the last few years, and figured she might be ready to try her hand at selecting an item or two for herself should it strike her fancy.
As can happen when browsing an antique shop, time tends to pass more quickly than in the outside world. Antique shops, unlike any other kind of shop, have the ability to take one into the past, just being surrounded by the items, fifty years old, one hundred years old and often older. One can’t help but wonder when one looks at an item, who may have owned it in the past, what they may have been like, or even how they ended, and as Sandrine wandered aimlessly around Sir Henry’s Boot, she fell under that very spell, walking slowly, looking at everything and…wondering.
In the back of the shop she noticed some free-standing, terrace-stepped shelves crowded with items that were either not valuable enough to lock up, or of a size that didn’t require it. She strolled around the first one to her right, mostly heavy cut glass and crystal interspersed with large pieces of pottery and large figurines. Then she went on to the next, more glass, candlesticks, some larger framed paintings leaning against the step above it.
As she passed by on the right she saw a beautiful old mahogany box with a small brass plate affixed to the top. She paused for a moment, then moved on to the other side taking her to the farthest back corner of the shop. The quiet was deafening, almost hypnotic as she lazily observed the items on the other side.
She felt her eyes begin to get heavy and thought she heard Lady Madeline call to her, “Sandrine.”
She looked around, saw no one and turned back, continuing her stroll down the stepped display. “Venez ici, Sandrine,” the voice whispered to her. She felt drawn to turn the corner, going back around to the other side of the step display.
When she got there she saw the mahogany box again. It was open. C’est estrange, she thought to herself as she went in closer to see what was in it; a glass ball about the size of a man’s fist, a crystal ball.
Fascinated, she moved in to take a closer look. Something moved inside. C’est un reflection de lumiere; fantastique! she thought and moved in closer.
***
“I think that’s really more than enough for me, Mr. Ransom,” Lady Madeline said, following him as he carried a large terra cotta bas relief bust of Queen Alexandra back to the front counter to join all of the other objects she’s chosen.
“Very good, Lady Cotswold,” Tim Ransom said as he gently laid the fragile bust down on the counter. “I’ll have them wrapped and sent over to The Digger’s by morning,”
A thundering crash shook the floor. Ransom jumped, startled by the sound of glass shattering that came echoing down the rows from the back of the building. Lady Madeline jumped, too. They both turned in the direction of the sound, more crashing and glass breaking, the sounds of the proverbial bull in the china shop. The entire shop shook from the vibration, and he ran, Lady Madeline behind him.
At the rear of the shop, they stood frozen in their steps, unable to move, paralyzed by what they were witnessing. Sandrine was on the floor, kicking and thrashing around, flailing her arms and legs about wildly, her torso convulsing with a violence they could have only previously imagined possible, almost acrobatic in its tension. She was foaming at the mouth, thick white mucus, and her face; contorted beyond normal recognition, her mouth working feverishly, glass and pottery crashing everywhere from the unbelievable force of the vibration she was creating.
Ransom moved first, grabbing her from behind holding her arms pinned behind her, trying to contain her movements as her legs shook, kicking in every direction. Her mouth started to form words, sputtering out from the soapy-looking foam that flowed from it, she spat and kicked, her eyes bulging with a pressure that made her look like a raging animal.
“Lady Cotswold, please help me,” Ransom called out to the shocked woman. Lady Made
line came out of her daze and bent down, trying to hear the words coming out of Sandrine’s mouth. “Lady Madeline, please, her legs,” Ransom shouted, trying to get her to do something to control Sandrine’s violent movements.
Lady Madeline startled, then moved. She grabbed the first flat solid object she saw, an antique riding crop from the corner of the room and forced it sideways into Sandrine’s mouth, trying to keep her from swallowing her tongue. A moment later, Sandrine collapsed, unconscious, the only movement remaining being the involuntary twitching of her contracted muscles as they relaxed.
***
Simon approached the small, thatched roof cottage slowly, standing across the road in the rain…waiting…but for what he didn’t know. A black wrought-iron arbor framed the narrow slate stone path that led to the tiny oak and wrought-iron door, tall holly bushes, gnarled with age, having been wound around the iron of the arbor on both sides.
“Come thee, boy, to me,” he heard in the air behind his ear. His feet began to move, crossing the road, stopping only for a second before he passed under the holly-covered arbor. As he passed under, he looked side to side. Two great beds of English ivy lined what would have otherwise been a lawn, and had crept up the cottage to both sides of the door. The door opened. He hesitated, then took the handle and pushed it the rest of the way to enter.
The old man was sitting in an ornately carved wooden chair, like an ancient throne, heavy with symbols etched deeply into the panels of each side. He was pulled up close before the growing blaze he was tending in the fireplace, his back toward the door.
Without turning to face him, the old man raised his hand, two fingers pointing behind his head. The door closed. Then the old man pointed those same two fingers to another carved chair not far from him, close to the fire. Simon’s feet began to move again until he stood before the second chair.
The old man pointed his fingers down toward the seat, and Simon sat. They sat there silently for a few moments, the old man stirring a small pot hanging from a hook in the fireplace. The smell became strong as he added things that looked like they might be shreds of tree bark and dried blue flowers from small piles on a tiny table next to him to the near boiling pot; pinches of different colored powders and crystals from small canvas bags next to the piles on the table, sweet mixed with smoky, floral with earthy. Simon’s head began to spin.
The old man took the pot from the fire without using a pot holder or a towel, not seeming to feel the heat coming from what must have been the scalding metal handle. He strained the mixture in to two tea cups on the lower flagstone hearth before him; picked up one cup and handed it over. “Take,” he said and Simon took it.
The old man looked at him, peering into him with those tiny piercing black eyes. “Drink,” he said and Simon drank.
The old man took the remaining cup and drank himself then spoke without using his mouth, words without sound, as he stared deeply into Simon’s big blue eyes, appearing even bigger than their natural state from the wonder and the fear of what was happening to him. “From whence doest thou derive thy strength, boy?” the old man asked in his soundless voice.
“From him,” an unexpected voice came out of Simon without using his mouth, his words also without sound.
“And thou wouldst protect he that he hast protected thee?” the voice asked.
“Yes, always.”
“What wouldst thee offer in return for that gift he hast bestowed upon thee?”
“My life,” Simon’s soundless voice said, a small tear slid out of the corner of his eye.
The old man nodded to himself, a dark shine coming into his eyes, a relaxed expression mixed with both satisfaction and relief coming over his face. He reached over and stuck his fingers in a small earthen pot no larger than a bottle cap on the small table next to him, then stood up before the boy. Simon looked up, his eyes never leaving those small black beads the old man had for eyes.
The old man reached out and touched his face, his fingers seeming to be whirling in circles as they left patterns in red, and green, and black on his forehead, cheeks and chin. “Thou art an honorable man-child, Holly, and we are…relieved that you have come to us,” said the old man with a sigh as he reached again over to his small table and came back, getting down on his knees.
He pulled Simon’s pant leg and rubbed the scabbing wound with a thick, greasy ointment, then sat back on his heels and waved his hand over the wound without touching it. When he pulled his hand back, the wound was gone.
A look of sadness came into the old man’s eyes. The voice said, “Wouldst thee have me heal thy deformity too, Holly?
No, please, don’t. It’s who I am,” Simon said without words.
The old man rose back to his feet, nodding again, an even greater expression of satisfaction on his face. He waved his hand in front of the boy’s face once again. “Thou shall not recall us, nor speak to a living soul of anything connected with us until I call for thee again. Now sleep,” the voice said, and Simon closed his eyes.
***
When Simon woke up he was still in his bed at the inn, his head throbbing with the ‘You play, you pay,’ residual of the night before. He crawled slowly out of bed, barely able to open his eyes and went into the shower, gently washing himself with a soapy cloth, avoiding bending over which would only make his head thump more.
Finally screwing up the courage to wash his lower body, he closed his eyes and bent over to wash his legs. The soap and hot water didn’t sting as it had the day before. He opened his eyes and saw that the cut in his leg was gone. His head hurt too bad for him to make anything of it more than the cut wasn’t so bad and he had become a good healer, the vitamins Mitch had been giving him for years finally having a chance to do their job.
Out of the shower, he grabbed his own bottle of Advil and popped two in his mouth, drinking from the tap before he got ready to shave. When he looked up, his eyes went wide. There was something around his neck, a leather string with a green, stone-like disc dangling from it.
He leaned in close to the mirror and held it up to look. It was the image of a man’s face looking like it was pushing through what looked like some kind of foliage.
From somewhere over his shoulder he felt breath and heard the voice whisper in his ear. “This will protect thee, and help thee call upon me in troubled times.” Simon looked up into the mirror again to see who was behind him but instead saw only his own pupils dilate and lids flutter; blackness as he fell to the floor, in a faint.
***
When he woke up, he got up and dressed as naturally as he would have on any other day, giving no notice to the small green stone amulet hanging from around his neck, only looking at his watch and seeing that it was after noon. He opened the door to go out, saw the breakfast tray outside his door and ate before going downstairs as if nothing had happened, excited, as usual for anything that the day might bring.
BOOK THREE
Human Sacrifice
It's coming closer The flames are now licking my body Please won't you help me I feel like I'm slipping away It's hard to breathe And my chest is a-heaving Lord have mercy, I'm burning a hole where I lay ‘Cause your kisses lift me higher Like the sweet song of a choir You light my morning sky With burning love With burning love Ah, ah, burning love I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love
Burning Love
………As performed by Mr. Elvis Presley
Chapter XII
OF HUMAN BONDAGE
Love hurts, Love scars, Love wounds and mars Any heart not tough or strong enough To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain Love is like a cloud, it holds a lot of rain Love hurts, Ooo-oo Love hurts I'm young, I know, But even so I know a thing or two - I learned from you I really learned a lot, really learned a lot Love is like a flame, it burns you when it's hot Love hurts, Ooo-oo Love hurts.
Love Hurts
………As performed by Nazareth
It was still raining when Lady Madeline helped Sandrine out of Tim Ransom’s ca
r back at the inn that evening. It had been a long wait at the hospital and it was only through the antique dealer’s good graces and quick thinking that they’d gotten through it as fast as they did.
As soon as Sandrine collapsed from her fit, he picked her up and carried her to his car, Lady Madeline following, frantically trying to figure out what had happened. If Mr. Ransom hadn’t stood there at the Emergency Desk insisting that they been seen to immediately, she and Sandrine might still be waiting behind all the others in line with sprained ankles, rashes and even vomiting.
She even thanked the fact that it wasn’t above Mr. Ransom to drop Lord Neville’s name more than once to get the staff to move things along. Then he sat down and let Lady Madeline go into the trauma area with the girl, contenting himself to sit there and wait while his own frayed nerves went into action calculating the losses of the broken items, the embarrassment of the situation, not to mention the talk it would create around the village with people coming in just to ask for a first-hand account of the details.
After every conceivable test had been done and a thorough examination had been conducted, the doctors could do nothing but conclude that Sandrine had suffered from an attack of latent epilepsy brought on by the flash of light she told them she saw in the glass ball. As a matter of fact, that was all she could remember from the entire incident.
Four hours later she walked out of the hospital of her own accord, supported only by the antique dealer on one side and Lady Madeline on the other; the only physical remnants of the attack being assorted cuts, bruises and scrapes, all handily dealt with by the nursing staff that attended her. When she got out of the car at the inn she was beyond exhausted, depending almost completely on Mr. Ransom’s arm for support.
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