“Spirits!” she cried suddenly. She had continued to chant as she embellished her salt circle with a series of chalk symbols, finally kneeling in the center of her circle and raising both arms.
“Spirits, are you there?”
Cyrus was again surprised at the incongruous harshness of her voice. She may look like a shiny young tintype, but she sounded more like an ancient carving. He watched as she closed her eyes and appeared to be listening to something. A woman standing directly next to Cyrus seemed to be shaking. He looked around to see that the room was wide-eyed.
“Is there someone here who has recently lost a child? A little boy?” She asked in her rough voice.
The woman next to Cyrus uttered a small moan, eyes red and shining, a handkerchief to her throat. Lady Lamia turned to her and waited.
“My… my Amos?” the woman wobbled.
“Enter the circle,” boomed Lady Lamia as the woman took a few hesitant steps in her direction.
“Kneel,” she commanded. “I’m connecting to a strong vitality, a furious death-force. Your Amos was strong when he passed.”
“Yes,” the woman sobbed, and managed to stammer “He... he fell."
Cyrus’ heart ached for the grieving mother but he still sighed inwardly. Lady Lamia’s tactic for communing with spirits was nearly identical to his own, with slight changes in focus and scale. He was disappointed. After his conversation with Owen that day, he’d been hoping for something more from Lady Lamia.
Just once, he thought, I want the trick to be real. I want to scare them all so bad that they wouldn’t even know what to do.
A sudden, cooling draught blew dreamily through the room and the group let out a collective sigh as they continued to observe to proceedings. However, as the draft intensified and the temperature continued to drop, Cyrus looked toward the latched and tightly shuttered windows in growing alarm. The air was whipping the curtains and shaking the chandeliers as the women collectively shrieked and grasped at their hats and skirts. The wind extinguished the black candles, plunging the room into darkness and movement as each person tried to quietly inch toward the doors.
A gentle blue glow began to grow in the center of the room where Lady Lamia, and the keening woman still knelt, and the room stilled somewhat as everyone’s attention was drawn back in. Cyrus had remained rooted to his place at the edge of the circle since the draught had begun and was watching the events unfold with a curious sort of detachment.
The blue light solidified into a dancing mist in the center of the circle, and Cyrus watched the expression on Lady Lamia’s face change from annoyance to fury and she began to scan the room, looking for something.
Her eyes locked on to Cyrus and he began to feel anxious under her glare.
“PAAAAIIINNNNNN,” a thin voice suddenly cried out, “PAIN, PAIN, SUCH PAIN!”
The kneeling woman fainted dead as Lady Lamia rose sharply from her knees.
“I did not summon you,” she seethed to the glow.
“IT’S DARK MAMA, I CANNOT SEE,” the thin voice wailed.
“I did not summon you!” Lady Lamia tried again.
“FLEE, FLEE THE DARKNESS!” the voice cried again. “THE DARK IS RISING. THE WATCHERS ARE HUNGRY. THEY ARE COMING!”
With that, the spell on the room broke once again and dozens of panicked bodies undulated against the doors until nearly everyone had escaped the ballroom. The fainted woman’s husband was awkwardly attempting to drag his unconscious wife by an arm and one leg and yelled back at Lady Lamia.
“Just what do you think you’re up to, you miscreant?” he puffed, “I’ll have you put away for a lifetime for this! You’re finished!” and slammed the door closed.
The effect of his dramatic exit was lessened somewhat when he immediately re-opened the door to free a large portion of his wife’s dress sandwiched between the door and the frame.
Lady Lamia ignored him.
In the sudden quiet, Cyrus was left alone with the blue flame and the furious Lady Lamia. The flame has begun to shake slightly.
“You,” she hissed at Cyrus, “have my congratulations.”
She took a few slow steps toward Cyrus and he found that he was too frightened to move. Her eyes had turned fully black and her hair was hanging in a wild veil around her face and shoulders. She stood a few inches from his face and spoke softly, her low voice menacing.
“You have taken something from me this night, and I will not forget it,” she breathed.
The Lady Lamia turned sharply on her heel and stomped out of the room leaving Cyrus to collect himself with shaking breaths. His body was full of the adrenaline of a near-miss with certain death. He was sure she was about to devour him from the inside, that she could see straight through into his heart of hearts, and the fears that he hid there.
When the room was quiet once again and his breathing has stilled, Cyrus became aware of a presence.
The small blue flame had continued shaking and sputtering, and it eventually letting out a hideous, bubbling laugh.
“Hello Cyrus,” the trickster flame addressed him at a more normal volume, “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you."
Chapter 8
Trickster
Cyrus looked out from the barricades of the rubble in the plaza. A ball whizzed past his head and buried itself in the brick behind him with a bone-shattering crack. He ducked down instinctively, reclining himself once again against the barricade. He thought it was about three days since the food had run out and the first without water. His vision was beginning to blur, and Cyrus was uncertain how much time had truly passed. He could remember nothing before taking up his position in the barricade, in the early days when their arms were strong, when the skies were clear and full of promise.
Now the sky hung oppressive and thick above him, and Cyrus could not remember the last time he saw the sun or the stars. The Austrian Imperial Guard had set fires around the plaza and had been stoking them with pungent, choking pitch. The smoke mingled with the stink of the rotting bodies of the dead and the unwashed bodies of the living. It filled his mouth and forced a dry wretch out of him. It stung his eyes, but he could produce no tears. He considered covering his mouth with a handkerchief but could not muster the strength after his brief look out into the plaza.
The situation was dire, and Cyrus didn’t understand why the army didn’t just set fire to the barricades and kill them all. Instead, they methodically picked off his exposed compatriots until the dead outnumbered the living. He looked through the dim gloom at the pale, contorted face of his friend Pietr. His long-dead friend’s belly had begun to swell even while his face became more sallow. Cyrus noticed that the body was missing some fingers, and the tips of its ears. No blood.
He squeezed his eyes closed and expelled a strained breath.
He wondered if it was dawn or twilight.
It didn’t matter.
No one had had any ammunition for a week. No one had had any hope for far longer. The two dozen or so living men behind the barricades were now so weakened and apathetic about the outcome of their uprising that they could not muster speech to encourage or rouse one another. They no longer looked at one another at all.
Some of them simply laid down and waited to die. Others tried to surrender. But every time one of them clambered over the barricades, arm wrapped in a white handkerchief, they were allowed to take only a dozen or so steps before they were shot.
The bodies littering the square were the worst part. Most of the shots were not meant to be mortal, delivered instead by a sharp-eyed sadist determined to extract the most pain and encourage death to linger. The dying men screamed at first, and later gave way to moaning prayers, cries for comfort, dry sobs. Sometimes the Austrian soldiers would become bored and use the festering corpses as target practice, sending pieces of rotten meat high into the air to spatter down onto the huddled men behind the barricades. Cyrus stopped wondering why.
Behind the barricade, something was festering in the sti
nking darkness. Cyrus could hear the sound of something snuffling around in the maze and raised his head in the direction of the noise.
In the dimness, he could make out a pair of eyes regarding him from a hunched shape. He could not identify the bearer. The eyes looked away, lost to the gloom, and Cyrus heard the slopping sounds of something taking a greedy, wet mouthful. Alarm began to slowly grow in his muddled mind.
Cyrus’ rattling breath slowed in his chest. He tried to stand, to move away from the creeping figure, but he was so tired. The slurping sounds continued quietly while he stared, wide-eyed, stricken, breathless into the darkness.
Understanding slowly dawned.
Something was feeding on the bodies of his comrades.
Cyrus managed to roll quietly onto his belly and began to crawl away from the sound of the feasting. A low growl emanated from the monster and Cyrus froze. He heard it start moving toward him and began moving again. He did not turn to look at what approached him. Terror gave him strength and he stumbled to his feet, shuffling through the twists and turns, around the maze of rubble behind the barricade.
He did not encounter another living man in the labyrinthine tunnels of the barricades, but his stomach lurched at the sight of the dead. Their faces and necks had been clumsily torn away, and sticky, black, rotten blood oozed out of the wounds. If there had been enough light, the freshly dead would have been obvious from their brighter blood. But it was growing darker, and still the creature pursued him.
Another growl rumbled through the labyrinth, followed by a low human moan. Cyrus stopped sort and felt his bowels turn to liquid. Sticky, noxious bile warmed his legs before turning cold. He had to keep moving. Terror propelled him forward until he slipped suddenly and landed face down atop another body.
It was his friend Pietr. Cyrus had come back to where he started.
How? He wondered vaguely, but he had no time to contemplate it. He rolled off the body in horror and froze as he felt something wrap gently around his ankle. Cyrus bent to face the creature that was poised to consume him.
Its eyes were wide and wild against its sallow face. Its mouth hung open hungrily, black bile oozing from its broken teeth. Human. It was human.
Cyrus tried to swat at the creature in a panic—
And woke suddenly, in his room above the Welsh pub. He lay still and kept his eyes shut tightly, listening and thinking. His body felt cold and tight, and he was tense with fear. It was only a few hours since the fireworks at the seance and although he’d been tired, he hadn’t been ready to sleep when he arrived back at the small hotel.
He’d fixed himself a cup of strong tea with the kettle sitting atop the iron stove and drank it while he contemplated the evening. The tea did the trick. A sudden exhaustion was loosed from the tense place he held it when he took the first scalding sip. He’d barely made it up to his room with the brew before collapsing in exhaustion.
Lying in the dark, he could smell the tea in the cup next to his bed, and it comforted him. Slowly, Cyrus opened his eyes.
Nothing in his room was amiss, but his body was still tense and expectant. He stretched his stiff limbs, which felt as though he’d been holding them taut for hours.
What was that? He thought.
He’d recognized the events in his dream as scenes from the Czech Revolt a few decades ago, but he hadn’t even been alive then. His father had been a groom for the horses of the Austrian Imperial Guard, but he had never participated in a siege, or told Cyrus much about the army’s exploits. Cyrus also recognized the main square of Prague as the setting for the barricades, but he’d only been there in his childhood.
But this hadn’t felt like a dream at all, it had felt like a memory. Like a living memory.
He sat up slightly to try to reach his pocket watch. His fear was wearing off, but the potency it left behind soured his stomach.
Just as his bare arm left the warmth and comfort of the thick quilt, a strangled cry split the air from somewhere else in the building.
Cyrus fumbled around for his matches and lit the wick of the oil lamp, settling the hurricane glass back down around it carefully. He quickly pulled on his coat and boots before quietly making his way down the hallway toward the sound. The long spring night was still dangerously cold. Another muffled cry echoed down the hallway and the floorboards creaked in pain as he came to the door where he’d heard the sounds and knocked carefully.
A gasp emanated from behind the door, followed by a pleading moan. Cyrus thought it best to start speaking.
“Sir, is everything alright? Are you in need of assistance? My name is Cyrus, may I come in please?” he tried.
The person on the other side of the door was quiet, and then Cyrus heard an embarrassed-sounding cough and the shuffle of footsteps. A small man with a disheveled and confused expression answered the door, apologizing.
“I’m so sorry,” he began slowly, but rushed faster and faster as he continued, “Damned good of you. I must have frightened you half to death. Damn near frightened myself out of life. It was the damnedest dream, hardly knew I was dreaming.”
Cyrus nodded and invited the man to come downstairs and have a cup of tea. The man agreed and pulled his own coat and boots before following Cyrus toward the warmth of the kitchen. The bonfires of Calan Haf could still be seen burning against the rocky hills, but it now seemed to Cyrus that they glowed like menacing eyes, rather than the sentinels of summer.
As he worked at the tea things, Cyrus listened to the man, slightly bemused at the combination of the man’s inarticulate sputtering delivered with a carefully refined accent, and that they were both wearing their coats over their night clothes.
“It’s just, I was enrolled at quite a frightening school for boys. Bloody awful, really. Cold and dark year round, never had a warm thought in 8 years. And damned if I wasn’t right back there again. I’m John Amon Boldreness, by the way. Jack.”
He did not pause to ask Cyrus’ name, but Cyrus was not offended. The man was still very frightened.
“Horrid old place was run by horrid old nuns who saw more wickedness in a young boy than in the devil himself. Hated them. There was this ice-veined headmistress though, and she could top them all with cruelties. Horrid stuff. Thinking of it as an adult, it’s shocking, nearly criminal. Every time we stepped a toe out of line, the sisters would send us to the headmistress for our ‘penance’. That woman could administer a caning that would break your ribs. And she wouldn’t even sweat! She was a monster. The beatings, the chores, the deprivations, you know I once went without lunch for a week for closing a book too loudly. Can you imagine? We all got horrible chills from being made to stand outside all night for being late, or if we ‘had too much energy’. And of course none of our parents believed us. And of course the sisters threatened us, ‘no one would believe lying children’ and that. And I know it’s foolish but I’ve always been quite frightened of nuns, to this very day.”
Cyrus placed a steaming cup before John and he took it in hand gratefully.
“And I was convinced, absolutely damned convinced, that you were Sister Mary of Lamentations about to come through that door.”
Cyrus started at the name and the hot tea froze in his stomach.
“Honestly, can’t believe I’m still having those nightmares. I had horrid dreams at school, we all did, but they stopped once we were free.”
Free? Thought Cyrus, That’s an odd choice of words.
Cyrus and John headed back up to their respective rooms and said goodnight with a warm handshake. Cyrus even gave John a reassuring pat on the back. For his part, he was also glad to have had a bit of interaction with the living before heading off back to sleep.
The following morning dawned dark and late. The bonfires smoldered across the rocky hills and windswept valleys across the whole of Wales, their smoke mingling with the mist that floated through the trees. The chill of winter was clinging to the grey land, seemingly undeterred by the earnest May Day bonfires, rituals, and dances
. Thick clouds held in the darkness of the night for longer than they ought to have, and showed no intention of giving way to the power of the rising sun.
Cyrus set off as early as he could manage to visit his friend Owen before beginning the long journey back to London. He’d booked a ticket on the overnight train and was now regretting that he was leaving. He was especially dreading sleeping in such a noisy, enclosed space after his nightmare.
Everyone else in the inn looked as though they’d had just as miserable a night as Cyrus. He recognized many of them as the carefree, confident attendees at the glittering party of the night before. In the daylight, they looked haggard, nervously spooning at porridge and gripping teacups with shaking hands. Even the kitchen staff, who Cyrus knew were mostly other relatives of Hywel’s, seemed reluctant to say good morning to him when he apologetically delivered the tea things he’d purloined in the night. Hwyel himself was nowhere to be seen.
As he turned to go, the clock in the dining room cheerily chimed the hour and Cyrus could swear he heard a dozen different spoons clatter against a dozen different plates in nervous surprise.
The village was little better than the inn. The few people he encountered on his way to Owen’s cottage on the estate did not say good morning and walked quickly, nestled down into their coats and under their hats, hiding. Nervous.
Or they could just be hungover, he reasoned. Owen had described the Calan Haf festival as quite the May Day celebration.
No one answered the door at the caretaker’s cottage, and so Cyrus walked across the lawns to the big house alone. The stillness and the chill cast the house in a more sinister light than it had seemed the previous morning when he’d been gathering hawthorne branches with Owen. Now it loomed on the hillside against a grey backdrop of clouds, dark and cold and uninviting. There was almost no sign at all of the warm, intimate gathering it had embraced the night before.
How to Disappear Completely Page 6