by I.D. Blind
10. Music Lesson
In the morning, someone knocked at the door.
“Wake up, loonies, Mr. Gardiner is waiting,” Jack said.
“Oh no,” Medea muttered with displeasure. “A music lesson! I have no mood for music.”
“Neither do I,” Electra said. “But Mr. Gardiner has already come. Let’s finish it quickly and think of what we’re going to do.”
“I have a plan.” Medea yawned. “A very good plan. I’ll tell you both about it after we finish the class.”
“Is it bad if I already doubt your plan?” Cassandra sat in front of an old cheval glass and began combing her hair.
“Don’t be so pessimistic. My plan is flawless.”
The girls went downstairs, where their teacher was waiting for them.
The music room was the brightest chamber in the house, due to the windows facing east and the big glass doors of the balconies. Near one of the open windows stood an old piano with a small vase of fresh flowers and family photographs. On the opposite side was the cabinet with sheet music. On the carpet in the center, three cats were dozing while their mistresses were involved in music.
“We are sorry for the delay, Mr. Gardiner,” Electra said. “We didn’t sleep well.”
“Take the instruments, girls. One song today. I need to leave early.”
Mr. Gardiner took a stack of sheets with notes, pulled three pieces, and handed them out to his pupils. Cassandra took the flute to her lips. Medea joined with her violin, and Electra played the piano, singing the first verse:
“O my Luve's like a red, red rose1,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.”
After Electra finished, Cassandra stopped playing the flute and sang the second verse:
“Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!”
Cassandra brought the flute to her lips and Medea went on:
“O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.”
Soon the lesson was over and the girls left the castle, to discuss what they were going to do away from Jack and Uncle Colin.
“I have an idea of how to open the glass frame and finally understand what went wrong,” Medea said when they walked down the road.
“How?”
“Alright, listen carefully. The frame has a lock. The key belongs to Aunt, and the lock was made by Uncle, but he didn’t invent the form; he borrowed it from our great-great-grandfather Orin, who was a famous mechanic.”
“And who died 130 years ago,” Cassandra said. “So what?”
“So, yesterday I was up all night thinking about it, and I am sure my plan will work if we are sufficiently cold-blooded. Orin was buried in the cemetery of Hollow. And most importantly, he was buried with that same medallion around his neck. We shall dig him up and open the frame with his key!”
Taking a few more steps, Medea noticed that her sisters were not beside her. She turned and saw their stunned faces and gaping mouths.
“What is it? You don’t like my plan?”
“Medea, are you insane? Dig up the grave? How did you even think about something like that?”
“I don’t understand you, El. We have to read the manuscript, right? Wrong Spells! What was it, if not a wrongly prepared potion, a wrong spell?”
“Medea, we shall not dig up the grave.”
“But why?”
“Because I can’t imagine how we shall take a shovel, go to the cemetery, dig out Orin’s coffin, which was buried more than a century ago, open it, and remove the key from his bones.”
“So your only concern is that he’s been buried for too long?”
Electra sighed, turned to Cassandra. “I give up. You explain it to her.”
“Cass, surely you will agree with me. Days pass, and we sit and wonder and complain, and do nothing. I went through everything in my head, but can’t find any other way. We need a key, and the key is in the grave.”
“Medea, that key has probably rusted.”
“These keys are made of stainless steel.”
“They are made of stainless steel these days, but I don’t think they were back then.”
“Yes, they were. Do you want me to lurk at the cemetery and dig up a corpse by myself?”
They argued for a while, until the arena of tournaments appeared before them. The girls leaned against the wooden fence and watched the races. Electra recognized the fellow sleeping at the bus stop. He was riding a white horse, galloping slowly around the arena. Thomas Baldric, one of the young Easterners, was giving him advice on how to hold onto the saddle and how to keep the horse in check.
For some reason, that stranger once again stole her attention. She watched his inexperienced riding, sometimes laughing at his mistakes. For a girl who had been riding since she was five, it was obvious he was a newcomer. Electra felt butterflies flutter inside her belly, making her blush and smile wider. Her smile disappeared once she saw Dinah McCormack on the stands, waving to him.
“Shall we go?” Cassandra asked, then blushed instantly when a young man of twenty dashed before them.
“Cass, stop staring at him.” Medea rolled her eyes.
“But that’s Raymond, the winner of the last two tournaments.”
“And who lives on the East Bank.”
“Let’s go away,” said Electra, noticing that Dinah and her company had spotted them. The girls left the arena before anyone from the Easterners managed to throw insulting remarks, and returned home.
11. The Old Curiosity Shop
Eric asked Uncle Albert for a permission to borrow his horse for a ride. It took some persuading, but in the end Albert agreed, and Eric rode into town to do some sightseeing.
Hollow was full of old, quaint houses. Many of them had been built during the middle ages. Eric had only seen such spectacular buildings in history books about kings and nobles. Some buildings were made of shaped stones and had latticed windows, but there were a lot of beautifully crafted houses, with carvings and sculptures on their walls, with high windows, stone balconies, and arched doors adorned with flower pots and glass lamps. The houses on the West Bank were especially remarkable. Some of them looked old and were marked by the ravages of time, but due to the endeavors of the owners and the dwellers, they had been turned into art pieces. They were colorful, with cone-shaped roofs and small fountains hanging down the walls. Some buildings had beautiful facades, decorated with figurative paintings depicting warriors on horseback, kings and queens, and engravings in a language unknown to Eric.
The fellow continued his way through Silver Lane, which was occupied by various art shops and art galleries with paintings and pieces of art exhibited right in the middle of the street. Eric rode with an easy gait, so as not to involuntarily crack the ceramic vases and porcelain tea warmers, which were so carelessly placed outside the beautifully furnished shops. He passed before a long line of colored houses with front yards full of flowers and orange pumpkins big enough to become Halloween decorations soon.
Eric returned to the east side of the town, and cantering across the narrow alleys, reached the Old Curiosity Shop. He still hadn’t had a chance to go there. Dinah’s absence was quite
opportune; she wouldn’t drag him away and repeat that there was nothing interesting in the shop. Eric dismounted his horse, tied the reins to a hook near the door, and entered that shop. Inside it was too dark for a store; lamps were hanging on the walls, emitting a light so poor that part of the chamber was lost in darkness. The place smelled of old things and pipe smoke. There were lots of items on the shelves, on the tables, and even on the floor.
“Hello? Is there anybody here?”
No one responded.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Eric considered leaving the shop, but curiosity took over. Too strange were the things before his eyes: ceramic masks, ornaments with runes, music boxes with glittering keyholes, skulls and bones in glass boxes, and bottles full of crawling spiders. Near one of the shelves a tall clock stood, with a thick layer of dust on the dial. Eric rubbed the dust with his hand and looked at the arrows. They showed the wrong time. Looking more closely, he realized that the arrows were moving counter clockwise. Eric jumped up when a skeleton shook in the dark corner. Realizing it was just a toy, he grinned and walked over to the shelf of books.
“Palmistry,” he read on one of the covers. Eric picked up the book and opened the first page. The book was dated 1651. He carefully put it back, fearful of spoiling such an ancient item. Nearby was another book, titled Darklight. It didn’t look too old, but its looks were deceiving, as on the first page Eric read:
Published by Sunwood. Hollow, 1799.
Photos fell from between the pages of the book, and Eric rushed to collect them from the floor. Eric brought the photos to the light. All were black and white, except for one with three smiling girls. They looked alike: all red-haired, with pale skin and the same smile. He turned the photo. There was an inscription on the opposite side: Andromeda, Sofia, Valeria: for the memories of good times.
Andromeda, Eric thought, maybe this is the woman Eleanora was talking about. That could be the photo of the head witch, as Eleanora called her. Still, he might be wrong. He put the photo back in its place and ran his eyes over the next shelf, which held old books, bronze inkpots, quill pens, bottles with powders, black and white candles, tarot cards, crystal balls, voodoo dolls, and a lot of cobwebs.
“Want to buy anything?”
Eric turned sharply to the voice, but didn’t spot anyone until a match was lit in the corner of the room. The tobacco flared up in the pipe and cast light on a man's face.
“I didn’t know there was anyone here.”
“You do now. Are you looking for anything?”
Eric didn’t find what to say. He was embarrassed that the owner of the shop had been watching him while he was looking at the photographs. Chiding himself for an excessive, sometimes quite unjustifiable curiosity, he tried to get out of the situation, saying he had come after interesting things. The owner of the voice stood up, walked over to him and looked at Eric under the dim light. He was a tall man of about forty, with a pleasant face, but a cold expression.
“Where?”
Eric didn’t understand the question, and asked the man to repeat it.
“Where do you live?”
“On the East Bank.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I have recently arrived here. I live with relatives.”
“Who?”
“The O'Brians.”
“For how long?”
Eric didn’t understand the reason for such a detailed examination, but couldn’t resist answering. “Until the end of the winter, perhaps.”
The man barely nodded and smoked his pipe. “And what do you want to buy at Pickering’s shop?”
Buy? Certainly nothing. His pocket money had run out long ago, and he knew his parents weren’t going to send him any. It was a part of his punishment. And he’d never borrow from Uncle Albert. Then he had an idea, but before Eric could think it through, the words jumped out of his mouth: “Do you have a job?”
“What can you do?” The man's voice lacked enthusiasm. He approached the table and moved the books that Eric had been poking into.
It was a difficult question. Eric couldn’t do anything, except for cleaning dust.
“So be it,” said the man. “You will put the things in order and clean out the dust. Otherwise, the spiders will spin me in a web soon.”
Eric stood, shocked. “How did you—?”
“So, do you need a job?”
Eric thought it over. Should he agree? If his friends in the city knew about it, they would laugh at him.
It’s just putting things in their places and keeping the shop in order, he thought, it’s not beneath my dignity, so why shouldn’t I? He wouldn’t be able to find any other job in Hollow. He had neither a profession nor any experience.
“I am glad that you think so. There must be a bucket and broom somewhere around here. Look for them in the corners, but do it cautiously. Don’t break anything.”
“Are you Pickering?”
“Rather the son. Come here once a week, no, better twice, or better three times. The door is never locked. Do your job and you can leave. If there are any questions, ask. Don’t break, don’t spoil, and Eric, I wouldn’t tell your family about your job.”
An hour later Eric left the shop. With a salary. Mr. Pickering paid him for the first day. He showed him the box where the money was kept, and told him that next time Eric had to take his daily wage himself. Eric was surprised that Mr. Pickering wasn’t afraid of being cheated or robbed. He didn’t lock the door, gave a job to the first person who came in and asked for one, showed him the place where the money was kept, and also read his mind from time to time. He was a strange man, but Eric didn’t care. Even though it wasn’t much, it was the first time he had earned money.
Eric was even more surprised when he left the shop. It was almost night. That couldn’t be possible. He had entered the shop in the afternoon and spent an hour and a half in there, so now it should be evening. Several hours were missing. Eric took the horse by the reins and walked down the cobbled street. Along the way he continued to count the hours, trying to figure out how the day could get lost, and whether this was due to the Old Curiosity Shop and its strange owner. The sun had set, almost all the shops were closed, and lights were burning in the lamp poles.
When Eric reached the corner, he heard sounds of music. They were coming from a tavern. A sign that read ‘Happy Friend’ and depicted a pair of mugs hung above the door. Along with music, sounds of male voices came from the tavern, sometimes mixed with cries, sometimes with laughter. Eric peeked in the window. The hall was large, filled with people—mostly men sitting around the tables, drinking and talking loudly. Eric tied the horse to a tree and entered the tavern. No one paid attention to him; all the patrons were busy drinking. The place was full of tables, with three or four visitors sitting around each one. It smelled of fried meat: a hog with crispy skin was spinning on a spit in the corner. A little farther, musicians were filling the already noisy chamber with loud music.
Eric went to the bar, behind which the tavern owner was tirelessly advising the young waiter on how to pour ale into the mugs so that not a drop was lost, not forgetting to scold the waitresses for their sluggishness. A stoutly built woman with the agility of an antelope was making trips from the bar to the cellar and back, muttering something angrily under her breath.
Eric watched the people in the tavern. He knew some of them, they were the O'Brians’ neighbors or Uncle Albert’s friends, but there were a lot of unfamiliar faces. He was particularly interested in a man at an unobtrusive corner of the tavern, sitting by the window and smoking a pipe. He’d be indistinguishable from the others if not for the silver mask that hid the part of his face, namely, the temple, the left cheek, and a part of the jaw. He wore a black cloak with the hood pulled back. A golden ring was sparkling on his forefinger. Eric caught the man's eyes fixed on him. The dismal stranger stared at him for almost a minute, until a drunk farmer distracted his attention w
ith annoying questions. The man in the mask was rude to him, and something worse would’ve happened if two men hadn’t managed to drag their friend away. The dark stranger threw coins on the table and stood up. Eric watched him leave the tavern. After he was gone, Eric felt an unexplainable sense of relief which didn’t last long, as at one of the tables he spotted Dickens McCormack. Eric didn’t want to catch his glance. A strange aversion to Dickens grew in him with each meeting.
“What are you looking for, boy?” Eric heard behind and met with the landlord’s red face. Without answering, he paced to the door. He was glad to get out of the smoky tavern. Fresh cold air brought him to life. He took a deep breath and looked at the sky. The night was clear, the constellations close and brilliant. The stars of Orion were shining especially brightly. Eric straddled the horse and headed home. The narrow alleys seemed to be conspiring to prevent him from finding the right way, and several times he had to stop and ask for instructions.
Eric received a reprimand from his uncle for disappearing the whole day without telling anyone. Following Mr. Pickering’s advice, he didn’t say anything about his job. To avoid questions about where he’d been all day, he went to the stable to feed the horse, which had remained hungry all day due to the strange circumstances.
In the morning, going downstairs for breakfast, Eric heard Albert and Riona talk about Mrs. McCormack. Riona was calling her ‘a poor woman.’ She told her husband she’d visit her and try to help.
“Has anything happened to Mrs. McCormack?”
“Yes, my dear,” Riona said, pouring coffee for her husband. “We don't know the whole story. They say that someone or something attacked her at night, when she was alone in the garden. I’ll finish my chores and visit Caitlin.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Sure, dear,” she said, and seeing Eleanora and Henry enter the kitchen, whispered in Eric’s ear, “Don’t talk about it in Henry’s presence. I don't want to scare him.”
Eric fulfilled her request and didn’t hint about the McCormacks until Riona sent Eleanora and Henry to school. Riona and Eric went to their neighbors’ house. Eric noticed Dinah on the swing. After the disastrous dinner in the McCormacks’ house, he hadn’t talked to Dinah again, while she had been trying to make amends with him. She looked so sad that he was ready to put the offences behind. Eric walked up to her, and taking her by the hand, knelt in front of her.
“What has happened? How is your mother?”
“The witches did it; they sent a curse on us. They hate us, our family, and everyone on this side, but they abhor our family the most.”
Eric sat down beside her. “I don't know what has happened, but I’m sure your mom will be all right.”
“Dickens agrees with me. He says these are the tricks of the witches, and he promised to think about how to take revenge on them.”
Dinah was so absorbed in thoughts about the witches that it seemed she couldn’t hear anything else. All offers of help and support from Eric stayed unheard; she was talking only about taking revenge.
“Even De Roy voiced his suspicions last night.”
“De Roy?”
“The sheriff. An ugly, scary man, but I’m glad he sees the same things as me.”
“And what is he going to undertake?”
“I heard De Roy telling my father that maybe the witches did it, but unless he has tangible evidence, he can't do anything. I will avenge the witches together with Dickens, and perhaps with you, if you decide to help me.”
“I don’t think you’re right.”
“Why? Do you not believe me? Are you on the witches’ side? You’ve got to help me get revenge.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side, but I agree with the sheriff. Without evidence, no one can be blamed.”
Dinah looked at Eric, tears glistening in her eyes. “You say that because you were soundly sleeping when my mother was scared to death. She was crying about a black smoke that had shrouded her...” Dinah hid her face behind her palms and whimpered.
“Don’t cry. Everything will be fine.”
As Eric threw his arm around her, Dinah looked up him, beaming. “I knew we’d make up,” she said with a smile.
Eric glanced into her eyes. The teardrops had clung to her lashes like jewels. Were her tears just an act? he thought. Probably not. No one could pretend like that. “Tell me what the sheriff said. Maybe they saw something or someone?”
“He said nothing more. And what can De Roy do but walk around smugly, hiding under that mask and thinking he’s the king of the town.”
“Under a mask?”
“Half of his face is hidden under a mask. Probably not the most beautiful half.”
“What does he look like?”
“What’s the difference? It can’t help us anyhow, can it?”
“No, but I’m curious. Is he tall, dark-haired? He walks in a black cloak?”
“Well, yes, when walking down the streets, he always wears a black cloak, even in summer. He covers his head with a hood, and his face with a mask. He’s a harsh man, famous for his cruelty. Everyone in this town fears Sheriff De Roy. I hope he will arrest the witches, and they will never see the light again.”
Eric realized whom he had seen last night. It was the Sheriff of Hollow, there could be no doubt. Dinah's story about him only deepened his bizarre feelings about that man. Not knowing why, Eric had begun to fear the sheriff ever since he saw him. But in addition of fearing for himself, he felt an inexplicable concern for the witches of Hollow.