Ansel of Pryor House

by Hayden Thorne

  “I’m going to get lost if I keep on,” he said, feeling some relief wash over him when he saw that his footprints remained visible at least. “I don’t even know if I’ve just walked in a circle.”

  He almost jumped out of his skin at the soft sound of falling snow nearby. He whipped around in time to find delicate remnants of white floating idly down to settle on a small pile of snow at the roots of a tree about ten feet away.

  No, he thought, blinking. No, it wasn’t a tree.

  The tall, bent, gnarled figure he’d at first thought was a tree moved—slowly, as though weighed down by aching joints.

  The branches were arms, the trunk, a crooked, misshapen body. The figure had a head, and it’d been bent down at a severe angle, and Ansel had failed to spot it at first since it had its back to him. The arms lowered, two of which remained visible, while the rest melted against the figure’s body. It was also dressed in a dark, tattered cloak of rough, brown material that was long enough to drag over the ground. As it turned around to regard him, it teetered and stumbled as though it couldn’t hold itself upright properly because of its distorted shape.

  Ansel took a few steps back. His jaw hanging open in shock, he kept his eyes glued on the thing as it turned to face him, terror engulfing Ansel when he realized the tree-figure’s face—half-hidden in the shadows of its torn cloak—was of his father. Familiar features were twisted and distorted by rough bark, but the eyes blazed, rage and even hate pouring out of them as they sought Ansel out from under the frayed cowl.

  “Ansel?” the twisted monster said, its voice low and terrible to hear, like a mix of growling dogs and old, creaking wood. And yet, it still sounded like Mr. Tunnicliffe. It took in a deep, rattling breath that shook its body, and was soon facing Ansel. “Do you see me? Have you any idea what you’ve done to me, you vile little cur? After everything I’ve done for you, you repay me with this? Useless, reeking half-wit!”

  It threw out a hand, reaching for Ansel with its brittle, claw-like fingers. It hissed and tottered a few steps forward, almost throwing itself at him as though it needed desperately to bring Ansel down to the snow and tear him to pieces.

  Ansel didn’t wait. With a cry of horror, he spun around and ran back, following his footsteps and listening to his ragged, terrified gasps even as his father’s monstrous specter continued its vicious shouting behind him. It felt like an eternity, but he eventually stumbled past the last line of trees, almost falling on his face as he lost balance a few times. He didn’t even stop to look behind. He knew better than to do that.

  He ran back to the front door and crossed the threshold, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning against it. His mind was in a desperate muddle as it fought for something logical about what had just happened. Were there such things as monsters? Ghosts? Demons? Were woodlands enchanted? What on earth was that thing?

  His father couldn’t have followed him there, could he? Ansel tried not to entertain that thought. It was absurd, to be sure, given Mr. Tunnicliffe’s pathetic, drunken state the last time they were together. There was no way he’d have been able to trace his son to such a remote location. Besides, what a stupid thing it was to even consider the idea—no human could turn himself into a monstrous tree creature. No, other forces must be at work here. Dark magic?

  And what about Cedric and Becky? Were they real? Or were they nothing more than a phantasm meant to lure unsuspecting people into the trees? What on earth was all that about?

  Another moment later and Ansel was breathing more normally, though his heart continued to thunder, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. The last half hour had gone too quickly, the events so unexpected as to keep him baffled the more he tried to understand what was what.

  He eventually pushed himself away from the door, a touch dazed still, and walked—not quite knowing where he was headed, at that. Ansel felt as though he were caught and held in a dream-like web that had a hint of the nightmare about it. He was dazed, still mystified, but oddly detached from his earlier terror. He seemed to float as he moved, his senses protected from his environment by that curious feeling of removal and distance.

  When clarity finally bloomed and awareness took firm hold of him, Ansel discovered that he’d gone back to his room, and he was standing by his bed. With a jolt of surprise, he also saw the sketchbook lying on his pillow. He took a deep breath to calm himself further, but found he didn’t really need to. Standing in his bedroom, surrounded by things that were familiar to him, seemed to be enough to draw some strength from.

  And with that, he picked up the sketchbook and sat down on his bed.

  “Pryor House has to be enchanted. There’s no other reason for the strange things going on around here,” he muttered. He’d shake his head at himself; had he been with his father still, he’d have received a hard slap and a curse for entertaining such a ridiculous and stupid idea.

  He stared at the sketchbook for a moment in contemplative silence, gently running his fingers over the old cover. Then he opened it and went through each portrait, once again marveling at the exquisite detail and the artist’s amazing skill in capturing moods and personalities. And even more wondrous was how the same style was used throughout, which could only mean one artist had done all of them. Ansel had no idea what year the earlier drawings were made because he couldn’t make out the clothes. They were definitely not current, and he couldn’t understand how one artist would be able to manage so many drawings through heaven only knew how many years—decades, even—with such magnificent consistency.

  Yes, the drawings seemed to be grouped in little clusters, so to speak. There’d always be two or three drawings of one person, male or female, in different clothes. Those would be followed by the same subjects interacting with a partner. Same sex or opposite sex. The couples were drawn with equal attention to detail, the great amount of care and love amazingly clear from the pages. And those couples, Ansel noted with growing wonder, appeared to notice nothing about the world around them but each other. After what appeared to be an initial meeting, a developing relationship would follow. Some couples were embracing. Some held hands. Some whispered into each other’s ears. Some smiled or laughed, sharing a private joke. Some kissed. And there was no mistaking the looks exchanged between partners, no matter the gender. There was inexpressible joy and wonder—a deep, soul-shaking amazement at the realization that happiness and hope were finally within one’s reach.

  Ansel’s mind, already shaken from his terrifying encounter in the trees, now fell under the spell of the magic he found in those pages. It felt as though he’d been tossed into a sweet dream after being dragged through a nightmare, and he’d yet to understand why and how. For the time being, though, he told himself it was far, far better to immerse himself in sweet dreams—in expressions of young, wide-eyed love.

  Once he reached the last illustrated pages, he found that Cedric had been drawn again—a second portrait, that is—bundled against the cold and peering out from under his hat, his eyes alive and brilliant and directly looking at Ansel. Bits of what could be snow peppered his clothes and his face, but he smiled beautifully. If anything, it looked as though he’d just finished laughing.

  Ansel felt his chest tighten as he absorbed the image of a boy he didn’t know and yet did, at least in a strange, magical sort of way he’d yet to understand. After a moment’s hesitation, he ran a finger over Cedric’s figure, hoping to feel the other boy in some way, but all he got was cold paper.

  Chapter 9

  Do what you need to do.

  Those words had become Ansel’s new reality. He remained baffled as to what it was Mrs. Finn meant, but the housekeeper refused to dignify him with an explanation, no matter how he tried to pull something of any substance from her. She’d respond with even more confusing statements (“What do you think I mean, young man?”), at times ignoring him outright, and twice barking an order for him to stay away from the kitchen.

  Mr. Blacow wouldn’t take his side a
nd, in fact, would behave as though Ansel hadn’t just asked him a question. Nonsensical misdirection, always expressed with a good deal of humor and warmth, now became Mr. Blacow’s standard response to everything. Ansel, for his part, found himself distracted so much by Mr. Blacow’s bizarre stories about whatever happened to cross the fellow’s mind—distracted enough to forget his growing frustrations regarding his role in Pryor House.

  The house remained spotless, and no matter what he did, Ansel couldn’t find anything to do with his time. He’d even planned to sort through his clothes and see if anything needed a quick mending, which he knew how to do. But when time came for him to resort to it, something in him balked at the thought, when before, he’d have eagerly sought out such a task. So he was back to feeling adrift and unable to come up with anything to do.

  That is, anything but feel an increasingly insistent pull in his gut—one that seemed to urge him voicelessly to go to the library or the master’s bedroom. When Miss Peveler ordered him to join her in the music room and then the drawing room the previous afternoon and evening respectively, that same insistent force pushed him in the lady’s direction. However, adding to the mystery of Pryor House, that same voiceless urging held him back when in Miss Peveler’s company.

  “Don’t ask questions of the lady,” it seemed to say. “Don’t think. Don’t challenge. Just listen. Just absorb. Do what you need to do then everything will come to you.”

  Ansel certainly didn’t find it difficult obeying that curious little feeling. Silence and meek acceptance had long been ingrained in him, anyway, and under more horrific circumstances, at that. That said, he remained in the dark as to the purpose behind his being made to listen to music or poetry composed by a lovestruck young man. He tried to search Miss Peveler’s face and behavior for clues as to why she kept asking him of his opinions about that evening’s “entertainment”, but he could read nothing from her. The lady showed not a bit of sadness or heartbreak in reference to a lost love or a passionate romance that’d never even been given a chance to bloom. She continued to look mildly touched by the music or the verses, but that faint show of emotion yielded nothing more, and it also very quickly vanished even before their time together ended. The books she’d read from and the music sheets she’d carefully place on the music rack were still blank. There’d also be that pause before she proceeded, with Miss Peveler closing her eyes and concentrating very deeply. Now Ansel had convinced himself as to Pryor House’s state of enchantment, he concluded the blank books and music sheets were also magical. That they contained poetic and musical beauty that could only be drawn out by the lady of the house. Was Miss Peveler a fairy? An enchantress of some kind? Ansel felt as though he were about to burst from so many questions collecting in him, but he dared not ask questions. Instinct ordered him not to, and he knew better than to doubt that wordless voice.

  As before, Miss Peveler asked Ansel her odd questions. This time around, she appended them with others.

  “What do you think of this piece, Ansel Tunnicliffe?”

  “Uh—it’s—it’s beautiful.”

  “Is that all?” Miss Peveler spared him a quick glance without breaking her momentum. Note after note was coaxed out of the piano, a soft, gentle, plaintive melody that fought for Ansel’s full attention. Though this composition was a touch lighter and livelier than the first one the lady had performed for him, it still evoked an emotion that seemed so deep, it was almost devastating to Ansel.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Peveler let out a soft little sound of annoyance, most likely at Ansel’s stumbling use of “ma’am” in conversation again. She never corrected him, though, and simply continued her performance.

  “Close your eyes. Listen carefully and open your mind to whatever comes its way.”

  After a momentary hesitation, Ansel obeyed. Feeling a self-conscious blush warm his cheeks, he closed his eyes, bowing his head a little in a weak attempt at hiding his embarrassment from Miss Peveler. It was a good thing the lady didn’t mind.

  He cleared his head, fixing all his attention on the music—the sweet, somewhat playful, and heartbreakingly lonely expression of a young man’s adoration for his love. Or, at the very least, a deep yearning for happiness that seemed to elude him. Ansel saw in the darkness a figure emerging, features coming to light though still largely bathed in shadows. It was Cedric, dressed for his walk out in the snow. Ansel gave a start, almost blinking his eyes open in surprise, but he found it—mesmerizing—looking at Cedric with the music playing in the background. While still embarrassed, he allowed his mind to stretch itself a little further, and he found himself associating Cedric with the music. From what he could remember of the other boy, there was an openness, a playfulness in Cedric, and the more Ansel considered that, the more intricately woven the song was with the memory of the boy.

  Ansel didn’t know when it happened, but it did. By the time Miss Peveler finished her playing, Cedric and the music had become one and the same in Ansel’s mind. And no matter how he tried to extricate the boy from the song, the more they seemed to intertwine, like a tangle of vines that eventually learned to depend on each other for survival. To tear one of them out would surely mean the death of the other.

  “You must be enjoying a very pleasant image in your mind,” Miss Peveler piped up.

  Ansel’s eyes flew open, his blush deepening, he was sure, judging from the heat burning his face. He could barely meet the lady’s amused look and could only nod in silence, dropping his gaze back to the keyboard and keeping it there for the duration of their time in the music room.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t force a confession,” Miss Peveler said. “What I encouraged you to do was a very private thing. Something told me you needed it.”

  Ansel cleared his throat and nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you have anything to say about this piece?”

  “Did—did the gentleman—did he get what he wanted?”

  “What do you think he wanted, Ansel?”

  Ansel almost blurted out, “Your love, ma’am.” He managed to catch himself, though, and instead stammered, “Someone’s love.”

  Miss Peveler chuckled at this, and she finished her performance. Allowing the last of the music to fade into the candlelit night, she rested her hands on her lap and turned to face Ansel, brows raised.

  “I’ll answer your question with a question, I’m afraid,” she said, the barest hint of humor in her voice, though she didn’t smile. “What makes you refer to him as though he belonged strictly in the past?”

  Ansel blinked, utterly mystified—more so than ever, that is. He thought of leaving the question unanswered and convincing the lady that he was far too stupid to understand anything, but Miss Peveler appeared undaunted. She simply waited, patient and watchful. After a moment of this, Ansel was forced to concede she wasn’t going to let him go so easily. He took a deep breath and then swallowed.

  “I—I just thought he did. I mean—when you first played his music and read his poems to me, you referred to him in the past, and—I thought he was, well, someone who’d lived before.”

  Miss Peveler listened, nodding slightly. “I see. No, the act of knowing him—understanding him—and drawing his heart out, at least the initial process of reaching into him, happened in the past. Turning his heart into music and verse, however, is ongoing. The young man still lives.” She smiled this time, just as slightly as her nod. “He still dreams. Still hopes.”

  Ansel had gone from blinking to making a face at Miss Peveler this time, and the lady suddenly laughed and reached out to press warm fingers against his forehead in order to smoothen it. Ansel relaxed in spite of himself.

  “He still hopes? Then I’m sorry he still hasn’t been blessed with what he deserves,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, too. He will be blessed someday, though. After all, you’ve said so yourself, haven’t you? Everyone deserves to be loved. This young man—he’s got magic in him. It’s simply a matt
er of waiting for the right moment to help him unleash it, so to speak. It’s a gradual and gentle process. He’s terribly young and vulnerable and afraid. He’s also quite hurt—deeply but not hopelessly.”

  “Are you—are you an enchantress? I see nothing written on the music sheets or books you use.”

  Miss Peveler laughed again, her features shedding their age and softening greatly. “Not quite—more like a guardian, I suppose. A guide and protector. Any magic I make use of comes from the person whose heart I’m helping to draw out. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe in Pryor House despite being surrounded by a strange kind of enchantment. When the time comes, you’ll understand everything.”

  “I never felt in danger, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

  Ansel nodded and fixed his gaze on the piano’s keys. “That young man—anyone who feels that deeply and creates something so pretty should be loved.”

  A sharp pang silenced him following what he’d said. All of a sudden, his shortcomings had bubbled over, pouring out of a fissure in a thick, reeking mass of failure. Education, character, accomplishments, wealth—everything about him now stood in stark relief against beauty that left him floundering for words. The boy, this mysterious prodigy, certainly deserved more because he could take something as untouchable as feeling and transform it in the most miraculous ways imaginable. Ansel—well, he had nothing to offer the world, had he? Only another mouth to feed or perhaps a pair of hands that could scrub, sweep, and wash at best.

  He didn’t realize his companion had said something or had tried to get his attention till he felt a finger gently nudge his chin, and he looked up to find Miss Peveler’s image distorted by his tears.

  “I see you’re feeling a little ill,” she said. “Go on upstairs and rest.”