Ansel of Pryor House

by Hayden Thorne

  It had finally found its footing and raised itself up, swaying and crooked still, but no less frightening.

  Ansel turned and ran, tried to go around the monster toward his hoped-for destination. But the monster roared and struggled to jump after him even as he tried to flee. The snow made both their efforts all the more difficult, and Ansel stumbled more than ran, while his father’s specter almost missed him, again falling on its face. This time, the monster’s gnarled hands managed to grab hold of Ansel’s jacket, and a struggle followed. Its grip was strong—surprisingly and terrifyingly so—and nothing Ansel did could loosen its tight hold. Worms, dislodged from the decaying form, either peppered the snow near his feet or began to crawl up his jacket.

  With a cry of disgust, Ansel shrugged off his jacket, and it was then when he realized just how horribly cold he was.

  He’d been underdressed the whole time, he reminded himself, and his determination to somehow connect with Cedric had easily overridden all common sense. Teeth chattering, he ran a few paces ahead, hoping he’d cross the wood’s borders at the other side soon, but reason held him back.

  Go back home, you fool! Go before you die out here! You don’t know how far you need to run still to reach the end of the wood!

  Behind him, the monster continued to roar and rage, spitting out names and the worst invectives a parent could ever throw at his own child. A handful of those Ansel had already heard before. The rest were too terrible to even give a second’s thought, though they made him want to break down and cry himself sick.

  Go!

  Ansel spun around and hurried around the vile, writhing form of the monster and the worms that continued to crawl everywhere on their liberation. Ansel’s jacket lay on the snow—filthy and worm-infested, he was sure. He tore through the trees, barely noting his footprints as he let fear, despair, and instinct take over. Before long he broke through the last line of trees, and he was eyeing Pryor House’s silent presence a short distance away.

  From the wood, he thought he heard Cedric’s voice again, but it sounded so far away now. So unreachable.

  * * * *

  “Young people will have their whims, I’m sure. Sometimes, though, a little of those goes a long way.”

  “I didn’t expect to stay out there that long,” Ansel stammered. He could barely manage to string words together for a coherent sentence with his muscles tightened up against the chill and his shivering slowly easing. He gave Mrs. Finn a woeful glance as the housekeeper tsked-tsked and fussed.

  “No, of course you didn’t expect to do it. Young people never bother to think before they act. Are you comfortable?”

  Ansel nodded, blushing at the relentless scolding he was now receiving from Mrs. Finn. He pulled the warm blanket tightly around his shoulders, the heat from the blazing fireplace not quite uncomfortable yet. He’d been ordered to sit in front of the fire, which Mr. Blacow had started after both he and Mrs. Finn watched Ansel drag himself, blue and chattering and stuttering apologies for his state, into the kitchen for warmth.

  Since they needed him to change his clothes, Mrs. Finn had to practically drag him to the master’s bedroom. There she left him for a moment, throwing a blanket around his violently shaking form, and then disappearing for clean clothes.

  “This is the only room upstairs save for Miss Peveler’s that has a fireplace,” she’d said while Mr. Blacow hurried and got a fire going.

  She remained behind after the fire was lit, grumbling about young people and their recklessness and their inattention to keeping the cold out. That final complaint was all about the window in the master’s bedroom that Ansel had left open in his hurry to chase after Cedric. The room, upon entering it, was understandably bone-chillingly cold, and it would be a bit of a wait for the fire to fully warm it up. In the meantime, Ansel sat on a rug, his head and damp hair the only parts of his body that could be seen as he waited for his body to recover. Mrs. Finn set his clean clothes on a chair, which she’d carried over to him.

  “Oh, child,” she said with a drawn-out sigh once she’d apparently satisfied herself that all was well with both Ansel and the master’s bedroom. She stood close and gazed down on him with a baffled frown, her hands clasped on her skirts. “What was so important out there that you just had to run off without a single thought to your safety?”

  “I thought I heard voices out there…” He paused to cough and then sniffle. “I thought I heard someone outside.”

  “And you decided to run out without the right clothes on to greet them? Judging from your state, you were outside for a long time!”

  Well, when laid out that way, it sounded even more utterly ridiculous than he’d thought. Mrs. Finn’s incredulous tone nicely underscored that point.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just…”

  Ansel’s words faltered in his throat, and after a brief struggle, he decided to leave the rest unsaid. Hopefully Mrs. Finn wouldn’t think too much about his non-answer, considering his present condition. He simply didn’t have the heart to pursue the conversation, now that his father’s specter had raised a number of doubts in him.

  Mrs. Finn, for her part, merely sighed again and shook her head before moving off. Ansel listened to her skirts swishing softly as she walked toward the door. “I’ll be back with something hot for you to eat. In the meantime, change your clothes,” she said, the sound of the door creaking open mixing with her words. “I’ve no doubt Miss Peveler would like to have a word with you later about this.”

  No doubt. Ansel heard the door shut and Mrs. Finn’s muffled footsteps outside fade away. It was his turn to sigh as he stared at the large rug he sat on. He desperately wished he could answer Mrs. Finn’s question honestly, but he found that he couldn’t. That monster lurking in the wood—it refused to let go of him, even in the safety of Pryor House.

  Ansel straightened, blinking, and turned to look around the room. “Is—is anyone in here?” he asked. He saw no one, of course, and he heard no answer. And yet…

  Swallowing, he pulled off the blanket and stumbled to his feet. He turned around, and his gaze fell on the bed. He walked toward it cautiously and saw that the book he’d left on the bed earlier now had a companion. The sketchbook, he thought. Ansel picked it up and quickly flipped the pages till he reached the last drawing.

  His eyes widened. Cedric was drawn standing between some trees that Ansel recognized—knew—to belong to the strange wood of his nerve-wracking adventures. In this drawing, Cedric was shown looking past the trees, mouth open wide as though he were shouting, and he stood on tiptoes, an arm raised. He seemed to be waving or beckoning to someone, calling out, the look on his face cutting right through Ansel’s heart. There was yearning and hopeful joy in Cedric’s face, and whether or not Ansel was reading too much into things, there was also a hint of something like patience and anticipation.

  Do what you need to do.

  Chapter 12

  After changing into clean, dry clothes, Ansel was obliged to eat his lunch in the master’s bedroom. He wasn’t going to complain at this point, considering his state when Mrs. Finn ordered him to stay there. The fire had been nicely maintained, with Mr. Blacow bringing up some more wood to use, and Ansel took over the care of the fire with awkwardly profuse thanks. For his part, Mr. Blacow simply laughed, shook his head at Ansel, and tousled Ansel’s hair before marching out of the room.

  He expected to be scolded left and right by Miss Peveler, and it was all he could do to fill up the minutes till the dreaded moment by poring over the book he’d spirited away while keeping the sketchbook close. Like before, he struggled with the text, but curiously enough, it didn’t seem to be as bad as his earlier attempt at reading. He didn’t know if it was because the language was simpler or because it was a book of stories and not essays or non-fiction material. He didn’t know if it was nothing more than something residual from his adventures in the snowy wood—fading energy or something like, that is—that kept his mind clear and attentive. Maybe it was be
cause of the wonderful thrill of seeing Cedric’s new image being drawn in a very specific manner. The strange connection he suddenly felt, simply gazing in amazement at the drawing. Ansel was there, after all, and he’d thought he’d heard Cedric’s voice somewhere among the trees. Whether or not Cedric was truly calling out for him was still unclear, but the very idea sent a giddy current through Ansel.

  He didn’t know if he was being presumptuous and thinking overly well of himself, as his father’s specter had accused, but imagining having his existence acknowledged by another made him indescribably happy. And perhaps that unexpected surge of joy—a very alien feeling to begin with—was what had fueled his hungry mind into comprehending the book he read. This reading miracle could very well be because of a host of different reasons, but Ansel clung to the last one.

  He smiled as he regarded the yellowed pages before him.

  “Making up things doesn’t hurt, I’m sure,” he murmured, his heart pounding at his audacity. “I’m not causing anyone pain.”

  Creating a fantasy world in which someone like Cedric would stoop to sparing someone like Ansel a handful of minutes in conversation surely wouldn’t hurt. If anything, it was quite fun, and it was also a safe activity, with it being nothing more than a silly little private thing Ansel would carry with him to the grave.

  “If I’m being presumptuous, it’s only limited to my imagination.”

  No, toying with things in one’s head wasn’t going to hurt anyone. And with that, Ansel set his book aside and picked up the sketchbook again. He took a deep breath at the sight of Cedric in the wood, calling and waving. Then Ansel closed his eyes against the bright fire, and his imagination came alive with wonderful, vivid pictures of things that never happened.

  * * * *

  “You’re someone I’ve never once associated with impulse and recklessness, Ansel Tunnicliffe,” Miss Peveler said, her voice dry.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You could’ve frozen to death out there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A pause followed. “Young man, look at me.”

  Ansel raised his head and looked directly at Miss Peveler. She sat on the piano bench, her back toward the piano, while Ansel stood before her, mortified and wilting under her stern scrutiny. He was embarrassed to be taken to task for his dangerous impulse that morning, and guilt lanced him with every question posed regarding his current health. There was sincere concern despite what sounded like coldness, and Ansel was reminded of his place in the household as the beneficiary and therefore of the debt he owed for being saved from a life of abject misery.

  For all those, though, Ansel couldn’t help but still feel quiet elation coursing through him—elation along with shock and disbelief for his utter gall. He kept his hands behind him, knotting his fingers only because he couldn’t wring his hands as he labored under wildly conflicting emotions. Miss Peveler observed him in silence for an excruciating moment that felt like an awful eternity. He didn’t know how much more of the lady’s silent disapproval he could weather. Feeling the growing press of guilt on his conscience, Ansel found himself struggling to meet Miss Peveler’s unwavering gaze.

  “Was the risk worth it, Ansel?” she asked at length. Her voice was soft and gentle, though her manner remained stern.

  “I—I think so, ma’am.”

  “What do you mean by that? It’s either yes or no.”

  Ansel cleared his throat and felt his cheeks warm. “Yes, ma’am,” he stammered.

  “Ah. I see.”

  Miss Peveler motioned for him to stay where he was as she stood up. Without another word, she walked away from the piano toward a loveseat that stood at the other end of the music room. She picked something up and walked back to the piano, pausing by the bench and handing Ansel’s jacket to him.

  “Mr. Blacow found this in the wood,” she said.

  For a moment, Ansel just stared at the jacket in horror and revulsion, memories of the worms crawling on it while it was still on him making his skin prickle.

  “What’s the matter? Isn’t this yours?”

  “It—it is. Thank you.” Ansel hesitated before taking it from her, and he couldn’t help but draw a long, shaky breath of relief at the sight of clean fabric. “Did Mr. Blacow wash my jacket, ma’am?”

  “If he did, it wouldn’t be dry right now, would it?” Miss Peveler replied. Though her words stung—and Ansel could hardly blame her for that touch of sarcasm—she still spoke with an edge of humor in her tone. “You risked a good deal, young man, leaving the house the way you did and shedding the one article of clothing that helped you the most out there.”

  Ansel nodded. “I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Miss Peveler made a soft sound in her throat and leaned closer, dropping her voice when she spoke. “I strongly doubt it,” she said. Ansel wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a twinkle in her eye before she straightened back up, and her sternness returned. “Now—take your seat. I’ve a new piece to play for you today, and you might find it rather interesting.”

  She didn’t bother waiting for Ansel’s response. She took her place at the piano, plucking some music sheets off the top of the instrument and sorting through them. Why she even bothered doing so was baffling, but Ansel knew better than to prod despite the strong temptation. He regarded her in confusion at first before scurrying off to pick up the chair he always sat on. He tripped on one of its legs on his way back because of the awkward way with which he carried it, almost tumbling to the floor in a heap, all tangled up with a chair. By the time he got his bearings together and finally took his place by Miss Peveler, his face was burning so much, he could swear his head was on fire. She shook her head slightly, straightened up, and closed her eyes as before. Ansel took advantage of that quiet moment to gather his thoughts and rally. Once Miss Peveler was ready to entertain him with that day’s magic, Ansel was feeling a great deal calmer.

  The lady’s hands moved quickly, and the music room was suddenly filled with sounds that surprised Ansel. “As before,” she said above the music, “close your eyes and concentrate on what you hear.”

  Ansel obeyed and relaxed, allowing the remarkable sounds not only to envelop him, but also infuse his senses with their unexpected qualities. The music was light and beautiful, but certainly a great deal more spirited than the previous pieces. There was a hint of tentativeness still, so subtle that Ansel at first wondered if he were reading too much into things. At length he realized he felt it deep in his gut more than anything and satisfied himself with that. For the next moment, Ansel struggled with images and feelings that could provide him with a more concrete reference point from which he could understand what he was listening to. Then something finally came to mind, and he smiled.

  The music made him think of a bird soaring. There was freedom, exhilaration edged with a faint fear—both of the most wonderful kind. With freedom came a certain element of danger, of course, and even birds were subject to risks during flight. But that was the price one paid for independence, wasn’t it? Perhaps that was the subtle shade of fear he’d sensed.

  “It appears that he did.”

  Ansel’s eyes flew open, and he blinked. “I’m sorry…”

  He looked up at Miss Peveler, who spared him the briefest glance, her hands flying masterfully across the keyboard and not once missing a single note. “You asked me if the young gentleman found what he needed.”

  “I did? I don’t remember asking.”

  “You did. It seems you were quite swept up by what it was you were seeing in your mind that you don’t even remember.”

  Ansel frowned, this time watching her hands move with remarkable grace and precision, coaxing beauty from the piano. Was he really lost in his own imaginings? He could swear he’d been very much aware of not only his fantasies, but also his immediate environment. Worrying his lower lip for a moment, he decided he’d just allowed himself to lose track of reality for the briefest time. It was really no differen
t from his sudden impulsiveness that day, he had to admit. He now wondered if he was growing more prone to lapses in judgment in favor of—something.

  What Cedric stood for. What Cedric offered. Who Cedric was.

  “He found what he needed,” Ansel murmured, lost in thought. “He found love, then. Or—his love was returned.”

  “Is that what you think, Ansel?”

  He nodded, his frown fading as he looked up again and met Miss Peveler’s gaze. “It is, ma’am. You said so yourself before that these songs were an expression of his heart.”

  “They are.”

  “The previous pieces you played—they were gentler, sadder. Like he still yearned for someone. Or dreamed of her, anyway, maybe wishing someday she’d love him back.”

  The look leveled at him had grown dark. But before he could think any more of it, Miss Peveler turned her attention back to the music. She didn’t speak again till after she finished, even allowing the music to fade into the night before saying a single word. When she turned to regard Ansel, her face was again impassive.

  “Her, you say? She? That was a very limited way of looking at things, and I’m quite disappointed.” Miss Peveler raised a brow. “The human heart is a great deal more complex than that, Ansel. But no matter—you’ll understand the meaning behind all this soon. It’s never been my place to dictate things to you for good reason.” She paused and mulled something over. “Except for our time together, which is over for now. Go on and rest or entertain yourself in some way. I’ll see you again later.”

  Ansel suppressed a sigh and stood up. Once he’d returned his chair to its former spot and walked over to the door, Miss Peveler called his name.

  “You’re much stronger than you think you are, young man,” she said. “Remember what you told me—what you know to be true. Remember it, embrace it, and allow it to take over. Do you wish to see the story end happily? Then do what you need to do.”