by G. P. Taylor
Seirizzim
BY the light of the candle on the kitchen table, Beadle tried to ease the bruising to his face with a small, wet rag that had been used to wipe the bacon fat from the cooking pan. Each dab of the greasy, dirty cloth sent a scorching pain through his skin and deep into his face. He had been beaten around the head for several minutes, several long and painful minutes. He had been beaten in punishment for losing the prisoners, beaten as a way for Demurral to vent his anger, beaten with a frying pan, kitchen chair and when they broke and were no longer any use, Demurral used his feet to punish his servant.
Beadle had poured himself a large mug of his strongest beer. It sat by him like a large vat of fermenting soup: thick, cloudy and with a head of almost solid froth. He picked up the mug and carefully put it to his lips. The froth covered his nose. He breathed in and at the same time gulped the warm beer. It stung the inside of his mouth and clung to the side of his throat as he swallowed. He looked up from the table and through his bruised and closing eyes he could see the body of the Glashan still slumped in the hall. Demurral hovered behind him, only just restraining himself from hitting Beadle again, making do, for the moment, with ranting at him instead.
‘You’re a fool for letting them get away. It was important that I had them,’ he screamed. ‘Now they’ve gone and taken the Keruvim with them. It’s all your fault and you will pay for it before the day is out.’ He glared at the little man. ‘I’ve a good mind to put you in his place, to have your blood instead of his. What would you say to that?’
‘I’d say it would be a relief,’ Beadle quietly muttered under his breath.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘It would be understandable. I’m so sorry,’ Beadle pleaded. He had lost heart. The thought of spending the rest of his life with this man made him feel sick. He wanted to run but knew he would get only a few paces before Demurral caught him and finished him off. He now wished he had gone with the others, left for a new life. Kate had said he had the potential to be someone different, someone far better.
‘Then drag that creature to the cellar. I want to see what it is,’ Demurral barked.
Beadle got up from the table, battered and bruised, and walked over to the creature. Grabbing it by the boots he dragged it along the stone floor and then down the cellar steps. He paid no attention to the noise it made as he pulled it along the floor, nor did he see the slight rise and fall of the chest as if it were taking small, gentle breaths of air. He didn’t see the flickering of the Glashan’s eyes, nor the slight twitching of its fingers.
Upstairs, Demurral went to answer a hammering at the front door, muttering angrily to himself as he walked along the passageway. As he took a sturdy walking stick from the stand next to the door to give a sharp blow to whoever it was that was knocking so loudly, he glanced up and saw that the carved golden raven was no longer there.
‘Be quiet, man. I’m coming as fast as I can,’ he shouted.
Opening the door and peering out, he saw Captain Farrell, his uniform torn from the blast and his face charred with powder burns. Demurral didn’t speak. Farrell staggered past him and into his study falling into the chair by the fire.
‘Get me a drink … I want a drink.’ It was the Dunamez in Farrell that shouted. ‘A jar of whisky, nothing less.’
Demurral went and came back with the whisky. Farrell took the brown jar and raised it to his lips, gulping down the liquid.
‘That’s so good,’ said the creature, trying to use Farrell’s voice. ‘Haven’t tasted that in years,’ it added as it wiped a sleeve across Farrell’s face. ‘Sit down, priest, I have a message from someone who wants to speak to you.’
Demurral sat in the chair opposite.
‘I see that the accident you’ve had hasn’t made your London manners any better. Still as full as yourself as ever you were. From what your men said I thought you would be dead.’
‘He will be soon,’ the Dunamez said in its own voice. ‘And so will you if you don’t listen to me. You have brought a new dawn to this world and either by your conscious efforts or by your stupidity have allowed something wonderful. We have passed from the age of Riathamus into the age of Pyratheon.’
‘Farrell, don’t play games. What do you know of Pyratheon? Who told you of him?’ Demurral asked.
‘Your friend is unable to speak,’ the Dunamez said, giggling. ‘He is completely trapped in his own mind. I wear him like a coat, and a very shabby one at that.’
‘Then, creature, tell me what you have to say and be gone out of him,’ Demurral barked at the Dunamez.
‘Be gone? You almost sound like a priest. Riathamus I know, the Seruvim I know, but Demurral is someone who has little power and then that is given to him only by the one who controls the world. You’re a puppet.’ The Dunamez laughed. ‘I have come for the Keruvim. I am to take it to Pyratheon. Where is it?’
‘It is nearby.’ Demurral thought quickly. ‘And is in safe hands.’
‘Then get it for me and I will be done with you. There are some pleasures of the flesh that I would like to enjoy and that I can only do when I walk in Farrell’s boots.’
Demurral got up from the chair and walked over to the window. He looked out to Baytown; the glow of the cloud was brighter than ever.
‘It’s not as simple as that. The Keruvim is not here. There was always the chance it could be stolen so I have taken it to Lord Finnesterre at Stregoika Manor. He has promised me to take good care of it and I will collect it from him tomorrow,’ Demurral said, hoping he would not be seen to be lying.
‘You’ll go today and be done with it,’ the Dunamez spat through its teeth, almost bursting out of Farrell in anger. ‘Pyratheon will be here tonight and I wouldn’t want to be the man who kept him waiting.’
‘You are not a man, so what kind of a creature are you?’ Demurral asked, trying to avoid the subject of the Keruvim.
‘One who walks through time, never dying, but never really living. I am a spirit that likes the comfort of flesh and blood. There is something so wonderful about being able to touch, smell and taste. You humans don’t know how wonderfully you were created, you take all those things for granted. I can know them only when I inhabit one of you,’ he paused and looked at Demurral, ‘and you will never know how weary a life it can be.’
‘But what about your powers, what can you do?’ Demurral asked.
‘Is power all you think of? I leave power to others; all I desire is to experience the wonders of this world, to eat and drink and gather around me …’ The creature stopped speaking and, turning Farrell’s head, listened. ‘I think your servant is calling you.’
‘I can hear nothing,’ Demurral replied.
‘He is in the cellar, I can hear him screaming. I think he is about to die,’ the Dunamez said calmly.
Demurral rushed from the room, followed by Farrell, who walked at a stately pace, the creature admiring the passageway.
The sound of muffled screaming could be heard coming from the doorway to the cellar. It was Beadle. Within moments, Demurral had raced down the stairs and was beating at the locked cellar door.
‘Let me in, man. What’s happening?’ he shouted as he banged at the door. There was no reply, only muffled grunts coming from inside.
Demurral kicked at the door lock, which flew open, and stared into the blackness of the cellar. He could sense a presence other than Beadle’s. In the darkness he could hear Beadle groaning and moaning, but he knew there was someone else there, someone very close by.
‘Come out, man, or I’ll draw my sword and come and get you,’ Demurral lied, hoping to call the bluff of whoever was in the darkened room.
From out of the darkness a brandy casket flew through the air and hit him in the chest, sending him reeling backwards to the feet of Farrell’s Dunamez. The creature looked calmly down at him. ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. You can always get another servant, they are so easy to come by,’ it said.
‘But he may die,’
replied Demurral as he got to his feet.
‘Then you had better have my sword,’ the creature said as it handed him Farrell’s rapier. ‘Be careful, you might cut yourself,’ it added sarcastically.
Demurral stepped warily into the pitch-black room. He could hear Beadle sobbing to his left. He looked around the cellar trying to see in the darkness. Ahead of him he knew that there was the doorway to the tunnel, and around the walls boxes and barrels of smuggled contraband were stacked. To his right came a sudden sharp noise of something clawing against the stone wall. Like some giant cat, a black-clad entity leapt from the corner of the room. It took hold of Demurral by the ears and flung him to the ground; he hit the stone floor and dropped the sword, which spun and scraped across the stone slabs into the corner of the room.
Farrell looked on from the safety of the doorway as the creature grabbed Demurral by the head and lifted him from the ground, its cat eyes flashing in the darkness. Demurral grabbed hold of the spectre and tried to push it away. It threw him through the air and he slumped against the stone stairs in the doorway. The metal door to the cellar opened and the creature was gone, the sound of its running echoing through the tunnel in the damp darkness.
*
The path to Whitby twisted from the safety of the forest into the bright wilderness of White Moor. Now exposed to the elements, they tramped like tired sheep with their heads down against the wind along the narrow path between the tufts of thick heather. The afternoon sun was fading in the west, making the light of the cloud that rose from the sea in the east seem even brighter.
Far below them they could see Baytown clinging to the side of the cliff, the high tide washing at the debris from the landslide. In the bay they could see the ship being made ready to sail. Its three masts each carried a lantern strapped to the base like three stars shining in a black sea.
Then, from out of the clear sky to the west, there came a sudden and violent storm of thick, white hailstones. They hit the ground, smashing like giant white eggs against the rocks and beating against the heather. They could be heard shattering against the branches of the trees and bouncing from the pathway. They pelted the three as they walked along, knocking Thomas to the ground.
Kate and Raphah pulled him to his feet and dragged him to the shade of a large rock. There, they huddled together covering their heads with their coats against the icy beating, while the storm grew stronger.
‘We’ll have to get off the moor,’ Kate shouted, trying to make her voice heard above the noise of the storm and battering hailstones. ‘There’s a house down there in the valley, I can see its lights … we could shelter in the barn … we’ll never get to Whitby before nightfall.’
Together they ran down the track from the moor keeping the lights of the house in their sight. Thomas had a growing sense of disquiet. He had been to the house once before, when he was a small child. It was the house of Lord Finnesterre.
The sky cleared and the cloud glowed brighter than the moon as they ran the last few paces to the entrance to Stregoika Manor. It was a beautiful, large, daunting house with seven high chimneys reaching up into the night sky. Wisps of smoke billowed from each one and in the bay window that overlooked the lawned gardens burned a red candle. In the centre of one lawn was a tall stone that looked as though it had forced its way up from the ground to twice the height of a man. It was like some ancient pillar, the mark of a forgotten people, its purpose forgotten to the world.
The house was made of cut stone and from the side looked as if three houses had been joined into one as successive generations expanded the building along with their wealth. On three sides it was surrounded by trees, but to the east it overlooked the sea and the moor. From the front door of the house was a complete and unbroken view of the Vicarage and the mine five miles to the south. The garden of the house was littered with the white, melting hailstones. There was an eerie silence, with not even the sound of birdsong. The glow of the cloud had turned from red to a sullen green; and to the south, far out to sea, the full moon peered over the horizon. As they walked to the door Thomas pulled on Raphah’s coat sleeve.
‘I don’t know if we are doing the right thing. My father told me stories about this house. He said it wasn’t a good place.’ He turned to Kate. ‘You know that, don’t you, Kate?’
‘All I know is that I could do with a warm bed. All we’re going to do is to ask to sleep in his stables, then in the morning we’ll be off to Whitby,’ she replied coldly.
‘We should have done what Crane said and gone to see Rueben, then gone to the boat. It would be over by now and we would be out of this place.’ Thomas had begun to doubt that Riathamus had really appeared. He began to wonder if some wood spirit had tricked them, that it had all been some shared dream. ‘I have a bad feeling, Kate. We’ll stay at the gate – you can go and ask his lordship for room in his stables.’
Thomas and Raphah went to the gate. Raphah bent down by the stone gate post and appeared to hide something in a gap in the dry stone wall. Kate went to the large wooden door that protected the entrance to Stregoika Manor. It was twice as tall and four times as wide as she was and was studded with large black nails driven deep into the wood. It had a brass doorhandle and, set in the middle of the door at arm’s length, was a large doorknocker in the shape of a goat’s head.
Reaching up, she took hold of the doorknocker and gave three loud knocks that clattered through the silence. Kate waited. Presently she heard the sound of someone walking on the tiled floor in heavy boots. The door was opened slowly and there before her was a small man with a red face and white sideburns and an exceedingly wide, friendly smile. He was dressed in a fashionable pair of breeches, a red hunting coat and black riding boots.
‘My goodness, what are you doing out on a night like this?’ he said in a warm voice. ‘You’d better come in; you’ll catch your death.’ He gave Kate a friendly smile; his eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Coming from the house was the smell of coffee and cinnamon; Kate had smelt it only once before, at the Griffin Inn by the market square in Whitby. She had been given a taste from her father’s mug as he sat and talked with the landlord; it was bitter and powdery and coated the roof of her mouth with the flavour of burnt biscuits. On that day she had fallen in love with the strong aromatic smell. It made her think of far-away places, it was exciting, intoxicating and sophisticated. Coffee was a drink for the rich, the thinkers, the artists, and was worth its weight in gold. Here at Stregoika Manor the smell of coffee beckoned her to come in, it spoke of safety and comfort and took away every ounce of fear. She looked into the man’s eyes and finally knew she had found someone who would help them.
‘My friends are at the gate. We’re in terrible trouble. Please can we stay in your stables for the night?’ she said to the man without thinking. She didn’t stop to wonder why the door had not been opened by a housekeeper or other servant.
‘Of course, my dear girl, come in.’ He then shouted to Thomas and Raphah. ‘Come and join your friend. There is room by the fire and food on the stove, come in and get warm.’
His voice sounded friendly and calming. Dark clouds began to come over the sky from the west and moved towards the fire cloud, almost engulfing it. The moon fought to give its light to the world, but soon the thick, dark blanket enveloped the sky. Reluctantly, Thomas nodded to Raphah and they walked to the door of the house. They were welcomed with the same warm smile and as they entered the house the man shook each of their hands with a double handshake.
‘Welcome, welcome to Stregoika Manor. This has been my family home for three hundred years. My ancestors travelled here from a land far to the east, a land of mountains and forests and we have been here ever since.’ He spoke quickly to Raphah, his voice like a creaking gate. ‘We too were once visitors and our family always offer a warm welcome to the stranger at the gate.’ He ushered them into the large ornate hallway. ‘Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Lord Finnesterre. And who do we have here?’ he asked through white te
eth and a beaming smile.
It was Kate who introduced them one by one. She shivered as she spoke and dripped the now melting hailstones over the floor.
‘To the kitchen, I think, before we all end up swimming,’ he said quickly. ‘There’s a fire there and some warm water to get you washed.’ He looked at Raphah. ‘I’ve never met one of your kind before; you’ll have come far and have many stories to tell. After you’re cleaned up and fed we can sit by the fire and you can tell me where you are from and what you are doing here.’
Finnesterre led them to the kitchen of the house. It was a broad room with stone walls and a large stone fireplace as tall as a man. In the hearth a raging fire burnt brightly, flickering against the wall and shooting sparks, smoke and flames up the wide chimney.
‘Stand by the fire, it’ll warm you through,’ he said.
They stood as close as they could to the heat without getting burnt. Their clothes began to steam as the moisture evaporated and it looked as if their clothes were on fire. Thomas stared into the flames as they warmed his face and pulled his skin tighter over his cheekbones. He felt hungry, his mouth was dry, and the smell of the coffee was almost intoxicating as it boiled in the cauldron that was suspended in front of them. The charred pot with its thick black lid bubbled noisily.
‘I like my coffee to boil,’ said Finnesterre. ‘It gives it a smoky flavour.’
He bustled around the kitchen, moving pans and putting bread on the oak table. For the Lord of the Manor he seemed to have done these things many times before. Although the kitchen had been well swept and the cupboards cleaned, there was no sign of any servants. The three gave little attention to what he was doing. They silently stared into the flames, each thinking of what had gone before and what was to come.
Kate dreamt as she looked into the fire. The flickering of the flames allowed her mind to leave that place and to float in another world. She looked upon images of streets and houses; the spire of a great church rose up and then vanished, changing into the swirling sails of a ship. She held her cold hands out towards the flames and was aware of the overpowering feeling of sleep rising up her legs and numbing every muscle.