Down the Shrinking Hole

by Jamie Ott

  The kitchen was tiny, just like every other room in the castle. It was amazing, to Starr, that they managed to provide feasts, as they did. To her right, there was a large wooden table that took up most of the space.

  A shadow flickered at the right end of the room. Starr walked toward it.

  In the left corner, instead of a wall, there was an even smaller archway.

  She ducked under it and saw a tightly confined stairway, down which, there was a dim flicker of what must have been candle light.

  Then she heard a couple of voices that sounded small but quickly grew louder. Starr knew that, whoever they were, they were getting closer, and were headed her way.

  Immediately, she ducked out of the stairwell, tip toed out of kitchen, and hid in the shadows just outside of the archway.

  Hard, she focused on the black slate while staring at the floor.

  She looked up, in time, to see Madam Balaji and Adam walked past her without stopping. Starr continued focusing until she heard a door close from somewhere above.

  She walked back through the kitchen and ducked into the stairwell. It was now pitch black, for the candle light had been extinguished.

  Quickly, she ran down the steps, but, the further down, the darker it got until it was even too dark for her supernatural eyes.

  Hands held out, she stepped off onto a flat stone surface and walked straight into a wall. Reaching out, to either sides of her body, she felt another wall to her right, and a space to her left.

  Still holding her hands out, she walked into the dark space to her left.

  Leaning her right shoulder on a stone wall, she carefully stepped her way across the floor until she felt a stiff wooden surface.

  Feeling around the middle, she groped the handle of the door, but it was dead bolted.

  She leaned her head against it, trying to hear sounds on the other side, but it was dead silent.

  Normally, opening a locked door would be the equivalent to pulling the tab off of a soda can, but she decided it was better to go to bed. Her hostess and hosts had been more than good to her, and she hoped to maintain friendly relations with them, so why ruin it by snooping?

  Parker Manor

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, when Starr went down to breakfast, the butler, whom she’d never met before, served her a letter on a silver platter.

  She tore open the envelope, using the silver letter opener, and then set it back onto the platter.

  “Dearest Starr,

  Please join me, at my castle, for a friendly assault.

  P.S. My car will arrive to pick you up at around ten ‘o’ clock.

  Yours,

  Parker, B.”

  “Thank you,” said Starr.

  The butler bowed and then walked off.

  That day, she would break-fast alone, for Madam Balaji, Adam, Bulgari, and Mitch were nowhere to be seen.

  She sat down and the lady, from the day before, poured her a cup of tea, and served her waffles and potatoes.

  Ten minutes later, there was a honking noise from outside the castle.

  “Madam,” called the butler, “your ride awaits.”

  The ride to parkers was an hour of laborious gear grinding up hills, and down windy, winding roads. After bumping up and down, in her seat, for about an hour, Starr got really annoyed at the gravel roads that made it impossible for them to drive faster.

  Parker’s driver was named Peter, but that was all she had time to learn from him, as the noise from driving the old car made it impossible to converse.

  Finally, the green tip of a conical roof appeared in between two peaks ahead. Slowly, the house came into view. It was a large contemporary brick house that was almost as large as the Castel de Negru.

  As she stepped out of the car, Parker, already in his fencing costume, opened the door and walked down the steps.

  With a large smile on his face, he said, “Well, well, well, I thought you’d never make it!” he smiled, grabbed her hand, bowed and kissed. “Come in,” he said excitedly.

  “Sit, sit, sit!” he pranced about in his white fencing costume. “Would you like some tea to freshen up from your ride?”

  He must have been about thirty years old, when he was turned, for she could see little wrinkles at corners of his brown eyes as he smiled.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs. Why don’t we just get started?”

  “Okay, come, follow me,” he beckoned with his hand.

  She followed Parker through a sitting room, through the kitchen, through a game room, and into a small gym.

  Across the middle of the room was a long, four foot wide platform.

  “For starters, this is called a piste,” he said as he stepped onto the platform. “We only fight here so we don’t destroy my floor, and so we don’t lose points.”

  Then he walked to the corner of the room where a barrage of swords hung on the wall. After a moment of contemplation, he pulled the longest and heaviest looking sword.

  “For today, and because it is simpler, we will start with a basic game of epee assault. You’ll notice my swords are nearly the same as what we used the other night. As you get better, we’ll try other forms, like foil and sabre which require a bit more skill.

  Now, there are a few basic rules to the game of epee fencing: 1. You stay on the strip; 2. Each round is three minutes long; 3. You must get five touches to technically win. 4. A touch, anywhere on the body, counts. Is that clear?”

  “I thought it was just the torso that counted towards points?”

  “No, that is something called foil fencing. For that, we’d use, this sword,” he held a long light sword that waivered, sending off gleams from the sunlight through the window.

  He put down the sword and walked to the piste; Starr followed.

  “Okay, you over there. Now stand like this, en garde!” he shouted.

  Parker raised his sword as he made a box shape with his left hand in the air. He place his feet in an almost plié stance, with his toes pointed, diagonally, away from each other.

  “This is how you move forward, and this, back. Remember to keep your back straight and arm upward, chest to the side, let’s go!” he made toward Starr in a lunge forward motion.

  Instinctively, Starr sidestepped, as she did before, but she went too far to the left, and touched outside the piste.

  “No, start over,” he said. “En garde!”

  For a few moments, they moved forward and back together, Parker trying to teach Starr good posture and balance.

  After a while, Starr felt like she was back in ballet. She put her front foot en pointe and proceeded back and forth, in what was similar to a pas, pas, a la seconde, and faille landing en releve; or step forward, step backward, side step left and/or right, lunged up and, and then landing on the ball, or balls, of her feet.

  Fencing required much physical balance, like ballet or yoga, and Starr found herself getting impatient, quickly.

  “Ahhh, this is not a dance class, Starr, like this,” and he swung his sword, exuberantly, skyward as he flung his foot forward and stepped fast.

  “Touche!” he shouted in French – he got the first hit.

  They tumbled through a few rounds, but Starr knew she could get it; it would just take getting used to the new fighting format. She’d been on her own for so long that, even in martial arts, she’d lost form, and become sloppy, and more of a street fighter.

 

  Later, they sat on an outdoor dais and ate a raw blood pudding.

  “You did really well, today, Starr. Your posture and stance needs much work, but you could be good. You are a fighter, you’ve got instinct.”

  Starr merely smiled; she really liked the sport. It was different than other forms of fighting; it was calculating and thoughtful, almost like a game of chess.

  “Yes, it brings a side of fighting that, sometimes, doesn’t get enough consideration. In other art forms, you may discover an opponent’s weakne
sses, but that isn’t your focus. Your focus is only acting on the moment, defensively and offensively. When working with swords, be they samarai or sabre, you are contemplating, anticipating, and learning in a matter of seconds, how to defeat your opponent; it requires much more scrutiny. More importantly, and even more valuable, is that the information you learn, in the sword play, hardly changes, from battle-to-battle; it is information that you can use to win the war as well as the fight. Changing our fight is like changing ourselves, and, similar to therapy, it doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “I think that’s what I liked about it. I felt like I was really learning about me, and about you, about how we think alike, and how we think differently. I felt like my personality was coming out in the way I sought to hit you.”

  “Exactly, Starr!”

  They ate in silence for a moment.

  “Can I ask you a serious question?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Can you tell me more about why the Order of Negru despises The Council? I just got the feeling that Madam Balaji isn’t telling me everything.”

  “Well, I don’t want to say bad things about other people in my circle because I enjoy them very much. I do not wish to lose any of them, and I do not wish to be excluded from our privileged circle. I will say this much, however, the Order is old and, with it, comes old rites.”

  “Rites?” said Starr, her brain swimming with ideas, images of pyres and human sacrifice.

  “I don’t participate in the rites because I do not agree with them. Surely, we should be past all this superstitious nonsense, like pleasing gods,” he took a sip of his tea. “The Council wishes to restrain groups from practicing pagan rites. In a way, I sort of agree, as this is the 21st century; people need to stop acting barbaric.”

  “What kind of rites? They must be pretty bad?”

  “Well, I don’t know, really, as I’ve never been invited. I think because it is obvious how I feel about them, but I do know that some of them practice savagery and brutality.”

  “And they do these things to please pagan gods?”

  “Well, mostly, they do it for fun. I doubt any of them really believe in the rituals, unless they are from third world countries.”

  Starr didn’t respond because she was remembering the strange noises in the castle.

  “If I may offer some advice, and I know it is not my place, still, you must listen to me, Starr,” and he looked her straight in the eyes. “Do not go looking for trouble. Ignore anything strange that you may see. If you only want to be left alone, I suggest you enjoy your time here, and then leave. If you stay, you will be dragged into a political war that is destined to become bloody.”

  When Starr said nothing, he asked, “What other strange things have you noticed?”

  “I haven’t noticed anything else,” she said honestly. “I have another question: Was Vlad the Impaler a vampire?”

  “Pfuugh, ahuh…” he splurted into his tea. “Oh my gosh, oh, hahaha,” he laughed. “No he was not; he was a psycho who was so bloody that people assumed he must have been, but he was not. Even back then, The Council would not have tolerated such a demon.”

  “Back then?”

  “Yes, Starr. The Council is old. I heard the very first members were a couple of vampire hunters from the fourth century. When they, themselves, got bit, they realized that we weren’t mindless, bloody, soul-less things, but they still continued to hunt; they hunted vampires with god complexes, and especially those who were crazed, vamped out, zombies. Essentially, they still sought to protect humans, while allowing the more civilized vampires to remain.”

  After another cup of tea, Starr asked, “Can I come back tomorrow?”

  “Well, I’m so happy you want to come back,” he smiled and tapped her hand. “I would love for you to, but tomorrow is the hunt. I’m sure Madam Balaji will have something for you to do.”

  The Hunt

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Starr was awakened by a commotion outside her window. Sitting up in bed, she rubbed her eyes.

  The sound of a large motor and of something being dragged across concrete vibrated through the walls.

  She stood up and looked out of the window.

  A large tractor was dragging a Ferris wheel across the lawn, and had cut a large corner of the patio when it tipped over a bit.

  Behind the Ferris wheel followed a semi-truck that parked on the grass, followed by another.

  A couple people left the trucks cabs, opened the beds, and began hauling large items out.

  She dressed and went down for breakfast, but, once again, she ate alone.

  Unable to find anything to do, Starr decided to help out in the kitchen.

  It was a tight squeeze with seven of them working around the table, and the walls no more than three feet behind them.

  Starr was put to work, slicing, peeling, and cutting potatoes, tomatoes, and everything else that came from the garden.

  When she’d finished them, Starr moved onto kneading dough, for rolls, and making fresh pasta from egg and flour.

  There was so much to do that time, literally, flew by. She worked straight through until Nina came to tell her she’d laid out another dress.

  After a shower, she slipped into the grey finely spun angora dress with slip underneath. She liked the way the simple fuzzy grey conformed to her body; its length accentuated her torso, making her hips appear more shapely.

  Suddenly, a ray of yellow light bled into her room, through the small window.

  She looked through and saw that the lights of the Ferris wheel had been turned on. To her left, a carousel had been setup, as had a miniature game strip: there were rows of stuffed animals, and a couple attempted to shoot a duck with an old bb gun.

  Back downstairs, Madam Balaji stopped her and asked her to help carry food trays into the hall.

  As she entered, carrying a four foot wide platter, she found numerous guests were there that she’d never seen before, not even the other night.

  After she’d transferred the last tray, she didn’t know what to do because she didn’t know anyone, so she decided to simply go around and introduce herself.

  In the middle of the crowd was a group of men and women chatting. Starr walked up and was about to say when a man in a silvery tuxedo said, “Well here’s our savage killing demon!”

  Starr froze with her mouth slightly opened.

  “Don’t worry,” said a woman in a blue sequined gown. “None of us liked those vampires. They gave us all a bad name.”

  “Like a stray cat colony, they needed to be put down before they got really nasty. Who made those vagrants anyways?” asked the man in silver, snidely.

  “I believe it was a vampire by the name of Sherlock. If rumor is correct, he fell in love with a Gypsy, and so on and so forth,” a man with a bow tie said as he sipped his wine.

  Finding her voice, Starr replied, “Well, I’m glad no one is angry with me, but I would have avoided killing them, if I could.”

  “Yes, but they are very territorial. When they saw you in their town, they were angered,” said the man with a bow tie. “They would have come after you, be you human or no.”

  Tired of the conversation, she went outside where there was a lot of laughing and screaming.

  She wandered over to a large game of Whack a Mole, animal heads that popped out of slots at different times. With the large mallet in hand, she whacked them all, in under two minutes.

  How easy these games were with her preternatural strength.

  However, her aim wasn’t so good, as she soon discovered at the Carnival Duck game. The little white plastic with a yellow beak scurried across a shelf; someone had somehow sped it up.

  Starr missed every single shot.

  Damn!

  “Ah, Starr, you can’t be perfect at everything,” said Bulgari, who’d walked up behind her.

  “Stand aside,” he said, sticking his cigarette in his mouth and holding the bb gun up to his
shoulder.

  “Hold it more like this,” she watched as he positioned his left hand lower on the barrel, “this keeps it more balanced. Look down the barrel, the stock to the bead, and line it with your target and,” he pressed the trigger and shot the duck.

  “Quack, quack, quack,” the plastic shouted.

  Bulgari chose the stuffed imitation duck, which he gave to Starr.

  “What’s that pin you’re wearing,” she asked, eyeing a dark blue sapphire that glittered on his jacket lapel. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I see someone I must say hi to, if you excuse me,” he bowed slightly, and walked off.

  She walked through the patio toward the pyre where several goats were hanging. In front of the pyre, several tables of meat had been laid out, of which, Starr helped herself.

  After her third serving, she walked back inside.

  As she was about to enter the Great Hall again, she heard music coming from further down. People were standing outside a room she hadn’t seen yet.

  She walked toward them and found a large ballroom, in which, a couple dozen people were dancing to old music, performed by a small quartet and mini concert piano that was squeezed tightly in the far corner.

  “Would you like to dance?” asked a man in a red army jacket that looked to be from English colonial times.

  “No, I can’t. I don’t know how to do these old dances.”

  “Come, come, if you’re going to hang around us old folks, you gotta learn to dance,” he insisted with a smile.

  After allowing the man to teach her for an hour or so, she wandered back out into the Great Hall where a bar had been set up.