My room at Mrs. Tellman's home was now paid for by the Mayor’s Office, so I had little to worry about while striving for the results that would result in my payment. It had an adequate bed, a radio, and a bathroom that was only private in that the other room it was adjoined to was not currently occupied. The most advantageous features, however, were a desk with a blotter and lamp at which I was able to make my notes, as well as the building’s convenient proximity to the Greyfield Public Library. The library, I might add, was the same facility that served as the Post Office and presumably the police station, as it was Constable Richards who assigned and stamped my probationary library card.
With these tools and conveniences I was able to further my studies well into the evening, where I made notes of my observations as well as poured over a scrapbook that contained photos of Greyfield taken throughout the past century. Though it seemed to be the focal point of the village, there were very few images of the original estate, the mews, or the wreckage that it had since become.
At the knock on my door I received a silver tray containing a small pot of tea and biscuits, delivered by Justin. He was a fine young man, well groomed, with short blond hair and a rather colourful dress sense. His left ear was pierced, though I doubted he was ever in the navy. Perhaps he just wanted to give off the impression in order to make up for some self-perceived shortcomings, giving everyone else the impression that he appreciated seamen.
“Mum asked me to bring this to you,” he said, setting the tray down next to a few other books I had borrowed from the constable. “She said she reckons ridding the village of Satan’s evil influence must be tiring, and that a good cuppa is the best thing for it.” He smirked at the words that he was probably forced to rehearse and repeat. “Hope you like chocolate bickies.”
“Indubitably.”
He went so far as to serve me, pouring my tea and asking me how I liked it. I noted, however, that he kept glancing over my shoulder at my scratch pad, where my own version of shorthand had scribbled a few cryptic statements, a few mathematical equations, and a crude map of the wreckage’s location.
“Are you having any luck?” he asked, taking two chocolate biscuits from the tray and placing them on a small plate.
“Somewhat,” I replied, in part answering his question and in part thinking aloud. I picked up my pencil and pointed at a circled area on my crude map. “There is some old farming equipment left here,” I said. I paused to sip my tea, then gave him a nod of approval. “It is possible that he stumbled in the overgrowth and cut himself on a lathe and thus, in his hyper-sensitive state induced by his uncertainty, produced in his mind the possibility of a spectral assailant. I shall have to examine his clothing tomorrow to see if there are any rusted flakes present, as the blade of the lathe will have been severely weathered.”
“Oh. So that’s it then? Mystery solved?” Justin asked. I couldn’t help but note an hint of disappointment.
“Well, I suppose that if I wanted to be thorough, and I rightly do, then I’d have to explain the pin-prick on his leg that he referred to as a bite mark.”
“I should think that very few beasts have only one tooth, or would succeed in leaving only the impression of one solitary tooth, especially if it had the hold on him that he’s telling everyone. Makes it sound as though he were locked in the jaws of Cerberus, he does.” Then, after a moment's hesitation; “We should be so lucky.”
“You are not fond of Mr. Coaltree then?” I asked. When he shook his head I pressed further. “Is he not well liked in the village?”
“Oh he is well liked,” Justin said, placing his hand indignantly on his hip. “Just not by me, but then again that is only because he’s decided that, as far as he’s concerned, my ‘type' is not welcome in Greyfield.”
“Magicians?”
Justin shook his head, his exasperation showing that he had obviously grown tired with his magical practice. “No,” he said impatiently. “Tempus, you don’t seem to understand. I’m gay.”
I leaned back in my chair and drew in a quick mental summation of the young lad. I then shook my head. “No. Not at the moment you’re not. You were the other day when you were watching that program on the television, but...”
“You’re not listening,” he insisted, his good-natured smile barely held on by his impatience. “I’m a homosexual.”
I was momentarily taken aback. Not only by his sudden outburst, but by the shame I felt in not being familiar with the term that he seemed so adamant to apply to himself. It certainly bore familiar terms, and I cross-referenced it in my mind with any other similar labels I knew. There was, of course, ‘homo sapien’ - Wise Man. At a stretch there was ‘homo habilis’ - Handy Man. Or ‘homo erectus’ - Upright Man? Australopithecus and Neanderthal seemed to be right out of the question. So what of ‘homo sexual’ - Sexual Man? I immediately surmised that this was a title that one male might give to himself when being boisterous with other males - a method of building one’s ego and subconsciously vying for being the ‘alpha male’. Justin, I assumed, must have been bragging about his libido.
“I see,” I said, uncertain of how to respond. I reckoned that perhaps, if I wanted to be accepted and play along with this game of initiation, I should make my own such claim. “It may surprise you, Justin, but I too am, as you say, ‘homo sexual’.”
I tried not to be offended by how generally surprised he seemed. “Really?”
“Yes, quite. More so in my youth, when I used to associate with a pack of similar rogues as myself, but even today I have to admit that I have lived up to the title.”
“You know, I thought so. Part of me figured you were. This is really quite exciting, if you don't mind me saying. There were plenty of us in London, but around here...”
“Yes, too few, I agree,” I insisted. “I’m glad it pleases you so. However, you tell me that Mr. Coaltree is against those such as ourselves?”
“Extremely. He can be quite crude, actually. He was the reason I left in the first place. I decided to come back though. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of running me out of town.”
“I have to say I’m surprised. I would have thought that Mr. Coaltree would have been quite ‘homo sexual’.” I pondered this a moment. “Perhaps he prefers men?”
Justin did not hold back a strong guttural laugh, patting me on the back as though he appreciated my rumination more than any he had heard in ages. “You’re a good man, Tempus,” he said.
“I bet he is,” a sultry voice stated.
We both turned to see Nicolette standing at my door. She leaned against the door-frame with her arms crossed, dressed in a short skirt and a form-fitting floral top. Her dark curly hair veiled her slender face and disguised her features, except for a piercing gaze.
“Justin, stop harassing the guests. They’re not interested.”
“Don’t be so rude, Nic. Me and Tempus were talking.”
“I doubt he’s interested, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’ll have you know that Tempus is gay too!”
The sultry young woman turned her head and pinned me against the wall with her stare. She was hardly as friendly and accommodating when her mother wasn’t around. “Is this true?” she asked.
I have always found social interactions to be most curious and, above all else, exasperating. Nonetheless, given that Justin had been laughing quite boisterously upon her entry I decided to back up his story by giving a jovial laugh of my own. “Yes,” I guffawed. “Quite gay.”
A wry smile stretched across her features. She stepped into my room with a walk unlike anything I had seen before. “This will be a challenge.”
“Oh knock it off, Nic,” Justin protested. “You’re not going to change him.”
“Quite right,” I maintained. “I am quite gay at the moment.”
Her eyes lit up. “At the moment?” Then, over her shoulder she spoke flatly to her sibling. “Leave the room, J
ustin.”
Although he seemed enraged he nonetheless complied, as though this were an act repeated one too many times for his own liking. “Don’t let her get to you,” he said before leaving. “She does this to all the guests.”
She slammed the door shut behind him, then sauntered back over toward me. Upon reaching my desk she swivelled my chair around so that I faced her, then placed herself upon my lap, her legs straddling me on either side. I was made a bit uncomfortable, to say the least.
“If you do this to all the guests...” I began, “...then I don’t see how they ever return to your establishment.”
“Oh they do,” she said, cupping my cheeks with her palms. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Nicolette leaned back, reaching into her impossibly tight skirt and nonetheless producing a small flask. I did not know what the contents were, but she poured a measure or two into my cup of tea.
“I must admit,” I said, attempting to speak clearly, “that I perhaps have embellished the truth. A little.”
She took my cup of tea and brought it to my lips. I was always told it was rude to dismiss the services of a gracious host, so felt as though I had little choice but to partake. Within moments odd sensations - unknown chemical reactions - filled me. Terribly embarrassing business, I assure you. After I had sipped it she did the same.
“Go on,” she nudged, bidding me to continue the train of thought that had since been derailed.
“Well, that is...I am perhaps...well...not the ‘homo sexual’ that I have perpetuated myself to be.”
“Really?” she asked, placing the cup down gingerly upon the tray. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”
My breathing had suddenly increased, and the racing of my own heart filled my ears. “I only said it for Justin. To make him feel...well...perhaps...I...”
Her attention was fully placed upon my eyes. I locked on as they were the only thing in the room that wasn't swaying. “That,” she began, “is perhaps the most kind and accommodating thing anyone has ever done. Not many men would say that to make my brother feel...well...whatever it is that he feels.”
“Well I thank you for your understanding,” I replied, my head lulling. “In truth, well...my experiences at...as he calls it...'homo sexuality' are...at best...relatively unremarkable. Oh...when did you get the badger?”
Her palm returned my face back towards her gaze. “Well then,” she said, drawing her lips to mine. “That is the best place to start.”
CHAPTER SIX
Daedalian Muse Page 5