by A R Davis
The room smelled musty and oily; it had been a long time since she had bathed or been bathed. Young Aubrey wasn’t sure if any of the servants bothered to come down here besides to deliver her meals. He especially doubted that his father ever came here. Most of the time, Lord Aubrey acted as though Young Aubrey’s mother never existed and Young Aubrey had just sprung into being because that was the Aubrey way. Young Aubrey never told his father that he went down to see his mother, and he dreaded what his father would say if he did. There was never talk of love in the Aubrey manor. They spoke only of duty and honor, but Young Aubrey could not help but love his mother, for she never expected anything from him.
“This is for you,” Young Aubrey said, pushing the plate of pastries towards her.
She didn’t stare down at it. In fact, she acted as though nothing had happened. Young Aubrey was used to this, but he was rather hoping that she would acknowledge him by now.
“If you don’t like them, I can always get you something else.”
This time the clicking stopped. Very slowly, his mother inclined her head to the ground. She stared at the pastries as though they were an interesting specimen. She blinked a few times, and then, to his sheer delight, she lifted the plate from the floor and placed it in her lap. With her nimble fingers, she plucked up a pastry and nibbled on the end. He watched as she licked the powder from her lips.
But even then she would not look at him.
“I’m going on the hunt today,” he began. “This will be the start of my tests to become Lord Aubrey.” He smiled, but it made his mouth feel funny. “And soon, I’ll be able to get you out of here. You’ll have your own room and be properly cared for. The servants will have to listen to me. Everyone will.” He swallowed. “Everyone will listen to me.” Until I am dead and buried in the Aubrey ground. “I have been preparing for this day for a long time. You know that, right? I feel like I’ve spoken about it to you for years and years. Do you remember how eager I was to sit in Father’s chair?” He laughed weakly. “I was such a silly boy with silly boy dreams. Somehow, though, I still feel like I am a boy. Isn’t that so very strange?” His mother continued to eat. “Just a boy in a man’s flesh.” He balled his hands into fists. “And when I see that chair, I only see my death.” He let those words hang in the air around them.
His mother sucked the sugar off her fingers. She placed the barren plate on the floor and then went back to her knitting, making no remark about any of his concerns. The clicking of the needles was like the sound of ants marching into his brain.
“Would you care if I died?” he asked, though he knew she would not answer. “Would you care if your son was gone or if the legacy was left unfulfilled? Maybe you wouldn’t care either way. But I’d like to think that some part of you would…mourn.” He stared at the yarn in his mother’s lap—bright blue like a summer’s day. “I think you would mourn for me.”
Young Aubrey wanted to reach out and touch her hand. He wondered if it would be as dusty as it looked or if there was smoothness to it. His hands remained in fists while hers whiled away as if she had not a care in the world.
“Will you look at me before I go?” he asked. “I want you to see me as your boy for the last time. I want you to at least have that.” He searched her expressionless face—the mottled skin around her left eye, the smooth curve of her right. Her eyes did not leave her knitting just as his hands did not leave his side.
“Please,” he said softly, “look at me.”
He waited and waited as he always did before he left. This was her last chance, and she was running out of time. Soon he would be gone, and he would return as someone else entirely.
“Mother?”
The ants marched on.
Chapter 5
The sun peaked over the horizon like a spy peering over a windowsill. It watched as the people of Leola stretched and yawned before being roused from their beds. Lord Aubrey and his men spent the morning getting dressed and prepared for the hunt. By this time, Young Aubrey was safely in his room being helped into his leather trousers. When all was ready, they set out on horseback toward the forest border. The guardsmen, led by Captain Yendel, brought two hunting dogs that padded alongside the horses obediently. They rode through the relatively empty streets; one or two passers-by looked in awe at Lord Aubrey, who smiled down at them and gave a friendly wave. Looking up, Young Aubrey could see a few faces with flattened noses through the windows—smashing their faces against the glass to get a good look at their procession. Children ducked behind water barrels and giggled into their hands when they were spotted by Lord Aubrey. Only one of them was brave enough to say, “G’day, muh’Lord.”
This will all be mine, Young Aubrey thought as he looked all around him. Every last inch of this place. To an outsider, it wouldn’t seem like much. To Young Aubrey, it was his own small piece of the world.
A quarter of an hour later, they reached the forest. Here, they dismounted; it would be easier to hunt on foot than on horseback. One of the dogs sat next to Young Aubrey and panted in the summer heat. The other sat by his father. Before entering the forest, Lord Aubrey clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Make me proud, son,” he said.
“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you, Father,” Young Aubrey replied.
They set out into the forest with the dogs in the lead. Captain Yendel and his men followed shortly after, allowing Young Aubrey and his father some breathing room. They diverted from the path after the buildings behind them were completely eclipsed by the trees.
Young Aubrey knew he was supposed to be paying attention to his dog’s signals, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his mother. Even after I begged her, he thought, she would not look at me. Why does she treat me as though I was the one that put her there? Is it because I am my father’s son? How can she not see how much I care for her, how I would never hurt her like my father hurt her?
Beside him, his father was making the same careful stride over tree roots and foliage. Both sets of boots crushed the sparse grass and dead leaves beneath them. Young Aubrey wished he would go away; he had already claimed a deer head and the seat. He did not need another.
Above them, the birds only made the occasional chirp. Below, the dogs sniffed and scratched at the ground. There was a moment of promise when Young Aubrey’s mutt paused by a tree, but then he was let down when the damn beast lifted its hind leg. It stared stupidly at him. Young Aubrey bristled when he heard the sound of his father’s muffled laughter.
Finally, after an hour of silent walking, Young Aubrey’s dog froze and pointed straight ahead. In the distance, Young Aubrey could see a stag with a magnificent set of antlers. Its head was bent to the ground as it fed. With his heart beating furiously, he raised his rifle eye-level and took a few deep breaths.
Before he could pull the trigger, however, the deer was startled, as though it knew it was in direct line of a rifle. Young Aubrey desperately tried to adjust his aim, but the deer burst into a sprint.
Young Aubrey chased after it with his dog at his heels. He heard his father call for him, but he would not obey. Nothing was going to rob him of his moment. Frantically, he tore through the low-hanging branches. His lungs were aflame when he reached the spot he last saw the deer.
“Come on, you stupid beast,” he said through gritted teeth. He nudged the dog with his foot. “Help me find it.”
The dog took a step forward.
Then it let out a horrible, high-pitched howl.
“Shut up!” Young Aubrey said, nudging the dog again. “You’re going to scare –”
The dog quickly bounded back the way it came, its tail between its legs.
Young Aubrey swore through his teeth as he stared after his dog.
Well, this was certainly a wonderful start.
Instead of going back to his father and Captain Yendel, Young Aubrey moved forward. He couldn’t stomach the thought of having to return with neither a deer nor a dog. He would find the deer on his own
, and perhaps he would look all the better for it. Yet as he walked on, he saw no sign of any deer, or any animal for that matter. Trees and bushes were all that stretched out before him.
All was still.
It was eerie, as though he was walking through a nightmare in which he was the only being that existed. He almost wanted to shout just to prove that he wasn’t. He wiped the slow build of sweat from his face. Never before had his heartbeat sounded so loud in his ears.
Young Aubrey held the rifle out in front of him and parted the shrubbery with the barrel. He wasn’t sure, but he swore he could hear a wet, tearing sound that grew louder the farther he walked. And as he came closer, he heard something else…
An unhuman growl.
He wanted to tell himself that he was not afraid, but soon the terrible noises seemed to fill the forest air, replacing the natural with the unnatural. His gut twisted and churned the biscuit he had eaten for breakfast. But like a moth to the flame, he was drawn to the sounds.
A violent snapping made him jump.
Whatever had made that noise was around the oak tree in front of him.
Did he dare go around to look?
He didn’t think he had much of a choice. Besides, he had his rifle, and he knew he was a good shot.
There was nothing to be afraid of.
Nothing.
As slowly as his feet would allow, he turned the corner of the oak tree.
*
Valerie wiped the sweat off her brow as she hung the last of the laundry on the line. The different colors of the skirts and tunics rippled in the dawn light. To Valerie, it was almost the perfect image of summer. All she needed was the tartness of apples on her tongue to complete it.
Her father was already at work. He usually left at dawn or later when his hangover from the night before subsided. He was still sore with her after her encounter in the forest. The night before, he kept looking as though he was about to tell her he forbid her visits. He asked her about the strange man again, but she merely said she had already told him all she knew, that she wasn’t hurt, and that if he didn’t eat his supper it was likely to get cold. She could feel his displeasure the whole time she was cooking, but she held her tongue.
It was not she who spread the rumor about a murderer. She had only spoken of a cloaked man in the forest. She didn’t dare say that she had helped him because that would only lead to more questions, and she had already received plenty. Didn’t you know? Weren’t you frightened? Valerie answered as politely as she could with the thick-in-the-head manner she was accustomed to. She would not go to the execution when they found him. She supposed she would never know if he was really a murderer or not.
Valerie also did not tell her father about the coin bag she hid under her bed. She told herself that it was only going to be used for emergencies. Sometimes, however, she could not stop herself from fantasizing. I could go somewhere with this money, she thought. I could take a small trip to Merrion, only for a few days. I would come back. She did not like to think of herself as a selfish person. When her father returned from work (or the pub), she felt shame dust her skin.
Valerie had her father’s tunic in her hands and the pins between her teeth. She was about to hang it up, but a banging sound behind her startled her. She turned to see a fellow gunsmith standing there, his brow beaded with sweat and oil. His face was pale and his eyes were wide.
She spat the pins out of her mouth and was about to ask what he was doing there.
“Come quick,” he said. “It’s your father.”
Two gunsmiths led her shaking, bleeding father into the sitting room. Valerie kept asking what had happened, but her ears seemed to be filled with a loud buzzing and she couldn’t hear the answer. There was so much blood; it trailed all the way to the front door and maybe even outside, too, but Valerie was too much in a panic to check. She didn’t even know why she would want to. Where was the blood coming from? Her father’s face was pale white and he was trembling so much that it was hard to see him properly. The two smiths placed him on the couch.
“We fetched the doctor,” one of them was saying to Valerie. “We were going to bring him over there, but we didn’t think he would make it that far. So we brought him here.”
Valerie knelt beside her father. “Papa, what happened?” She was trying not to shout, trying not to cry, but she could feel her face growing hot from the effort.
Mr. Mason raised his right hand.
Or what was left of it.
The fingers were completely gone from what Valerie could tell. What remained was wrapped several times with oily cloths, and even with all that, blood was still drooling out of the end.
“What happened?” Valerie asked. It did not seem to have come out like a question, more like a demand.
“Accident,” Mr. Mason said, looking as though he was struggling to stay awake. “Kno-knocked my candle over. In the powder.”
Valerie felt useless and afraid, and there was so much blood; she began to feel sick. All she could do was watch her father bleed and bleed and bleed.
“V-Valerie, listen to me,” Mr. Mason said, forcing her to look at him. “I need you to take my belt and, and tie it around the – the –” With his good hand, he pointed to his injury. “It will stop the bleeding. Until the doctor comes.”
Valerie nodded and did as she was told.
“Make sure you tie it t-tight.” She nodded again and did the best she could.
“You’re doing very well,” her father said in a hoarse whisper. “Now, I n-need you to get a bottle of gin. To clean this.” He glanced at his stump.
Valerie shook her head. She could not move. She could not leave him.
“It’s all right, honey. You can do it.”
Valerie gathered what little strength was left in her and got unsteadily to her feet. Quickly, she went to her father’s office and walked around the desk. She opened the drawer where he usually kept his drinks and pulled out the gin. When she returned to the sitting room, the three smiths surrounded her father, asking him what they could do.
“Keep me awake,” her father said.
Valerie knelt back beside him and uncorked the bottle. She was about to pour it over her father’s wound when he stopped her.
“You have to – to unwrap it, first.”
She hesitated. It was her turn to start trembling as though a frigid wind was blowing into the room. I don’t want to see, she thought. I don’t want to see. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.
“We can do that –” one of the smiths said.
Her father waved him off. “She can. Go ahead. It’s all right.”
She carefully placed the bottle on the floor. With clumsy fingers, she slowly unraveled the cleaning cloths from around her father’s wound, taking deep breaths through her nose the entire time. She wished the doctor was here already.
When it was completely exposed, Valerie nearly vomited. All that remained of her father’s fingers was blackened skin and bits of bone. She grabbed the neck of the bottle so tightly she thought she would break it. And then, so she would neither have to see nor think about it anymore, she doused her father’s wound with gin. Mr. Mason hissed and gritted his teeth and thrashed a bit on the couch. Valerie shut her eyes at the noise he made and wished that it would all just end. Please let it end.
When it was done, Valerie waited for her father to give more instructions. After a moment of silence she asked, “What now, Papa?” in a weak voice.
“We wait,” he said.
Valerie did her best to bite back the tears but a few escaped.
“You did g-good,” her father said. “I’m proud of you. It’s, it’s going to, to be all right, Valerie. It’s going to be – to be all right.”
Valerie held on to her father’s good hand as they waited. I won’t lose you, she thought determinedly as she looked into his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Mason said. “I’m sorry.”
*
Young Aubrey wanted to escape hi
s body. He was sure his eyes were wrong—that he was not actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. But there it was on the ground, all bloody and unbelievable.
A demon in a black cloak hunched over a dead man. Its jagged teeth were all Young Aubrey could see as they ripped into the neck and pulled out the muscles and arteries. Blood splashed down the demon’s chin and painted its lips like that of a whore. It let out an ugly growl that made the hairs on the back of Young Aubrey’s neck stand on end.
He opened his mouth to scream but all that came out was a faint choking sound. The gun was in his hands, but he had completely forgotten how to use it. He thought for a second that he could quietly turn around and run back to Captain Yendel and his father.
Then the monster looked up.
Young Aubrey had enough time to see blood and bits of flesh clinging to its fangs. He could not see the demon’s eyes, but he could feel the chill of its predatory stare. For that one moment, Young Aubrey felt like a small, pitiful animal that existed only as a means of feeding the demon.
He ran blindly, wildly, away. He took one large gulp of air and screamed, “Help!” Some part of him knew it was useless. Some part of him knew that Captain Yendel and his father would not reach him in time. He clung to the rifle in his hands as though it would spring to life and save him. “Please, please!” he shouted, though he knew not if he were pleading to the monster or his father. He couldn’t hear anyone calling back for him, and he wondered if he was truly alone.
Ahead of him, the monster stood, waiting.
Young Aubrey skidded to a clumsy stop.
Where could he go?
What could he do?
I will not rot in a grave after all, he thought wildly. I will rot in the belly of this beast.
The demon came toward him quickly—as quick as he could blink. But why did everything feel so sluggish? Even his heart pounded a steady rhythm in his ears. As the monster raised its hand, Young Aubrey raised his rifle.
He did not have the chance to pull the trigger.
A sharp, blinding pain cut through the right half of his face. He felt the monster’s claw dig into his skin, slashing the corner of his right eye. He fell to the ground, screaming until the whole world was filled with darkness, blood, and screams. Hot blood covered his fingers, and a he thought, It’s my blood…mine, before he was buried by his pain.