Defiled Earth and other tales Page 13

  I could feel my teeth grinding. “You opened my personal mail?” I snatched the folded cartridge paper from her hand and cast my eye over it quickly. It was a contract requiring my signature for the sale of the family retreat in Devon.

  Aunt Elizabeth wore her superior expression now and she puffed out her chest out like a preening peacock. “I think the trustees overseeing the execution of your father’s will, shall be very interested to hear how you’re planning to sell off part of the Renshaw portfolio. Especially as any sale of property has to meet with their unanimous approval.” She took a step towards me and jabbed her finger at my chest. “You haven’t consulted them, have you?”

  “Why you scheming bitch!”

  Two things happened next. Each within a millisecond of each other. Elizabeth, slapped me across the cheek and a blurry, white shape landed on her from nowhere ... or perhaps I should say—Neverwhere.

  Cyprian uttered a leonine snarl as the full force of her body flattened Elizabeth to the ground. My Aunt was trying to fend off the attack with her arms, but Cyprian batted them away dismissively.

  “Cyprian. No.” I managed to shout. An echo of Mandrake’s master-voice from the first time she’d reached out to me. Unlike that day, it had no effect. I lunged forward and put my arm round the Lamian’s neck, jerking her backwards. She struggled against me with feral might as she writhed in my arm-lock.

  I tried a different strategy. “Hey, calm down, OK? Just relax. Everyone’s just going to be cool about everything. We’re all friends here.” I sighed as I felt Cyprian’s muscles lose their tension. She allowed me to pull her gently to one side, her fangs receding already and her black eyes fading to white.

  Elizabeth’s eyes, on the other hand, were closed. There were scratch marks on her neck, but no other sign of trauma. I breathed out loudly, then paused.

  She looked so still. Her face had no colour and I couldn’t see her chest rising. This didn’t look good at all.

  “Call an ambulance,” I said to Cyprian. Then, realising she didn’t even know how to use a phone, I reached for the receiver myself, all the time watching her.

  “Yes, ambulance please,” I said. “I think my Aunt’s had a heart attack.”

  Chapter 7

  I got back from the hospital in the early hours. Aunt Elizabeth was pronounced dead on arrival. There was nothing they could do for her.

  Complications regarding her death meant there would be a post mortem. The scratch marks on her neck were hard to explain and looked extremely suspicious. On my way out of the ward I was taken to one side by a detective and asked to report to the police station the next day.

  “We have one or two questions,” she said, giving me a sidelong look.

  I bet you have, I thought.

  The house was quiet as I walked through the hallway. It had been a minor stroke of fortune that Mrs Halfin had gone home before the tragic event occurred, but in the long run I knew the lack of witnesses wouldn’t be enough to stop the wheels of justice turning. The police would make further enquiries; family, friends. I couldn’t guarantee that the Wilshaw Club would keep their mouths shut about Cyprian. It’s one thing to swear loyalty when nothing’s at stake, but with the authorities now involved, it was going to be too much to ask. God knows, Oscar had enough reason to hand me to the police on a plate. A mighty pickle indeed, as my Grandfather would have said.

  I needed a stiff drink. But I needed to find Cyprian more. I went upstairs to her room and found the door ajar. I could see her lying on the bed in repose. By her steady, deep breathing I surmised that she was sleeping. But with her highly attuned senses, I couldn’t be sure she didn’t detect my presence. I decided to take the situation at face value and let her rest. Three or four hours more wouldn’t change anything, and I needed time to think.

  Downstairs, I poured myself a scotch and downed it in one. Another followed in quick succession. I sat in the armchair staring at the empty fireplace again, the only sound being the ticking of the grandfather clock. I heard each second pass and envisioned the scales of justice tipping gradually toward my guilt.

  I’d made selfish choices all of my life, living it like the bastard hedonist I was. It was time I made a responsible decision—a consideration of the lesser of evils. The only choices I could see were stark: I could tell the truth, condemning Cyprian and making myself an accomplice to murder. The thought of her being imprisoned, or studied by scientists in a secure facility was more than either of us would be able to bear. They would treat her like an animal. I couldn’t have that.

  What if I tried to cover things up? Even if I managed to fool everybody, there was still the problem of Cyprian’s feral nature. I had to accept there was no prospect of her reigning it in. It would only be a matter of time before someone else was hurt.

  Mandrake and Frammery’s words reverberated in my mind. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t know if I had the stomach to act. Maybe a few more scotches would help.

  ~ ~ ~

  Morning had not yet broken as I stepped softly into Cyprian’s room. Moonlight cascaded in from an open skylight, illuminating her reposed form.

  She was the goddess Freya again, lying peacefully in her magnificence.

  I nearly walked back out of the room, but the Renshaw fortitude, passed down from the barons of ancient England, steeled my resolve with its wilder-land certainty.

  The Purdey I carried was loaded and felt like a tonne-weight in my hands. As I raised it, I saw the twin barrels wavering from side to side in drunken rebellion. Tears streamed from my eyes as I took aim at her heart.

  I gradually applied pressure to the triggers, pound by excruciating pound.

  Whether it was my sobbing, or that she had feigned sleep all along I didn’t know, but her eyes opened at that dreadful moment. We stared at each other. Seconds ticked by as sweat greased my trigger fingers.

  She never uttered a sound, but the look in her eyes told me all that I needed to know. She reached up slowly, took hold of the muzzle and pulled it gently downwards until it rested on her chest. She too was crying.

  Salty rivulets of the Lamia I would never see again.

  With one movement I swung the shotgun away from her, throwing it onto the bed.

  “I can’t do it,” I sobbed, “I just can’t do it.”

  I collapsed onto the bed and she took me in her arms. Stroking me, soothing me with her delicate hands.

  “Sshhh, my Lord, thou art not to blame. If any should bear the burden of guilt it is I. For I am truly a monster ... and I hateth myself for bringing this ruin upon you. Better that I still languished in Mandrake’s cage than thou have to endure this pain.”

  “Oh God, Cyprian,” I said. “I just don’t know what to do. I fear this will be the end of us. You deserve so much better.” I buried myself in her again.

  “There perhaps is a way to avert disaster,” she said, her voice taking on a distant tone. “But it will in itself bring heartache beyond measure.”

  I lifted my head. “What do you mean? The police will come for us sooner or later and that will be that.”

  “They may come for me, but they needen’t find me.”

  “Cyprian, I can’t hide you anymore. Sooner or later you will feel the hunger again and need to feed.”

  “I needeth not hide if I return from whence I came.”

  She must have seen my uncomprehending look and continued. “It is true I can never pass across the border that separateth our worlds. Not while I am under oath. But if my master were to relinquish his claim, disavow me, the way would be open.”

  More tears brimmed over and ran down her cheek as she said this. I felt an aching chasm open inside. This was not a solution. It was expediency.

  The lesser of evils.

  I knew that she understood this too.

  “I don’t know if I can live with that course of events,” I said. “The thought that you’re alive, yet separated from me forever.”

&nb
sp; “Nor I. But as thou sayest, it is not just for ourselves we must be mindful of.”

  Opposing thoughts wrestled with each other in my brain, neither able to win the other over. I asked “How would you ... pass over?”

  She got up and walked over to the open window. “There, in the woods, is a conjoining of borders. I have spent many hours sitting in that place. I heareth the voices of mine kindred strongest there.”

  “What needs to be done?”

  “We needest not carry anything, nor perform any ceremony. It takes but one word, and I shall pass from thy knowledge.”

  “Cyprian, I ... “

  “Thou knowest in thy heart that this course is laid out for us. But knoweth this also, I will carry thee in my dreams forever.”

  She leaned over and kissed me in the moonlight, her salted lips were both passion and pain.

  “Before you go, can we—?”

  She placed her finger on my lips to still any further words. “If another minute I linger, my resolve shall surely melt.”

  We walked solemnly downstairs, through the front door and across the gardens. I wanted the short traverse through the fields to last an eternity, but all too soon we were cruelly brought to the place. A breath of wind passed through the branches above, a sign of Summer’s waning as Autumn’s grey presence announced itself.

  In my soul I knew that Winter would reign eternally.

  We faced each other, joined with both hands and savoured our last moments. Even I could sense the energy of that place. A drawing, as if cosmic spindles were tugging at the Lamia. She released me for a moment, took the locket from around her neck and placed it in my hand.

  “To remember me by,” she said. I regretted that all I could give her was the pain she carried with her to Neverwhere.

  We kissed one last time.

  “Thou must say the word,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “Vapautin—it meaneth release in the Lamian tongue.”

  I hesitated again, the utterance of one word being the hardest act in my life. It lodged in my throat, unwilling to birth itself.

  “Thou must—”

  “Vapauitin,” I whispered.

  At first nothing happened, and a treacherous spring of hope arose in my mind. Then, imperceptibly at first, her form began to lose definition. She looked at me once more, turned and walked toward the arboreal shadows.

  Then she was gone.

  Epilogue

  It has been a week, perhaps ten days since she went. The days pass in an alcohol-induced haze that does nothing to ease my pain. The police have interviewed me three times. They wear suspicion on their faces, but have no evidence to support it. I may have got away with it, but am still a condemned man.

  On the library desk lies a tumbler of Scotch, her locket and a loaded Purdey. I pick up the locket again and turn it over in my hands. For the first time I notice a catch at the edge of the silver pendant. It takes a couple of attempts, but finally it clicks open. There inside, written in cursive script, are the words Vapautin itseni. Cyprian’s word of farewell, followed by a second one. Seeing them together brings recognition.

  I search through the bookshelves for a full half hour until I find what I am looking for. A musty old book of my Grandfather’s bound in blue hide. It is written in Finnish, a book of folk tales he used to read from when I visited him as a child. He was fluent in seven languages, but Finnish was always his favourite. He used to say that if ever there was a language from another world, then this was it.

  The book falls open, naturally, as if of its own volition. This is the page I want. An old lay from the people of the tundra. Grandfather would read it in Finnish and English. I knew both translations by heart. The final words of the last stanza: Vapautan itseni—I release myself.

  The book falls from my hands. She wanted me to see these words, knowing there would be a passage of time between her departure and my reading them. I understand with a deep certainty that they are words of power, opening a gateway to a land of sublime shadows. A world that I may not be able to comprehend or bear. But a world where she is.

  I look at the Purdey again.

  I have a decision to make.

  The lesser of evils? Or perhaps, the greater good.

  ~ ~ ~

  Author’s note

  The fairy tale ‘Beauty and the beast’ was a favourite of mine – even as an adult. I quite liked the Disney version with the animated clock and candelabra. So I was looking for a new take on a familiar story and thought ‘what if the beast was female?’ I had intended the story to be relatively short – maybe about 6,000 words or so, but this was one of those instances where the characters demanded more space and the tale ballooned to the size of a novella.

  The conclusion to the tale is open-ended. Does Charles follow his enchantress to the other side and finish his days in the land of sublime shadows? Or does he follow the fate of his pheasants? I leave you to speculate, Real Frantic Ones. Just remember – be careful what you wish for!

  Prophecy and pork chops

  Bones flicked his fedora up so he could see the contents of the frying pan. The hat had a habit of slipping forward ever since he lost his last hair. He stabbed another chop with the cooking fork and lifted it carefully out of the marinade dish, careful not to drop it in the red sand blowing across the floor of Death Valley. The frying pan greeted the chop with a sizzle and a pop, instantly sealing the juices in the succulent meat.

  The boys’ll be in for a treat tonight, that’s for sure.

  He looked west, shielding his eye sockets from the grit whipped up by a brief squall. The sun was turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold as it accentuated the silhouette of a lone rider lazily trotting toward him across the dustbowl.

  Bones’ pale grey mare whinnied in recognition, tossing its head in anticipation.

  “Yeah, you’ll be able to trade stories with Carmine in a minute or two.” he said to her in his southern drawl. “No doubt he’ll want to sniff your butt too.”

  He flipped the four chops over and shook the pan to spread the oil evenly. Hickory smoke fingered his nostrils and set his mouth watering. He noticed a drop of saliva fall through the cavity in his lower jaw to the floor, only to be absorbed by the baked sand in the next instant. Flesh had its limitations, but he sure missed it sometimes.

  By the time the rider dismounted, Bones had the chops simmering on a low heat.

  Mustn’t over-egg it. These boys like their meat medium rare.

  “Awrite.” The rider greeted him in a rough Glaswegian brogue.

  “Watsup, dude. You ready for some chow?”

  “Aye. Don’t tell me—pork again?”

  “Nothing but the best for Hex. We want him in a good mood, and nothing lights his fire better than pissing off the Head Honcho by eating unclean meat.”

  Bones watched as his ancient compatriot dropped down beside him, armour clanking on the stone seat as he did so. Scrim was a muscle-bound ox, with hair as ruddy as his mount—and a temper to match.

  “I sure don’t envy you, riding in that gear under a desert sun all day,” Bones said.

  “It’s a bummer. I canna deny that,” said Scrim. “How’ve ye been keepin’ anyway?”

  “Well, dude. It’s all about eschatology isn’t it? Business has always been good but since the turn of the millennium, things’ve ramped up pretty darn sharp.”

  “Aye. I’ve been putting a bit your way over in the Middle-East.”

  “Cool. Ishmael’s and Jacob’s descendants are always ripe pickings. I guess they’re not sparing the women and children are they?”

  “Does the Pope pray? They’re vicious buggers. Always have been. And they call us depraved.”

  “Say ...” Bones paused. “There’s no chance of the hostilities moving north to Megiddo?”

  “Nay lad. I put a stop tae that. What d’ye take me for—a fool?”

  “Not so loud, OK? Voices
carry in this valley, and we wouldn’t want Hex to hear, now would we? Bones served the thickest chop from the pan onto Scrim’s plate, followed by a generous scoop of beans and mashed potato. “You got any of that Islay malt on you? I could do with a tot.”

  Scrim pulled a half full bottle from his saddle bag while Bones rummaged in a sack, eventually finding two small billy cans.

  “Always tastes better from lead crystal,” said Scrim.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. Just a drop mind, I’m only going to have a snifter.”

  The Scotsman looked at his companion’s frame. Bones knew there wasn’t an ounce of tissue left on his body now. The sun had bleached his skull to a shade of dry ivory.

  “Life’s denying you one pleasure too many if y’ask me,” said Scrim.

  A hollow laugh, like blown desiccated leaves, rose from the depths of Bones’ chest. “Yeah, life and me don’t have much in common.”

  Scrim chewed on his food for a minute, tomato sauce mingling red with the russet of his beard. “I hear ye’ve been reaping a holocaust over in Babylon,” he said finally.

  “It’s called Iraq now, dude, and yeah the blood-letting doesn’t stop. This new brotherhood employ dispatch methods I haven’t seen since the crusades—at least on this scale. Beheadings, setting prisoners alight. They’ve even re-instituted the khazouk.”

  Scrim dropped his fork. “Fuckin’ hell, a spike up the rectum? I’ve got to get me a piece of that action.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty rad. I love micromanaging the executions. I even gave oversight of an earthquake to my lieutenant while I got personally involved.”

  “Aye, I dinna blame ye. It seems we dinna even need te light the spark o’ atrocity these days. The human race can manage a’ by themselves.”

  “I sometimes think about their motivation, y’know dude?”

  “What. Y’mean seventy two virgins in paradise? That cracks me up. Imagine the frustration? I’d want them t’ be well-shagged whores. Sluts that kin show me a good time.”