He Again (S)he pt 2

The first light crept lazily through the ashen, black branches. It hummed low behind the curtain of lingering smoke left from the fire. It was the damnedest thing, fire. Elk’s Wood had stood tall, majestic guard to this manor since before his Grandfather’s Grandfather. To now peer from the balcony, taking in the black, gnarled, clutching claws of the burnt wood, made him imagine the curly legged bodies of so many dead spiders. The slow pressing clouds of smoke passed through the spider legs, indignant…muttering grumpy mutterings amongst themselves, in no particular hurry to be wherever it was they were to end up. And for fuck’s sake, it was so quiet. Old bone and dusty rock quiet. The loud kind of quiet. The sort that felt like an impatient look or an uncomfortable stare. He shivered a bit, deciding suddenly to snatch himself from the window and so he did, retreating to the comforts of his bed. As it was, the air was in one of its moods, biting at his legs and slightly stinging the tips of his ears. Not being up to the argument, he sank into the black fur spread and as sleep began to overtake him, he began to dream a song he thought he heard not long ago in the market place.

He was, at the time, eagerly going back and forth with the bearded man who sells the incense he liked. The bearded man shared the same affection for the fights that he did and often they would bicker with fervor as to which combatant owned the day. Was it the lightning quick lad from the jungle regions or the outspoken technician from near the Great Lake? “Surely it is the blazing power and speed of the Jungle’s man! No, no, not at all. It is quite easily the calculative sharpshooter from the land near the Lake!” Alas, the match would never happen, casting their two opinions in an iron that would likely never know rust. But they enjoyed debating the matter just the same and so the banter became part of their routine.

He tucked the bundle of incense in his satchel and it was then that he noticed the young girls that had lately taken to settling by the fountain most days. They sang a new song he’d instantly become fond of (as they would tend to do to songs and singing and such.) The melody was simple but sweet and told of a “young girl with the middle name Star…headed to a place from a place from afar” …or something like that. Anyway, he liked the girls’ song and as much, they way they sang it. Their eyes closed, chins toward the sky, grinning the smiles that one smiles when promises are kept. He’d been almost unknowingly singing the song to himself the entire way past the market, down past Hope’s Road and beyond the King’s House.

Making his way through the pass that led through the wood, he came across the big red tree they’d carved their names in. He recalled her laughter as she struggled to scribble her name in the bark. How she suddenly had the idea that the tree could feel the pain of the chiseled inscription. Her brow wrinkled over the idea and he reached out, pulling her toward him. Dropping the sharp rock, she collapsed into him with soft, faux protest. Her voice twinkling lights and chiming bells and like always, she stared into him. He was shy but reflected her gaze just the same. She was the only one he’d ever done that with so to him, with her, it was special…as if they were the only owners of eyes ever. He could’ve lapped at the memory for as long as time feels it should bother with a man but he pressed on.

The wind picked up, hissing angry whispers by his ears. Contemptuous and unfriendly were these winds, so he hastened his pace, mind jostling with thoughts of hot soup, spiced meats, cold, frothy brews and feet and toes wriggling freely about near a crackling fireplace’s flame.

He settled mindlessly into the manor (Court De Leon as he fancied it) lighting a fat, three wicked wax candle that smelled of minted jasmine and tossed his coat towards the banister. He donned his favorite robe; thick, plush and black as raven’s eye. He began to nod with lazy lidded eyes and feline purrs when something startled him awake suddenly.  He sat up quickly, blinking with heavy eyes and muddled thoughts. The wind was still howling as it raced past the windows, sending the wind chimes into an angry fit when he heard a “thunk” sink into the wood of the main chamber door. Sitting upright, ears perked, he remained slack jawed and motionless…waiting…listening. Only the wind would entertain him, whining in long, gusty breaths. Wait…is that? What is that? A faint scratching was it? Like a thin fingernail scraping at the oak door.

He stood up, on edge now…a cat hunched and hissing. Glancing around franticly, he settled in on the sheathed blade he kept close. Retrieving it swiftly, staying on the balls of his bare feet, he jaunted towards the door, cold stone underfoot. He blew out the flickering dance of the candle near the door and slowly moved the chamber door’s slide open. Pressing his back against the wall, he readied himself with three deep breaths; his chest rising and falling heavily. Whoosh! He flung the heavy wooden door open, standing leveraged with his glinting, thirsty metal waiting to fly and spill and drink its fill.

There was nothing. Nothing there but the dry chill of the night air, an owl’s faint call in the distance and handful of dry leaves scampering in past his feet, happy to be free of the cold. A look right, a look left. He frowned, cursed and turned to close the chamber door when he noticed the rusty arrow protruding from the wood. The blade appeared chipped and ancient, ornate and dark grey. Its shaft was a polished, dark red stain followed in rear by black feathers. It held a pinned parchment paper to the door and the edges of the paper scratched at the wood whenever the breezes gave order. As he reached to pry it from the wood he stopped and looked about once more suspiciously. “Oh shut up, owl.”

He freed the pointed thing from the old, splintered door and slammed it closed, muffling the crying wind, causing the chamber air to stand still abruptly. The strange parchment was rolled and sealed with black wax and held depressed in it an elaborate insignia…an angry Ram’s head on a woman’s body, encircled by characters from a script he could not read. He cracked open the wax seal, unraveled the parchment and read.

His jaw clamped tightly and the veins near his temple throbbed. His eyes grew large and stung hot with tears as they first welled up and then rolled fat and deliberate down his cheek. He crunched the foul paper in his fist tightly…angrily. He turned with a start, dark fur coat spinning behind him and darted towards the staircase. He flung the now balled up parchment towards the fireplace and stormed upstairs.