Blood & Baltazar

by Liam Inscoe-Jones

  Lylith White sighed. “And that’s better how?”

  “You’re right, it’s not. And completely wrong at the same time, my ideas of importance aren’t delusional at all: infact, they’re completely… lusional.”

  “…aand back to the arrogance again.” She curled her lip, pretending to be impressed. “Arrogance and a little bit of stupidity at the same time – an unusual mix.”

  Josiah Hartt raised a finger. “And those words, Miss White, should tell you all you need to know.” He grinned and picked up speed as they began to climb up the village’s steep slopes, feet slipping across the damp mud. The wind rattled the wooden cages, the sound of bark thumping against bark echoing through the homesteads.

  In shadows of the mountains Lylith White could just make out the peak of a tower, emerging through the setting light. As they moved closer more of it became clear. It was a wooden building stretching four levels high; each one growing like a concertina out of their predecessor. Every floor was like a cabin of its own, with rickety lopsided panels and paper thin windows. The third and final floor even had its own door, swinging lopsided into thin air. This level ended in a point; a pile of tapered planks like a bonfire placed loosely atop of another misplaced cabin.

  Leaves and bushes spurted from the rocky outcrop, their twisting arms wrapping themselves around the beginning of the tower as if; protecting and encasing it. Tiny flickers of firelight found their way through glass panes and the must, casting a strange honey glow across the moss bedding.

  The main door itself sat to the right of the base cabin; carved into the long winding logs as if it were and after thought. Long stretches of ivy arched around the panel, torn from where it had recently burst open. What sort of person could stay trapped inside long enough that ivy could be allowed to grow across the doorway? The answer was standing next to her.

  “Welcome to home.” Josiah Hartt mumbled, slouching up the rugged path and towards the wooden tower. “There’s no place like it.” He shrugged. “And not in a good way.”

  “You live here?” Lylith rattled, stepping towards the building to protect her from the flittering rain. “You know everybody talks about this place? This strange little tower where the lights are always on but nobody ever comes out or goes in. People think some old lonely woman died here a long time ago and nobody even noticed. It’s even got its own superstitions. People say it’s haunted, there are strange noises at night, and these odd smells wafting through the valley.” She stopped; coughing as she stepped too close. “Blimey… and they are right - quite frankly it stinks. What’s with this place, you? Everybody knows everybody around here; but nobody knows you.”

  “I don’t get out much.” Josiah murmured fumbling in his pocket. “I moved here seven years ago and not long after there was a…incident.”

  “An incident?”

  “A little old lady selling some feather dusters. She had it coming; I was half way through a very dangerous experiment. She should never have opened that door…Anyway, nobody’s dared visit here since.”

  Lylith snorted. “You are unbelievable.”

  Josiah fumbled in his pocket through chunks of plastic and rattling metal. “Thank you.” He replied, jangling the keys in mid air and inserting them in the wooden gap which she presumed was his attempt at a keyhole. After a couple of firm kicks the panel clunked open, and Josiah Hartt dived inside. Lylith sighed and followed him.

  As she placed her foot inside the door she toppled forward. Where she’d expected to find the floor was a huge ditch, no wider than her hand but stretching a couple of metres into the ground. She pulled herself up, heaving herself head first onto the floor, looking at him in horror.

  “Oh right…” Josiah drawled. “I should have warned you about that.”

  Lylith White picked herself up and gazed across the room which she had entered. The floor was coated in a raged carpet, a thick woollen cloth that clung to her clothes and her cold, damp skin. There had been no attempt made to flatten the mountainside before building the tower, the simple carpet was just slung over various bumps and rocks; even the ditch from which she’d just emerged was covered top to toe in mottled grey fabric.

  As her blurred vision sharpened again, her eyes flittered over the scene that lay before her. The crooked walls were dusty and damp riddled, thin paint peeling slowly off the walls. The brick work beneath was revealed; a mass of slabs wonkily piled on top of each other.

  The walls themselves were not aligned in parallels or squares, but randomly spread throughout the rickety shack. From the centre they spread out, like a cobweb winding through tiny corridors and cramped rooms, separating the building into seemingly endless sections. Lylith’s feet made their way across the ridges, staring in wonderment as one by one those sections were revealed to her. Some were filled with books; hundreds of leather spines and yellowed pages strewn across the floor and stacked from end to end. They spilled across various shelves and cabinets, ornate wooden boxes carved with intricate circles and spindling patterns. Each book had their own unique jaded colour; each carrying the same rotten, musty stench.

  Other sections were filled with desks, some brandishing antiques and artefacts and others brimming with chaotic experiments. Poisons bubbled over Bunsen burners, animal remains were left to rot with magnifying glasses dangling over them. Everything seemed to be doing something, instruments whirling, cocktails brewing. And Josiah Hartt danced around them all with a wide smile on his face, twisting dials, winding levers. A man in his element. A man so used to being alone he seemed to forget she was even there.

  Hartt found his way to a small simulation of a kitchen, with a tiny metal kettle sizzling over an open fire. Plates were stacked on end, mouldy bread and cheeses just left to rot. He pulled out a couple of mugs, sniffed them gently, and laid them on the table. He started to crack open jars, pouring in tiny brown beans, a thick gloopy substance and various multicolour spices. “Fancy a Splinddle?”

  Lylith raised an eyebrow, walking over the mess and standing by his side. She couldn’t help but admit the smell was beautiful. “And what is a splinddle?”

  “You’ve never heard of a Splinddle?” Hartt coughed, dancing around the tables. “Lylith White where have you been?” He took the kettle of the fire and poured the sizzling water into the mugs. “Well, anywhere but here obviously because I invented it. Building this tower there was a hell of a lot of sap left over so I decided to use it in this; but I’ve improved on it slightly. There are also cocoa beans, Herbs De Provènce, a dash of ground turmeric, just a pinch of marijuana and best of all…” He pulled out a jug, filled with thick white liquid. “Whipped cream.”

  “Whipped cream?” Lylith grinned. “Why didn’t you say so?” Josiah finished pouring the water and Lylith snapped her hand out, snatching the mug off the table, the frothy sauce dripping from the rim.

  “Cheers.” Josiah smiled.

  Lylith returned the gesture. “Yeah. Cheers.” She pressed the cups against her lips and let the drink run over her tongue. The liquid was so full of flavour, the delicate spices prickled the top of her mouth and then were instantly neutralised by the thick cream, like soup trickling down her throat. The thick warmth sent tingles across her spine, like a blanket wrapping itself around icy skin. “Mmm…” She nodded, licking the sweet froth off her lips. “You were right.”

  “Yes.” Josiah replied. “I usually am.” He held out his palm, directing her down one of the long winding passages. “Shall we?”

  Lylith White nodded, watching her step as she twisted around and followed his lead. They passed several new quarters; their contents often spilling onto the carpet and into one another. She walked past the final region, and watched with intrigue as a little gerbil ran around a cage. As she trotted by she swore the creature turned on its tail and pressed its face against the bars; big eyes pleading for help. For a moment she was transfixed, but then she shook her head and carried on.

  Josiah had led her towards an open space; the largest she�
��d seen since they’d arrived there. For the most part it was without experiments or tat, just filled with a green leather sofa and a rusty bronze gramophone. Josiah Hartt happily wound up the lever before turning back to Lylith and falling down into the sofas thick cushions. “Take a seat.” He smiled.

  Lylith obeyed, dropping into the expansive arms. “So what happened?” She asked, supping at the hot mug of Splinddle in her hands.

  “What do you mean?” Josiah said. “Nothing happened.”

  “Have you seen this place?” She remarked. “It’s filled with all sorts of things; monkeys brains, rotting flesh, beating hearts…”

  “They’re my experiments.” He beamed. “They help me see…”

  “That not what I’m saying.” Lylith interrupted. “All these things, experiments, books - but amongst them all there’s no sign of anybody else. No photos, no letters, no friends, no family. Where are they all Josiah?”

  The man’s face suddenly dropped. “The war happened.”

  “Were you a soldier?” Lylith asked, aware she was entering dark territory.

  “In certain generations everyone was. Not you though, you were just a baby when it started I think.” Josiah muttered, placing his mug on the ground and turning away from her. “But then I was too really - thirteen years old and scared out of my mind. Because all that time I knew, I knew my day was approaching. On my Fifteenth birthday they would draft me, just like all the others; recruition to fight the Great War. We didn’t know what it would be like out there, we were just kids, just children fighting and dying an adult war.” He sighed. “Civil Wars are about politics, not hate. We didn’t even understand what we were fighting for. Once we were of age whichever side found you first, Revolutionists or Loyalists, you were recruited. Their beliefs were yours.”

  “And who found you?” Lylith asked, placing a hand the back of the chair.

  “The Loyalists. They came in the dead of night; the whole city was up in arms. My fifteenth birthday was nearly six months gone by then; I’d left school a few weeks before and for those long days we could only sit and wait for them to come. Eventually they did. But this time it was different. Most parents were already too old to be recruited for battle and so nobody was watching them. They’d been meeting for months, frightened by the stories of a terrified nation; planning for the inevitable. If the armies were coming to take their children to war, they were going to fight against it. There was chaos in the cities but it didn’t take long for the Loyalists to draft in reinforcements. The doors of the new recruits homes were being broken down - their parents overwhelmed. We couldn’t stop them, nobody could. The boys I played with in the streets, the girls I went to school with were being dragged from their homes and towed off to war.

  When the news they were in the city first came my mother blocked the doors – my father had fixed these holsters to the frame when I was thirteen and one by one we locked the barriers in their place. When that was done my Father rushed off into the kitchen; to this day I don’t know what he was doing. He whispered something in my Mothers ear and her eyes snapped wide open. She was hardly the brave type, jumping at the sight of a spider or a beetle but only then did I know I had seen her truly terrified.

  She took me by the arm and led me upstairs, wincing every time a step creaked. As she heaved me up the ladder and into the attic I remember calling for her over and over: crying for her to let me down. My parents were helping me, saving me, I understand that now. But back then it felt like a betrayal.

  I crawled around the attic, checking for signs of loose floorboards, open windows; I was like that even then. There was this tiny crack in the plaster and as I looked through it I could see two Loyalists were standing there on the street below, armed to the teeth and clutching in their hands a huge roll of paper – I presume it was a list of those to be taken. Once they had your address there was no escaping it, no running away: if you moved they would hunt you down.

  There was a rattling downstairs, hushed breath, frenzied whispers. One of the men nodded and together they raised their weapons and stepped forward. There were three shots: one, two, three. I remember them so well; I can still hear them when I sleep. There was screaming and shouting; my mother wailing into the night. There was some sort of scuffle because I heard a vase smashing, and then they were marching upstairs. The soldier was alone, but in seconds he had broken through the entrance to the attic. I only caught a glimpse of his face; thick jawed and angry as hell. Then he swung a bag over my head pulled me down the stairs. It was happening all over the city. I felt the cold wind on my skin as they pulled me outside, leaving behind the sound of my mother’s screams. But she wasn’t calling for me, I don’t know if she even knew I was gone – she was just repeating my Father’s name over and over and over again...” He stopping, gasping as he found himself lost in his story.

  “I’m sorry.” Lylith White murmured, looking awkwardly away from him.

  “Don’t be.” Hartt muttered. “It was the war; it was the way things worked.”

  “Why don’t you try to find them? You might be wrong; your dad might be fine. I could help you, we could go together…”

  “I never said my Father was dead.” Josiah retorted. “And I told myself that for years, I really did. But now I know I was kidding myself that it wasn’t my fault. If I hadn’t run and hid like a coward child they wouldn’t have killed him, he wouldn’t be dead. If you protested you got a bullet, I knew that. So why didn’t I just go with them Lylith?”

  “You didn’t know they would kill him.” Lylith replied.

  Hartt sniffed. “But I did!” He turned away, running his trembling hands over his cheeks. For a moment they sat there in silence, before he returned to her, as composed as ever. “What do you know about the war Lylith?”

  She had to think for a moment; “I know it was bloody. I know it was terribly organised, the generals either didn’t know what they were doing or they were too pissed to care. I know the Loyalists won...” She smiled gently. “Not a lot to be honest. The Loyalist Reform didn’t allow it to be taught in history lessons until my last year at school, and well…I was hardly paying much attention by then.”

  “On Christmas day fifteen years ago the battle of Ripley Moor began. A hundred thousand people lost their lives that day…”

  “I’ve heard of that!” Lylith realised. “Miss Howarth spent a week on it. It was like the most horrific battle of the war. She told us something about the bombs and the volatiles - the Revolutionists deployed thousands of types of gasses, on just that single day... Christ those lessons were boring.”

  “The battle wasn’t.” Josiah snorted. “It was horrific and terrifying and I was there, right in the midst of it all. We arrived at the Ripley Moor as the sun was rising over the creeks. The plain itself was cold and bitter, the ground had been mottled and bruised, huge gnarls torn and shaped through the mud, like craters speckling the surface. The grass was covered in a thick moss, draped across the dirt like a rug made of hay. A scarlet dust drifted through the first glimmers of sunlight. And there they were – aligned into a perfect formation in the lustre, an army of shadows; a hundred thousand silhouettes standing to arms and saluting their Generals. That was when I knew the scarlet in the wind wasn’t dust at all. It was our men’s blood.

  The battle had begun and before we had chance to catch our breaths we were fighting it. What we didn’t realise then was that every moment in a thousand terrible moments had been leading to that day. The armies had fought and fallen like a stream of dominoes toppling throughout the nation. The war had progressed and enveloped even within itself, humans discovering more ways of killing each other by the day. Soldiers were being armed with weapons that could kill a hundred men in the blink of an eye, without a thought or consideration that in truth their victims were alike and equally scared. The more time we spent hiding behind our machines, the more we became like them. And as the last metal man was fitted with his final plate of armour, us soldiers, we lost the last of our
humanity. The lives of a million men became worth as little as a Generals signature on a sheet of paper. One by one our superiors and puppeteers lost all their emotion; any love, any feeling – all substituted for another goal. Power. By then we were winning and all that power went to our leader’s heads. We walked into Ripley Moor and it was no fight: it was a Loyalist onslaught”

  “But you still won…” Lylith started.

  “No. The war but not the battle; not Ripley Moor.” Josiah said, “The dying night suddenly sparked ablaze with a torrent of gunfire. Bullets fell down upon us like raindrops in a storm. There was a frenzied order from our General to charge, and there we were, racing forward through the mud and the gunfire, just children holding the weapons of men, fighting a battle that never should have begun.

  I killed more men that night than murderers are sent to prison for, it was the nature of war I know, but now I want to right it. That’s why when I saw Rosanne Price’s body in that collection bay I left this tower in the light of day for the first time in years. If I could bring whoever did that to her and to Robert Acrimony to justice then maybe, I don’t know…I wouldn’t have to face my own.” He murmured, looking to Lylith who continued to listen intently.

  “Beneath my feet there was a rumbling…” Hartt continued. “…a terrible quake like a pack of wildebeest raging. As I looked up I realised it might as well of been. The entire Revolutionist charge was racing towards me. In seconds we were engulfed by them. I opened fire – we all did; not because we wanted to, but because we couldn’t dare not to. My side knocked down the men but the Revolutionists had machines Lylith, rumbling towards us and tearing up the ground beneath our feet. Colossal hunks of metal and cogs, screeching into the night, roaring giants like the steam engines of old. There was nothing we could do, they trampled our horses; if we tried to run we couldn’t, they was no way past them.

  The engines fell silent just a few metres ahead of me; humongous iron rods jutting into the dirt. A row of cylinders aligned at the front, clicking into place and sliding open. All too late did we realise what they were. A green fog rose from the tanks, a thick mist choking our mouths. My lungs felt cold, my lips grew dry, and then suddenly – black.