by Lucas Hault
“It was my private concern”, he replied at once, sounding bold, a bit rude, sealing everything as confidential. He looked guilty, and it seemed that the incident that happened decades ago had just taken place the night before, and the man seemed to be tied in the chains of guilt, regret and agony.
“It sometimes becomes hard to justify our actions and the best thing that can be done is to never recall it”, mentioned the wife. She loved her husband, despite being aware of his tarts. However, none among them knew of their son, who was used to some of them as well.
Barbara once gazed at her elder sister, before finally speaking it out. “Uncle Balben, I just wanted to tell you something”. She was a little hesitant but had managed to speak. She grew paler, and her beautiful white hands were clasped convulsively together. It wasn’t about her uncle’s past anymore, but her very own life, burning the fear and dithery within her.
“I know what exactly it is”, he cut her off in between. She looked at him with a little astonishment. Maybe he might guess it right, and she wanted him to, because her intentions were clear and firm. He continued, “I know you don’t like him and you never want to marry him. And you won’t. You are the daughter of my beloved brother, and you shall have what your heart desires. None shall force you into marriage, and you won’t be married against your will”.
She could hardly believe those words. It appeared like some other dream—a glorious, magnifying dream that was as bright as day and as calm as sea. Her joyfulness was at its peak, and she was as happy as a baboon in a banana tree. Her compelling eyes sparkled with pleasure and her face lit with a broad smile. Joanna shared her sister’s delight, and her merriment knew no bound.
However, the aunt didn’t look the same, but bothered, covering herself with a fake smile.
“I thank you uncle!” she expressed. His words were much more pleasant than the red wine in her glass.
“You don’t need to”.
The moment was ecstatic and she just loved it. Having discovered the past seemed nothing before this ostentatious moment, tickling her heart with jubilance and amenity. She emptied her glass hurriedly, and along with Joanna made her way out of the chamber.
“How can you do this to your very own son?” began the wife shockingly. “Is your dead brother and his daughters more lovable to you than your very own blood?”
“Is it ever possible?” She noticed the cunningness conquering the gentleness over her husband’s face, and as far as she knew him, the question was more of an answer itself.
The small gate of the car opened and out stepped a gangling figure of twenty-nine. Orsino, a lofty grey-haired man who was always known to be cunning, was clutched up, with his body dipped in sweat. The winds blowing made his hairs fly all over his face, but it least bothered him. He sighed as if he was about to get in some war, and with his shaking footsteps began walking over the long wooden bridge that led to the large Palace of Hontroferry. The splendid narrow stream flowed underneath it, which just made it look magnificent and captivating. The Palace of Hontroferry was a colossal and resplendent structure, surrounded triangularly with three tall towers, erected using the ancient architecture, appearing like a large cairn, which was a primary attraction within itself. The high storey structure had a big grey flag of a mammoth, which was the national flag of the newly partitioned North-Eastern Syneria. The use of the flag was limited to the Capital and could only be hosted by the authority, as it was not permitted to all. The law in the nation was rigid and strict, and none was above it—except for the Dictator, and his men under his consent.
Orsino paced himself through the bridge, with his heart beating in fear. He was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. The narrow trousers below his stiffened collar shirt made it uneasy to make a move. The colour of his necktie matched that of his chocolate brown waistcoat that barely reached his waist, displaying the big buckle belt holding his long trousers. He was struggling with something that was too hard to swallow, and he dazedly proceeded towards the big Palace gate. There were various cars standing in a long queue, beside the big military trucks parked by the Palace walls.
“What’s the matter?” asked one of the hefty guards at the gate, appearing like a rigid mound before a lifeless tree that would collapse any moment. He was familiar with Orsino and had never seen him worried like that before.
“I need to see the Dictator. Is he in there?” asked Orsino hurriedly. He was in no mood for any conversation.
The guard nodded. “He is in his office”.
The guards in the Palace were dressed in black cargos and dark green military blazers, with large badges attached to its breast pocket. The badge was triangular, carved with metal in the shape of a strong fist, with a couple of thorns around it. He saw the giant guards glaring him, and he without a moment’s delay pushed himself through the gate and into the Palace. The fierce guards stood on both sides of the long corridors and around every chambers, watching every move of the fragile creature before them.
They were the first army of the Dictator, Antonio Calaway. He was the only Dictator all over the three continents to maintain three separate armies. The first one before Orsino was more like the dictator’s personal bodyguards, who were recruited by the Dictator himself. They were all similar, with a heavy built and the same amber eyes just like the Dictator himself, who believed those eyes to be a symbol of aggressive dominants. This army existed for the sole purpose of the Dictator’s security and defending the Palace. The men in this army received a good military pay and were offered beautiful noblewomen for marriage.
The second one with different attires and badges were trained to fight wars and suppress riots, rampages and other disturbing situations. They were the ones receiving heavy military pay from the authority. And as for the third one, it appeared ghostly. None had ever seen or heard about it, except for the authority itself. They were said to be spread all over North-Eastern Syneria and were designated for exceptions, following which they brought nothing but destruction.
The guards stared him all the way through, and he hurried himself over the passages. The floor was covered in fancy carpets, bright red in colour and puffy in convergence, and the interior decorations were enthralling. Orsino pulled himself through the stairs, where each ascending step decimated him within. He felt as if blood was running from his heart, as one does in moments of prolonged suspense.
It was a hard climb over the stairway that carried him to a narrow corridor, which further connected to a spiral staircase leading to the office door. Watching the bulky figures in green all around was so appalling that it gave him a cold shiver. But the worst was yet to come. It wasn’t the information buried within him that troubled him, but the fierce reaction of the Dictator that might occur, once the message being delivered. Seeing him angry was the worst nightmare of the people of that land, especially Orsino.
He sighed and his lips moved, as in a way in which he used to utter his silent prayers. The paralyzing hurt spread through his body like icy, liquid metal. His fists clenched as he hesitantly took each step towards the door. He noticed his feet tremble, and his legs twitched, fighting the impulse to whirl around and sprint down that damp, shadowed corridor.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, and finally, with his cold shivering hands hit the door. He waited for a few moments before it opened, and there stood Britney, a sparkling-haired, white woman in her mid twenties. A slim and tall lady, with wavy hair and purple eyes, dressed in pale green breeches and pinkish turtleneck, she was the secretary to the Dictator Antonio Calaway who was highly appreciated for her loyalty and punctuality. Her unbuttoned big pouched blazer hung by her shoulder, displaying the ruby locket hanging by her hummocks. She was in the Dictator’s service much before Orsino.
“What bothers you Orsino?” she asked. The features on his face surely surprised her as well, turning her suspicious, as she had never noticed him like such before, who resembled the look of a cattle before its slaughter.
; “I have a message for the Dictator!” he replied in the same trembling voice.
She spoke no further but closed the door. The door led to a small chamber, which was used as her petty workplace, beyond which laid the Dictator’s suite.
Orsino awaited her return, with his heart beating in turbulence. He couldn’t breathe, as if someone was choking him. The adrenalin flew over his veins like a carp through the river, but he couldn’t move any muscle—not even a scream. The absolute horror had completely stunned him, and the more he thought of escape, the more he felt discouraged and benumbed. He was in absolutely no mood to deliver something that would trigger his anger, but unfortunately stood helpless, and had to perform his duty at all expense. The ticking of the clock on the wall behind him fell into his ears, accelerating the vexation in his nerves.
“There you go”, said Britney, returning to the door at once, like a sudden flash of lightning. “Lord Calaway awaits you”.
He held his breath and with his shuddering steps followed her through her chamber and into the office. He was drenched in sweat, both out of fear and worry. He got in to notice the giant bulging figure seated on his chair, busy in a telephone call. The walls of his chest seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful engine was at work.
Fear and strength, the enormous strength, would be the shortest way to describe the authoritarian Antonio Calaway, the invincible Dictator of North-Eastern Syneria. A man of forty-five, he was known throughout the Southern Continent for his gigantic strength and extraordinary skills. It was strongly believed that this man had the sole strength to defeat a large army all by himself.
“I knew you would do it fruitfully. I had always trusted you more than anyone else”, said the Dictator over the phone. A hefty man, much stronger than the guards in green, grey-haired, amber-eyed, with a long fleshy nose and merely separated eyebrows, the man looked indomitable, neatly clad in a shaded coat, with similar trousers and a red necktie. The thick braid covered the back of his neck, while the trimmed beard on his long face spoke of his disposition. A strong but alluring figure, with a most fascinating manner, and an air of mystery, he was the perfect definition of a mighty Dictator, who assumed himself no lesser than the king of his nation.
He continued to be involved in his telephone ring, while Orsino stood before the Dictator’s table, awaiting him to finish. His head was sunk low and his body shivered with trepidation.
The office of the Dictator was a spacious suite, with expensive lights hanging down the ceiling, and rich paintings fixed to the walls. The one beside him had the skin of some dead animals attached to it, depicting the man’s interest in hunting. The room was tiled with shining marbles, and there was a large cupboard beside the other door, fully occupied with different quality guns—a collection which he craved for. There was a window on the left-hand side that opened upon the wooden bridge before the Palace, and a gaping fireplace far at the opposite. A small bookshelf which was lined with diaries and other documents stood some distance away from the large cupboard.
Orsino could not dare to look him in the eyes, not with the message that he had, but kept his gaze low, and clutched-up in horror; when the sudden sound of the receiver hitting the telephone struck him hard.
“What troubles you young man?” asked the heavy voice.
He said nothing, but remained in his initial state, groaning internally.
Antonio could smell the fear in his manners which absolutely pleased him. “You are only a messenger and I never hold you responsible for the message that you deliver”. Those words from the authority himself played its part to calm him down to some extent. “Calm yourself young man”, he added, before hitting his table bell, following which entered Britney. He signalled her to hand him a glass of water.
“Thank you My Lord!” he said, emptying the glass at once.
The Dictator pointed him to take his seat, and he instantly and very obediently followed the direction.
“Now tell me”, he began with a mug of coffee in his hand. “What message do you bring?” His gaze was on some letter, placed on his neatly polished table.
Orsino was still gnawing on the inside of his cheek. His hands clasped and unclasped each other as if in constant need of touch and reassurance. He somehow managed to gulp down his emotions and forced the words out of his mouth. “The Ramons, My Lord!” He once raised a quick glance only to watch the Dictator staring him back.
“Don’t be afraid young man. Tell me the whole of it,” said Antonio in a low-pitched voice, which according to him was polite and humble.
“My men were speaking of the Ramons. They have all gathered in the Valley of Gilbert, and the reports don’t seem good”.
“A rebellion perhaps”, said the Dictator laughingly. There was not a single mark of disquietedness around his face, but instead looked soothe and assured. They were absolutely no threat to him, and he could easily overcome them at any point of time.
Ramons were the people of the newly partitioned NorthEastern Syneria, who unlike all refused to accept Antonio Calaway as their Dictator. They believed Syneria as a whole, and Lord Marven Fraser as the true President and the leader of the land. This was their only fault for which they were mercilessly slaughtered. They had the worst fate in the country, and the only thing for them was death. People hunting them down were heavily rewarded by the authority, while the names of the participators in the deeds of blood and violence done under the name of nationalism were kept profoundly secret. The Ramons, though small in number were contending—ready to welcome death rather than aborting their homeland.
Orsino remained still and listened. The Dictator continued, “Let then plan for whatever they will. But it shall all end up in vain. It is just the matter of time, the outcome remains the same”.
“That’s not the only thing My Lord!”
“What else?” he asked, though he was still calm, reclining on his chair, leaning back with drooping eyelids.
“The Ramons have got a leader. Someone who promises them to remain by their side. A socialist from Jewelsberg. Amanda Layne. She is the one to have blown courage and the spark of rebellion into those cowards”.
This made Lord Antonio Calaway laugh. Orsino could apprehend absolutely nothing, sinking down his head at once.
“Miss Layne,” remarked the Dictator. “I have heard about some of her recent activities that speak of her braveness and determination. Let’s see how hard she really is. She is the first one to stand up for something and deserves a big return for her deed.”
He hit the table bell one more time and entered Britney again.
“Look for the commander and bring him to my office at once”.
“Yes My Lord!” she replied.
“And one more thing”, he remembered, pulling out a big brown envelope from his drawer. “Send these documents to Lady Megan Maevis”.
“Yes My Lord!” she replied and left.
“When was the last time when you had earned a reward?” he asked Orsino.
“A couple of years ago, My Lord!”
“It’s time for the other opportunity”, he mentioned. “You will join the commander and Sir Hilton in their mission to the Valley of Gilbert. Just bring me that socialist alive and you shall have the highest reward in your life”.
This made him smile. It was always honourable to hear those words from the Dictator, which was ultra rare.
“It will be an honour My Lord!” he said smiling. He had always loved opportunities and had been gifted with just another.
Borkan stepped out of the car, dressed in official outfit similar to his father, that included an indigo suit, along with broad neckties, and began proceeding towards the big gate. The wide concrete path leading to the Palace of Hustlecitis had big expensive automobiles parked on both its sides. Some among those vintage cars were too lavishing for the commoners to afford, and by God’s grace he wasn’t one among them. He had accompanied his father to the Capital only out of concern, as t
he trauma that had broken him had always worried Borkan. The incident that had occured in the forests of Townslane was so terrific that it had but left a long lasting mark upon his mind, never to be forgotten however hard he tried. He only deceived himself every time that he pretended, for it was like a grime under his fingernails that he could not dig out. The other thing which disturbed him was his father’s adjure, which seemed more likely from a Governor General rather than his father, to conceal the truth within themselves.
It was already dusk before their arrival. The weather was dark and brooding, which had engulfed the last rays of the setting sun, and threatened to bring down a storm with every ounce of power at its disposal. He walked beside his father, followed by Owen and some other officials, through the lofty stairs that led up to the entrance. The Capital was beautiful and he had liked everything about the city on his very first visit, but it was all delusion over the situation where they presently stood. He would have loved Hustlecitis in his better days, but it was certainly not at this instant—where he was trapped between events he could fathom not, and was over a state of affairs where the fate of someone he knew would be decided.
The Palace guards stood tall with their heads bent low, all over the stairway and across the golden gate. They were dressed in grey patched cargos and black army blazers, with a round metal badge that had the sign of two crossed swords graved on it, which was actually the emblem of the nation. The narrow flaps on the shoulders of their long pouched blazers had three silver crosses attached to it, and so was the brown furry hats over their heads that displayed the emblem at its front. He was always proud of his father’s honour, but the features over Lord Elias Rayne’s face at that moment were as gloomy as that of his son.
“Remember never to speak a word about the incident to anyone here in the Palace”, whispered Elias Rayne, reminding them yet another time.
