Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  Baxter left his chamber and was greeted by muffled music coming from his uncle’s quarters, filling the empty house with a calming personality. Outside the staircase window, Baxter watched his father walk from Globes’ stable back to the house ruffling Butler’s coat with soundlessly gestures. Baxter hid behind a staircase banister as they entered the kitchen. His father opened a few of the drawers, removed some metal objects, they clanged together and Alfred headed back to the stable.

  Baxter returned to his quarters and between two tired fog-filled eyes his clock read less than one minute to eleven. It seemed projects had a habit of slipping the hours passed without him noticing. The clock rang out a gentle chime, called in the evening hour and from the nearby window, a light from one of the squares sheds glowed and flickered. The man must still be in the village, Baxter thought. He opened the other window frame and a gust of harsh wind blew in, papers flew off his desk and rattled the pages of an open book. It was the Gaol, the mountain winter wind always blew stronger in the evenings. A stack of blankets piled up next to his cabinet, thick and woollen.

  His uncle, a floor beneath, hadn’t walked around in what felt like hours. Music played lightly in the distance, light enough to send anyone to sleep. Baxter opened the rusted window with small subtle screeches until both hinges jack-knifed, but he did a good job of hiding the noise.

  The outside ledge was a solid stone of chiselled masonry, broad enough to support him several times. He put his left foot on the ledge, stopped and weighed up the punishment against the knowledge this man might give him. He had every right to know the truth, he was a man, he knew it, despite what his uncle and father thought.

  He clutched a thick blanket and tucked it under his arm, clambered to the ledge and with his back pressed firmly against the wall, shuffled along the contouring ridge between floors of the house. The drop wasn’t high, just two levels up, the fall didn’t worry him but his uncle’s punishments did. Nicholas’ window, the level below, was now between Baxter’s legs, the music was gentle, a match to the dim light ebbing outward. Baxter edged slowly over the glow; he was sure his uncle had fallen asleep in his chair or tucked firmly into the pages of one of his books. Instead Baxter caught a glimpse of his uncle’s stout shadow on the grass. The black drainpipe was a few feet away. Baxter got closer and stopped. He knew he had no other choice.

  A cloud masking the stars parted, four bright beacons in the hole; a rare treat to collect one’s composure before stepping outstretched. He calmed his nerve with the crescendo of his uncle’s music. As it built up closer to the climax he prepared himself to jump. “Darr darr dar darrdardar… Dar!” The music hit its head peak, Baxter blasted himself forward, grabbing hold of the pipe. The blanket fell from under his arm, landing on the rose bush. He slid down, catching his feet on a dislodged stone. The windows to his uncle’s chamber were now void of shadows – had he heard him? He waited, eyes locked on the window. The thorns of the roses were cutting into his skin but he ignored them, if captured by his uncle the punishment would be far more painful.

  Nothing, no sounds, no screaming of his name. Baxter got up and ran quickly to scale the perimeter wall, escaped the manor and sprinted to the square.

  IV

  Francis had made himself a bed of hay, torn up weeds from village community gardens and the pelts. It was warm enough, humble and not an insect was in sight. He could have been back at the Seagrave mess had it not been for the overhead battle of some moorland beasts squawking at one another. He looked up a few times to see if he could spot them, half wishing he couldn’t. He expected hungry, rib-bodied-moth like creatures acting erratic, angry and hideously ugly. He contemplated using the ointment, getting out from his bed and ritualistically circling the shed, but the stories, those moorland man eating things, if one got his head in its beak the thing could bite it off faster than a Seagrave Corp locomotive.

  All the surrounding houses lights had dimmed or gone out completely one by one, abiding an ancient curfew. When the last one extinguished, he expected to hear a shift siren but the night yielded no such sounds beyond the wind. Even the flying creatures shrouded in the darkness high above him had gone quiet, only the scent of fresh hay and the sound of light wind for company. Francis closed his eyes and drifted closer to slumber, hurried feet scuffled on stone slabs, getting closer. They slapped together with haste, fast enough to cause alarm. The Beechcroft fool, he thought, coming to throw him out of the village. Francis prepared himself, making fists, ready for a fight he pushed back the stringy pelts.

  ‘Mr, Mr, I’m sorry to wake you.’ A young man, not a farmer’s voice – he sounded educated.

  ‘I have a blanket for you.’ said Baxter.

  Francis shot up from the bale and hurried the device behind him. He peered around the side of the shed, then stood still.

  The young man was broad and wearing a white shirt which glowed, even in the twilight, with a leather garter and waistcoat featuring several compartments, each of them full of objects of various sizes. He had dark hair, a warm smile – it was the lad from the house.

  ‘Young man,’ said Francis smiling, ‘thank you for one of the kindest gesture I’ve been paid, in, well, in quite a while. Thank you.’

  Baxter handed the blanket over. After doing so he coughed a few times, collecting his breath. How free his lungs sounded – this young man had never visited the city. Francis wondered if he even knew of its existence.

  ‘I’m sorry for the harsh hospitality of my uncle; normally he’s charitable to people, I fear, when you came to our house, he must’ve been annoyed by some other–’

  ‘It’s ok, young man,’ Francis interrupted. ‘You say your uncle?’

  ‘Yes sir, he’s my uncle.’

  Francis stared into the boy’s eyes. A man as young as this gave lies away with ease. They typically twitched, blink excessively, their cheeks glowed red. This boy was doing neither. Instead, he stood in a perfect posture, a rider of horses, his arms confidently dangled by his sides, totally engaged in eye contact.

  ‘Thank you for the blanket, young sir. Or should I say, Lord?’ Francis beat the blanket out, thick, woollen, exactly what he needed. ‘Beechcroft, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes sir, Baxter Beechcroft. I’m not the Lord, though, they’re my father and uncles’ titles.’

  ‘Father and uncle, you say?’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes, it’s my father’s farm. May I ask, why are you looking for the Nightingale family?’

  Francis sat back down on the hay. ‘Family you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baxter said. ‘Are they friends of yours?’

  ‘Of sorts. I have never met them but I need their help; my daughter’s in terrible danger. She’s a prisoner, back at the city.’

  Baxter’s eyebrows met. ‘How can they help you get her back?’

  ‘Do you know them?’ Francis asked. ‘You seem awfully intrigued.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well then, Master Beechcroft, I’m afraid I can’t divulge such information.’ Francis concealed the smirk close to appearing on his face.

  ‘I can pay you if you’d like?’ Baxter rummaged around in the change in his pocket.

  ‘What on Terra does a boy as young as you; sixteen is it?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Eighteen, need with such information?’ He put his legs inside the canvas sleeping bag and spread the blanket over them.

  Baxter helped to tuck it under for him and pulled it tight. ‘I’m curious. Nothing happens around here and it sounded exciting.’

  Francis relaxed, bashing his hands on both of Baxter’s broad shoulders. ‘Well, Master Beechcroft, you don’t need to pay me a thing. The Nightingales are rumoured to have some, let’s say, powerful friends. You see,’ he invited him closer, ‘my daughter’s been manipulated by one of the world’s cruellest men. And without their help I fear I’ll lose her to him.’

  An array of lights in the Beechcroft Manor lit up.

  ‘I have to go.’ Baxter said, s
tepping away from the shed, his feet on tip toes, ‘but, please, don’t leave too early and tell me some more, I hope your daughter isn’t in too much danger.’ He paced back to the house.

  Francis returned to his makeshift bed. He knew, as the boss did, the Nightingales would struggle to fit in with moorland life, yet this farming village appeared organised and well run, far better than the last few he’d visited. Tomorrow he decided to question some of the younger villagers, or the ones least likely to find the questions suspicious. A light draft on his face changed to more of a calming breeze as the village settled back to silence.

  As the first dream made its way in, a beat thumped above him like a drumroll shuddering it swept over the shed, a set of sturdy feathers beat against the air in defiance. A landing, and heavy footsteps came from the square opposite.

  Francis opened an eye, afraid to turn his head; he dug the eye deep in the corner of his socket to see what had stalked down from the darkness.

  The creature was large, perching on top of a nearby gas lantern. The light wasn’t much, and the creature made use of the evening’s shadow for camouflage.

  Francis pulled the blanket up to his nose.

  The creature spun its body and faced him. Covered in black feathers, red eyes and pointed ears, an outline of monstrous proportions with eyes glowing from the upward reflection of the lantern. The animal’s breaths were deep, filled with bass, and the bar beneath it screeched under the weight of its expanding lungs. Francis pulled the blanket up further, stretching the fabric. The beast set flight, an ungodly wingspan, it headed right for him.

  Francis let out a scream with a pitch so high it was inaudible. The thing landed on top of the shed, denting it twice as it shifted its weight about, causing it to bow.

  Why did it not fly in and grab him? Francis looked at the bag by his feet holding the ointment. He could reach it. But what if this nocturnal creatures’ senses were more audible than sight? The thing had surely seen him. Francis decided to stay still, wait it out.

  As he drew more of the blanket up to his face, the thing hissed and huffed. Francis stretched the blanket further up to his face. Above him, another dent in the shed, followed by another – Francis squeezed his eyes together. As he pulled the blanket over his head a smooth surface replaced the woollen under his fingers. It was embroidery detailing a shape. In his nervous state, Francis fingered the details, wings, feet and a large body.

  The Creature flung itself out across the square. Francis watched in horror as it returned to the darkness above.

  His heartbeat thumped as he edged his head out, he looked up at the sky. Darkness looked back, and he prayed the monster had vanished. He looked around at the houses, they were resting, enjoying the slumber as though such visitations were a common occurrence. Suddenly the thought of returning to the city didn’t feel such a bad choice.

  He grabbed his bag and yanked out the ointment, splashing it over everything, the hay, the pelts the top and sides of the shed, the blanket.

  He stopped. Put down the ointment and noticed the blankets embroidery pattern he’d fingered. Unclear, he held it out to the nearby gaslight. There, as clear as daylight in the olive green was the stitching of a bird, a Nightingale poised, taking flight.

  V

  Alfred awoke in darkness. Under his head, the warm body belonged to Globe. The light inhaling rush of the barn’s stale air had ceased. He thought of Beatrice and Globe’s reunion, the comforts found in unifying lost souls. Such make-believe gave him a penny’s worth of joy, spent on a hungover yet ever-rational mind. He was quick to override the daydream, put the silly idea in its place. Both were dead, and none were any the wiser for it.

  He split the barn door open and allowed the morning’s light to flood in. Behind him, Globe lay with his head on the side of the stable trough. Alfred faced the scene. Dried black blood, stained hay, a stream of tears found the corners of his lips, as sweet as the memories of watching Beatrice ride him, bareback, a shire horse for pity’s sake. The anger slipped away, allowing him to enjoy the memory. He walked backwards, taking slow steps and returning to the sadness waiting to collect him from the visitation to the past. The happiness of the memory faded and the depression swallowed him in its hole where all the pain dwelled. Alfred stopped, stood still. Beatrice’s ghost walked from the barn. His uncontrollable mind caged within his skull busy issuing another dose of cruelty. The spectre dissolved in the daylight like a sugar cube dropped in Absinthe.

  He closed his eyes, clenched both fists, and fell to the ground. Blood appeared around the metal clockwork of his augmented hand. In his mind, he saw his enemy’s face. It had been over fifteen years yet there he still was, smiling, perfectly formed in his arrogant smugness. Alfred let out a cry. Birds on the manor roof fled.

  Nicholas sat on the kitchen staircase, blocking Alfred’s path.

  ‘Move out the way, Nicholas.’

  His younger brother held a photo frame, the image worn and torn, all four of them at Alfred’s first opening – Alfred didn’t need to look at it.

  ‘Remember this, brother?’ Nicholas held the frame for him to take.

  ‘Nicholas please–’

  ‘I was late, you had Beatrice making all sorts of excuses for me. When I arrived, she’d told so many different things I didn’t know which story to go with.’

  Alfred clenched his clockwork fist in a screech of rusted iron. ‘Nicholas, stop–’

  ‘I remember,’ Nicholas said, ‘when you both came and watched my fight with Weekly Thomas. You said it would be a walk in the park.’

  ‘I need to get upstairs–’ said Alfred.

  ‘I was so frightened of him. I thought he was going to pummel me into the ground. After the first round, I was so scared.’

  Alfred went to touch his shoulder, thought better of it. ‘You pulled yourself, back.’ said Alfred.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Nicholas looked at his brother and paused, waiting for his wild eyes to calm and meet with his. ‘You did. I was in the corner, Donavan was shouting about calling the fight off, giving up. I ignored him and looked over at the crowd. All I heard were cheers for my opponent. Then, this lady with an elaborate hat stood and walked off, and behind her, I saw you.’

  Alfred backed off. ‘Nicholas, please, I need to get to my quarters.’

  ‘You were still, looking right at me. I’d go as far to say you didn’t even blink. You nodded at me. One nod. My fear vanished, replaced by fire, Alfred. I saw the belief in your face, the confidence I could do it, that I’d beat him.’

  ‘You did beat him.’

  Nicholas stood, he towered over Alfred on two steps above. ‘All thanks to you.’ he said.

  Alfred’s face cracked, a smile escaped from under it.

  Nicholas grabbed hold of him, taking a few steps down and met his brother at eye level.

  ‘You don’t have to give in to this, Alfred. I know your heart. This will only cause you more pain. When men go against their grain, it ruins them. You’re a man of reason, logic and invention. You’re a genius, Alfred.’

  Alfred pushed away his brother’s arms. ‘I’m already ruined.’

  Nicholas stepped aside. ‘I miss you, brother, and so does Baxter.’

  Alfred removed the blood-stained gloves, then looked back at Nicholas and said in a breath, ‘Globe’s dead.’

  VI

  Baxter heard his family’s muffled voices. He crouched down and stuck his ear to the floor to see if he’d hear any detail beyond the rumbling tones, but it was no good. They kept talking over each other. The stone walls vibrated as though the words cut in and scarred them. The volume of the argument easily masked the creaks in the wooden floorboards as Baxter crept down the staircase and hid behind a large banister.

  VII

  ‘You can’t leave, Alfred, not now, if you go back to the City, they’ll kill you.’ Nicholas gripped his brother’s shirt collar. Alfred met his face – Nicholas had seen it before, the determined look of his demented mind, driven by ve
ngeful purpose; he knew from growing up and watching him succeed. The brightest in the family, blessed with great focus, they all said. Nicholas knew otherwise. ‘Don’t let obsession beat you again, Alfred.’

  ‘Again?’ Alfred cried. ‘He destroyed our family, our lives.’

  ‘We don’t even know if it was even him,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so naïve Nick, The Spirit would’ve toppled him.’ Black patches of dried blood covered Alfred, and his clockwork arm was gesturing like a drunk conducting an invisible orchestra.

  Nicholas blocked his path. ‘This isn’t the way–’

  ‘It’s the only way, Nicholas. I have nothing here, everything was there, she was taken from us.’ Alfred paced around the dining table, picking up speed. ‘I need to rally the others.’

  ‘Now isn’t the time. They’re still trying to find the girl. Mother isn’t due to visit the city until Spring; we should act then, not now, and Baxter–’

  ‘What of him, Nicholas? The boy failed with the wolf. He’s useless.’

  VIII

  Baxter shuddered backwards, hitting the wall as his father’s words formed into arrows firing directly at his heart.

  ‘You said it yourself, he had a straight shot to kill a wolf and bottled it. You had to kill it. And he did a terrible job skinning it. He isn’t ready to help us, he’s still a child.’ Said his father.