by Leon Logos
“It’s nothing.”
“You better be off. Patrick and your brothers have gone hunting, have they not? You wouldn’t want to miss that.”
“No, I’m not going with them. They told me to stay here and help you with supper. If you need any assistance, I’m here.”
“Your help would be lovely,” Helena beamed. “I’ve never had a daughter or assistant in the house before. I appreciate it.”
“It’s no big deal,” she said, struggling to hold a smile; Helena’s face kept randomly twitching.
It was freaking her out, but she figured the old lady was afflicted by some condition prevalent in elderly people.
Helena put her to work promptly, soliciting her to cut onions, lettuce, and tomatoes. She wiped tears out of her eyes as she cut the onions on the cutting board with a sizable kitchen knife. Helena was deftly stirring stew onto a pot on the stove, humming a tune she did not recognize. Serenity stared at the vegetables skeptically; Patrick had said that they never left the house and that their source of food comprised solely of the animals he hunted. As far as she knew, she hadn’t seen any crops or farmland where these vegetables could’ve organically been grown. Patrick was either lying or she was being too prying; but she decided it wouldn’t do any harm in asking.
“So where did you get these vegetables?”
Helena did not answer, continuing to hum. Serenity turned her head to look at her. Maybe the woman’s hearing was inadequate.
“Where did you get these vegetables?” she repeated louder. “Hello? Ma’am? Helena? Um, excuse me? HELENA?”
Helena gasped with a jolt, as if awakened from a nightmare. The metal spoon she was stirring with flew out of her hand. Serenity flinched, both guilty and nonplussed. She had no idea old people were this jumpy. Helena puffed, clutching her chest, her back hunched.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she apologized.
“No worries,” Helena swallowed. “You’ll find that I get frightened very easily. Did you want something?”
“F-forget it, no thanks.”
She went back to cutting onions, deciding to disregard it. Not even an hour had passed since their meeting with Patrick. She was far from familiarized with these people yet; they still were just mere strangers that they were sent to stay with. What worried her was the indefinite duration of their stay. Knowing Gunther, he’d take at least a week to handle his business. At the thought of him, her qualms towards the elderly couple diminished. Whoever they were, at least there was no way they’d be as repugnant as Gunther. This affirmation reassured her as she finished with the onions and moved on to the tomatoes. Cutting vegetables had never been so relishing now.
Helena proffered her tea, which she accepted. While the stew on the stove boiled, they sat together on the table and conversed. Most of the conversation was initiated by Helena, rendering it practically one-sided. Serenity merely nodded and shook her head when asked questions. She tried to ignore the continuous twitching of Helena’s face, keeping eye contact. This was something she had to get accustomed to. Since Helena seemed she could go on endlessly about 19th century politics in Britain, she decided to ask questions of her own to stimulate the chat.
“How long have you guys lived here?”
“I honestly haven’t the faintest idea. It’s been so long, you know,” she added, at the doubtful look on her face.
“Wow, don’t you ever get bored?” she asked, amazed.
“I quite like it here, it’s peaceful,” Helena shrugged.
“So, can you remember the last time you left?”
“I beg your pardon? Left where?”
“Here…this house, in the middle of this forest.”
Helena let out a raucous laugh that echoed around the kitchen and sent chills down her spine. It wasn’t an elegant sound, far from euphonious.
“Dear, I don’t even remember life outside this home. And I don’t care to. When the time comes, I shall be buried out in the yard.”
“But how can that be…” her voice trailed off, at the realization that she was being too presumptuous.
All questions, no statements, like an interrogation. But she simply couldn’t contain her curiosity.
“I don’t expect you to understand, you’re still young, beautiful, and thriving…” Helena smiled wistfully.
“I guess so; but do you know my father?” she tried. “Gunther?”
“No, I don’t,” said Helena. “Should I?”
“Your husband tells us he knows him. I thought you would, too.”
“Then you’re mistaken. I’ve never seen or heard of your father my whole life. Where is he, if I may ask?”
“I’m not sure, he doesn’t tell us,” she said candidly.
Helena quirked her eyebrows, leaning forward.
“Intriguing... Well, he probably is on personal business. It’s not anything you should ponder about. I’m sure your father is just trying to protect you and your brothers, as all parents do.”
“Yeah, definitely,” she said, concealing her dubiety.
“Oh! The stew is ready!” Helena said, delighted, rising up and walking over to the stove. “I’ve got plenty of mouths to feed, can’t forget about that…yes, indeed...lots of mouths…”
Serenity finished her tea while Helena muttered incoherently to herself. This was another peculiar habit of Helena’s; intermittently talking to herself, the words incomprehensible. The easiest conclusion to arrive at was that Helena was mental; but she was old.
As she looked out the window, the afternoon sun was blazing at its maximum peak, half-obscured by the clouds. Despite the sunlight and the warmth, the cold was still at an uncomfortable low temperature in the fifties.
A couple hours later, sunset was nigh and Patrick and the brothers still weren’t back. She sat on the rocking chair in the living room, holding up her phone at different angles. There was no signal out here. Her phone was essentially useless now. She pocketed it, staring up at the ceiling absent-mindedly. Helena was sweeping the floors with a broom, which Serenity found unnecessary; the floors looked clean enough. From what she gleaned out of the conversation with Helena, she had never been out of this house. Or rather, she had no memories of her life outside of the house. How somebody, regardless of age, could forget something like that boggled her mind. Due to her overly inquisitive nature, there were many other questions Serenity wanted to ask. But she didn’t want to come off as snoopy. It would be optimal to take it slow and wait at least a couple hours.
An hour later, Patrick and the brothers had returned, announcing their presence rowdily. They entered the house from the back door. Still seated on the rocking chair, she had a view of the kitchen from her position. From what she saw, they had brought back a LOT of raw meat and were in high spirits. Cackle was rambunctiously bragging about a kill.
“I could’ve collected all that myself! Elks can’t run from me!”
“Lucky hit,” Agno said. “I let you take that shot!”
“Now, now, settle down!” said Patrick. “The kid did fantastic. As did we all. Go wash up upstairs and get ready for supper soon.”
Agno and Cackle continued to bicker while they walked out of the kitchen, into the living room, and up the stairs. The other brothers followed silently. All of them looked unscathed and healthy, so the hunting trip must’ve gone smoothly. Sustaining injuries during hunting was rare for them, even her. With a weapon in their possession, no animal could do harm to them; they’d only flee at the sight of it.
When the sun came down and night time emerged, they all were tightly seated around the round dinner table. The table was relatively small for eight people, so chairs had to be taken from around the house and squeezed in. Their elbows made contact with each other, which was annoying when trying to eat. Supper consisted only of stew; an unknown stew. There was an assortment of bits of meats and vegetables mixed inside and mushed together. The stew wasn’t palatable at all, but adequate enough to be edible.
“Ta
stes like shit,” Cackle mouthed furtively.
“So, what brings you across the Atlantic?” Patrick asked, draining down the soup like it was Coca-Cola.
“Like we said, we had to flee,” Desmos said. “England was our father’s choice, not ours. We were about to move anyway.”
“You know why your father chose this place, correct?”
“I have a hunch…”
“I highly advise you kids to prepare yourselves for what’s to come in the near future; as you know, your father is very ambitious.”
“How well exactly did you know him?” Agno asked, eyes narrowed.
“Like I said, your father and I have been acquainted for decades,” Patrick said. “Though, I haven’t heard from him in a long time.”
“When did you guys meet?” Cackle asked.
“In the summer of ’78, in Liverpool. The details surrounding our meeting I will not say. Ask your father.”
“You know why we’re here, don’t you?” Garen said straightforwardly.
“‘I have a hunch,’” Patrick smiled, imitating Desmos’s response. “An Aurelian stronghold is rumored to be about a few hundred kilometers east of here. Their primary residence.”
Silence around the table was produced at this statement. All of them, including her, looked up from their stew bowls. Only Desmos and Kyler looked unsurprised. Garen looked at Desmos furiously.
“You kept this from us?!” he shouted, banging his fist onto the table.
“Under Father’s command,” Desmos said, reserved. “Relax, anything I can, I tell you all. Kyler knew as well, since he was with me while were discussing plans with Father in the conference room back in Sequim.”
“Why keep it secret?” Agno asked forcefully. “We’re not idiots; you tell little Kyler, but not us?! What’s so top-secret that—”
“You know now,” Desmos asserted. “So stop whining.”
“So Father’s planning to infiltrate?” Kyler spoke. “We’d need to map out the place first, but that seems equally as impossible.”
“We can only speculate, but I was thinking maybe that’s where he is,” Desmos explained. “At the residence, scouting the area.”
“If he is, the man’s a fool,” Patrick interjected. “I’ve never seen it in person, but this fortress is supposedly more fortified than Buckingham Palace. Or that White House your jester president resides in.”
“What do you know about the Aurelians? Are you pals or enemies?” Garen pressed heatedly.
“What do you think?” Patrick grunted. “If I were an Aurelian, you think your father and I would be on friendly terms? You think he’d send you all off to stay with me? Brainless giant…”
Garen sneered at the retort, pushing the bowl of stew aside.
“How many Aurelians have you boys killed over the course of your lifetimes?” Patrick asked solemnly. “How much of their blood is stained on your hands? I daresay, too little for your satisfaction.”
“Collectively, the number’s high,” Desmos said casually. “Maybe, a little over a hundred. This planet is crawling with them.”
“Believe me, I resent those bastards as much as your father, as much as you. However, has it ever occurred to you why you hate them? Why you seek to eliminate every one of them in sight and strive for their extinction? Where does your father’s aversion, which he has transferred onto you all, stem from? And what is the reasoning behind it?”
Serenity listened attentively and intently, waiting for her brothers’ responses, particularly Desmos’s. These were the questions she was asking herself her whole life but kept quiet about. The questions the others didn’t seem to care about. Now, they were finally being thrown at them, thanks to Patrick who was grilling them intensely.
“None of that we’ve ever thought about much,” Desmos stated expectedly. “Our father raised us not to ask questions, but to follow orders under obligation. He did tell us that the Aurelians were simply evil and needed to be vanquished.”
“So he never told you,” Patrick nodded thoughtfully. “Understood.”
“What have they done to him?” Serenity burst out, without reluctance. “Patrick, if you know, could you please shed some light?”
Shockingly, Desmos didn’t tell her to shut up or even glower at her. Arms folded, leaned back against the chair, he watched her heedfully. The other brothers were suspenseful, awaiting Patrick’s reply quietly. Patrick let out a huge and long sigh, shaking his head.
“This,” he said seriously, “among all the things you’ve asked me today, is definitely the one thing you’d have to ask your father, as I’m certain he wouldn’t want me telling you anything he wouldn’t want you to hear.”
“B-but,” she stuttered, disappointed, “he’d never tell us!”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t want to know…”
“No,” she refuted adamantly. “I want to know. And they do, as much as they never express it. We have a right to know.”
“Ask your father,” Patrick reaffirmed obstinately. “That’s enough talk for tonight. I’ll go over some house rules and then bedtime.”
She resigned, accepting that receiving direct answers was too good to be true. Of course it wouldn’t be this easy. It was foolish of her to think it would. And asking Gunther would definitely be crossed out as an option; doing so would only entail another beating.
“First of all, nobody out of their rooms after 9:00; that’s bedtime.”
“Are you kidding?” Cackle asked quizzically.
“Do I look like I am?” Patrick said, unamused.
Cackle exchanged scornful looks with the others, scoffing. They never had a bedtime or curfew growing up. Raising them, Gunther never enforced one; he only expected them to be rested and up early the next morning for training. It was still like this now. The brothers had exploited this privilege since childhood, staying up until 5:00 in the morning and disturbing those in the house actually trying to get sleep (like herself). Usually, Desmos was the one that was serious about getting sleep; when the others got too loud, he’d shut them up physically. Though, they only really let loose late at night when Gunther wasn’t home, which was very frequently in recent years.
“Second rule, which is one I’m very strict about,” Patrick continued. The attic upstairs is out-of-bounds, so no trespassing at all.”
“What’s in the attic—” Cackle began.
“For God’s sake!” Patrick growled. “Do you ever shut up? You’re my guest, and I am speaking! Is that clear, you little rascal?!”
Cackle only silenced himself when Desmos whacked him around the head before he could let out another retort.
“Now, lastly,” Patrick huffed. “Keep your voices down and don’t be too loud. If the noise levels reach a certain point, and me and my wife are awakened from our slumber, your head will be on the stake. Understood?”
“Understood,” they all said dully, in unison.
“Now, good night to you all, and rem—ah, about that time.”
Helena, who hadn’t spoken or uttered a sound the entire supper, abruptly began coughing and wheezing violently. It sounded like a dying goat; she appeared gravely ill. Her eyes were fixed upwards, staring at the ceiling as she spastically flinched at every splutter. Agno, who was seated to her right, covered his mouth and grimaced. Patrick helped Helena to her toes, guiding her out of the kitchen.
“Serenity, can I trouble you with washing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen? I have to take Helena to bed and give her medicine,” Patrick requested curtly, before he left.
“Sure,” she nodded; she wasn’t feeling inclined to do it at all, but Helena looked like she was suffering, and Serenity felt pity.
She looked around at the kitchen, estimating the amount of work that had to be done: eight bowls and water glasses that had to be washed, pots and pans that had to be put away, and tables and sinks that had to be cleaned. It was a lot, a bit too much. Before she could get started, however, she was stopped by Desmos, who astonished her.
&n
bsp; “You go up, I’ll do it,” he said dryly, rolling up his sleeves.
“Are—are you serious?”
“Yes, now go.”
“You sure you know how to clean?”
He didn’t answer, immediately collecting all the bowls and glasses. Housework didn’t suit any of the brothers, but Desmos was actually experienced in this department. He even had a passable skill set in the culinary arts. But recently, there was no need for him to do any of this when she was available. And she definitely did it more efficiently anyway.
Overall, she knew that Desmos had some ulterior motive.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I know Father has a knack for never coming when we want him to,” Cackle puffed, “but this is getting ridiculous…”
They were all out in the yard, splitting wood with hatchets. Manual labor in the cold was just as arduous and grueling than under the hot sun. The cold air sucked into their lungs, chilling their insides and hindering their breathing. Over six days had passed since their arrival, and there was still no sign of Gunther. No call, no message, not even a letter. Despite their suspicions that something potentially could’ve gone wrong, Desmos was unyielding in his belief that there was just a small delay, and that there was nothing to be concerned about. Of course, if something did fatally happen to their father, she’d rejoice rather than lament.
“If I have to eat another bowl of that stew, I’m turning to cannibalism,” said Agno slightingly. “That’s manure; there’s no doubt.”
“Agreed,” Garen concurred. “And you’d be the first one I eat, Agno.”
Serenity placed the piece of wood, which would be used as firewood, on its end on the chopping block; she straightened her arms while raising them, spaced her feet slightly apart, pulled the axe straight back over her head, and then swung forward. She built up speed and let the momentum and weight of the axe do all the work. The axe sliced the wood directly through the center, splitting it in two. She tossed both pieces onto her pile and moved on to the next piece.
“Where did gramps go anyway?” Cackle asked, referring to Patrick. “Is that moron not going to help us, leaving us to chop all this crap up by ourselves? Or is he tending to that crazy, old, hag wife of his?”
