The Death of Yorik Mortwell

by Stephen Messer

  The Death of Yorik Mortwell

  Stephen Messer

  Gris Grimly (Illustrator)

  Inspired by the artwork of Edward Gorey, Windblowne author Stephen Messer delivers a mock-Gothic tale about poor Yorick (alas!), son of the Gamekeeper at venerable Ravenby Manor, who meets an untimely demise—in chapter one! Worry not, dear reader, for Yorick returns in ghostly form, intent on revenge. In the course of his hauntings, however, ghostly Yorick discovers that all manner of otherworldy creatures inhabit the manor grounds, and that he has a part to play in saving not only his still-living orphan sister but also the manor and everyone in it.

  For every young reader who enjoyed the dour dalliance of A Series of Unfortunate Events, here is Stephen Messer's playful homage to the poor orphans of Charles Dickens, the bleak poetry of Edgar Allen Poe, and the exaggerated characters of Roald Dahl.

  Stephen Messer

  The Death of Yorik Mortwell

  To Memere

  How To Tie A Bowline Knot

  The bowline knot, used since the time of the ancient Egyptians, is known as the king of knots. Yorik Mortwell tied quite a lot of them on the last day of his life.

  Chapter One

  Twelve-year-old Yorik Mortwell lay on the hard, cold ground, dead.

  His day had started off rather better than that.

  “Come on,” he had said to his little sister that morning. “I’ll show you how to snare partridges.”

  They were reluctant to leave the one-room cabin on such a frosty autumn day, when the roaring fire they’d built had warmed that room so nicely, but Yorik knew they needed the food and Susan was always interested in learning about anything and everything. So they bundled up as best they could and went shivering onto the Estate.

  They went deliberately along the paths, at first rough and wooded, then finely manicured, then rough and wooded again. They passed the mews and the winery and the fishponds and the shooting range. Through the dense woods they sometimes caught sight of Ravenby Manor, with its twenty-seven chimneys.

  Once they heard a muffled droning, and the slim, fleet shape of Lord Ravenby’s personal dirigible appeared in the clouds, flying toward its mooring tower in a meadow in the Estate’s farthest corner.

  “Here,” said Yorik, and they plunged off into the trees.

  “H-how do you know?” Susan said, teeth chattering. She looked excited, though her lips were blue. Yorik vowed to get her back to the warm cabin as soon as he could.

  “I’ve seen them feeding here,” Yorik said. They had come to a small clearing. “Now collect sticks.”

  Yorik showed Susan how to build a boot-high fence of twigs in a semicircle around the feeding ground. At intervals they left openings for gateways made from sticks bent carefully into arches.

  “The partridges will poke their heads through these,” explained Yorik.

  Susan nodded, concentrating.

  Yorik took a long spool of string from one pocket and his knife from the other. He cut several lengths of string, one for each archway. He showed Susan how to tie a bowline knot, reciting:

  Lay the bight to make a hole

  Then under the back and around the pole

  Over the top and through the eye

  Cinch it tight and let it lie

  Then he slipped the free end of the string back through the loop in order to make a slip noose. They tied that end to the top of the arch. To hold the slip noose open, Yorik cut notches in each side of the arch, then secured the strings in each notch. Susan helped, and soon enough she was tying bowline knots and making slip nooses as though she’d been doing it all her life.

  “Once they’re in the slip noose,” asked Susan, “can’t they just back out?”

  “They can,” replied Yorik, “but they won’t. A partridge will keep trying to force its way forward, and the loop will hold it in place until we return.”

  The work took a long, frigid hour, and by the end their fingers were red and numb and their ears ached from the cold. But they could stand back in pride and admire a perfect partridge snare.

  “How lovely,” said a nasty voice from behind them. “But those partridges belong to me, you know.”

  Yorik and Susan turned. A boy stood there, the same age as Yorik, leaning on a walking stick with a ruby knob on one end. Susan curtsied, and Yorik dipped his head. “Yes, Master Thomas,” said Yorik.

  Master Thomas sauntered forward. He looked considerably warmer than Yorik and Susan. His heavy coat was made of wool, and he wore a fur cap and mittens. A black scarf was wrapped around and around his neck. He was stout to begin with, and these thick layers of clothing gave him the aspect of a cannonball. Mean eyes stared out from beneath the cap.

  “What did you intend to do with your catch?”

  “If it please you, Master,” replied Yorik, “the usual—eight in ten will go to the Estate, and two to the gamekeeper.”

  “You’re not the gamekeeper.” Master Thomas smiled. “The gamekeeper is dead.”

  Yorik and Susan stood in a vast, aching silence, thinking of their father.

  Pleased, Master Thomas went on. “You should consider yourselves fortunate that my father has allowed you to stay on the Estate at all. And you repay him by poaching his birds.”

  “We weren’t poaching, sir—” Susan began. But Yorik put a hand on her shoulder.

  They stood shivering and silent as Master Thomas approached the snare. “Do not gainsay me, little girl,” he said in a tone as cold as the wind that cut through their clothes. “I say you were poaching. And I won’t allow it.”

  He raised his walking stick and brought it crashing down across the little fence.

  Yorik and Susan watched as he walked the length of it, at first bashing with the stick, then simply kicking. By the end, the snare had been scattered and trampled and ground into the earth, an hour’s labor gone in less than a minute.

  The exertion had cost Master Thomas. He bent over with his hands on his knees, red in the face and breathing heavily, but looking satisfied with his work. When he had recovered, he straightened himself and removed a black handkerchief from within his coat. He blew into it while Yorik and Susan watched helplessly. Then he sighed, tucked the handkerchief away, and looked about as though he had forgotten about Yorik and Susan and was simply enjoying the day.

  Finally he began to stride away. “Don’t let me catch you at this again,” he warned loftily, “or I’ll tell my father and he’ll have you thrown off the Estate.”

  Yorik watched the cannonball as it rolled past and receded into the forest.

  “You didn’t have to do that!” he muttered. Susan stiffened and gave a little whimper.

  The cannonball froze, then turned slowly.

  Master Thomas walked back to them, swinging the walking stick in a figure eight, the ruby knob leaving a trail as it cut the air. He walked straight up to Yorik and pointed the stick at him.

  “Apologize,” he commanded.

  Seconds passed. Yorik said nothing. He became aware, in that long silence, of distant sounds of the Estate at work, of chopping and barking and the neighing of horses.

  Master Thomas pointed the stick at Susan. “Apologize,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Yorik.

  “Good,” said Master Thomas. He looked all around. He looked up. Then he pointed with the stick. “Now fetch me that apple there. I’m hungry.”

  Yorik and Susan looked up. “What apple?” Yorik said finally.

  “The apple in the apple tree,” said Master Thomas patiently. “Fetch it. It’s up there at the top.”

  Yorik waited. Master Thomas watched him. “It’s an elm tree,” said Yori
k.

  “It’s an apple tree,” said Master Thomas. “Now start climbing.”

  Yorik began climbing the elm, cursing himself for his stupidity in talking back to Family. His father had taught him better.

  At last he reached the highest point to which he could safely climb. He looked down to see what his next order would be. Master Thomas had used his time to gather an arsenal of rocks. He began throwing them at Yorik. Yorik tried to get as much of the elm between him and Master Thomas as he could, but there wasn’t much tree up there, and Master Thomas was walking around the trunk, taking his time. One rock struck Yorik on the leg, another on the hand.

  Susan began to cry.

  “Susan, no,” said Yorik. “It’s all right. It—”

  He noticed the rock Master Thomas was holding. Even from high up, he could see it was a big one.

  Then Susan had Master Thomas by the arm, struggling and fighting, and Master Thomas gave her a terrific shove that sent her sprawling.

  Yorik hurtled down through the branches, everything gone red. He was shouting things, terrible things, and he looked at Master Thomas and saw that the boy had thrown that big rock, and it got bigger and bigger as it came, a large dark blur, and then something happened to the side of his head and he was falling. He was headfirst now, and he could see branches coming up at him. Something happened to his shoulder as it struck one branch, then something to a knee. It hurt awfully. He thought about trying to catch on to one of the branches, but though it seemed that the fall was taking a very long time, it was also happening quickly, and he couldn’t quite grab one. He was hitting branches and falling, and then everything simply went black, black as Master Thomas’s scarf and handkerchief. His last sight, as life faded out, was that of the big black bulk of Ravenby Manor, and then everything closed onto him.

  • • •

  Yorik Mortwell lay on the hard, cold ground, dead.

  A long time passed.

  There were voices.

  “What’s it?” growled a dark, gravelly one.

  “It’s a dead boy, silly!” said another one, haughty and refined.

  Yorik opened his eyes to see who was speaking.

  Chapter Two

  Yorik saw crisp winter sky above, and bare elm branches, and he could see where Dark Moon Lilith, forever invisible, blotted out a circle of stars. It was night.

  Two startling faces leaned over, blocking his view.

  The first face got Yorik’s attention immediately. It appeared to belong to a sort of girl—a sort of girl who was about three feet tall, and whose head was squat and round like a common toadstool cap. The rest of her was thin as a stick. Her hair was short, dark, and matted with dirt, and she had bulbous eyes that were entirely brown. They were light brown in the iris, and muddy brown in the pupil.

  Then she opened her mouth, and Yorik, had he been alive, would have run away in terror. The girl-creature had three or four rows of teeth all jumbled together, but worst of all, her mouth seemed to be filled with mud.

  “ ’s lookin’ at me,” the mouth said, and some clumps of mud fell out and onto Yorik. The voice was thick and mumbled, and the dark brown eyes glittered.

  “Of course it is!” The other face sniffed. “What wouldn’t, with looks like yours?”

  Yorik, with great effort, pulled his attention to that one.

  This face definitely belonged to a girl—a more normal-looking girl, except that she was extraordinarily pretty, with silver curls. Yorik could see that the hair wasn’t silver-colored, but actual silver. He had seen silver once, many years ago, when Mistress Doris, haughty as her younger brother, Thomas, had shown Yorik a silver cup she had stolen from the Manor’s collection. But Doris was long dead of the plague.

  The girl with silver curls seemed to be playing dress-up, as she wore a crown in her hair that was made of laurel branches all woven together. Her mouth was pinched into delighted disapproval, as though Yorik were both appalling and necessary.

  The faces stared at him. He tried to get up. His arms and legs would not cooperate. He knew they must all be broken. He had clear memories of breaking them one by one as he plunged out of the elm. His shoulder too, and his neck. Nothing worked.

  He tried to speak. That, at least, was functional, although his jaw also seemed jammed to one side somehow. “S-Susan,” he said thickly.

  “Huh!” exclaimed the muddy girl. “Can talk!”

  “Of course it can talk, Erde!” Though the pretty girl’s tone was rude as ever, it was clear she was getting happier by the second. Her whole face gleamed as she peered at Yorik’s broken body. In fact, it did actually gleam, Yorik noticed. It had a shining halo around it—no, not just her face. Her whole body, or as much of it as he could see, shone with silver light. Her dress of gossamer green flashed and sparked.

  Yorik tried to turn his head, but his neck was stuck in the wrong position.

  “ ’s no good,” grunted Erde, putting her face close to Yorik and sniffing. He wished he could recoil in terror. “ ’s broken.”

  “No, it’s perfect!” said the haughty girl, delighted. She sounded like the sort of maniacal little noble girl who might visit the Estate, whose laughter would float from the open windows of the Manor but whose face Yorik would never see. “It’s a tragically dead boy! Just exactly what we need!”

  “Why tragic?” moaned Erde. Erde was a girl’s name, but this did not sound like a girl at all. It sounded rumbling and old, like boulders grinding together.

  The gleaming girl sighed. “It died before its time! You can tell from looking at it.”

  “How?”

  Light footsteps circled around Yorik. “These usually live seventy or eighty years.”

  “Not long,” grumbled Erde.

  “No, it isn’t. And this one looks about six.”

  Twelve! thought Yorik, offended. But he didn’t dare contradict this noble-sounding girl.

  “What’s a susan?” asked Erde.

  “Probably a sister,” replied the silver girl.

  “What’s a sister?”

  “It means two humans with the same parent,” said the girl impatiently. “Stop asking questions.”

  “We’re sisters,” rumbled Erde thoughtfully.

  “No, we aren’t! That’s just a stupid human idea. You and I are completely different.” The girl’s eyes blazed with silver flares. “Especially you.”

  Yorik worked his mouth again. “Wh-what h-h-happened?” Making words was difficult.

  “Do not interrupt me when I’m speaking!” ordered the girl. She raised her arm, which was holding a slender twig with green leaves sprouting off. She waved this at Yorik in a threatening way.

  “Tell him!” grunted Erde, waving her arms and hopping.

  “Fine,” said the silver girl. She lowered the twig and bent close to Yorik. “What happened is that you’ve died, and it was a really horrible, nasty, tragic death too, by the look of things.”

  Yorik wondered if he should apologize for that.

  The girl looked him over. “You must have fallen from my elm. How many branches did you hit on the way down, anyway? Here, I’ll fix that.” She brought up the leafy twig and pointed.

  Yorik felt the most curious sensation. Warmth spread through his limbs.

  “Only my first season here,” continued the girl, waving her twig at Yorik, “and already I’ve found a dead human. You creatures have so little time to live, whatever are you diving out of trees for?”

  Something in Yorik’s neck popped into place. He realized he could move his arms and legs.

  “There!” declared the silver girl with a flourish. “Completely repaired.”

  “Thank you,” Yorik said, sitting up.

  “Don’t thank me,” said the girl. “You work for me now!”

  Even in the dark night, Yorik could see everything perfectly. There were still remnants of the partridge snare scattered around, but they looked weeks old. He guessed, from the dry, snowy scent of the air and the stark, barren elm,
that a month or so had passed, and it was now November.

  And he was dead.

  “I’m a ghost,” he said, amazed.

  “And I am … I am …” The girl paused, seeming to think.

  Yorik waited.

  “The all-powerful Princess of the Aviary Glade!” she announced at last. “That’s what you can call me. And you are my servant. Your first order is to haunt the lands of your old human masters.”

  “You mean the Ravenbys?” asked Yorik.

  “Call them whatever you want,” the Princess said, swishing her twig. “You’re a ghost and you’ve got to haunt something. But while you’re at it, I require you to spy, with your ghosty eyes and ears. I want to know everything you see and hear.”

  Yorik, who had been a servant his entire life, supposed that it was only natural he would be a servant in death as well. He looked at Erde.

  “ ’m Erde,” groaned Erde, hopping. Clumps of dirt fell from her gaping mouth.

  “She’s not your concern,” snapped the Princess. “You will serve me, or … or …” She looked about. She spied an acorn and snatched it up. “Or I’ll imprison you in this acorn forever!”

  “You don’t have to make threats, Your Highness,” said Yorik humbly. “I’ll help.” He rose gradually to his feet, achingly stretching his creaky limbs.

  The Princess looked suspicious. “You’ll help me? Just like that?”

  “Of course I will. I want to haunt the Ravenbys. I want revenge!”

  “You? Whatever do you want revenge for?”

  “They killed me! Well, one of them did. He knocked me out of the elm with a rock.”

  “Cor,” moaned Erde, dirt dribbling. “ ’s right.”

  “Well then,” said the Princess, seeming disappointed. She dropped the acorn. “I suppose you’ve got to haunt him a bit. But I command you to report back to me.”