FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  But perhaps I am remembering things too fondly. It was at the nightclub, after all, that brought my mother and my stepfather together in the end. No one could ever replace the father I’d lost — this much is certain. But with my stepfather came the first promise of the life my mother and I might have beyond the war. We believed him to be our savior, and with good reason, for during those dark days in Europe he saved us time and time again.

  CHAPTER 8.

  I wake in the middle of the night. All at once, my eyes open, and I am acutely awake. They have moved me from the dormitory back to the hospital wing.

  As I stir in my bed, I hear something metallic rattle and fall to the tiled floor with a THUNK. Slowly, I realize what the sound must be: The buckles on the restraints in which they put me after my outburst in the courtyard with Colette. Yes, I remember now. Nurse Kitching injected me with some sort of drug to calm me (I heard someone shout the words Thorazine! Thorazine, now!) and I am supposed to spend the night strapped down to my bed — “for my own safety.”

  But now I am puzzled, for it appears someone has unbuckled me. It is the strap that was across my chest that has fallen to the floor. I hold still and cautiously pat the bedcovers, feeling for the other straps around my waist and over my legs. They, too, have been unbuckled. I slowly slide the straps aside, careful not to make any further noise, lest I alert a nurse who might feel obliged to buckle me back down. My head hurts — perhaps an after-effect of the drug that knocked me out. As I move, I feel something cold touch my skin and I flinch. There is something tucked under the sheet with me. I blindly reach for it with my hand and produce the object from its hiding place under the blankets. As soon as I see it, I let out a small gasp.

  It is the key.

  In a state of disbelief, I stare at the bow of the key where it is fancifully engraved with the suits of the playing deck. It is the same key I discovered laying on my pillow two nights ago as though someone had purposely left it there for me. It is the same key I thought I had rolled up in a sock and hidden in my dormitory footlocker. I sit up in bed and peer around the room. Is someone playing a prank on me? Or, quite possibly, might this be a test of some kind, ordered by Dr. Waters to gauge my sanity?

  But I am alone. I find myself in a large room full of beds — much like the dormitory — but here in the infirmary, I am the only occupant. Like the dormitory, here, too, there is a lamp switched on, made to serve as a night-light, this time covered with a green shade. I blink in the strange, surreal light of the green-shaded lamp and listen for signs of another person.

  The first buckle made a loud clanking noise when it hit the tiled floor, yet it appears not to have alerted any of the nurses on duty. Curious, I rise and tiptoe to the doorway. At the door, I poke my head up and peep discreetly through the little square window. The nurses’ station is empty. I assume this means they are all on rounds, doing bed checks maybe, changing bedpans, attending to other patients.

  I look down at the key in my hand. I am holding it so tightly its engravings have begun to imprint their shapes upon my palm. I stare at the key, contemplating what it is I already know I am about to do. I know it would be wiser to stay put, but I can’t help myself. The errand was already laid out before me two nights ago, the invitation already beckoned; somehow, even then, I already knew it was only a matter of time. If someone is playing a prank on me, if the unseen person who unbuckled my restraints means to test me somehow, I can only think that person is very cruel.

  Quietly, creeping along as catlike as I possibly can, I push through the swinging door and tiptoe down the asylum corridor. I wonder… will I be able to find my way back to the door? I find myself getting lost at least three or four times, but the strange labyrinthine nature of the asylum’s corridors is on my side tonight; each time I get lost they lead me back again to the familiar, until eventually I find my way to the staircase I know will take me down to the basement level. Soon enough, I am winding through these underground hallways, their walls made of crumbling brick.

  And then, there it is: The door.

  I stop and ogle it with wide eyes, slightly frantic and short of breath from all my slinking around. Heavy and windowless, it is unique among all the doors I’ve seen in the asylum, which are either cage-like and made of mesh-wire or else made of metal and riveted with little windows, as though the asylum were really a submarine. But this door is made of oak, and quite massive. I look again at the key plate, comparing it to the key in my hand. The metalwork is very intricate and quite skilled; both contain a compass, hidden amongst a great deal of fleurs de lys and other ornate scrollwork. Both contain clubs, hearts, spades, and diamonds.

  I put the key in the lock. It slides in with a satisfying tick-tick-tick, the sound of the metal teeth fitting over the grooves, the pins within the lock yielding, dropping. When I turn the knob, the heavy door glides open with surprising ease, groaning ever so faintly on its hinges. I get my first look at what lies within.

  Disappointment.

  I don’t know what I expected, but I did not expect this. I find myself staring into the sooty interior of an old boiler room. An old coal-burning furnace sits in a far corner, a forgotten, dusty wheelbarrow half-full of coal beside it. The room is dimly lit by a small bare bulb overhead. I step inside, my spirits rapidly turning to lead with the sinking sensation of such an anticlimax.

  There is nothing special about this space at all — it is a simple, damp, old boiler room. What’s more, it has fallen into disuse; the hospital has likely switched from coal to oil over the years. I think of the fox again. Now I’m certain I hallucinated him.

  I stand there for several minutes, unsure what to do next. I suppose the only thing left to do is to return to the infirmary, crawl back in bed, and pray that nobody has taken note of my absence.

  But for some unexplained reason, I linger. Slowly but surely, I become aware of a dripping sound in a far corner. It makes a curious echo and I go to investigate. There is a freestanding empty wooden bookcase, so dilapidated it is splintered and cracked, its shelves bowed, sagging. As I draw nearer, I see the bookcase is not pushed all the way to the wall. There is a good two feet or so between them.

  My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see that at the far corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there is another doorway — an exit from this room, only haphazardly concealed. I step closer, a little frightened to pass between the bookcase and the wall, but curious nonetheless. The doorway is an open arch, and through it is a stone corridor that, as far as I can tell, slopes slightly downward. It is so dark inside the corridor as to be absolutely pitch-black. I move a few inches down it, and hold my hand out in front of my face, testing whether or not I can make out the shape. Nothing.

  Even so, I am determined to move forward, and I force myself to take step after step, inching my way down the corridor in the absolute darkness. This is, I think, is usually the point in the ghost story wherein the young girl’s groping hand falls upon a skeleton, or else a wall of snakes and cockroaches. But that is not what happens. As I feel my way through the dark my hand hits something flat, heavy, and wooden.

  Another door.

  There is no keyhole in this door, only what feels like a doorknob. My hand fumbles over its shape. I am unsure of what terrors may await on the other side of this door. But more than that I am slightly frantic, ready to be free of the terrible pitch-black in which I currently find myself. I grip the doorknob, and with one final surge of impulse, turn it.

  The door swings open. To my surprise, it leads… outdoors?

  Yes: I am looking at grass, at trees. The night beyond the hospital feels abruptly bottomless, immense. The silvery light of the moon greets me and a cool, dewy breeze whispers into my face. I look behind me, to where I came from, hesitant. No one has followed me. I ponder my situation for several seconds, and conclude that whatever the penalty might be for getting caught out of my bed and wandering about the asylum halls, it can’t differ too drastically from the
penalty for venturing outside without supervision. If you break one rule, you may as well break ten.

  I step outside, my skin refreshed by the crisp night air. It goes right through the thin muslin of my hospital gown as if it were nothing at all. All at once, the outdoors rushes as me: Stars! Crickets! The deep, soulful hooting of an owl! I inhale profoundly, filling my lungs as deeply as I can.

  But, I realize, there is something quite strange about this scenario. I can see the asylum behind me, I can see the door through which I’ve emerged, and yet I feel transported; I no longer feel as though I am in New Orleans — or Louisiana at all, for that matter. How curious, I think. I make my way across the grassy knoll that surrounds the asylum, past the little hospital cemetery, and nearer to the tree line. I inhale another lungful of air, and it hits me: The scent is wrong. It is an intimately familiar scent, but one that is out of place here. In lieu of the live oaks and swamp cypresses I expect to smell, I realize the strange perfume I detect now is a concoction of pine, birch, cedar, and moss.

  It is closer to the combination of odors that distinguished my beloved Hallerbos.

  I am equal parts mesmerized and confused. I stare at the trees, making a closer study of them. The breeze sighs gently through the needles and leaves. They make a sound like ocean waves breaking on the shore. I focus in on one tree in particular. Is that — is that a northern pine tree of some variety? But no sooner than I become riveted by the presence of this atypical evergreen than I feel that familiar sensation: The hairs on my neck standing on end. I have the distinct feeling I am being watched. I hold my breath when I hear a rustling in the low-lying brush nearby.

  Too big to be a rabbit or a bird, it sounds like a much larger animal. I have a fleeting thought that it might be human.

  “Hello?” I call. But no one answers. I frown, and squint into the shrubbery.

  Nothing, only the trees shifting in the wind, crickets singing their nocturnal song.

  But then the rustling comes again; from a spot ten paces to my left.

  “Hello?” I repeat. I move closer to where the noise originated, and frowning, I stare searchingly into the dark underbrush. Suddenly, as my eyes alight on something there, I start.

  Looking back at me I see two blazing yellow-green eyes. The image of them shoots through me like an electric flash. I am absolutely terrified, frozen and staring. Bit by bit, my brain begins to piece together information, until I abruptly comprehend what I am looking at: It is the fox-man, the very same fox-man I glimpsed two nights ago in the dormitory, leaning over my cot as I slept. Everything is still for several seconds. I almost convince myself I am not seeing what I am really seeing, but then the yellow eyes blink, the lids lowering like black curtains and then opening again to reveal that electric glare anew.

  I clap a hand over my mouth to prevent the scream forming there.

  The sudden movement evidently spooks the fox-man, for he turns tail — quite literally — and runs. A strange shift takes place between us in which the hunter becomes the hunted.

  “No!” I cry. “Wait! Oh, please wait! I mean you no harm!”

  He dashes off into the woods and before I know it, I follow suit, chasing after him yet again, this time with my bare feet padding over knobby tree roots, dry leaves, and pine needles. I ought to be more afraid of him, but for reasons I can’t explain I feel the urgent need to catch him up.

  I run, crashing through the forest trees, whipping through branches, the underbrush scratching at my arms and face. The rugged path doesn’t bother me — as a young child, I spent many a day running through the woods barefoot. The terrain begins to incline upwards, and I find myself scrambling up rocks, over a carpet of moss, past a fresh-smelling waterfall that leaves a fine mist on my skin.

  Every time the fox disappears out of sight, I redouble my efforts. But I am outmatched, and eventually the distance between us increases, until finally he is so far ahead of me I can see nothing more than his bushy foxtail, growing smaller and smaller as it bobs further and further away. We reach a small wooded canyon, and the fox-man descends into it much faster than I am able. With one final flourish, he crosses a stream, and dips into a giant hollow log, and the flash of his white-tipped orange tail is gone.

  I have lost him.

  I draw up to the log, but there is no further sign of the fox-man. The log is quite large; the felled tree from whence it came must have been enormous. Its hollowed-out insides are large enough to pass through while ducking one’s head only slightly. There is a light at the end; it seems to lead quite a distance away, under a heavy mound, through the side of the foothill that lines the canyon and to another part of the woods. I step inside. The earthy scent of wet wood, mushrooms, and moss fills my nostrils.

  Once out the other side of this makeshift tunnel, I find myself surrounded by the ghostly white trunks of a million birch trees. I try to guess where he might have gone. I stagger around for a few minutes, unsure of which direction to go. Dry leaves crunch under my bare feet. As I wander, the hilly terrain peters out, eventually giving way to a clearing. Something in the middle of the clearing catches my eye: A brilliant, flickering, orange light — is that a bonfire? I sniff the air and pick up the spicy scent of wood-smoke. A bonfire would mean people. Who might be out there, in the dark? I can’t begin to imagine. But I also have no idea where I am. This isn’t the kind of woods I imagined might surround the asylum. The woods of Louisiana are filled with swampland; the flora and fauna around me now are entirely at odds with what one might expect. This is no longer a matter of a few pines; I am presently in a forest that I’m almost completely certain cannot exist near New Orleans, or even within a three hundred mile radius of that great city.

  On instinct, I move down the hill, towards the sight of the bonfire, careful to keep myself concealed within the tree line. As I draw nearer, I can make out several dark shapes standing around the fire. I pause momentarily, and soften my step on the leaves underfoot, feeling very vigilant and wary. Bonfires are beautiful, but they are also somewhat frightening; a spectacle of tall flames casting long shadows, transforming the faces of humans into ghoulish masks. I want to get a good look at the people who might be sitting around this bonfire before I reveal myself.

  I creep closer and squat down, until finally I am crawling through the brush below the trees. The dark shapes are indeed human. They stand in a half-circle around the flames. I hear voices, and very delicately crawl closer and closer. I strain to listen.

  —The situation is getting gruesome! Someone must investigate these crimes on behalf of the Four Kingdoms. If one of our kings is corrupt, we must stop him.

  —Who would have thought? Humans! In our land! And found murdered, to boot!

  —Do you think… do you think there is a blood thief among us? That someone is plotting to build another terrible army?

  —Let us pray not! Hopefully it is impossible; the spell required to change human blood into an elixir of enslavement is believed to be lost.

  —Yes, but there are rumors the Snake King has just such a ritual spell in his grimoire. His love of black magic is hardly a secret.

  —Well, I shudder to think. No one has invoked the dark spells of human blood since that dreadful confusion that ensued after the High Cyning died.

  —You mean since our last hope for a unified land died. Since before we were cleaved into four parts! And now that arrangement seems to be dying, too.

  —Well, the Four Kingdoms could only hold for so long. Everything that “is,” also “was”… that is what my mother used to always say.

  —Enough philosophizing! Where is Mr. Fletcher? He called us here. He said he had some very important matters to discuss.

  I am utterly bewildered. What a bizarre conversation this is! Kings and black magic! These days, the only kings and queens I know of are the ones that have ridden past me on a Mardi Gras float, smiling and waving and obliging the cheering crowds with beaded trinkets. I grow increasingly curio
us about the faces that match these voices, and try to reposition myself so that I might peep out from the foliage of my hiding place and catch a better glimpse. But as I tuck my body in between the brambly branches and tilt my head to see, I suddenly freeze with surprise.

  These are no humans.

  Or, at least, if they are humans, they are all wearing a series of terrifying masks. Just like the fox, these creatures have human bodies, but their bodies are impossibly paired with the heads of animals. And also like the fox, they are dressed in dapper clothing with all the marks of civilized gentility. But the heads… the heads are profoundly confusing. They look almost like taxidermy heads, made to speak and cough and guffaw as though a master puppeteer might be animating their expressions. There is a weasel, a crane, a hedgehog, a rabbit, and… is that… a man with the head of a giant toad?

  But someone has been watching me watch these strange creatures. I am startled afresh when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I dart my eyes to the place where someone has gripped me, and there on my shoulder, I glimpse a gray leather glove. When I follow the tailored jacket sleeve up to its owner, I am shocked to find myself looking directly into a pair of yellow-green eyes, reddish fur, and long white whiskers.

  “I suppose it is time I introduced myself, dear Anaïs,” the fox-man says in a suave, low, gentlemanly voice. “I,” he says, bowing deeply at the waist, “am Mr. Fenric Fletcher.”

  CHAPTER 9.

  I scream at the top of my lungs, louder than I ever thought was possible.

  In a flash, the fox-man moves to slip his gloved hand over my mouth and clamps down firmly; I smell that same scent again: Leather finish and a faint hint of tobacco mixed with cologne. But while he holds me steadfastly and his hand covers my mouth, further assault does not follow. I get the curious sense he is not trying to hurt me, but rather, protect me somehow. He is quickly joined by his queer animal-headed fellows — they too, seem eager to silence me, but at the same time, seem more prepared to take extreme measures to this end. They surround me; I look at their monstrous faces staring at me, and feel as though I have stumbled into a grotesque nightmare.