FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “May I introduce Lord Vipond…” the Snake King says, gesturing to the vulture. “A defector… as a matter of fact, from Raven’s court. Now a member here at mine.”

  “Sire,” Lord Vipond turns to address his king. “You cannot be serious about inviting her to this evening’s ritual!” he repeats.

  “But I am in earnessst, Lord Vipond. Having a human here is a rare honor… don’t you see? And she wants to witness the dark magic of this kingdom. We will show her.” He levels a meaningful look at both of his advisors. Immediately, they comprehend, and soften.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “If she wishes to see some black magic, she shall. She is most welcome to join the ritual… her companion, too,” the Snake King says, although he sounds a bit less enthusiastic about Sir Lewin’s participation. He turns from Sir Lewin back to me. “I would be honored to have you at my table, Anaïs. It is perhaps the bessst way for you to understand the ways of our kingdom.” He pauses. “Would you like that, my dear?”

  I chew my lip nervously and glance at Sir Lewin.

  “Yes,” I say. “I should like that very much.”

  “It is sssettled, then,” says the Snake King.

  “If that is your wish Sire, so be it. But…” Monsieur Thibault eyes Sir Lewin and myself, his gaze lingering on Sir Lewin’s out-of-place Arabian military uniform, and my mud-stained shoes and nightgown. “…perhaps we recommend our guests freshen up a bit first.”

  “Yesss,” the Snake King replies. “Let us give the young human the use of our honored Opal Room, where she might bathe and change. I will have the ladies asssissst her…” he reaches into the air and snaps his fingers. “Madame Allette? Marquise Olivier?” he shouts across the drawing room.

  A woman with the head of an alligator, and another woman with the head of an opossum rise from where they sit reclining and together make their way across the room, swinging their hips in a sultry manner as they come towards us.

  “Would you please help this human child to a nice refreshing bath, and into a suitable dress? She is to attend tonight’s ritual.”

  The two ladies in question, one of them dressed in a back sequined dress, the other in a red satin number, nod and smile.

  “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  “She shall have the Opal Room at her disposal. And… as for the leopard here, Lord Vipond, will you show him to the Onyx room?”

  Lord Vipond nods, a thin veneer of gentility coating his obvious dislike for Sir Lewin and reluctance to assist.

  “Won’t you come with us now?” the opossum-headed woman says, laying a cool hand on my arm.

  I don’t see that I have a choice, so I smile, and reply, “All right.”

  Sir Lewin and I exchange a nervous look as I follow the two ladies from the drawing room and down the hall — bound, I assume, for something called the Opal Room.

  CHAPTER 27.

  “The king must like something about you,” says Madame Allette, “if he has decided to give you the Opal Room. It’s special.”

  The king must like something about me, I think with a sense of wary apprehension. My blood, perhaps? I think cynically. I can’t help but wonder whether the Snake King is already plotting my murder in order to perform a ritual that will allegedly give him tremendous powers. It only makes sense that he would be generous with me now, to disarm me. In fairytales, don’t witches fatten up the children they wish to eat? I follow the ladies as we walk over the creaking floorboards of the enormous plantation house, and up several grand flights of stairs. Finally, high up on the third floor and at the end of a long hallway, we stop, and the ladies open a door.

  “Go on,” Marquise Olivier says, gesturing for me to step inside. I obey.

  So far, I have stayed in the Raven King’s Silver Room, the Lion King’s Gold Room, and now I take in my new surroundings with curiosity: The Snake King’s Opal Room. To begin with, it is much more modern than the other rooms, and yet at the same time, has a sort of forgotten air of disrepair about it. It is cozy, but a bit run-down. The room is partly styled after Art Deco fashion, and partly as though some elderly Southern grande dame had decorated it, filling it with all her favorite souvenirs and memories. The wallpaper is such a dark green as to be nearly black. An electric chandelier buzzes overhead, yet makes little more than a dent in the intimate gloom of the room. Rickety old plantation shutters are thrown open to catch the cool air coming in off the swamps outside. I can hear the crickets and frogs still playing their evening symphony, poke my head out, and look up to see stars.

  I walk around the room, inspecting the furniture, understanding why it is indeed called the Opal Room — the countertops of every dresser, bookshelf, and nightstand is made entirely of polished opals, inlaid in mesmerizing patterns. As I gaze at them, the opals shoot their strange, milky, shattered rainbows at me.

  “All right! That’s enough ogling. Into the bathroom with you,” Madame Allette says.

  I go into the en suite bathroom and see the entire bathtub is made of opal. The bathroom sink and countertops, too, are made of opal. Madame Allette and Marquise Olivier draw me a bath that is more tepid in temperature than warm. There is a record player in the room, and they put on yet another record and I recognize Billie Holiday’s voice, singing the blues.

  “Let’s cool you down and freshen you up,” Madame Allette smiles, and I try not to be horrified by her monstrous alligator teeth. “Go on!”

  I slip out of my muddy garments and climb into the perfumed bathtub, grateful the water is not hot, for the temperature of the air has me constantly perspiring in Snake’s kingdom. As I wash, they reach into an ice bucket with tongs and add several perfectly spherical balls of ices. I watch the ice bob about, feeling the temperature drop until I cease perspiring entirely and watch as goose bumps break out over my arms.

  “Stop adding ice, Madame Allette!” scolds Marquise Olivier. “The girl isn’t a reptile.”

  “Oh, sorry! What exactly are humans, then?” asks Madame Allette, cocking her flat, long alligator head off to one side. “I always thought humans were at least part reptile. I mean, just regard our king — he looks quite like them, when he wants to. Haven’t they anything in common?”

  “The king just does that for appearances,” Marquise Olivier replies. “And I’m sure humans and reptiles do have qualities in common, but cold-bloodedness isn’t one of them. The creature won’t thank you if you give her hypothermia.”

  The coolness stays with me once out of the bath, and the ladies powder my body with a sumptuous, sweet-smelling white talc. They dress me in a floor-length dark green silk evening gown and black velvet high heels. I feel strange; the dress hugs my body like water. It’s the kind of gown worn by the female singers at my stepfather’s nightclub. It plunges at the neckline and puddles just slightly behind me, revealing a small train. It is far more grown up than anything I have ever worn. They also wave and coif my blonde hair, and slick dark red lipstick over my lips. When I look in the mirror, I gasp. It is not me I am seeing: I am my mother, come to life again. I see the dark blue of her eyes looking back at me, and feel a combination of euphoria and terror.

  “Well, you seem pleased with the final result!” Madame Allette exclaims, smiling her terrifying smile again.

  “Let’s hurry back down; we don’t want to keep them waiting,” Marquise Olivier chides, and off we go.

  The ladies lead me back down two flights of creaky stairs, through the cavernous ground floor of the old plantation-style mansion, to a strange, mysteriously box-like room in what feels like the middle of the entire house. It is very dim in this part of the mansion, and my eyes require a few minutes to adjust. Once they have, I see the room is paneled in dark wood, and there are all sorts of strange windows and doors cut out on all four walls.

  I walk further in, feeling self-conscious in my green-silk gown, and freeze when I see Sir Lewin standing around awkwardly in one corner, leaning up against a wall. He is dressed in
a very sleek black tuxedo. When he sees me he looks relieved, and then, seconds later, a bit surprised by my appearance as he inspects my gown and hair. I cross the room to stand with him.

  “It suits you,” I say, meaning the tuxedo. “Who said a leopard can’t change his spots?” I smile at him. He doesn’t answer, appearing embarrassed. Either he doesn’t know the old joke, or doesn’t want to. He glances again at my dress, but quickly looks away. He clears his throat, once more attentive to the situation at hand.

  “Participating in this ritual… I don’t trust it… we don’t know what they plan to do,” he confides in a low voice. “It’s awfully dark in here. We must find a way to guard ourselves if they extinguish the lights and attack.”

  “I honestly don’t think he means to try a human ritual tonight,” I say. I believe he wants us to witness something else, though what it is and why I am so optimistic about his intentions, I can’t explain. But glimpsing Sir Lewin’s discomfort, my optimism vanishes just as quickly as it came. I feel the telltale hairs on the back of my neck suddenly standing on end.

  “Ah, there you are,” Monsieur Thibault says, joining us from the other side of the small, crowded room. His manner has turned from disdainful to markedly friendly, ever since the Snake King insisted that I — as a human girl — was especially welcome to join the ritual. Sir Lewin and I quickly halt our whispered debate.

  “That’s much better,” Monsieur Thibault says, pointing a finger towards our dapper attire. “Now, a quick word to the wise before we get started: Once the ritual gets going, you must take care not to try to leave this room of your own accord. Many of the doors you see now are false exits. If you get upset and need to step out for some air, please tell one of us, and we will take you.”

  “False exits?” I ask.

  “Yes, false exits: To trick the spirits,” he replies, nodding. “Some of the doors only open to a wall, some open to a four-story drop.”

  I don’t know what to say, but Monsieur Thibault spots my confused, furrowed brow.

  “We don’t always reach her on the first try, you see… sometimes we reach others by accident, and the false exits are there in case we might need to evade a malevolent spirit. Spirits are easily deceived, you see.”

  Malevolent spirit?

  I look around the room for clues to make sense of Monsieur Thibault’s advice. There is a large round table covered in a dark green silk tablecloth. On it is a candelabra laden with candles, a crystal ball, a chicken claw and other organs, what looks to be a bowl of feathers and a bowl of blood, plus a dozen or so small jars of unidentifiable powders and liquids, and finally, several garments of women’s clothing neatly laid out as if by a maid preparing her mistress’s daily costume.

  “You said, ‘reach ‘her’…” I repeat, “Who is ‘her’?”

  Monsieur Thibault smiles a small, secretive smile, but before he can answer me, we are abruptly interrupted by the Snake King himself.

  “And where is the human child? Ah, there’s the girl,” he exclaims, crossing the room, looking me up and down, and bowing gallantly at the waist. “Come — it is time for us to begin tonight’s ritual. Allow me to show you to your seat?”

  I nod and take his arm, and he shows me to a seat at the large round table. Sir Lewin settles into the chair on one side of me, and the Snake King himself sits on my other side. I eye the items on the table, pretending not to be repulsed by the bowl of bloody chicken parts.

  “I hope it will not distresssss you too much, my dear,” the Snake King says, “if I don my true face on this occasion? You see, I’d hate for her not to recognize me. For all their wisdom, her kind are so easily deceived. Do you mind?”

  Some of his words are a riddle to me, but this much I understand: He wishes to remove his “human” face.

  “Please go ahead, Your Highness,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

  He reaches a hand to his bowtie again, touches the spade symbol, and I watch as his human countenance splits open and rolls back to form a hood around his pale yellow cobra’s face. I catch myself staring at his scaled skin and force myself to look away so as not to be too obvious.

  “Mesdames et messieurs!” he calls out to the creatures in the room. “Be seated! We shall commence…”

  The remaining courtiers and courtesans milling about the room take their seats. Servants hurry to light the candelabra and dim the lights. I look around the table. The faces are especially animalistic and ghoulish by candlelight; it is an image of faces around a campfire in the woods, seen through a madman’s eyes. I see several lizards and snakes, a skunk, a wombat, a scorpion, a pigeon, an armadillo.

  “Pleasssse, everyone welcome the first human to ever participate in one of our rituals,” the Snake King commands.

  Murmurs of welcome, welcome, arise from the various courtiers and courtesans seated at the table.

  “And now, everyone join handsss… take the hand of the individual to the left of you, and the individual to the right of you, so that the circle is complete,” the Snake King continues, “Let us begin the summoning!”

  The Snake King takes one of my hands, and I offer the other to Sir Lewin. His hand is warm and reassuring, and at the same time, I can feel his apprehension at the proceedings. I think — unless I am imagining things — I can hear a very faint, nervous purring coming from his throat? He catches me looking and suddenly the sound ceases.

  “Lord Vipond?” the Snake King prompts. Lord Vipond steps forward from the shadows. I nearly jump when I see the wrinkled bald skin of his vulture-head appear; I didn’t even see him standing there. Instead of sitting down and joining the circle, he remains standing, and begins to perform a strange business with the bowl of blood and feathers, adding them together as though following a recipe. He is, I realize, some sort of dark priest.

  “I will begin the incantation…” the Snake King says. “Spiritus nerezza lilitu surgo! Spiritus thana suborior… Lilitu amavit mulierem, dicimus vobis… vita morte…”

  He continues reciting words in a low hum, as though he were saying a prayer, while Lord Vipond continues mixing the ingredients on the table, thoroughly saturating the feathers with blood and adding a pinch of powder and a splash of liquid from the mysterious jars and vials.

  One by one, the other members of Snake’s court begin joining in, reciting his chant along with him like a Greek chorus. The overall effect is quite eerie: It is as though a beehive is speaking in a hypnotized drone of buzzing. But events far more unsettling than this are yet to unfold. As I look on, the bowl of feathers and blood that Lord Vipond is holding begins to move. It moves ever so slightly at first, like an animal taking its last dying breathes. But I quickly realize: It is dying in reverse. With every second that passes, the bowl of feathers makes larger and larger movements, breathing more and more deeply, until finally… a fully formed hen emerges.

  Glistening with blood, the hen stands up within the bowl, wobbling on her newly formed legs. Lord Vipond lifts her from the bowl, and sets her on the table. The chanting, meanwhile, continues: “Spiritus nerezza lilitu surgo! Spiritus thana suborior… Lilitu amavit mulierem, dicimus vobis… vita morte…”

  The momentum of the ritual seems to be building, the chanting grows louder and louder. The Snake King lifts his reptilian chin to the ceiling, and his black eyes roll back in his cobra’s head. Something is undoubtedly about to happen. I can feel Sir Lewin holding my hand; his gentle clasp has transformed into a vice-like grip. I can’t tell if he is intimidated or trying to protect me, or possibly both.

  And then, just as the chanting crescendos, Lord Vipond abruptly seizes the hen, lays her on her side, and in one deft, powerful move, cleanly slices her head from her body.

  Without meaning to, I gasp, feeling slightly nauseated by the sight, but then struggle to regain my composure.

  Having reached its crescendo when the hen’s neck was sliced, the chanting quiets down somewhat. The Snake King snaps out of his trance, his eyes focus
ing once again on the table. Lord Vipond tips the hen’s headless body so that her blood flows back into the bowl. Then he takes a polished black stone pestle and dips it in the blood. He shakes it in the air like a priest dispensing holy water with an aspergillum, sprinkling blood on the woman’s dress that is so tidily laid out in the center of the table.

  “Spiritus nerezza lilitu surgo! Spiritus thana suborior… Lilitu amavit mulierem, dicimus vobis… vita morte…”

  The chant is quite muted now. It continues until it is barely whispered among the courtiers and courtesans, and then goes silent altogether. I can’t help but wonder: What did Sir Lewin and I just witness? And what was the aim of this ritual? What did it accomplish?

  But just as I am pondering this, a strange thing happens, and I realize the ritual is far from over. The candles on the candelabra in the center of the table begin flickering madly, as though a heavy draft were blowing in from elsewhere — and yet there is none I can detect. And then, very slowly, the evening gown that is laid out in the middle of the table begins to move. As I look on, flabbergasted, I see the chest of the dress puff as though lifted by a draft. It fills with a light bit of air, and pulses slowly and softly — just as the bowl of feathers did — as though animated by the breathing of an invisible occupant. There is a palpable tension in the room, as though everyone in it is holding his or her breath. Finally, Lord Vipond speaks.

  “Welcome, mademoiselle… are you the lady we seek tonight?”

  No one says anything as the dress floats silently in the middle of the room. Then, from somewhere I can’t quite pinpoint, a single knock is heard.

  “We thank you, oh Spirit, for coming to us tonight. Will you speak with our king, dear lady?”

  The chest of the dress continues to rise and fall, as though an invisible woman were inside it, breathing.

  Knock, comes the reply.

  Lord Vipond turns to the Snake King. “Your Highness?” he prompts. The Snake King nods.