Stanwood reached into the pocket on his waistcoat and pulled out a piece of paper. Ella ran her tongue over her parched lips and her eyes darted to a small, wooden box that lay on the ground in the center of the garden. There was no lid on the box that would open or a hinged door that could swing this way and that. The four sides had simply been pieced together with tiny, silver nails. She knew that Stanwood had already placed a small spoonful of sand from the coast, a piece of chipped brick and mortar from the side of their house, pine needles and oak leaves, and a bit of the dirt from the field into the box. Together these things would be the start of another realm.
Stanwood began to read from the paper. As his words proceeded, his voice went from a steady monotone to more of a chant. Out of nowhere, the wind picked up and began to whip across the garden. Ella’s long dress was flapping like a banshee. She crossed her arms against the quickly dropping temperature. Sharp bolts of lightning struck across the black sky. The small wooden box began to tremble on the ground. A blinding yellow light began to shine through the edges where the pieces of wood had been nailed together.
As Stanwood continued to read from the paper, Ella’s eyes went to the other man. His body was twisting and jerking in a way that she hadn’t thought humanly possible. The spasms finally eased and his hips lifted from the ground, forming his body into an arch. A glowing, red orb came from his abdomen and hovered in the air only for the briefest moment before disappearing into the box. After the orb was gone, the yellow light retreated and the box lay still. The wind was dying down. Stanwood was lowered the paper that he had been reading from and lifted the box from the ground. With the box held tight in his hand, he looked at Ella and smiled.
She knew that the box was a weapon and that the ritual was complete. Its contents would hurt the Halfords for years to come. Inside was another world from where the one handed man would serve his purpose. It was what they deserve, she reminded herself, for cursing my family to never fall in love. It was revenge.
But as much as she tried to rationalize what they had done to the man, and tell herself that it had been the best course of action to take, she also had a sinking feeling of regret. Guilt was already spreading through her, and she knew that by the time the sun rose the next day that it would surely be unbearable. And as much as these thoughts troubled her, she could take some solace in knowing that they hadn’t killed the man. It had only been an astral projection, placing his spirit inside the box. After the Halfords lifted the curse, she and Stanwood intended to return him to his physical body, but she couldn’t escape the knowledge that they had hurt him, and she reasoned that the pain that their actions had caused must’ve been horrendous. It sickened her to know that she had so willingly gone along with it all. She looked toward the man and saw that his body was laying there coma-like. She thought that if something went wrong and the man died before they were able to project him back into his body that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.
And so standing there in the garden, with the full moon glowing overhead, Ella Rimbault looked at her husband as he held the box high above his head, proudly studying it, and wondered if it would be possible to ever be forgiven for what they had done.
PART TWO
Fractus
CHAPTER FOUR
FRACTUS – 1795
WHEN THE one handed man came to, he was lying flat on a high, stone overlook. The ocean was roaring below the enormous slab of quartzite. Above him, the sky was infinitely night. The man wondered where he was, but could not recall having ever been there before. He had traveled to the sea many times in his life, but had never seen the ocean so blue or the sky so dark. In the distance, there was a cracking bolt of purple lightning that reached along the horizon. The color of the lightning in the sky was not something that he was used to and he turned his head to look in the other direction from where he lay, wanting to see what strangeness was on that side of him. What he saw was that there was a dense, dark wood that he could only see a few feet into.
The man stood to his feet and looked down at himself. He was not wearing a frockcoat or a shirt. He was relieved to see that his breeches were still covering his lower half. A familiar pair of tall, black leather boots came up nearly to his knees. He saw that his abdomen had numerous shards of glass sticking out of it, but as horrendous and painful as it looked, it didn’t hurt at all. All of the pain that he had endured in the Rimbault’s garden just moments earlier had been obliterated into nothing. He saw the thick length of rope that bound his torso, and he studied the totems that lined the length of tweed. Tucked in the rope were the feet of some type of bird, bat wings, and feathers.
As he continued to look down at himself he caught his reflection in one of the shards of mirror. In the small, triangular piece of glass he could see the mask that covered his face. Wolf and leopard, he recognized. He reached his hand to the mask, but it wouldn’t budge from where it had been placed there by Stanwood. The man reached to one of the pieces of glass and tried to pull it from his flesh, but like the mask, it wouldn’t come free. Tugging on it only pulled the taught skin along with it.
He had vague recollections of the lunatic man and woman that had done all those things to him. He remembered being abducted from his tent and being carried away in a shabby carriage. He could recall being dragged through the dirt, around the side of the house, and lying flat on the grass of the garden. He remembered the man and woman looking down at him as they performed the sadistic ritual. He began to remember all of this, but even as it was coming back to him, the details and memories were slipping further away with each second that passed. Other than those most recent events, he couldn’t recall anything else. And somehow he knew that soon enough he would remember nothing of his former life and understood that this place, where he was now, was his new existence. He noticed that there was a letter lying on the ground. He picked it up and began to read…
follow the path through the trees and it will lead you to your new home. There is no need to worry about your safety, being that you are the only inhabitant of this entire universe. Further instruction will be given in due time. For now, go to the house and replenish yourself. You have an enormous responsibility ahead of you.
- SR
After reading the letter, he folded it in half and placed it in the tight waistband of his breeches. He looked around once again at his surroundings, the ocean and the woods. On one side of him, after a few feet, the slab of stone that he was standing on dropped off into the sea. He knew that he couldn’t stand in that same spot forever and that there was only one direction that he could walk. Following the letter’s instructions, he hesitantly stepped toward the woods.
Where he hadn’t seen a path before, now there was one that seemed to open up in front of him, and he could see all the way through the wooded area that there was a large plantation house that stood on the other side. He realized for the first time that there were burning lanterns that lit the way through the trees. He stepped off the stone and onto the dirt. He followed the path. Overhead, the tree cover was thick. The path was covered in leaves and pine needles. He was surrounded by darkness, but the small flames that were near the ground guided him and showed the way. Pretty soon he was emerging from the other side of the tree line and standing in front of the house.
The house’s front was massive. It was a spread of white painted board. It was a wall full of windows that had orange light flickering on the other side of glass. The light was so luminous that it seemed as if there was a huge, roaring fire inside the house. Next to the front steps, there were several camellia trees. Stretching on each side of the house was nothing but darkness. Recollection slammed into the man once again. He remembered glimpses of this same house on the night that he had been abducted. He knew that it was the house of the man and woman that had tortured him.
The man stepped across the ground that was covered in late summer dandelions and sandy dirt. He approached the house, and without much hesitation, ascended the steps. The f
ront door was standing open. There were burning lanterns on each side of the door frame. He stood at the threshold and knocked on the open door. The sound of his knocking echoed with a thump inside the house.
“Hello?” The man said. After being in the quiet for so long and not even speaking himself, the sound of his own voice was jarring. “Hello?” He said again and got no response. He stepped through the doorway.
Inside, there was a multitude of metal sconces that lined the walls. Behind the blown glass of each sconce there was a burning wax candle. The light flickered against him, causing shadows to dance around the white walled room. On the wall near the door there was a brown burlap cloak that was hanging on a peg. The man understood that it was intended for him. He removed the cloak from where it hung and placed his arms through the widely tapered arm holes. There was a hood, but instead of throwing it over his head, he left it hanging limply at his back.
He walked around the inside of the house. Every room was fully furnished with the finest pieces of neoclassical design. The legs of the mahogany chairs and end tables were straight. It was a style that had recently surpassed the popularity of cabriole legs among the wealthy. Silver and porcelain vases sat on impeccably polished tabletops. A woven carpet was stretched across the floor in the sitting room. A glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Intricately detailed curtains hung on each window. In rooms where there weren’t framed oil paintings hanging with wire from the rail that was near the ceiling, entire walls had been covered with elaborately detailed wallpaper featuring flowers and wooded scenes. What was probably most surprising was the enormity of the meal that was waiting on him at the dining room table. On top of the polished, cherry table there was a roasted pig that was laid out on the finest silver tray. The meat was a beautiful, golden brown. A red apple had been shoved into the swine’s open mouth. A large carving knife rested next to the tray. Behind the pig, another large platter was overflowing with plums, grapes, and oranges.
He hadn’t even realized before that moment that he was even hungry, but now his stomach rumbled at the sight of the food, and he knew then that he was famished. There was only one chair at the absurdly long table. In front of the chair, a plate and utensils had already been set. An ornate goblet that was filled with some sort of drink also rested there. He pulled the high back, red upholstered chair out, and the legs screeched on the hardwood floor. Like his voice had been minutes earlier, the sound was earsplitting in the quiet. Without much hesitation he began to fill his plate with the fruit. He picked up the carving knife and cut into the meat. The food was the best that he had ever put into his mouth. The dark ale that was in the goblet was delicious.
As he was deep in the midst of enjoying the bountiful meal, there was a sound that came from somewhere else within the house. Again, having been encased in absolute quiet for such a long period of time, the sound was harsh. It sent the man on edge. Was it the sound of the door that he had heard?
He lifted the large carving knife from the serving tray that the butchered pig was on and stood from the table. He remembered what the letter had said; you are the only inhabitant. So what was the noise then? What other kind of creature had Stanwood created?
The man moved cautiously through the rooms of the house. The candlelight jumped nightmarishly against the walls. His footsteps creaked on the hardwood floor. The sound of the other thing continued and was now becoming clearer and more rhythmic. Now it was what could only be described as a clicking scrape. By then, he knew that the source of what he was hearing was surely coming from the next room and that it was a set of claws on the hardwood that he was hearing. He slowly peeled around the corner, holding the sharp blade high, ready to attack whoever or whatever he might find there.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something rush past the open doorway that was on the opposite side of the room. His heart was hammering behind his ribcage as he walked across the floor and followed the intruder.
As he rounded the threshold that led into the next room, he saw what had been causing the alarm. A fox sat precariously on the red, velvet lined sofa. Like the rest of the furniture in the house, the pieces in this room were of the same style. The wood of the sofa was curved elegantly along the back. A table stretched across the front of it and another much smaller table sat on each end. A chair that was the same style as the sofa was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
The man began to lower the knife. His heartbeat began to ease. “You scared me half to death, you vermin!” He said out loud to the mammal, as if the fox would understand what he was saying. “What are you doing in here anyway?”
“I was sent to guide you,” the fox said.
The man froze where he was standing. He glared at the mammal. “Did you just talk?”
“Yes.” The fox tilted his head. “Shouldn’t I?”
“Yeah,” the man said without thinking, and then realized his goof. “No!” He exclaimed back. “No, actually you shouldn’t. Foxes shouldn’t talk.”
Not only had he been dropped dead center into this strange world, but now there was also a talking fox to deal with?
“Sit down,” the fox said. “I have a lot that I need to tell you.”
The man followed the instructions and went to the chair and sat.
“There’s more ale beside you, to your left, if you so desire,” the fox pointed out.
The man looked and saw that there was in fact a large pitcher that was full of the dark brown ale. Another goblet sat on the table. He poured one for himself.
“Don’t be greedy,” the fox said.
“So not only do you talk, but you drink ale too?” The man asked and chuckled.
It was almost as if the fox shrugged his shoulders.
The man poured some of the ale into the serving dish that had been underneath the pitcher. He placed the dish on the table in front of the fox and the mammal immediately began to lap at the dark liquid with his pink tongue.
After the man drank a little more of the ale, the scenario that he was living in began to seem more plausible.
“So what is it exactly that you need to tell me?” The man asked.
“Well, first things first, I’m a conduit for Stanwood. He communicates to me what I need to tell you and we go from there.”
“OK,” the man nodded his ahead, agreeing to the absurdity of the situation, drank more, and refilled his glass.
“This place is called Fractus.”
“What does it mean?”
“Fractus is Latin for broken, as in broken hearted. You were created and brought here for one purpose, to cause heartbreak to a family that holds the surname of Halford. You don’t need to know why; you just need to understand that from here on out it is your reason for being. Soon, you’ll do it with little to no thought at all. You’ll do it simply because you’ll know that it is what you have to do. In fact, you’ll have no choice in the matter. It is what you’ll want to do. It will be your desire and if you don’t do it, you’ll suffer. Harming the Halfords will give you strength, sustenance if you will. From now on it is the only thing that will keep you alive.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, to ask why, but the fox spoke first, continuing what he was saying.
“Because it was the way he wanted it. Anyway, Stanwood created this place and you, it is his rules you follow.”
As ridiculous as it all was, and maybe because he was drunk, the man was beginning to accept the situation. “Why me?” he asked.
“He chose you because you are right for doing evil. You’ve hurt people in the past, haven’t you? You like it. You’ve even killed before. You have that impulse.”
At the mention of all of this, the man remembered flashes of things from his previous life. In particular, he remembered one specific night long before then. He had been standing on cobblestones outside of a tavern. He had been drunk. There had been another man there with him. He could recall that the two of them had been arguing with each other inside the tavern and then outside. Wh
at exactly had the disagreement been over? A woman, he remembered; it had been over a woman. He could still feel the knife going into the other man’s throat. He could recall the feel of the warm blood gushing over his own hand as he had flung the other man against the tavern’s exterior wall. He realized that after the thought had come to him he had only been acting on impulse. There had been nothing holding him back and the action had come naturally. There had only been a second between thinking it and doing it. He knew then that it was that impulse that the fox was talking about. It was the short, span of time between the thought and the act, the one that was uncontrollable and quick, the impulse that seemed so natural. He was the type of man that would act on impulse and without thinking of consequence. It was why Stanwood had chosen him.
Memories of other kills came to him in jolting flashes of violent imagery. The man outside of the tavern had only been the first. There was the man that he had set ablaze in ‘89, the gunshot into the back of a nearly bald head in ’91, and the time that he had held a man under the cool water of the river until he drowned in ‘92. During 1793 he had managed to take out four people with an axe and then increased that number by two the very next year. His most recent victim had suffered a beating from his bare hand and been left to die in a creek.
“So you want me to kill people?”
“No. Just break their hearts.”
“Why -,”
“Nun-unh, don’t ask why. Like I said before, you don’t need to know, and trust me, after you start, you won’t even care. It will be the natural thing for you. You will love it.”
“Do I have any help? Will there be any others like me?”
“You don’t need help. You are the only one. You have this entire universe to yourself.”
“Why from here? Why create an entire universe just for this?”
“The old hag that wrote the spell believes that for any curse to work there needs to be someone somewhere pulling strings. You are the string puller. Follow me.” The fox jumped down from the seat of the sofa and began to walk through the house.
Indescribable: Book Two of the Primordial Page 9
