Tempus Genesis

by Michael McCourt

  Mottram Hall, Prestbury, Cheshire; 1862. Lord Elliot Mottram sat stiffly in the saddle, atop his best steed. A noble grey with an immaculate black hand stitched leather saddle and brass furniture, all the hallmarks of the best kept horse in the stable. A low dense mist hugged the woodland floor, drifting across the hooves of the magnificent beast as it shifted from foot to foot, restless of its master’s pause. The Lord had taken his charge for its usual ride that morning, returning through the woodland route to the rear of the large imposing hall. It was still first light and the dew rested heavy on the woodland grass. He sat erect in the saddle, appearing emotionless whilst watching his men work. They had paid him a respectful but brief glance of acknowledgement then continued digging, uncomfortable under his lordships gaze.

  Six days out of seven, most weeks of the year Lord Mottram would rise at five and be on his horse by five thirty, with Black his loyal gun dog by his side. The three would cover seven miles, returning for breakfast at eight. This was a remarkable hound, never missing a step in seven years, never tiring nor waning in its pace. Black would be by the Lord twenty hours out of twenty four. Once more Black was by his side this morning, but this time his beautiful companion lay motionless beneath a soft hessian sack. The work men continued to dig the grave that would lie to rest the closest friend Lord Mottram had ever known. Looking away from the grave being prepared, he stared toward the hall as he managed his emotions and retained his authority and composure in front of his staff. Only one light glowed from the many windows at the rear of the hall. The kitchen, where Molly Sanders his favourite and most senior cook of twenty years, was preparing the mornings breakfast. For seven years he had enjoyed a perfect breakfast with his dog at his feet and his two favoured men by his side. For all Lord Mottram’s formality he would sit with his staff, break bread with them over breakfast in a manner very different to others of similar breeding. None of the three men were looking forward to this meal today but Molly had decided, against Lord Mottram’s instruction, to rise at five and prepare the finest dawn meal for the Lord’s return.

  Lord Mottram looked at the house with its sole kitchen light glowing warmly and allowed himself to smile softly at Molly’s disobedience. He returned his gaze to the men, with the grave prepared they each took an end of the hessian sack and lifted the departed Black together. Still surprised that Black was gone and confused as to why a healthy dog would collapse in the kitchen where Molly cooked yesterday, Lord Mottram breathed deeply as he watched his men lift the large filled sack towards the grave.

  “Steady with her lads,” he said, “She deserves the finest of goodbyes.”

  Nervously the men eased her across from the mist covered grass, lifted the dog up and then lowered her into her final resting place.

  “Goodbye Black,” whispered Lord Mottram.

  In the kitchen, in her simplest of ways, Molly endeavoured to prepare the best breakfast ever. Molly was a large woman, the product of her quality cooking which was irresistible even to her. She wore a large white frilly cook’s hat and an unfeasibly large apron was tied around her ample waistline. In her heart Molly knew little would be consumed at this breakfast, at least while the Lord was present. Molly suspected Jack and Charlie would eat little and shift food around their plate while Mottram was there, eating more than ever before once he had gone upstairs. On the stove she cooked gammon steaks, mushrooms had been added and she had six eggs ready to grill. On her large kitchen table she had twelve balls of soft elastic dough waiting to be baked. Molly sprinkled them with flour and seasoning, then slid a large oven tray under the dough balls and lifted them to place in the already open oven.

  Molly bent over, her giant rear pointing to the ceiling, and deftly deposited the dough balls into the oven. She straightened up and closed its heavy steel door. Molly rubbed her back, aching from the effort of bending, then reached for her meat slice and leaned over the oven to flip the gammon steaks. Placing the meat slice down Molly turned moving to wipe down the flour covered worktop. She barely managed two steps when Molly suddenly stopped, frozen in time, immovable. Her skin and hair traced with effervescent white and blue static. Around her the kitchen was alive with heat from the stove, the sizzling of hot pans and the lively aromas of fresh cooked breakfast. But Molly was still, motionless, the skin on her arm reacted to the electric energy that crawled and fizzed over her body. Firstly her arms, then her neck, her fat jowls and chin rippled as the unknown power entwined with her own life force. As Molly regained her own control she interpreted this experience as a dizzy spell, a consequence of too much drink the night before.

  “Bloody hangover,” she said, “I’ll kill those lads for it, drinking games my bloody arse.”

  Molly had not the slightest awareness that she now was host to a visitor, one who was woven into her very being and a witness to her world view, a spectator taking a grand stand seat to watch Molly’s life experience through her own pudgy eyes.

  “Oh my god, this is incredible, I cannot believe I am actually seeing this,” a female voice hollow and distant observed Molly as she continued her tasks. Molly paused slightly, looking up to her right, wondering if she had just heard a voice.

  “Is this real, am I actually seeing this or remembering, what happens, which is it?” the female voice continued, a wild curiosity in her tone and pace of speech, “what? Look I know the drill and I am just looking forward not moving as you ordered, give me a break darling.”

  The visitor paused and then once more enthused at what she was witnessing, “It’s a woman, a cook, a big woman judging by her fat hands and chubby arms.”

  Molly stopped and shook her head, she put down the fist of cutlery in her hand and the napkins she held in the other, “Oh dear, that doesn’t feel right,” Molly rubbed her gargantuan stomach and grimaced.

  The visitor continued to observe the scene, unaware of Molly’s pain and discomfort, “It’s a kitchen, I’d say nineteenth century, it’s amazing, a vast kitchen, huge pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, big thick bacon on the stove, still dark outside, it is so three d, am I really here? Are you serious? You have been naughty keeping this to yourself. What? I am not moving, hold on, she is sitting down.”

  Molly was perspiring and her eyes narrowed, confused and now anxious as she thought she could hear voices. Despite her discomfort she instinctively knew she should still be alone at this time.

  “Hello,” Molly called out with a whisper, “Is someone there?”

  Molly leaned forward and listened, she strained in the silence only hearing the sounds of the kitchen and even they were muting in her ears. Molly strained to hear, her face grimacing with pain. Then the first wave of uncontrolled force within her struck her own physical system. Molly collapsed back on to her chair, her cheeks flushed red with pain, she groaned slightly and held her midriff tightly.

  “Oh bugger, I don’t feel right at all,” Molly tried to stand only to stagger forward and then propelled by the surging force in her, she collapsed over the large kitchen table. Crockery and cutlery scattered either side of her falling bulk as she hit the table top with force. Molly screamed out as plates smashed to the floor and knives and forks clattered across the sandstone tiles.

  “Oh god, she’s ill, this cook woman, she’s sick” the visitors voice was now hesitant, anxious, “Look I’ve told you I am keeping really still, only watching,” the visitor paused as she listened, “I think she’s collapsed, it’s making me dizzy, what should I do now?”

  Molly groaned and flipped her entire vast body onto her back with a violent twist, her eyes staring up at the ceiling, her groan deepened into a low guttural animalistic moan. She tried vainly to lift her head up in one last effort to seek help. Molly’s effort was brief. She clutched at her midriff her fat middle splayed out onto the table. The pain was intensifying where she clawed at herself, her apron began to smoulder and blacken, then glow an orange red. Smoke rose from the increasing heat from within her gut and body, burning out and into her cooks’ u
niform, quickly transforming into small dancing flames licking the apron she wore around her middle. As the flames increased in size and intensity Molly’s eyes began to flicker as she tried to resist the sickening death that was upon her.

  “Help me,” Molly whispered, “help.” She did not finish another word as blood bubbled over her words and trickled out of her mouth. Molly’s head fell back sharply making a heavy dull thud as it hit the wood table.

  “I can’t see anymore,” the female visitor spoke with increasing panic, “Okay I’ll come back, how do I do it again, I can’t see, I’m not sure what to do now, oh god please don’t let this go wrong. What? Okay, no I’m still here, god I feel hot and sick, pull me back please, please HELP ME.”

  The visitor’s voice rose as it went from panic to a wail to a scream. Within Molly, almost dead Molly, her bloodied mouth opened and she gurgled a wail that formed into a scream. As the flames became white hot and sheared at her skin and bone, carving like a hot scalpel a red fissure across her midriff, Molly’s scream grew louder.

  The visitors scream amplified and entwined with the cook’s becoming so loud and unearthly the table shook and the remaining crockery and cutlery vibrated across and off the table, smashing loudly on the floor.

  The large grey horse reared up at the scream that pierced the woodlands, the shrill sound twisting its way from the house through the trees to where Black’s grave was.

  “What the hell is that?” questioned Lord Mottram as he pressed his charge back down to its four legs and steadied the horse.

  “Come on, quickly men, that was Molly,” he turned his horse towards the house and readied it for a gallop, “bring those spades with you.”

  Lord Mottram pushed forward his horse quickly into a trot and in seconds reached a gallop, weaving between trees and woodland shrub. His men quickly and dutifully followed with spades in hand, though falling distant from the speeding noble and his steed. They all made towards the only lit room in the house, the kitchen. As the men ran towards the house, slipping in the wet grass and damp earth of the woods, they watched as Lord Mottram and his horse broke free of the trees and charged straight towards the warm red light from the lower corner of the mansion.

  The flames had stopped as quickly as they had started. Molly lay dead splayed across the kitchen table. A wet sound, a heavy fleshy sliding hiss came from Molly’s cadaver. The intensity of the heat had cauterised her entire twenty two stone body across her middle and gravity was now easing the lower section from the upper. Her lower gut, pelvis and legs suddenly slipped quickly from the table, bounced off a kitchen chair and with a damp sloppy thud, hit the floor.

  As Lord Mottram entered quickly into the kitchen and loudly, for he feared an intruder was at work, his raised arm with whip in hand came down as quickly as he stopped moving. He stared at Molly’s lifeless white eyes and her half torso outstretched on the table. His eyes followed the wet brown sludge that trailed from her middle, off the table and down to the floor. His eyes widened and his sickened face paled as he saw her dismembered lower half ungainly positioned on the stone tiled floor. The grotesque scene too much for him he turned away, he looked towards the approaching men outside and raised his hand signalling them to advance no further.

  As he caught some air at the door, his back turned from the horrific scene in the kitchen, he did not see the feint trace of static sparkle over Molly’s dead eyes, which crackled quietly across her face and then evaporated into the ether.

  3.