Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling

by Michael Boccacino

  They were an eclectic group to say the least. There was a kindly-looking older couple doing their best to resemble humans, but their skin bulged uncomfortably in the wrong places, as if it had been put on very hastily or at least without much understanding of how it was supposed to fit. The couple excitedly greeted Lily, who introduced them to the children and me as Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Puddle.

  “SO PLEASED TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE!” said Mrs. Puddle as if she were speaking to a very slow child.

  Lily cut in before I could reply. “There’s no need to shout, Mrs. Puddle. Most humans have ears.”

  “Is that what you call them? How odd.” She felt the sides of her head and found her own ears. They shifted uneasily, as if they had been pinned to her skull. James stifled a giggle just as Mr. Whatley joined us with a younger couple who seemed to more closely follow his philosophy of individuality.

  The woman, if she could be called a woman, wore a sheath of netting over the entire surface of her body instead of skin. Her innards pushed uncomfortably through the gaps in the fabric, red and glistening. Still, she was roughly shaped like a person, and she had features resembling eyes and lips that were fixed in a perpetual expression of haughty disdain. Mr. Whatley introduced her as Miss Yarborough, and she nodded to me without a word of greeting. The children gazed upon her with rapt fascination rather than disgust, for she was very much a living, breathing variation on some of the anatomical diagrams we had studied in class. I had to swat James’s hand away before he could poke a finger into the wet flesh beneath her netting.

  The gentleman, on the other hand, was most talkative. He had no body at all, as he was made of some thick, gaseous substance that coiled itself into a humanoid figure, but this did nothing to prohibit him from being the liveliest person in the room. He had no facial features, and as Mr. Whatley introduced him, he changed from the color of silver mist to a deep blue.

  “Mrs. Markham, this is Mr. Snit,” said Mr. Whatley.

  The gentleman bowed deeply, so deeply in fact that it seemed he was mocking the very custom of bowing. He took my hand into his cool, misty tendrils and kissed it. “The pleasure is mine a thousand times over, my dear lady.”

  I blushed politely, and Miss Yarborough rolled her eyes. “Do sober up, Snitty, or you shan’t make it through dinner.”

  Mr. Snit turned an indignant shade of red. “One must have a certain level of intoxication, my dear Miss Yarborough, to put up with you for an entire evening.”

  Lily pulled me away to the other side of the room for further introductions. There was a blond boy a few years younger than Olivia who was more beautiful than Miss Whatley could ever hope to be; his mother, a formidable but pleasant-looking woman; and a pair of tall, gangly creatures that resembled oversized centipedes, both of them with twelve different limbs along dappled undersides that curved into the air as they held themselves to conversation level, bulbous eyes blinking sideways.

  “Mrs. Markham, I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Aldrich and her son, Dabney,” said Lily, referring to the woman and her son.

  Mrs. Aldrich nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Markham.”

  “Good evening,” said the boy. When he spoke, everyone in the room seemed to stop to stare at him, watching his perfect lips shape themselves around the words. If he noticed the attention, he pretended not to.

  “And this is the Professor and Mrs. Baxter.”

  “How do you do?” I greeted both of the centipede creatures, but as I blinked I noticed something odd about them. In the moment just before my eyes closed, and again just after they opened, the Baxters seemed to disappear. It was an odd sensation, and so I tried not to blink as I faced them.

  “Hello,” the Baxters said in unison, smiling together.

  Fortunately I was rescued by the sudden incursion of Mr. Samson. He took my arm and steered me to the other side of the drawing room.

  “Mrs. Markham! Pleasure to see you again, my dear.” I could smell the bourbon on his breath.

  “And you, Mr. Samson,” I said primly, releasing myself from his grip.

  “What do you think of the party?”

  “An interesting collection of guests to say the least.”

  “I don’t much care for them myself. Present company excluded, of course.” He glared at the only guest I had not yet met, a gentleman with a squat, flat face, tendrils of graying hair obscuring the place where one might typically find a mouth and chin. His body was sheathed in plates of calcified, translucent skin, and in place of arms or legs he had boneless, trunk-like appendages that protruded through cracks in the dried-out husk of his flesh.

  “It’s impolite to stare,” said Mr. Whatley, approaching us from behind.

  Mr. Samson turned and poked his host in the chest. “Do you insult me, sir? By inviting that . . . creature?”

  “Mr. Cornelius is a valued member of society, just as you are. As I have told you in the past, I play no favorites. Your disagreements are your own.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Whatley.”

  “They are the only kind worth playing. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Markham?” He gave me a knowing look and smiled with his lopsided smirk.

  Mr. Samson huffed away, leaving me alone with the master of Darkling.

  “A fair game is more interesting than a dangerous one,” I replied, the edge in my voice unmasked.

  To my surprise, Mr. Whatley nodded. “It can be difficult to distinguish between the two, especially when an opponent does not realize the advantages she possesses.” To this I had no retort, and I glared at him more from confusion than from dislike. He nodded at me and announced to the group that dinner was to begin. We slowly wandered into the dining hall.

  The room looked nothing like it had during our previous meals, as it was now exquisitely decorated for the occasion. Bolts of lightning had been captured and mounted on black metallic pedestals along the sides of the room. The walls were adorned with the glass paintings from Mr. Whatley’s private collection, each depicting a different landscape: a bleak, cratered wasteland in one; a rocky seashore with a familiar-looking scarlet fortress in the distance of another; a massive, decaying metropolis in one of the grander pieces; and even a representation of the woods just beyond Everton. Upon closer inspection, I became aware that these were not merely pictures but actual windows into the places they showed. In the portrait of Everton, I could see the trees swaying and coils of fog drifting in the breeze.

  Mr. Whatley sat at one end of the table and his daughter at the other. I found my name written on a dainty placard and took my seat between Paul and Mr. Puddle, who was next to his wife, while Mr. Cornelius sat beside the Baxters. Miss Yarborough was between Mr. Whatley and Mr. Samson, while Lily and James were between Mr. Snit and Mrs. Aldrich, whose son, Dabney, was next to Olivia and across from Paul. Once everyone was seated, the usual dinner conversation began as we waited for the first course.

  “How do you find The Ending?” Mrs. Aldrich addressed me from across the table.

  “I’m not sure that I have found it, as of yet,” I responded coyly. “It is rather mysterious.”

  Mrs. Aldrich nodded in agreement. “We are a mysterious people, Mrs. Markham. All of us in our own little fiefdoms, our own great houses, separated by worlds upon worlds. But that is as it should be. Eternity is a very long time, and any society, no matter how enlightened it may be, is bound to tear itself apart just to prove that it can.”

  “Like the Romans.” Paul jumped in and, to my surprise, smiled across the table at Dabney Aldrich.

  The other boy spoke up, and once again, everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to whatever it was he had to say.

  “I’m afraid I must disagree with my mother, for if we truly lived in an enlightened society, a difference of opinion would not be enough to set the worlds onto a path of madness.”

  Miss Yarborough w
as about to respond when a servant wheeled a cart into the dining hall. On top of it sat a sauté pan and a small burner with a blue flame. Mr. Whatley rose from his chair and addressed his guests.

  “The universe is a very large place, but not as vast as one might imagine. There are some commonalities that bind us all together, and here, even in The Ending, it is a custom to formally welcome newcomers with a gathering of friends. Thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening in welcoming our guests.” He gestured to the Darrows, and there was polite applause as Mr. Whatley picked up a knife from the table. He held it out in front of him.

  “It is our tradition that the host of any gathering make an offer of friendship, and the best thing that anyone can hope to give is a piece of themselves. With that being said—” Mr. Whatley’s human hand unraveled into a conjoined grouping of tentacles. He sliced off one of the smaller limbs with the knife, and the hand re-formed no worse for wear. The foot-long piece of flesh fell into the sauté pan, and the servant quickly divided it into sixteen equal portions, tossing them in the air to brown them on all sides. When he was finished, he rolled the cart around the table and served each of the guests a cooked piece of Mr. Whatley.

  Paul stared at his plate in horror, and then gave me a pleading look. Across the table Lily nodded at us to consume what we had been given, then scolded James for eating his before everyone else had been served. Paul and I looked at one another, picked up our forks, and placed our slices of tentacle into our mouths. It tasted as if a piece of squid had been stuffed with venison. The thought of where it came from was more revolting than the actual flavor, but it was certainly nothing that I was eager to try again. Paul choked it down and quickly guzzled copious amounts of ice water.

  Eager to pick up their conversation where it had been left off, Miss Yarborough spoke up in a crisp, intelligent voice. “There is a difference between simple disagreement and outright rebellion. There are rules that make the universe what it is. Some of those can be broken, but to ignore others is to forget ourselves; we can only be the things that we are, and to pretend otherwise is an act of ignorance.”

  Mr. Samson jumped in. “A culture that never changes grows stagnant. If we cannot change, then we have nothing to lose and even less to learn, which is why humankind has overtaken our own.”

  “The essence of our culture is not something to be slouched off to appease some insufferable fad,” answered the bearded creature Mr. Whatley had referred to as Mr. Cornelius. “And a dangerous one at that. With all due respect to our distinguished guests, humans do not belong in The Ending.”

  “A fad would imply a lack of social relevance,” said Dabney. “Look around this table, and you will see the beginnings of a movement. We wear the skins of men to remind our brethren of how far we have fallen. If we refuse to evolve, then we might as well be human.”

  Miss Yarborough scoffed. “That is only a half-truth. You wear them to play at mortality, to pretend for a moment that your time is at an end. You wear them as a sign of solidarity, but it is only a badge of weakness.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Mr. and Mrs. Baxter in complete synchronization.

  Olivia sighed and shook her head. “Why must the way one dresses mean anything beyond simple aesthetic appeal? I for one am perfectly happy when I look as I truly am, but even more so when I am dressed as a human girl because it is something I choose to be. It makes me even more like myself.”

  “My darling daughter, if that is true then you have had more selves than all the guests seated at this table.”

  “Father is rather old-fashioned, I’m afraid.”

  Whatley nodded and continued. “A person may be fashionable, but one can only bend so far before one snaps and forgets oneself altogether.”

  Mr. Samson glared at him, but said nothing as servants returned carrying tureens of steaming soup.

  I lifted the lid off of mine and found the bowl filled with a light blue sky. Dollops of cloud drifted across the surface of the broth, and as it cooled they turned to steam and wafted into the air. I dipped my spoon into the soup and brought it to my lips. It tasted of the cool wind that descends upon the land between winter and spring. It was very refreshing.

  “At least you were good enough to invite Mrs. Darrow to stay on as my governess,” said Olivia to her father. “I’ve been learning ever so much.”

  “A young woman must be prepared in this day and age to understand both sides of an argument. We live in dangerous times,” said Mr. Whatley in his ironic way, his eyes flickering from me to Lily, and then down to his daughter. I was unsure if he had been talking about himself or about the brewing discontent within The Ending.

  “Indeed.” The Professor and Mrs. Baxter finished their bowls of soup at the exact same time and pushed them away. “We are quite afraid that civil war will soon be upon us.”

  “It will never come to that,” said Miss Yarborough.

  Dabney nodded in agreement. “Cooler heads will surely prevail.”

  Mr. Puddle leaned back in his chair. “Speck and Ashby are capable politicians. Surely some agreement can be reached.”

  I was transfixed by this entire exchange, but Mrs. Puddle shook her head with an exasperated sigh. “I do apologize, but I simply can’t listen to any more talk of politics.” With that, she pulled her ears off of her head and put them into her purse.

  “Quite right,” said a rose-colored Mr. Snit. “Why dwell on such depressing matters after a fourth glass of wine? Someone say something cheerful or I shall be forced to sing a filthy drinking song.”

  Miss Yarborough passed her hand through his body to grab hold of something solid at the center of his misty form. He squeaked and remained seated in his chair.

  Mr. Samson ignored this and seemed to rise out of his state of agitation. “Young Mr. Aldrich is up for a very important apprenticeship,” he said.

  Dabney blushed, and Mrs. Aldrich smiled modestly. “One must not become overconfident, Mr. Samson,” she said.

  The chef entered the dining hall. He was an older, rotund gentleman with pasty skin and the curling mustache traditional for someone in his profession. The dinner guests applauded politely. The other servants raced around the room and gave each of the diners a small hollow pastry. The chef extracted a knife from his belt and held it in the air like it was part of some magician’s trick.

  Not again, I thought. But he took the knife and cut into his wrist. For any other occurrence of bodily mutilation at the dinner table I would have covered my eyes, but this was such a strange sight that it transcended revulsion. At first, nothing happened. There was no blood. He put the knife back into his belt, took out a medium-size mallet, and stood behind Mr. Whatley. He held his wrist over the plate, and after a moment, something bulged down his sleeve. There was something literally under his skin, crawling down his arm between layers of flesh and muscle, searching for the slit in his wrist. The incision bulged unpleasantly, and a small lizard slithered wetly out of his wound and into the hollow pastry. With his other hand the chef smacked the pastry smartly with the mallet, crushing both it and the lizard in a single blow. He moved to Miss Yarborough and did the same for her. When he got to Olivia, he had to put the mallet under his arm and hold the incision in his wrist closed, for there were more lizard creatures trying to escape than there were guests in the dining hall. James clapped excitedly and couldn’t wait to taste his very own lizard, but Paul gagged and I stomped on his foot with the heel of my shoe.

  “We must be polite, Paul,” I said under my breath. The chef bowed out of the room when he was finished, and I nibbled at the edge of the pastry shell but was hesitant to dig into the meaty center of the thing. Paul drank more water and refused to touch his lizard pastry. He looked up eagerly to Dabney and asked, “What sort of apprenticeship?”

  The other boy looked down and smiled humbly. “Mr. Samson is too kind. I will soon be competing for a position with Mr. Speck.”


  “It’s one of the most prestigious apprenticeships in all the worlds,” said Mrs. Aldrich with more than a little hint of pride.

  “What does this Mr. Speck do, exactly?” I asked, for I could no longer suppress my natural curiosity.

  Mr. Whatley, who had been sipping a glass of wine while the other guests finished their lizard pastries, set down his goblet. “Whatever needs to be done; Speck and Ashby are the leaders of our political parties.”

  The servants returned to clear away the plates and set out a small dish of green salad in front of each guest. After the last course I was relieved to eat something that had not previously been sentient. In no time at all the servants took away the salad plates and gave everyone an eggcup filled with what appeared to be a multicolored egg. I picked up my spoon and was about to dig into it, but then I saw the clouds hovering around the surface of the thing. Upon closer inspection I could see tiny continents and mountains, rivers and valleys. There was a whole world sitting in my eggcup.

  Olivia whispered to me, “Don’t worry, it’s uninhabited.”

  “Thank heavens,” I said. I scooped off the top of the tiny world with my spoon, revealing a warm red-orange center within, and ate it. It was crispy and smooth at the same time, with a hint of peppermint. At first it was cool on my tongue, but when I tasted the core of it I burned my mouth. Even before it slid down the entire length of my throat, I began to feel very full and could barely think of taking another bite. The other diners finished with their eggcups, and the servants cleared the table and brought out the final course. It was a small bowl filled with something dark but insubstantial. Olivia informed me that it was Sweetened Shadows, and after tasting it I had to agree that the name was appropriate. It had a hint of sweetness to it, but no distinct flavor. It was a pleasant way to end a very strange meal.

  Mr. Whatley stood from the table, smiling congenially at his guests. “Shall we retire to the drawing room?”