Oria - October 30, 2006 05:39 PM (GMT)
((For Halloween, thought I might toss this tale up. It's something I wrote some time back. And after the spooky tales event, had to go back and read it. Enjoy!))
"It is ever in grief and solemn hearts that we gather here this day to lay to rest Margaret Dunney. Ever bright and warm, she brought happiness to our community with her kindness. As I look among those here, every face tearstreaked, I know we shall cherish her well unto the many days and nights to follow. She will be forever missed, and never forgotten."
Malcolm offered what wane smile he could to his congregation. Clothed in what dark and somber colors they could find, the townsfolk of Darkshire huddled in their loss over a dear friend. She was the Gural the cook's wife, best known for her roasted mutton and holiday cookies.
Yet for their coming together as friends and neighbors, offering solace to each other, one remained apart. She was always apart, Madame Eva and her strange brooding eyes. Meeting them, Malcolm shivered despite his thick coat, the early coming of summer. Within those eyes was eternal winter, cold and biting. Many of his flock whispered of her, the strange interests she had, the errands she sent folk upon.
Shuddering a sigh, he sought to regain himself, gathering the eyes of those around him. "Let us pray. Unto the Light, we give our praise, our trust. In the true path of exaltation, do we seek." On and on, he spoke, yet the words for once seemed a hollow thing.
And with the final utterance and guidance of the grieving to the side, the dull thudding of earth hitting the casket rang in his ears. Turning briefly as he led them away, he watched Eva still standing over the grave, still staring into him.
"It is not right, how they bury them in this land here." She muttered to herself, ignoring the cemetery diggers. "Raven Hill is the rightful place for those passed on."
The two gents glanced between each other with odd looks. All knew how terrible and twisted Raven Hill was. Daily they feared coming to the grounds near Darkshire to find the curse of Raven Hill had traveled to them. The mists from the west always seemed to be nearing the eastern township. Fingers that hungered for the last remaining living.
"Something must be done, to make this right." Turning on her heel, she left not into the township as the others. Sending a shiver of alarm through the diggers, the lady spun and walked straight along the path to the old haunted house.
Oria - October 30, 2006 05:40 PM (GMT)
"Why do they never understand, what the truths are before them. The Light shines? Brings peace? Not even this wormy earth gives rest to those passed on. There is no peace, no way to redemption. Even those professed of this...Elune religion...cannot keep their own lands from falling to taint and revulsion. Oh Mary, Mary, sing to me of what I should do."
Her hands clasped together in vigil as she sank into the straight backed chair. Whispers of a breeze whistled through the broken panes of the windows, giving Eva a false impression of words. Dropping her eyes, sweat beading upon her forhead, she began to shake.
It was a slow thing, the shiver and jump of nerves in her hands, leading along her forearms, unto her shoulders. Lips danced in a quiver, feet moving one over the other, as a young lady fearful of her first dance.
"Mary, please, tell me what I should do. I need your help. I just--"
Fingertips ran along her hair as the teeth of a comb began at the top of her scalp moving back and down. Over and over, the ghostly touch brushed a comb of ivory and tigereye through her hair.
"Ever whisper of the day,
Long turnings of the night,
The whimpers cast into clay,
Your end we do delight."
Eva's lips opened in a singular caught O, as the ghost whispered her song to her. Blind Mary the children called her for the poor ghost's visage. Eyes taken, body nibbled upon by rats, nothing of who she truly was remained. Madame Eva never understood by she returned here, sought to understand the ghost, yet she could never stay away.
In life, Mary was a beauty, a muse of the township. Her poetry, songs, and stitchings were beyond compare. A quilt finely made had caught Eva's interest, luring her to the mystery of the maker. The journey brought her to this small haunted home. A farm left to rot. A ghost caught without a home left to her.
Harder the ghost pressed the comb, yet Eva did not feel the constant pulling, the soft tearing of her scalp. She needed to hear Mary's voice, to whisper her words and have some idea or dream given.
"The woman is dead, fallen like you said she would. And Mary, how they buried her! In the grounds here where you told me such a bad thing happened. Why do they leave Raven Hill to rot, and not save it? Althea sends so many to end the terrors there, and yet we are told never to travel, to see our lost dead, to truly mourn what was."
The ghost hummed, soft words slithering along the breezes.
"A mystery in the wicker basket,
The maiden's hand carries.
A lost page never read in the casket,
The preacher's desire taries.
Run and run, along the path..."
Eva's eyes snapped open, finally feeling the pain. Snatching her hand to her head, she turned to stare hard at the ghost with those haunted eyes. Rushing from the house, she indeed sought the path.
"And all shall become a bloodbath..." The voice completed the song, popping its jaw to better speak for the mute ghost. "Quitee a blooddbathh indeedd."
Oria - October 30, 2006 05:41 PM (GMT)
Returning home, Eva snuffed every candle and shuttered every lantern. No matter the depth and richness of the darkness, she could not fall into slumber. Ghostly images and phantom sounds seemed to haunt about her. Yet somehow in the longest of hours, exhaustion claimed her weary mind.
Dreams moved about her, strange things of attending a summer festival. Fires were set burning away the night. The sounds of revelry surrounded her, hands taking hers to lead into dance after dance. Partners moved before her, leading ever onward into the fever pitched night, yet within the throngs of people remained a shadowed figure. It did not move, apart yet within the revelry.
Try as she might, Eva could not near the figure. She knew she must. The cry of a rooster broke through the dream, forcing wide her eyes and bringing a gasp to her lips. Sheets wound tightly about her, sticking to skin from sweat that poured from her. "Dreams...just dreams."
Rising in the wane light of morn, the seamtress gulped for air. For a moment, she could still feel the air from that strange dream, haunting her as the song of Blind Mary did. But she had enough of this nonsense. It was time for work, folk needing sewing, quilts needing making. Determined, Eva rose to move, wash, dress, ready to greet the day. And as she finished winding her hair into place with pins, her apprentice knocked upon her door.
Turning to the thickness of the wood, she again felt trepidation. "Missus, the preacher be here to see you."
"Malcolm..but," she mumbled as the song returned to her. What did you mean, Mary, of the preacher's desires? Tying fast her working apron about her small waist, she spoke through the door.
"Snap to girl, take him tea in the sitting room. I shall be right down." Laying a hand on her stomach, she felt the strange fluttering of nervous fear within. "Perhaps it was nothing more than a quaint poem or verse."
Standing upon the bottom step of the stair, she watched the preacher speak with the girl. His eyes were kind, lips curved in a smile. A frock of simple black with a thin coat and pants framed the man of salt and peppered hair, lengthening years. Yet something of how he moved, the quality of his voice, the gentle touch of his hand when taking the tea gave Eva pause.
She remembered when he arrived in their beleagured township. Like all folk in Darkshire, they were running away from their pasts or setting to build new futures. No one expected the dark woodland to give rise to the howls of the wogren, the shambling of the dead. Sometimes she fancied that all the ghosts the folk ran from had followed them, proving you could never truly run away.
A soft cough brought her from thinking, the two pairs of eyes watching hers. Shaking herself from the spell of quiet, Eva approached the preacher with hands held before her. He took them in his, the usual greeting of folk such as they.
"Good morning, Malcolm. I trust the Light kept you safe last eve?"
His smile was reassuring despite the continuous pondering of Mary's words. "My prayers for the community always leave my lips and seek the skies. I only hope the Light prevails in these times. But I came not for the many, but for you."
Raising her eyebrows coyly, she moved past him to take a seat before the low burning fire. Pouring herself tea, setting a bit of sugar into the dark cup, she spoke softly. "Oh? For me? Whatever have I done to worry you, Malcolm?"
Following her lead, manners impeccable as those of a lord, he settled to wait until she was ready to receive him. "During the gathering yesterday, I could not help but notice your sadness and distress. I care for all of those in my flock. I would hope you see me as a comfort in these times."
The touch of his hand neared hers. Fluttering her gaze to peer into his sweet face, she wondered briefly of the warmth of his skin and intentions. For the briefest of moments, she could swear desire indeed burned in the depths. But as quickly sensed, it was gone to leave her perplexed in self doubt.
The scent of crushed mageroyal steeped delicately assailed them both from their cups, a heady dirnk for such company. Sipping, she sought her words with care; although, the white of her knuckles gave away her discomfort.
"Such things as death may be common place during these wars and dark times. Yet they always touch me deeply, you could say. I cannot simply watch the ending of a good friend, their lying away in wormy earth, and not recoil from it. Perhaps I have been left to my thoughts too long on such things."
His voice felt closer though he stayed where he sat. "Perhaps indeed. You have strayed from services, held yourself in seclusion unless work called, much as a nun in prayers to the Light. Yet you are not a sister in the sacred sense." Again his look traveled to hers, sending a grip of confusion and shudder that parted her lips.
Rather breathless, she settled back from that look, pinned by it. "I...have my own needs to tend to, and would never wish to lay them on others."
"Yet that is the duty I am entreaty to perform." His fingers brushed hers, steadying the shiver of her cup upon saucer.
"Do you take your vows so devotely?" She quaked in fear and wonder, confused by the remains of her dreams and misplaced concerns of where his hands may go.
"I have always followed the path the Light has given. Since before and ever after arriving in Darkshire, I am a servant eternally." His hand moved from hers to lay over his own heart, drawing her eyes again.
"Malcolm--do you--since before?" Breathing slow and careful, she sought firm foundation as her thoughts seemed to twist his sincere concerns. How could she think he desired...? Yet, was his touch not near hers, warm, as Mary sung?
He nodded gravely, rarely speaking of his past. "Before my time among you all."
Gulping a bit more tea, she sought familiar paths of conversation. "And where was your post before us?"
Now was his turn to look away, his eyes downcast to his own cup. A gritty feel entered his voice, not as melodious. "I once spoke to the flocks in Moonbrook. Before the dark times that befell us."
Her eyes followed his, wondering. Something of that township was familiar, but she could not place it. "Moonbrook, there was talk of something that occurred there...something the guard whisper about at times. What brought you to Darkshire?"
Setting aside the cup, the firelight gleamed off the edge of the one lone possession that seemed finer than his clothing. A ring embossed with a crest she did not recognize.
"My brother...I seek my brother." His eyes met hers, roughly in a dark gleam that faded as quickly as she recognized it. She remembered a look like that once before.
"Stalvan..."
The cup shook again in her fingers, but he did not settle it. It tumbled and smashed upon the floor.
Oria - October 30, 2006 05:42 PM (GMT)
"What wwould the whipperwhil..." Her voice shakily sung the words, soft threaded and pained. His hand moved over her eyes again. "Ssay to the morn. Ggo...go...and..." Her voice caught as she felt the tightening of rope, the burn of it harsh against her wrists.
Eva could not think so clearly, only recall and sing every song and verse the mad ghost had taught her. They tumbled and spun in her thoughts much as she had in her dream from hand to hand. Sweat dripped upon her skin, falling from his hair as he did what must be done.
As Malcolm set to his tasks, his voice mumbled prayers half-heartedly to the Light. Yet both knew, forgiveness would never come for the act he would commit. "Light, by your hand, I beseech the grace afforded all that follow the will and way. May my purpose be true. My heart ever strong--"
"...the wicker basket, the maiden's hand carries..." Again a song rose in her thoughts, drugged slurring between her lips. Hands of a steeled grip claimed her jaw, forcing it tight to closing. She never felt her teeth bite into her tongue, but the blood was coppery in her mouth.
"Wench! Fiend! What is that song!? What...tell me!" The world spun for Eva as she watched the pinwheeling of his enraged eyes. But no, it was not so much rage as utter fear, a driving force that had spent Malcolm's goodness as so many coppers for some favors.
She cried and pulled at his grip, squeezing shut her eyes. Yet the force of him would not be denied. "A song..song...nothing mmore."
The hiss of his fervant whisper burned her ear. "By all that I hold dear, you will tell me where you heard that song!" But the drugs he was instructed to use were far too potent, and her eyes faded to sleep.
Rising over the bound form of the Madame Eva, Malcolm Mistmantle watched his shadow as if it was a living thing. Where he stood still, it seemed to dance in pantomine of all the horrors he had committed. And one more laid before him.
"I sought every grave, every casket for the secret. And it has ever led me here, to Darkshire. Each death has never brought him from that house, the salvation required. The promises made to save his soul...perhaps Stalvan is nothing more than a corrupt, dark thing." Shuddering a sob, he feel into his seat before the fire again. Fine china ground under his worn boots as he laid his head into his sinner's hands.
The song had haunted him for so long. The letters he heard of, following the young adventurers, the blood. By the Light, how much blood a body could hold! Growling with a rending tear of his hair, he rose again. "I will not be as weak as he. I will save my brother."
Hefting Eva's prone form over his shoulder, he moved to the kitchen door, his shadow dancing over the remains of the apprentice, the pouch of poisoned tea, and the bag of implements he would use to bring about some form of salvation to a world gone mad.
Oria - October 30, 2006 05:43 PM (GMT)
"Brother? Stalvan? Please, stay your hand, come and let us be kin again." Malcolm whsipered as he trudged up the brushland, seeking ever seeking where his brother laid to unseemly rest.
Day and night seemed the same to the preacher in the damned woodlands of Duskwood. Perhaps it was named by the elven kin long ago, so perfect a description for such a loathsome place.
The world lived and breathed with sound and motion. Spiders, wolves, the breezes in the trees. Yet as he neared the crest of a hill, new for his seeking, only silence was found. Mist crept round his feet, pulling the warmth and strength from him. The familiar leeching of undeath associated with the scourge forces.
The same sense he felt of his long, lost brother.
Nearing the boles of a close setting of elms, Malcolm pulled the woman from his shoulder, laying her prone before them. His breath puffed about him despite the season of warmth as he worked to open the bag. The diffuse glow of sun or moon that filtered through the trees glimmered wanely upon the butchery of implements. Axes, knives, bottles filed with rancid things. These he was instructed would be of use against the dead.
He never realized faith alone could have saved him. With a shuddering breath, his eyes moved over Eva's still body. Leaning close, he felt the rythm of life still beating within. "I am truly sorry lady, for all I have--"
The cracking sound of wood echoed plainly in the night. Giving a soft gasp, Malcolm turned this way and that to define where it came. "Who? Stalvan? Brother?!"
Yet peer and search the shadows and paths of the wildlife as he may, Malcolm saw nothing that spoke of movement. Turning again to Eva, the preacher seemed far more intent. Blade to hand, rope moved and shifted, he began to saw away at the finework and brocade of her high-necked bodice.
"The blood must flow as a river, for the scent to wander the trees. Tilt back the head as if seeking the sky in supplication, and you shall be greeted ever kinder." He paled reciting the litany of instructions given by the strange old rogue. A murderer, he had taught the preacher much during his last confessions before meeting his own sinner's end under the axe.
Wrinkling of her bow, Eva began to stir. Something felt cold, her body so heavy, yet she did not have the strength to open her eyes. Sweat and singing, she sensed someone so near. Yet as she tried so hard to work her throat and lips into speaking, she felt numbed and lost to serene waiting.
A knot began to grow too tight as Malcolm worked, causing his heart to race more. The woodland was waking with the sounds of shuffling, the movement of the dead risen. Tears stung his eyes in fear he would not finish to save his brother. So many failures. This time, this one shining moment, he would win.
And it was those tears that splashed upon Eva's cheek that gave rise to her waking. Pale cheeks flushing back to wakefulness, she opened her wide blue eyes.
Above her was death. She would never forget the look of it. Robed as all the stories told, black and blue and purple. Skulls of the sinner and saint adorned each shoulder, sockets bleeding eternal shadows of what they witnessed. Yet the face, despite its long touch of fel, seemed so serene and beautiful.
The jaw moved, lips ragged pale things, that formed such simple frozen motions. Breath wheezed from it to become such a perfect pitched song, falsetto and bright to drive back the everdark of Duskwood.
And as it moved through the words of a most familiar song, she watched it take the life of Malcolm as a glowing light, pulling from his lips the brightest of shadowed crystals she had ever seen.
"What does the sinner dream,
As he wanders within seas of lies,
What would the whipperwhil sing,
As it rises through the skies?
Long would it say to the morn,
Of ghosts lost and forlorn."
"A mystery in the wicker basket,
The maiden's hand carries.
A lost page never read in the casket,
The preacher's desire taries.
Run and run, along the path,
And all shall become a bloodbath."
"This the testment told,
Of the heart and soul felled.
I come now the ghost so cold,
Singing of the final death knell."
Eva stayed still listening to the song finally all sung. Never once did her eyes blink, lips speak. The moment was perfection, bringing to her a sense of faith and peace. This was death, standing before her, metting out its justice. And there upon the ground was the loathsome sinner, receiving what justice the Light would deem.
Never would she have thought to witness true belief. And in her heart, she felt something born again. Some sense that there would be a tomorrow, brighter than this day or the next.
Turning, the shadows of a hood and tarnished white tresses marked death leaving. Eva gave a soft cry then, her voice no longer silent.
"Wwait. Please. I must know."
The figure of death stopped, clawlike hands wrapped around a staff that glowed as the sun.
"Wwhat happened? I--"
The figure turned again, regarding Eva, seeming to drink the very essence of her soul.
"I oncee kneww him. Noww, he shalll travell with me alwayss. It iss the wayy of threadss of woe and mourningg. I gather themm to weavee...my finall tapestry."
Holding forth a hand, the very shadows split before the figure, spilling forth a thunderous steed. Taking its reigns, the figure of death wandered away, beginning a new part to the song.
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