Tenebrae Manor (9 page)

In the palatial cosmic, the baubles of celestial beauty dangle about their orbits as though on the strings of a mobile. Megaton spheres contradict their own weight with an effortless float through vast expanse. The host star bristles from its own heat with fiery needles like that of the porcupine, spewing forth spectres of light, of energy. The sun blisters the closest pair of satellites with searing flame until their surfaces crack and weep the pus-like magma of their boiling insides. And pertaining to similar tragedy, those orbs furthest from the sun’s proximity dwell in vacuous and forgotten darkness. The cold locks them in an eternal sleep, their frigid expanses sustaining no life.

             
In a fortunate setting, riding a slipstream of equilibrium, the final rock in the host star’s initial treble glides comfortably like a leaf on a breeze. Slowly it spins, on axis and orbit, a dancer so carefree, so oblivious to the seething envy of the other planets. It is of a perfect balance, one hemisphere sleeps peacefully in the umbra, one soaks in the warmth of the sun’s rays and each take their turns, selfless in their swapping. A deity twirls the sphere in his mighty hand, taking notice of a blemish upon the surface. It is polished again and again, yet the blackened spot remains as a dirty bruise on the skin of this apple. A sun spot, the surface of a dark, deep sea.

             
It is the eternal night of Tenebrae blanketing its portion of earth’s surface. The sky is still, the surface of this impenetrable ocean. Stars skim the shallows in ignorance to the mournful souls who are drowning in the depths. Their lungs fill with the water of regret as they press for the surface, for breath, for life. It is too late - their struggle is in vain, they wallow in their despair. The surface is still; below, the currents pull and tug in restless wanderings.

Our characters are unmoored. Be they pertaining to a calculated chart, or aimless in their off-course drifting, their individual vignettes share a similar destination. A celebration draws near and they are each in varying moods relating to this forthcoming jubilee. Their accounts hang like ornaments on a tree, enveloped in their own mysterious beauty - a red globe for Bordeaux, the crimson demon. And what else? There is a copper coloured globe for Deadsol. A smaller one trails behind it in motley red and yellow; it is Comet’s bauble. A brooding black for Edweena and verdant greens for Arpage and Crow. And on a branch far lower than the rest, where the lack of light robs it of any distinct colour, is a bauble representing the Mute Chef.

Above them all, a certain branch sags under the weight of a dusky charcoal sphere. It is of course the elevated Libra, a honey-eyed Venus. They sit together on the same tree, leaves of a common bole, though perfectly encapsulated within their individual spheres, unaware of each other’s presence.

****

A candle burned, its tall and slender frame diminishing slowly, spreading horizontally as it spiraled downward. On the wooden surface of the vanity, where wax was beginning to congeal and stick, two elbows rested. The forearm pillars held within their hands a head of remarkable beauty and the mirror reflected the face of the Lady Libra. Within her fingers, a tangled curl of darkled brown hair wove its serpentine form, one of many elegant strands that dangled gracefully about her neck. Her face a perfect form, softened in its contours, heart shaped and full with a pair of hypnotic topaz eyes. Their pupils were drowned, swallowed up by an encompassing pool of amber that could lull weak of will mortals into submission.

It was these eyes that gazed distantly into their own reflection. Did their own beauty amaze them? Or was Libra merely off in pleasant reverie, dreaming of a future more extravagant than her present? The mirror was a canvas, a portrait of the voluptuous, a celebration of life. But what else had the procurator of such a portrait hidden amongst his brushstrokes?

The background, the half lit gloom of Libra's bedroom, camouflaged another being. A being noticeable only at a second glance, a deeper look. Yes, there she is. Madlyn is behind Libra. The candlelight was not strong enough to illuminate her gaunt features, despite a white gloss of Madlyn’s own eyes emerging from shadows. Her hands performed a different kind of brushstroke, brushing through Libra's cascading curls.

"It will be an extraordinary event. A jubilee of abundance!" announced Libra.

"Yes, Miss," replied Madlyn.

"A splendiferous episode of worship! Worship of me!"

"Yes, miss."

"And everyone will be in awe of my beauty and announce unyielding devotion and love to their perfect mistress!"

"Yes, miss."

"And my cake will be wondrous, a dream! And - come now you silly, don't brush so hard!"

"Yes, miss."

"Nobody does anything right. But my party,
my party
. It will be perfect, nothing wrong and I - Madlyn, you deplorable ninny, what are you staring at?"

"Nothing, miss. Sorry, miss. Yes, miss."

The servant girl's flimsy mind was a noticeable absentee at present; it had run off into the colourful throes of imagination. Madlyn's mental stability, frail as it may have been, had been lured into daydream by the transfixing of her eyes on the brooch sitting on Libra's table. It was the ornament of brilliant black, the ebony rose brooch that could rival any gem in regards to beauty. The petals of the rose twirled and intertwined into each other, spinning into the centre and absorbing conscious thought with its hypnotism.

Madlyn was infatuated by such a piece of jewelry. She had never owned many jewels herself and this particular brooch captured her lust for the surreal, her thoughts crying out to her.
You simply must have it!

The candle burned weaker by the minute, collapsing into itself in melted tallow. Madlyn's arms turned like gear shafts of an ancient machine, a monotonous repetition, a cycle of brush through hair and brush again. Libra was powdering her face with pomp and circumstance, the sweet aromas of her cosmetics lightening her mood ever still.

"Where was I, now?" said Libra, "Oh, it has but slipped my mind… Oh yes! The cake! Well..."

"Yes," came Madlyn's repetitious response “...Miss."  

****

In the foyer, another picture was painted. It is a surreal piece of caliginous gloom, the very definition of still life. The mighty oak doors of Tenebrae Manor loomed ominously from their host wall, moonlight stabbing through its pellucid stain glass features and casting demented shadows across the black and white tiles of the marble floor. All around there loomed a sense of warped reality, a charlatan playing tricks with gravity, with perception, so even the most steadfast being would find themselves bewildered in their bearings.

High in a corner, a spider silently spun silk with its eight emaciated legs. It stood intimidating and triumphant over the foolish fly, which had become numb from poison, immobile in the sticky confines of arachnid rope. Perhaps it could see its own mocking reflection, multiplied by the eight oculi of its captor, cruelly reminding it of an inevitable doom.

A cockroach scuttled across the tiles and the clicking of its legs sounded off beat with another very similar sound nearby. A grandfather clock swung its pendulum back and forth, a monotonous metronome of cogs turning and hands cycling about face. Through the gloom there came the muted chortle of an owl that had found some ingress into the mansion and lay concealed somewhere within the room. From the doorway, one could observe the eternal staircase of Tenebrae Manor beginning its inclination to the zenith point of the house, the banister adorned with the heads of griffins and busts of harpies. A chandelier hung motionless from the ceiling like a dead man, collecting a foliage of cobwebs and taking on an appearance of an inverted shrubbery.

The Usher stood vigil. One more figure in a line of armour. How was he any different to the suits of mail and steel that stood in a line next to him? His eyes remained locked in a vacant deadpan, his stance unchanged as the hours drifted by. Through all, he must wait. At any moment there could be a rap on the door and what would become of it if he were not there to respond? Not another thought plagued his mind. No memories of a life been and gone, no yearning for a favourite past time with which to waste his hours. He was the Usher and he must wait.

The clock struck the hour and bellowed like a gong. The owl started, the spider stirred and the Usher stood unchanged.

****

“And another!” bellowed Arpage. “Louder, I say! Stronger!”

From below, on the stage, Comets jumped on the spot and stamped his feet down fiercely onto the floorboards. Items lifeless and static hitherto rattled with life given them by the pulsing vibration of Comets’ stomps.

“Yes!” Arpage boomed.

He struck the keys of his piano with malevolence, their noise adding to the commotion of the room. Deadsol danced with whimsy through the seats, contorting his limbs extravagantly, tossing feathers and pine needles conjured as if from nowhere.

Above them, the ceiling was hidden by a supernatural cloud, swirling and raining down strings of spider thread, which grabbed at the feathers greedily and left them permanently suspended mid-flight. Pine needles spun frantically from their cobweb puppet strings as the air grew thick with colours of tawny, silver and emerald.

“Tawny owl, do not howl!” Deadsol cried. “Shoots of pine will do you just fine!”

“Spider leg and spider crawl,” added Comets. “Veil of web a spindly shawl!”

The noise of this auditorium treble had finally found cohesion amongst their individual bellows. The senseless chaos had become a controlled, tense dirge - Comets with his percussion, Arpage’s instruments pounding out a foundation of bass, Deadsol contributing rhythm with his dance and melody with his rhyme.

The theatre was inundated with decoration and the clean cold air had been replaced with a wilderness of embellishment.

****

High up in his room, Bordeaux had bargained with himself a moment's rest from his duties. From his vantage point on the windowsill, he was able to fully absorb the rays of the moon, which was dripping with a pale yellow sweat.

Bordeaux's foot dangled from the perch of his window ledge, teasing the abyss as it swung in time to the notes of his flute. He had done all he could, all other facets were now completely beyond his control. These had been weeks of torment, the lofty standards that he applied to his work, combined with the frantic and unusual commotion about the manor had planted a seed of fear in his mind. It was a fear of the inadequate, a fear that he may fail to live up to the expectation of his post. But now, as he sat on the window ledge adrift in reverie, his refined composure had returned.

Weary of his instrument, he let his hand fall to the side of the wall opposite to his dangling leg, the flute hanging precariously albeit firmly in his grasp.

Melancholia had overtaken him, the painting on his wall a constant reminder of what had been and what was now so far behind him. The sinuous sea, the taunt of the morning sun peering over the horizon, seemed to mock him with oblivious fancy.

Beyond the window, the trees stood like soldiers in the moonlight, silent and still, guarding him from escape. He felt as a prisoner, his heart filling with a primal urge to crack the ribs of confinement and disappear into the forest. The great trunks of closely pressed pines stood as bars across any adventure into the world beyond the night. Soon the pangs of his dutiful guilt quenched the callings of the wayfarer and he dropped from the sill to ensconce in his favourite chair and delve into another reality that could be found only between the pages of an old book.

****

The branches jutting from the aforementioned tree trunks, those twisted spearheads jutting into the underbelly of a dark sky, proved more than efficient as footholds in the swift clambering of Edweena. The stealthy vampiress cut through the canopy with the deft precision of some lithe panther. Within her burned a fiery passion, a wild bloodlust that smoldered in her core and clouded her vision from any sightings of contentment.

It was unknown even to her where she was heading at present; perhaps she merely wished to exhume the overflow of her anger and resentment through her vigorous climb. Edweena had drowned in frustration since Libra's ascension, her ebony haired skull slipping beneath the waves after a mighty struggle. What remained was a bitter grudge, not that of jealousy but of abandonment.

The forest floor was but a blur beneath her leather boots and Edweena regaled times when she had not been alone in her scouting. As though they had represented the shadow of the other, Edweena and Libra had been inseparable.

Was her anger justified?
Surely,
she thought to herself. Why had Libra changed so much?

Edweena came to a halt on a branch, lungs gasping profusely from exertion as the sweat poured in streams down her face and body. Her tight grey pants clung to her legs, the black ribbons adorning the top of her black ensemble brushing to a standstill as she sucked in air. The heat only emphasised her sweltering fatigue, pouring down her face in beaded drops.
Libra has always been prone to excess,
she thought. Perhaps the years of nocturnal escapades had dulled her desire towards physical movement.
But that doesn’t explain why she suddenly stopped seeing me. Aren’t friends supposed to converse?
It was no doubt possible that Libra did still care for her friendship with Edweena but certainly, her selfish impulses were stronger.
And isn’t that exactly the point?