Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

The Comte de Cigny

Place one foot…in front…of the other [why?]
breathe…in…out [why?]
chew…swallow…drink [why?]
at night…lie down…close eyes…embrace oblivion
rise in the morning…again…again [why?]
try to forget…forget…forget…
why.

Derek, the Comte de Cigny, came to a halt. Not abruptly but rather like a toy whose spring is winding down. The mantle of crushing grief and heartbreak [lined with despair…dyed in tears…embroidered with a hint of self-pity] in which his senses were enshrouded had partially lifted. For two decades nothing had penetrated its dense folds. Through sorrow-veiled eyes the world had appeared in constant mourning shades, the void within his chest where love…laughter…happiness had once resided had been his only reality.

His grief was real and natural; the albatross of depression that hung around his neck, was not. He was an unwitting cat’s-paw, the aftermath of a profane death, a witch’s tortured plaything. Time was neither here nor there in his cocooning twilight time. Days came and went, all one and the same, composed of rambling walks, purposeless and without destination. Yet, come eventide his feet would always lead him unerringly home.

These daily meanderings had never left so much as a ripple upon his memory, until today. Something had penetrated the fog - rousing and stimulating his mind. Like a sleepwalker upon awakening, snips and snags of memory began to gather and make a partial whole.

He remembered entering and traversing the sunflower field, a place always avoided before, yet recalled nothing specific about the experience: whether its fragrance was strong or faint or if it had any at all; if the feel of the soil beneath his shoe, had been firm or loamy; the density of the flower columns, were they sparsely or tightly packed? the droning of insects, had it belonged to harvesting bees or angry wasps? had the breeze blown firm or soft against his face?

He blinked and pressed a hand to his cheek.

How strange…
a nebulous feeling…sensation
began to take mental form
[had there been whispering…a loving kiss?]
then…was gone.

Lids blink…lethargically…
Eyes focus…squint…gaze around…dazedly.
Brain registers…finally…recalls…recognizes…
the place…where he is…now stands.
The bridge…
spanning the burn…
just within the manor's gates.
The grounds…[only those he can see…
those in close proximity]
the gate…the bridge…
the flowerbeds along the avenue…
the graveled drive itself…
so familiar…yet peculiar…strange…
all so…
neglected…brambly…gone terribly to seed.
How…since when?

Overwhelmed he sank down upon the bridge wall…strangely afraid. With a trembling hand he dug frantically in a frayed coat pocket. His heart skipped a beat…it had to be there…he couldn’t have lost it! Then his fingers closed around and pulled forth his talisman, his lifeline, his wife.

With a shuddering sigh he carefully unsealed his fingers. A harsh raucous cry splintered the calm. The Comte, startled, half rose, threw up his arm and cried out as the precious relic was torn from his hand.

Passing by the manor gate, alerted and drawn in by the anguished cry, Torin arrived too late to stop the thief but witnessed the huge raven’s escape and followed its deliberate flight down the middle of the burn. He saw its talons open and release its booty. Tracking the object’s fall, he marked its splash and without hesitation plunged into the water.

Lily pads…stalks…choked…obstructed
extinguished the light
the current shoved…buffeted…elbowed…bullied.
Thrusting…lunging…frog kicking…
he grappled…wrestled his way downward
[the bottom appeared to be much further
the stream deeper than anticipated]
Abruptly
the water’s consistency seemed to alter…thicken
the temperature to dip…become feverishly chill
his strokes…slowed…slackened…
were not as vigorous…propelling
mind fogged…dulled…refused to concentrate
lungs panicked…plead for…demanded air
limbs grew heavy…unwieldy.

Foundering…sinking…on the verge
of gasping…a drowning breath…
his muscles contracted…
fingers spasmed…splayed…retracted…
closed around…deliverance.
Energy…erupted…mushroomed upward
from extremities to brain…
igniting the will to live.

Odile

The room spun…metaphorically…in her head.
Jaw…teeth…cheek throbbed to the beat
of a sharp poignant pain…
[the result of smacking…the stone floor]
agony lanced through…battered against skull…
stomach pitched…heaved
bile surged…sluiced up the throat canal
when she strove for a sitting position.
Unstrung…her traitorous body wilted
causing her to crumple drunkenly…to the floor…
once more.

Torin

With no graspable memory of how, Torin found himself bobbing upon the surface. Fortenbrass, who’d been tearing wildly up and down along the water’s edge, now bolted into the stream upon catching sight of him. Two details registered in Torin’s mind: one, the horse had no trouble navigating the now placid, now water lily-barren stream, and, second, upon lowering and straightening his legs his toes skimmed a streambed that only moments before had been bottomless.

As the horse came alongside, Torin grabbed a fistful of mane and hauled himself, one-handedly, onto the broad back. Returning to shore, Fortenbrass bound up the sloping bank and stood patiently as his passenger slid limply to the ground. With a nose as exact and sensitive as any physician’s stethoscope the horse conducted a thorough inspection of his soggy friend until satisfied no harm had been done, nor was likely to come, from this latest misadventure.

The cat, who had been exhibiting uncharacteristic anxiety only a short time before, now only gave Torin an apathetic eye before beginning its ‘bored-couldn’t care less’ grooming routine, its self-possession and imperturbability fully restored.

Rallied by the gentle, insistent worrying of his hand by Fortenbrass, Torin raised his clenched fist and with some effort spread the fingers to reveal what lay hidden within.

Odile

Body prostrate upon the stone
her mind cast about for answers…
reasons…possible explanations…
for what had happened…occurred.
The outsider had been drowning…she’d felt his
life slipping away…
then…
the power that had seized…felled her
had been unlike any she had felt…experienced
since…
Ignoring the pain…repressing the nausea
she pushed erect…
head swiveling…
eyes darting wildly…
fearfully checking…examining
the murky corners…
indistinct rafters…
enigmatic shadows…under bed…behind chairs…
the unfathomable…impenetrable cavity
revealed by the cracked wardrobe door.

Only Odette…had been her equal…counterbalance.
Unease sucked on nerves…raw…strung tight.
Summoning every ounce of certitude…
she compressed…constrained…forced the terror down.
Recouping…rallying…regaining control…
she squelched the concept…notion.
It could not happen…
It was too preposterous…
An impossibility…
completely unacceptable…to her purpose.
Her sister was gone…these twenty years
by now…dust…or…at least…worm-excavated bone.
[she’d guarded the deathbed…after all…
to ensure that eventuality.
Hearing with her own ears…life’s sigh
as it leaked…dribbled from wilting…deflating lungs…
departed over waxen…venom-rimed…lips]
Some indeterminate thing…was at play…
whether human…
necromantic entity…
waggish sprite
was unclear…
but she’d ferret him…her…them…it…out…
then determine how best
to put a halt to the scheme.

Torin

The image’s painted lips curved soothingly, the expertly drawn eyes shone with a maternal light that twisted his heart with longing and loss. Aware of approaching footsteps Torin remained seated but swiveled his gaze reluctantly up and away from the miniature’s consoling features towards the elderly gentleman steering an unsteady course across the grass.

Winded, the gaunt figure dropped to its knees and imploringly stretched out a palsied hand. Compassion tugged as spring’s callow glance encountered winter’s waning gaze and Torin unhesitatingly placed the miniature onto the creased palm. Reverently the old man raised the portrait and tenderly pressed it to his lips, then tucked it safely away.

For a second
the image was turned Torin’s way
and he did a double take.
The face that peered toward him
was irrepressibly lovely
and effervescently…vibrantly young,
in no way the motherly, middle-aged incarnation
he’d dredged from the bottom of the burn.
His waterlogged eyes had to be playing tricks
or it was a manipulation of shadow and light
or…magic.

Getting to his feet and assisting the elderly man to his, Torin started to turn away when the Comte seized his hand in a surprisingly strong clasp, thanking him profusely for coming to his aid. He also expressed a fervent desire to know in what way, however great or small, he might compensate or be of benefit.

Torin’s eyes roved taking note of the brambly overrun condition of the property. If the old man was sincere, here just might be the way out of his monetary straits. His spirit and mood lifted, buoyed by such an unexpected windfall. Smiling he returned the elderly gentleman’s clasp.