literature

The Burial

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The Burial

Though only in his thirty-sixth year, Lord Morton of Marshwood was showing unmistakable signs of wear. His body was fat from too much good food and too little exercise, his jowls drooped and his face was red-veined from an excess of sundry forms of debauchery.

It was all about to change however, because Milord had just asked the Scryer another question ... and as always, it had told him the truth ...

The beautiful sound of the crystals was still ringing in his stunned ears as his mind returned unbidden to the day he'd woken up, clutching the accursed thing to his chest. He'd lied of course and said it was his, just a toy ... and look what it had brought him ...

Oh, to be true, he had more wealth, more power ... more than he could ever need or use. For twenty years he'd framed his queries, locked away in his bedchamber where none could spy on him. 'This will succeed,' or 'that will fail,' or perhaps 'such will grow ... will die ... will increase ...'

For the most part, the crystals had remained silent, but occasionally, the room was suddenly filled with the joyous voice of the Scryer, as in its own fashion, it cried 'Yes! You are right!'

And how he'd used it, even to the extent of gaining bed-partners ... and not always of the opposite gender. Such fun it had been at eighteen, to be able to say 'so-and-so will accept my offer of a bed for the night,' and hear the dazzling chimes of the Scryer confirm it. It had never been wrong; never misled him ... it told the truth, plain and simple.

Which was why he now sat, terrified, on the edge of his bed in his nightgown, staring at the beautiful golden ball in horror. He'd obviously forgotten to close the casket upon the previous evening and had just risen, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed from another night of drunken revelry.

'Oh, Morton, Morton ...' he'd licked his mouth to try and moisten it, wiping the crusted mucous away with the back of a hand, '... if you don't change your ways, you'll be dead within the year ...'

For a confused moment, he wasn't quite sure what had happened ... why was the Scryer singing so joyfully? ... then he recalled what it was he'd so idly mumbled, and nearly died of shock on the spot. Gasping for breath, his hand flew out to slam the casket lid shut, but of course it was far too late ... he knew, didn't he ... he'd heard his own death-knell.

His hands trembled as he dressed himself, for once eschewing the aid of his handsome young manservant. He'd always been so careful .. so wary of asking the wrong thing, and now ...

The valet knew something was very amiss when Milord charged out of his bedchamber, fully-dressed, snapping peculiar orders left and right, and in very short order, the entire household was in a turmoil. Just how much of a turmoil became evident when he himself was summarily dismissed, along with a good two-thirds of the other servants and the entire kitchen staff.

There was a great deal of weeping amid the upheaval, and not a little anger besides, particularly on the part of the youthful manservant, for he'd been precisely that to Milord for many a recent night, putting up with the interminable snortings and heavings of his lecherous Master in the usually vain hope of some trifle or consideration upon the following morning.

So thus it was that the boy was passing the Baron's bedchamber door for the last time, his few goods packed and to hand, when he noted that it was ajar. He could hear his ex-Master weeping, muttering incoherently about burying something ... ah, of course ... it had to be the pretty thing in that little box. He'd only seen it the once, and knew it was the Baron's prized possession, never to be touched by anyone but himself. Pressing an eye to the narrow breach, the boy stayed as still as he was able, intrigued, as Milord took up his gold watch and opened up the back, placing a small piece of paper within and then closing it.

'... in case I should ever need you; just in case ...'

The Baron rose abruptly and made for the door, the ex-valet starting, quickly withdrawing to hurry off down the rear stairwell. The scene he'd witnessed was something to bear in mind for the future perhaps, but for now ... what was he to do?

Of course ... he was bright, or so everyone said, and at seventeen, not too old, surely. You never knew, he thought to himself, his feet taking him at a jaunty pace towards the Adepticon ... he might remain forever a Pilgrim, but then again, he might not ...

And the Wind City floated along above the land, on towards what lay ahead.
Another contribution to ~Winterflood's project ‘Wind City’.

Tales from the Wind City :iconwind-city:

Wind City is Copyright(c) 2007 Stephen Winterflood
The Burial is Copyright(c) 2008 Tango Wayne

Welcome to the Wind City and the stories of the people that live there; tales that don't always follow each other over time.

[I give ~Winterflood the right to reproduce this story in ~Wind-City, if he should so wish!]
© 2008 - 2024 Centauran
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