Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

When whisker tickles, head rubs, paw punches, yowling, and growling didn’t work, the cat bit his nose, drawing a bead of blood. Sitting back it watched with self-satisfaction as, with an oath and a swat, Torin woke and leapt up rubbing his injured nose, murder in his glare. Unperturbed the cat ran nimbly to the ladder. When he didn’t follow, it dashed back, pawed impatiently at his feet and darted to the ladder, again. It repeated this pantomime twice more until he finally got the point. Grumbling and muttering, Torin pulled on pants, tugged on boots, thrust arms into sleeves and descended, none too quietly, down the ladder, all the while formulating the best method for skinning a cat.

Once on the ground, however, all thoughts of revenge evaporated. Fortenbrass, coat blanched by moonlight, cat perched upon his back, stood just within the barn door. The tension in both animals was palpable. At Torin’s approach the horse stealthily crept out [glancing back once to make sure he followed] keeping to the shadows and avoiding the cobblestones. Muffling hooves in the cushioning grass he gave the manor windows a wide berth. Torin, mystified, followed his horse’s lead.

Behind the manor house, beyond the flying fish ponds, skirting the wildflower meadow the stallion led the way, finally climbing a steep rise [the cat still clinging to his back] to a small coppice. Entering he threaded his way through the trees and thick brush.

Concentrating on footing and shielding eyes Torin collided with Fortenbrass’ flank when, with no advance warning, he stopped. A furry paw cuffed Torin’s mouth and a low warning growl hushed his questions. Recalling the earlier attack, Torin scowled and itched to reach up and wring the wretch creature’s neck. He was brought back to the present by Fortenbrass’ tail flicking across his head and shoulders, whipping him forward. A violent display of head tossing and puffing urged him to a crouch and an equine head push to the small of his back goaded him forward. Seeing that resistance was futile he proceeded forward in the direction he’d been pointed, crawling over jagged rocks, tangled roots and through thorny underbrush until the copse thinned and he found himself on the lip of a bluff, the field of sunflowers lying exposed in all its staggering immensity.

The field was a harlequin study under the cold brilliance of the moon. The flowers’ heads and leaves bleached cataract white…the marbling between the colonnading stalks a secretive oblivion black.

Astonishingly, in all his ruminating Torin had never noticed the lack of variation and noticeable irregularity in the plants. Each flower was indistinguishable - in size, shape, height, width and circumference - from its row mates.

A figure striding along the perimeter caught and diverted Torin’s attention. A woman, petite, with shoulders and torso shapeless under the bulk of a shawl. An achromatic skirt bounced in an unnaturally sluggish and lumpy rhythm against her legs.

She came to a standstill a few yards to his left, facing the field. Her eyes were pinpointed, her back arrow-straight, her arms scarecrowed and hands clenched into fists [the stance struck Torin as curious being more confrontational than contemplative]. She stood stone-still, nothing about her stirred except…the skirt.

It was a trick of moonlight…shadow.
His eyes closed…squeezed…tight…
opened.
The skirt was slowly twisting…curling.
Aghast…he watched as
bits of the skirt began to drop away…
[without the skirt…itself…ever seeming to diminish]
littering the ground…like clots of blood…dung.
In seconds…
arms…legs…heads…oozed forth…took shape.

Thousands upon thousands of bloodhound imps…
[Rabbit high…famine-thin…eyeless.
Snouts…overlong…weasel-keen
wiggling…sniffing…eager to ferret out any scent
that did not quite fit…was out of place.
Enormous…bat-like ears
twitching…left…right…back…front…fine-tuning
to locate…expose…a secret heartbeat]
sprang up…
slinked…stole in…scattered
amongst the rows…
silent as time…persistent…relentless as death.

Recoiling…thankful to be downwind Torin belly-scooted back never taking his eyes from the nightmarish scene. A stone dislodged and he flinched as the cue-ball click resounded in the dark. Barely daring to breath…blink he lay still for what seemed an eternity, then risked raising up on his elbows. His breath released. Nothing had changed in the field below. The imps, too intent on their hunt, had not been alerted.

Loosening frozen muscles he found the nerve to begin a retreat but just by chance glanced down…to his left. His blood froze. He’d been mistaken; someone had heard. The woman, her body pose still held but head turned, sharp eyes focused upward, met his horrorstricken gaze.

Tearing up the ladder, barely recalling the trip back, Torin grabbed the rucksack and in a flurry of blind panic began gathering and cramming in discarded clothing and toiletries, thoughts cannonballing as he packed.

More than enough silver starkers…
to tide them over for at least four months.
No need to say goodbye…
bid the Comte farewell.
He’d more than filled his obligation…their pact.
The manor…lands…
were reviving.
He owed…nothing more.
No time to waste.
Hurry!
Get out…out…out!

Down the ladder, racing to the stall, he tossed the rucksack to the floor, frantically snatched the bridle from its hook [almost dropping…fingers all thumbs, clumsy from shaking, fear and sweat] and readied it for donning. But, Fortenbrass would not comply. He refused Torin’s every attempt to place it over his head - sidestepping, head shaking, neck stretching, pulling up to his full height. Caught off guard, stymied by such an uncharacteristic display, Torin dazedly reached down, groping for the rucksack only to find that the cat had staked a claim. With bared fangs and unsheathed claws it foiled all his efforts to displace it.

Undermined by their unanticipated and staggering lack of cooperation as well as their implausibly united front against his gut feeling to flee, Torin backed away totally intimidated. The cloud of hysteria that was stifling him slowly lifted to be replaced by a chokehold of humiliation and disgust.

What had he been thinking? How could he have considered leaving? The Comte, his friend and benefactor, deserved his loyalty.

And, Solace. The shame almost unmanned him. What of her? In his cowardice he’d been ready and willing to abandon her without a second thought. Moaning, he dug his palms into his eyes futilely struggling to evade facing the truth, his guilt. How could he?!! Whether phantom or fabrication, she had become the focal point of his day and night. Without ever having said a word or given inkling as to her tale and plight, she’d become more important than his life.

For a fortnight misery, uncertainty and depression had been his sole nocturnal companions. The Dream had not drawn him in and he had no knowledge of how to induce it. And now, he had no doubt, because of his betrayal he’d lost her forever. How could she forgive him this transgression? In that moment, he abandoned all hope and self-will.

The animals, watching him closely, caught the despairing gleam in his eye but knew not what it meant and so were caught off-guard when he leapt to his feet and sprinted forward intent on the beckoning tines of a pitchfork anchored handle-first in a bale of hay.

Deep within, Torin was screaming, fiercely trying to force his body to stop or turn but he had no control; something else held dominion. A sudden hit from behind shoved him aside. His head struck a wall. As darkness claimed him he heard an agonized scream echo through the barn and knew it wasn’t his.

Jessamine

Jessamine crooned softly
to the man in her arms…
cradling the body close.
Tears dripped from her chin
to gently splatter upon his cheeks.
His lids quivered at the assault
but remained sealed.
She wept in relief…
he would recover.

Torin

The faint tickle of fingertips
drifting across his forehead…
lifting the sweat-soaked hair…
exposing the feverish flesh
cooling…soothing…
brought him around.
Without opening his eyes
he knew he was…There.
The tinny striking of a mantel clock,
the crackle of flames in a grate,
gave evidence to the fact
the Dream…Solace…had returned.

Afraid all might vanish…evaporate
should he stir…admit cognizance
he feigned insensibility
for a few moments more.
His head lay in her lap.
The warmth of living flesh…the firmness of bone
could be felt through the cloth
of her skirt…on the back of his neck.

Stomach muscles clenched…heart leapt…
she was no apparition!
Eagerly his eyes flew open
to find hers…staring down.
She smiled.
Wonderingly…
his hand reached up to cup her cheek.
His head lifted.
Black specks like swarming gnats
obscured her face
and he was sucked down…once again
into unconsciousness.