Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Torin

The cavernous barn backed into a hill. The first floor walls were set with fieldstone, and the retaining wall was a continuation of the thick and towering wall that encircled the property. The second floor walls were thickly planked and crowned by rafters of massive age-blackened oak.

Torin surveyed his new home and was content with what he saw. The hayloft was quite livable, compared to its fellow outbuildings’ sorry state. Long forgotten hay bales, tinted gray by mold, mildew and dust, once turned would make a serviceable, comfortable bed. Two openings on opposite sides had once provided cross-ventilation, now rotting bales clogged one, overlooking the folding yard and L-shaped cow byre. The other, door closed but intact, stubbornly demanded much tugging, yanking, and swearing to persuade it to part from its moorings. Crowing with success, Torin slid it open, allowing in fresh air, sunlight, and a view that sent him rocking back upon his heels.

From the loft’s vantage point he now had an unobstructed view of what the outside wall hid at ground level. Extending to the horizon in three directions were acres, infinite multitudes, of sunflowers. Tall as the tallest man with stalks as thick as a giant’s little toe, they stood in formation, row after row after row of globular golden heads raised in seeming veneration.

Thunderstruck, Torin sat down heavily, unmindful of protesting boards and the dust that billowed up. Never had he beheld anything so breathtakingly beautiful or breathcatchingly disturbing. By their stance, the tilt of their heads, the flowers seemed almost…expectant.

Frowning, he rose to his knees and braced against the jamb. Leaning out as far as he dared, he shaded his eyes and squinted, trying to get a clearer look. For just a moment he thought he’d seen…

A voice hallooed, breaking the spell. Mrs. Crockery, the housekeeper/cook was calling him in to supper.

After dinner, lying upon his makeshift straw bed, listening to the cat’s peaceful snores and Fortenbrass’ drowsy shuffling and settling drifting up from downstairs, Torin marveled, again at the good fortune that had led them to Swan’s Rest.

After much haggling and gentle argument, he had struck a bargain with his host. He would serve the Comte and the estate in whatever capacity he was needed: as gardener, carpenter, mason, blacksmith, etc., and for however long he was required. In return he would be fed, provided with shelter, a bed, and receive a most generous wage. Fortenbrass, too would earn his keep with brute strength by clearing the land and plowing the fallow fields. The cat, as yet blissfully unaware of impending servitude, would purge and keep the barn, outbuildings, manor house and gardens vermin free.

The Comte had made every effort to change Torin’s mind regarding his choice of sleeping accommodations, putting forth the contention that he couldn’t possibly allow the person to whom he owed so much live like an animal in his barn. Torin had smoothly reassured and steadfastly declined the old gentleman’s magnanimous offer of a room within the manor house and the Comte had finally, reluctantly acquiesced. There had been one stipulation, one request, that all his meals be taken within the house, at the kitchen table. Torin had made the concession, bowing to the old gentleman’s wishes and allotting him the pleasure of a small victory.

Rolling over and pillowing his head upon an arm, Torin gazed out through the open loft door into the sunflower field, now eerie hulking silhouettes against the contrasting lavender night sky. There had been no way he could have explained the reasoning behind his choosing to stay in the barn. The Comte would have been hard pressed to comprehend the fact that Fortenbrass, and yes, even the cat [although certainly no Puss’n Boots] were his family, all he had. And, that he was terrified to be separated from them for fear that he’d return and find they’d been lost as well. Sighing, he fell asleep dreaming of life as it once had been.

The estate was woefully understaffed. What servants there were were relegated to the manor house so the majority of the outside labor was left entirely up to Torin. A slovenly youth, Tom Foolery, had been reassigned to assist with the out of doors chores but had proved to be as useless and good-for-nothing as one of Queen Cinderella’s infamous stepsisters and, three times as cruel. Twice Torin had thrashed and thrown him head first from the barn. The first time was after finding nettles seasoning Fortenbrass’ feed and the second, after catching the wretch in the act of trying to pitchfork the cornered cat.

Days passed into weeks. The work was grueling. There was so much shoring up, cutting/tearing down, rebuilding, recaulking and replastering, clearing, plowing, seeding and weeding - decades of negligence and inattention to rectify and set to rights. But Torin relished and thrived on the muscle straining, callus rubbing labor, taking great pride and gratification as the changes gradually became apparent.

Every so often while plowing the fields, patching a roof or herding sheep, Torin would glimpse the Comte wandering about the estate. From time to time the old man would stop to rest and visit for a spell before continuing on his seemingly pointless trek. During these sojourns [having an opportunity to observe him up close] Torin was struck by the fact that the Comte appeared far less infirm and timeworn than he’d thought at their first meeting. In fact, the Comte’s step was definitely firmer and less faltering, his back straighter, his gaze brighter, his hand steadier, and his wits sharper. Even his features seemed less creased and, what lines there were appeared to owe their etching not so much to the advent of age but to some wounding or grief harbored within. Over the coming months Torin would often wonder about what manner of tragedy could have befallen so compassionate and charitable a man.

Mrs. Crockery, diligent as a kitchen brownie, dimpled cheeks bobbing, sampled a hot-from-the-oven Banbury tart, her ample girth shaking in epicurean delight with each bite. A drowsy scullery maid guiltily resumed stirring a pot of pease porridge that bubbled in the hearth after having her head lightly rapped by the wooden spoon-wielding cook.

Tilted back in his chair, sipping on a mug of hot cider, Torin smiled sadly at the homey sights and smells, his thoughts replaying a cherished memory.

Granny Pips bustling around their snug little kitchen
humming, off-key, a Cinderella waltz
from once upon a time…long…long…ago.
The heady aroma of apples baking,
cinnamon and allspice sweetening the air.
His baby sister, reenacting the Sleeping Beauty
by the hearth.
His parents, laughing, hugging and stealing a kiss.

Torin jerked as though shocked, the motion righting the chair and smacking its four legs down hard upon the floor. Digging his elbows into the table, palms pushing and squeezing against the sides of his head, he tried to lock away the memories he'd managed to banish for so long behind a barricaded mental door. But, the nostalgic atmosphere in the kitchen had turned the key, lifted the latch and the door had cracked, opened, swung wide and the memories sallied forth into the light of consciousness. Torin choked on the wrenching grief, guilt and dagger-sharp loneliness they brought with them.

It was his fault. He alone was to blame. If only he'd not wheedled his father into letting him drive the apple harvest to market that morning.

In Hubbardville…
the produce buyer…
hemming…hawing…haggling
too long over the price
caused him to stay too late…spend the night.
It had been well past noon
the following day
before he'd pulled into the farmyard.
A yard
uncharacteristically silent…disturbingly still.
No one rushing to greet him…
No ferocious…[all-for-show]…watchdog…
standing guard…heralding his return…
No little sister…begging for a present…treat…
No father inquiring as to profit…
No elder brother…winking…backslapping teasingly…
No mother urging…come in…wash up…
sit down…eat.

No response to his increasingly anxious shouts…ballyhoos.
The cottage…barn…fruit cellar…
empty…vacant…void.
No one encountered…found
Father, mother…family…all gone…
only Fortenbrass
[stumbled upon…
standing dazed…confused…
ankle-deep in an irrigation ditch]
remained…
to console…welcome him home.

Scouring the orchards…he’d stumbled upon
a strange…ominous…ill-boding scene…
trolls…a dozen or more…
battle dressed…weapons drawn…
lay in a circle upon the ground…
dead
all…unmarked…uninjured…no apparent wounds…
all…
except one…
who inexplicably…was missing his head.

Unmindful of startled, eyebrow-raised stares, Torin bolted from the kitchen, fleeing its painful reminders of happier times and much-loved people, to the barn where, clinging to Fortenbrass, he could muffle his sobs in the horse’s mane and let his tears fall unseen and unchecked into the straw.