Colden: Colden

By Varden M Frias

The year is 1773 and Leslie Colden is a determined young cross-dresser hellbent on scientific discovery and philosophical quandaries. However, when a mysterious killer attacks the local village where Colden has chosen to roost for a spell, the path to science is held in question by the forces of the paranormal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Varden M Frias
• Release date: Mar 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386773047

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Varden Frias

Colden

First published by Varden M Frias in 2018

Copyright © Varden Frias, 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

A Peculiar Venture

An Odd Occurance

Trapped

An Unholy Dig

Who's Grave?

Demon in the Brush

Playing Doctor

A Solution

The Hunt

Slumbering Demons

Take to Arms!

Investigations of the Ill Kind

Bridges Burned

Brink of the Horizon

1

A Peculiar Venture

Eerie it is how night both hides and exposes that which we fear most. ‘Tis the nocturnal blanket which dismisses our utmost of confidences into the caliginous depths of uncertainty with a wave of its indifferent and gnarled hand. No more than dry husks, left are we to the brunt of its infernal stare. The gaping maw of the abyss looms down to grapple us in its toothy grin and we are but helpless motes of dust to its whim.

‘Twas a spring night in 1773 as Elaine and I neared the next town. For hours that day we traveled on horseback on an overfed mare left in the stall of my father’s stables. Our departure that morning was swift. Is that not the case for all who desire to run away? Our keeper was tyrannical. Neither of us could remain where both intellectual growth was scarce.

We gathered the barest of necessities and escaped short of breath with the sweet taste of freedom dabbling our wizened tongues. She hardly knew it but I would dismiss Elaine and continue on in my journey. Was she a terrible creature to rid myself of? Nothing of the sort, but a loathsome nocturnal devil was I and ridding myself of her was necessary if I were to arrive upon the spring meeting of the Naturalists’ Society of Philadelphia within the fortnight as I had planned.

No, not a soul could pull me from such an unrelenting vision.

Fortune favored me that day weather but then decided to play a rather nasty trick on me as well with regards to my surprise company. Throughout most of the day came her bombardment of questions in terms of my area of expertise. Yet, after a while, she drowned herself out in a monologue due to my growing contemplative silence. Although she one of the many slaves living in our household, we never shared a moment’s conversation but upon mutual escape from the Madam’s wicked clutches, our solace was matched by our will to better our lives.

When the next town came into view, the horse was quite tired and so were we.

We dismounted, which was about the fifth time that we had done so that day. My aching legs trembled, feeling more like jelly and noodles then sinew and muscle. Scaling the town with my eyes, a row of cypress trees lined its edge behind the bone white spire of the church. A dirt street separated two rows of houses, the blacksmith’s hutch, a butcher’s house, the baker’s shop, the wax maker and the soap shop. A few nightly stragglers wandered that lonely road, one of which was a stout, wigged man who made his way for us.

Well hello there! he called out to me. I cleared my throat and offered a greeting before taking his hand and shaking it.

The name’s Abraham Monroe, his handshake sent a rack of pain through my palm into my wrist until we let go.

Leslie Colden, came my instinctive answer. Ingrained from a young age, young lady etiquette dictated my response, the recitation of names being of high importance.

Leslie Colden! he boomed with the enthusiasm of a man who had happened upon an unguarded vein of gold.

Wait! his icy blue eyes stared into mine, deeply as though he could cut straight through me from behind his glasses. Beneath his gaze, I awaited his judgment.

Colden, that name rings a bell. Are you perhaps related to the late Cadwallader Colden?

Yes, he was my grandfather. Then the man slapped my upper arm with his bear claw of a hand, almost knocking me clean over.

Haha! his bark of a laugh was actually quite charming. Almost. Old Cadwallader was a dear friend of mine! I daresay I didn’t know he had a grandson, though.

Now that I think of it, he did mention an Abraham at some point, I said. It was true. My grandfather spent a good amount of his life with a certain Abraham, both of them involved in the art physicians only knew. I would often see Abraham when I was a child, under the tutelage of my aunt Jane, and I am fairly certain that Abraham saw me. Abraham was unaware that Cadwallader had a grandson because I was the daughter, not the son, of Jane’s younger brother David. It was in my sincerest hope that he would never find out.

Well, Leslie, what brings you here? he asked me, bringing me from my reminisce. I stopped myself short before answering.

I have some business down South, I said, beating ‘round the bush to dissuade any sort of suspicion on his end. I would like a place to stay for the night so I may resume my journey tomorrow. That is, given if it’s quite alright with you.

Quite so! There is extra space in my own home and I wouldn’t think of it to turn you away on such a chilly night! I shall find you a place, he told me, then added with a rather rollicking pat on my upper arm. Anything for a grandson of my best friend, eh?

I obliged a smile and a nod to cover my otherwise clear discomfort in his body shaking pats.

Come along, then! I shall guide you to my humble abode.

No sooner did we walk down the street that a sharp shriek pierced the night air. I had heard many cries in my life, but this was just about the most jarring that I have ever heard. Over near the church, a woman hunched over a figure splayed on the ground. Her cry turned into a good row of screams and spasms. Doors to houses flew open, lights from windows flooded the streets, and a whole horde of people crammed the once desolate street. Abraham broke into a wobbly gallop, brushed past me, and headed for the church.

I probably should not have followed. Alas, I did.

2

An Odd Occurance

Upon nearing the screaming, shrieking lady, my heart did tremble. Verily, I expected her commotion to arise by means of dropping her dress into the dirt or another matter of the mundane. I would go so far to suggest someone crumpled the refinements of her flower bed. Trivial, yes, but indeed was the state of my mind in that moment for I did not see the peril which awaited us all. No. The crowd did not allow me to see much at all for they surrounded the scene in a crescent shape. I felt compelled to rip everyone out of the way with such force as if I had transformed into a lion. I managed to peak between two burly men, most likely farm hands, and saw the massacre laid out on the ground.

It was not a soiled dress. It was not a crushed flowerbed. It was a young lady. Like a display, her body sprawled out with her back leaning against the front steps of the church. Its likeness manifested the angel of death decided to let her rest in example of its handiwork. Both peaceful and tragic, her semblance cast upon me the dreariest of sentiments. I could not train my eyes away from the great gash across her stomach, spilling out its slimy and shiny contents. Coppery blood wafted into my nostrils, along with a few other unidentifiable scents. Good god, that lady did scream! If only she would stop perhaps I could decipher what happened. Someone less affected by the wailing stepped onto the scene, bent over the sliced lady, and inspected her. He turned over the dress until it revealed the wound.

’Tis fresh, he commented.

I could have deciphered that.

Abraham, who had been comforting the crying woman, turned to the man inspecting the dead lady on the ground and said:

Fresh enough to track down the killer, yes? Abraham asked. In one sweep the man switched his gaze over into Abraham’s eyes, a brief exchange of wit between the two perhaps. One man judging the other, most likely. Rising from his stooped position, wiping his hands on his shirt, the man told Abraham:

Equip me with a few hounds, a horse, and a few good men and I should be able to track him down.

Well, men, fetch Mr. Godfrey what he needs! Abraham barked. A few men departed from the crowd. In the harsh glow of torches, I spied the eyes of Mr. Godfrey. Icy blue staring back at me before I looked away. Beyond the occasional probing of the dead woman’s stomach, there was not much more that he seemed interested in inspecting. Again, due to my experience observing my grandfather’s work as a physician, I could have done a much better job.

In the small silence that followed, other than the slight sobbing of some of the women and the children, I stared at the woman. Firstly, her dress was slashed and not ripped. It showed in the markings on her dress, as if someone had taken a farmer’s fork and slashed it against the width of her belly. Secondly, I noticed an extra organ protruding from below her stomach and above her upper colon. Unfortunately, Mr. Godfrey noticed this organ as well.

Was this woman bearing child? Mr. Godfrey said, his voice not denying any shred or sort of his surprise. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

O my dear lord! the woman who had been screaming earlier cried, her plump figure swaying into a swoon.

My eyes could not help it, I attempted to look away from the grotesque sight, but despite my efforts I looked. The contour and line of the undeveloped child, enveloped in a thin sheath of blood and mucus, it was marvelous. I turned my attention back to the scene, the men had retrieved Mr. Godfrey’s supplies and the entire company of viewers breathed in indignation towards their invisible foe.

It shan’t take long, Mr. Godfrey said, and a large portion of the crowd disappeared with him following a pack of dogs. The rest of us turned to receive consultation in this time of uncertainty from the good Abraham.

Ladies and Gents, if you could all come to town hall so we can discuss this matter, his level voice told the crowd, to no one in particular. I gently took a torch from one of the townspeople passing me, which did not seem in the least to change their sordid and horrified expression. I watched everyone leave and when they were well on their way to town hall, I turned to the victim. A desire to see what should not be seen forced me to remain with the corpse. An eldritch desire, banal even, but true nonetheless.

When I turned I found Elaine bent over the girl, bewitched by her enthralling presence. My boots scuffed the soft ground behind her, a noise which caused her dark eyes to turn up to me beneath the soft glow of my torch. I bent over and passed the torch to Elaine:

Hold this.

Taking the plain gray dress between my fingers, I surmised she was perhaps the daughter of the baker or butcher. I gave it a good tear and split the dress to reveal more of her flesh. My fingers graced over the milky fabric of her skin torn by a stranger. I held my breath against the onslaught of the aroma of fresh blood pouring from her orifices.

It was an animal attack, I said, to myself. Elaine had disappeared from my frame of conscious even though she still remained there holding the torch for me.

How do you know that? Elaine asked. I wanted to tear my nose from my face to relieve myself of that awful smell.

If you see here, I poked at the white flesh right above the wound here, I used her dress to mop away the flow to reveal a second slash and here, I wiped below the second slash, a space of flesh and a third slash.

The pitchfork slash so commonly found from animal attacks.

I drew in my hands, instinctive to my itching nose, and wiped the back of my hand against it. Turning my hand, this way to see the back and then again to see the palm soiled crimson, my heart gave a little jolt. I rose, realizing that I was indeed poking at a dead woman and jumped back. Falling on my hind quarters, I stared at the girl in the firelight. Curly, golden locks spilled onto her thin shoulders leading up to her graceful neck which bent much too far to the left. Her blue eyes stared into the night sky. I wrenched the torch from Elaine’s hand and made my gait for the town hall.

Upon entering the town hall, my insides twisted in disgust at the amount of people stuffed into one place. For indeed it was an actual hall and nothing else. An artillery of shouts fired towards Abraham, and to each other, came from the innards of the hall. Only a long table filled that hallway and at that table sat men and men only. I lengthened my gait and took a chair. I turned to see where Elaine ran off to and found her next to me, extracting the chair from beneath the table for me to sit in. I sat and listened to the brawl of those simple country men.

We must find that man and kill him! one man, a farmer judging by his less than luxurious attire, spoke out. A good portion of the crowd roared in agreement, enough to burst the fluid in my ears I reckon. The fact that these men were arguing about whether to pursue an enemy whose physical description and human nature evaded them would have been quite humorous had I not been as tired. Quite ridiculous are many situations that I find myself in. I only stayed the duration of the meeting to speak with Abraham about my sleeping arrangements. Only did I focus on the subject when a voice dragged me from my moment of reverie.

Colden! Abraham’s voice called out my family name, and to my great misfortune, I answered with an arch of my brows.

Yes? I inquired, though I was in no way inclined to answer whatever query he would toss my way.

What do you think? Abraham, stationed at the furthest end of the long rectangular table, asked me. All eyes at once turned to me and suddenly I became very small in my seat. Perhaps paying attention to the subject of interest would have been a wise investment of my time in this situation. I cleared my throat, calming my nerves for a moment, and asked:

Remind me, but what is it that you desire my input?

Par usual, this worked. No one seemed to point at me as though I were the village jester.

What do we care about this stranger’s input? a man asked, his squished face fairly snarled at me. I tossed my stare back to Abraham, who immediately answered with the greatest pound of pride that a man could muster.

Everyone, this is Leslie Colden.

My cheeks sprout roses, but my chest soared as if on Eagle’s wings. For the first moment in my life, I was more than a mere shadow in the corner of a dark room.

He is the grandson of my most beloved friend, Cadwallader Colden, Abraham continued.

I still do not see your logos for this, Abraham.

Neither did I.

Just because he is the grandson of the great physician, does not mean that he is indeed a physician himself. Colden, pray tell, what indeed is your area of expertise? the man asked me, or rather designed his statement in the form of a flaming dart poised at my forehead. With this everyone turned to me again.

Abraham, must you be so enthusiastically boisterous towards me?

I searched the collection of facts, my horde of knowledge, and arrived with an answer:

I am a Naturalist.

A moment or two of silence followed, with a cough or sniff here and there, before anyone said anything.

Naturalist? The beady eyed man said. I lifted my brow only a little bit but offered nothing more than what I can only presume projected as a blank stare. It was anything but blank, though, as I regard