Three Windows

By Jonathan Waite

Three medium-length stories (not long enough for novels, too long for shorts) covering MR Jamesian horror, dystopian fantasy and "soft" science fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781291858105

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Three Windows

THREE WINDOWS

By the same author

TETRAD

OONAVERSE

TWO MAGICIANS

By Jonathan Waite & Sam Armitage

THE EIGHT-MAN AUSTIN

THE OVERLY OBNOXIOUS OIK OPERATION

THE LOST GOATS and other tales of the Nyrond

THREE WINDOWS

by

Jonathan Waite

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Waite.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-291-85810-5

To my uncle Keith

who loved whimsy

THREE WINDOWS

The following three stories have seen limited publication on my website, http://www.nyrond.co.uk/ (now defunct). I start a lot of stories. Most of them stop dead shortly afterwards and never work again. Some languish in limbo for a while and then spring to life when I come back to them. These three started first time and hummed nicely through to the end, and I’m reasonably happy with them. Hence this book.

The Sallow Man stemmed from a love of Restoration comedy names, Thomas Love Peacock, Mervyn Peake and M R James’ ghost stories, four elements which I felt had never been satisfactorily brought together. The Shop is based on games like Blue Byte’s The Settlers, and I got the first scene, complete as it stands, in a dream. Loose Threads is loosely based on what happened to the real-life band The Dixie Chicks when they presumed to criticise the then president of America and his policies, and features slightly more than half of my fictitious band Gestalt, at a point before they came together.

There are many windows inside my head, and they don’t all look out on this world, or even the same world. Here are some glimpses through three of them. I hope to revisit these worlds at some point, and if I do, I’ll let you know.

Enjoy the stories. And if you do, you might like to look at my new site, http://www.avevale.org/, where new stories are appearing episodically all the time.

THE SALLOW MAN

A Tale of Convulsion Hall

In Medias Res: The Scene Is Set

...And, in an instant, down came the rain in sheets. The servants hastened to collect the picnic things, with Sir Tempest trying to help them and getting in the way, Lady Mary trying to restrain her husband and getting even more in the way, and little Violata clapping her hands with glee at the resultant confusion. The other guests withdrew to a safe distance: Changed-of-God spread his voluminous cloak and Sir Louis, Master Shadman and young Opoponax raised umbrellas, and the ladies took shelter according to their preference. Mr Surcease, quick of wit as ever, summoned two footmen and Tysoe the gardener to engage his lordship in earnest debate over the probable fate and right treatment of various flowers and vegetables, and while they were arguing the other servants gathered up the debris and a soggy procession made its way back to the Hall, Sir Tempest bringing up the rear in heated dialogue with the footmen.

Once inside, with the warm glow of fires and lamps banishing the grey gloom without, the guests dispersed to their rooms to bathe in hot water and change into dry clothes. His lordship vanished in the general direction of the kitchen garden, Lady Mary went to supervise the provision of hot drinks, and what with one thing and another it was nearly an hour before anyone noticed that Mademoiselle Fleur de Douleur was nowhere to be seen.

Once her absence was discovered, of course, nothing would do but that Sir Tempest would have everyone into the small drawing-room and fire off random questions at everyone at once without waiting for answers. Little by little it was established that Mlle de Douleur had chosen to shelter under Opoponax’s umbrella, that he and she had been almost the last in line, and that she had excused herself while crossing the west lawn on the grounds that she had lost her reticule in the confusion. The boy had last seen her walking lightly back towards the picnic site, seemingly oblivious to the bucketing rain. His lordship, of course, had seen nothing of any of this, despite the fact that she had passed within two feet of him and had to dodge one of his characteristically violent gestures in order to retain her hat.

Master Shadman and Opoponax at once volunteered to retrace the party’s steps and look for her, and Sir Tempest insisted upon accompanying them. They set off at once, and the others stood or sat in various attitudes of abstraction, while on sideboard and occasional table the pots of tea, coffee and hot chocolate slowly cooled.

Only little Violata seemed unperturbed as she played with her dolls in the upstairs nursery, humming the old song her first nurse had taught her.

"Dance with the sallow man

Dance in the rain.

Come to your own home

Never again..."

2. Master Shadman’s Trade

Prisoner at the bar, the justice said, you stand convicted of grand larceny and embezzlement. I call upon the Procurator of Dooms to pronounce sentence.

Master Elias Shadman rose to his feet, tall, spare and commanding.

Hearken to your appointed doom, he said matter-of-factly. "You will be taken from this place to Southampton Dock and placed aboard the freighter Henry Esmond. You will be given a package and a temporary passport. You will work your passage to Bangkok, in the lowest capacity. You will present the package to the ship’s captain for inspection each morning and evening. His authority over you will be absolute.

"When the ship docks at Bangkok you will be given directions to a certain lamasery in the interior of Siam. A member of the consular staff will accompany you as far as the gate; he will also inspect the package twice daily. You will hand that package to the High Lama, to whom it is addressed. He will give you another, addressed to me. At this point your doom is ended. It is up to you to bring back the second package, or not, as you wish.

While you are away your assets will be seized by the Crown and reasonable provision made for your dependents therefrom. If you return within a year with the second package, you may apply for the return of whatever is left. If you do not, it will be considered forfeit. Any further offence you may commit while in another country will be dealt with under that country’s laws: the Government offers you no protection or immunity whatsoever, and your passport is so annotated. He sat down.

Do you understand the doom appointed to you? the justice demanded.

White-faced and trembling, the prisoner nodded jerkily.

Then it begins. This case is closed.

Mlle de Douleur was waiting for Master Shadman when he emerged from the robing room twenty minutes later.

A strange punishment, she observed. Some might find it quite tolerable.

Not he, Master Shadman said. Did you not remark his reaction? The whole idea is repugnant to him: I designed it to be so. Last week a sailor was convicted of murdering a shipmate in a drunken quarrel. He is now sitting in a small stuffy office, allowed only water and weak tea to drink, balancing the accounts of a rural town council for the past twenty years. For every mistake he makes he must do the whole ledger again. By the end, he will either be quite mad, or, which is more likely, he will have become sober, chastened, and possessed of a useful new skill, and a long-neglected task will have been done.

Our way is simpler, said the lady.

Death serves no purpose save vengeance, said Master Shadman, and prison is likewise at best a waste of space and humanity, at worst merely an academy of evil. To be effective, a punishment must not only fit the crime, but the criminal. I determine exactly what each felon would least like to do, and the court compels him to do it.

I cannot win, Mlle de Douleur laughed. You are defending your livelihood!

Master Shadman bowed.

And yet, she continued, suppose you encountered a person who was prepared to embrace any task with equal relish?

I should have to hope, he rejoined, that such a person would never turn to crime. Shall we go?

3. Sir Louis Comforts The Bereft

It was some time later that Sir Louis Grievance, fleeing an impromptu recital of popular ballads got up by Mrs Roke in the drawing room, heard the sound of sobbing issuing from the half-open door of the second smallest library. After a moment’s hesitation as his sense of chivalry battled with his typical masculine feeling of helplessness in the face of tears, he put his head round the door and beheld the tiny figure of Bird o’ Grace, sitting bowed over in an armchair and wholly given over to grief. Sir Louis recalled that she and Mlle de Douleur had been particular friends. As he watched, she looked up, and the naked appeal in her eyes won him over utterly.

There, there, m’dear, he said as gently as he could, coming into the room and closing the door behind him, what’s all this, hey? Dry your eyes, there’s a good girl. Shadman and the boy will find her and bring her home safely, you’ll see.

I don’t think they will, sir, the lady whispered. I think she meant to leave—to leave us.

What’s that? Meant to leave? Why the dev—I mean, Sir Louis moderated his tone again, why should she? Perfectly good room, society of her friends, capital feedin’—here, I say, steady on, he added, as fresh waves of misery wracked the diminutive form before him. Sorry and all that, blasted idiot that I am, sayin’ all the wrong things—but what makes you think she left a’purpose?

Bird o’ Grace opened her hands. There, between them, was a lady’s reticule. It was in her room, she said damply. She never took it to the picnic.

H’rrm, Sir Louis said. See what you mean. But hold hard, surely she just forgot she hadn’t it with her... Bird o’ Grace shook her head mutely. No, quite right, not the type. Well, this does put a different complexion on the matter. Deuced rude of her to leave without sayin’ goodbye, but there, that’s Frenchies for you—oh, devil take it, there I go again. Forgive me, m’dear, do.

Bird o’ Grace made a supreme effort and stemmed the tide of tears. It is I who should ask forgiveness, sir, she said with a valiant effort at composure. This unseemly display—

Entirely understandable, said Sir Louis firmly. Now you just stay there whiles I go and find, um, well, truth to tell I don’t know who I’ll find, but I’ll find someone. They should be back soon, if that old fool Convulsion hasn’t fallen down a rabbit hole or somethin’. We’ll soon know where she’s gone, and I’ll make sure she apologises to you especially. Damnable conduct if you ask me. Unbecomin’ a common soldier, let alone a—well, anyway. A watery smile had broken through the clouds of sorrow, and Sir Louis was confused but grateful. You’ll be all right here. I’ll have to face Mrs Roke and her singin’.

I’m sure you will be equal to the challenge, Bird o’ Grace said gravely, and Sir Louis bowed and excused himself.

As luck would have it, he was forestalled on his way back to the drawing room by the return of Master Shadman, Opoponax and Sir Tempest, who had in fact blundered into a pond in the dark and was drenched and covered in duckweed to the waist. Sir Louis lost no time in apprising Master Shadman of Bird o’ Grace’s discovery, while his lordship was being helped upstairs by Surcease and a footman.

I see, the thin man said. Well, we can do no more tonight. I shall send to the villages round about in the morning. A lady travelling on foot and unaccompanied will have excited some notice. We shall find her, if only for our host’s peace of mind.

And the lady’s, Sir Louis said, and Master Shadman looked at him oddly.

Of course, he said.

4. The Hereditary Impostor

Ah, there you are, said Sir Louis, emerging from the colourful throng with a dark-haired stranger in tow. Lady Mary’s rout was at its height, and all the ton were present at Sir Tempest’s town house to see and be seen. Been looking everywhere. Ma’m’selle Fleur de Douleur, may I present Count Whatsisname, Hereditary Impostor to the court of somewhere or other.

Mlle de Douleur hid a smile behind her fan.

Particularly asked to be presented to you, Sir Louis went on. Can’t imagine why, he added with a ponderous wink. "Anyway, not my fault I didn’t catch the feller’s name. Should by rights be Convulsion’s job, only he’s off showin’ off his hollyhocks to all and sundry. Flowers, he added in tones of gloom. Never seen the point meself. Anyway, ‘spect you want to talk and all that." He bowed to each of them in turn and lumbered away in the general direction of the buffet table.

Mlle de Douleur surveyed the stranger. He was dressed in unassuming opulence, his jacket an unexceptionable claret. His features were well-shaped, his eyes dark and long-lashed, and his skin of that complexion to which the word olive does such scant justice.

Hereditary Impostor? she repeated softly.

Names and titles are of no importance, mademoiselle, said the stranger, in a light, accented tenor. I would be honoured if you would address me as Brandag.

That would be most inappropriate on a first acquaintance, said the lady with a smile. Besides, it is your title which I find most intriguing.

It is, as far as I am aware, unique in Europe, the stranger admitted. But I fear you would find its history tedious.

By no means, Mlle de Douleur declared. I insist you relate it to me at once.

They secured glasses of fruit punch and retired to the terrace, where Mlle de Douleur reclined in a rocking chair while her companion leaned against a pillar.

It begins, as so many noble traditions do, with a sordid legal squabble, he began. "In the thirteenth century, two families were in contention for the throne of my country. Each had ample precedent to justify its claim, neither would yield to the other. For many years there was cruel and wasteful civil war. Time and again one side or the other would claim the crown and banish or execute as many of the other line as he could find, but always one survived to continue the fight.

Then, in 1359 I believe, one of our ancestors on one side or the other found a solution.

Did a daughter of one house marry a son of the other? asked the lady.

Strangely enough, they never had issue of the appropriate sexes at the same time, replied the Count. In any case, the sons of my house stoutly maintained that the daughters of the other house had faces like distempered basset hounds and tempers to match, and I believe similar claims were made by the other side about our female progeny. No, there was no possibility of an alliance. Our ancestor had a different idea. He formalised the issue. He decreed that when an heir of the non-ruling line should come of age, each family should raise an army and fight one decisive battle, to last no longer than a day. The winner should assume the throne, and the loser should step down till the next generation’s heir should come of age. To ensure fairness, the non-ruling family were granted lands, wealth and titles equivalent to the king’s, everything of royalty save the crown itself. The title came later. I believe one of the kings fancied himself a humorist.

But surely, said she, you do not still fight these battles?

No indeed. One of my ancestors, a complaisant man who was content with his position and thought the crown merely an inconvenience, proposed that the battle be made purely symbolic, and the ruler of the time was not loth to agree. Now, we dress carnival floats every year. It is a great occasion. I should like to show it to you.

I should like to see it, Mlle de Douleur said. And I am glad that more enlightened counsels have prevailed in your country.

Ah yes, the Count said. Fifty years ago the king renounced his royal prerogatives in favour of an elected parliament. The current monarch is a woman in her seventies, the heir an inoffensive soul who takes personal charge of the carnival decorations. He would have much to discuss with your Sir Tempest, I think. Yes, we have peace now.

Long may it continue, the lady said fervently.

Perhaps, said the Count, and the dark eyes flashed under the long lashes.

Why, whatever can you mean, sir?

He smiled. "My family has renounced nothing to this parliament."

Before the mademoiselle could form a reply to this ominous statement, Bird o’ Grace arrived at a run, declaring that the quadrille was about to begin and beseeching her friend to join in. The Count gracefully demurred, and they did not meet again that evening: but it would be no great matter to surmise that his face, and the flash of his dark eyes, might have lingered long in her memory as she danced under the faceted chandeliers.

5. The Search Begins In Earnest

The next day dawned grey and watery, but a pocket-handkerchief of blue to the south-west offered a tentative promise. Directly after breakfast, Sir Tempest took it upon himself to organise a thorough search for the missing Mlle de Douleur: that is to say, he stood upon a barrel in the stable yard with a paper in his hand and issued a volley of instructions which were perhaps more suited to an old country dance than a serious search. The one piece of sense among the rigmarole came when he divided the searchers into four groups and put Master Shadman, Mr Surcease, Sir Louis and (at his own insistence) young Opoponax in charge of them. Since the four gentlemen in question had foreseen the necessity of this and had met beforehand to devise a strategy, his lordship’s other instructions were rendered completely superfluous and in fact disregarded by all concerned, and the four parties of servants, gardeners, labourers and assorted others set forth in their separate directions in some form of order.

The most promising direction, of course, was the way the picnic party had gone, and so the largest group went that way, under the direction of Master Shadman, looking left and right and examining the ground closely for any sign of the lady’s passing. It was one of the under-gardeners who discovered, by the stile at the end of the field, the dainty print of a lady’s shoe in the soft mud, and several more prints came to light on the other side, leading down to the shallow stream that fed into the Ave at Millmeet. Beyond the stream the trail petered out in the shadow of Grimmans Hill, and there was no way to tell if Mlle de Douleur had gone up it, round it, or, as Mr Tysoe darkly suggested, into it. Master Shadman elected to send small groups around the hill on either side, while the remainder of his party ascended the hill in a cordon: but the rocky hillside yielded no tracks, and the solitary, twisted oak tree at the top seemed to point its branches at them derisively. Beyond the hill the woods grew wild and dark, and there was no virtue in trying to puzzle out a trail among the clustering trees. The party returned to the Hall in low spirits.

Sir Louis, meanwhile, had led his group along the road that passed the main gate and descended into Avevale, with a brief stop at the Church of Without St Paul to interrogate the priest. Father Rede was known for his habit of scanning the surrounding countryside through a powerful telescope, and it had occurred to Sir Louis that he might have glimpsed the lady’s flight and be able to indicate a direction. Unfortunately, the priest had not spent long at his observations after the rain had blanketed the landscape, and while he did think he had seen a figure toiling up Grimmans Hill at something like the time in question, he could not say who it had been, nor yet where it had gone. Sir Louis accepted his apologies glumly but with a good grace, and he and his men tramped down the slope into the village to make fruitless enquiries