"Why don't you want it?" he asked his daughter.
"I don't like it," she answered.
"But Macora, it is a pretty lamp, don't you think? It is in your favourite colour, it has nice figures on it. What's wrong with it?"
She shook her head, and murmured once again she didn't like it, and left the writing room.
Her father watched her dancing away into the golden light of Fon. Little girls - he would never understand them. He picked up a new paper and started copying the administration from the butcher's; he had to finish them before noon the next day.
Macora danced into the garden and sat down by the small pond. She was glad she didn't have the lamp anymore. It was a pity she had to return the pretty present, but she hoped she would never see the monsters in her room again, ever. It'd better be dark, so it would have nothing to live in. Yes, it would be better that way, she thought, watching herself in the quiet water, surrounded by tiny ranakel flowers.
Then, she heard her mother call for her, and she stood up to go with her.
After Macora and Herlinde, his wife, had left the house, Aberdus worked some more. He liked it to be alone in the house, when it was all quiet and he could concentrate on his work. His wife had left to visit her sister. She had just had a baby, and Herlinde and Macora had to say hello to the new born.
It was still early in the year, it just had been Union Day, and it was getting cold and dark while the clouds filled the skies, drifting over from the Snaimore. Soon, Fon had left the skies, and it was so dark, Aberdus went looking for a candle.
Doing so, he found the lamp he had given his daughter. It was still filled with oil, and he lit the wick to have a good view on his work. And on the art he had bought at the borders of the Kungsfelthan. He took the papers from his drawer, where he had them locked away. It was not the kind of art you left on the desk...
As he studied the curves of a painted lady, he sensed someone watching over his shoulder. Yet, he knew he was alone in the house. The feeling grew stronger and he wasn't at ease any more, even the painted lady didn't have his full attention any more. It would be foolish to look up now, because he knew nobody else was in his room. But, on the other hand side, he could not deny the feeling he had.
From the corner of his eye, he saw something move, behind him. With a start, he stood up and confronted the intruder with his pencil sharpening knife.
The intruder, dressed in black, held a pencil sharpening knife in his hand, pointed at the writer.
Aberdus laughed relieved. So did his shadow. They sat down again, and concentrated on the art once more.
Outside, the wind blew the blossoms from the barkz. The trees bent in the strong, cold wind as if to shelter from it, and murmured in the spring rain that tortured their leaves with big, wet, icy drops. Far away, a thunderstorm threw its echo against the White Mountains, but the lightning faded before it reached Aberdus home in Razn'Oth.
Herlinde wouldn't return home in weather like this. "Each puddle you step in, is another day in sickbed," she used to say. And so he stayed up alone in his room, watching time pass by, or rather, watching the etched girls pass by. He had been to the cellar and got himself a very good bottle of Dragon Blood, the rich, dark wine from Ciniz that was like velvet in his mouth.
When he poured himself a second glass, he was sure there was something in the room. He hesitated with a half filled glass in his hand.
"Now don't be stupid," he said to himself. There were still shadows in the room, which was only lit by the little lamp. The flame was somewhat uneasy and the wick maybe instable at times, that was a good enough explanation. Of course, the thunderbolts, the rain and the wind covered much of the sounds that could be in the house if there was a real intruder, but you just couldn't make it trough the door without being heard.
He turned all the same, just to ease his mind. He saw a dark clad man with a glass of wine in his hand, and he saluted to him.
There was no returned greeting, and the shadow moved over the wall to another corner.
Aberdus let his glass drop on the floor. At the same time, he saw another shadow, just next to the door.
This could not be true. This must be an illusion. He only had had one glass of wine, he couldn't be drunk now. But maybe he was, he told himself. He reached out for the oil lamp above his desk and pulled it down to lit it. Then, he turned the flame up high, and pulled the cords to make it go up again.
Now, most of the room was lit, but the shadows remained. It was as if they grew out of the other shadows, silently they came from behind the chests and the bookshelves. They appeared from the corners of the hearth and from behind the coal bucket.
Now, Aberdus also let go of the bottle, that fell over the butchers administration. What was happening? He hadn't gone insane without knowing, did he? He grasped the side of his desk, to feel something real in his hands.
The Skaduus, he suddenly thought. He had heard a legend of the skaduus once, read about it. If he was right, he had a book on the legends of Daleth on his shelves. He walked over to the books, and searched the backs for the right book, with a half eye watching the shadows moving through his room. Somehow, he was afraid of them, but they couldn't leave the wall, he thought.
He picked the right book and checked the title. "Legendary Appearances in the Realms of the Dalethian Empire and Beyond" it said. He opened the book, and a leaflet, probably the page marker, fell out. He reached for it, to pick it up from the floor, then saw a shadow on the floor as well. He jumped up, to notice it was his own shadow, but because he looked in the book again, he could not see the smaller shadows running away from his, growing as they reached the outer limits of the room.
He browsed quickly trough the pages until he found the entry for the Skaduus.
"Skaduus: A jet black monster that never can look into the light of Fon. It looks like a shadow without a body, and is invisible in the dark. It can steal away your shadow but you won’t notice, because the skaduus will take its place. Others will notice, because people whose shadow is replaced by a skaduus behave different. One can have “the skaduus behind him/her” it is said.
Nothing helps against the skaduus. It is just there and you won’t know it. Some say blackened mirrors and glasses made of ember make the skaduus visible, but that is just folk-lore."
No. Aberdus put the book away. That was not what was going on in his room. He was frightened now, and didn't know what to do. He just stood there, on his own shadow, his back to the bookshelves, his heart pounding like mad, even the meteorologic noises from the outside could not be heard over it. He couldn't stay there all night, he realised. Maybe he should go out of the room, out of the house, and find someone who could help him. He should run for it. Run like mad, away from this doomed place.
It took him a while to gather enough confidence and energy to head for the door. But as he did, so did the shadows, coming closer to him, to the door. Six hands reached out for the door handle, and when the skin of Aberdus hand touched the metal, so did five other hands, cold as ice and black as the night.
Herlinde returned home the next morning. It was strange, she thought, Aberdus wasn't there to greet her in the hall. Maybe he had been working late? He used to do that when she was away, but it was nearly noon, he should be up by now. The butcher whose administration he did could be here any moment now.
"Where's father?" Macora asked.
"I don't know dear," Herlinde answered. She felt uneasy. There was a strange smell in the house. "Why don't you go and play in the garden, my dear?" Herlinde said to her daughter. "It is such a beautiful day."
Gladly smiling, Macora danced to the garden to play with her toys on the bank of the pond.
At the same time, the chimes from the front door rang through the hall. Herlinde walked over and opened the door to let the butcher in.
"Master Trihaf, come in, it's nice to see you."
"Herlinde Godricsdaughter, I'm pleased to be able to accept your invitation. I have an appointment with your husband, but you are clearly aware of that."
The two looked at each other. Master Trihaf had been a close friend to Aberdus and his wife for years. He smiled at the woman.
"Is your sister doing well? She has a little daughter now, has she?"
"Yes, she has, she's doing fine," Herlinde said, but she was worried. Where was Aberdus? He should have heard the chimes.
"Where's Aberdus?" the butcher asked, as if he could read Herlindes mind.
They went searching the house. But they didn't need to look long, for they found the body of Aberdus lying on the floor of the writing room.
"By the four gods and the unholy quartet," Herlinde whispered at the sight of her husband's lifeless body. There was a dark red liquid all over the carpet, close to the body. The pencil sharpening knife was on the desk. The strange smell was much heavier here, almost suffocating.
"Is he...?" she asked with a trembling voice.
"No, he isn't all right," the butcher said, bending over the body. He touched the red spot. "Wine," he answered an unasked question. "He hasn't been murdered. It must have been an accident."
Herlinde walked in the room, careful not to touch the body. She picked up the knife, but it showed no traces of blood. There was glass on the floor, but Aberdus wasn't wounded. Master Trihaf had turned over the body and examined his close friend with the eyes of a butcher. The pale, almost grey face of Aberdus looked back at him, the eyes almost popped out of their sockets, his mouth opened in a frozen state of terror.
"I reckon he has died of something he was afraid of - very afraid. By the way, what is that strange smell in this room? It isn't a poison, is it?"
Herlinde walked over to the windows and opened them, to clear up the air in the room. The butcher was right, it was a very strange smell.
Later, the body had been removed. Herlinde had taken Macora to her sister and had returned to her house, her home, her now so empty home, to do the things that had to be done. Master Trihaf was there to help her. He had taken his wife with him.
The three of them sat in the writing room, where Aberdus had kept his administration and all his things precious.
The paper was dusty but the ink was still shiny. The books bore layers of history and strata of knowledge. Inside, outside, the information was watched over, closely examined, judged on usefulness. Tears ran out of eyes reading old emotions in Aberdus diaries. Fingers caressed the lines written on daily life in Razn'Oth. Calculations took place in the mind, dividing feelings and truth. Master Trihaf and his wife had gone home, promising he would take care of the administration, leaving Herlinde with the personal life of Aberdus, put down in elegant handwriting, kept from disclosure in locked drawers.
Herlinde saw the paintings from Kungsfelthan, putting them beside and refused to remember Aberdus the way the paintings pointed. Art it was, thus art it shall be. She read the diary, half believing it was not partly her life being recorded on the expensive paper. Her memories blended with the facts on paper, her feelings grew numb reading all there was she never knew.
Her head hurt as if overfed with emotion. Herlinde sat there in the lamplight, the last present Aberdus had bought his daughter, and the little girl had refused it, not knowing it would be the last present her father would buy her. Herlinde shed a tear over it, a small pearl of grieve shining in the dancing lamplight. The lamp was on the corner of the desk, spreading its light upon the remains of Aberdus life. Herlinde turned the page of the book she held.
The she saw something moving behind her.
"Macora?" she said, thinking her daughter had joined her in Aberdus writing room. But silence never answered. The woman sighed, feeling old, lonely, desperate. She really wished her daughter would be with her, and thus she kept seeing things around her. She shook her head, Macora was not there.
But as she turned another page, the shadows behind her caught her attention again. She turned in her chair, watching the shadows. They were a deep dark on the wall. Silent. Motionless as Herlinde gazed.
She closed her eyes, She must be tired, for she thought the shadows were moving, just at the corner of her eye. Then she looked again, through her eyelashes, spying on the shadows. And noticed that they moved like living beings, having their own flat land on the wall, living their lives along the floral decoration on the wallpaper, turning around the corners of the wall like folded paper dolls.
And they seemed to be everywhere, where Herlinde did not dare to look closely.
She sat paralysed on her chair, watching the shadows have their orgy on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling. They moved and turned and twisted in directions not known to men. It was grotesque and obscene. Herlinde wanted to close her eyes again, but the feeling they closed in on her while she wasn't looking was too strong, so she kept them open, like her mouth, in upper terror.
Then, the wick of the lamp sizzled. The last oil was sucked into the flame, and the flame danced the waltz of the dead on the sooted end of the wick. At the same time, the shadows hurried to the lamp, shrinking to small figures, like cats, like mice, like flees, to disappear into the last light of the lamp. When the flame finally died, the room turned dark and the shadows where gone.
Lukarna's face smiled through the curtains, but no unnatural shadows came alive. Herlinde made it out of the dark room, and walked to her bedroom. There, she threw the pretty lamp with the last remains of the stinking oil and the trapped shadows on the rubbish heap, where it hit a stone and broke into small pieces.
They never knew what kind of wicked oil had made the flame dance on the filled wick.
Related topics: