The woman placed a tray on the table. On it was a smoldering mug of warm milk and a plate of freshly baked eclairs. They were the biggest Timmy had ever seen, large as rolled-up double fists and spilling over with melted chocolate at the seams.
“Go on, help yourself. You must be hungry. My blood sweat and tears went into those eclairs and besides, the time for rest has come.” She said with a knowing smile.
Timmy found the comment rather odd but was far too hungry to protest.The most decent meal he’d had in the last couple of days was a moldy piece of bread he’d wrestled from a roof rat the size of a cat. These on the other hand were fresh, warm, and all his.
Mouthwatering, he grabbed one and bit into it, the warm gooey center melting onto his tongue with a sticky caramel familiarity.
“Toffee!” Timmy exclaimed shoving the rest of the eclair into his mouth. “I love toffee!”
The woman chuckled, pushing the plate closer to the boy as he smiled in grateful bliss. “The young sir loved it too. God rest his soul.”
She made the sign of the cross and grabbed an eclair, biting tenderly. Then she watched Timmy eat for quite some time without a word. When the boy finally managed to ignore her strange tendencies, he munched through the entire plate, savoring each bite as if it were his last.
For all Timmy knew, it would be.
He dreaded the return to that heap under the bridge, to hunger and loneliness. Where was his mother and what was taking his father so long to find them? They needed to leave this place as soon as possible, go far away and never return. After the watchmen invaded and vandalized the city, they burnt houses and riddled the streets in rubble.
Erodale was no longer the paradise it once was.
“Not too fast now, you don’t want to choke.” She said as she poured Timmy another mug of warm milk and pushed it towards him.
“There there, eat up. A growing boy must have all that he can eat while he still has his teeth.” She went on with a squeaky chuckle as Timmy nodded, took the mug, and drank.
Ever since he arrived, Timmy had gradually dispelled the rumors of House Lanka. Old as the manor was, it hardly seemed sinister. If anything, it was warm, clean, and reeked of baked goods and crisp ironed bedding.
It smelled just like home.
The ghosts of House Lanka were absent thus far. Sure, the woman who now tended it had soot on her face, bloodshot eyes, and crooned under her shoal like a ghost would, but she was kind and quite human. At least Timmy hoped so.
After all, ghosts don’t bake cookies and pour milk.
If only Timmy had known, he’d have come here soon after the raid instead of huddling under that moss-ridden cold heap of rubble. His hope now was that the woman would help him find his mother, wherever she had gone.
“And when you’re done, we’ll get you out of those dirty old rags and into some clean pajamas and socks. A boy like you shouldn’t have to sleep on the streets when there are so many rooms in House Lanka. The Lord would not want that.” She went on, securing her nightgown.
“Who is the Lord of House Lanka?” Timmy asked through a mouthful of chewed éclairs.
“Lord Sospeter Lanka of course,” She replied as her countenance fell.
“Though as you may already know, things have since changed after the raid and the house is not as it used to be.” She mourned and something about how she said this sent a cold shiver through Timmy’s body.
Why though, he did not yet know.
“Why do you say that?” Timmy asked warily.
In truth, it was courtesy more than anything. The boy did not wish to delve into the true horrors he knew lay behind her general lugubriousness. Yet still, beyond good manners, something pulled his curiosity. He wanted to know more about this house, the Lankas and especially so, about this strange lonesome woman who’d welcomed him in.
“Don’t mind the mumbling of a sleep-deprived soul.” She drawled with a kind smile. “Go on, eat.”
Friendly as she seemed, Timmy still thought her rather peculiar. For one, she stayed in an abandoned dilapidated manor alone and unafraid. That was strange in and of itself. She’d also been the only one to spot him sleeping under the abandoned crumpled bridge.
Timmy did not know how she’d done so. He was very good at hiding. The boy had always made it a point to squeeze under the pile of rubble by the dry river bed to allow his mother space in front of him.There, under the collapsed stones, Timmy knew that even the rabid stray dogs could not get through to bite him.
Nobody who passed there ever saw him for his mother had made sure he was well hidden and unseen, most of all from the watchmen of the city.Yet somehow this woman had found him.
How?
This and many more questions ran through his head as he diminished the eclairs and drained the milk jug. Eventually, Timmy gave a satisfied belch, embellished by the woman’s cooing chuckle.
“Excuse me.” He blushed.
“You are excused,” she said with a giggle, “A most glorious sound to hear…” She added stacking the dishes onto the tray. “Shall I get you some more?”
Her eyes, round and glossy under the yellowish glow of candelabras beckoned him to say yes. However, sense told him to wait. To be careful. Peckish as he surprisingly still was, he didn’t know why the woman was being so kind to him.
Did she work for the watchmen now that the house was abandoned? Would she turn him and his mother in if she knew they were hiding on the property? If she did, it would undo his father and brother’s sacrifice.
The thought waned his appetite. “No thank you, ma’am. I’m famished. I should be going now. Mama will be worried if she returns and doesn’t find me.”
The woman giggled delightedly as she got up. “As expected, although, sufficient rest will do you better than another cold night outside young sir. I assure you, in the morrow we shall go to seek her out. But as you know, it is not safe outside at this time, more so for a young boy as yourself.” She said as she took his hand, walking gracefully ahead of him.
Almost floating.
“Where are we going?” Timmy asked wiping his hands on his ripped trousers.
“To take a nice hot bath of course and then off to bed.” She added, walking away.
“Bed?” Timmy asked perplexed.
A bed, like food, seemed unfamiliar at this point. Almost like a faded dream. However, sleep did sound rather comforting after that very lovely meal and such a long time in the cold. Hesitant, Timmy followed silently, feeling a tender heaviness he could not explain begin to weigh on him.
Outside the parlour, the cavernous grand foyer brimmed with candlelight. Its polished mahogany walls towered around them, plastered with hundreds of faded portraits.These phantom silhouettes blistered out of every patch of weathered wallpaper, disappearing up beyond the reach of candlelight. In all of them were the same distinguished-looking people. Lankas, he presumed.
The first targets of the watchmen.
“Who’s this?” Timmy asked eyeing the portrait of a particularly tall black-haired boy with creamy white skin.
The boy in the painting reminded Timmy of his older brother Tommy. He wondered whether Tommy and his father were still alive but stopped immediately he felt his throat constrict. There was no need to linger on distress. Leaving the city was the only way. Nothing but death awaited them there.
Timmy’s father had warned them against going back when he sent Timmy and his mother away. The boy hated the thought of leaving them behind, but his brother would not leave their father’s side. Meanwhile, he’d been tasked with a greater responsibility.
“Take care of your mother for me won’t you? As soon as we can, your brother and I will seek you out. I promise.” His father had vowed amidst unspoken sentiments dripping from his lingering hug.
The one thing I had to do and I’ve failed, Timmy thought, having no idea where his mother was at the moment. He had only shut his eyes for what seemed a second and when he awoke he was alone in the cavern. Where had she gone? Why had she left him alone? Did she not care what happened to him? Had they not lost enough already?
Whatever lies beyond the city, she had whispered before he slept, is far better than what lies inside. Sleep now, the time for rest is upon us. Your father and brother will find us eventually. We just have to wait here and quietly, okay? I’ll be here when you wake.
Timmy nodded and obeyed, so why did she still leave him? His mother had made that promise, but it had been months now and Timmy was still alone. Had she lied? Maybe she got wind that something had happened to his father, to Tommy. Maybe she went to their aid and would soon return with all of them. Or had she simply abandoned him and fled alone?
No! That’s not like mama. So what happened?
“What?” the woman asked turning.
“This boy.” Timmy added brushing the thoughts away and pointing to the portrait. “Who is he?”
She squinted in the direction of his finger, smiling. “Ah yes, the young master. Such a darling he was.” Then she surveyed the other people in the portrait.
“Unfortunate thing what happened to them all.” She mourned.
“What do you mean? What happened to them?” Timmy asked feeling the hairs at the back of his neck prickle.
Her eyes were somber, looming in the darkness. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with now. It’s a sad story with an even sadder ending.”
She said leading him on. However, Timmy stopped and yanked his hand away, fearing to tread into the darkness beyond.
“Not to worry. The darkness is a frightening thing, even for me. You can wait here in the light while I get the keys for the upstairs rooms. I’m certain I put them somewhere.”
“Wait. Don’t leave me alone.” Timmy called out unsure which he feared more, being alone or going with her.
“You are never alone Timmy. Not as long as you hold your loved ones close.” She said as hobbled away mumbling to herself.
Eventually, she disappeared down the hall, leaving Timmy alone with the ghosts of the past just as his father, brother and mother had done.
Like everyone in Erodale, he knew the gruesome tales. Still, he wished them untrue. He knew of how they’d captured and tortured Lord Lanka to reveal the whereabouts of the rest of his family. How they shot the young master and heir in the back when the Lord refused. Even how they then dragged the Lord across town naked and flogged, chained to their horses until he’d succumbed to his wounds.
The tales later revealed how Lady Lanka was spotted under the estate’s bridge. Frightened, she fled the watchmen, was pursued and eventually murdered at the stroke of midnight. Her leg was shot clean off as she ran for cover in the wheat fields. Impaled, she was finally mauled by the watchmen’s dogs and left to bleed to death on the frostbitten earth.
Fortunately, the tale concluded on a hopeful front. If one could term it so. There was no sign of the youngest of the heirs of House Lanka whom the townsfolk say had managed to escape the massacre. Dead or alive though, no one knew of his whereabouts. The carnage that supposedly ended an entire line played over in Timmy’s mind.
In his head however, he found that there was more to the story.
For one, a blast like thunderous explosions. This he knew was ignited gun powder meant to weed out Lady Lanka from hiding. Timmy also seemed to recall the detail of the lady running away from the bridge and the Lord shouting her name at the cusp of death.
How he knew this he could not say.
Fundamentally though, he never understood the lady’s actions. If she was in hiding and remained unseen, then why expose herself to danger? The boy pondered this, imagining, no, remembering the frantic shouting.
There was a warning to hide and not come out for anything. Then gunfire, two, maybe six rounds aimed at the Lord Lanka’s chest as he in turn tore the flesh off his assailant’s neck with his teeth. Thereafter the Lord was running towards a pack of dogs mauling a woman among the wheat stalks. His wife, the lady Lanka. Her morbid screams seemed ingrained in Timmy’s mind, gnawing at his sanity. Then there were crumbling rocks all over, immobilizing Timmy’s vision. Suffocating him. A ringing and then silence.
Timmy stilled his thoughts, lightheaded. Absurd was all he could call it. He wasn’t even there, so how would he remember something recounted to him? It’s all nothing but an invention of my own fears, he told himself. Fears of what will happen to us if the watchmen find us.
We’ll survive this. We must. We’ll find each other again. We’ll escape.
The heaviness weighed heavier now and he could no longer fight it off. Timmy knew he needed to keep his spirits up, to gain his strength. Though he wanted so badly to do nothing. To simply sleep, then rouse to find his mother in the morrow. Yes, rest would help. He needed to rest, for just a bit. Just a bit.
If papa said he’ll come for us, then he will, Timmy thought. He was sure of it. He and his family would then escape to the country, to peace and an end to all this senseless war.
Yet somehow, begrudgingly and almost possessed, Timmy saw himself return his attention to the portraits. The Lankas intrigued him. Mrs. Lanka in particular. She was a lot fairer than Nick the butcher’s boy had described. Familiar even. As did the Lord and young master.
How odd, Timmy thought.
Had he met her? He did not remember seeing any of the Lankas portraits anywhere in the city. Besides, they were far too distinguished and important to matter to a boy like him.
A boy like him.
Who was he after all? Was he a butcher’s boy like Nick? What was it that his father did again? Was his brother in the army?
His head spun and pounded hard as he tried to remember who he was. Where he came from. Why he and his mother were hiding on the Lanka estate. As he did, his eyes returned to the portrait of Lady Lanka. To her tall, slender, and stunning form.
Would his mother have been noble enough to host her? Perhaps she was a family friend. Was that possible? Come to think of it, what did his mother even do for a living?
His head throbbed harder as he struggled to still his train of thoughts. Still, curiosity and a nudging familiarity made him pay attention beyond the discomfort. As he did, he noticed Lady Lanka’s long flowing black hair, her big beautiful brown kind eyes, and… and… wait a minute.
Timmy moved closer to the portrait and stared in wonderment. There between Lord Lanka, Lady Lanka and the young master was a short skinny looking boy he was quite sure was… no, it couldn’t be.
These portraits had to have been done ages ago, even before his parents were born. Before the war that began his days under the abandoned bridge. So why was there a young boy in the Lanka portrait who looked just like him?
A jangle of keys in the hallway drew him away from his thoughts. “Here we go. The keys to the bed chamber.” The woman said.
No.
Not a woman. Not a ghost and certainly not a random ma’am either. Looking closely at the woman now, emerging from the darkness beyond, he saw her as if for the very first time. She was suddenly and very clearly rather tall, slender, and stunning with long flowing black hair and big kind knowing eyes.
Ma’am? Mama?
The woman smiled her knowing smile at Timmy’s sudden realization as she straddled the banister with a jug in her hand. “Come along Timmy. The water is nice and hot and you must rest now.”
“Mama? Is that you?” Timmy said still rooted to the spot.
“Yes, my boy? It is me.” She cooed, somehow a lot more straight backed and distinguished than before. A little younger even, almost ethereal.
It did not make sense to Timmy what was happening, yet somehow, strangely, it also did. The weight on his countenance suddenly made sense.
“Am I dead? Are we dead? Is papa. Is Tommy? Are we the Lankas?”
She held her smile for a moment, though it faltered slightly. The truth it seemed was too painful for even her tenderness to overshadow.
“Come. It is time to sleep and papa and Tommy await you.” She said and her voice seemed to carry like a soft night breeze.
It swam over and around him, the heaviness washing off of Timmy like a rush of heavy rainfall. Then a chill, one he had felt earlier assaulted his body, chocking him and filling his lungs with ice. Meanwhile the foyer began to cloud in mist and shimmer away, bringing him back to a familiar spot.
When the mist settled, there before him was a pile of rubble. Beneath it, a young boy’s lifeless body lay crumpled under a broken bridge by the dry river bed. Timmy hesitated, fully conscious for the first time of his own death. Of his family’s massacre.
Frightened beyond the ability to breathe, Timmy felt himself suffocated as he dropped to his knees. Breathless, he cried a tearless, soundless wail as he looked away from his lifeless body. It was then that he felt the familiar softness of his mother’s hand cling tenderly to his own.
Then the strong protective squeeze of his father’s hug engulfed him. Meanwhile, the gentle brush of his brother’s stroking hand on his back washed away the overwhelming fright. And so, in the calm acceptance they all together dissipated with the surrounding mist, finally resting as one in the stillness of death’s familiar lullaby.
