F5:Heirlooms of a Wicked Time
(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. Every story for this FAWC begins with the exact same line. Where it goes from there is up to the author.)
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Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.
As Philip looked around he saw that they were the only things in the room that was not covered in a thick layer of dust. Those three items and a manilla envelop, leaned against the rust red cushion of a tall backed chair. When he saw the envelop he swallowed and his hands began to shake. He dreaded opening it. He knew already what it had to say, but the fear of what else it might hold was nearly crippling. If he didn't read it, then somehow this night--- well it wouldn't be happening.
But of course it had already begun. It began the moment his grandfather's lawyer, Mr. Donald Redburn, chained the front doors closed behind him. It in fact began days ago. It began when the old man breathed his last rattly breath and left this curse for his grandson to carry.
The family curse.
How silly that had always sounded. Philip had laughed with his older brothers about it. He had heard his father, Jackson Mires, joke about how it was just an old practical joke that the men in the family, had for generations, played up the next oldest male. A joke was what Philip had though it too--- till the curse took those men from Philop's life.
His father? Gone, far too young. His older brothers? Gone, even younger. Now his grandfather, also had passed, but not young. Oh no, he was anything but young. That was part of the curse they said. You would live to see the passing of decades, watching everything you love fall to dust and dross.
As he looked at the items on the table he knew without touching them that the knife had dark stains upon the blade, the book would smell of smoke. The handkerchief? It was said to be the most damning of the three heirlooms. They said it held the tears of---
"Nonsense and rubbish!"
Grabbing up the yellowed envelope Philip ripped off the top with a cloud of papery, fibrous dust. Inside he saw the documents he had heard about. One was new, a copy of the older, said to have been commissioned by his grandfather when he received the original and it tore. Philip reached for the newer copy, but stopped. For some reason he wanted to hold the brittle, too often folded, original in his hand first. It slipped out with a whisper. "No."
Looking around, Philip peered into the shadowy light of the room to try and see what had made the noise he had heard. The ancient house was not quiet, it moved in the operatic winds that sang across this rocky moor, groaning and creaking; drafts moved the curtains in little puffs that changed when the wind shifted note and tone. But none of those sounds was what Philip had just heard. A deep moan so low as to be said to have never been heard but for the chill that settled into his spine. The cold feeling of a watching awareness the made his marrow weak, his bones ache at their joints.
The paper was not paper he noticed, but velum. Fully illuminated, with edges of gold and red, the document was both property deed, noble title and a signatory history of the family Mires. The first name at the bottom was Viscount Orthallen of the Mire. His script was a fluid flourish of darkest ink.
Every name after that was in dark brown. Scratched into the page with the tip of a very sharp pen. It gave the signatures a spidery look, and the ink? Blood? Well, that was the family legend.
Looking at the table with its three relics of the dark times Philip wanted to scoff. He wanted to leave them there to gather dust like the rest of this ancestral pile. But he could not. He tossed the envelop to the table not caring that he scattered the relics of his family.
Sitting down in the high back chair, unconcerned for what the dust did to his clothes, Philip sighed in disgust. He checked his wrist watch, stunned to see that only moments had passed. It was going to be such a long night. Chained into this dark house, till the light of dawn touched the front door. That was what the Will had said he had to do. If he did not he lost all access to the hereditary accounts. The 'Old Money' as they called it. His eyes went to the grime rimmed windows, but they felt like eyes looking into the room.
Looking down, Philip noticed the book sitting next to his foot. Picked up the tome he held it for a long time, just feeling the leather covering, the tarnished silver corner edges, the real silk marker, the gilded outer-paper. A finer book he had never held he thought as he ran a finger across the old family monogram. It rested under the ornately scripted title. When he finally opened the cover the smell of old smoke stirred his nose.
He began to read almost against his will, this history of his family. He didn't need to do this to get access to the money but he felt compelled to. He had to follow the pattern of his father's father and all the others before that back to that viscount. Back to the time when Orthallen, the youngest son, of a youngest son saved the life of a Nobleman from a mob by hiding him in the feted swamps to the south. When the King's knights arrived to find the manor house in flames, and the lady of the estate being raped, her children slain, the Knights violently butchered all of the estate's peasants.
All of them.
Even the family of Orthallen.
When he dragged himself from the marsh the nobleman learned of his saviors loss. Here was a man that had given everything to save his noble self. He would reward this man. Reward him richly, so that he might forget about his losses.
But no youngest son of a youngest son should be a Noble.
Orthallen was sick with the loss of his wife, bitter, and so bitter a pill did sit upon his tongue that he took what he was given to him without question, even as he gnawed inside with envy for more. Revenge for more. For what was his, as he saw it, by right.
They deeded him the marsh.
That was Orthallen's reward for saving this nobleman's life. A swamp--- and the title to go with it. Even that was a snub, a joke upon the head of this youngest son. His envy would gnaw its way deep into his bones in the years to follow.
As the sun failed Philip lit the kerosine lamp he had brought with him, and continued to read. He learned that Orthallen married, fathered several daughters and one son. They dwell happily in a small estate given to him to preside over,near his swamp lands. Life would have been happy if not for that burning desire to gather what was his to him.
Then the offense was given, one night on the road near their house.
It was not the son, Adrian,that gave the offense to the manor lord it was the oldest born daughter. Elbreth, called Elbreth the Lovely, by the young men of the estate.
Called "The Witch of the Mire" after she started the lord's horse, causing it to throw the manor lord, into a muddy ditch. The irony of that day was not lost on many.
The father's gain came from getting the nobleman soaking wet and muddy, the daughter's loss from the same.
He had her flogged.
No longer was she called, the Lovely. The whips had bit cruelly into her young flesh, taking more that their allotted bits of skin. They took her beauty that day, and her innocence was lost under the nobleman's guards. When she was half dead, they chained her to a post and tried to take the other half. Long into the night her screams were heard, they filled the surrounding lands. They reached into every nook and cranny.
They reached her father, Orthallen. His guardsmen held him from going to her aid.
They reached her brother, Adrian. His huntsmen held him to the ground to stop him from going.
The screams at last reached the ears though of one that could help. Would be happy to help.
With the coming dawn, when at last her family was allowed to go to bring her body back, she was not there. No the chains that had held her were still locked, the cuffs dripped thick blood. But she was gone.
Philip rubbed his own wrists at the thought of that.
Putting down the book, he got to his feet and went to find the supplies that the lawyer, Mr. Donald Redburn, had said where here. The kitchen held nothing but cans of soup and bread, a feast no doubt before the dawn they would seem. The pantry held dust and more dust, but there he found what he felt the sudden need for. Wine.
The bottles were as old as everything else seemed but they were clean. As if caring hands had come in here and wiped them, knowing this need would be upon him. The corkscrew was sitting in plain site, also cleaned. He didn't question this. It was as it should be of course. The wine reek greeted him as the cork gave up it's stubborn resistance. It should have been soured given the date on the label but it was only just past its prime. Carrying it back to the table he picked up the relics and restored them to their proper place. Philip put the folded copy of his land deed and title on the top of the envelope and picked back up the book.
As he turned the page he stopped. Upon the top corner was a fingerprint. It was clearly visible but was a dark brown color. He didn't need to lift it to his nose to tell that it was old blood. Not that he could have smelled it anyway. The book truly reeked of old smoke.
He kept reading.
Upon the pages of this gold bound historum he leaned that the eldest daughter Elbreth was soon seen again. Upon the moor, at twilight by the swamp. Her clothes tattered, draped in the sick growths that flourished in the deep heart of the marsh. When the farmers called out to her she fled.
