The Bandalore Read online

  There was a disturbing thud from within the cottage, and the tinkle of glasses. The basket and Pitch were gone from the front door. Silas grimaced, his hand moving to the bandalore at rest in his pocket. Slumbering after its sudden springing to life earlier with its notes of caution. If it thought his invitation to Pitch a terrible idea, it gave no sign of it now. Perhaps its message had already been relayed as intended. Keep his wits about him when Pitch was about.

  Silas made his reluctant way to the front door. The birds were in full song, the sun was weak but the sky had cleared. It was a splendid day, barely begun, and Silas wanted nothing more than to curl back under the covers he had left earlier. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  ‘There’s only bloody kippers in your basket.’ Pitch stomped into the hall, further down where the entry to the never-used kitchen stood. ‘Do you have nothing else? No cake or pastries?’ He had, for reasons unknown, removed his shirt. An assortment of tattoos marked both arms, though without staring Silas could not make out their small forms.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Pitch was certainly slight though not without noticeable muscle definition. At his stomach a v-shape of muscle formed a downward arrow of sorts, directing the eye to what lay beneath his waistband. There was not a hair to be seen on his chest, giving him an almost boyish appearance. Almost. There was an air to Tobias Astaroth that could never be confused with youthfulness.

  ‘Fuck,’ Pitch slumped against the doorframe, rubbing at his face. ‘Where is your bed?’

  With a cough Silas readied his answer. ‘Mr Astaroth, I have to tell you-’

  ‘Mr Mercer as much as I’d like to play with what lies beneath those grand trousers of yours, you will have to wait I’m afraid. I’m spent, I’m loathe to say. For the better part of the last three hours I’ve been introducing my fists to a variety of faces, and fucking the rest of them. Unless you have cocaine or cake in this house, we are done for now.’ He gestured at the stairs. ‘Up there, I’d wager?’

  He did not wait for an answer, or protest, turning towards the stairs. With his back bared as he moved away, Silas was astonished to see a most remarkable, if somewhat garish, tattoo there. It was enormous, and no doubt had caused considerable pain to create, but now Silas thought he understood where the man’s nickname might come from. The design resembled a pitchfork with the pole running the length of his spine, the two outer prongs across each shoulder blade, the third and central prong was much longer than the rest and its tip lost beneath the length of his hair on the back of his neck. The ink work was not entirely tidy, even from where he stood Silas could see that some of the lines were jagged.

  Pitch started up the stairs.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Silas asked. ‘But don’t you have your own bed at Holly Lodge?’

  ‘Why would I bother with this one so close by?’ Pitch called over his shoulder. ‘I expect its bloody enormous and wonderfully comfortable.’

  ‘I must insist you stop.’

  Of course Pitch did no such thing, reaching the top of the stars in quick measure.

  Silas hurried after him. The corridor, short as it was, was empty, and there were but two rooms to choose from in the upstairs area. Silas made his way to his own bedroom, and immediately regretted his decision to look in. Pitch lay face down on the bed and had discarded his trousers entirely, his buttocks bare to the air.

  Silas coughed. ‘Do you mind terribly…leaving my bed?’

  Pitch patted the pillow. ‘Where would the fun be in that? Join me.’ He lay with his face pressed into the mattress, his slurred words muffled by the material. ‘How long since you’ve dipped your wick, man? I can smell the rot of you from here.’ He chuckled dark and low.

  Silas glared down at him, the stench of liquor already fouling the room. He’d not slept in a day and had endured a most incredible evening of revelations, there was little of his patience left to deal with such a situation.

  ‘I shall not join you, and would like you to remove yourself from my bed,’ Silas used the sternest voice he owned. ‘Now, Mr Astaroth. You have no business here.’

  In response Pitch rolled languidly onto his back. Silas quickly averted his eyes, but not soon enough to avoid noticing the man was adequately endowed. And lazily aroused.

  ‘I have no business anywhere, Mr Mercer. And yet,’ he waved his hands towards the ceiling. ‘Here I am. Answer me a question, and then let me sleep, because I am sobering at a rapid rate and I’d rather avoid being conscious when I come too.’ There came the sound of fingernails scratching upon skin. ‘The Lieutenant…you saw him at the ball I believe.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Silas frowned at the swing of the conversation, and uncertain how Pitch might have learnt of such an encounter.

  ‘How did he seem to you?’ There was a softness to the question that seemed out of place with the speaker. ‘Was he well?’

  ‘Quite well. Aside from far too much drink.’

  ‘Not mad then? I mean in his mind, not in temper. He rarely grows enraged, not when he’s himself.’

  Silas dared a glance, keeping his eyes lifted from the man’s nethers, and focusing on his face. Pitch stared up at the ceiling, eyes thoughtful. Wistful even.

  ‘He seemed perfectly reasonable to me, he was very pleasant company.’ Silas returned to staring at the floorboards. ‘Do you know him well?’

  The silence went on far too long, in fact Silas had begun to wonder if the man had fallen asleep when Pitch finally spoke again.

  ‘I know him intimately, and yet not in the slightest. But he is good company indeed. He was a fine choice.’

  Studying a whirl in the woodwork, Silas asked, ‘A fine choice?’

  Pitch released a loud and lengthy yawn. ‘Mr Mercer when I wake, if you still insist you would not enjoy being ridden and divested of your stuffiness, we shall dine at The Atlas, and toast your new anointment as death’s concubine. Perhaps you will show me your pretty sickle?’

  ‘I’ll have you know it is a scythe.’ Silas fairly glowered at the unfortunate swirl in the woodwork.‘. Is there anyone in London who does not know of me?’

  Death’s concubine, indeed.

  But there would be no answer from the man in his bed. Pitch began to snore. A sound as loud and preposterous as his singing. Keeping his eyes averted, Silas pressed fingers gingerly to the blanket and swept it up over Pitch’s prone, and quite awakened, lower half. The man muttered in his sleep, rolling onto his side and curling in upon himself much as a child would on a winter’s night. Thankfully he did not wake and Silas took his leave, treading carefully and quietly down the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  Silas attempted to settle in an armchair by the unlit fire and get some rest. He managed all of an hour before deciding that sleep, though desperately needed, was unlikely to arrive. The cool dim atmosphere did not make for a satisfying setting in which to slumber and the knowledge that Pitch lay upstairs kept Silas on edge. Even without the bandalore’s notes of caution Silas would not have settled easily in the man’s company. Pitch’s awful, sudden temper did not lend itself to resting easily and every moment his dreadful snoring ceased as he shifted, Silas found himself bracing, all at once dreadfully tense.

  At last, Silas gathered up his coat, assured himself that the bandalore was on his person, and then set off into the sunshine. The day looked fit to be most splendid. The air was comfortable if rather brisk, and the sky yawned above without a single cloud to mar its blue canvas. Silas tilted his chin, allowing the light to touch his skin as he made his way towards the east garden. He told himself he wished to sit amongst the splendid hedge roses so they might bring him their usual peace of mind. There were no blooms of course, being at the commencement of November as they were, but still he decided a visit was most necessary. Silas passed by a cottage built in a style reminiscent of the time of the Tudor’s, with its white walls and thick, dark wooden beams. No one was in residence, not that he’d noted anyway. He and Jane appeared to be the on
ly occupants, another oddity of the place. Another question raised among many.

  But today he was in no mood for mystery. Silas breathed in the freshness, the air laced with things of a natural persuasion: lavender here, lillies, the danker scent of the earth and the grass within it. All of it was a natural balm to Silas; his knots unwound, the furrow of his brow uncreased, and he was filled with a sense of at last being where he ought. Was this connection with the splendours of the garden a hint of his past? Surely that was why he knew so certainly the names of the plants around him, unless an ankou also dabbled as a gardener in their spare time. Certainly he was discovering that anything was possible.

  Silas removed his coat and draping it over his arm. He dared to unbutton his shirt, just the top three buttons, so that the air might find its way to his undergarments at the very least. The garden sat on a slope, a mild downturn of the ground, that meant the Village proper was hidden from view. Here the Village border was marked by a stone wall, a crude structure that appeared to be of great age, with jagged shards of broken glass protruding from its top. It was the only wall of such construction around the Village. Most of the grounds were secured by a red brick wall capped with sandstone. Silas set down his coat upon one of several curved bench seats set about this section of the gardens so visitors might rest in quiet contemplation. But Silas had no use for them right now. Beyond the wall the caw of crows reached him, a dry curl of sound so misplaced alongside the gentler chirp of wrens and swallows. Silas quickened his pace, and caught sight of the cascade of ivy up ahead. His heart fairly leapt in his chest, a turn that might have worried him had he not been so sure of its cause.

  Silas brushed the foliage aside. An open expanse of wildflowers lay ahead, its golden-headed grasses bobbing with the breeze. He curled his fingers around the metalwork, there across the meadow lay the cause of his quickened pulse. His nostrils flared at the faint scent of rich, dank earth. The graveyard drew him as a banquet might a starving man. His feet fairly itched to tread a path that would lead him among the headstones. Just as the urge had come upon him the last time he stood here, it rose again now. Vibrant and fevered. He wished to set foot among the graves. He must set foot among them. Silas did not believe himself a man prone to addiction, but what struck him now must surely resemble the cravings a drunkard. He glanced at his coat, the bandalore within its folds. There was no song sung to him. No caution or warning. Silas considered the height of the wall, pulling himself up to ascertain if it might be safe to leap from. It was a decent drop, but considering his own height it was not impossible. And what harm in such an adventureg? The Village would be visible from the cemetery, he was hardly vanished from sight.

  Silas heaved himself up onto the top of the wall, finding his strength and height impressive enough to do so without much fuss. He negotiated the broken glass mostly successfully, with just one minor graze to his wrist which drew the barest amount of blood. Negotiating his great frame into position, Silas pushed off, landing with a thump upon the meadow’s thick layers of grass. He case a furtive glance over his shoulder, half expecting Gilmore or Jane to appear, as though from thin air, and reprimand his wanton escapade. No one appeared. The crows took up their cawing once more, momentarily disturbed by his arrival. Silas grinned. He stretched his arms wide, and spun around, releasing a delighted laugh before breaking into a run hastened by the continuing downward slope of the land. How delightful true freedom was. Silas made his way across the meadow, meandering this way and that, simply because he could. No one bothered him with instructions or orders, no one demanded great things of him. Silas could travel wherever he pleased. And it pleased him greatly to travel towards the cluster of stones ahead.

  As he drew nearer the generous scent of turned earth strengthened. Silas saw that the cemetery was not so modest as he believed. The sloping of the land had hidden a rather grand expanse of headstones and crypts held in by a simple iron fence. He reached the archway which held no obvious signage—and would have been no use to him if it had—finding to his relief that it was unlocked.

  The moment Silas stepped foot over the threshold the heady air seemed to sink more deeply into his lungs. Silas inhaled in deep, greedy breaths. He was quite sure he’d never known such quiet as this. Not even the cackle of the crows reached him here, only the soft whisper of the breeze ruffling a copse of sycamore nearby.

  Silas made his way through row upon row of crooked headstones, taking note of the dates of death and the years of life: an infant barely ten days old watched over by a carved stone angel, a young woman in her twenty first year her headstone encroached by velvet green moss, an elderly couple laid to rest side by side. Silas took them all in with solemnity, and, oddly, a distant sense of satisfaction. A sense that things were as they should be.

  ‘All are at rest.’

  For a long while Silas walked among the dead, the restful dead, the earthy smells soothing, relishing his oneness with his surrounds. He’d not thought himself this relaxed since he re-awoke to his astonishing new life, just one month passed. Silas halted outside an imposing cylindrical mausoleum, its steps slick with the same green moss that had taken a foothold throughout much of the grounds. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, as though he were visiting a prestigious gallery. It might as well have been such a place, for it was perfection indeed. No tingling took hold of his fingers, no chill upon his neck. No sign at all that a lost soul wandered aimlessly. All here were at peace. Yes, that is what soothed him so. None had escaped the goddess of death here. Silas gasped, patting at his pockets.

  ‘The bandalore.’

  It seemed quite impossible that he could have wandered so long without noting its absence, but now he was aghast. To be so distant from his scythe seemed at once a terrible thing. The cemetery had mesmerised him far too well. Silas abandoned his exploration, stepping over graves, and hurrying between tombs to return to the gate. He was quite sure he had come this way, yet he did not recognise the trio of hulking crypts that lay ahead of him.

  ‘Blast.’ Silas halted, seeking sign of the outer fence. Somehow he had managed to drive himself deeper into the graveyard, for there was no sign of the perimeter at all. The distant sound of the crows reached him and he decided to follow their drawl, hoping they had remained near to the outer limits. Close to the Village. Silas hurried along, but he had not gone far before it became very apparent that he had chosen the wrong direction. A crescent shaped building hugged the pathway ahead, an enormous mausoleum perhaps, or a multitude of crypts. Whichever it was, Silas had definitely not happened upon it before. He cursed, grinding his heels into the damp soil of the path, turning this way and that, seeking out some sign of an entranceway. A sea of stone surrounded him. The cemetery was quite enormous. A distant sound caught his attention. A young couple huddled close in shared grief, laying a bouquet upon a fresh turned pile several rows away. Silas rubbed his hands in anxious contemplation. There was no harm in speaking with strangers, surely. He would ask them the way to the exit. Decision made, Silas set off towards them.

  ‘Careful where you go. A lot of holes around here.’

  He spun around. An empty graveyard stared back at him. ‘Hello?’ A duo of oaks nodded their branches to his right, their trunks surely thick enough to hide a person. ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Me.’ A high and childish giggle followed. ‘Up here.’

  Silas peered up into the branches of the nearest oak. He saw no sign of the speaker, until a flash of blue caught his eye. A young girl clambered down through the branches, jumping between them. She landed with perfect accuracy upon the lowest bough and seated herself, her bare feet dangling beneath her. She was dressed only in a faded yellow cotton slip, with no sleeves to cover her thin arms. As pleasant as the day may be, it was far from suitable attire. She sat at an alarming height off the ground, with her hands resting in her lap.

  ‘That’s quite high.’ Silas eyed her warily. ‘You should come down.’

  She tilted her head, and he was re
minded of a bird. In fact her hair reminded him of a bird’s nest, sticks and leaves trapped in the strands. The girl was on the cusp of womanhood he saw now, but was in dire need of a meal. ‘Why is that?’

  The danger seemed fairly obvious to him. Maybe the woman was of unsteady mind. ‘Well, if you slip, it’s a long way to fall.’

  She burst into sing-song laughter, holding her hands to her mouth, as though she’d been told a delicious secret. ‘Do you think I would fall?’ She lifted off the branch in a most peculiar way. She did not use her hands to bolster herself, she quite simply rose, settling her feet upon the branch. ‘Well, I did not fall.’ Again her head tilted in that pronounced way, and a greater stirring of consternation filled Silas. It occurred to him that he might have assumed wrongly that no lost souls wandered here. But if this girl were such a creature, she was nothing like the ghost at the Baron’s residence. Gaunt as she was, she was entirely solid, not vapourish as the other had been. Whatever the truth, one thing was certain, Silas’s peaceful haven had been disturbed.

  ‘No, indeed,’ he said. ‘You did not fall. That was most fortunate.’

  Silas squinted, trying to learn if there was a a shadow at her feet, for the way she moved belonged to no one of true human birth. But with the dappling of light and the swaying of branches around her he could not tell. Never more was he so desirous to leave, chancing that the creature might answer his question.‘Would you be so kind as to direct me to the exit?’

  ‘Oh, don’t go so soon, you do amuse us.’ A man stepped from behind the other oak tree. Equally as gaunt and slightly clothed as the woman. His dirty brown hair too dotted with twigs and leaves, but he appeared older than the girl by some years.

  ‘I’m afraid I must. I’ll be going now, if you don’t mind.’ Bandalore or no, chimes of alarm were ringing loud and clear now.

  ‘We mind.’ Another voice, somewhere right, and this one sterner than the others. Silas backed away, hoping that a headstone did not block his path. His jaunt into the outside world fast becoming a terrible mistake. He was being surrounded, he was certain, like wolves descending upon a prey. The girl he’d noticed first danced upon her branch as easily as the bird she so reminded him of. The knots had returned, and Silas’s heart raced beneath his ribs. He should run. But in what direction?