“Oohm chalaa nalkuraa jiraa...”1
Cecil edged quietly towards the door. The marble floor was dry and cold beneath his bare feet, and the dark hall was quiet. His father’s voice was the only sound he could hear. That, and the sweet toll of a tiny bell that came from the same room. He stepped closer – quiet as possible. He could almost see inside. He was at the door. He peered through the crack...2
“Cecil! Come away from there!” his mother’s voice suddenly hissed, and the ten-year-old jumped. “I’ve told you a hundred times not to pester your father in his study, now come here.”3
Cecil obeyed, looking at the floor. His father’s ‘study’ was far more than just that, he knew. It was a massive library filled with books and strange artefacts covered in dust and – Cecil had suspected – dried blood. There were symbols drawn on the floor everywhere and strange machines that hissed and puffed and whirred – though the sounds never seemed to make it out of the chamber, and Cecil had only been inside once, when both his parents had been out. He would never forget, and he was curious of the magic he knew his father practised inside.4
“Come along now... I have some work you can help me with, alright?”5
Cecil smiled and nodded, following his mother back down the hall and then down the steps of the circular staircase. The stone tower where they lived with dark and draughty, and the stars were worn with time. It was slow going for visitors, though Cecil and his mother knew all the tricks and traps, and they soon reached his mother’s shop, near the bottom of the tower.6
“Your father’s new robes are nearly finished; don’t they look nice?” his mother asked, beaming proudly. Cecil glanced towards where she was pointing to see immaculate sky-blue robes, silk and edged with real gold. His father’s things were always perfect, and though his mother was proud, Cecil only thought she was overworked; his father worked her like a slave, and as far as Cecil knew, her job as a seamstress and doll-maker was their family’s only source of income.7
“Here’s what I’ve got for you to work on; there’s a Lady who ordered six dolls for her children yesterday, and I’m still working on court clothing for Amelia’s husband and your father’s robes. Do you think you could start the dolls? They need faces and everything, though the heads are all made...”8
“You know I’m not good at the faces, mother...” Cecil sighed, flopping into a pile of cushions. It was his favourite thing about his mother’s shop – the place was more comfortable than his bedroom, and he often fell asleep there.9
“But you did a lovely job on the marionettes you just finished,” his mother insisted, and Cecil nodded.10
“They were okay. I’d still rather you do the painting. I can make the bodies and the clothes.”11
“Alright, that sounds fair,” the woman replied, and so Cecil got to work. He couldn’t deny that he loved it; using his hands made him forget about everything around him. He was a perfectionist by nature, and took great care in what he did. Not only that, but he loved talking to his mother. She was a well-educated woman, and he always learned a lot from her, granted she wasn’t talking about his father, who Cecil would never understand.12
“I hope he likes this one better...” he heard her muse later that evening, and Cecil looked up. The robes, as far as he could tell, hadn’t changed at all, though his mother was still twitching the ends about and clearly thinking. Cecil glanced down at his own shoddy clothing, then reminded himself not to think about it. He had once asked his mother why they seemed to live in poverty while his father went to parties, on trips and to expensive stores. He’d been told that he would understand when he was older, and that had been that.13
“He will, mother,” Cecil assured. He’d finished a dress for one of the dolls; it was sky-blue and made from the leftovers of his father’s new silk.14
“You sound tired, dear, you should go to bed. Thank-you so much for your help. I’ll paint the faces tomorrow and then we can finish their clothes together, alright?”15
Cecil knew it was better than to argue about going to bed, and his eyes were tired anyway. He disappeared to his room.16
* * *17
The next day Cecil struggled up the stairs to his father’s study, both arms laden with heavy bags. When he reached the door he gently set them down to knock.18
“Yes?” came the low reply from inside.19
“Can I come in?”20
“Did you bring what I asked?”21
“Yes. Can I come in?”22
There was no reply until the door opened, and Cecil stared up at his father. Pale of skin and black of hair, Cecil had inherited every one of his father’s physical traits except for his height – right down to his bright blue eyes and full lips.23
“That’s everything that I asked for?”24
“Yes. Do you want me to bring it – ?”25
“No. Leave it and go away,” the man interrupted, then waited for Cecil to leave, completely blocking any glimpse of the room beyond. Cecil moved towards the stairs, but stopped when he reached them.26
“Is mother home? I didn’t see her...”27
“No. I’ve sent her out as well. Tell her to hurry when she comes home, please. Now go downstairs.”28
* * *29
“Shimmmbalaa; mephilasaa nerosaa...”30
Cecil sighed and rolled over, listening to his father’s voice rising and falling on the floor above him. It was loud. The boy stood up and headed lower, to his mother’s shop. He had finished all the other dolls that day, including their faces, and his mother still hadn’t shown up.31
“Mother?”32
It was almost nightfall. Cecil was certain he hadn’t missed her coming home... and then he heard a woman scream upstairs.33
Cecil locked the shop’s door, then headed back upstairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the door to his father’s study, which he yanked on roughly. It didn’t budge.34
“Mother!” he yelled. He could still hear his father’s voice rising and falling with the words of his magic. He kicked the door instead of knocking, and his father’s voice quieted.35
“Cecil...? If that’s you, boy, I’m going to beat you for disturbing me...”36
The boy moved to the side of the door, listening to his father’s quick, angry strides. The man unlocked the barricade and strode through.37
“Why are you..? Cecil?”38
His father moved into the hall and Cecil ran into the study, slamming the door and panting in fright. He locked the door using all three locks, staring at it and backing away as his father yelled – in a right fury – from the other side. He hesitantly turned his back on it all, and his breath caught in his throat.39
There, in the middle of the room, was his mother, her body unceremoniously splayed in the middle of a painted circle, blood pooling all around her. The room was dead quiet except for a ticking noise and his father’s yells.40
“Mother..?” Cecil choked, then ran towards the body. There was a deafening crash from behind him as the door flew off its hinges and splintered across the room. Cecil tripped, landing with a splash in his mother’s blood.41
“Touch nothing!” his father shrieked, and Cecil could hear his footsteps coming closer. He choked again, horrified as he stared at his red hands and tasted blood in his mouth. He wiped his lips with his sleeve, then proceeded to shake his mother’s body, feeling hot tears on his face.42
“What have you done? What have you done?” he wept loudly, pressing his face against her still-warm back, clutching her clothing in his hands.43
“Insolent, filthy brat! Get out of there!” his father yelled, but Cecil barely got to hear the end of his sentence before he began to feel very hot. All along his left side was beginning to heat up. The blood around him on the floor began to gurgle and bubble unpleasantly. His father was still yelling from somewhere far away, but Cecil was hardly listening. The blood heated to a boil and the crimson on his skin did the same, until he was screaming in agony, his knuckles white as he clutched at his mother. There was blood on his neck as well – and on his face. The fire burned his eye and warmed his lips. It seared the soles of his feet. There was a sudden, very bright light, and then it was all gone. Everything was gone. Cecil fell into blackness.
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