Children of Cernunnos - Book 2 (Children of the Pomme) Read online

  Children of Cernunnos

  By Matthew Fish

  Copyright 2015 Matthew Fish

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  The story of Elise

  She Waits by the Window. The bright red walls, their paint peeling and cracking, reveal the grey beneath like some old forgotten secret, bearing the small weight of her exhausted body. Outside, beyond the darkened limbs of the oak tree at night, which creaks and groans against the house with each gust of strong winter air, a light snow has begun to fall. Alone, save for the light of a small oil burning lantern—a small comfort afforded to her—she begins to worry that returning to the house was a fatal mistake. It is growing colder. She brings her cold fingers to her mouth to blow warm air upon them but finds little success in the endeavor. She averts her emerald-green eyes to the old wooden door at the far end of the bedroom as footsteps can be heard faintly approaching the sparsely decorated room—the footsteps rap like fingertips against an old wooden desk. Music begins to play from an antique record player; faint notes escaping the flume of the phonograph which is spread out like the golden leaves of a flower. The simple opening tones of “Für Elise” fill the still air, muting out the sound of her heartbeat. She despises the sound of her own heartbeat. The light footsteps are soon at her door as she walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, which smells of warm sandalwood with a hint of old hickory smoke. The golden, aged doorknob begins to turn as a small white glow emanates from the keyhole.

  “Who are you?” she asks as she folds her arms around herself in an attempt to keep warm. Despite her request, no answer is returned.

  “Another memory perhaps,” she says as the music grows louder.

  “Or are you a ghost?”

  The presence at her door does not answer. As the old wooden door creaks open, the room is filled with a blinding white light—not warm, yet cold. Cold like the wind of a winter’s day, piercing and painful in its swift embrace. This is not the first nor does she suspect it to be the last of these visits. So much time has passed that she cannot remember if this is a beginning or an end. She feels ever-so-slightly cheated in that regard.

  For Elise, for the girl named of the song her mother loved dearly in life (which was taken from her the moment she lost the ability to breathe), sadness came early in life. Elise did not cry much, at least as much as one would expect of a girl of fourteen at the loss of a parent. She was deeply saddened, just not one to give in so easily to tears. Her father was not afforded such sadness, for he had disappeared many years ago, so far back that Elise could no longer remember her father’s true face. In memories and daydreams she produced the best facsimile she could, but she knew that this stand-in was nothing more than an imagined inaccuracy.

  It was a late spring day, the day her mother was buried. Laid to rest beneath the short grass and the shade of the twisted oak which filtered sunlight from the midday sun and tinted the air with a multitude of green. It had rained the night before and the earth was soft and accommodating.

  “You will stay here with me now, child,” grandmother had said as she hid her wrinkled face beneath a weathered black umbrella with tiny pinholes that allowed sunlight to shine through the dark fabric like stars in a clear night sky. She wore a dress that was as equally distressed as the umbrella, though both were elegant at one time. Yet those kind and gentle days were so far gone that Elise wondered why they did not bury the dress that day as well.

  “What about my things?” Elise asked.

  “Whatever you need from your old house shall be ferried over to the island,” grandmother said as she looked down to Elise.

  She was a short girl, dressed in a white dress with small, earthy stains that covered some of the flowered red print.

  For a moment grandmother’s gaze turned to disdain as she remembered her own passed youth. She too was attractive once, just as Elise was and would be. She envied the long hazel strands of Elise’s hair as they danced in the wind, the softness of her form, and the gentle green of her youthful eyes. Grandmother, lost in thought and memory, was snapped back by the voice of her granddaughter.

  “Will I be going back?” Elise asked, pondering the opportunity to say goodbye to her friends.

  “Not for a good long while,” grandmother answered.

  “When will I be able to go back?” Elise pressed.

  “Now is not the time to speak of such things,” grandmother said as she pinched Elise’s arm to divert her attention to the proceedings at hand.

  “Say goodbye to your mother.”

  Elise watched in silence as the simple casket was lowered into the ground and grim-looking men wearing dirty clothing began to pile the wet, soft dirt into the grave. She felt a strange lack of attachment to the fresh grave. She had, by this time in her life, formed an idea that her mother was neither any longer here nor there. Her mother was not some dead thing to be trapped away forever in a cheap box beneath a tree and did not require any further services of its shade. She believed her mother was free, although she did not truly know how. She likened her mother’s passing to that of the un-caging of a wild bird. Elise just wished that mother would have remained trapped with her for a bit longer here on Earth.

  “When you are ready, meet me back at the house,” grandmother said as she walked away, frail and weak, her pace that of a snail’s. Elise followed behind, looking back to the revealed earth beneath the tree.

  “Goodbye mother.”

  The House that towered before Elise was larger than any she had seen before—even larger than the school she attended back on the mainland, its five stories stretching up into the sky to its pointed, gothic, lightning-rod adorned roof. The house loomed over much of the small island that it had laid conquest upon. The house was painted dark red, with large, arched white double doors with windows of frosted glass to allow sunlight into its atrium. White shutters framed each of the house’s large windows all the way up to its top which held a circular window with a circle-inside-of-a-circle design and contained bright yellow and green glass. Oak trees lined the gravel walkway, some of them growing so close to the house that their eager branches brushed against the red paint and, over time, had revealed the dingy grey that lay beneath—the grey that seems to lie beneath everything here.

  Elise knew the house for what it truly was, even at her young age. She could feel herself growing apprehensive as she neared it.

  Elise collapses upon the bed as The Memory passes, leaving her body exhausted from the experience. The light slowly fades away as the door creaks shut noisily until it climaxes in a jarring slam that echoes through the hallway. The footsteps rush away, leaving only silence behind. Elise can hear the sound of her own heartbeat again. She hates the sound of it. She always has—even as a kid.

  “Thank you,” Elise whispers.

  She gathers her breath, which is deep and heavy, as though she has just run a great distance. Elise feels more comfortable with the bed she has collapsed upon, more familiar. She runs her hand against the textured pattern of the old dingy brown quilt beneath her, feeling the large, rough frayed strands of thread on her fingertips like guitar strings. Feeling the quilt brings back a short flash of memory that it belongs to her—something that had once belonged to her mother as well. Although she is happy to repossess it, Elise knows that this is not what she has come for. Not for something so trivial. The memory of that knowledge still escapes her like the thrill of a mouse chase to a declawed cat. The wooden floorboards creak beneath the pressure of her grey mud-covered boots as she places her feet to the floor. She looks down to the familiar brown quilt, noting that she has dirtied t
he old fabric even more with mud. She feels regretful for a moment, but it passes as quickly as it comes. Elise has far more important things to worry about and sets off toward the old wooden door which has grown quiet and normal once more.

  She places her hand to the old golden handle, surprised to find that it carries much warmth. It even appears in slightly better shape than before, the cracks of the gold paint which were once very evident are no longer as visible and are much smaller like roots of a weed or tiny cracks in fractured glass. She glances back to the room that she has finally prepared herself to leave. The room feels a bit warmer, the reds of the wall more vibrant, the light from the lantern clearer and brighter.

  Elise lets out a gasp and reaches a hand out as a light green Luna Moth flutters towards the glow of the hanging oil lantern. The moth’s wings flutter against the light, causing shadows to dance about the room. Just as quickly as it appears, the moth disappears into the light; almost as if it has been absorbed, or has become part of the light which now has a faint glimmer of green in the core of its flame. Elise takes this strange event as a sign and walks toward the lamp, pulling it down from its hook with a single hand. She looks out the window once more; ice has formed against the window so thickly that the glass is almost completely frosted over. So much so that Elise can barely make out the branches of the oak that grows close by.

  Elise returns to the door, which no longer carries any warmth. She turns the old doorknob slowly; like everything in the house it creaks in reply—breaking the silence once more. As the door slowly opens, all the while groaning on its hinges, the darkness of the hallway is revealed to Elise. There is no sign of the light that appeared moments before, no sign of light anywhere in the long black hall.

  “Is anyone there?” Elise asks to the darkness.

  The Hallway smells of mold and that summer rain smell of water, a slightly sickening mixture of the unpleasant and pleasant. A thin layer of fog is in the air; the sound of dripping water can be heard all about her. Her lantern in hand, Elise steps into the hallway, the light from her lamp reflecting against the inch-deep layer of water at her feet, causing shimmering, dancing streaks of light against the darkened hall.

  Elise runs her free hand against the damp wall for support as she walks a few steps ahead, her boots splashing and causing tiny ripples in the water’s surface, the mud slowly being washed and carried away. The familiar red paint of the wall has slowly been streaked away from the slow force of water against it. The grey beneath has been revealed here and there in giant spots—all that is left of the red is paintbrush-like streaks of surviving paint, small bastions of retreating color soon to be overcome by the dripping water—like all things here, it is just a matter of time.

  “Child?” an old voice croons from behind her in the wet darkness.

  Elise whirls. She nearly loses her grip on her lantern—startled at the sound of the voice, she grasps on to it with both hands, which shake nervously for the voice is not unfamiliar to her. Through the fragmented light of her lantern, Elise manages to catch a glimpse of a form which slowly shrinks away into an open door as it slams shut.

  “Grandmother…!”

  Elise sprints toward the door at the end of the flooded, slick hallway, water splashing at her ankles and coldly dampening the hem of her long dress. Once at the door, which by the lamplight looks faded and warped, Elise attempts to try the doorknob but finds it locked.

  “Grandmother…,” Elise whispers. “Please let me in. Please speak with me.”

  “You should not be here!” grandmother shouts as the strange, abrasive sound of nails scratching against the wooden door follows her words.

  “I had to come. Now please just let me in and speak with me,” Elise says as she jiggles the doorknob, attempting to push her way into the room. She finds no success in this venture and concedes to speaking through the door.

  “I do not remember why I am here,” Elise adds. “I know that it is something important, something I must remember or find—will you please help me?”

  “You should not have sought this place,” grandmother says as the scratching noises, like that of a cat’s claws upon leather, continue. Then grandmother begins to weep in a mumbled tone, muttering incoherencies in something that might not even be a language.

  Elise cannot make any sense of the noises coming from the room and backs off, somewhat frightened by the off-kilter chanting and scratching.

  “I’ll find it on my own then, grandmother,” Elise adds, taking another step backward as a drip of water hits her squarely in the back and sends a cold shudder down the length of her spine.

  “Mr. Henry’s gone down to the lake to play fetch—all the while the devil plays for his scratch. Mr. Henry has his head got rung round the pole, drunk off his ass and then buried in the deep grey hole. Too worthless to pick cotton and too poor to plant corn; Mr. Henry’s gone to town again to play with his whores…,” grandmother sings in a loud, repugnant tone.

  “Who is Mr. Henry?” Elise asks, halting her retreat in the hopes that this has some greater meaning.

  “Mr. Henry’s gone down to the lake to play fetch…,” grandmother begins again her voice even more abhorrent.

  “All the while the devil plays for his scratch…”

  Elise can feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest as she backs away until she is against the damp wall. The sounds of footsteps loom in the hallway as the cold light of the presence returns, seeking her.

  “I’m not ready. Not here…,” Elise pleads.

  “Not yet.”

  “Mr. Henry has his head got rung round the pole—“

  Despite Elise’s attempt to reason with the insufferably bright light, it comes to her regardless, engulfing her and taking her away once more.

  “You’ve found your mother’s quilt, I see,” grandmother said as she ran her hand against the old brown fabric.

  “It still smells of her,” Elise replied. She pulled the quilt up to her chin, apprehensive at the thought that grandmother might take it from her.

  “It was mine once—did you know that?” grandmother asked.

  “I did not.”

  “It belongs to you now, of course,” grandmother added as she walked over to the large window and opened up long flowing ember-red curtains to allow the sunlight to come flooding into the red room.

  “Thank you,” Elise said as she hugged the fabric.

  “It has been well over a week now since your first day here at Red Manor. I believe it is time you start doing some chores and get out into the sunlight once again,” grandmother said as she clapped her hands the same way one would to get the attention of a trained canine. “Now get dressed—I have had the cook prepare some oatmeal and fresh fruit for your breakfast this morning. Afterwards, I really insist that you leave the house today.”

  “I will, thank you,” Elise responded meekly.

  “Remember, child, this is your home now. As it protects you from the outside world—remember that it is now your responsibility to do so in return,” grandmother said as she furrowed her long bushy eyebrows, a look of either worry or regret washing over her tired, wrinkled face.

  “I will,” Elise said as she grew deeply confused at the statement. It was almost as if grandmother considered Red Manor to be an entity unto itself.

  “Also, when you have finished your meal, would you kindly fetch Mr. Henry, the handyman who lives in the small quarters by the cherry trees, and inform him that a leak has formed in the attic above us that will need tending to before the next rainstorm comes? Add that if he does not do so he shall find himself upon the next ferry home—jobless.”

  “Of course,” Elise answered with a nod.

  Elise made her way down the long red hall, passing grandmother’s room just down a bit and to the left of her own room. She looked up to the white ceiling above her and could make out a small water stain; a tin bucket was placed strategically beneath it to catch any stray droplets that might escape from the attic above. At the
end of the long hallway a large spiraling staircase went down the three floors to the main floor of the old house. Elise ran her hand against the railing and rushed her way down, causing herself to become slightly dizzy—yet in a fun and playful way. She smiled for the first time since her mother’s passing.

  Elise walked through the dining room and into the kitchen, its large windows giving a grand view of the eastern side of the island and the tall hill adorned with evergreens and bare rock that seemed to break through the green grass in an effort to be noticed.

  “Mornin‘, ’Lisey,” Mrs. Alice said with a big grin on her wide face. She was a large black woman that dressed daily in different flower-printed dresses that were often too small to support her large frame. She stayed in a small private room just above the kitchen on the second floor and had her own staircase that she took up and down every day to get to work. It was very uncomfortable for Elise to be waited upon by “paid help” as grandmother would refer to them on good days and “servants” on bad ones.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Alice,” Elise politely replied. Given the choice between Mrs. Alice and grandmother Elise would choose the company of Mrs. Alice any given day. Mrs. Alice always seemed to have a cheerful air about her, and always carried a smile despite the oft-rudeness of grandmother or the demands of her job.

  “Let’s take breakfast in the dining room now,” Mrs. Alice said as she adeptly carried in her thick arms two bowls and a glass full of orange juice. “Wouldn’t want to anger grandmother now would we—always going on about what’s proper.

  “Of course,” Elise said as she followed behind.

  “Now, I know it’s not your favorite,” Mrs. Alice added, seating Elise at the large wooden table which was set for only one. “I put a touch of brown sugar in the oatmeal. It makes it so much better.”

  “Thank you,” Elise said as she reached for her spoon and began to eat her breakfast.

  “Don’t thank me ’Lisey,” Mrs. Alice replied. “I am just doing my job.”