The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (18 page)

"We've done what we could. Perhaps tomorrow," she said, nudging him forward.

He followed her through the forest, though a nagging doubt remained. Why would she yield the search so abruptly when just moments ago (or so it seemed) she had been so desperate about looking, looking, looking? Her brutal insistence had made him think—for only the briefest of seconds—of doing her physical harm. Nothing terrible, of course...just a wrench of the arm, perhaps a good smack to reassert his position. Yes, she would have to learn her place. Leopold had given her far too much authority. He would correct that...but not now, some other time. When he felt better. After a good night's sleep. As they walked off, he moved his foot about, looking for the familiar stab of the key. It must have bounced into a corner just out of reach of his toes.

As they neared the palace, Lucas flagged her down, running breathlessly to greet them.

"I just came to find you! Blackbeard says a large party is approaching the castle. We've got to get you inside."

"Not my father!" she gasped.

But Lucas only shrugged, insisting on all possible haste. Once inside Leopold excused himself--"just a brief nap, only a few minutes"--leaving Mary to find Ivan and the sorcerer. Ivan found her first, dancing out of the shadows with eager, imploring eyes.

"Anything?"

She nodded but pushed past him. Blackbeard was just beyond, glowering over a cup of tea. He didn't look up but acknowledged her presence with a brusque, "we have visitors. Looking for the Count."

"We'll have to stall them. I found this."

She shook her sleeve until the key rang sharply on the table. The sorcerer hastily swatted his hand over it, eyebrows raised.

"How did you...?"

"In his boot. Now let's go. I want to see it."

Blackbeard nodded, whisking the key into a pocket.

"You," he said, indicating Lucas, "have the servants make some pretense when they come to the door. If they insist upon entering, meet them and make excuses...but above all, do not let them see the Count."

"Of course; I'm very good at this sort of thing," he said, with a bow.

Something seemed alive in the box. Whenever she looked at it, especially since they opened it, she could almost hear voices, almost detect the slightest movement from the corner of her eye (but never when she was looking). Now that they were before it again, key in hand, she felt terrified; what would they unleash this time? Apparently Blackbeard felt much the same. He pulled his beard and narrowed his eyes, weighing this and that possibility. Yes, they had to open it, to see what remained, or what had never been destroyed in the first place. Some terrible secret had been kept, though why Leopold saw fit to conceal it defied explanation. The sorcerer looked back at the others for encouragement. Ivan nodded. Mary crossed her arms.

"And if it's in there?" she asked.

"It is in there—weakened, perhaps, but we'll find it alive," he said. "We must be ready for anything. The devil alone knows what form it will take."

"It won't escape me this time," Ivan said.

"Go on...open it," she insisted.

With a last show of reluctance, Blackbeard removed the key and inserted it into the first lock.
Click
. The lock swung open and fell to the floor. Mary's heart jumped. Then the second lock:
click
! It, too, rattled against cold stone. She seemed to hear something faintly: the sound of wind...or was it waves? Now for the third: click! Blackbeard drew a breath. The lock was removed and tossed aside. He heaved open the chest and took a step back, but nothing emerged. No sounds, no eyes, no tentacles or childish voices.

"Where is it?" Ivan asked.

"I don't know...deep inside, perhaps."

Mary pushed her way forward and looked in. There was no bottom. She seemed to be looking into a pool of water, shimmering with lights and reflecting the world above. Yet the reflection showed nothing of their world: instead she saw sunlight, clouds, and dancing seagulls. She reached inside—but Blackbeard caught her arm.

"No—it's too dangerous!" he cautioned.΀p

"Dangerous? You warn me of danger
now
?" she snapped.

"Please, I should be the one to go," Ivan insisted.

"You? You had your chance, and a fine mess you made of it, too!"

"Neither of you can go in—it's out of the question."

Mary started defiantly at Ivan. With a mixture of affection and guilt he stepped aside, knowing it was the wrong decision. She then confronted Blackbeard, determined to go inside and face whatever remained—to strangle it with her own two hands if necessary. He remained in front of the box, a pathetic guardian, pleading with fearful eyes.

"I won't be able to help you," he warned.

"I can help myself," she said.

"Mary, I must insist—”

"You’re wasting words with me, sorcerer. Right now, the only words I understand are
Leopold
and
the box
. And I intend to go through one to get the other. Now stand aside."

They both conceded. Blackbeard helped her into the box and cautioned her: the Death would trick her, use all means of flattery and deceit. Trust nothing. Find out what you can and return quickly. Don't risk your life unnecessarily. Think of him.

"I always think of him," she said, and vanished into the box.

"She's gone," Ivan whispered.

"Have a little faith," the sorcerer admonished, perhaps more to himself than Ivan.

It felt like slipping through the water. Something enveloped her, closed over her head, and then...she was on the shore. The seagulls, the smell of spray, distantly crashing waves. What was this? She walked toward the water, her feet sinking into the wet sand, leaving a trail behind her. Everything looked and felt so real, and yet it had to be a spell, a mere trick of the monster. She called out "hello!" A foolish thing to do, she suspected. But nothing responded.

The waves rushed out to greet her. She shivered as the icy coldness brushed against her ankles. Surely this was no illusion! She knelt down and scooped up the sand, coming up with a seashell; pressing it against her ear she heard the echo of the ocean. Everything was here, to the smallest detail. But why? Why create all this illusion simply to disguise its presence?

Scanning over the horizon--which was curiously absent of life--she heard something. Deep within the silence of the shore was a quiver of breath. It must be behind her. She would be ready--to do what, she didn't know, but it wouldn't take her without a fight. Clenching her jaw she slowly, defiantly, turned to face it.

"
Leopold!
" she gasped.

He was buried up to his neck in the sand, tucked away in a shadow just out of sight. She ran to him but stopped short. Of course this wasn't Leopold but it...in exactly the form it knew she would respond to. Tears welled from her eyesӀfrom her as imagined his torment, the most terrible vision in a nightmare of hell.
But it's not him! It can't be! I was just with him!

"Mary?" he said, looking up. "You're...here? But how?"

"It’s not you," she said, utterly without conviction.

"Where is he?" he said, suddenly agitated. "Did he trap you? Is Ivan still here? What about Blackbeard? Did he find him, too?"

"You're not dead...he said he killed you," she said, ignoring him. "Why didn't he kill you?"

"What did it tell you? Mary, it took Ivan--it tricked me down here. I couldn't stop him and I lost the sword. Did you see him? Did he try...did he come to you as me?"

Mary fell to her knees in confusion. Blackbeard warned her: it would use all means of flattery and deceit. But this...this was beyond cruelty. She knew it couldn't be him. Yet why wasn't it
dead
? Did Leopold's courage fail him at the last second? Did he behold his Death and feel compassion? And if so, it remained for her to do it...she had to remove all trace of love or compassion. She had to set him free.

"He said you wouldn't know the difference, but you're here now--you did know. You knew it wasn't me," he said.

"Liar," she said, angrily. "He couldn't kill you, but I can...I've seen what you're doing to him. Killing him by slow degrees. That's the price for his compassion!"

"Mary, no! I'm here--that isn't me! He took my face, my voice, everything about me except the one thing he couldn't steal. That's still here. That's what loves you. Mary, you must believe me...surely you see that isn't me!"

Evil and callous. It would do anything to defeat her. She cursed him through tears, turning away. How could she kill him? Even to know that he was a monster, some filthy abomination assuming his likeness...she still had to strangle his throat, look into his screaming eyes and block out his pleading voice. What
did
she love? The man…or his looks? Could there be one without the other?

"You know I have to kill you. I have to save him. Do as you will, try to poison my mind and extinguish my heart; I'll do it and rejoice in it.”

"
Mary
! Listen to me; if I could have killed it I would have! I would have never left it alive; it tricked us both--just as it's tricking you! Mary, you can't--"

"Be silent and die! I won't listen!" she screamed.

And with that she reached out to kill him.

She grabbed him--but her arms went limp at his throat. She couldn't do it. Leopold's eyes bugged out at her, his face frozen in love and desperation.
I have to--he'll die if I don't!
She willed herself to grab hրvim; her hands seized his throat, tried to press down, watery eyes clenched firmly shut.
Just a minute or two, then I can rest!

"Mary! No! Listen!" he rasped.

Her hands flew up to her ears. She couldn't do it and hear him, hear the voice full of pain begging for mercy. She could deny him nothing. Even if he was only an ‘it,’ a thing that masqueraded as the man she loved. She loved them both: the man and the mask.

A rock...I just need one big enough to kill him. A single blow. I wouldn't even have to get close
.

She looked around in vain. No rocks--at least, none small enough to move. It had planned everything, it seemed. It knew she couldn't go through with it.

A twinkle of light in the distance. She had ignored it at first, but shielding her hand from the sunlight, she focused on something bright--like a cross. Stumbling across the sand she found a sword buried in the sand. Bone white. She grasped the handle and pulled it cleanly out of the earth. It swished sharply through the air, large but surprisingly agile.
A single blow...I could do that. I have at least that in me. And then it would be over
.

She walked over to Leopold, sword in hand, heart pounding in every nerve. The world seemed to spin recklessly beneath her. She had to do this quickly; she wouldn't retain consciousness for a second blow.

"Mary! It's me! Come to your senses! It's
me
!"

"I'm sorry..."

"Mary, listen! What can I...no, wait! Mary!

She raised the sword above her head, judging the blow. It looked sharp enough.

"Mary!"

"No!"

"Mary--342! Do you remember 342!"

She stopped cold.

"What?"

"342! Our sign, remember?"

342.
Once, when they were dancing, a conceited gentleman--twice her age, no less--interrupted them and demanded the next three dances. He had ancestors that went back to the Black Regime; his castle dated from 342! He said it over and over again like a mantra: "the stones are from 342! And that's nothing to sneeze at! 342!" So whenever they met Leopold made some silly reference to his hat--or his boots--or his mustache--as being from 342. She treasured those numbers, even scratching them in a tree where no one could see it. It became her way of saying what she could never confess privately to him.

She dropped the sword and collapsed by his side, heaving and choking. Once she recovered, she cradled his head in her arms, shaking from her cold-blooded resolve to kill him. And she had come so close!

"I don't understand...is this really you?" she wept.

"Yۀ="+0">&qes, didn't you know? Can't you see the difference! He's nothing like me!"

"No, he's not...but he
is
you. When he talks, the way he moves, it's all you. There were moments, of course...but I love you, every bit of you, I can't make distinctions."

"As long as you didn’t kiss him," he muttered.

She hastily dug him out, pulling him out of the sand and amazed to see everything whole and intact. It had done nothing to him, simply tucked him out of the way where no one would find him. Mary took him greedily in her arms and kissed him. Yes, now there was no confusion: it was him, the warmth, the life; her entire body hummed with recognition.

"You're here--you're alive! I thought I had lost you."

"I thought I had lost myself. But I knew you would find me."