lj.idol.Topic.08: A Travelling Travesty
-or- The Curse on the House of Candry
Marianne Candry was fifty-four and red. Paper trembled and crinkled between her fingers as she read the letter penned by her late husband eighteen years prior. If Edward lives past his thirty-seventh birthday, send flowers to Miss Mary Throm, and rejoice for the Curse on the House of Candry has been lifted! May God have Mercy on my soul. She could not make sense of the words at first, but slowly they became clearer and the fog lifted, leaving her more uncertain than before. That morning Edward had turned thirty-seven, and as the clock rang out the late hour, it looked more and more likely that he would survive past the curse that had taken all of his first-born ancestors upon their thirty-seventh birthdays. But at what cost? Should she rejoice as the letter instructed her to, or be furious with the man for whatever he had done to cause such guilt in a Godless man to beg Him for mercy?
Theodore Candry was thirty-six and yellow. His doctor, though unable to diagnose anything specific, was amazed that the man hadn't yet collapsed under his own misery. The family felt that the curse was thriving on his pain and holding out until its customary time to stamp the life out of him. Only he knew that his illness was a direct result of his guilt that overcame him nine years prior when he saw the boy, his sons' half-brother, for the first and only time. Wife Marianne and their two boys hovered over his bed as he weakly repeated his dying wishes: Edward, the eldest, was to be strong and take care of his mother; Peter was to listen and do what he was told; the butler was to continue services as usual, and not one person missed the significance or the smoldering fire in his eyes as he gave the order. The butler simply nodded knowingly. As the clock rang in the new day, it rang out the life of Sir Theodore Candry. A letter was later found in his pocket addressed to his wife: Not to be opened before Edward's thirty-seventh.
George Throm was ten and blue. The winter had not been kind to him and his mother, but he put on a strong face for her. When the hesitating taps came through the door, his mother was out, but he knew to be expecting the errand-boy who was not much older than himself, who brought treats every month as far back as he could remember. But little Georgie was surprised to see standing in the doorway a tall, thin, pale man who looked so strikingly like himself that he could have been his father. The man hardly said a word, but stared at the boy for several minutes with a look of pity and regret before turning to unload bundles of supplies, foodstuffs, and a hefty sack of coins from his carriage. Georgie thought he saw a tear at the corner of the man's eye before he rode off down the road. George Throm padded back inside and buried himself in a bundle of blankets and wondered if he would ever see the strange, quiet man again.
Marianne Candry was nineteen and rosy. Her second pregnancy suited her well, much better than her first. At the age of seventeen and freshly married she learned that she was pregnant with Edward, and upon such joyous news that she shared with her husband, he confided in her his family's great curse: that he, Theodore, would live but a mere thirty-seven years, and the same fate awaited their first-born. She was sick with grief for weeks, but eventually he turned her around to the thoughts of his ancestors, that if one knows his own lot in life, he can make the best of it for himself and his family. She then cared for the boy as she never believed she could care for a child. Presently, the two-year-old Edward was tugging on her skirt. He wanted to listen for the heartbeat of his new little brother. She sat in a rocking chair overlooking the lawn and watched her husband send the errand-boy off on his tasks and turn to smile at her. The baby kicked at Edward's head, and a shriek of laughter filled the room.
Theodore Candry was eighteen and green beneath the red light, but he remained resolute. He had spent all of a year plotting how to end his family's curse, and time was thin. He was to be wed the following morning, and he would not be remembered as an adulterer, merely a foolish young boy. He would have to accept that. And he would have to take a woman. He selected Mary for her heavyset yet pretty figure and her broad features - so unlike his own - and for her eagerness to escape her tormented life as a whore. He did not disclose his name or his history, he merely offered her a new life- a son and a comfortable pension upon his birth. She asked no questions, and together they vanquished the Curse on the House of Candry in one night.
Mary Throm was fifty-seven and pale. Before her sat a distinguished lady who shared an uneasy yet sympathetic look. Between them sat a funerary bouquet so elaborate it caused the other offerings in the room to wilt in its presence. But Mary's eyes were fixed on the man standing behind Marianne Candry. He could have been her son, the resemblance was uncanny. He could have been that young boy she hadn't seen in thirty-seven years, but who so dutifully helped her and her son get by even after the errand-boy had announce his master's passing eighteen years before her own son's sudden demise. This was the lady he had spoken of so fondly that night thirty-seven years ago. And he was Theodore's son, just as George had been.
Marianne Candry was fifty-four and red. Paper trembled and crinkled between her fingers as she read the letter penned by her late husband eighteen years prior. If Edward lives past his thirty-seventh birthday, send flowers to Miss Mary Throm, and rejoice for the Curse on the House of Candry has been lifted! May God have Mercy on my soul. She could not make sense of the words at first, but slowly they became clearer and the fog lifted, leaving her more uncertain than before. That morning Edward had turned thirty-seven, and as the clock rang out the late hour, it looked more and more likely that he would survive past the curse that had taken all of his first-born ancestors upon their thirty-seventh birthdays. But at what cost? Should she rejoice as the letter instructed her to, or be furious with the man for whatever he had done to cause such guilt in a Godless man to beg Him for mercy?
Theodore Candry was thirty-six and yellow. His doctor, though unable to diagnose anything specific, was amazed that the man hadn't yet collapsed under his own misery. The family felt that the curse was thriving on his pain and holding out until its customary time to stamp the life out of him. Only he knew that his illness was a direct result of his guilt that overcame him nine years prior when he saw the boy, his sons' half-brother, for the first and only time. Wife Marianne and their two boys hovered over his bed as he weakly repeated his dying wishes: Edward, the eldest, was to be strong and take care of his mother; Peter was to listen and do what he was told; the butler was to continue services as usual, and not one person missed the significance or the smoldering fire in his eyes as he gave the order. The butler simply nodded knowingly. As the clock rang in the new day, it rang out the life of Sir Theodore Candry. A letter was later found in his pocket addressed to his wife: Not to be opened before Edward's thirty-seventh.
George Throm was ten and blue. The winter had not been kind to him and his mother, but he put on a strong face for her. When the hesitating taps came through the door, his mother was out, but he knew to be expecting the errand-boy who was not much older than himself, who brought treats every month as far back as he could remember. But little Georgie was surprised to see standing in the doorway a tall, thin, pale man who looked so strikingly like himself that he could have been his father. The man hardly said a word, but stared at the boy for several minutes with a look of pity and regret before turning to unload bundles of supplies, foodstuffs, and a hefty sack of coins from his carriage. Georgie thought he saw a tear at the corner of the man's eye before he rode off down the road. George Throm padded back inside and buried himself in a bundle of blankets and wondered if he would ever see the strange, quiet man again.
Marianne Candry was nineteen and rosy. Her second pregnancy suited her well, much better than her first. At the age of seventeen and freshly married she learned that she was pregnant with Edward, and upon such joyous news that she shared with her husband, he confided in her his family's great curse: that he, Theodore, would live but a mere thirty-seven years, and the same fate awaited their first-born. She was sick with grief for weeks, but eventually he turned her around to the thoughts of his ancestors, that if one knows his own lot in life, he can make the best of it for himself and his family. She then cared for the boy as she never believed she could care for a child. Presently, the two-year-old Edward was tugging on her skirt. He wanted to listen for the heartbeat of his new little brother. She sat in a rocking chair overlooking the lawn and watched her husband send the errand-boy off on his tasks and turn to smile at her. The baby kicked at Edward's head, and a shriek of laughter filled the room.
Theodore Candry was eighteen and green beneath the red light, but he remained resolute. He had spent all of a year plotting how to end his family's curse, and time was thin. He was to be wed the following morning, and he would not be remembered as an adulterer, merely a foolish young boy. He would have to accept that. And he would have to take a woman. He selected Mary for her heavyset yet pretty figure and her broad features - so unlike his own - and for her eagerness to escape her tormented life as a whore. He did not disclose his name or his history, he merely offered her a new life- a son and a comfortable pension upon his birth. She asked no questions, and together they vanquished the Curse on the House of Candry in one night.
Mary Throm was fifty-seven and pale. Before her sat a distinguished lady who shared an uneasy yet sympathetic look. Between them sat a funerary bouquet so elaborate it caused the other offerings in the room to wilt in its presence. But Mary's eyes were fixed on the man standing behind Marianne Candry. He could have been her son, the resemblance was uncanny. He could have been that young boy she hadn't seen in thirty-seven years, but who so dutifully helped her and her son get by even after the errand-boy had announce his master's passing eighteen years before her own son's sudden demise. This was the lady he had spoken of so fondly that night thirty-seven years ago. And he was Theodore's son, just as George had been.