The Coffin's Occupant - Act 2
*pants*
Well, here's Act 2. I've gotta get back to work on Act 3, while this inspiration is still hot.
Edited again: 02/16/07
And again: 02/19/07
Despite the setback, Alex’s health continued to improve daily. Marianne was able to return to the mansion to work as a maid. Alex convinced Mrs. Addison to let him do small, household chores that didn’t involve hard labor.
When the spring breezes thawed the ground, the late Lord Clarford was buried. It also was time to strip the sheep of their heavy wool coats. The evening before the event, Alex stood in front of Mrs. Addison and Marianne to ask to be allowed to help, his head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. Mrs. Addison flatly refused and manhandled him into bed.
The next morning, Marianne woke to the scent of a feast. She wandered into the kitchen, still in her nightgown. “Mum, what-” She stopped.
Alex was dressed in her father’s work clothes, which ballooned around his body comically as he stirred something in the frying pan. His hair had been brushed and braided into a very thick, stiff braid that quivered as he moved.
“Good morning, dear.” Her mother sat at the table, scowling. “I couldn’t stop him.”
He cackled. “And I am making curry, though it isn’t proper curry; you don’t have the right spices.”
“Alex, do you have your memory back?” Marianne seated herself at the table. “How do you remember the spices?”
The ring of platters hitting the counter drowned her out, and Alex started humming loudly, apparently not having heard her.
“Bon appétit!” he shouted, delivering the platters to the table with flourish. “This is payment for letting me help you today.”
Her jaw unhinged itself and struck the table.
“Close your mouth, dear,” her mother muttered. “He begged me this morning, so I told him if he managed to cook breakfast without collapsing I’d let him go.”
“And,” he added, “I am quite healthy today.” He thumped his chest as he sat down, but winced.
“Still have bruises there?” Mrs. Addison’s eyes narrowed.
Shrugging, he picked up his spoon. They dug in. Alex had used all of the normal ingredients, but she had never tasted a soup with this much flavor before. All her life, food was something to give energy, to fill her stomach and move on to the next task. This gave her the strange sensation that her tongue was thinking. From the comfortable silence that had fallen over the table, she guessed that her mother was discovering the same thing. The rest of the meal passed quietly; their mouths too busy with the food to be bothered with talking.
As Alex finally gathered the platters, skipping about like a sprite or elf from fairy tales, Mrs. Addison grabbed his arm and pulled him down to inspect his face while he balanced the dirty dishes in the other. “He looks far too pale.”
“Madam,” he whispered, “have I faltered once during this meal?”
She released him, sighing. “I guess not. You may help.” As he stepped lightly away, she added, “You can help picking the fleeces.”
When Mrs. Addison said, “picking the fleeces” she didn’t mean selecting or sorting. She meant picking the bits of hay and mud from the wool before tying them up for storage. This task was reserved for the old or weak people. They all sat around a table with a wire mesh top and gossiped. Marianne was carrying fleeces to them, and kept watch on Alex’s progress. The gossips’ old fingers moved deftly over the fleeces, every once and a while commenting on the quality of one of them.
“This ewe that Addison brought in has good crimp to her, look at that! No offense to Mrs. Addison,” the oldest gossip glanced at Alex suspiciously, “but she ought to marry again. Working the sheep is too hard on one’s own.”
The little old ladies all nodded in agreement.
“She seems to get along fine,” Alex said.
“Speaking of such, why did she bring you in?”
“I don’t know.” He squished a bug that had found its way into the wool before flicking it away. “Kindness. It wasn’t Mrs. Addison who brought me in. It was Marianne, her daughter.”
Eyebrows arched around the circle.
“That’s one way to bring home an able-bodied help,” one chuckled.
“But I’m hardly able,” Alex said. “I’m too weak to be helpful, and Mrs. Addison won’t let me do anything.”
“Now,” said one of them, setting her wool down for a moment, “explain for us how you arrived here. Everyone says that you arrived like the devil himself inside Lord Clarford’s coffin, and you can’t remember your own name.”
He nodded, looking down. “I awoke in Lord Alexander’s coffin, when they opened it, without memory. I,” he rubbed his chest, “fainted when Marianne tried to help me walk out of the room. It’s not near so amazing as anything you’ve heard, I’ll bet.”
“It’s a miracle you’re alive. (“Gloria in Deo!” he interjected.) But it could be something else.” The eyebrows all furrowed.
“Where did that coffin come from?”
“India,” he replied. “But I don’t know if I was Indian. I speak English.”
“Well, you can’t be English,” the woman with a bandaged arm said. “Your face is dark, and your hair is ungodly black.”
Alex smiled. “I cannot be a devil, or going to church with the Addisons would be more difficult.”
“What about changelings?” said the eldest of the gossips. “He could be one of those little fays.”
“I thought changelings only appear in cribs, not coffins?”
They all laughed loudly.
“I was thinking of demons, myself,” said the woman with the bandaged arm. She squinted at Alex’s face. “Is there something holding you here, protecting you from death?”
Alex kept his eyes down, but his face straight. “I don’t know. That would be the most miserable existence, don’t you agree?”
The next fleece came with someone else’s gossip attached, and Marianne pulled him away from the circle. “Come help me carry fleeces; Mummy is catching sheep in the pen. She won’t know.”
They carried the fleece between them to the wagon. No one else near. Just as Alex turned to fetch the next fleece, Marianne caught his arm as her mother had that morning, and studied his face. “When your memory returns, will you tell me?”
Alex turned away. “It depends on the memory that returns.”
That evening, the wind carried a deliciously heavy scent of melting snow as they walked the small herd of sheep home. The full moon lit the pastures and field as though it was still day. They were so content and tired with the day’s work that they didn’t speak much, until Alex fell in stride with Mrs. Addison. “The night is very nice. Very warm.”
She hummed her agreement.
“I wanted to know…”
Mrs. Addison turned sharply to look at him. “You’re bowing again. You want to do something that I will disagree with?”
He straightened his neck. “I hope not. I…” he paused, looking for the right words. “The night is very nice, and I want to walk through it.”
She didn’t answer right away, so he continued.
“When following the road, we walk in a great half-circle. I could go through Mr. Hildman’s winter field, across the moor, over the river and through your spring pasture and be home before you.” For a good measure, he added, “I will use stars to guide me.”
She frowned and tapped the naked butt of an ewe who nibbled at some tender dandelion shoots by the wagon tracks. “What about your heart?”
“I haven’t collapsed this month.” He bowed his head again. “And, when you were catching ewes for sheering, I carried fleeces with Marianne.”
Mrs. Addison finally nodded. “But Marianne will go…” She turned. Alex was already over the fence and jogging into the darkness.
A few hours later, after loosing the sheep, they came home to a dark house. They couldn’t find Alex. Before they could go out to search for him, Mr. Hildman came galloping up the road with a rifle under his arm. Horse and rider panted to a stop. “Lock up yer sheep, and stay inside!” He paused to catch his breath. “A huge black beast is in the moors!”
“What?” Mrs. Addison almost dropping her lantern.
Mr. Hildman took off his cap. “I shot it.” He stopped to wipe the sweat off his hands on his pants. “It was close too. I reckon only as far as yer barn there. I caught it right through the shoulder, but it didn’t fall. Just limped off, growling and panting. I could hear it. It was headed this way across the moor; I had to warn you.”
“Thank-you, Mr. Hildman, for warning us.”
“Wait!” Marianne yelled. “Alex! We need to find him! He hasn’t gotten back!”
Mr. Hildman shifted in his seat, nervously pulling on his coat collar. “I heard someone yellin’. That’s why,” he hefted his gun, “I brought this.” Marianne looked ready to bolt into the moors, so he added, “Please, don’t go out there, Marianne. If he met the monster, he most likely is already dead. We’ll look in the morning.”
*insert feedback whoring here*
I still have a lot of editing to do on this section. At least it's down on whatever it is that computer screens are made of.
Well, here's Act 2. I've gotta get back to work on Act 3, while this inspiration is still hot.
Edited again: 02/16/07
And again: 02/19/07
Despite the setback, Alex’s health continued to improve daily. Marianne was able to return to the mansion to work as a maid. Alex convinced Mrs. Addison to let him do small, household chores that didn’t involve hard labor.
When the spring breezes thawed the ground, the late Lord Clarford was buried. It also was time to strip the sheep of their heavy wool coats. The evening before the event, Alex stood in front of Mrs. Addison and Marianne to ask to be allowed to help, his head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. Mrs. Addison flatly refused and manhandled him into bed.
The next morning, Marianne woke to the scent of a feast. She wandered into the kitchen, still in her nightgown. “Mum, what-” She stopped.
Alex was dressed in her father’s work clothes, which ballooned around his body comically as he stirred something in the frying pan. His hair had been brushed and braided into a very thick, stiff braid that quivered as he moved.
“Good morning, dear.” Her mother sat at the table, scowling. “I couldn’t stop him.”
He cackled. “And I am making curry, though it isn’t proper curry; you don’t have the right spices.”
“Alex, do you have your memory back?” Marianne seated herself at the table. “How do you remember the spices?”
The ring of platters hitting the counter drowned her out, and Alex started humming loudly, apparently not having heard her.
“Bon appétit!” he shouted, delivering the platters to the table with flourish. “This is payment for letting me help you today.”
Her jaw unhinged itself and struck the table.
“Close your mouth, dear,” her mother muttered. “He begged me this morning, so I told him if he managed to cook breakfast without collapsing I’d let him go.”
“And,” he added, “I am quite healthy today.” He thumped his chest as he sat down, but winced.
“Still have bruises there?” Mrs. Addison’s eyes narrowed.
Shrugging, he picked up his spoon. They dug in. Alex had used all of the normal ingredients, but she had never tasted a soup with this much flavor before. All her life, food was something to give energy, to fill her stomach and move on to the next task. This gave her the strange sensation that her tongue was thinking. From the comfortable silence that had fallen over the table, she guessed that her mother was discovering the same thing. The rest of the meal passed quietly; their mouths too busy with the food to be bothered with talking.
As Alex finally gathered the platters, skipping about like a sprite or elf from fairy tales, Mrs. Addison grabbed his arm and pulled him down to inspect his face while he balanced the dirty dishes in the other. “He looks far too pale.”
“Madam,” he whispered, “have I faltered once during this meal?”
She released him, sighing. “I guess not. You may help.” As he stepped lightly away, she added, “You can help picking the fleeces.”
When Mrs. Addison said, “picking the fleeces” she didn’t mean selecting or sorting. She meant picking the bits of hay and mud from the wool before tying them up for storage. This task was reserved for the old or weak people. They all sat around a table with a wire mesh top and gossiped. Marianne was carrying fleeces to them, and kept watch on Alex’s progress. The gossips’ old fingers moved deftly over the fleeces, every once and a while commenting on the quality of one of them.
“This ewe that Addison brought in has good crimp to her, look at that! No offense to Mrs. Addison,” the oldest gossip glanced at Alex suspiciously, “but she ought to marry again. Working the sheep is too hard on one’s own.”
The little old ladies all nodded in agreement.
“She seems to get along fine,” Alex said.
“Speaking of such, why did she bring you in?”
“I don’t know.” He squished a bug that had found its way into the wool before flicking it away. “Kindness. It wasn’t Mrs. Addison who brought me in. It was Marianne, her daughter.”
Eyebrows arched around the circle.
“That’s one way to bring home an able-bodied help,” one chuckled.
“But I’m hardly able,” Alex said. “I’m too weak to be helpful, and Mrs. Addison won’t let me do anything.”
“Now,” said one of them, setting her wool down for a moment, “explain for us how you arrived here. Everyone says that you arrived like the devil himself inside Lord Clarford’s coffin, and you can’t remember your own name.”
He nodded, looking down. “I awoke in Lord Alexander’s coffin, when they opened it, without memory. I,” he rubbed his chest, “fainted when Marianne tried to help me walk out of the room. It’s not near so amazing as anything you’ve heard, I’ll bet.”
“It’s a miracle you’re alive. (“Gloria in Deo!” he interjected.) But it could be something else.” The eyebrows all furrowed.
“Where did that coffin come from?”
“India,” he replied. “But I don’t know if I was Indian. I speak English.”
“Well, you can’t be English,” the woman with a bandaged arm said. “Your face is dark, and your hair is ungodly black.”
Alex smiled. “I cannot be a devil, or going to church with the Addisons would be more difficult.”
“What about changelings?” said the eldest of the gossips. “He could be one of those little fays.”
“I thought changelings only appear in cribs, not coffins?”
They all laughed loudly.
“I was thinking of demons, myself,” said the woman with the bandaged arm. She squinted at Alex’s face. “Is there something holding you here, protecting you from death?”
Alex kept his eyes down, but his face straight. “I don’t know. That would be the most miserable existence, don’t you agree?”
The next fleece came with someone else’s gossip attached, and Marianne pulled him away from the circle. “Come help me carry fleeces; Mummy is catching sheep in the pen. She won’t know.”
They carried the fleece between them to the wagon. No one else near. Just as Alex turned to fetch the next fleece, Marianne caught his arm as her mother had that morning, and studied his face. “When your memory returns, will you tell me?”
Alex turned away. “It depends on the memory that returns.”
That evening, the wind carried a deliciously heavy scent of melting snow as they walked the small herd of sheep home. The full moon lit the pastures and field as though it was still day. They were so content and tired with the day’s work that they didn’t speak much, until Alex fell in stride with Mrs. Addison. “The night is very nice. Very warm.”
She hummed her agreement.
“I wanted to know…”
Mrs. Addison turned sharply to look at him. “You’re bowing again. You want to do something that I will disagree with?”
He straightened his neck. “I hope not. I…” he paused, looking for the right words. “The night is very nice, and I want to walk through it.”
She didn’t answer right away, so he continued.
“When following the road, we walk in a great half-circle. I could go through Mr. Hildman’s winter field, across the moor, over the river and through your spring pasture and be home before you.” For a good measure, he added, “I will use stars to guide me.”
She frowned and tapped the naked butt of an ewe who nibbled at some tender dandelion shoots by the wagon tracks. “What about your heart?”
“I haven’t collapsed this month.” He bowed his head again. “And, when you were catching ewes for sheering, I carried fleeces with Marianne.”
Mrs. Addison finally nodded. “But Marianne will go…” She turned. Alex was already over the fence and jogging into the darkness.
A few hours later, after loosing the sheep, they came home to a dark house. They couldn’t find Alex. Before they could go out to search for him, Mr. Hildman came galloping up the road with a rifle under his arm. Horse and rider panted to a stop. “Lock up yer sheep, and stay inside!” He paused to catch his breath. “A huge black beast is in the moors!”
“What?” Mrs. Addison almost dropping her lantern.
Mr. Hildman took off his cap. “I shot it.” He stopped to wipe the sweat off his hands on his pants. “It was close too. I reckon only as far as yer barn there. I caught it right through the shoulder, but it didn’t fall. Just limped off, growling and panting. I could hear it. It was headed this way across the moor; I had to warn you.”
“Thank-you, Mr. Hildman, for warning us.”
“Wait!” Marianne yelled. “Alex! We need to find him! He hasn’t gotten back!”
Mr. Hildman shifted in his seat, nervously pulling on his coat collar. “I heard someone yellin’. That’s why,” he hefted his gun, “I brought this.” Marianne looked ready to bolt into the moors, so he added, “Please, don’t go out there, Marianne. If he met the monster, he most likely is already dead. We’ll look in the morning.”
*insert feedback whoring here*
I still have a lot of editing to do on this section. At least it's down on whatever it is that computer screens are made of.