Peppermint #12 + Pomelo #28
Author: pareidolia
Flavors: Peppermint #12 "hatchet" + Pomelo #28 "only death will cure a fool"
Rating: G
Note: Latest in the series of tales about the children of Wyndham House, now with a handy-dandy Index.
Summary: Life with the Wyndham's is about to become nothing but a dream for Arthur Smith, but before that, a final word.
The walls of the house, the silence in his tower, the lulling waves from the faraway sea-- they all told him the same thing.
Only death will cure a fool.
And because no one was there to tell him otherwise, Michel listened.
And instead of dreaming, and falling into the arms of their eldest brother, Michel hunted.
Two children had denied their pledge, but only one was foolish enough to want to ‘take it back’. Michel remembers nights spent gazing at the stars, a suitcase by the door, and a boat, and that is how he knows that Arthur meant what he said.
On the night before the death of Arthur Wyndham, the Wyndham’s cleverest child wandered around the halls and shadows, humming the tune of his favorite nursery rhyme.
“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream... Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream...”
--
Arthur had the gift of the lycan. There was a time when he was teased about his animalistic gift, but all the Wyndham’s knew that that wasn’t the only aspect of their sibling’s gift. Having the gift of the lycan enabled Arthur to take on the form of any beast, so long as he told its tale first. It did not matter if anyone listened (they believed that someone was always listening). All that mattered was the tale, and the beast that would come from it.
Sometimes he was a wolf. (And the little girl was gobbled up, into the belly of the horrid beast.)
Or a dragon. (The beast flew thorough the smoke and grabbed hold of the old sorcerer...)
Or, rarely, a hawk. (Clever and cunning is the hawk, you must hack off its wings with a hunter’s hatchet, lest it fly away afterwards.)
Today, though, Arthur was human, and he was certain that that was all he would be, from that day onwards until the day he died. Or until his boat capsized.
He smiles at the thought, and pats the postcard that he kept in his pocket like a child with a lucky charm.
There were eight words on the card, and if it were anybody else, the words would not have meant much at all-- except that he was sending it to Wyndham, to Kandor, and all the rest.
I take it back. I quit.
Funny, he hadn’t heard Rhodomel say such words before, but he was pretty sure the other prodigal child knew how it felt to say them. Of course, the real blow would come from the last word he’d written, plain enough to be missed in a sea of others, but grand enough to shake Wyndham’s foundations at its core.
The card was signed, Arthur Smith.
He didn’t hear the rustling, the flapping of wings, because there was none. There was only a voice, innocent and light; a voice that belonged to a child.
“Arthur!”
He turns and sees Michel, standing by the riverside.
--
The arms around his neck, the blonde hair that shone in the sun, the little boy-legs with band-aid’s and scratches-- yes, this was Michel, and since Arthur did not know about Felice’s departure, he was inclined to assume that it was the same Michel, the same timid, cheery little boy who stuck to Felice like an angelic-looking sloth, the boy who was the cleverest Wyndham of them all.
“Michel!” he twirls around, waiting for the giggles and the plea’s of ‘stop, stop, Arthur, I’m getting dizzy!’. But spending time with real children has clouded Arthur’s perception, so when Michel doesn’t emit any loud shrieks, and when he realizes that there is an absence of pounding fists on his back, Arthur stops, and holds the child out at arm’s length.
“Are you finished?” Michel asks politely, and Arthur nods, panting slightly and smiling crookedly at the boy who was no longer his brother.
He tilts his head to the side, bite his lower lip, narrows his eyes. And finally, raises his arms.
“One more time.”
Arthur laughs enough for the both of them.
--
Michel is a monkey on Arthur the hunter’s back when the sun hints at its fall. He docks the boat by the abandoned schoolhouse, and thinks of walking the younger boy back to Wyndham house. He had to ask first, though.
“Michel, can you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
Arthur slips his hand into his pocket, feeling the edges of his postcard to freedom.
“Tell them I take it back. Tell them I quit. Can you, Michel?”
The setting sun blinds the younger Wyndham child for a moment, but he nods, nevertheless, and says,
“I will.”
Arthur smiles.
The gleam is quick, the draw even quicker, but for all of that, the blood is slow to flow-- but after a while, it did, and Michel docked the boat beside the school house, and he dragged his brother’s body inside, and he threw the dagger to the ground, and he left, humming his favorite nursery rhyme.
“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream... Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream!”