Dawn came—rather, the grandfather clock chimed five o'clock, the time for dawn's rise—and I roused from my brief repose, bleary-eyed and groaning in displeasure as my body ached and throbbed in pain from the previous day's events.
Had it not been for my pointless staying awake my body may have been in a much more preferable condition, but bitching might bring me more trouble than I would have desired so I slipped the hatbox in my coat once more, lit a gas lamp and began roaming the house. Perhaps, I thought, the master may not yet be awake, and so shall his servant not be considering their sensual pleasures yesternight. I shudder in remembrance of it.
The house lay still in the infantile day and looked rather severe compared to when it was lit. Unformed shadows loomed where my light did not reach but I did not quiver in fear as I did when I was a child—the change that befell me when I had come to Yarim was acute, if I may say so, and it seemed my temperament was no longer of my own.
I came to the parlor where the hearth of the fire crackled still, the creosote of oak and cedar wafting from it, a smoky and ashy smell. It was as it were when I had visited yesterday, the bookcase looked unused but clean, fringed with black; the oak bedside table skirted by the sofa and chair, the rug, wrought blue, hidden underneath. I traipsed around, having nothing particular to do, when the bookcase caught my attention. Underneath the pristine glass, a ragged-looking brown leather book lay, much unlike its container.
Curious, I unfastened the case and took the tome in my hands. The cover felt coarse sandpaper under my finger, and when I had opened it, the faint smell of vanilla met my nose. I had seen one of these before I thought, recalling Alice browsing the same tome. Perhaps it was the same. The tome was rather thin, and looked to be a collection of journal entries, poems and various abstractions and suppositions about Yarim's fate.
The first page read: 'To Crawford, Virgil, Burr, Lenard, Corbert, and Hillard, fellow Hunters of Yarim's Legion.'
I flipped through.
1882.
Thursday, February 28, 1882. My presentiment had come true: the Scholars have created a horrible disease, which plagues Yarim of present. However, they were quick to reconcile lest the mob burn them all to death, and suffer with us in the Nether. They bestowed vials of reddish liquid to each of us that affected some more strongly than others. Myself and Crawford are well but the rest, my parents included, have turned ghastly pale, horrible and dull-sensed, neither recognizing our faces nor our presence, their eyes glassy in the sunlight.
The next of the entry was torn off, leaving jagged paper that resembled the ghouls' mouths. I continued reading, mesmerized by the stories of Yarim that Rosalia had corresponded on paper and ink.
1884.
Wednesday, August 16, 1884. The citizens of Yarim are few in number now; most have succumbed to the dreadful illness though they had taken the vials—Ichor of Mekaldis, it was called. Some have turned into…I cannot find words to describe them…hideous creatures, perhaps, though they were once human. Once.
One particular incident has left scars that will fade not as long as I am extant. The day had started quite of norm, myself and Crawford scouring for food in the Forbidden Forest (as my parents had Death take them already, and Crawford's had died a year ago, burned at the stake for the deadly plague.) We had grown considerably athletic, and if I were in correct estimation, I may have been one of the strongest lasses in our generation.
The Forbidden Forest, named as such after hundreds of adults met their demise from the beasts that lurked, was a lush overgrowth: dense canopies shielded us from the scorch of the sun; carpets of ivy and fallen trunks buried the path that finding our way through required at least three inspections. It had not seen a footstep in months, perhaps even years as nobody dared enter it.
We stopped at a spot somewhere in the middle of the forest. Crawford had said that anymore and we wouldn't be able to find ourselves back to civilization but I reckon he's just frightened—the bairn! After a few hours of whispering among ourselves, and grumbling and itching, myself and Crawford encountered a doe foraging in the forest floor. It was a beaut, tanned in color, ears perked up, listening for any predators that hid among the trees and bushes of the forest. Listening for us, I thought.
I looked at Crawford, and he nodded. He brought out his Volcanic pistol and primed it. One shot. That's what all I need, he said. We sneaked from our hiding spot, splitting in two directions to flank the doe. I took out my knife, and splayed a purple brew on it. Poison. One shot.
The doe's head darted up as if sensing something was wrong when I flung the knife and a bang resounded in the forest floor, birds fluttering away in alarm. The deer lay dead on the ground, bleeding from where the knife and the bullet pierced themselves on its body. We removed a limb, its foot having been penetrated by the knife; the poison might have seeped already, I told Crawford. Such a waste, he replied and I nodded. It was a waste.
We made a fire from twigs and dry grass and…I do not know, I say we but I only gathered wood while Crawford took to it. No sooner had our teeth skimmed the cooked meat when a roar resounded from the forest. Silence now. Cicadas and night insects droned on and just when we had thought it to be illusory, it came again. Thinking that perhaps it smelt the makeshift fire, I told Crawford to kill the fire.
"Quickly," I hissed. Footsteps drew nearer, large and weighty, the whole forest vibrating as I imagined something putting one foot in front the other. Gratefully, Crawford did not protest, and we abandoned the spot, noshing the meat as we ran.
Crawford held my hand, ceasing my sprint so swift that my countenance immediately met dirt. "Crawford," I growled, helping myself up. "Are you mad?!"
"My pistol—I left it in camp," his eyes were solemn. His parents' had given it to him the day they he watched their faces smoldered and combusted at the stake. I knew we had to come back. Something was amiss and my hands probed my body.
My eyes widened in response. It was not there. My knife. It was my last memory of my beloved parents before they descended into madness. More reason to confront danger, then.
"My knife is missing too; make haste, we will recover our articles."
We forsook escape and darted headfirst into danger.