Authors: Katie M John
“Swallowed a man?”
“Aye, and those reports seem to have some truth in them because indeed, there is a man trapped inside that tree. I’ve seen his eyes through that knot there.”
Steptree strode over to the tree, mindful to avoid the oncoming blow from Phillips.
“You’re being played with,
Chief
, it’s a hoax – made to make you look
…” Steptree peered into the hole, feeling the reverberations of the axe travel through the wood. Two blue eyes stared back at him, flinching in pain. Steptree gasped and sprang backwards as he cried, “BLOODY HELL, THERE’S A MAN IN THE TREE!”
Another swing of the axe preceded another horrendous scream.
“That’s what I told you.” Chester puffed on his pipe, sending a small cloud into the cooling air.
Steptree turned to the small pool of witnesses and said in a loud voice, “Someone tell me
how this has happened?” Nobody replied.
After a very long minute a
gentleman
,
dressed in the fashion of a French dandy
,
stepped forward
addressing
Steptree
with a nod of the head before recounting
,
“
I saw it happen, though I barely dare admit it to myself.
The young gentleman
was walking by the tree
– seemed kind of in a hurry, as if he was running away from something…”
“Why do you say that?”
“He was looking around over his shoulder, as if someone might be following him. That’s what drew my attention. It was because he kept looking backwards that he backed into the tree. I admit at first I had a smile to myself – he looked like a buffoon, but then the tree seemed to just open up and swallow him. I was a bit delayed by the shock of it, but I ran over with the intention of grabbing him. By the time I reached him, the tree was sealing itself up.” The dandy recovered a lace handkerchief from his sleeve and brought it to his mouth to stifle a sob. “It was terrible; the man was screaming and screaming.”
Steptree had heard enough and
made his way back
towards the tree.
Phillips was taking a short rest from his hacking and Steptree took the opportunity to circle
it, running his hand over the thick, rough bark,
feeling for latches or hinges. He was still
of
the belief that the whole thing was an elaborate hoax. He found nothing.
He stopped, tipped his head
,
and liste
ned. From deep within the tree, he
could hear the fading whimpers
of a man running out of
life.
“We need to get this tree open,” Chester said with the
wavering voice of authority. “Phillips, get back to it. You can rest when you’re done.
”
Philips
raised his axe, slamming it into the trunk of the
tree. The tree let out a blood-
curdling scream
and then fell silent. Phillips stopped his chopping and investigated the hole. He reported back, “I think he’s dead, Sir!”
Steptree pushed Phillips out of the way and peered into the hole. The man’s eyes were fixed open in a look of terror
;
his pupils as tiny as a pinhead.
The man was indeed dead.
“Get this tree chopped down and transport the
trunk to the laboratory,”
Chester ordered.
“
It’s going to be a long night,
Steppers.
”
Brown
came up to Steptree and spoke in a low voice, “I don’t like t
his, Sir!
I very much don’t like this.”
“Come on gentlemen, you can share my carriage back to the lab,” Chester said, waving his arm for them to follow.
Once settled in the cab, Chester informed them that,
“I have a supper engagement
this evening,
which in light of
certain
events might be foolish to miss. Have you heard of Professor Heartlock?”
“I hav
e heard of the W
itch
-finder, General
,” Steptree replied. “Both
the
good and
the
bad.”
“Aye, he’
s a complex fellow
, b
ut he could be invaluable to us.
He’s guardian to a young man who has just turned eighteen, and there’s to be an open supper tonight for friends and acquaintances.
I’d be delighted if you accompan
ied
me. We may find some answers
about this case … and the last.”
The corners of
Brown’s
mouth d
ropped. He hated society events; t
oo much expectation of small talk and pleasantries. Steptree read his friend’s feelings immediately.
“
Don’t worry, Brown. I know your wife has not been well. After our trip to the lab, you’re free to
go back
and check on her.”
“Thank you, Sir. Wou
ld you like me to drop by Mrs. Steptree? I’m going to be passing right by.
”
“Much kindness, thank you.
G
ive
her
my apologies.”
“Aye, Sir. Job’s good as done.”
Steptree could see that such domestic arrangements bemused Chester. He was the eternal bachelor,
which
is why he had probably ended up being promoted to Chief of Police and Head of Scotland Yard – his work had been his wife.
As the carriage pulled into the yard of the police laboratory, Steptree had the unnerving feeling that he was a man on the edge of losing his sanity – that was, if he hadn’t already lost it.
SYLVANI
A
FAIRY WINGS
My mother had always been flamboyant. It came from being born a queen. She had grand tastes, ones that matched the grandeur of her treasure chest.
M
aterial goods, gol
d, and jewels held little appeal to me.
I suppose that is
what comes of
being born a princess; such things are mere trappings that decorate
a
golden cage. I couldn’t understand how my mother could find beauty in such hideous objects when nature had made a world so beautiful.
Inside the palace anything that stood still long enough
was
turned
, as if by magic, in
to gold and studded with precious jewels. The whole place gleamed with the yellow light of it
, but
something about it all filled me with a sense of death
,
as if the curse of Midas had been placed over our lives.
This ominous feeling started when I was old enough to be
given
free reign to run about the castle grounds.
I’d come in from the garden
s and woods to be confronted by a world of artifice. It was as if my mother had purposefully
r
id her home of anything natural
,
as if
nature
were
a
dirty
and lowly thing. From being very small I understood my mother was a very proud and vain woman.
It is a hard thing to admit that although you love your mother, you don’t like her very much.
As I got older the feeling of disconnection with my mother
plague
d
me
and it drove a wedge between us that
wo
uld never be joined. Often I would be visited by a
small nagging voice in my head
that
told me I could not possibly be hers.
Ultimately, the beginning of the end started with a minor event, one that my mother probably can’t even remember.
It was in the spring of my eighth birthday, a year I remember well
. I
t was the year my papa died. It had been a sad winter because, for all my mother’s faults, she loved her king with a whole and loyal heart. I had not seen much of her in the months following his death
.
S
he was too absorbed in her own grief
,
and as my nanny reassured me, it was because she loved my papa so much and saw so much of him in me
,
that s
he found it difficult to look
on me. Something in my heart told me that there was something else
, another reason why she avoided me,
but at eight years old, I was far too young to understand the complexities of the adult world and I accepted her absence as a sign of a great love for us both. I wanted to please her,
to
make her happy. And so it was for these reasons, I returned from the woods with an armful of spring meadow flowers.
When she saw them, she cracked a smile at me before saying in her most practiced mother voice, “Why, thank you sweetheart.
What a lovely child you are.”
“I thought they would be nice for the supper table, Mama.”
Mama
smiled at her lady companions who made the “awww” noises it was polite to make in
a
company of mothers. But as my mother handed the flowers to her maid, her lips curled with the small
est
movement of disgust, surely as if I had just handed her a bouquet of beetles and worms. Noticing the look of mortification on my face
,
she folded me in a stiff hug and said, “I’ll see what we can do with them,” before waving me off to go and play.
That evening
,
I entered the dining room to see my flowers proudly displayed
in the
centre of the buffet table. I ran over to them, a smile spreading across my face at
the thought of my mother’s love,
only to collide into the table. Holding out a hand to steady myself
,
I made contact with a candlestick
.
Before I could stop it, it
toppled
over and
smash
ed
into the flower display
,
sending shards of petals all over the table. Something was wrong, terribly wrong
.
M
y mother’s voice shrieked
across the length of the room
, “You stupid child, you’ve ruined it! Ruined it! Chef took all day to make those flowers. They were the most perfect flowers and now look!”
“Chef?” I asked confused. I turned to look at the mess in front of me and noted how the porcelain
-
like petals, crafted and painted by Chef’s steady hand lay in a shattered mess.
“But they’re…they’re not the flowers I gave you.”
“Well, of course not. Who knows what horrible bugs and dirt they had on them. I had
C
hef make a copy. They were a masterpiece and now look at them
,
you clumsy child.”
Something about the sight of it all disgusted me. My mother included.
“But my flowers were so pretty. I picked them especially for you, Mama.”
“Well you needn’t have bothered.” She let out a heavy sigh
.
“Just go. Get out! I don’t want to have to put up with you tonight.”
I ran from her, tears rolling down my eyes, hate filling my once kind and pure heart.
I tell you this story of my childhood because I wa
nt you to know when it started, w
hen I
came to understand that she did not love me.
It is perhaps because of this secret hatred
of
me that she wanted me to marry Prince Vincent. After all, no loving mother would feed her daughter to the wolf with such joy.
*
That day
marked the beginning of the years leading to my womanhood.
They were lonely and empty of love
,
but at least they were free. Little did I know how my mother was planning my entrapment all along, and for the highest
possible
monetary
compensation.
Prince
Vincent had first approached my mother about marrying me on the day after my fifteenth birthday. He informed her that my state of worldly innocence would make me a good wife
;
a wife that could be moulded and shaped. She had laughed teasingly, and said with a thickly suggestive voice that, “
P
erhaps she is more of a handful than you realise.”
At this he had smiled, a twinkle in his eye as if it were my mother he were actually trying to seduce. He leant forward and dropped his voice conspiratorially, “No worry, Madam, I have had my fair share of breaking in wild horses.”