I departed from Sattenbury two hours behind schedule, significantly earlier than I had anticipated considering my prior escapade. During my accompanied slumber the storm had passed over, shifting groaning vessels that remained at the harbor and jostling chain-hanging shop signs, all the while I slept under cotton sheets in booning embrace; that is to say that in the morrow as the sun severed an orange sky the ferryman had taken to his position and awaited the arrival of passengers. No need for a ticket, this was not an engine ride. Those well traveled know that even the farthest reaching ferry ride within the borders of Farenzo is less than my inn-stay: ten copper. And the shortest, a mere penny, from Elcott to Old Midwich, a literal throw of a stone for the trained arm across the two towns’ dividing waterway.
Needing to cross through town my path split it in half as I wandered down the winding roads, a catacombic labyrinth of misdirection—over exaggeration, yes. In all reality it was not difficult to get from the farthest west side of Sattenbury to the east, far easier than it would have been in a place such as Iyesgarth, even though I was a foreigner. The ferry went adjacent to the coast of the Gale, south past peninsulas, inlets, and coves; ferry rides were both calmer and rather chaotic compared to engine rides, especially if there was a brass conjunto that performed on it, like this one. The sweeping sound of ragtime overcame the bobbing ferry as we passed through salted waters, parting from the teeth of jagged stone that pushed out of Sattenbury’s harbor and sailed near soft waterfronts. There are more coastal cities in Farenzo than one would expect, on western shore-haven south of its border with Bengrad, the largest of all to my knowledge being Rosborough, a capital port akin to Iyesgarth. However, Rosborough must have been to the north as we did not pass it; instead, the ferry sailed onward south for three hours and at an hour past noon, still a couple hours behind proper schedule, I came unto a partially forgotten withered dock of Sablecroft. The city itself was deeper cut into the peninsula, meaning I had about a thirty minute walk from the western-most tip of the arm of land where the ferry took rest to bona fide civilization. Save for a huddled group of travelers of unknown origin, I and the ferryman were the only ones when the ship landed. I had caught a short-lived conversation with him—he explained to me that Sablecroft was the farthest the ferry would go, and that if one wished to go farther than that then they would have to either sail there themselves or catch a merchant or traveler’s ship in the north, in Rosborough.
The fading remnants of the torrent that I myself did not experience could still be perceived amidst the dreary air, and it seemed to me that the lesser, outreaching forests a part of Limdol that encapsulate the path upon which my feet did step had been greatly jostled by windswept squall of seaward origin. Humidity did permeate the air, yet too in oxymoronic fashion did the bitter cold, for the brackish waves slammed in calmest beauty against sanded pains of littoral strata. The nearby billows of the sea, I beg to say, had governance of the air.
Along my walking there were no other passers-by, solely I, the creaking trees and branches of sparsely placed Limdol, and the affluent air of nautical nonsense in the form of droning noise of splashing water; now I understand why lips become tight when they spoke of Limdol, how eyes sharpened and voices went into low murmurs, as the mention of such a territory was ill-advised. And breaking forth out of copse and thicket suddenly I was presented with ailing Sablecroft-by-the-Gale. The city itself was structured in a way that, at a slow grade, it sank down into the sea—perhaps with the push of a giant it would spill over and be swept away. Here lay my penultimate convalescence, to seek out the scribe of the mysterious letter; I still yet had to find his manse. Unlike any other city that I had been to of Farenzo, it was slumbering. Of course, that is not to say that I have come to towns that are quiet, docile in their actions, as men and women of the like went about their days with the least regard for another as if they were in their own reality. Sablecroft was dampened, as though a thin veil had been placed over it to mute all sound, to hold down any sort of elation, a stance of that of a dream, a land separated from all other likes of commerce that transpired out its campus. All other customs to be dulled by unshining distinction. To say that Sablecroft-by-the-Gale, that old, rugged, worn-and-torn town was quite the facetious understatement—it was, indeed, lamenting in its poorly prolonged expiration. Here I resurrect it with my words, with my musings, to entertain such a fate of ill.
Ludwig’s manor lay atop the left most side of the shanty, requiring me to walk amongst streets in starkest contrast to the lively thoroughfares that patterned prior Sattenbury. And—oh—how I wished to be within the confines of such a port-city again, or that I wished to be within the presence of him. Rather so, it was. The fated odds for me to meet such an acquaintance, such a fellow, and now all just to be ripped out of attendance and, instead, be in the sorrowful husk of Sablecroft. What was required of me from Ludwig stood. For a shortening moment I was yet to see his institution—yes, an institution is what it was more of, fit with a water-front lunarium and the like, a structure that called upon me my knowledge of Limmere’s dedicant architecture—only for it to then peak across the shadowed afternoon sky, crestfallen upon the horizon. Static was the moon, continuous in its reign in the sky even after the passing morning, like a dangling rune carved into the storm-kin firmament acting as both a guiding like and contrastingly a face of displeasure. No citizen save for Ludwig did I see, not even a fishmonger or a beldam, the latter of which a superstitious part of me thought I would come across after hearing tales of witchcraft in the forests of Limdol.
I stood at his wrought iron gate, fiddling with lint hidden in my pocket, cautiously playing with a button of my coat, upon my brow I felt the kiss of mist and rain. One would expect the gates of such a complex would be open for a day of such anticipation. From within the centered heart, the doors that split the manse into two greater wings, creaking as they moved, came a figure of shrouded demeanor and stature. He was tall, yes, about half a head on me, and about himself he wrapped himself a tailored coat of burgundy, dark leather, which acted in his wake as a flaring cape of sorts. At the seam of his chest the piece was adorned with silver buttons but the size of my thumb, complexity their forte. Fitted trousers and the finest crafted boots that splashed about in the nascent puddles of muddied water, with gloves of similar fashion. Within his left there was not, but in his right he held before him like a burning torch a lantern of burning oil. To hide away his ash-blond hair he wore upon his head a cavalier hat of wide-brim, all the more to cast his face in moonlit shadow for the lunar sky had overcome the daystar of noon.
The scratch and screech of old-world hinges and the fluttering of ravens that I had not even noticed taking roost upon the stone wall that encompassed the gardens of his manse, he pushed open the gates but only to let me pass through. When I had the chance of close examination I saw that with a clothen half-face mask he obscured his mouth and nose, to show to me only his grayed eyes. He spoke not, only gesturing for me to follow behind him, his lamp still hung above his head—I spoke not as well, taking my queue for silence from him. I was given too further inspection of the estate, mazelike in nature with kept gardens and bulwarks and statues of mythological depiction. Through entryway and into foyer, the grandest I have seen; far more beautiful than that of Ms. Werthman, I would add, decorative and embellished, the floors laden with wax that reflected with such elegance the burning candelabra, the cathedral-like ceiling, and too the sheer marvels of masonry that even were the pillars. Yet, upon my entrance, something buried deep within my psyche, or perhaps within my gut, asked for egress.
“Early, aren’t we Mr. Larkin?” He was not even a decade my senior, far from it. After placing on a bench that must have been a fortune in itself his lamp he took down with his left hand his mask, revealing a simper that I thought better for him to wipe off his face—but even with the slightest distaste for the current interaction that I held within myself the very wonder that I had for the edifice. Has this not yet become a staple of the Gale, a phenomenon that should eagerly be sought out by all archetypal travelers?
“I—early? Did you say early?” I made a point of exaggerating the last word. Bewildered and most definitely astonished, I, like many times before, put my guard up.
He nodded. He did not even dare to answer me with words.
“What do you mean by early? I came upon the day that was requested of me.”
A cough from him as he removed from his hands rain-damp gloves. “Caught in Sattenbury for just a moment.”
I took a step back, as I could tell that though he was not overtly hostile he spoke with daggers. “Your letter; you knew that I would be stopping in Sattenbury.”
He nodded once again, walking out of the foyer with his hands behind his back, through a vaulted passage-way to the right. No speak of it, but he anticipated for me to follow. “All do. From inner continent to Sattenbury, by the way of engine, then from there and to the ferry, along the Gale, to sleepy Sablecroft.” I had followed after him, not even for a moment leaving myself in the entry. We were in a parlor of sorts, with carmine wallpaper in a dark pattern of flora, in its center a mahogany table to sit twelve—a miscount, fourteen, six on left side and six on right side, one at end and one at front. The runner on the table took on the same color as the walls; the walls too were cluttered with paintings and framed captures, and before the baseboards sat furniture of the same order of the table. At the farthest end of the room there was a magnificent window that looked out into the gardens, the view somewhat obscured with tapping rain. A set of dishes, with at its center an artisan's teapot, sat upon the runner on the closest side of the table; Ludwig, for it seemed to be that it was within his essence, took into his hand the teapot and in his other a cup, pouring out libation. “Tea, Mr. Larkin? You strike me more as a coffee man, am I correct?”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
My golden fist tightened, for now I clutched at my coat. “Pardon my distemper but what the hell is this? And what am I to call you by?”
“I thought introductions wouldn’t be needed. I call you Mr. Larkin, you call me Ludwig. It’s the simplest of exchanges.” The tea that he had poured out for me originally he now sipped as he leaned against the front chair. “Do you enjoy simplicity or complexity, Mr. Larkin?”
“I would enjoy knowing why I have been called here, why I took time out of my rather busy schedule to… to make an appearance.” My words seemed to be slipping away from me.
Thrice now, he nodded. “I suppose that would be good, yes. Out of the parlor, then.” Just as he had done before he left the room, although this time he went into the room on the opposite side of the foyer, its entry mirrored. That room was but a holding cell, a temporary place as we passed through at blinding speed, he swiftly moved with such grace and all the while I stumbled behind him in a disheveled manner.
“I do not wish to follow behind you like a dog all this time, I would rather we sit down—.” And into the most beautiful of deckadance libraries I had ever seen within all my days, spiraling upward with book upon book and shelf upon shelf, even the likes of which Limmere could not contend with—Limmere had far more content within its walls but Ludwig’s library was far more pleasing to the eye. The style in which the wooden shelves had been carved was the same as all the other fine pieces of craftsmanship confined within the manse, and in a similar way to how the parlor kept resting at its far end a windowed beauty the library sheltered a resplendent, monumental hearth and fire, fit with two armchairs at its port and starboard and at its bow-side a settee of fabric from the far east. Sat within one of the throne-like chairs was a man, of our same age as well—perhaps even younger—who Ludwig spoke of before we were introduced.
“I’ve called him here as well, he’s been here since last morning,” as he passed his hand upon the back of the sette. “Eckhart—Mr. Dwyer.”
With a turn he took off from his prow spectacles and gazed upon I. “So he arrives, does he?” The air about him was a much softer glow than that of Ludwig, less impending and dastardly; I speculated that he was from the south, with curled hair and semi-tawny skin. Hand outstretched he forced an introduction: “Eckhart L. Dwyer, you are I. W. Larkin is it?”
I accepted. “Yes.”
A temperate mind, if I were to say, would show the marks of self restraint and insight. Self restraint in the fashion of withholding oneself from a certain action that, perhaps, may bog down thought; and, as well, insight of leisurely pleasures. The highest regard of these pleasures, the paramount and crown, would be discovery of knowledge and the capacity to learn, as learning leads to progression, and progression leads to thriving, logically. An ape lacks both of these things: temperance and insight. The pleasures that are but only for the body, whether they be in the form of consumption or distasteful practice, hold back higher thought. An ape has the ability to fancy and to desire that which is not his, though he does not dream, he does not conjure thought to be weaved into aspiration. He holds no civil liberties, instead ones of natural origin, for he is confined by the tides of creation. I am not an ape--and neither are you. You can read, you are not an ape. You hold within your tempered mind the capacity to speculate upon your thoughts, and you are not an ape. And look at me to be one to speak of chastity, I can not hold back my own loins--a heretical infantile hypocrite. And even so look at me talk of philosophy and biology, as though I were Eckhart. But yes: I dream, you dream, we dream.
Prior to, I have kept the origin of Ludwig quite discrete—I too knew not. A mystery indeed, rather obscured. He had been encumbered by patriarchal wealth like that of nobility. Yes—he was spoiled, his parents premature in their deaths and their great wealth put upon him like a royal cape.
“Then, Mr. Larkin,” he said, displacing himself from his laxed position in-lean-to the, to then stand before Eckhart and I. The odd fellow looked at me, then he, then turned upon his foot and left the likes of us to be alone.
“Do I call you Eckhart, then?” I asked of the black-haired boy.
“Whatever suits your tongue. And do I call you Irwin, or do I call you Mr. Larkin, like he?” In a dissimilar such as the character of Ludwig, Eckhart was calmer, collected—separate, and yet within him I found the most interesting of spirits. That is not to say at all that Ludwig was un-engrossing, as it was quite the contrary, however Ludwig went about his composure in a way that was difficult to digest; still, he was brilliant, in the sense of mind, that is. I suppose that if one were left to their own devices within the walls of such a complex, one that harbored such a library and such boundless knowledge, they would become obtuse.
“Irwin.” I stuck out my hand in order to create a second introduction, void of the somewhat over-bearing presence of our host. “You may call me Irwin. I have yet to give Ludwig the same pleasantries.”
I noticed subtle agreement from him, even if he did not outwardly show it. “He is after the fashion of the outlander, is he not? I still anticipate what he has called the two of us here for.”
“He has not told you?” Truly, I was dumbfounded—I would have thought that if Eckhart had come the day prior Ludwig might have already sat him down to a cup of tea, like that of he offered me, and present whatever endeavor he had to offer. “I find that—.”
“Bizarre? Idiosyncratic, even? Just in the same that he is, then?”
“You stole the phrase out of my mouth.” I entertained his banter. “When he came to retrieve me from the gate I believed the fool to be a specter.”
“A spectral being, I would say. Maybe—by just pure chance—he is a ghost tied down to this very manor, calling upon us to aid him in righting his unfinished business.” Eckhart fit his spectacles into his right pocket. Now I realize that I have neglected to mention his attire: formal, as it mirrored the same motifs that were sewn within mine. A trundle-coat, cotton shirt, and, assumingly, brown trousers that were tailored just for him.
“Do you believe in the supernatural?” I asked him.
A short laugh, as my inquiry was the least of his concerns and quite ridiculous. “No, do not paint me as the wrong kind of figure now, Mr. Larkin—Irwin, I mean of course. No. I do not believe in the supernatural. I assume you have heard tell of the elusive witches out in the forest? Whatever you may make of that is whatever you may make of that, but frankly such things are the least of my concerns. Out of the library, shall we?” The last phrase he said as he made somewhat haste in leaving the library; before he left, though, he picked up the book that he had been reading while sat ahead the fire. An inconspicuous little green booklet with frayed edges and water-stained pages, the golden title I could not read. “I find it idiotic to think about such things. No need to bother the mind with laughable and absolutely absurd fantasy.”
Though I lingered at first I quickly followed after him—here, I desired to continue my casual conversation, in contrast to when I was full of concern, mind-fog, and bewilderment when I trailed behind Ludwig beforehand. “I tend to be one of the same.”
“I can tell, Irwin. Interesting name, has anyone ever told you that?”
No, I had never been told that. “I have been told it is rather common.”
We brought ourselves into the foyer once again, with traces of Ludwig invisible and him nowhere to be seen at all. “And I guess that our lack of interest in such things is what makes a distinction between us and all the other working men, would you not say?”
“I would like to say that I would say that.” I stumbled on my words, I struggled to phrase my response—that made no sense at all. “That made no sense at all; what I mean to say is—.”
“What you mean to say is that you agree?” There we stood before the doors that kept away the hailing rain.
I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
“Well then, Irwin,” he said to me as he slipped the booklet into the opposite pocket. “Let us confront Ludwig.”
“Let us confront him?”
“If we wish to acquire knowledge, as I believe you do, then why do we not seize this moment with our bare hands and confront he who keeps it from us.” He muddled his words with a poetic veil that I thought to be natural to myself, not to anyone else.
“Perhaps that… No, that is a great idea. I have come so far, I wish to see my quest to completion.”
“As do I.” And with Eckhart as my guide, we wandered down the traipsing hall, to the right the parlor that Ludwig had taken me into prior, there-where he had offered me tea somewhen before and tipped his mind to the thought of my enjoyment of coffee instead.