Consumption

Vampires, maybe, of a sort.

Quiet now. They had eaten everything so as to wrap themselves in the blanket of silence. Their bellies were full and they could not move for fear of tearing their sides. They lay on their soft bed amidst their sheets of silk, drifting further and further into a dreamless sleep that they had always shared.

Quiet now. The room was full of the snap and crackle of a damp fire. Thick roiling smoke emptied itself from an old pipe held by an aged hand. Whiskey was poured soundlessly into four ornate glass tumblers, carried on a tray by a silent woman. They had discussed everything so as to wrap themselves in blankets of science, philosophy and literature. Big meaty words floated in the air around their heads, free to be re-iterated and curled over and over again. Four vast vocabularies that flew in and out of moving lips upon the conversation’s demand. Words of many letters, of many syllables, words used only once in a lifetime, from distant languages. Fat with meaning.

Academic men, intelligent men were these four sat around the bone warming fire. They took their whiskeys neat, as was proven best by the distillers themselves. Aged and matured was a fair description often made by those that rarely crossed their paths. In that room they would lock themselves away for weeks on end. All four had served their King and country while still fresh from Oxford and Cambridge with the smiles of young ladies now long married and forgotten.

    John Wyttle was a physician and a theorist, for many years he had been closely examining the teachings of Galen and Hippocrates, disagreeing with and amending the modern medical practices. Henry Craige had degrees and diplomas aplenty from various fields although he had taken a keen interest as of late in astronomy. It was Charles Davenport that Craige had been confiding in and experimenting with from their early years of study, before Davenport had removed himself to experience the sea life. In doing so he had cultivated an obsession with the seas and those who travelled upon them. Many an hour he would spend hunched over meticulously drawn maps, plotting new courses and old.

Albert refused to be referred to by any titles, it was against his sense of equality and social equilibrium, only in first names would he deal. He did not keep servants though he would, out of the kindness of his heart, allow certain townsfolk to stay with him if they in return helped with the domestic duties, dining and drinking with him of course. If it was not for this arrangement the dust within the house would have been impenetrable apart from in the study, which he only left on necessity. Wyttle, Craige and Davenport would have their needs seen to by their servants who would often have to run from one house to another in desperate frenzies.

Rapidly they woke. Out stretched their arms and legs, clicking joints out of their cramped positions and two mouths gaped open to yawn their greeting to the evening. Eyes blinked open and hands wiped at congealed sleep and crusted make-up. The silk sheets were thrust away, crumpled and discarded with the heat of the day. Legs were swung from the bed and there they sat and all the while their minds did near nothing. There were no words circling their heads. Not even a letter that they could draw upon. They had no spoken language to use, only guttural grunts and motions with limbs to barely communicate with each other. They were creatures of the night, out of necessity. Their unusual diet was not one readily accepted and their lack of speech had them branded as dumb. At night they were safe from the jeers, from the fruit throwers and the rocking laughter that after years of suffering they had learned to hide from.

Once fully awake they hastened to dress, there was no point in dawdling in the room. Their landlord was already suspicious and their rent was due days ago, it was best to avoid his leering gaze. They had distinctive feminine features so it is only fair to describe them as women. One sported long, flowing golden locks that gleamed in the moonlight whilst the other’s was of fiery red that almost seemed to crackle in imitation. Many a head would they turn but all in the town knew by now to keep well clear, stories spread and knowing looks exchanged.

Every evening would repeat itself for them. They would awake with nothing but their kinship to each other and the deep hunger that gnawed at every fibre of their being. They would leave the room, the house, travelling swiftly through the town’s centre wearing thick hooded cloaks that masked their distinctive hair. Their hunger drew them towards the collections of townsfolk; they held what would satisfy the hunger. It was survival instinct.

The hungry minds caught something on the air, something that drew them away from the brothels, away from the inns and the raucous inhabitants. They walked briskly, the sharp evening air billowing through their cloaks. Mouths open catching flies they drew past the outskirts of the town and circled the near lake; listening and watching as curtains drawing noted their passing. Gas street lamps flickered as they neared causing their shadows to lengthen. Further they drifted, following the scent, the flavours, caviar and champagne tasting words that were spewing from the other end of the hypothetical rainbow It moved their lips, created saliva to dribble down their waxwork chins. Along a well-tended drive they travelled, passing through the open gates, to a large, ivy-ridden house they were drawn. One window alone glowed in warm invitation. To their eyes alone it pulsated with promise and greed demanded they take it. With baited breath they stole towards the window, their feet barely touching the ground in their hunger driven haste. Ghostly white fingers pressed to the pane and their minds growled in anticipation, as their prey grew fatter with unheard conversation.

“Are ye here to see Mister Albert? Him an the others have been witling away for hours now, I’m sure ye’ll make a mighty fine break for the lot of ‘em.”

Their eyes gleamed as the resident helper ushered them in. Offering to take their coats, Miss Walker tried her hardest to quell her imagining of why these stunning young ladies would be calling so late for the four book engrossed men. Shaking their heads the two declined and she pointed towards the study, the less she knew of the business the better. The remote unease she had felt at their arrival dwindled with their footsteps and a weary sigh left her chest. Heading towards her chambers to rest until called she found that she could not remember the word for the great big thing in front of her that barred her way. Shrugging into her confusion she turned to find another, unobstructed route.

“Did ye get lost? I can show ye again, it’s just through that…that thing there. Ye know what I mean?”

The cloaked women stepped closer towards her, their gaze not upon her face but on something around it. Their fingers plucked at the air around her, placing things she could not see into their waiting mouths. Miss Walker found herself without thought, struck dumb and with no interest in anything whatsoever. No function was left to her and there she would stand until she learnt what she had lost or another could guide her.

“Door”

The redhead pushed the word back into her mouth after its near escape and stifled a laugh as her companion nodded towards the study. Without a sound they moved and with the eagerness of children opened the door.

Wyttle was in deep debate with Albert on the question of the literary value of the Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen’s new work. After months in translation it had finally travelled to England and complimentary or not, thoughts were to be exchanged about it.

Davenport was listening yet his mind was on the reports of magnificent reefs recently stumbled upon within the South Pacific. Craige on the other hand was uncommonly absent-minded. The opening of the door to their sanctum did not been register, nor did the entrance of the two robed women who now stood on either side of the dumb Craige. Fingers worked swiftly, snatching at his meaty words, tearing down the meanings into delicious bite size pieces. This one man’s knowledge could have kept them for the evening but their greed was great and they were not prepared to lose so mighty a feast. Picked clean, Craige sat motionless, his eyes seeing without understanding.

“What do you say to this fool’s argument Craige? Agree with me that he most certainly has lost all sense in this matter!” Turning in his chair, Albert chuckled at the friendly insult.

Quiet now. The faint crackling of the fire was the only sound as the words were forced into gullets already full to the brim. So many ideas, thoughts, arguments and meanings were flashing through the brains of the devourers as delicious and exotic as the treats on the King’s table. Their mesmerising faces and soothing voices had quelled all thoughts of alarm and defence in the three remaining men. They sat watching in amazement as their minds were stripped. It became evident that neither of the women’s bellies could digest the vast amount that these men held.
Seating themselves on the floor the women threw off their encumbering cloaks and unbuttoned their dresses to ease the strain of the meal within. A fine feast indeed, the words bubbled and boiled, called through one by one to be savoured for as long as possible. They paid no heed to the near barren trees that they had harvested from. What the men had been left with was near useless. Enjoying the act of thinking, the sated women laid themselves by the fire to wait until movement was comfortable again.

The word equality revolved and fought within the red head. Her discomfort caused her to sit upright, one hand clutching her belly and the other pressed to her throbbing temple. Her stomach could not break it down and it was impossible for it to be digested whole. The other grunted questioningly, inching closer to her only companion when it came to her attention that there was an irritation in her stomach. Scowling, she felt words surging upwards and even through her clamped lips they escaped to splash to the floor in a messy puddle. Looking away into the eyes of the redhead she felt more pushing their way upwards, there was fear in the other’s eyes as words began to dribble down her chin, sneaking away from consumption. Unable to think or move the two of them crouched in the musty study, regurgitating their precious meal unable to stop the streams. Tears peeled away and piercing howls gave voice to their pain.

The horror abated, their bellies had been emptied and saliva tasted sharp with acidic bile. In unison the women stood to survey the ruins of their magnificent meal. Now completely wordless their minds were bent on running, on returning to their room, to hold each other to comfort against the pain of the lost hunt. They hurried out and away from the quiet house, back towards the town and towards the sanctity of their room. They couldn’t stay much longer. A new hunting ground had to be found, fresh for picking and untainted and easier to digest. To safety they ran but they would have to leave before the morning.

The fire died slowly unwilling to leave the hearth and discover death. Puddles of words mixed with stomach acid and saliva stained the worn carpet of the study. Meanings swam around them, useless in the open air without minds to shape and manipulate them. The shells of Craige, Wyttle, Davenport and Albert were limp and their open eyes took interest in nothing. Dust motes floated in through the open door to settle upon their heads and lips and no movement was made to disperse them.