Ivory Bars: chapter 9

read it. and find out.

Chapter Eight

           

            “Father,” Linde said, “the unicorns.  Tell me about the unicorns.”

            Her father said nothing, squinted his eyes in confusion.

            “What is it about the unicorns, Father?” she asked.  She had thought of so many better ways to ask this, to phrase it, but somehow all her pre-recorded versions had deserted her.

            “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

            This time there was no confusion in her father’s voice; she’d grown up knowing that confusion, it had surrounded her, but now it was different: she could tell that there was something he knew, that he was not saying.

            “You know what I mean,” she said.  “I don’t know what I am asking, what is so important about the unicorns—about my necklace, but you do.  You know something that you have never told me—in nineteen years you have never told me.”

            “I know nothing.”

            “Tell me,” she said.

            “I know nothing,” he repeated.

            “Tell me,” she said.  “Damn it, tell me.”

            “Do not use language like that with me,” said her father, his voice blatantly flat, as though he were telling her—like he did every day—to go back to school. 

            Why should his voice be so dull, so dreary, so tedious all the time, she wondered.  “Do not use such lies—do not use that voice with me,” she said.  Why did her words sound so weak, and yet her heart beat with a courage she had never known—why did such a paradox exist?

            “Has it gotten to you to?” her father asked, his voice still monotonous.  “Have I raised my daughter so poorly?”

            “Tell me about my mother.”

            “I have told you everything.  She was a happy woman, but her health was always weak.”

            “Yes,” said Linde, “I know all of that.  And her name was Shelly—at least, according to you.”

            “Not according to me,” said her father.  “Her name was Shelly; it was; she had no other name.”

            “Chelone,” said Linde, “tell me about her.”

            “I know nothing,” he said, “about Chelone.”

            “You are lying,” said Linde.  “You know everything.  Why won’t you tell me?”

            “I know nothing,” he repeated, though his voice was less dull than before.

            “Why won’t you tell me?” she asked, taking off the necklace and handing it to her father.

He accepted it with a slight shudder, sighed, and said, “It hurts too much.”

            It always does, she thought; it always does.  “Tell me about the unicorns.  Father, tell me about this necklace.”

            “I know nothing,” said her father, though his voice was breaking, and he was holding the necklace gently, as though it were made of glass. 

            “You know everything,” she said.

            He handed the necklace back to her and nodded.

            “You gave it to me when I was nine; it’s been tugging at my neck for ten years, and I’ve never known what it means.”  She held the chain up, let it dangle in front of her eyes.  “I want to know about my mother.”

            “How did you find out about the unicorns?” asked her father.

            “I know nothing about them.  I was merely hinted along, told to ask.”

            “By whom?”

            “Rok,” said Linde, “he told me to ask you about the unicorns.  He knows something, but I’m certain you know more.”

            “Rok?” asked her father.  “Who is this?”

            “Just tell me about my mother!”

            “No,” he said, “no!”

            “Yes,” she said, knowing that she would get what she wanted, “you will.”

            He sighed and bowed his head.  “Her name wasn’t Shelly,” he said.  “Her name was Chelone, and she was in perfect health.”

            “Then how did she die?”

            “She was killed—was murdered.”

            “By whom?”  Linde felt for a moment that the world was spinning.  She pulled out a chair and sat down.  Murders didn’t just happen; this was not Umbra.

            “A man from Umbra,” said her father.  “He tried to escape, as everyone does eventually.  He was not sick, simply wanted to escape, and wanted a revenge that was unnatural, unexplainable, completely Umbra.”

            “And he killed her?” she asked.  “For revenge?”

            “Yes.”

            “But why her?  What did she do?”

            “Nothing,” said her father, “she simply did nothing.  That is the meaning of Umbra: there is none.”

            “Revenge for what?” she asked.

            “What did I tell you?” he asked.  “There is none.  There is no meaning to Umbra; there is no rhythm of things, no moral code.  He just killed her, just came to our house one day and­—”

“What was his name?” she asked.

            “It doesn’t matter; we ought to just forget about it.”

            “What was his name?”

            “Driscoll,” said her father.  “We have him in custody now.”

            “No,” she said, feeling her heart beating as a ticking bomb.  “I will not believe you.”

            “It is not a lie.”

            “Tell me about the unicorns,” she said, feeling it to be unbelievably important at that moment.

            “She loved those things,” said her father.

            “No,” said Linde.  “There has to be more than that.”

 

            The nightmare-folk were beginning to scream, for it was ten o’clock and evening had faded to night.  It was not the screams that woke Rok up, however; it was the gnawing of the disease on his own heart; already he could not escape it.  It had been two weeks, he guessed, since he had been exposed, since he had contracted it.  And already—already---he could not escape the Screaming Hour.

            He listened in rampant curiosity to the words that Driscoll yelled.  For a while he thought they were words, though ones he simply could not understand, but then he realized they were just sounds meant to sound like a language; and the disease creeping within him made him think that they were beautiful sounds.

            It was like the squabbling of vultures, Rok thought; and yet he felt compelled to join in.  The noises were tugging at his heart.  They were pecking.  Pecking.  Pecking.  Tearing.  He shivered, thinking; the noises were eating him. 

            He shivered again, felt like a lone man up against the wilderness.  Was he going mad already?  It seemed too early to be losing his mind.

            He wondered what it was like.  As the vultures tore around him, he wondered what it was like.

            Was it like falling?  No, certainly not, he thought.  Losing your mind was not like falling: that was too simple.

            Perhaps like drowning.  Was it like drowning?

            Or like burning?

            Or was it like torture?  He knew it was torture; it almost certainly was torture.  But was it like torture?

            Or did you not feel a thing?  Did you just fall, and fall, and fall?  Did you fall or did you plummet?  Was it like a leaf falling after autumn, or like a rocket ship and then explosions—and why was he thinking about this, anyways?

            He wasn’t ready to lose his mind, which meant he wasn’t ready to start seriously thinking about losing his mind.  At least not seriously thinking about it—joking about it was one thing: he’d grown up joking about it; he’d been born and raised in Umbra after all; it was to be expected.

            He watched Driscoll, stared at him, felt as though he were stuck in a daydream.  Only this was a nightmare, he thought.  Nightmare.  Nightmare-folk.  Not daydream; nightmare.

            Why was his mind suddenly confused on that issue?  Nightmare—he ran the word through his head; that was what this was.  He listened to the orchestra of Screaming Hour—since when had it become an orchestra?  He didn’t want an orchestra.  He didn’t want it.

            He wanted silence.

            But silence belonged to insanity also.

            He slammed his hands over his ears, so hard his brain pounded and he thought he heard the echo of his heartbeat in his hands.  He tried to block the sound out, but how was he to do that when he dreaded the silence too?

            He shut his eyes.

            And he screamed to keep away the world, for the world, he was sure, would steal away his mind someday.

 

Reviews

[Legion]

Now this is more of what I know you are capable of. Great work here. Love the screaming orchestra bit. That was a great bit of imagery there. The unicorn is troubling. Can't wait to find out more. This is still coming along nicely. Kudos.