RS 39: A Study In Sapphire Part I

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote A Study in Scarlet, Neil Gaiman A Study in Emerald and now I, the Midnight Hagette that rhymes with baguette present to you:

A Study in Sapphire: A homage to Arthur Conan Doyle and Lovecraft

(minus the casual racism).

Chapter 39

A Study in Sapphire

Our family has always flirted with the darkness and now I fear it will consume our house. My father rules these isles but at what cost? My brothers make light of the situation. They dance, they eat, they drink, they find solace in sensual pleasures of the flesh. Such pleasures fail to distract my mind from its fevered musings, but I digress.

The ballroom is aglow with lights and music, the dance carries on but their faces… their faces…rictus grins stretched over fluttering souls. I keep to myself. Seeking a clear head, I move outdoors. Wandering in the garden, I make sure to keep my distance from the waves. The vastness of the things below haunts me. I can only imagine what lingers in those fathomless depths.

The crunch of gravel alerts me to the approach of two strangers. The first, an uncouth man dressed in rags and tattoos, the other a pale maiden with auburn hair and a certain look in her eyes. I have seen that look before, many times, in those who had made pacts with the demons. I am on my guard. She shall not have my soul, but perhaps I will part with a kiss. She is quite pretty, despite the distinctly fishy odour. I always wondered what it would be like to be with a monster.

They save me from death at the hands of a would-be assassin. I am reminded once more that I am nothing. My existence is fragile and temporary. Almost, I am sad that they succeed. The uncouth man is interesting. He asks me what I desire, he asks me about my dreams. My dreams are always haunted, always the same face, and the shadows, the breathing, the deep somnolent sighs of the ocean, all of it lost to me now. It is better to remain swathed in ignorance. Our mortal minds were not built to comprehend the true depravities of the universe. We are islands in a dark sea, and it is better if we do not try to swim. As for the others, the happier they are the less they understand. These two seemed very happy. I do not trust them. They should not trust me, but they will learn or they will die.

“But what do you want?” the uncouth man asks once more, all fragile innocence.

It is an interesting, if moot, philosophical question. I desire knowledge, yes, tempting and dangerous though it may be. Freedom. Hope. Revenge. Such lofty ideals are unrealistic. But I am not being truthful with myself. What I want is pancakes. Pancakes smothered in syrup with a squeeze of lemon juice and a sunlit room to eat them in. Perhaps the pancakes represent something more, but I know I will not get my heart’s desire because the universe is dark and cruel, and I am bait, meant to lure the unwary with my chiselled abs and angelic face. The kind try to save me, the ruthless try to use me. Few succeed, in any meaningful way. I will never taste that cinnamon, although I smell it in my dreams.

They are waiting for my answer.

“I wish,” I say, “for knowledge. I wish to understand why my brother is dead, to understand why things happen, and perhaps to seek justice for his murder.”

The uncouth man blinks. This was not the answer he had expected but he does not look displeased.

“A murder, ey?”

“And I wish for pancakes,” I add, just in case. I am a fool but perhaps uttering the words aloud will somehow manifest their existence. An illogical thought, poorly expressed, but no one has ever asked me about my dreams before.

In the meantime, the woman keeps looking at me, and I find feelings I had thought long suppressed stir in my chest, and it is not just the way her softly parted lips remind me of strawberries on batter.

“When was he found? Your brother, I mean?”

“His body is still laid out in the conservatory. He was discovered a mere hour or two previously. I imagine he remains unmoved.”

“Shall we?”

It is with some reluctance I bid adieu to the fair monster on the rocks. She reminds me so much of another and my heart compresses. I thought it was stone. The maiden flutters her eyelashes at me and returns to whatever unspeakable horrors lie beneath the waves with a flick of her emerald tail. I wonder if she knows that I am a monster too.

We go to look at my poor departed brother, his corpse so exquisite in death.

“So, what happened?” asked the uncouth man, as he follows me to the scene of his murder.

“Last night I dreamed of shadows,” I say. “I called to them, but they did not answer. I awoke in a cold sweat. Sure that something was amiss, I wandered the dusty hallways of the castle. Berne was missing from his bed and there was an unwholesome presence in the east wing. For what abominable purpose it lingered, I know not, but when I arrived, there lay Berne, his eyes open and staring, his life’s blood gushing from the wound on his throat, as lifeless as you see him now.”

It is a pretty tale, some of it even true. We look down at the corpse of my brother in the eastern conservatory. Servants have blocked off the door, and whisper to each other behind their hands. Always they whisper. I cannot get the whispers out of my head no matter how I try. Berne lies where he had fallen, crumpled like a discarded paper. Despite the wound on his neck, he remains handsome. He was a good-looking man but then we all are. The king has so many sons, and all of us, expendable. I must not forget how expendable we are in my father’s many eyes. My back twitches. Is he looking at me now? Sweat slides down my neck as I feel the eyes on me. It is not safe here, I need to get away. My palms grow slick and I try not to panic, as the uncouth man kneels down, examining Berne’s pallid brow.

The uncouth man looks from me to my brother, his face creasing.

“You look a lot alike,” he says. I nod but do not comment on the obvious.

He looks at Berne’s ruined neck. I wonder if he notes the rotting stitching of velvet lapel, the trace of sand on the shoes, and the faint but persistent scent of must, lust, and abandonment. So many clues if he has but the intelligence to perceive. Without a doubt he cannot fail to miss the letters scrawled in sapphire blue above Berne’s head. Unless he is a simpleton.

Dark Sun, it says.  The uncouth man dips his fingers in the still damp liquid and sniffs. He touches it to his lips with a frown.

“Squid ink,” he says. “And what’s this?” He lifts a single strand of seaweed from my brother’s pocket. “What does ‘Dark Sun’ mean? A code? A place? A person? How curious.”

Indeed. But I have always had a great gift for silence. It makes me an invaluable member of the royal family. It will seem more natural if he works it out for himself, I can always nudge him in the right direction if his intelligence is found wanting. However, the uncouth man will have none of it, however and pesters me for my opinion. Have the servants been questioned? Did my brothers have enemies? Did he like to swim? I answer the questions as best I can. My brother had no known enemies. The servants were questioned. No, he detested the water. Nothing was recovered from his body other than some old pamphlets from a forgotten cult. Yes, he could see them, they were in the library.

I smile at his receding back and then hurry after him.

As we pass through the gloomy halls at a trot, a tall woman in a druid’s robe crosses our path. She is glancing over her shoulder as if worried about pursuit and dashes for a window, clearly making her escape. The uncouth man brightens at the sight of her and skids to a halt. Her naked feet dangle over the sill of a large window. What were the guards thinking, letting a barefoot wench into the palace? I will have words with them all. If I survive this.

“My darling,” the uncouth man shouts. “How goes your quest? I have an inkling that ours might be intertwined.”

“Fuck off, Fred,” says his woman. “I’m not telling you anything!” And she runs for the shrubbery.

I observe to him that the life of a bachelor was easier on the brain, as well as the heart, and he agrees, momentarily downcast. However, the cheery cove is irrepressible. Five minutes later he has forgotten his woes. We arrive in the library and demand to see the pamphlets.

The warden brings them to us and lays them out on the table. They are drafted on cheap parchment, flecked crimson and expound the joys of cult living: a new order, salvation in the embrace of the Endless Night. Summon them in the Deep!

The uncouth man lifts the pamphlet and sniffs.

“Bergamot,” he says, and sniffs again. “And ambergris. Who wears those?”

I am impressed. So many neglect this sense they may as well be eyeless and mewling, helpless as they squirm through the void.

“Berne,” I say, with a smile.

“Ah.”

We sit in silence.

The uncouth man sniffs. A frown mars his brow and he sniffs again. I lift my chin so that the full effect of the ambergris and bergamot wash over him. He regards me with questioning eyes, but remains gratifyingly silent. It is not safe to speak openly in the palace. Perhaps I have underestimated his intellect.

The warden walks over once more, and sets down an obsidian ring, and a note, hastily scrawled. The ring seems to draw the light. Perhaps the room grows a little darker, perhaps I am imagining things, but my heart shrivels a little at the sight of it, once so familiar.

“These were found on his highness as well,” he says, with a bow, before leaving us to our investigation. The uncouth man examines the ring, then tosses it aside to pick up the note. It is scuffed, badly written, and has that faded look of paper submerged in water and then dried out. One corner is torn.

Meet me at The Dark Sun, Innsmouth, at the turning of the tide.

“Aha,” he says. “Now we are getting somewhere.” I should hope so, it is literally spelled out for him in blue ink. “You know where Innsmouth is?” he asks, turning to me. “The Dark Sun? I assume a tavern, and the town?”

“Correct,” I reply. “The Dark Sun is a squalid establishment for undesirables and reprobates. A wonderful place for those conducting shady deals, and for conversations that wish to go unheard.” My companion’s eyes brighten, but then glances at me and I realise I might have made a mistake.

“Then let us make haste.”

We set off through the palace, after taking the time to borrow cloaks and hoods from a chest. My uncouth companion swathes himself in a dusky shirt, and a cloak of blackest night. I feel the eyes on me as we pass through the dim corridors. We pass a pair of sobbing maids whose eyes widen as they see us. They try to withdraw to the shadows but the uncouth man has seen them and is moved to concern.

“My dear ladies,” he cries, “whatever is the matter?”

“Sarah has gone missing,” sobs the one, her face buried in her handkerchief. “They’ve taken her.”

“Who?” cries the uncouth man, but they run away despite his entreaties. We resume our progress into the town with my companion chewing his lip in frustration. I heave a great sigh of relief as we pass out from under the shade of the great gates. The eyes cannot follow me here.

“Do a lot of people go missing?” the uncouth man asks, after a few minutes. “In the palace? In Innsmouth.”

“Yes,” I reply simply.

He turns this over in his mind and I can see the gears turning. We continue on but then the conversation takes an unexpected turn. I suspect my companion has a fever on his brain.

“Do you like cooking?” he asks. I shake my head. “What about knitting? No? Hmmm fencing? Ballet? You lout, how could you! Art? Music? Fencing? What about your parents?”

I start in alarm and hastily start a conversation about breakfast foods. I must not think of the darkness. Berne used to be my father’s favourite, before his death. Now it is my brother Wilhelm who curries favour and he is not so trusting as Berne. I shudder and focus on pancakes. My uncouth companion is fond of eggs and we argue the merits of waffles over teacakes.

In this vein we enter the outskirts of Innsmouth. This late in the night most are safe abed. Windows leer, gaping wounds in the brick, fog covers the streets and there is very little light. An oppressive silence hangs over the place, damp and fetid. A mangy cur comes out to bark at us from a side alley. A footpad threatens us but the uncouth man deals with him with efficient violence.

We find the Dark Sun without much trouble, despite my claiming ignorance of the location.  The rough tang of the docks assaults our nostrils as we climb salt-stained stairs. A feeble gaslamp stutters in the mist, drawing our shadows out behind us.

I am hopeful that she will be there, she haunts this place before the dawn.

The night is elderly and there are very few patrons. I spy Maris immediately, seated in the darkest corner nursing a cocktail of vodka and pain, as is her wont. I pretend ignorance. The state comes to me naturally, but I have much experience surrendering oblivion’s caliginous embrace.

Only the lost and the lonely are abroad at such an hour, as well as a pack of extremely drunken dwarf maidens who seem to be celebrating forthcoming nuptials. Their uncultured warbling lends a discordant hum to the room and I sit, uneasy, waiting to see how things proceed. Maris has always been a woman of action, which is why I brought the uncouth man here. I need not have feared. My uncouth friend slides the obsidian ring across the counter to the barkeep, making sure all who linger in the great room are able to observe. The barkeep pauses in his toil, oily rag suspended in space.

“Have you seen this before?” he asks. The barkeep’s eyes flicker. He grunts in the negative, and carries on wiping.

My companion is frustrated but then Maris beckons us forward from her shadows. It has been a long time since we have met in the flesh, and her eyes flicker to me, probably wondering if her disguise is enough. It is not, but then I know she is a daughter of Neptune.

Her hood is up, and she is dressed in the manner of a night walker, long black hair bound in a braid, split skirts tightly cinched at the waist, ample cleavage on display and lips as red as despair. She winces as she takes a step, but it is barely perceptible and the only outward indication that she had been born with a tail instead of legs. Her eyes are sapphire blue and questioning, her breath smells of vodka.

“Ma’am,” says my uncouth friend, doffing a hat that is not there. Truly a fevered brain, and the attention span of a goldfish. “Have you seen this before?” he asks, holding out the ring, flat on the palm of his hand, his eyes bright with hope. Hope so bright I felt like it would burn if I got too close. Had I ever hoped like that?

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice as clear as a silver bell. I open my mouth to speak but she interjects “-we can’t talk here. Will you come?”

“We will follow you, lady,” he says, with a slight bow.

We remove ourselves, returning once more to the oppressive quiet of the empty streets. The lamplight reflects off the puddles as the woman steps lightly despite each step being a secret agony. She leads us between boarded up and rotting houses, and along a narrow alley that leads to the sea. A chill wind blows skims the shoreline and I shiver, the blood sluggish and cold as it tries to pump through my veins.

Breakers crash, the fathomless chaos of deep water waiting just off the rocks as the water inhales and exhales onto the beach. I try not to look at it. Overhead, night birds screech and howl into the wind. As they coast on open wings, I shake the cobwebs and phantasms from my mind. The dawn is still some hours away.

“Beware,” I mutter to the uncouth man, a premonition pooling in my gut. He nods, his face tight.

“Ma’am?” he says, again to her receding figure.  “Ma’am? Where are you taking us?”

The attack, when it comes, is not unexpected, but still surprising in its violence. Cutthroats rush us from the shoreline. Hard, unshaven men appear from behind rocks and run toward us, shouting and waving weaponry. I draw my rapier and stand fast. I have little training but I have faith in the uncouth man. He has an aptitude for bloodshed.

A lithe, dark skinned girl is sprinting for me, twin daggers held aloft, a manic look in her eye. She is wearing far too many belts. I dodge her blade, diving into the sand and rolling out from under one the boot of one of the mercenaries. I duck, and a dagger flies over my head, burying itself in a nearby palm.

“Alice!” shouts the uncouth man, angrily. “Don’t make me come at you, young lady! I will, I swear! I’m going to count to three, there will be no four!”

“I’m not afraid of you, Fred!”

They square off and two minutes later she runs squealing.

I parry a ruffian, recoil, and then manage to slash the brute across the thighs. He leaps back, howling, but then lunges at me. I leap backwards but the fates have my lifeline in their crooked hands, rusted scissors at the string and things are looking dire. Then my companion arrives, scattering our attackers like a wolf in a hen house. He bounds and twirls with ceaseless energy, despatching violence with what can only be considered poetic grace. A man in an eye patch is sent staggering. Two rough looking youths in rags are reduced to quivering heaps. A woman with a peg leg has her pike reduced to kindling. There is little for me to do and for that I am grateful. I abhor unnecessary violence. Short, brutal moments later he stands, breathing hard and surrounded by broken piles of pirates, all of them bruised, some of them unconscious.

Maris remains, her sapphire eyes shining with emotion, her hair whipping about her head.

“Why do you defend this monster?” she asks my uncouth friend. He leans heavily on his staff, catching his breath.

“Prince Erik? Why is he a monster? What did he do?”

“They are all monsters, up in that palace.”

“Steady on.”

“Monsters, Fred!” comes a voice from behind the palm tree. The lithe girl who tried to stab me is hiding there. “I’m trying to kill a monster!”

“Alice,” he calls.

“Yes?”

“Did you accidentally kill the wrong prince?”

“There’s more than one prince?”

“Yes, you great steaming twit.”

“Oh. I mean, no, I’ve been trying really hard to kill this one, but your big hairy arse keeps getting in the way.”

“She’s right,” I say, stepping forward.

My uncouth friend draws himself up with dignity.

“My arse,” he says, “is neither hairy, nor in the way. Or rather, it's just the right amount of hairy. A light, peachy fuzz.”

“No,” I say. “She’s right that I am a monster. My whole family are.”

There is a pause while my uncouth friend considers this.

“Is that why you killed Berne?” he asks at last.

“Aye,” I say, “And if you listen carefully I will tell you why.”