On the road, again ...

On the road again…

“Coward!” Theo shakes his fist at the lone sliver of sunlight that peeks briefly under the storm clouds before it slips behind the western horizon. The wind slaps his words back into his face, sharpening the rain into cat claws.

His boots squish through the mud and soaked leaves. His clothes, weighted down by the relentless rain, cling to his skin. His cold hands stuffed into damp pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, hat pulled down low over his brow, he slogs on. What might have looked like a path in the dreary daylight, becomes mere shades of dark and darker.

How lost is he?

As if there are degrees of lostness, he scoffs. Lost is lost until you’re found, and someone says, “Here you are.”

Too many miles ago, his horse Abram, came up lame when the bridge they crossed collapsed. Now Theo walks alongside, trying not to think how far the river carried them off course. He glances toward his steed.

“Wish I could feed you, old man. But what didn’t wash away back there is soaked. Let’s plough on, shall we? Stiff upper lip and all that.”

The horse neighs, curling its upper lip.

“Sarcasm won’t get you fed.” He shrugged. “Surely someone lives around here.” And on they walk.

Mindlessly he places one foot in front of the other. Valiantly, though without success, Theo tries to empty his mind, lest his ghosts take over. Ghosts of memories that can be as painful as a kick in the balls or shapeshift into shimmers with distant, distorted sound effects. Ghosts that slip out of and into shadows. The ones that mock, jeer, accuse and condemn him.

Not just the ghosts of the millions and millions of people that died in the first few attacks, but specifically the ghosts of his family. The ones he promised to protect but didn’t. His parents, who always failed to hide their disappointment in him, would never accept his excuse that he was away when they were taken.

His wife's ghost never failing to reach out, his hand always grabbing nothing. His children, the oldest, turning his back on Theo in anger and filial-disappointment, his five-year-old daughter believing in him till the very last minute. Her astonished cry “Dadddddeeee?” haunts him and wakes him at night. The baby that mercifully slept.

If only he had been there to whisk them from danger? How is he supposed to go on? Where is he supposed to go? What is left of his world? Who is left? Can he trust anyone he sees? Will he ever forgive himself, how can he?

On they walk, till Abram neighs and nudges Theo’s shoulder.

“Hm?” Theo wakes from his somnambulistic nightmare.

“What? What is it? Are we somewhere?”

Letting the lame horse nudge him to the left, he soon sees a black shadow looming out of the dark night. Abram gives the large amorphous structure a wide berth and goes straight to the stables. An old man, toothless jaws chomping a meerschaum pipe, awaits them at the stable doors.

“Picked a lovely night, gov’.” The old man greets, stepping back to let Theo and Abram in. “He pulled up lame, I see. Go on with you. I’ll tend your horse.”

“I think I’ll stay with my mate if you don’t mind. I’d be obliged for something to treat his foot and a bite to eat for him. I’ll sleep in the stall.” Theo says as he relieves Abram of his burden.

“Surely his lordship is expecting you.” The man tips his chin toward the dark structure.

“Tell you the truth, sir, I’m not sure where we are so, I doubt I’m expected.”

“If you say so, gov, but up there they have a way of knowing.” The old man mumbles but retrieves what Theo had requested. Old Caleb is not surprised when a manservant enters the stable with a change of clothes for Theo.

“Gordon, at your service, Sir Theo. Please accept these humble but dry fashions. The Earl awaits your company, Sir.”

Theo flicks his eye at Old Caleb, who merely shrugs. “Don’t you worry. I got it, gov. Your horse will be good to run in no time.”

A mere thirty minutes later Gordon, holding a flaming torch to light the way through long, echoing halls, shows Theo into a dimly lit but warm library.

“Have a seat, Sir Theophilus.” A man, dressed in unrelieved black, steps forward from one of the dark corners. His posture is stiff and straight, as if unused to movement, his black, deep-set eyes bore into Theo’s.

“You have the advantage, Milord. You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“True.” The man nods while motioning Theo to one of the two chairs near the fireplace. The servant returns with a tray holding two glasses and a decanter. He fills both glasses and retreats.

“How is your father, Sir Dimitrius?”

“You knew my father?”

“It is proper to answer a question with an answer, young man, rather than another question.”

Theo takes a healthy swallow of the liquid, a sweet brandy that burns on the way down, drying his mouth, making him imbibe some more.

“My father is gone, Milord. Like so many others. Either killed or taken by the Invaders.” Theo stares into the fire, trying to ignore the faces he sees in the dancing flames.

“My whole family. Merely specks of dust in the grand scheme of things, but they were mine. I vowed to protect them, and I failed.”

Soundlessly, Gordon steps forward and refills Theo’s glass.

"What is your destination, Sir Theophilus?”

“Just Theo, I gave up all that rot. Just bloody Theo.”

“Very well. Bloody Theo, where are you going?”

“I’ve heard rumors of small settlements deep in the woods. I’m trying to connect. Not sure where I am or whether I’m still on the right course.” Again, the servant refills the glass he can’t remember draining. He must have.

“In that case, I trust you will enjoy tonight’s entertainment.”

A shimmer appears in the corner to the left of the hearth. Slowly the light morphs into a holograph. Eyes wide, mouth open, Theo sees his father. He can’t hear the words but based on the grand gestures and intensity in his eyes, as if trying to connect with an unseen audience, Sir Dimitrius appears to be orating.

A light glimmers on the other side of the hearth, there amid her children, cradling the youngest, is his wife Aura. Next to her, thumb safely tucked in her mouth is five-year-old Teagan. Hector his oldest at twelve appears to be absorbing his grandfather’s words. Theo’s mother, Esme, has one arm wrapped over Teagan’s shoulder and whispers in her ear.

“Are they alive? Where are they? How do I get to them? Tell me.”

“Your horse is lame; you are tired and out of weapons. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Wildly Theo lurches from his chair and with an incoherent cry reaches for his host, intending to shake sense into him, but the man fades and disappears. Off balance, Theo topples forward into the now empty chair.

Gordon, the servant, helps Theo to his feet and wordlessly leads him out of the library. They walk through long dark hallways where paintings of haughty ancestors following every step with open scorn. They climb broad, sweeping stairways, turn corners this way and that. Ascend narrow twisting stairs, and descent at least two. More musty-smelling hallways. Boars, bobcats, and bears eye them hungrily as they pass. Finally, Gordon stops in front of a door.

Inside the furnishings are sparse, the hearth is unlit, the room cold. Bed curtains are drawn against the damp draft. After lighting one candle, the servant bows, and leaves.

As soon as the door closes, Aura, cradling the baby, appears as if stepping from the cold hearth. She is in deep conversation with Esme. His children follow. He tries to read Aura’s lips, strains to hear any sound other than the wind and rain assaulting the window.

Do they know he’s on his way? Are they still alive, or mere figments like the man in black, his host? He must find them. Seeing them, even imagining them, flames his fever. He flees the room, stumbles through the halls and spends most of the night evading malevolent eyes to find his way out of the mansion. By daybreak he and a well-fed, well-rested and fully healed Abram are on the road, following the vague direction from Old Caleb.

Theo is determined to never set eyes on the mysterious mansion again. He doesn’t know yet that he will be back tonight. And the next, and …