Ello! Minion here! Well this is a piece from my dreaded English project but I decided I owed something to Dr. Crane-who am I kidding, he's too embaressed/outraged to support the posting of this story because of the memories it entitles. This is more for myself because my previous 'background fic' called "Jonathan Crane: The Origin of the Scarecrow" was written without use of the amazing comic "Batman Year One: Two-Face and Scarecrow" so I was very wrong on quite a few accounts concerning his past. Yet "Jonathan Crane: The Origin of the Scarecrow" is a valuble piece of writing toward my series (I have yet to come up with a series title but the current story available is "Mors Et Timor") so I figured I should just upload the other background fic since this was written (aside from a flashback) as I poured over pannel after pannel of the comic, trying to capture every iota of colour in my writing. The main challenge while writing was the tense and POV because I hardly write in third-person and I never write in present tense. I apologize if my present tense slips into past but please bear with my inexperience.
Also I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman/ Batman Begins OR "Batman Year One: Two-Face and Scarecrow" with that in mind, enjoy!
Granny's Secret
The rain beat against the window in uneven intervals. It is not the rain which soothes but the rain which seeks to drown the world with oppressive clouds, guarded by coming thunder, seething with danger as each flash of lightning momentarily freezes time itself.
Yet young Jonathan rests in his large, four poster canopy bed, the moth eaten fabric draping over the feeble wood in a dilapidated display of fortune long since passed. His frail body, worn further with the strenuous work of harvesting his tears and sweat in order to appease his Great-Grandmother, struggles to find comfort in the creaking mattress. How tender his slumbering form is as he seeks to find solace in the silence of the night—Perhaps then, it is too tender, for he awakes in a grimace of pain.
Wearily rising, he sheds the protective sheet, knowing the threadbare fabric can no longer shield him from the terrors of the night. He rubs at his eyes tiredly, hoping to sear the pain of waking from his mind with the colourful bursts of lights behind his closed eyes. Already, he feels his worn socks fall to the might of the room's chill. He blinks blearily before facing the looming darkness of his room with a disgruntled sigh.
In that instant, his attention is drawn to the rain as it continues its persistent onslaught against the shuddering window panes that seems to tremble a bit more from the might of the wind.
Drawn to the brutality, he swallows unconsciously before rising to the aching window; completely entranced by the lulling call of destruction. His knees begin to shake as he crosses the groaning floors, desperately hoping his Great-Grandmother does not rise with a fury to match the landlocked tempest outside.
Calloused hands rest gently against the splintered wood of the window sill, fearing to leave an imprint of his presence lest his Great-Grandmother seek to punish him further. She always saw it fitting to punish him...
For a moment the relentless rain blots out the landscape, drenched in dreary night; the trailing fingers of rain grasp desperately for purchase against the smooth glass yet their grip erodes, allowing young Jonathan to peer outside.
Piqued, he notices a light gently glowing from another wing in the manor. Silently, he watches as if pondering the possibility of a beating should he wander about at such a time...or would his adventure earn him a trip to the chapel?
A clap of thunder startles him as his face is illuminated in the window's frame. As his heart calms, he steels his resolve and once more bears with the gnarled and creaking wood despite the uneven grooves that cling to his poorly clothed feet.
Now, he leaves the waning safety of the room to face the dark, forbidding presence of the ancient manor. He nears the banister, gazing over the landing and into the unfathomable abyss of darkness which seethes in quiet fury as though it lies in waiting for his foolish plan to lead him to its gaping maw.
Iron wrought spindles, cobbed by spiders more at home in the manor than the humans who resided there, seemed colder than ice in the shadows of night. As young Jonathan takes in the sight before him, there is no sudden burst of memories, some frivolous moment of time long since past. Instead, there are only flashes of terrors...
The impish face of metal balusters, curved oh so wickedly in leering masks that seemed to laugh he was dragged down the winding staircase in order to meet his punishment. Somewhere along the once polished wood, remain the markings of his bloodied nails as he foolishly tried to slow the impending doom that awaited him.
Yet in this brooding manor there is no merciful angel to ease his shaking body, soaked through with a cold sweat, there is only the demon which prowls the house in the guise of a caretaker...and perhaps that was a fitting title for the woman who took precious care to maintain his humility and remind him of his inferiority.
How could he forget his everlasting faults, the impurity of his immortal soul?
Even so long ago as the house shuddered with the strain of bearing the bleaching rays of the sun, he knew nothing of peace.
It was spring.
Last year's crop had been lacking which causing the budget to constrict even tighter in the face of their economic crisis. So habitual, the severe drop of income had hardly fazed him, a child so starved of love and other nutritional factors most youths were accustomed to.
And so, the constant ache of his body, the quiver of his knees, the tight rasp of his frightened voice, was untouched by the monetary decay the manor and its inhabitants had battled from previous years. Acts of restoration, even the general upkeep of such an extensive, regal estate had declined as his caretaker grew older and older, matching the slow rot of her inherited mausoleum. The previous line of Keeny's fell to despair, leaving the old woman and the young boy to manage on that dying plot of earth, barely clinging to its former regalia.
Yet the spirits of the deceased continued to inhabit the manor, he felt their burning gaze in every oiled painting and cracked, marble bust. The severity of their lives, the niche his predecessors had carved, had all but eroded, leaving their oppressive presence as a haunting reminder of the world's cruelty.
Not that Jonathan was any stranger to cruelty...
"Jonathan," he stiffened upon hearing the curt, rasp of his Great-Grandmother.
He swallowed, steadying his nerves as he neared the banister and peered down into the pit of the foyer below. It seemed gutted by the bleaching sun which bore down with oppressive might through the glass sky light that acted as God's burning gaze.
Cold, narrowed eyes stabbed his heart with despair.
"Come down at once—" her voice was mild yet held the veiled presence of danger. Obedient to his caretaker's order, he began to near the first step of the elegantly curved stairwell, "—with the item you stole."
He paused, frozen with one foot about to descend, "Granny, I-I haven't—"
Her face twisted into a hard expression of disgust, "Don't lie to me, Jonathan! Bring that wretched book that stained your thieving hands."
His heart's pumping grew deafening as waves of fear and disbelief washed over him yet his dread peaked as she began to ascend the stairs in a fury unbecoming of her age.
"Granny, I haven't any books!"
Poisoned by the cloying sensation of fear, he stumbled back, tangling his gangly legs together as he crashed to the landing in an unexpected plunge. One hand cradled his head as he attempted to catch his bearings while being distorted by the blinding sun.
Suddenly, a looming shadow blocked out the glaring light of the heavens. Her face, lined by the many years of harsh living, was drawn into an expression of such loathing that he was struck speechless.
Without warning she snatched his raised arm, harshly jerking him to his feet with a tight, bony grip. Unamused by his cry of pain she began to drag him, struggling and stumbling, down the tender and aching wood of the stairs.
"Hmph, did you think I would allow you to run away and try to hide your sin? You cannot hide from the Lord, Jonathan, you cannot hide from me. I will return for the book but first I believe you are due for a visit to the chapel."
"No! Granny, please! I swear—"
The aching of the house, choked with dust and trembling with the echoing cries of pain, remain silent as young Jonathan descends into the pits of hell. Each step trembles beneath his feet, seeming to splinter beneath the weight of his burdening presence. Despite the uncertainty of his descent he refuses to take reassurance from the railing which is supported by the cruel balusters: they are of no use to him.
Further into the shadows he journeys, allowing the sickening sound of the rain maliciously beating the house to fade into obscurity...but now a new nightmarish scene awaits him.
The throbbing glow of light from behind a closed door, much like the pulsating pus from an infected wound, seems to rot away the darkness and leave bare the skeletal frame of the ancient walls. Whispers of danger roar in young Jonathan's ears as he cautiously nears the door before taking the rusted handle into his hand in order to pry the door from its place with the ease of tearing a newborne from its mother.
The manor was rigid as was his caretaker; both screeched and groaned, leaving him to guess at what malicious surprise would await him should his actions break their thinning patience. Often the manor's ill health was a reflection of the woman's. In equal terms they tore at him in anger, screaming in protests for his presence but demanding his obedience all the same.
The empty pits of the manor, the icy roost of his room, the dangers of the very foundation were all reflected in its twin: the woman. Similar to the manor, his caretaker had not a degree of warmth within a drop of her marrow, even her appearance was much like the manor: faded and cruel. Yet despite the struggle of his entry, the manor had not betrayed him and alerted the woma—demon.
His hand rests uneasily atop the stiff metal of the handle as he takes interest in the sight before him, loosing himself entirely to the fate of the demon should its twin relay word of his presence. Below the cracked walls, spindly fingers all seeming to point accusingly at his waiting form, the demon stands with rigid posture, brewing something atop the 1920's oven adjacent to a ironing board. It is apparent that no matter the change in times both the woman and the house remain in their original form.
Amid the heavy, iron pots and pans that seem to hang heavily against the wall, sagging against their bonds as a body would when completely slack against a noose, the chipped chinaware waits in hushed apprehension as his caretaker holds her thin hand above a steaming pot. The contents within the cocoon of withered skin and blue veins is impossible to make out but as her bony wrist bends sharply, tiny specs of something, presumably spice, trickles out from an invisible container.
The familiarity of her rigid posture, extenuated by the restricting dress of silk and sombre black, invites cool shivers of unease to rack sharp claws of fear into his back. To the ignorance of a passerby she was a small woman in stature, certain to be harmless yet to the experienced boy she a rigid woman who knew nothing of mercy and was most capable of brutality.
Blue eyes widen with surprise and revulsion as she raises her other hand to reveal the matted, dirtied fur of a rat dripping fresh blood as she lowers it into the pot by its faded pink tail. He glances about the room, searching for some clue as to shed light on her reasoning, if it was reason that compelled her, for dealing with such filthy things as vermin.
The table in the center of the room seems to overflow with an abundance of strange items. The candle sticks are worn to an appropriate length, nothing is strange about the slumping spindle of tallow. A few dishes lay discarded haphazardly along the uneven surface of the stained wood. A cracked mug rests on its side, the worn handle catching the teetering utensil from rolling about. Yet the one item which stands apart from the rest is the wooden cutting board with a carving knife, tinged crimson, deeply imbedded within the aged wood.
Young Jonathan is awash with horror as his eyes once more return to the austere woman who now reaches into the pot and once more reveals the dead rat freshly dripping with the alien contents of the steaming pot. Her face remains the same as she grimly raises the sopping, limp rat high in the air and swiftly transfers the leaking fluid atop the cloth waiting on the ironing board near the stove.
Gnarled fingers wring the rat without concern for the slopping, syrup which coats her hands, no doubt catching under her long, sharp nails. Transfixed, young Jonathan watches while the cloth is drenched with the foul concoction—How the odious fluid does not cause his Great-Grandmother to scrunch her nose in distaste, he does not know...then again, her nose is often upturned in disdain for him so he would not know the difference.
What was the purpose behind this curious and bizarre ritual? Stepping closer, he momentarily forgets the danger of the manor's gossiping ways in his haste to comprehend the strange happening. What significance does the cloth serve? It seems to be nothing special, just a mess of black, stiff fabric overlapping sleeves and creased pants—just like his Sunday suit.
Although a new piece of information provides him with a fresh tangent of thought, his attention is directed to his caretaker as she leaves the suit atop the ironing board—perhaps to allow the fabric to absorb the fluid or to later iron the syrupy mixture into the suit—and walks across the room, paying no attention to the ajar door and the confused child avidly watching.
She does not seem bothered by the bloody potion of rat and spice and whatever else that stains her hands a guilty scarlet. In fact, nothing seems to faze her while she steps on the creaking wood ignoring its cries as the manor attempts to warn her of the unknown spectator; her back never bends, her head never lowers, her steps never falter. The hem of her silk dress hisses threats as the frayed shreds drag along the woodwork, attempting to stop its wearer in order to direct her attention to him.
Yet she is undeterred and reaches for a ragged umbrella, too rickety to open on the first attempt. She opens the door, letting in the howling chill which permeated the air outside, opening the door to reveal the beast of the storm young Jonathan had all but forgotten about. Until now that is, for the pounding of the rain, the howling of the wind, the clash of the lightning, and the boom of the thunder strike his senses at once, overwhelming him as he struggles to gauge his luck if he should continue to follow the terrible demon.
Curiosity bounces in his head, urging him on as his thrashing heart begs for the safety, the ignorance, he possessed not too long ago. Following the former, he quickly rushes to the window which shields him from the storm, from her fury, from all the terrible truth and pain that lies awaiting out there—but is it not also true that the beginning of such horror was borne from within?
The glass is chilled.
Despite the warmth of his breath bouncing off the glass and clinging to his face in a sensation of cooling moisture, his insides turn cold. It is impossible to tell if the torrent of wind is responsible for the window's violent shivering or if the boy moves the loose surface with his jerky response to the unbelievable spectacle before him. He presses his face closer to the window, smearing his cheeks upon its surface as he stares outside, unwilling to blink for a single moment.
The demon does not falter under the lashing of rain and wind, only half deterred by the meager protection of the umbrella so shambled in age. Due to the glare of the lights within the kitchen, he is unable to make out every detail in the land torn asunder by the perilous storm. He struggles to follow her fading silhouette against the impossible force of the clouds which block out all light but that of the stabbing lightning, piercing his eyes with a sudden burst of clarity, of raw, brazen clarity.
Faintly, he is able to track her as she nears the scarecrow seemingly raging against his bonds as though the storm had possessed him with a new, violent life. Or perhaps he was fighting for his last moments of life for not a second sooner than she had arrived at the foot of the looming guardian of the harvest did she place the rat upon his shoulder before promptly retreating several yards.
Mystified, young Jonathan stands breathless as lightning slashes across the sky in an ugly snarl which illuminates a giant swarm of dark clouds that had gathered in a torrent of wind before descending—No, not clouds for in the sudden clarity of the rapid fire of cruel lightning the clouds were exposed as birds.
The birds swoop down in a harsh dive aiming for the defenseless scarecrow.
The horde of birds tears into the tattered threats.
The wind wrenches the sagging man of straw in a fierce game of tug-o-war with the birds.
The violence of the birds is a stark image, one he is unable to easily forget.
It was those birds! The same that tormented him as he was locked in that dreaded aviary.
Silence enfolded as the cluster of lightning cleared, casting him in a cold, knowledgeable silence.
…
A week passes.
Young Jonathan is appalled by his discovery and the many ramifications that have sprouted from the troublesome root. Now he doubts everything that the rotting manor stands for, everything that makes up the aged woman who claimed absurdities as truth, abuse as just.
His curiosity is not satisfied in a house of lies, holding an evil so raw, so magnificent, it is simply not possible to be contained in the confused mind of a young boy.
He bides his time while acting with impartiality to all that happens, all that happens in the name of her lie, her secret. Upon knowing the truth, he is not able to turn away and once more submerge himself in the depths of oblivious innocence. How could he upon knowing the very disease which riddles with house with rot, the very touch that taints every dust choked room?
Yet one afternoon as his caretaker slumbers, he decides to continue his nightly escapade in a more dangerous setting. Sunlight points accusing fingers, stabbing into his face and neck with hot points of outrage at his disobedient, sly actions. He cautiously walks along the hall adjacent to that room, ignoring the hideous shouts of the manor as it berates him for his sinful rebellion. Nevertheless, he is unfazed for today he will enter the Forbidden Room.
His Great-Grandmother had always forbid him access to the room, she even punished him in paranoid rages in which she believed he had entered the room when he, in fact, had not. No matter the repercussions of his actions, even with the risk of the 'chapel', he is determined to enter that room; the room which holds the secrets of the manor and its twin; the room which holds the knowledge he seeks; the Forbidden Room.
Now, only a single door as ridden with webs of spiders and chilling drafts as the rest, stands in front of him and his desire. He steels his nerve as he opens the door, wincing at the loud shriek of alarm which sounds at his sudden violation of the room's solitude. Quickly, he enters the room as if hovering on the edge would undermine his resolve to thoroughly explore the contents of the room—Yet he is unprepared for the grand sight which surrounds him with the aura of a glorious treasure: books.
Everywhere there are books, some are stuffed into shelves while others are carefully cased in the boxed sets. Rows upon rows of books stretch out so far he struggles to peer into the musty air as the sunlight floods the room with light, directing its golden fury in a single direction.
Spellbound, he transverses the length of the room in slow, measured steps. The room has a sacred air of peace, as if the world cannot touch this sanctum; only time may mar the scene with its colonies of dust and cities of cobs. How curious it is for such a brilliant sources of wisdom to rest hidden in the dirty, decayed body of a beast.
Eyes wide with wonder, he stops just short of the sun's peak and looks to the shelf in front of him. Immediately, a book catches his eye causing him to tenderly use the ladder to reach the distant wonder. The dusty feel of the book's spine causes him to shiver with a warm delight, how strange it is to discover something so immense within his small, pained life.
Gingerly, he pulls the book from its brethren as he trails a shaking finger down its leather face. In that instant, he decides that this room will be his domain, his fortress, and his first act will be to destroy the woma—demon who sought to obliterate him. He opened the book and began to read the enlightening text titled: "Advanced Chemistry".