Another chapter where I write much fancier than I really should. And reading "Frankenstein" in the meantime is probably not helping. So flowery.
Chapter 2: Lies
I now know the name of my prince, and while it makes no difference to me, I simply can't tell my parents who he is. They'd just die if they found out. Father especially. He'd have a heart attack and keel over, just like that.
His name is Razoff. Yes, that Razoff, the son of Count Zaroff Shoedsackovski. I don't care who he is because he's the most charming boy to have ever existed, but I know how everyone else feels about his family. Zaroff thinks he owns all of us just because the land we live on supposedly belongs to him. But, that doesn't mean Razoff's like that. I'm sure he isn't. He was ever so nice, and we had the most wonderful evening together, which I must write about in more detail later, when I have the time. I promise I will. Don't you fret.
But, I had to lie to my parents that he never showed up. I knew they'd ask for his name if I told them I saw him, and I thought lying about who he was would be even worse than just lying about whether or not we met again. I do hate lying to them, though, and my parents were so angry that he neglected to meet me like he said he would. But, just like my lie, they'd be angrier still if they knew he was the hated Zaroff's son. They wouldn't understand that he's not like Zaroff, so I'm not going to even try explaining it to them. Mother might try to understand, but Father can just be so stubborn sometimes.
I had to lie a lot lately, come to think of it. I had to give Razoff my fake name, and thankfully, when he asked me where my family was from because he had never heard of us, he didn't push me when I couldn't come up with an answer right away. I think he bought it, though. I think he surely did, just as I seemed to do a fine job of talking with a lot of fancy words, and he wants to see me again sometime. I have to think of a way to ask mother for nicer dresses without making her suspicious. I thought I looked like a real princess in those clothes, but next to Razoff, I feel so drab, and I really must get something better, or perhaps he might start to wonder if I really am from a rich family like I said. Otherwise, why would he go for me when he could surely have his pick of any real rich girl as far out as the Bayou? He mustn't ever learn my real identity, and neither can my parents find out I'm going to see him again. I just hope I can keep my little secrets hidden from everyone. I never was good with secrets.
Oh, Eva, what have you gotten yourself into?
The ever-present chill of the Bog of Murk became even more biting than usual with a pervading dampness that marked the bog's rainy season. To be perfectly frank, "rainy season" was a term that could be applied with little argument year-round, which only gave even more meaning to the title. The cold was one thing Razoff had yet to grow accustomed to when he was lacking in the ability to shiver like the warm-blooded creatures, especially those garbed with fur (he found it most objectionable to be covered in hair so, a sentiment that was only reversed when such creatures made rather nice rugs). But, hunters often had to do unpleasant things, such as trekking through mud and snow and mire and sleeping in trees so as to avoid the things that prowled the night. It was just a hazard of the occupation, of which there were many, made worth it when the rewards far outweighed the discomforts.
Nevertheless, here he was, padding along a new path than he took the day before, as it was the predictable prey that was the easiest to catch, which also doubled as the least valuable, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the bog's muddy banks for some sign of that superb prey he had sought for so much of his life. There was one beast in particular, the rybex, that was so fierce in disposition and so grand in stature, not to mention so regal in the curved horns upon its head, that he had devoted a good two decades searching for it since discovering signs of one's existence in the more remote reaches of his territory.
It was a terribly elusive creature that he had only seen once before, but that was why he worked so diligently to encounter a second, doubly so when the mighty Rayman had escaped his grasp just a year prior. That scoundrel was more trouble than he was worth, really. He was almost glad the villain got away. But, Count Razoff, one of the most revered hunters within and without the Glade of Dreams, didn't admit defeat so easily, and he would never consider himself as having failed until the last breath had escaped his lips, which he wouldn't allow until the rybex was his and its head adorned his wall in a place he still kept empty for that very occasion.
He roved about as long as his sluggish body would allow before he had to turn back. Such a climate really was not ideal for a reptile, his old swamp being a humid and cozy place, and he would be sure to warm himself inside and out with some hot tea and a roaring fire as soon as he returned. No sign of the creature was to be found, just as was the case with every day that came before, but it was out there, somewhere, this he knew, and it had to pass by this way again someday. Someday soon, he thought, and he hoped, for he felt something deep in his very bones that told him this was so, and his hunter's intuition hadn't failed him yet.
The hunter made his way home, pausing when he heard a rustling in the undergrowth as he passed through one of the less barren sections of the bog. It was surely not the rybex, but he readied his gun, nevertheless, only to draw back when naught but a toad leapt out and stared at him with blank eyes. Little could he be certain if it was truly a toad or another unfortunate victim of the hag, and he walked by as it croaked one and two times, his pace quickening to return him to the safety of solid walls and locked doors once again. He had come very close to meeting the same end not so terribly long ago, and he didn't wish to tempt fate.
For some time now, his hunting had been less successful than he would have liked when he could scarcely force himself to stray from his home any longer or any farther than necessary. He couldn't expect his prey to always come to him, he knew this, but after that witch had carried him off one night... She had, in fact, gotten right into his house, had appeared in his very basement through the enchanted mirror he had since smashed and scattered beneath the dim waters of the bog. It would never happen again, he'd make sure of it, but never since had his frequent walks about his territory felt the same. It was a trait common among all hunters that they did not take kindly to being the ones hunted. His prey didn't, either, but that's what they got for being such simple-minded creatures.
Even upon his return home, however, he was not able to warm himself to a sufficient degree, and though he sipped tea fresh-brewed by the fireplace on the upper level of the grand hall with the massive clock, he rose from his seat not long later to check the nearest floor vent, and, as expected, neither could he see steam rising up from it or feel the warmth he should expect from the furnace he kept going nearly year-round, and with a sigh, he finished his tea in one gulp, his drink feeling so much hotter in contrast to the cold, and headed for the door beneath the stairs in his foyer to descend the narrow staircase into the lowest level of his mansion.
Even now, he held his rifle in both hands, for his basement was home to far more than just the furnace and the rats he once used as target practice, before he turned to the greater challenge offered by moths and other smaller creatures. His basement, in fact, also housed quite a collection of the prey he had captured. Sometimes gazing upon his finds when they were still alive offered even more satisfaction than those lifeless ones he had converted into trophies, but that also provided more opportunities for danger in an already perilous occupation, recreation, whatever it may be called, and it had been made quite clear on more than one occasion how much his prisoners, for lack of a softer word, resented him for the freedom he had denied them.
And as he crept ever softly across the stone floor, unseen creatures stirred with restless unease, while chains clinked as his captives shifted in their cells. They were mere beasts and unworthy of the common courtesy awarded only to those of higher breeding, but it didn't mean they couldn't inflict him with an undue amount of bodily harm if given the chance, and he was inclined to hold his breath as he passed by the metal doors keeping them at bay, and he sensed the unmistakable feeling of eyes peering at him from out of the darkness. He could sense even more venom emanating from one cell in particular, the cell of a creature, a magical being, in fact, he had found badly wounded just over half a year ago. The fact that she could talk did not elevate her much higher than the other things he kept here, and she really should've just been grateful the hunter had shown her mercy to begin with when it was not something he practiced often. Most creatures couldn't comprehend mercy, so what point was there in giving it if he wasn't in the mood to do so?
Razoff's gaze remained ahead of him as he walked between the cells, his earlier careful creeping turned into a muted march. He was the one with the authority here, and it would not do to have them forget that. He reached the furnace beyond, quite an unfortunate location for it, though it was a trip that turned out to be quite uneventful, and he peered within as he tried his best to ignore the pinprick of many eyes upon his back. The firewood had run out, and he was left with no other choice but to shovel more in, even if it left him defenseless so long as his rifle remained merely propped nearby rather than gripped in his hands. Again, like with the dishes, he once had servants to do such demeaning work, but he had learned the hard way that even that small of an allowance was too much for their simple minds to handle.
No, such duties had fallen on him and him alone, for they had gotten free once, thanks to that fiend Rayman. Just once, but of the few mistakes he allowed to happen, there were never repeats. If they had to be kept eternally locked away, then so be it. He only hoped this didn't fuel their resentment of him all the more, but they left him with no other options.
The hunter's usual silence was given up for the quickest of seconds when he slammed the furnace shut again, and he could almost feel those watching draw back, before he turned, rifle once again in hand, and strode back the way he had come with his head held high. No, it wouldn't do at all for them to forget his position here. It wouldn't do at all for them to remember the day they had been set free, for it was not something that would ever happen again.
Razoff returned to his chair in the grand hall once a new pot of tea had been brewed, already a noticeable difference in the brisk air with the heat of the furnace back to do battle with the chill that had no right encroaching upon his mansion to begin with. Nevertheless, he still knew it would be cold once he strayed from the radius of the fireplace, so much more so with nightfall pulling its curtain across the sky, and he was almost made to shiver like a warm-blooded creature at the mere thought of it.
In all honesty, he should be heading out, to hunt for the things that dusk brought, but he remained steadfast in his armchair, the awareness of what he should be doing not enough to compel him to actually do it, and he continued to sip at his tea and gaze out the massive wall of windows that made up the upper half of the room. Storm clouds were building out there, dark and angry, to bring darkness early to the bog and to soon unleash their fury upon all the unfortunate fools outside. Here, he was safe, however, from the deluge he knew would soon come, but an uneasiness settled into his stomach as he watched the storm roll in until it had covered the entire sky and loomed above his mansion with an unnatural heaviness, the grumbles beginning, but no flashes of lightning yet to be seen, while not a single drop struck the window panes. Motionless, he watched the woolen blanket of grey outside, darkening as the unseen sun retreated further.
The rain never fell that night. The grumbling intensified and a few patches lit up on the clouds' underbellies, plain to spot in the blackness, but no rain fell, and the storm was strangely windless, the insects forgoing their usual slow nighttime chirp, and he shifted in his seat in the decreasing orb of light he occupied by a dying fire. The giant clock echoed in the large room, a mechanical heartbeat, and he left the room, his tea abandoned in favor of his rifle, only to stop and listen to the silence that greeted him. Or more precisely, the sound he now caught thanks to the silence. It could merely be a tree scratching a window, but with the absence of wind outside, he had to wonder if the sound perhaps came from inside, and he lifted his weapon to a more alert position and wrapped his three-fingered hands more securely about it.
It could be any number of things. It could be the rats scratching about, as they had been doing since the day he had moved in, a sound that he had once believed was far too unsettling for him to ever learn to tolerate, but had. It could be the settling of his mansion upon its foundation, a possibility even more disturbing than the rats when structures had a habit of sinking in these parts. But, what made him freeze in place and strain his keen ears was the chance that other things had made the sound. He had long worried the witch would come for him again one day, even more so than the prospect of his collection getting free from the confines of the basement, though it reversed on occasion which he dreaded more.
When the sound did not repeat itself, he crept out onto the landing and peered over the bannister. The door to the basement, he caught in the gloom, was open, and he stared down at it as the thunder grumbled once more outside, and he wondered if he had perhaps failed to shut it earlier. His eyes then moved to scan about the floor below before his gaze climbed the stairs and stopped on the dark rectangle of the empty doorway a short distance from him, leading to a room whose fireplace and candles he hadn't bothered today to light. No one and nothing escaped the hunter's notice when he had half a mind to find something, and a life spent spotting the smallest twig out of place or the stirring of dust in what should have been an otherwise still room made it impossible to hide from him for long, least of all in his own home, but he took a far less direct path down to the foyer, a path that allowed him to bypass that dark doorway, and he closed and locked the door and jiggled the knob several times. If he simply checked to see if anything was amiss downstairs, and he would certainly know, he could confirm to himself that the room beyond the doorway needn't be avoided so.
But, he really was a fool for worrying to begin with. It was just him in this place, him and him alone, just as it had always been, as the creatures in his basement didn't count as company and were securely kept locked away. He was alone here, and that was how he spent the night, alone in his bedchamber with a locked door and hardly a wink of sleep despite these reassurances.
Oh, this is terrible! I'll never be able to tell my parents now!
What happened is, I can hardly even talk about it, it was so awful, but you see, Rema went looking for his son. The little thing's always so naughty and running off when he ought not to, and this time, poor Rema just couldn't find him. He looked all over for him; he even asked me if I had seen him, and it's just so very upsetting to think I saw him just before…
Because he's gone now. His son came home, safe and sound, aside from the spanking Ms. Kacia gave him when she found him hiding in the mangrove trees and gorging on sweets. But, Rema never came back. He never came back.
Everyone thinks it was Zaroff that did it, and as little as I like making accusations against Razoff's own father, I think so, too. We can't know for certain, but someone heard a gunshot off in the direction of the Shoedsackovski mansion, and Zaroff said years ago that he'd hunt anyone who ventured onto his property. He claims to own the entire swamp, our village included, and he's quite "gracious" to let us stay here at all, but anyone who strays too close to his mansion is "fair game" and at risk of becoming one of his "trophies". I shudder to think of what happened to poor, dear Rema. He was such a nice man. I think that's why his son took advantage of him so.
Father was so angry when he heard what happened, and mother just cried. The people of our village are so sick of Zaroff; they have been for so long, but what can they do? I don't want anyone to get hurt, but even if they wanted to get back at him, they say he never misses, not with a bow or a rifle, and he has a whole pack of hunting hounds that he would be more than happy to set loose on them. They're mean, nasty things, from what I've heard. Even Razoff hates them because they're loyal to Zaroff only and have bitten him on more than one occasion when he was a child. He says it's thanks to them that he's so nimble now.
And that's why I really can never tell Mother and Father about Razoff and I. I feel like a horrible person, thinking this when Jana and Isak lost their husband and father, I really do, and maybe I am a selfish girl. But, I wanted so very badly for my parents to understand that Razoff isn't bad just because his father isn't the best. We celebrated the one-year anniversary of our first meeting not so very long ago. It was such a romantic night. We stayed up late and watched the stars through the canopy, and he told me of the many places he had been. I don't particularly want to hear of the poor creatures he's hunted, but I so loved hearing his stories about the Fairy Glade and the Menhir Hills and even the Land of the Livid Dead, which sounds like the most awful place imaginable, but if I was with him, I think I could go absolutely anywhere, and it would be heaven. I really could, too.
But, after what Zaroff did, how can I ever convince my parents that Razoff is different? I had thought, now that we had known each other for a while, that maybe they'd be more open to the idea, but I suppose it's for the best I haven't quite worked up the courage to tell them yet.
I found the prince I dreamed about, and I can't even share the news with anyone. Oh, I am a selfish girl to fret over such a thing, aren't I, but it's hard to hide something people teased you about and told you you were silly to ever think you'd get one day. I love Razoff, and he loves me, and once we're of a more proper age, we're sure to get married. Now how could I possibly keep that a secret? I guess at that point, there's not much they can do about it. That's certainly a romantic way of thinking about it, huh? I think not.
I suppose I can't expect things to be like in the storybooks, though. I guess I'm just lucky I've come as close as I have.
I do wonder if Razoff ever escaped from Begoniax…. Not that he didn't deserve getting kidnapped by a short and squat, old witch.
Anyway, I hope you are enjoying my story so far. And do you have any guesses on who's in the cell in Razoff's basement? Please review, dear readers.
