Chapter 9

Keep to the western wing and the kitchens on the first floor, the remainder of the mansion is off limits. The phrase echoed in his mind as Wright climbed the elaborately carved staircase to the third floor of the eastern wing … the living space of this very odd family. This wasn't the first time he had trespassed about the hallways, examining the beautiful stonework inside the mansion. It was merely the farthest he had dared to wander. He knew very little about architecture, whether a building was considered Gothic or Beaux Arts dwelt well beyond his knowledge. But he did know when something was extraordinary. This mansion undeniably fit that description. The details in the scroll-work and the uncountable friezes were breathtaking. Each hallway he explored bore a new array of creatures, real and fantastical, peering out at him from the curving branches of various forest scapes. It was purely magical.

In the third floor hall, the scaled hide of an immense dragon comprised the bulk of one mural. His head arched back, framed by a set of spread wings preparing for flight. Between his front feet pranced a unicorn, brandishing his horn like a lance up towards the dragon's head, the mane billowing in the air. At first glance, Wright assumed the beasts had been warring. Stepping back from the frieze, his eyes caught a star burst above the heads of the beasts, a great fiery bird he assumed to be the mythical phoenix emerging in the carved rays of light. The magical beasts seemed to be frozen in the midst of some ritual devised by the artist's mind.

Staring in awe at the figures of stone, his eyes caught the faint flicker of light through the nearby doorway. Cautiously, he crept towards the wall, peeking his head into the open door. The moment his eyes took in the room his jaw dropped.

Beneath the high ceiling stretched an elaborate laboratory. It wasn't quite as sophisticated as the one at the hospital, but it was undoubtedly the most complete private one he had ever stood in. Several rows of benches were packed with equipment and strange inventions in various stages of completion. Rows of cases lined the walls containing chemicals, compounds, and contraptions, some of which he had no idea what they might possibly do. Leather bound books and dogeared journals were everywhere, many of them cast upon the counter tops in disarray. The journals … they were all written in the finest penmanship he had ever seen, the slope revealing a left-hand behind their creation. Regretfully, they appeared to be entirely in French, a language he did not know.

Absentmindedly, Wright's feet carried him into the lab toward the flickering of a burner heating a beaker of water. The sound of a mortar and pestle grinding herbs drew him closer. He discovered the Persian with his back turned to him, leaning heavily on the crutches. He bent over, consulting the journal laid out beside him. As he emptied the contents of the mortar into the boiling water, he muttered, "That should be everything. Good, now it will take over an hour to boil into solution."

"I didn't know you were a chemist," Wright remarked.

Turning in surprise, Nadir almost lost a crutch in his shock. "What—what are you doing in here? You shouldn't be in his laboratory!"

"His?" An eyebrow raised at the revelation. Walking up to the counter he looked at the pages of the journal wishing he had bothered to learn French. "You mean this is Erik's laboratory?"

"Everything in this house belongs to Erik, built by his whim for his use." Nadir cast his eyes about the room. "He allowed me in here from time to time to administer to his needs when he was indisposed. Erik taught me essentially what I needed to know to work from his careful notes."

Lingering in this homage to the sciences, Wright turned a page in the journal only to find Nadir hastily shutting the leather bound volume on his hand.

"He would not like you privy to his observations," he replied curtly. "Erik always was highly protective of his studies."

"Studies?" Wright's eyes shifted to some of the machines and devices scattered about the room. Could it be he had never seen such things because these particular inventions were the manifestations of the mind he had performed surgery on? "What manner of studies?"

Hanging his head, Nadir relented to the persistence. The ache in his leg ate at his resolve. "Ever since I have known him, he has been extremely inquisitive about how the world works. His innovations have resulted in tinctures and solutions that can cure ailments in half the time of traditional treatments, to a number of astonishing creations of machinery I could not even begin to explain. He was especially fond of bending the laws of physics in a highly artistic fashion. That's what made him an extraordinary magician." He shrugged looking about the dusty laboratory. "Erik's once tireless persistence produced some of the strangest illusions I had born witness to. Nothing seemed to be beyond his grasp. That was … until he lost his grip on sanity." With a hard swallow, he hung his head. "He tried everything, he fought so hard to chase it back … but even he couldn't find a way to stop the madness from consuming him."

Wright gave a short laugh. "That should be no surprise now. Nothing can stop the growth of a tumor except surgical removal. Now … if the man had performed brain surgery on himself, that really would have been something!"

"Don't give him any ideas." Snorted Nadir, with a slight scowl at the doctor.

Studying a contraption of wires and glass, Wright shook his head, unable to imagine the use. "He must have had a lot of time on his hands, I mean, that face of his probably kept him holed up a lot."

He missed Nadir's flinch at the words. "You belittle him by concentrating on a flaw. Erik was a genius in every sense of the word. I swear he was capable of creating time with his own hands."

Curiosity overcame the doctor, his finger reaching up to brush against the metal wire. A bright arch snapped out at the fingertip causing him to yowl and leap back in shock.

Snickering, Nadir shook his head. "Erik's words of warning: never touch anything you are not prepared to understand, even at the price of pain."

"What the hell was that?" He narrowed his eyes, still holding his throbbing finger.

"I have no idea." He smiled slowly. "That's why I don't touch Erik's devices. As I said, he had an insatiable hunger for knowledge and that meant many of his experiments came with great risks involved, something he rarely shied away from. Chances are strong some of these machines are quite deadly."

There were dozens upon dozens of strange apparatuses throughout the laboratory. "Do they all work?"

His eyes drifted to a darkened corner, losing focus. "At one time, yes … now, I'm not so certain. After Erik endured a tragic hallucination in here he nearly leveled the entire room trying to kill … " He paused for a long moment, unsure of how to say it. "It's going to sound strange … he was trying to kill himself."

Wright blinked as he turned his bewildered gaze to the Persian. "Suicide?"

"No." He sighed. "I told you this would sound strange. He was trying to save us from a manifestation of his former self. The one you faced in that cellar room." Morosely, he laid his hand on the journal. "That happened fairly early into us noticing something was wrong. He had enough time to put things back into order within the laboratory and repair some of the devices his tirade had broken. Once it became evident to him that his sanity was truly slipping away, he spent nearly every waking moment in here frantically fighting for a cure — for Erik, who rarely slept when consumed by an obsession, that meant a lot of time. It was painful to watch him squinting in the light of the gas burner. The light in his eyes reflecting the desperate revelation that he was gradually losing everything."

There was nothing Wright could say in reply. Standing within this room, he tried to count the number of journals marked with the unique penmanship on the spine only to discover another stack once he had thought himself done. What secrets lie within the covers of these books? If only he could read French they would be at his disposal. All he had seen of Erik was evidence of a raving lunatic behind the deformed face of a monster. That alone provided an interesting basis for a scientific paper. But … if there was more to this man. If he restored this man to his brilliance … what discussions could they have by the fireside! All the sudden he was giddy at the prospect of getting Erik to the state where he was capable of extended conversation.

Nadir reached down and rubbed his leg. "Thankfully, he wrote down many of his recipes ages ago. I hope this old pain remedy of his will do a better job then what the doctor gave me. If it does, it will be worth the effort of hobbling up to this floor."

Looking down at the closed book, Wright cocked his head. "Would you considering translating those for me?"

"No," he replied bluntly, his eyes narrowed. "This is Erik's laboratory, all that lies within the walls is precious to him. If he desires the world to know what he has discovered, that is his decision, and his alone. By allowing you and countless previous doctors into his personal domain to lay eyes upon his bare face we have already compromised his desire for privacy. It was clearly necessary, but knowing Erik as well as I do he will be hard-pressed to view that in such a way."

Crushed, Wright heaved a sigh. Pulling out his pocket watch he observed the time. "I should probably get back downstairs. It's getting close to the time I should check our esteemed friend."

Nadir turned back to the boiling solution. "Doctor. I must remind you before you find yourself mistaken. You are no friend of Erik's … at least he will be very unlikely to see you as such."


Erik lay on his back, propped up against a number of pillows. The change in the elevation of his head had been unsettling at first, perhaps a day or two ago while he had been sleeping? Time was still bloody difficult to determine in the closed off confines of the dimly lit room. His attempts to begin to track the passage of time were ever aborted by the inevitable welling of the pain. It was always a tentative guess how long he could stand to try and think before his eyes were blinded by the throbbing nightmare. All he could do was vaguely compare the intensity of the building waves when they came … they were growing weaker each time, coming at ever greater intervals. His precious consciousness was gradually permitted to remain for a greater duration.

Gravity still defeated him. Any attempt to lift his head was rewarded with an agonizing dizzy spell. By now he had learned the lesson sufficient not to even try it. All he could do was exist in this darkened room, in this miserable sickbed, in this aggravating state of confusion. Around him paraded a number of figures, mainly women dressed in white who changed their faces each time he was forced to close his eyes. Dismally, he had realized that notion was ridiculous! There was a simpler explanation, more than one person was out there poking and prodding his prone body. They had told him more than once that he had been ill, there had been a procedure to save his life. They had told him he was getting better every day. He couldn't remember much of anything before this; not of how he had gotten here, what had happened to his wrists and his ankles, why his head was in so much unGodly pain. Worst of all, why was he so incredibly weak? No one explained anything to him, they just assured him his health was improving, like that should make everything all right.

His eyes drifted to the chair at the bedside where Christine stirred, she woke up with a soft smile on her face. "Good evening, Erik." Her voice was intentionally quiet as she leaned forward and embraced his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Dreadful," he muttered. "My wrist itches."

"You know you can't scratch it." She offered with a sympathetic gaze. "Your eyes are nice and clear right now."

He sighed, blinking slowly in the faint light of the wall sconces. Was it just him or had the gas flow increased? It seemed just a little brighter in here. "Good, another … " The word had vanished from his mind. "Damn it!" Gripping the blanket he closed his eyes trying to force it to come back to him.

Gently she massaged his hand. "Shh. Don't fight like that, you need to stay calm."

"Easy for you to say." He rolled his eyes.

"Erik dear. I know this isn't easy for you. But you need to remember. You're still healing. I don't care if it takes you a while to say something. I can wait."

Slowly, he turned his bruised eyes back to her. Taking a few long breaths, he reached his other hand over and draped it on hers. "You did … you waited for me. I know you did … but where … where was I?"

"Don't be silly." Her smile was bittersweet. "You've been here all along."

"But … " His thoughts circled around the phrase he had heard whispered in the darkness, so often when his eyes were on the verge of opening. "I keep hearing … I came back. Back … from where?" His words shifted from English to French and back again.

A tear rolled down from her eyes. "It's a very long story, Erik. You're not ready for it yet. I promise you, I swear to you, when you are strong enough I will tell you everything."

"Christine … "

Holding a finger to his lips she shook her head solemnly. "Trust me. You are not ready for this, yet." Lifting his hand, she kissed the back of it. "You'll be up and back to your old self before you know it."

He hated to hear that. It sounded as though any minute she believed he could leap out of the bed and sweep her off her feet. As weak as he was, it would take ages to rebuild his strength … if he ever did.

The door opened and a shaft of light from the hall entered the room. Erik groaned and his eyes snapped shut against it. That was too bright for him to bear. When the door shut, he gradually opened his eyes to the approach of a strange man he vaguely recalled glimpsing before.

"How is the patient today?" Wright grinned down from the bedside.

All it earned him was a silent glare from Erik.

Christine patted Erik's hand. "Feeling a bit better, aren't you, dear. Look, not nearly as much wincing. He's been awake for a while, talking."

"Good." Wright clapped his hands together.

The sound resulted in Erik squeezing her hand against the discomfort of the sudden sound.

But the doctor was far too giddy to remember that his patient still was sound sensitive. "I must say, Erik, the surgical procedure to remove the brain tumor seems to have been a marvelous success." He reached out and took Erik's hand from Christine, poking rudely at the reflex points.

Erik blinked up at him, as wide-eyed as the swollen lids would permit. "Excuse me? Did you say … " He lost the words in the shock.

Tapping along his arm, Wright was grinning. "So much stronger! The swelling is obviously abating, restoring the nerve channels."

Frantically, Erik turned his gaze to Christine when the doctor neglected to answer him. "Christine?" His voice cracked as he slipped into pure French. "What did he do to me?"

She was about to reply when Wright tugged the covers back exposing Erik's frail legs. Picking up one of the ankles he found a strong impulse as Erik pulled back mortified at the sudden grasp, especially so close to the raw flesh beneath the bandages.

"Well now! That is an astonishing improvement! Fantastic. With that kind of response we should be able to have him on his feet in no time at all. I imagine you'll want to be sitting by a hearth sipping tea and chatting away the evenings." Bringing his hands together, Wright eagerly smiled.

All Erik could do was stare up at the man, frozen beneath the strangely invasive behavior of the surgeon. What was wrong with this man, for heaven's sake, was nothing sacred?

Whipping the covers back over Erik, Christine took his hand and tried to steal his attention back to her. She watched as his other hand slowly gripped the edge of the blanket and held tight in obvious discomfort. Not physical discomfort. Erik was clearly deeply unnerved by the manners of the surgeon as he departed out of the room with inappropriate glee.

"Erik? Look at me," she called to him. "You're alright."

His eyes trembled a bit as he met hers. "He … he cut my skull … open?"

Timorously, she nodded.

His finger pointed shakily at the door. "You let … that man … take a saw … to my head?"

Quietly she murmured, "It was a chisel, actually."

His eyes widened again, overwhelmed. No words were coming to him. What kind of barbarian takes a chisel to live bone? That takes a special kind of madness! Chisels were for carving things like wood, or stone … they were most certainly not for breaking into the cavity that held the brain of a live human being!

"Erik," Christine patted his hand. "Erik, you need to blink."

At last he shut his eyes, taking a long shuddering breath. That explained everything! It excused none of it, but now he gravely wished he hadn't been told by the bungling surgeon. Unfortunately, there was no unlearning that startling bit of news.