Life as a Teenage Pirate Demon
The Privately Disclosed Family Life Behind the Covenant Family Curse
The following account is entirely fictitious; any similarity to any persons living or dead is entirely incidental except where noted in the cast disclaimer. All celebrity figures are impersonated and no celebrity has endorsed any aspect of this writing.
Is anyone still reading this?
Disclaimer: All characters in this writing are property of their respective authors. The Covenant family is property of Clive Barker and EA Games Inc. The plotline of this short story and any other pertaining to these characters belongs to said famous director and author, and respective gaming distributor.
What follows is the story of Ambrose Covenant, a young man whose specialty was brutality. This is his view on the events that lead up to and followed the curse that befell his family in the years before, during, and after World War I.
Ambrose's Curse Poem
Curse this place of spirits.
Curse this cloud of shadow.
Curse this veil over my eyes.
Curse these rolling hills, these barriers, these stones.
Curse my family line.
Well, too late for that.
Curse my father for his senile parentage.
Curse his blasted books of the occult.
Curse my brother and his curiosity.
Curse him and his blasted paintings.
Curse my sister for her grace and good looks.
And curse her books too.
Curse my mother for leaving us here.
Curse this wretched place of death and pain.
Curse my ship, may it sink into the sea.
Curse my battle-axe, may I slice my own throat by accident.
Curse my crew, may they die of leprosy.
Curse these waters and the demons beneath the waves.
Curse my family, may they die of disease.
Well, the rest of them anyway.
Curse these walls of lichen and granite.
Curse these servants and candles and rooms.
Curse these bluffs and curse this house.
Curse you Jeremiah, Bethany, Aaron, and Lizbeth, curse you all!
And as I stand upon the decks, riding these waves to freedom, Curse
this Covenant family, may you all be swallowed up by your greed.
Ireland, Pirate Cove, Summer 1922:
A dark pirate galleon glided smoothly through silent seas, black as oil, and as flat as obsidian. The galleon was thirty five feet from bow to stern and eight feet from port to starboard. The hull was dirty, barnacle ridden, soaked in brine and as hard as stone. The forward railings were green from weathering many storms and the boat creaked from the top of the tallest mast to the hold, where six Trsanti were seated, drinking bottles of something sinister. The crew was scattered below decks, snoring in their respective cabins, or stalking up and down the isles or attending business in the hold, avoiding the Trsanti for the most part.
All but the two at the helm. A burly man held the helm on the steady course to Pirate Cove. His strong hands guided the galleon over the calm waters. He was one with the ship, as was the one next to him. The man to the left of the helm was malevolent in his being. His whole body and aura exuded an air of superior strength, power--physical and psychological--and death. Indeed, any who crossed his path usually ended up in the gutter, walking the plank, or below with the Trsanti, where nobody wanted to be. He was tall, all of five feet and nine inches from his boots to his long black hair that went past his shoulders but not quite down his back. His tunic was black trimmed in red. A red bandana adorned his forehead, keeping his hair out of his deathly pale face. His entire body was the color of ashes. His skin was motley and blue tattoos covered much of his arms, chest, back, and neck. His arms were ripped with muscles, but he was not wide and burley, like the man at the helm. He was skinny, almost scrawny if not for his muscles. His boots were wide and gripped the deck as if of their own accord. A wide oriental belt spanned his abdomen, colored the same as the bandana and tunic. His hands were like claws, gripping the railing. A large battle-axe stood on its head next to him, his prize weapon. He was calm for the moment, and most of the crew preferred to keep it that way. When his temper raged, no one was safe. Not even his mother would be safe, except she was mercifully dead.
Captain Ambrose Covenant, the scourge of the Indian Ocean, the foulest creature to sail the Atlantic, the proverbial black sheep of the family, and by far the youngest man to ever pirate a galleon as far as he had. At twenty-two he had sailed halfway around the world, his most recent whereabouts consisting of various ports in the Orient. He had been captaining ships for a few years, this one being his favorite. He had neglected to give it a name, since it was a rule that he would most likely have to leave it in Pirate Cove. The gentle breeze off the land lifted a few locks of greasy black hair from his muscled shoulders. The port of Pirate Cove, adjoining his family's estate, came into view, and a snarl came to Ambrose's lips. His return to the Estate was not going to be happy. He was the second youngest child to Joseph and Evaline Covenant, the youngest son, one of the only two still alive. First oldest in the family was his brother, Jeremiah, the caretaker and patriarch of the crumbling estate. Next was Aaron, the one who wanted to be an artist but ended up going absolutely insane and disappearing a few months ago. Aaron's twin sister Bethany had been killed by Count Otto Keisinger, who had been staying with the Covenants at Bethany's invite. Ambrose was next in line, and after him was Lizbeth, the youngest sister. She died of a wasting disease in her early teens. Evaline had died giving birth to her, and their father had slowly receded into deeper research, leaving his children to themselves.
Thanks to Ambrose, the siblings had been pulled out of school in Dublin and sent home, Ambrose having been expelled. Joseph tried to hire a tutor, but the Covenant children drove him away. Joseph died some years ago, at Ambrose's own hand. He was coming home to claim his inheritance. The helmsman turned to him.
"Captain, we've arrived."
Ambrose might have been staring off into deep space but he wasn't blind, "I can see that, Mr. Hand. Dock and tie her off. I go ashore alone."
"No escort, sir?" Mr. Hand asked.
"No. I doubt I'll need it. No one is at the house except my oldest brother. He's dying, so there is very little threat involved." Ambrose shook his head and brought his axe to bear, "I shall return to the ship before dawn, possibly within the hour."
Spry and as agile as a cat, Ambrose leapt over the rail and jumped down onto the forward decks. He paid no attention to the pier and jumped onto the low cliff that jutted out over the cove. With his axe at his shoulder he trudged across the fields to the garden gate and into the Estate.
Eliza saw him coming, that black hearted, good for nothing Ambrose Covenant, a bane on the entire family--even if the entire family consisted of only one other sibling. Eliza knew from the moment he was born that he would be a hellion. He was a rebel from the beginning. Joseph said he had an "independent spirit", but that was just a bunch of rubbish. If Evaline were still alive none of them would have ended up the way they did, poor Lizbeth devoured by a wasting disease, Aaron and Bethany consumed by ambition, Ambrose a shameful disgrace, and poor Jeremiah, rotting with a dozen different cancers in his rooms, which he never left except to visit the library, where he poured for hours over one different occult book or another.
Still, Ambrose was a fellow heir to the Covenant Estate. Eliza would have to show him respect and announce his arrival to Jeremiah, who was not at all well today. He had barely touched his dinner and had tossed fitfully in the thrall of horrid dreams, drifting in and out of consciousness for most of the day. Tonight was just not a good night for good-for-nothing brothers to show up after three whole years of silence. No letters, no cable, nothing. No word of whether or not he was living or dead. If Eliza had already packed her bags and handed her death warrant to the Almighty, she might give that boy a piece of her mind... but she could see the big axe Ambrose carried with him and decided against that. Suicide, after all, was a mortal sin.
He was coming in the kitchen area. Eliza tidied up the counter and unlocked the door. She quickly snapped to her assistant Mary Margaret to run and tell Jeremiah his brother had come home. He didn't knock. He entered quietly, saw Eliza and smiled as politely as possible. His teeth were yellow.
"Good evening, Eliza," Ambrose said with a short bow.
Eliza dropped a polite curtsey and stuttered, "Welcome home, sir. M-m-m-mary Margaret informed your brother of your arrival."
His eyes narrowed, "How did you know I was coming?"
The firelight glinted off the razor sharp blade of his axe. Eliza wrung her hands and stammered, "The g-g-g-groundskeeper s-s-s-saw you from the gardens, sir. We w-w-w-were quite surprised."
Ambrose relaxed. His dropping in was meant to be a surprise. Word of inheritance travels fast. As soon as he had gotten word that he was heir to part of their father's possessions, he made a U-turn and headed straight for Ireland.
"Sh-sh-sh-shall I show you to your b-b-brother?" Eliza asked.
Ambrose gave his greasy head a light shake, "Never you mind, Eliza. I very well know the way to my brother's chambers." He smiled, like the demon charmer that he was, then glared at her suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. He exited the kitchen and went up into the main hall. The estate was huge. It was only two stories, but from the East wing to the West wing was the better part of two miles, and from North wing to South almost was almost a mile in length. It was so far the biggest estate this side of Ireland. People in Dublin and in most of the world were dying of hunger, disease, and in filth, but under any normal circumstances, the Covenant family would be prospering. Now the house was fallen into disarray. Most of it was dark, and Ambrose felt his way around when he wasn't moving from memory. There was only a skeleton crew of servants left, and the house was in bad need of cleaning, and most of the electricity was gone. Candles in long cold sconces in the wall lit his way only barely.
Jeremiah's chambers were in the West wing on the second floor. His door was one of many in this area of the house. The whole establishment was a honeycomb of secret passages and rooms that no one had seen in centuries. With a few twists and turns, he soon spotted Mary Margaret standing outside Jeremiah's door. The man must indeed be in poor health if his chambers were kept like this. This end of the manor was almost dilapidated. Not that Ambrose had expected to find a grandiose establishment in the prime of the century, but this was more of an insult than a shock.
Mary Margaret had a stronger backbone, "Jeremiah will see you now, sir. A great surprise to see you here after three years."
Ambrose had no time for this. He stared over her shoulder and reached into the pocket of his tunic, turned her hand over and pressed a gold piece into her palm, "I must apologize for my absence, Mary Margaret. I have been abroad. How is he?"
Now Mary Margaret had the strongest backbone in all of Ireland, "Oh sir, he's not well at all. Usually he has more strength then what he had today. Poor Jeremiah, he's been bed ridden for most of your absence. The doctors say there isn't much more we can do for him."
A little shock registered on Ambrose's face. He had never much particularly cared for his over bearing and prying older brother, but he had watched Lizbeth rot before his eyes, and now the last and final sibling he had was wasting away in this big empty house. If Ambrose had felt a little more love for his brother, he might have been inclined to ease his passing, but all the trouble he'd been in thanks to Jeremiah was unforgivable. What he did to Aaron, Bethany, Lizbeth, and himself was unforgivable. He cursed Jeremiah and damned his rotting guts to Hell. Jeremiah had brought this curse on them, he would live with it and die with it the way they all had. Ambrose felt his end coming soon, but if it was in the near future or distant, he had not clue, so he didn't think on it.
"This way, sir. I think he's awake. Shall I pull up a chair for you?" Mary Margaret asked.
Ambrose shook his head and followed Mary Margaret. Jeremiah was sitting propped up against his headboard. He looked vacant, but his eyes brightened when they settled on Ambrose, then darkened.
"Its been long, Ambrose," he rasped.
Ambrose put the head of his axe on the floor and approached Jeremiah's bedside. He was worse than he had figured, but Ambrose didn't care. His face hardened.
"What happened to the servants? Where are they? This place is in terrible shape," he commented.
Jeremiah sat up a little more and noted the dark look on Ambrose's face.
"After Aaron disappeared and when we figured you weren't coming back, most of the servants raided our house and took what they could carry, then they left this place post haste. I could do nothing to stop them. Now we only have a few loyal retainers. It is enough, since its only me here. I assume you heard about the will. Now that Aaron, Bethany, and Lizbeth are gone, half of the estate is yours."
"I'm aware of that, Jeremiah," Ambrose said. "Tell me, when was the cancer detected?"
"Oh, only a few months after you left. The doctors want more blood letting, as if that gives me any hope," Jeremiah mused.
I'll do a little blood letting, dear brother, yes, Ambrose thought with some sadistic glee. His brother was as good as dead. The entire estate would be his to do with as he pleased. Somehow, he had always known it would come to this. He was just killing time, sitting here holding pointless conversation with his brother. It was fine, he told himself, and he had all night...
Jeremiah might have been dying, but he hadn't quite lost his grip on his senses. When Mary Margaret had come with word that Ambrose was on the property, he had bid her ring for the constables. They were on their way as quickly as possible. Mary Margaret ran to the head of the stairs and stayed there, ready to point the way to her ailing master's bedchamber and his demonic brother.
After about five minutes of quiet conversation from Ambrose and Jeremiah, Eliza heard the knock on the doors in the main hall. She opened it, her face drawn with anticipation.
"Beggin' your pardon, Madame, but we were informed that there was an intruder on the premises. The man is a wanted criminal. We've come to--"
"He's upstairs!" Eliza screamed, her shaking hands flying to her mouth in fear, "In my master's bed chambers! He's got a battle-axe. He's like nothing of this earth!"
The constables returned their hats to their heads and pulled their batons from their belts. Waving them furiously about, they clambered up the stairs in the main hall into the West Wing. Mary Margaret was waiting for them...
Ambrose came to his feet quickly and brandished his axe, "What was that noise?"
Jeremiah was certain that the axe wasn't there for his protection. Ambrose had always been a fighter; even in school he was a vicious boy. He beat up kids one by one then challenged them to gang up on him. He was cruel, and with that axe he would inflict serious damage. A snarl leapt to his face, and he turned on his brother. Jeremiah cringed back.
"You set me up," Ambrose hissed through clenched teeth.
The older sibling could do nothing except watch Ambrose to see what he would do. By now, rampaging feet could be heard coming up the stairs. Ambrose could do nothing in this little room. If rumor of his pillaging had reached Ireland, it would do him no good to kill Jeremiah. He was already looking at a lifetime in prison.
It was a lifetime he was quite ready to end should the need arise.
The constables stormed through the door, but Ambrose was quick. He growled, brandished the axe and cut two down. He backed through a set of double doors that lead to Jeremiah's sitting room. The fireplace was roaring, for some good servant had lit the fire to keep Jeremiah warm. The constables waved their batons and advanced. There were a good ten of them, not counting the ones he had just cut in half. Ambrose would take no chances. He didn't underestimate the prowess of the big constables--some of them taller and wider than he--nor did he overestimate his ability to fight them all. He snarled and saw an opening. They had left a gap between the window and the fireplace.
Hoping to corner him, the constables moved in to take Ambrose down, but the young pirate was faster. A few years on the sea had taught him much, one thing being that height was merely an obstacle to be overcome. He threw the axe like a harpoon and took out the window. He had lost his prize weapon for the moment, but it could be reclaimed presently. Now, to make his get away.
The burly constable in the center ran at him, his baton raised, a battle cry issuing from his lips. Ambrose didn't wait long enough to assert his combat skills, but instead hurled himself from the window and did a half back flip. His palms slapped a ledge and he clawed his way to a standing position, his back literally against the wall.
The constables scurried to the window. They all had seen him jump head first from the window, a suicide leap for certain. But when they looked next they saw no sign of him. His axe lay on the ground surrounded by broken glass, but Ambrose...
Was clinging to the wall inches away from their bobbing heads. He slowly inched his way to his left, leaving the blue bobbing heads slowly but surely behind. He would have to be quick, for soon they would give up their window scrutiny and give chase on the ground. He clawed his way to the drainpipe and slid down. He looked back at his prize axe, then up at the window. The Bobbies were gone, so he saw no point in leaving the axe. He picked it up and ran like a bat out of hell. He made straight for the garden gate, and vaulted over it, giving the groundskeeper quite a little heart attack. He could hear a few of the quicker Bobbies behind him, coming through the gardens. His breath was coming short and his legs were pumping like they'd never pumped before. He was on the verge of panic, running for all he was worth, and he didn't realize he'd over shot the galleon until he reached the cliff, and the boat was a six hundred yards from where he was. Despair clouded his face, and he stared down at the waves in utter hopelessness.
Mr. Hand had the telescope and could see Ambrose standing on the ledge, looking down at the waves. Mr. Hand shouted orders to weigh anchor quickly, set the sails. Their captain was in peril. The ship was moving, oh so slowly...
...Slowly, they were coming closer. Ambrose chanced a look back. They were jogging at three hundred yards and closing. Ambrose saw no choice. A life in prison was something he could not do. Pirates considered themselves free spirits, to do what they pleased, and though Ambrose--baptized as soon as he was birthed--knew that what he was about to do would doom him for an eternity of life as an undying creature, he took a few steps backwards for a running start...
The Bobbies were closing in on him. The terror of Pirate Cove and the second youngest Covenant child was poised. The captain of the local police force came to a screeching halt as the infamous Captain Ambrose Covenant took a running leap from the ledge and plummeted to an unholy death in the foaming waves...
Mr. Hand watched from his slowly advancing ship as his captain took the plunge. His heart sank with the captain...
Ambrose held onto his heavy battle-axe and sank like a rock. As the water closed above his eyes, a light flashed in his head and images flooded his mind...
Crying, screaming, blood. Jeremiah, Aaron, Bethany, and Ambrose crouched outside Evaline's doorway, waiting. Their mother was giving birth to the newest member of the Covenant family. For months, Bethany had been crooning over how much fun a little sister would be, and Aaron had been guarding his twin jealously. Jeremiah was less inclined to be helpful. Just another baby, so what? Ambrose was in a rage. A new baby, which meant he was no longer the privileged youngest. He silently hoped it was a baby boy, so that at least he could take his anger out on someone. Ambrose had always been a violent, twisted, rebellious boy since he could walk. His brothers and sisters would grow to hate him in years to come.
One set of lungs screaming was soon replaced by another, fresh pair. A baby's. Jeremiah, Aaron and Bethany glanced warily at one another. There was something foreboding about the silence that filled the room, and the sorrowful crying of the babe that made the siblings edgy. Mother?
Ambrose barged in, his siblings on his heels, and beheld the corpse of their mother lying in her bed, their father with his head in hands, and their new squirming sister writhing in a towel as Eliza dried her off.
Joseph Covenant looked up into the eyes of his four children, whose own eyes were transfixed on the bed and their mother, Evaline. Aaron was clutching Bethany's hand and Jeremiah hugged them, his face buried in his brother's shoulder. Ambrose refused to be touched. He crammed his fist into his mouth and bit down until he tasted blood...
Some years later, the oldest Covenant son was twelve, the youngest was four. Jeremiah held in his hands a leather bound tome covered with dust under his arm. He opened the door to the playroom in the East Wing proper and sat on one of the cots in the corner. Aaron dropped the toy he was holding in one hand and took a bite out of the apple he was holding in the other and came to sit next to his older brother.
"What have you got there, Jeremiah?" he asked, swatting a lock of red hair out of his round face. He stared at Jeremiah and the book through crystal blue eyes. Bethany, who was never far from Aaron, stood with a doll in her hands and staring at him with the same eyes. Ambrose, seeing that his siblings were looking at something, helped Lizbeth from the rocking horse and approached the group. Bethany--after discovering that she would see very little of her sister as an infant- put a hand on the little girl's shoulder. Even Aaron liked her and Ambrose...well, he was a different story. To put it lightly, he tolerated the child and didn't let her get hurt, but for the sake of dutiful brother, not fraternal love. Ambrose just assumed not get close to any of them. But woe to those who picked on another Covenant while Ambrose was about.
Jeremiah was pleased to have drawn a crowd. His twinkling brown eyes traveled from one sibling to another, their eyes fixed on the book.
"Close the door, Aaron," he said. Aaron did as he was told and came back over to them.
"I found it in Father's library. It looks like a spell book, you know like the Celts used to have. Father calls it 'occult'," Jeremiah explained.
Aaron peered closer at a sketch on one of the pages, "What's this?"
Jeremiah looked at it and read the caption aloud, "'Like Stonehenge, the Standing Stones mark a time immemorial, when wizards and witches stood with their charms and bewitched the land to yield food to them or to bring rain or enlist the gods help in destroying various enemies. The Standing Stones are a land mark and historical monolith, but it is unknown if any magic is still extent.' Do you hear that? Witches and wizards like the stories in Bethany's books."
Excitement leapt into the siblings eyes and they exchanged looks of childish glee. Lizbeth looked closer at the stones. She tugged at her elder brother's sleeve. Jeremiah smiled at her, "Yes, Lizbeth."
"I've seen those stones, Jeremiah," the little girl offered. Ambrose snorted, "Lizbeth, none of us have ever seen this book before, so where do you think you saw them, hmmm?"
Lizbeth's eyes went wide, "I have too seen them, Ambrose." She folded her arms and pouted.
Jeremiah gave his younger brother an evil glare but did not touch the boy. Ambrose could hit harder than their father, or any other man they knew, and Ambrose kept a very strict hit-back policy that no Covenant child wanted to tamper with. Jeremiah was in too good a mood to be clobbered, so he turned a softer eye to his baby sister.
"Tell us where you saw the Standing Stones, Lizbeth," he coaxed.
The girl pouted, "Ambrose doesn't believe me, so I won't tell."
The group groaned in unison. Bethany whispered harshly in Ambrose's ear, "Oh, you stubborn brat, just humor her."
Ambrose could see where this was going: he didn't believe it, so Lizbeth wouldn't tell, then Jeremiah would get upset at Ambrose and tattle on him to their father, then Father would get mad for being disturbed, then he would take the book away and they'd never see it again. He sighed and wiped his face, putting on an air of interest. He crouched next to Lizbeth and peered into her eyes.
"Alright, Lizbeth, I believe you. Tell us where you saw the stones," he said dryly.
Now that Lizbeth had their undivided attention she uncrossed her arms and a dreamy look passed over her features.
"I was sleeping in my bed. I could hear the priests singing over on the island. All the lights in the monastery were out, and it made the singing frightening. I curled up in my sheets and had a dream. The Standing Stones were there, on the island behind the monastery. I was standing next to them. They had strange designs on them like that," she pointed to the book, "I wanted to touch them, but they were hot, like touching the hearth in the kitchen. I even burned my finger, and when I woke up in the morning, it had blistered and it hurt."
She clutched said finger and examined it, to make sure it was still all right.
Jeremiah listened intently, "Did you ever tell Father?"
"No," she shook her little blond head, "I told Eliza and she made me go to Confession. She said I had an unholy dream and must be absolved of it," Lizbeth explained. The head maid was decidedly Catholic and was trying to impart a little of it to Lizbeth, whom Eliza had raised since birth.
Ambrose never liked that maid.
Bethany noted the distress in Lizbeth's eyes and put her arm around her. Ambrose rolled his eyes and folded his arms. Aaron stared at the book upside down, trying to read some more, but Jeremiah looked up and spoke again.
"We could go see it for ourselves, see if the stones still work," he whispered, as if it were a big secret.
His siblings gasped. Even Ambrose leaned away from his brother's gleeful leer. Aaron and Bethany exchanged a worried glance and Lizbeth looked ready to cry her little heart out at what her big brother suggested.
"Oh, come on," Jeremiah insisted, "We could go be like real magicians and turn the servants into toads if they don't give us sweets."
Ambrose had an idea, "Or maybe we could talk to Mama there."
Lizbeth was crying now, "I don't want to turn Eliza into a toad."
Jeremiah laughed, "I didn't say turn Eliza into a toad, Lizbeth, but don't you like sweets?"
Lizbeth nodded.
"And don't you want to talk to Mama?" Ambrose asked with mock sincerity.
Lizbeth nodded again.
"Mama?" Aaron and Bethany whispered in unison.
Ambrose could see that Jeremiah didn't like this. It was dangerous and unholy. Turning the servants into toads was one thing, talking to the dead was quite another.
Even Lizbeth knew that, "Its wrong. What would Eliza say?"
"Eliza's not coming with us. She never has to know. No one does. Let's just go see if the stones work. Maybe there isn't any magic there anymore," Jeremiah pleaded. He stared at Ambrose, stared at him hard. Surely he didn't seriously believe he could talk to Mama. That would be sacrilegious. Ambrose knew that Lizbeth treasured Mama more than any of them because she never knew her. Surely Ambrose was using this as a ruse to get Lizbeth to tag along with them.
It worked. Lizbeth brightened a little and smiled. "Mama?"
Ambrose sat on his haunches and stared at his little sister, "Yes, Lizbeth. We can go talk to Mama. You'd like that wouldn't you?"
Aaron and Bethany smiled at each other at the prospect of seeing Mama again. Only Jeremiah disapproved. Well that was too bad because he was outnumbered four to one.
"When do we go?" Aaron asked in a hushed whisper.
Jeremiah looked at the clock on the wall. Three hours before anyone would come looking for them. That should be enough time.
"Let's go now. No one will expect us until supper. We can use the boat in the garden shed," Jeremiah explained. His brothers and sisters were practically jumping.
"Listen, go dress in the blackest clothes you have. We don't want to be seen," he said.
Simple. Ambrose was already wearing black. He loved black. It was his favorite color, and it went so well with the rest of the house. He and Jeremiah agreed to meet the rest at the garden shed.
The groundskeeper was nowhere in sight. Jeremiah pulled at the lock on the door. It didn't budge. Ambrose was over keeping a look out. Jeremiah tapped him on the shoulder.
"Break the lock," Jeremiah said.
Ambrose shrugged and jerked the door open, tearing the jamb off. He and Jeremiah pulled the boat down to the cove and returned to the garden shed. Aaron came first and informed his brothers that Bethany was helping Lizbeth to dress.
When the girls had arrived. They went down to the boat and shoved off...
An hour later, at the island of the Standing Stones. Ambrose, Aaron, and Jeremiah pulled the boat up out of the waves, so that the sea could not suck it away from them while they weren't looking. There was nothing to tie it to, though. The island was devoid of any plant life. Red dirt and stone of the same color was all that the island was. Jeremiah shivered and Lizbeth stayed close to Ambrose. She found her third oldest brother to be the one to go to when a dodgy situation arose. Ambrose could fight his way out of anything and was sort of her unofficial sworn protector. It was his duty to look after a younger sibling, as well as the rest. The day a boy at school grabbed Bethany's hair for instance, Ambrose had been there to beat him back. Ambrose was not close to any of his siblings, but Lizbeth was so small...she needed a protector if she were to survive.
Jeremiah held the book under his arm and strode towards the stones. They were odd shaped, like claws protruding from the ground, like a hand clutching a dirt clod. They stood in the middle of the stones. The siblings stood in a semicircle around their brother. He opened the book and read from it...
He was sinking into the blackness, and it wasn't at the bottom of the sea. His body had long been lying on the bottom, clutching the axe. His mouth was open and his eyes were closed. He was dead, but the past was not...
A wind came up from the island. Ambrose and his siblings stared at Jeremiah, whose eyes wandered over the stones. He eyed the sky. Clouds were forming, black thunder heads. Lizbeth feared thunder. She was afraid it would shake them to pieces. Bethany clutched Aaron's hand and whimpered.
The wind grew stronger and suddenly the island began to shake. Thunder roared down from the skeis. Lizbeth screamed and jumped into Ambrose's arms. At that point, even Ambrose was afraid. He clutched his little sister and fell to his knees, his body covering hers. He chanced a look at Bethany and Aaron, who were huddled on the ground in fear and at Jeremiah, who clutched the book in his hands and stared at his siblings.
Bethany shrieked and pointed at the sea. The waves had turned blood red and it boiled. It was searing. Now Jeremiah dropped the book and dove for the ground, finding his siblings and covering his head. What had he done?
After about ten minutes of raging hell, the sea calmed and became green again. The sky cleared and the ground ceased to shake. Jeremiah, Ambrose, Bethany, Aaron, and Lizbeth rose as one and stared about them. Lizbeth clung to Ambrose hard, and the boy didn't have the heart to push her off of him. She was devastated by this, probably scarred for life. Jeremiah looked at them all and assumed the role of older brother once again.
"Is everyone alright?" he asked.
They nodded, shocked, humbled. Jeremiah appeared to be shaken but was otherwise all right. He patted his youngest brother on the shoulder and lifted Lizbeth into his arms. She shook violently and clung to Jeremiah. Ambrose was suddenly at a loss and didn't know why...
More images flooded his brain, and although his body had ceased to function, his mind and soul were still operating, and they weren't in the best of conditions. The images came faster and shorter, and the more Ambrose saw, the tighter the darkness wrapped itself around his soul...
The children were at school. Ambrose was fighting a boy again. He almost beat him to death. The headmaster wrote home and informed Joseph that his son had been expelled and the children were coming home. Joseph hung his head and sighed. He just didn't know what to do with him anymore...
A week later, in the playroom. Joseph had hired a tutor to educate the children. He had violated the sanctity of the playroom, now only inhabited by a rapidly changing Lizbeth. Adolescence was taking its toll on her, but she had not given up on a biting problem she'd picked up after the incident at the Standing Stones. A few screams from Lizbeth brought her brothers and sisters hence and a few hours later the tutor ran to his room screaming, packed his bags and left without even claiming his wages. Joseph had never hung his head so low....
The traveling carnival was in town. Unbeknownst to their father, the children snuck out of their beds before the witching hour and made their way down to the grounds. Bethany and Lizbeth toyed with Madame Mai-ling the fortuneteller and Aaron stuck to the House of Mirrors. Aaron was slowly going off the deep end. He had taken a keen interest in art and painting, only his paintings were never pleasant.
Ambrose went into the main tent, where Thor the Magnificent was appearing and round after round brought the strongest men this side of Dublin to the canvas. Ambrose talked the ringmaster into letting him fight. As the laughter rained down on him, he felled Thor with one left hook. It was the left hook that broke the giants jaw, for Thor was no more. Ambrose was not blamed and no punishment was placed on any of the siblings. Ambrose recalled looking up into the disappointed eyes of Jeremiah. The older boy had followed Ambrose into the tent, trying to keep an eye on him. Apparently it didn't do much good...
The succession of images came on faster, each one centered on a main point...
Jeremiah was always trying to control him. Ambrose was one to act on impulse, and when he backed up his actions with reason, he was a most horrid monster indeed. He once tried to push Eliza into the big fireplace in the kitchen for stopping him from taking food from the larder before supper. He would have succeeded if Jeremiah hadn't come along...
Lizbeth was dying. The wasting disease was on her, and the Covenant children watched as their youngest sibling rotted before their eyes...
Jeremiah was always a coward. The day he left for the war was the day Ambrose, and the others, lost all respect for him. He walked away from the estate with his head held high. Ambrose glared at his back the whole time...
Bethany wrote Jeremiah often, begging him to come home. Ambrose was a terror. He never did anything to his siblings, but after Lizbeth's death in the prime of her life, he lost all reason. He was cruel to the servants and his tongue was sharp to Father, who was by now, aging and destitute of any sense and reason. He never came out of the library anymore. Aaron was piddling away most of his allowance on racehorses. He always had some sort of visitor over and he owed money to many people. His paintings were famous, but most never truly saw what the paintings beheld. Bethany didn't approve of any of it, but her own actions where just as disgraceful. Her dealings with Count Otto Keisinger and many other cult members would most likely get her killed, and there was Jeremiah, off at war, neglecting his duties at home, and hiding from the curse...
They found Bethany's body in Otto Keisinger's rooms. The Count had been staying with Bethany for a while. She had been dabbling in black arts, and now it had resulted in her death. Keisinger had killed her himself, but had covered it up, making it look like she had been attacked by a Trsanti. He even broke the window in his quarters and trailed blood to it. It all went over nicely, but Ambrose never trusted him and stayed as far away from that black magic as he could. It was dangerous and deadly and even while Bethany was alive, he would have no truck with her. Jeremiah, where are you?
Aaron had disappeared. One of the maids brought a book to Ambrose's attention. It spoke of something Aaron called the Eternal Autumn. They assumed him dead, lost in his own mind and to them forever. Without a Christian burial he would be doomed to wander the Earth, his soul restless and angry. Soon, word came from Jeremiah that he was coming home. Finally. He could see what he had allowed to happen to his family. Ambrose couldn't wait for him to come home...
Ambrose loved the sea. He would look at it for hours out of his dead sister's window. Lizbeth had always commanded a view the sea, which he was slightly jealous of her for. She would lock her doors against him and refuse to let him look out the window. Then he found a nice place to sit that over looked the cove from the gardens. One day, he'd ventured down to the cove and discovered it had been taken over by the Trsanti and a band of pirates. They had tried to kill him, and in turn he killed every one. Word spread of this feat and many sought Ambrose to help run one galleon or another. This went on until Jeremiah returned home...
Ambrose was first to discover Father's body. He had suffered a fall from the tall bookshelf where his occult books were stashed. A large gaping contusion in his head was oozing...at least that was the story Ambrose fed Jeremiah, Aaron, Bethany, the servants and the constables. A pirate had given Ambrose a bludgeon and that was how Ambrose had disposed of their father. Jeremiah had found it odd that it should be Ambrose who discovered their father's body. He glared at his brother hard through the constable's interrogation of him. Ambrose fled a few days after the funeral, closed casket...
Jeremiah was there when the Trsanti raided the estate and killed as many servants as they cold find...
Jeremiah was there when Lizbeth died...
Jeremiah ran away and left Aaron, Bethany, and Ambrose alone to survive...
Jeremiah was the one who read from that damned book and brought this foul curse down on the heads of his siblings...
Jeremiah always meddled...
And now Jeremiah was the soul inheritor of the Estate. He was rotting, but he was still alive. He had been the cause of all of their deaths...
Jeremiah had betrayed him by summoning the constables to arrest him in his own home...
Jeremiah...
Jeremiah...
Jeremiah...
Jeremiah...
The sea seemed to whisper the betrayer's name in the waves. It traveled down to the deaf ears of his dead brother, traveled into Ambrose's immortal soul. By killing himself he had doomed his soul to wander the Earth, haunting wherever he pleased. The corpse's lips twitched into a snarl, his feet tread the dirt at the bottom of the sea, and its eye snapped open. Ambrose's gaze was red hot, and his eyes burned with all the fires of Hell. Its claws gripped the staff of the battle-axe and almost snapped it. On the floor of the ocean, Ambrose Covenant sat up and walked his way back to the cliff. Sentient thought had not yet seeped into the new monster's mind. There was only one thought, one object, one face that floated in front of his visage.
Jeremiah...
Mr. Hand dropped the net in the exact spot that he had witnessed the captain's body disappeared. He gestured to the first mate, who manned the cannon opposite from him. They fired it off into the sea. The water rolled up from the bottom of the cove to the top. Dirt and debris drifted up with it, but no body. It would have floated up by now anyway. Mr. Hand stared into the water. An unmistakable dread seeped into him and wrapped its cold fingers around his spine. He griped the rail until his knuckles turned white.
There was no body. Mr. Hand wasn't a religious man. It was a rule among pirates to be atheists. But he was educated in the beliefs of the religious. He had slain many a praying man. Suicide was a mortal sin, unforgivable by God.
Ambrose had left the sea, body and soul...
Using the staff and blade of the axe and his own claws, the monster Ambrose Covenant pulled himself, dripping and sputtering, up the side of the cliff. He hauled himself over the ridge and then leaned over it, vomiting water and other vile liquids. When he was through clearing his insides, he rolled over in the grass and dirt and sat up. In his red sights were the garden and grounds of the Covenant Estate. His home. He'd been cast out, but he would be back. Lucid thoughts once again filled his cunning, cruel, twisted mind, and he stood, holding the axe at eye level. He examined the blade and smiled wickedly. To his left, his galleon was sailing back to port. He set off in that direction. He dropped down onto the pier just as the crew lowered the gangplank. Mr. Hand came down off the plank. Ambrose was waiting for them.
Mr. Hand thought that all the demons of Hell were manifest before him in the form of his captain. He dropped to his knees, but Ambrose shook his head and spoke in his new guttural voice, which surprised him as much as it surprised Mr. Hand.
"Stand up, Mr. Hand. It is I, your captain," Ambrose croaked.
Mr. Hand did as he was told, "Captain, your alive, thank God--"
Ambrose shook his head again, "No, God would have nothing to do with me."
Mr. Hand didn't understand, "Sir, I didn't know you were a believer."
Ambrose shrugged, "I had been baptized, so I am entitled to my punishment. I am doomed to wander the Earth for eternity."
Mr. Hand turned and gestured clearance for Ambrose to board. Ambrose nodded to him. After such a strange ordeal, he was very calm, and he wondered why exactly. Had he found closure? Had he found an absolution even now that he was sentenced to a life in limbo, neither living nor dead? He took his place beside Mr. Hand at the helm. The crew had their orders. The sails were set, the anchor weighed, and once again, Ambrose was setting out to sea. His brother and the constables thought him dead, and for the most part, they were right.
He stood with his ashen hands behind his back. He had not bothered to dry off. He should have felt cold, but he felt just fine. Absolutely fine. His axe stood on its head and leaned against the railing. Ambrose inhaled the sea air and sighed.
"Fear not, brother. I shall return, and with it I will bring a Hell unlike anything Satan could ever imagine. I will punish you for your crimes against us. For Aaron, Bethany, Lizbeth and myself, and I will make you pay for the curse you've put on us all," he whispered into the wind. He did not laugh maniacally, but his words echoed back to him on the wind, and into the ears of the crew.
Over the land, now miles away, Jeremiah Covenant tossed in the thralls of another nightmare. He could see Ambrose standing on the deck of his galleon, smiling, his lips parted over yellow teeth, his eyes...oh, his eyes, glaring like fiery orbs of hatred. He knew in his secret heart-even thought constables had told him he had thrown himself from the cliff-Jeremiah knew that his youngest brother was not dead, he was undying.
And he would be back.
The Privately Disclosed Family Life Behind the Covenant Family Curse
The following account is entirely fictitious; any similarity to any persons living or dead is entirely incidental except where noted in the cast disclaimer. All celebrity figures are impersonated and no celebrity has endorsed any aspect of this writing.
Is anyone still reading this?
Disclaimer: All characters in this writing are property of their respective authors. The Covenant family is property of Clive Barker and EA Games Inc. The plotline of this short story and any other pertaining to these characters belongs to said famous director and author, and respective gaming distributor.
What follows is the story of Ambrose Covenant, a young man whose specialty was brutality. This is his view on the events that lead up to and followed the curse that befell his family in the years before, during, and after World War I.
Ambrose's Curse Poem
Curse this place of spirits.
Curse this cloud of shadow.
Curse this veil over my eyes.
Curse these rolling hills, these barriers, these stones.
Curse my family line.
Well, too late for that.
Curse my father for his senile parentage.
Curse his blasted books of the occult.
Curse my brother and his curiosity.
Curse him and his blasted paintings.
Curse my sister for her grace and good looks.
And curse her books too.
Curse my mother for leaving us here.
Curse this wretched place of death and pain.
Curse my ship, may it sink into the sea.
Curse my battle-axe, may I slice my own throat by accident.
Curse my crew, may they die of leprosy.
Curse these waters and the demons beneath the waves.
Curse my family, may they die of disease.
Well, the rest of them anyway.
Curse these walls of lichen and granite.
Curse these servants and candles and rooms.
Curse these bluffs and curse this house.
Curse you Jeremiah, Bethany, Aaron, and Lizbeth, curse you all!
And as I stand upon the decks, riding these waves to freedom, Curse
this Covenant family, may you all be swallowed up by your greed.
Ireland, Pirate Cove, Summer 1922:
A dark pirate galleon glided smoothly through silent seas, black as oil, and as flat as obsidian. The galleon was thirty five feet from bow to stern and eight feet from port to starboard. The hull was dirty, barnacle ridden, soaked in brine and as hard as stone. The forward railings were green from weathering many storms and the boat creaked from the top of the tallest mast to the hold, where six Trsanti were seated, drinking bottles of something sinister. The crew was scattered below decks, snoring in their respective cabins, or stalking up and down the isles or attending business in the hold, avoiding the Trsanti for the most part.
All but the two at the helm. A burly man held the helm on the steady course to Pirate Cove. His strong hands guided the galleon over the calm waters. He was one with the ship, as was the one next to him. The man to the left of the helm was malevolent in his being. His whole body and aura exuded an air of superior strength, power--physical and psychological--and death. Indeed, any who crossed his path usually ended up in the gutter, walking the plank, or below with the Trsanti, where nobody wanted to be. He was tall, all of five feet and nine inches from his boots to his long black hair that went past his shoulders but not quite down his back. His tunic was black trimmed in red. A red bandana adorned his forehead, keeping his hair out of his deathly pale face. His entire body was the color of ashes. His skin was motley and blue tattoos covered much of his arms, chest, back, and neck. His arms were ripped with muscles, but he was not wide and burley, like the man at the helm. He was skinny, almost scrawny if not for his muscles. His boots were wide and gripped the deck as if of their own accord. A wide oriental belt spanned his abdomen, colored the same as the bandana and tunic. His hands were like claws, gripping the railing. A large battle-axe stood on its head next to him, his prize weapon. He was calm for the moment, and most of the crew preferred to keep it that way. When his temper raged, no one was safe. Not even his mother would be safe, except she was mercifully dead.
Captain Ambrose Covenant, the scourge of the Indian Ocean, the foulest creature to sail the Atlantic, the proverbial black sheep of the family, and by far the youngest man to ever pirate a galleon as far as he had. At twenty-two he had sailed halfway around the world, his most recent whereabouts consisting of various ports in the Orient. He had been captaining ships for a few years, this one being his favorite. He had neglected to give it a name, since it was a rule that he would most likely have to leave it in Pirate Cove. The gentle breeze off the land lifted a few locks of greasy black hair from his muscled shoulders. The port of Pirate Cove, adjoining his family's estate, came into view, and a snarl came to Ambrose's lips. His return to the Estate was not going to be happy. He was the second youngest child to Joseph and Evaline Covenant, the youngest son, one of the only two still alive. First oldest in the family was his brother, Jeremiah, the caretaker and patriarch of the crumbling estate. Next was Aaron, the one who wanted to be an artist but ended up going absolutely insane and disappearing a few months ago. Aaron's twin sister Bethany had been killed by Count Otto Keisinger, who had been staying with the Covenants at Bethany's invite. Ambrose was next in line, and after him was Lizbeth, the youngest sister. She died of a wasting disease in her early teens. Evaline had died giving birth to her, and their father had slowly receded into deeper research, leaving his children to themselves.
Thanks to Ambrose, the siblings had been pulled out of school in Dublin and sent home, Ambrose having been expelled. Joseph tried to hire a tutor, but the Covenant children drove him away. Joseph died some years ago, at Ambrose's own hand. He was coming home to claim his inheritance. The helmsman turned to him.
"Captain, we've arrived."
Ambrose might have been staring off into deep space but he wasn't blind, "I can see that, Mr. Hand. Dock and tie her off. I go ashore alone."
"No escort, sir?" Mr. Hand asked.
"No. I doubt I'll need it. No one is at the house except my oldest brother. He's dying, so there is very little threat involved." Ambrose shook his head and brought his axe to bear, "I shall return to the ship before dawn, possibly within the hour."
Spry and as agile as a cat, Ambrose leapt over the rail and jumped down onto the forward decks. He paid no attention to the pier and jumped onto the low cliff that jutted out over the cove. With his axe at his shoulder he trudged across the fields to the garden gate and into the Estate.
Eliza saw him coming, that black hearted, good for nothing Ambrose Covenant, a bane on the entire family--even if the entire family consisted of only one other sibling. Eliza knew from the moment he was born that he would be a hellion. He was a rebel from the beginning. Joseph said he had an "independent spirit", but that was just a bunch of rubbish. If Evaline were still alive none of them would have ended up the way they did, poor Lizbeth devoured by a wasting disease, Aaron and Bethany consumed by ambition, Ambrose a shameful disgrace, and poor Jeremiah, rotting with a dozen different cancers in his rooms, which he never left except to visit the library, where he poured for hours over one different occult book or another.
Still, Ambrose was a fellow heir to the Covenant Estate. Eliza would have to show him respect and announce his arrival to Jeremiah, who was not at all well today. He had barely touched his dinner and had tossed fitfully in the thrall of horrid dreams, drifting in and out of consciousness for most of the day. Tonight was just not a good night for good-for-nothing brothers to show up after three whole years of silence. No letters, no cable, nothing. No word of whether or not he was living or dead. If Eliza had already packed her bags and handed her death warrant to the Almighty, she might give that boy a piece of her mind... but she could see the big axe Ambrose carried with him and decided against that. Suicide, after all, was a mortal sin.
He was coming in the kitchen area. Eliza tidied up the counter and unlocked the door. She quickly snapped to her assistant Mary Margaret to run and tell Jeremiah his brother had come home. He didn't knock. He entered quietly, saw Eliza and smiled as politely as possible. His teeth were yellow.
"Good evening, Eliza," Ambrose said with a short bow.
Eliza dropped a polite curtsey and stuttered, "Welcome home, sir. M-m-m-mary Margaret informed your brother of your arrival."
His eyes narrowed, "How did you know I was coming?"
The firelight glinted off the razor sharp blade of his axe. Eliza wrung her hands and stammered, "The g-g-g-groundskeeper s-s-s-saw you from the gardens, sir. We w-w-w-were quite surprised."
Ambrose relaxed. His dropping in was meant to be a surprise. Word of inheritance travels fast. As soon as he had gotten word that he was heir to part of their father's possessions, he made a U-turn and headed straight for Ireland.
"Sh-sh-sh-shall I show you to your b-b-brother?" Eliza asked.
Ambrose gave his greasy head a light shake, "Never you mind, Eliza. I very well know the way to my brother's chambers." He smiled, like the demon charmer that he was, then glared at her suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. He exited the kitchen and went up into the main hall. The estate was huge. It was only two stories, but from the East wing to the West wing was the better part of two miles, and from North wing to South almost was almost a mile in length. It was so far the biggest estate this side of Ireland. People in Dublin and in most of the world were dying of hunger, disease, and in filth, but under any normal circumstances, the Covenant family would be prospering. Now the house was fallen into disarray. Most of it was dark, and Ambrose felt his way around when he wasn't moving from memory. There was only a skeleton crew of servants left, and the house was in bad need of cleaning, and most of the electricity was gone. Candles in long cold sconces in the wall lit his way only barely.
Jeremiah's chambers were in the West wing on the second floor. His door was one of many in this area of the house. The whole establishment was a honeycomb of secret passages and rooms that no one had seen in centuries. With a few twists and turns, he soon spotted Mary Margaret standing outside Jeremiah's door. The man must indeed be in poor health if his chambers were kept like this. This end of the manor was almost dilapidated. Not that Ambrose had expected to find a grandiose establishment in the prime of the century, but this was more of an insult than a shock.
Mary Margaret had a stronger backbone, "Jeremiah will see you now, sir. A great surprise to see you here after three years."
Ambrose had no time for this. He stared over her shoulder and reached into the pocket of his tunic, turned her hand over and pressed a gold piece into her palm, "I must apologize for my absence, Mary Margaret. I have been abroad. How is he?"
Now Mary Margaret had the strongest backbone in all of Ireland, "Oh sir, he's not well at all. Usually he has more strength then what he had today. Poor Jeremiah, he's been bed ridden for most of your absence. The doctors say there isn't much more we can do for him."
A little shock registered on Ambrose's face. He had never much particularly cared for his over bearing and prying older brother, but he had watched Lizbeth rot before his eyes, and now the last and final sibling he had was wasting away in this big empty house. If Ambrose had felt a little more love for his brother, he might have been inclined to ease his passing, but all the trouble he'd been in thanks to Jeremiah was unforgivable. What he did to Aaron, Bethany, Lizbeth, and himself was unforgivable. He cursed Jeremiah and damned his rotting guts to Hell. Jeremiah had brought this curse on them, he would live with it and die with it the way they all had. Ambrose felt his end coming soon, but if it was in the near future or distant, he had not clue, so he didn't think on it.
"This way, sir. I think he's awake. Shall I pull up a chair for you?" Mary Margaret asked.
Ambrose shook his head and followed Mary Margaret. Jeremiah was sitting propped up against his headboard. He looked vacant, but his eyes brightened when they settled on Ambrose, then darkened.
"Its been long, Ambrose," he rasped.
Ambrose put the head of his axe on the floor and approached Jeremiah's bedside. He was worse than he had figured, but Ambrose didn't care. His face hardened.
"What happened to the servants? Where are they? This place is in terrible shape," he commented.
Jeremiah sat up a little more and noted the dark look on Ambrose's face.
"After Aaron disappeared and when we figured you weren't coming back, most of the servants raided our house and took what they could carry, then they left this place post haste. I could do nothing to stop them. Now we only have a few loyal retainers. It is enough, since its only me here. I assume you heard about the will. Now that Aaron, Bethany, and Lizbeth are gone, half of the estate is yours."
"I'm aware of that, Jeremiah," Ambrose said. "Tell me, when was the cancer detected?"
"Oh, only a few months after you left. The doctors want more blood letting, as if that gives me any hope," Jeremiah mused.
I'll do a little blood letting, dear brother, yes, Ambrose thought with some sadistic glee. His brother was as good as dead. The entire estate would be his to do with as he pleased. Somehow, he had always known it would come to this. He was just killing time, sitting here holding pointless conversation with his brother. It was fine, he told himself, and he had all night...
Jeremiah might have been dying, but he hadn't quite lost his grip on his senses. When Mary Margaret had come with word that Ambrose was on the property, he had bid her ring for the constables. They were on their way as quickly as possible. Mary Margaret ran to the head of the stairs and stayed there, ready to point the way to her ailing master's bedchamber and his demonic brother.
After about five minutes of quiet conversation from Ambrose and Jeremiah, Eliza heard the knock on the doors in the main hall. She opened it, her face drawn with anticipation.
"Beggin' your pardon, Madame, but we were informed that there was an intruder on the premises. The man is a wanted criminal. We've come to--"
"He's upstairs!" Eliza screamed, her shaking hands flying to her mouth in fear, "In my master's bed chambers! He's got a battle-axe. He's like nothing of this earth!"
The constables returned their hats to their heads and pulled their batons from their belts. Waving them furiously about, they clambered up the stairs in the main hall into the West Wing. Mary Margaret was waiting for them...
Ambrose came to his feet quickly and brandished his axe, "What was that noise?"
Jeremiah was certain that the axe wasn't there for his protection. Ambrose had always been a fighter; even in school he was a vicious boy. He beat up kids one by one then challenged them to gang up on him. He was cruel, and with that axe he would inflict serious damage. A snarl leapt to his face, and he turned on his brother. Jeremiah cringed back.
"You set me up," Ambrose hissed through clenched teeth.
The older sibling could do nothing except watch Ambrose to see what he would do. By now, rampaging feet could be heard coming up the stairs. Ambrose could do nothing in this little room. If rumor of his pillaging had reached Ireland, it would do him no good to kill Jeremiah. He was already looking at a lifetime in prison.
It was a lifetime he was quite ready to end should the need arise.
The constables stormed through the door, but Ambrose was quick. He growled, brandished the axe and cut two down. He backed through a set of double doors that lead to Jeremiah's sitting room. The fireplace was roaring, for some good servant had lit the fire to keep Jeremiah warm. The constables waved their batons and advanced. There were a good ten of them, not counting the ones he had just cut in half. Ambrose would take no chances. He didn't underestimate the prowess of the big constables--some of them taller and wider than he--nor did he overestimate his ability to fight them all. He snarled and saw an opening. They had left a gap between the window and the fireplace.
Hoping to corner him, the constables moved in to take Ambrose down, but the young pirate was faster. A few years on the sea had taught him much, one thing being that height was merely an obstacle to be overcome. He threw the axe like a harpoon and took out the window. He had lost his prize weapon for the moment, but it could be reclaimed presently. Now, to make his get away.
The burly constable in the center ran at him, his baton raised, a battle cry issuing from his lips. Ambrose didn't wait long enough to assert his combat skills, but instead hurled himself from the window and did a half back flip. His palms slapped a ledge and he clawed his way to a standing position, his back literally against the wall.
The constables scurried to the window. They all had seen him jump head first from the window, a suicide leap for certain. But when they looked next they saw no sign of him. His axe lay on the ground surrounded by broken glass, but Ambrose...
Was clinging to the wall inches away from their bobbing heads. He slowly inched his way to his left, leaving the blue bobbing heads slowly but surely behind. He would have to be quick, for soon they would give up their window scrutiny and give chase on the ground. He clawed his way to the drainpipe and slid down. He looked back at his prize axe, then up at the window. The Bobbies were gone, so he saw no point in leaving the axe. He picked it up and ran like a bat out of hell. He made straight for the garden gate, and vaulted over it, giving the groundskeeper quite a little heart attack. He could hear a few of the quicker Bobbies behind him, coming through the gardens. His breath was coming short and his legs were pumping like they'd never pumped before. He was on the verge of panic, running for all he was worth, and he didn't realize he'd over shot the galleon until he reached the cliff, and the boat was a six hundred yards from where he was. Despair clouded his face, and he stared down at the waves in utter hopelessness.
Mr. Hand had the telescope and could see Ambrose standing on the ledge, looking down at the waves. Mr. Hand shouted orders to weigh anchor quickly, set the sails. Their captain was in peril. The ship was moving, oh so slowly...
...Slowly, they were coming closer. Ambrose chanced a look back. They were jogging at three hundred yards and closing. Ambrose saw no choice. A life in prison was something he could not do. Pirates considered themselves free spirits, to do what they pleased, and though Ambrose--baptized as soon as he was birthed--knew that what he was about to do would doom him for an eternity of life as an undying creature, he took a few steps backwards for a running start...
The Bobbies were closing in on him. The terror of Pirate Cove and the second youngest Covenant child was poised. The captain of the local police force came to a screeching halt as the infamous Captain Ambrose Covenant took a running leap from the ledge and plummeted to an unholy death in the foaming waves...
Mr. Hand watched from his slowly advancing ship as his captain took the plunge. His heart sank with the captain...
Ambrose held onto his heavy battle-axe and sank like a rock. As the water closed above his eyes, a light flashed in his head and images flooded his mind...
Crying, screaming, blood. Jeremiah, Aaron, Bethany, and Ambrose crouched outside Evaline's doorway, waiting. Their mother was giving birth to the newest member of the Covenant family. For months, Bethany had been crooning over how much fun a little sister would be, and Aaron had been guarding his twin jealously. Jeremiah was less inclined to be helpful. Just another baby, so what? Ambrose was in a rage. A new baby, which meant he was no longer the privileged youngest. He silently hoped it was a baby boy, so that at least he could take his anger out on someone. Ambrose had always been a violent, twisted, rebellious boy since he could walk. His brothers and sisters would grow to hate him in years to come.
One set of lungs screaming was soon replaced by another, fresh pair. A baby's. Jeremiah, Aaron and Bethany glanced warily at one another. There was something foreboding about the silence that filled the room, and the sorrowful crying of the babe that made the siblings edgy. Mother?
Ambrose barged in, his siblings on his heels, and beheld the corpse of their mother lying in her bed, their father with his head in hands, and their new squirming sister writhing in a towel as Eliza dried her off.
Joseph Covenant looked up into the eyes of his four children, whose own eyes were transfixed on the bed and their mother, Evaline. Aaron was clutching Bethany's hand and Jeremiah hugged them, his face buried in his brother's shoulder. Ambrose refused to be touched. He crammed his fist into his mouth and bit down until he tasted blood...
Some years later, the oldest Covenant son was twelve, the youngest was four. Jeremiah held in his hands a leather bound tome covered with dust under his arm. He opened the door to the playroom in the East Wing proper and sat on one of the cots in the corner. Aaron dropped the toy he was holding in one hand and took a bite out of the apple he was holding in the other and came to sit next to his older brother.
"What have you got there, Jeremiah?" he asked, swatting a lock of red hair out of his round face. He stared at Jeremiah and the book through crystal blue eyes. Bethany, who was never far from Aaron, stood with a doll in her hands and staring at him with the same eyes. Ambrose, seeing that his siblings were looking at something, helped Lizbeth from the rocking horse and approached the group. Bethany--after discovering that she would see very little of her sister as an infant- put a hand on the little girl's shoulder. Even Aaron liked her and Ambrose...well, he was a different story. To put it lightly, he tolerated the child and didn't let her get hurt, but for the sake of dutiful brother, not fraternal love. Ambrose just assumed not get close to any of them. But woe to those who picked on another Covenant while Ambrose was about.
Jeremiah was pleased to have drawn a crowd. His twinkling brown eyes traveled from one sibling to another, their eyes fixed on the book.
"Close the door, Aaron," he said. Aaron did as he was told and came back over to them.
"I found it in Father's library. It looks like a spell book, you know like the Celts used to have. Father calls it 'occult'," Jeremiah explained.
Aaron peered closer at a sketch on one of the pages, "What's this?"
Jeremiah looked at it and read the caption aloud, "'Like Stonehenge, the Standing Stones mark a time immemorial, when wizards and witches stood with their charms and bewitched the land to yield food to them or to bring rain or enlist the gods help in destroying various enemies. The Standing Stones are a land mark and historical monolith, but it is unknown if any magic is still extent.' Do you hear that? Witches and wizards like the stories in Bethany's books."
Excitement leapt into the siblings eyes and they exchanged looks of childish glee. Lizbeth looked closer at the stones. She tugged at her elder brother's sleeve. Jeremiah smiled at her, "Yes, Lizbeth."
"I've seen those stones, Jeremiah," the little girl offered. Ambrose snorted, "Lizbeth, none of us have ever seen this book before, so where do you think you saw them, hmmm?"
Lizbeth's eyes went wide, "I have too seen them, Ambrose." She folded her arms and pouted.
Jeremiah gave his younger brother an evil glare but did not touch the boy. Ambrose could hit harder than their father, or any other man they knew, and Ambrose kept a very strict hit-back policy that no Covenant child wanted to tamper with. Jeremiah was in too good a mood to be clobbered, so he turned a softer eye to his baby sister.
"Tell us where you saw the Standing Stones, Lizbeth," he coaxed.
The girl pouted, "Ambrose doesn't believe me, so I won't tell."
The group groaned in unison. Bethany whispered harshly in Ambrose's ear, "Oh, you stubborn brat, just humor her."
Ambrose could see where this was going: he didn't believe it, so Lizbeth wouldn't tell, then Jeremiah would get upset at Ambrose and tattle on him to their father, then Father would get mad for being disturbed, then he would take the book away and they'd never see it again. He sighed and wiped his face, putting on an air of interest. He crouched next to Lizbeth and peered into her eyes.
"Alright, Lizbeth, I believe you. Tell us where you saw the stones," he said dryly.
Now that Lizbeth had their undivided attention she uncrossed her arms and a dreamy look passed over her features.
"I was sleeping in my bed. I could hear the priests singing over on the island. All the lights in the monastery were out, and it made the singing frightening. I curled up in my sheets and had a dream. The Standing Stones were there, on the island behind the monastery. I was standing next to them. They had strange designs on them like that," she pointed to the book, "I wanted to touch them, but they were hot, like touching the hearth in the kitchen. I even burned my finger, and when I woke up in the morning, it had blistered and it hurt."
She clutched said finger and examined it, to make sure it was still all right.
Jeremiah listened intently, "Did you ever tell Father?"
"No," she shook her little blond head, "I told Eliza and she made me go to Confession. She said I had an unholy dream and must be absolved of it," Lizbeth explained. The head maid was decidedly Catholic and was trying to impart a little of it to Lizbeth, whom Eliza had raised since birth.
Ambrose never liked that maid.
Bethany noted the distress in Lizbeth's eyes and put her arm around her. Ambrose rolled his eyes and folded his arms. Aaron stared at the book upside down, trying to read some more, but Jeremiah looked up and spoke again.
"We could go see it for ourselves, see if the stones still work," he whispered, as if it were a big secret.
His siblings gasped. Even Ambrose leaned away from his brother's gleeful leer. Aaron and Bethany exchanged a worried glance and Lizbeth looked ready to cry her little heart out at what her big brother suggested.
"Oh, come on," Jeremiah insisted, "We could go be like real magicians and turn the servants into toads if they don't give us sweets."
Ambrose had an idea, "Or maybe we could talk to Mama there."
Lizbeth was crying now, "I don't want to turn Eliza into a toad."
Jeremiah laughed, "I didn't say turn Eliza into a toad, Lizbeth, but don't you like sweets?"
Lizbeth nodded.
"And don't you want to talk to Mama?" Ambrose asked with mock sincerity.
Lizbeth nodded again.
"Mama?" Aaron and Bethany whispered in unison.
Ambrose could see that Jeremiah didn't like this. It was dangerous and unholy. Turning the servants into toads was one thing, talking to the dead was quite another.
Even Lizbeth knew that, "Its wrong. What would Eliza say?"
"Eliza's not coming with us. She never has to know. No one does. Let's just go see if the stones work. Maybe there isn't any magic there anymore," Jeremiah pleaded. He stared at Ambrose, stared at him hard. Surely he didn't seriously believe he could talk to Mama. That would be sacrilegious. Ambrose knew that Lizbeth treasured Mama more than any of them because she never knew her. Surely Ambrose was using this as a ruse to get Lizbeth to tag along with them.
It worked. Lizbeth brightened a little and smiled. "Mama?"
Ambrose sat on his haunches and stared at his little sister, "Yes, Lizbeth. We can go talk to Mama. You'd like that wouldn't you?"
Aaron and Bethany smiled at each other at the prospect of seeing Mama again. Only Jeremiah disapproved. Well that was too bad because he was outnumbered four to one.
"When do we go?" Aaron asked in a hushed whisper.
Jeremiah looked at the clock on the wall. Three hours before anyone would come looking for them. That should be enough time.
"Let's go now. No one will expect us until supper. We can use the boat in the garden shed," Jeremiah explained. His brothers and sisters were practically jumping.
"Listen, go dress in the blackest clothes you have. We don't want to be seen," he said.
Simple. Ambrose was already wearing black. He loved black. It was his favorite color, and it went so well with the rest of the house. He and Jeremiah agreed to meet the rest at the garden shed.
The groundskeeper was nowhere in sight. Jeremiah pulled at the lock on the door. It didn't budge. Ambrose was over keeping a look out. Jeremiah tapped him on the shoulder.
"Break the lock," Jeremiah said.
Ambrose shrugged and jerked the door open, tearing the jamb off. He and Jeremiah pulled the boat down to the cove and returned to the garden shed. Aaron came first and informed his brothers that Bethany was helping Lizbeth to dress.
When the girls had arrived. They went down to the boat and shoved off...
An hour later, at the island of the Standing Stones. Ambrose, Aaron, and Jeremiah pulled the boat up out of the waves, so that the sea could not suck it away from them while they weren't looking. There was nothing to tie it to, though. The island was devoid of any plant life. Red dirt and stone of the same color was all that the island was. Jeremiah shivered and Lizbeth stayed close to Ambrose. She found her third oldest brother to be the one to go to when a dodgy situation arose. Ambrose could fight his way out of anything and was sort of her unofficial sworn protector. It was his duty to look after a younger sibling, as well as the rest. The day a boy at school grabbed Bethany's hair for instance, Ambrose had been there to beat him back. Ambrose was not close to any of his siblings, but Lizbeth was so small...she needed a protector if she were to survive.
Jeremiah held the book under his arm and strode towards the stones. They were odd shaped, like claws protruding from the ground, like a hand clutching a dirt clod. They stood in the middle of the stones. The siblings stood in a semicircle around their brother. He opened the book and read from it...
He was sinking into the blackness, and it wasn't at the bottom of the sea. His body had long been lying on the bottom, clutching the axe. His mouth was open and his eyes were closed. He was dead, but the past was not...
A wind came up from the island. Ambrose and his siblings stared at Jeremiah, whose eyes wandered over the stones. He eyed the sky. Clouds were forming, black thunder heads. Lizbeth feared thunder. She was afraid it would shake them to pieces. Bethany clutched Aaron's hand and whimpered.
The wind grew stronger and suddenly the island began to shake. Thunder roared down from the skeis. Lizbeth screamed and jumped into Ambrose's arms. At that point, even Ambrose was afraid. He clutched his little sister and fell to his knees, his body covering hers. He chanced a look at Bethany and Aaron, who were huddled on the ground in fear and at Jeremiah, who clutched the book in his hands and stared at his siblings.
Bethany shrieked and pointed at the sea. The waves had turned blood red and it boiled. It was searing. Now Jeremiah dropped the book and dove for the ground, finding his siblings and covering his head. What had he done?
After about ten minutes of raging hell, the sea calmed and became green again. The sky cleared and the ground ceased to shake. Jeremiah, Ambrose, Bethany, Aaron, and Lizbeth rose as one and stared about them. Lizbeth clung to Ambrose hard, and the boy didn't have the heart to push her off of him. She was devastated by this, probably scarred for life. Jeremiah looked at them all and assumed the role of older brother once again.
"Is everyone alright?" he asked.
They nodded, shocked, humbled. Jeremiah appeared to be shaken but was otherwise all right. He patted his youngest brother on the shoulder and lifted Lizbeth into his arms. She shook violently and clung to Jeremiah. Ambrose was suddenly at a loss and didn't know why...
More images flooded his brain, and although his body had ceased to function, his mind and soul were still operating, and they weren't in the best of conditions. The images came faster and shorter, and the more Ambrose saw, the tighter the darkness wrapped itself around his soul...
The children were at school. Ambrose was fighting a boy again. He almost beat him to death. The headmaster wrote home and informed Joseph that his son had been expelled and the children were coming home. Joseph hung his head and sighed. He just didn't know what to do with him anymore...
A week later, in the playroom. Joseph had hired a tutor to educate the children. He had violated the sanctity of the playroom, now only inhabited by a rapidly changing Lizbeth. Adolescence was taking its toll on her, but she had not given up on a biting problem she'd picked up after the incident at the Standing Stones. A few screams from Lizbeth brought her brothers and sisters hence and a few hours later the tutor ran to his room screaming, packed his bags and left without even claiming his wages. Joseph had never hung his head so low....
The traveling carnival was in town. Unbeknownst to their father, the children snuck out of their beds before the witching hour and made their way down to the grounds. Bethany and Lizbeth toyed with Madame Mai-ling the fortuneteller and Aaron stuck to the House of Mirrors. Aaron was slowly going off the deep end. He had taken a keen interest in art and painting, only his paintings were never pleasant.
Ambrose went into the main tent, where Thor the Magnificent was appearing and round after round brought the strongest men this side of Dublin to the canvas. Ambrose talked the ringmaster into letting him fight. As the laughter rained down on him, he felled Thor with one left hook. It was the left hook that broke the giants jaw, for Thor was no more. Ambrose was not blamed and no punishment was placed on any of the siblings. Ambrose recalled looking up into the disappointed eyes of Jeremiah. The older boy had followed Ambrose into the tent, trying to keep an eye on him. Apparently it didn't do much good...
The succession of images came on faster, each one centered on a main point...
Jeremiah was always trying to control him. Ambrose was one to act on impulse, and when he backed up his actions with reason, he was a most horrid monster indeed. He once tried to push Eliza into the big fireplace in the kitchen for stopping him from taking food from the larder before supper. He would have succeeded if Jeremiah hadn't come along...
Lizbeth was dying. The wasting disease was on her, and the Covenant children watched as their youngest sibling rotted before their eyes...
Jeremiah was always a coward. The day he left for the war was the day Ambrose, and the others, lost all respect for him. He walked away from the estate with his head held high. Ambrose glared at his back the whole time...
Bethany wrote Jeremiah often, begging him to come home. Ambrose was a terror. He never did anything to his siblings, but after Lizbeth's death in the prime of her life, he lost all reason. He was cruel to the servants and his tongue was sharp to Father, who was by now, aging and destitute of any sense and reason. He never came out of the library anymore. Aaron was piddling away most of his allowance on racehorses. He always had some sort of visitor over and he owed money to many people. His paintings were famous, but most never truly saw what the paintings beheld. Bethany didn't approve of any of it, but her own actions where just as disgraceful. Her dealings with Count Otto Keisinger and many other cult members would most likely get her killed, and there was Jeremiah, off at war, neglecting his duties at home, and hiding from the curse...
They found Bethany's body in Otto Keisinger's rooms. The Count had been staying with Bethany for a while. She had been dabbling in black arts, and now it had resulted in her death. Keisinger had killed her himself, but had covered it up, making it look like she had been attacked by a Trsanti. He even broke the window in his quarters and trailed blood to it. It all went over nicely, but Ambrose never trusted him and stayed as far away from that black magic as he could. It was dangerous and deadly and even while Bethany was alive, he would have no truck with her. Jeremiah, where are you?
Aaron had disappeared. One of the maids brought a book to Ambrose's attention. It spoke of something Aaron called the Eternal Autumn. They assumed him dead, lost in his own mind and to them forever. Without a Christian burial he would be doomed to wander the Earth, his soul restless and angry. Soon, word came from Jeremiah that he was coming home. Finally. He could see what he had allowed to happen to his family. Ambrose couldn't wait for him to come home...
Ambrose loved the sea. He would look at it for hours out of his dead sister's window. Lizbeth had always commanded a view the sea, which he was slightly jealous of her for. She would lock her doors against him and refuse to let him look out the window. Then he found a nice place to sit that over looked the cove from the gardens. One day, he'd ventured down to the cove and discovered it had been taken over by the Trsanti and a band of pirates. They had tried to kill him, and in turn he killed every one. Word spread of this feat and many sought Ambrose to help run one galleon or another. This went on until Jeremiah returned home...
Ambrose was first to discover Father's body. He had suffered a fall from the tall bookshelf where his occult books were stashed. A large gaping contusion in his head was oozing...at least that was the story Ambrose fed Jeremiah, Aaron, Bethany, the servants and the constables. A pirate had given Ambrose a bludgeon and that was how Ambrose had disposed of their father. Jeremiah had found it odd that it should be Ambrose who discovered their father's body. He glared at his brother hard through the constable's interrogation of him. Ambrose fled a few days after the funeral, closed casket...
Jeremiah was there when the Trsanti raided the estate and killed as many servants as they cold find...
Jeremiah was there when Lizbeth died...
Jeremiah ran away and left Aaron, Bethany, and Ambrose alone to survive...
Jeremiah was the one who read from that damned book and brought this foul curse down on the heads of his siblings...
Jeremiah always meddled...
And now Jeremiah was the soul inheritor of the Estate. He was rotting, but he was still alive. He had been the cause of all of their deaths...
Jeremiah had betrayed him by summoning the constables to arrest him in his own home...
Jeremiah...
Jeremiah...
Jeremiah...
Jeremiah...
The sea seemed to whisper the betrayer's name in the waves. It traveled down to the deaf ears of his dead brother, traveled into Ambrose's immortal soul. By killing himself he had doomed his soul to wander the Earth, haunting wherever he pleased. The corpse's lips twitched into a snarl, his feet tread the dirt at the bottom of the sea, and its eye snapped open. Ambrose's gaze was red hot, and his eyes burned with all the fires of Hell. Its claws gripped the staff of the battle-axe and almost snapped it. On the floor of the ocean, Ambrose Covenant sat up and walked his way back to the cliff. Sentient thought had not yet seeped into the new monster's mind. There was only one thought, one object, one face that floated in front of his visage.
Jeremiah...
Mr. Hand dropped the net in the exact spot that he had witnessed the captain's body disappeared. He gestured to the first mate, who manned the cannon opposite from him. They fired it off into the sea. The water rolled up from the bottom of the cove to the top. Dirt and debris drifted up with it, but no body. It would have floated up by now anyway. Mr. Hand stared into the water. An unmistakable dread seeped into him and wrapped its cold fingers around his spine. He griped the rail until his knuckles turned white.
There was no body. Mr. Hand wasn't a religious man. It was a rule among pirates to be atheists. But he was educated in the beliefs of the religious. He had slain many a praying man. Suicide was a mortal sin, unforgivable by God.
Ambrose had left the sea, body and soul...
Using the staff and blade of the axe and his own claws, the monster Ambrose Covenant pulled himself, dripping and sputtering, up the side of the cliff. He hauled himself over the ridge and then leaned over it, vomiting water and other vile liquids. When he was through clearing his insides, he rolled over in the grass and dirt and sat up. In his red sights were the garden and grounds of the Covenant Estate. His home. He'd been cast out, but he would be back. Lucid thoughts once again filled his cunning, cruel, twisted mind, and he stood, holding the axe at eye level. He examined the blade and smiled wickedly. To his left, his galleon was sailing back to port. He set off in that direction. He dropped down onto the pier just as the crew lowered the gangplank. Mr. Hand came down off the plank. Ambrose was waiting for them.
Mr. Hand thought that all the demons of Hell were manifest before him in the form of his captain. He dropped to his knees, but Ambrose shook his head and spoke in his new guttural voice, which surprised him as much as it surprised Mr. Hand.
"Stand up, Mr. Hand. It is I, your captain," Ambrose croaked.
Mr. Hand did as he was told, "Captain, your alive, thank God--"
Ambrose shook his head again, "No, God would have nothing to do with me."
Mr. Hand didn't understand, "Sir, I didn't know you were a believer."
Ambrose shrugged, "I had been baptized, so I am entitled to my punishment. I am doomed to wander the Earth for eternity."
Mr. Hand turned and gestured clearance for Ambrose to board. Ambrose nodded to him. After such a strange ordeal, he was very calm, and he wondered why exactly. Had he found closure? Had he found an absolution even now that he was sentenced to a life in limbo, neither living nor dead? He took his place beside Mr. Hand at the helm. The crew had their orders. The sails were set, the anchor weighed, and once again, Ambrose was setting out to sea. His brother and the constables thought him dead, and for the most part, they were right.
He stood with his ashen hands behind his back. He had not bothered to dry off. He should have felt cold, but he felt just fine. Absolutely fine. His axe stood on its head and leaned against the railing. Ambrose inhaled the sea air and sighed.
"Fear not, brother. I shall return, and with it I will bring a Hell unlike anything Satan could ever imagine. I will punish you for your crimes against us. For Aaron, Bethany, Lizbeth and myself, and I will make you pay for the curse you've put on us all," he whispered into the wind. He did not laugh maniacally, but his words echoed back to him on the wind, and into the ears of the crew.
Over the land, now miles away, Jeremiah Covenant tossed in the thralls of another nightmare. He could see Ambrose standing on the deck of his galleon, smiling, his lips parted over yellow teeth, his eyes...oh, his eyes, glaring like fiery orbs of hatred. He knew in his secret heart-even thought constables had told him he had thrown himself from the cliff-Jeremiah knew that his youngest brother was not dead, he was undying.
And he would be back.