Hello again everyone!Thanks to my reviewers I found the inspiration to write a long long chapter! Hope you enjoy it!
"Is this some spirit, O child of man?
Doth Hecat hold thee perchance, or Pan?
Doth she of the Mountains work her ban,
Or the Dread Corybantes bind thee?"
Hippolytus
"I'm telling you Emil, you're ought to get rid of that devil's spawn!" Petru said in an urgent voice, sweat glistening upon the animal trainer's bearded face.
The caravan master continued to count the coins, ignoring the other man completely, until Petru started pacing around the tent impatiently, resembling much like his agitated animals, mostly exotic beasts from India.
Emil, the caravan master placed the coins back into the pouch and pulled on the drawstring viciously, tucking it in his belt and glancing up to Petru with annoyance.
"What is it now?" he demanded, his voice slightly slurred from alcohol.
"I say, dispose of that little demon!" Petru repeated.
Emil took a huge swig from the bottle clutched in one hand, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
"Why the hell would I do that? Is he bothering the animals again?"
Petru's eyes grew thoughtful for a moment. "No, no.He has a strange way with the beasts." He muttered before he could stop himself. "But that's beside the point! There's something wrong with that boy, I tell you!"
Emil took another large gulp of the vodka and belched loudly, then snorted.
"Obviously."
Petru, seeing this was going nowhere, took a couple of steps further into the tent.The lamplight cast shadows to flicker across his face, creating a ghoulish illusion.When he spoke, his voice was low and tense.
"Ana says the boy has the evil eye, that some disaster's soon to follow."
The caravan master simply laughed.
"Yes I know what the crazy old bitch keeps babbling on about.If her bloody prophecies were half as accurate as she claimed them to be, she would be entertaining in the Voivode's court, not reading palms and stupid rocks."
Emil reached for the greased whip and fingered its rough length, his thin lips curling into a sneer.
"That freak is a gold mine." He muttered. "And stupid superstitions of a crazed hag do not change anything."
Petru grumbled a swift oath beneath his breath. "You're making a mistake, mark my words." he said, exiting the tent with a troubled frown.
A few yards to the east of the tent, the boy sat on the straw-strewn cold floor of his cage, busily attaching a tiny cymbal to the paw of a little toy monkey he'd found discarded after the show, his dirt streaked hands moving with deft, fluid movements that was almost graceful to behold.Petru watched him with a dreadful fascination.
Suddenly, the boy looked up, his unusual eyes shining with a cobalt grey light, which unwillingly summoned a beast of prey to Petru's mind.In the Carpathians, just before he'd captured the wolf, he'd watched it launch itself out of the bush with a growl, sinking powerful jaws into the deer's neck, ripping out the still beating heart and devouring the shreddedmeat until the deer was reduced to a pile of gory bones.
The same feral gleam flickered in the depths of theicygrey-bluedepths of the boy's eyes, as though shining with the lure of his hunt.
Petru turned away with a shudder, thankful that the nocturnal cover of the night veiled the boy's grotesque face, fingering the charm hanging upon his breast with a quietly murmured prayer to whatever gods that bothered to listen.
That boy was not human.
And so, the gypsy fair had left Romania, and traveled across the Mediterranean, Middle East and Europe, bringing with it the "wonders of the east".
Alexej was mystified, fascinated by the rich tapestry of cultures, faces, cacophony of languages, woven exquisitely with the exotic thread of rare cloths and incenses, spices and flowers, architectural grandeur and historical magnificence, beauty and hideousness. He had witnessed on several ocassions the many faces of Angel of Doom, the dark descent of the Reaper in horrible, or benevolent ways before his eyes.His mind danced with a thousand images of this tapestry of Life and Death, such as he'd never read in any book before, back in his little room in his father's castle in Romania.
He had come across corrupters of every sort; rogues and vagrants, black marketers and thieves, murderers and fallen clergymen, charlatans and lunatics, sorcerers and harlots.
From Istanbul to Cairo, Jerusalem to Baghdad, Prague to Moscow, Venice to Seville, Budapest to Vienna, Bombay to London, across the land and ocean, the gypsy caravan had woven a path of magick and wonder.
Eight years flew by.
He had learned much during those eight years spent with the gypsies, from the mastery of Romany language to the use of the Indian Punjab Lasso, ventriloquism and mimicry, how to hold and use a sword from a Castilian mercenary, trickery of stealth from a Persian acrobat, the strange art of hypnotism and mesmerism from an arab magician.
Unbeknownst to any of them, of course. No one was willing to come near the devil's child, let alone tutor him in anything.
So Alexej had watched, and learned quickly, his brilliant mind unsatisfied, unsated, craving to explore every art and lore known to mankind-mundane or arcane- which was yet to be revealed.
But most importantly, he craved Music.
He created furiously in his mind, inspiration came flowing and flooding his senses in an intoxicating urgency and breathtaking intensity, his dreams and tenebrous fantasies he poured into his musique. Frustrated beyond thought by the fact that he had not been allowed any possessions except for the little peculiar toy monkey, let alone the comfort of quill and parchment to write his music, or the instruments to bring it to reality, Alexej followed the innersymphony, trapping the notes and melodies into his memory with accurate detail to be performed, when he would find his freedom.
With blood.
He was not afraid, no. He simply bided his time, finding refuge in the music of the night until the opportunity revealed itself.
Without music, life was dull, entrapped in a hazy picture of smudged grey shades, faded and smoky.
Rather, music sprung this bleak tableau to life, providing a pure white canvas to be filled with the black and vermilion shades of his soul, the scarlet of his dark agony, and blood red of his physical pain-perpetual and sharp, the abyssal black of his hatred and contempt for humanity and nocturnal crimson of his passions and secret desires.
Passions that, as he passed from childhood into adolescence, revealed slowly…rapturously…agonizingly…
Girls were the biggest enigma of all, their feminine mysteries and beauties darkly alluring, and terribly tormenting.
Girls hated him, they were repulsed and repelled by the hideously disfigured side of his face. That's the first thing they glimpsed. A malefique distortion that sent them screaming or fainting. Ugliness was easily detected...much sought after...twistedly so.
But they were also compelled and intrigued by the unmarred side of the same face that had all the sharp and sincere beauty of his Slavic ancestry andnoble breeding.
And those eyes…
Magnetique..Serpentine at times, or wolfen and feral...seductively, sinfully so...the glacial grey irises gave him a somewhat…mysterious aura about him.
But it was not enough. It never was. It would never be. He was a freak of nature, and had no place among common men. They despised him, loathed him, laughed and shrieked at him, men and women who flocked to see the devil's child.
And they were afraid.
And Alexej knew they were afraid.
He smelt their fear, as a jungle predator senses the terror of his prey.
And he suffered.Suffered unendlessly the drunken and violent outbursts of the caravan master, of thefrenzied whippingsand beatings, of humans' disgusted stares. He endured the cruel treatments with a forced detachment borne solely of survival instinct.He kept a passive look to his gargoyle face, only his lips twitching at the searing pain of the sadistic strikes.
And he'd rather die than surrender his soul in despair at the feet of his tormentors.
Deep down, he was afraid too.
Afraid of revealing his deepest yearnings and desperate dreams.
Dreams of Love.
Love… The shadows whipped and thrashed at his thoughts, angrily so.
And to France, the gypsy caravan headed at last.
To Paris.
City of dreams and dazzling lights.
City of lovers and song and dance.
In Paris, Alexej would find freedom.
Very soon.
Emil paced up and down with enthusiasm, Parisian folk were decadent, indulgent. Parisian audience he loved the best.
He was eager to display the devil's son. Though, an uneasy sensation nagged at his being, faintly, subtly.
The boy had matured quickly, and grew up to be a strong young man. He stoodtaller than boyshis own age, his malnourished body growing lithely muscled, enduring and resilient, able to withstand excessive amount of pain. It was …incredible…
Frightening…
The boy was quite extraordinary to say the least, his superhuman strength and agility, his gracefully balanced catlike reflexes, his sharp, acute senses, the uncanny ability to find his way in darkness, were among his demonique traits.
Emil often found himself wondering…
Such a beast could not be caged, could not be enslaved.
Yet the boy seemed strangely resigned, especially recently.
Emil swallowed thickly, gripping hard the edges of his sanity… with such natural talents the boy could have escaped long ago…
The revelation was not comforting.
Emil tugged at his greasy beard uneasily, wondering if the silly old hag was right about the boy after all.
Otherworldly, the way he stares at me when I beat his wretched body, it is the chill of the grave that shines in his eyes, much as if my grave itself were being walked upon. No, the hag was right about his dark divinity.
A slight tremble jolted through Emil.
He took a deep, rattled breath.
He did not care if the boy was human or not. If he was a demon, he was a very profitable one. And that's the only thing that mattered.
As always, reviews are much welcomed!
