White Bird - Part 2

Sister Nina stepped briskly along the outside of the building, heading for the cove. Harold followed after, having to increase his pace to keep up with the swift gait of Nina. She walked with purpose, unwavering in her stride.

Harold couldn’t help but admire that.

A mossy pier came into view, with a singular beige dinghy, rocking softly back and forth as the dreary waves rolled beneath. Harold could hear the straining squeak of the gnarled mooring rope which held it firmly in dock, and the air was all but still and silent in the sheltered nook of the bay.

Nina hopped swiftly down into the boat, dropping immediately into position between the two oars. Harold stifled a chuckle.

“I can row if you want?” He asked with a wry smile.

“Why?” Nina spat back, rolling up her black sleeves to reveal forearms that looked as if they were carved from wood, the muscles wriggling like snakes as she gripped the two oars and hoisted them up with practiced ease.

“Never mind.” Harold said, a little taken aback. He removed the mooring rope and gently shoved away from the dock, losing his balance and plopping into the seat opposite the grim Nun. Immediately, Sister Nina began pulling the oars with powerful strokes, causing Harold’s greasy hair to come undone in the wind, and within moments they were out on the open sea.

After half an hour, as far as Harold could tell, they had completely lost sight of land in all directions, with nothing but rolling sea from horizon to horizon. The sky was still overcast with swelling clouds, speaking of more storms to come.

Harold was no sea-fairer, and his stomach was beginning to protest the undulating motion of the waves. Seeking to distract his mind, he took a deep breath and reached into his jacket, fumbling for his hip flask.

Without warning, Nina shot bolt upright, and with a swift movement produced a grimy trench shotgun from beneath her robes, leveling it directly in Harold’s face. The boat barely moved during the lightning-quick motion.

Harold held his hands up slowly, his eight-ounce flask hanging limply by its leather strap.

“…Don’t shoot?” Harold asked through fear tightened lips. The nun lowered her weapon slightly, pointing to the pistol hidden in his belt. “Oh.” Harold realized. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Planning to use it?” The Nun asked dryly, her finger still poised on the trigger.

“Not on you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Nina regarded him with piercing green eyes, peering into Harold’s soul, searching for a lie. Harold tensed up, a bead of sweat meandering down his cheek. Finally, she lowered the shotgun, and swiftly shoved it back in its hiding place beneath her garb, picking up the oars again.

“You’ll wish you’d brought something bigger.” Was all she mumbled, as the boat began to coast along the waves once more.

“Sister Maya said something similar. Why is everyone so afraid of this Peter fellow?” Harold asked with his best nonchalant voice, trying to hide his growing sense of dread.

Sister Maya paused mid-row.

“It’s not the white bird you should fear.” She all but whispered, her words almost whipped away by the gentle sea breeze. Harold regarded the enigmatic expression on her face.

Was it fear? Sadness? Anger? He couldn’t tell.

And so they sat in silence for the rest of the voyage.

Sister Nina’s ropey arms strained and stretched as she breathed deeply into each stroke. Harold simply sat in stunned contemplation, never taking his eyes off the dot on the horizon as it came closer, and closer.

***

The dhingy slid onto the rocky shore with a grinding screech, and Harold gripped the edges in preparation as the vessel came to a sudden stop. Nina immediately sprang over the side, allowing the oars to fall with a thump.

“Out you get.” She stated rather than asked, her eyes never moving from Harold’s hip where his gun was still hidden.

Harold took a deep, rattling breath to steady his churning stomach. The last few hundred meters of sea had been very choppy, as the great tides washed around the small island. He stood up, brushed the encrusted sea-salt from his jacket and lazily stepped over onto the rough pebble-strewn beach.

Harold had barely exited the vessel before Sister Nina began pushing it back out to sea.

“Woah! Hang on!” Harold pleaded, unable to keep the tremble from his voice. “How am I supposed to get back?”

Sister Nina regarding him for a moment, seeming puzzled by the question. “I’ll circle the island till dusk. If you’re still here I’ll pick you up again.”

Harold blinked.

If?

“Uh-uhm.” He stammered. “Sure. I guess. Any reason you can’t just wait here?”

Nina glared back at him, causing Harold to take a step back like he’d been struck. “Women are not permitted to stay here.” She said bluntly.

Harold swallowed. “Oh. I see.” Was all he could muster.

Nina pushed the boat back out onto the water, climbing in nimbly as it left the earth.

“Also,” she shouted to be heard above the sea spray. “It’s less dangerous out here.”

Harold watched in stunned silence as the Sister disappeared into the misty spray of the ocean waves. He scratched his day-old stubble roughly, surveying the island. He couldn’t help but notice a dozen mounds of sand piled suspiciously at the far end of the narrow coast.

Someone’s playing a joke on me. He thought, his brows furrowed and face perplexed. That’s gotta be it.

With a heaving sigh, he began his march along the beach, eyes set on the solitary steeple that he could make out above a grassy crest. As he walked over the wind-swept shore, he recounted the details of the mission he had been given by the contractors back home in England.

Go to Peru. Follow the Sisters. Find Peter. Deliver the item. Assassinate him by any means.

“By any means?” He scoffed aloud, checking his gun was safe in its holster to reassure himself. “Must be a joke.”

As Harold scaled the hummocks, a steeple-crested monastery came into view. The domed and angular rooves were a faded blue, with white-washed walls which had been chipped away over time by the harsh ocean breeze. There was a wide courtyard, enclosed with a knee-high spiked fence, which had gaps here and there and was in various states of disrepair. There were knotted trees growing from the salty earth, their branches bare as they moved hypnotically in the wind, making a soft creaking sound as the boughs bent and swayed.

In one corner of the yard, there was a tiny stone well, and much to Harold’s surprise there was a child-like figure busy drawing water from it.

Harold stepped over the low fence, careful not to snag anything delicate on the rusty points. He slowly approached the figure, realizing it was a skinny boy with his hair cropped almost to the scalp. The lad wore a pure white satin shirt and pants, immaculately clean. Hardly the sort of clothes fit for yard work.

“Hello there.” Harold spoke clearly in his softest voice, not wishing to spook the youngster. The boy did not waver an inch from his task, cranking the winch with a rhythmic screeching noise. Thinking that the child had simply not heard him, Harold called out again.

“Hey there, lad!”

Still, the child did not stop. He didn’t even flinch as Harold stepped directly up next to him, towering over the boy. He simply stared ahead, blankly, his sky-blue eyes unblinking, as he gradually hoisted the bucket up.

“Hello…?” Harold asked once more with concern.

Still nothing.

What the hell? Did I turn invisible or something?

That’s when Harold noticed the one defining feature of the lad’s plain white outfit. On the back of his collar was a little black bird, identical in design to the white bird of the orphanage. Harold reached out a hand, intending to shake the child gently by the shoulder to get his attention.

For the first time, the boy acknowledged his presence.

“Don’t.” He said quietly but firmly. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Harold stepped back, bewildered. The blue-eyed child reached out to the pulley to retrieve his bucket, careful not to spill a drop.

“I’m looking for Peter… do you know him?” Harold queried, feeling slightly unsettled.

The boy fixed Harold with an unwavering stare, making him uneasy. “Inside.” Was all he said, lifting his bucket and strolling away.

Harold watched morosely as the boy disappeared around the corner of the building, stepping so lightly that he seemed to glide like a spirit. He tried to ignore the shiver that ran up his spine.

Definitely a joke. He mused, mustering up his professionalism. Well, time to get to work.

Harold stepped around the various dry dead shrubs which dotted the unkempt garden, making his way to the entrance of the monastery. The entire building was surprisingly plain. There were no discerning features of masonry or art, as he expected of most religious sites. Not even one of the decorative birds he had been seeing everywhere since he arrived.

He approached the cracked timber door and beat the ivory knocker three times loudly for good measure. He stepped back, hand inside his coat on his holster, just in case. Being caught unawares was something Harold tried his best to avoid.

Ten seconds of silence went by. Feeling his patience growing thin, Harold knocked again with four angry taps of the weighty knocker.

“Anybody home?” He called out to the inanimate woody gateway. This time he heard soft steps approaching from beyond. Harold gripped the handle of his pistol beneath his jacket in preparation. The gentle footsteps came to a stop directly opposite the door, and Harold held his breath.

“Yes?” A little voice cooed from within.

Great. Harold thought, taking his hand off his gun. More kids.

“I’m here to see Peter? Is he in?”

The door swung open suddenly in answer, causing Harold’s heart to skip a beat. Luckily, his first hunch had been correct. Another boy, shaved head and blue eyes peering up at him from a familiar looking face.

“Didn’t I just meet you outside?” Harold asked in confusion. The boy shook his head.

Harold’s mind began swimming in circles.

I’m sure this is the same boy. Am I losing it? He pushed the thought from his head.

“Can I speak to Peter?” Harold asked evenly, trying his best to seem casual with the question. The boy simply stepped aside in silence, allowing Harold to nudge past and into the shadowy foyer. Before Harold’s eyes had time to adjust to the dingy interior, the boy slammed the entrance shut, cutting off the outside light and plunging the room into momentary shadow with a great rush of air, causing Harold’s coat to billow wildly.

Harold stood by the entrance, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim chamber. He heard the lad shuffle away across the cold tiles, disappearing somewhere into the depths of the building.

Another warm welcome. He mused to himself in the dead silence.

After a few moments, he began to make out the interior of the entranceway. It wasn’t what he was expecting, given the external façade.

The windows were all covered with thick scarlet velvet sheets, haphazardly affixed to the heads of the frames with crooked nails as if they had been put up in haste. There were hundreds of candles of all shapes and sizes strewn about the room. Some were ensconced in old and ornate candelabras, which stood in each corner, while others were either melted to the surface of a shelf or were otherwise simply discarded on the floor in a pile. The vaulted ceiling was shrouded in deep shadow, impossible to penetrate without a torch. A musty smell was emanating from a soiled throw-rug which had been left scrunched up by the door.

There were two exits to the room, one to the left, a small stone archway with a wooden sign nailed above reading “Kitchen”. And the other exit was directly ahead, a similar archway, though draped with a curtain of fine beads which glinted softly even in the somber lighting.

“Come in” a new voice called gently from beyond the curtain. It was but a whisper, and yet it carried with ease to Harold’s ears, like the speaker was right next to him. The hairs on Harold’s neck shot up in attention, his battle-honed instincts readying for action.

He stepped quietly across the chamber, not wanting to spook his prey too soon. He stopped just short of the curtain, placing his hands on the beads when he heard a sudden scraping noise from behind him.

Harold spun around like a ballet dancer performing a pirouette, arm in front of him ready to fend off the threat.

But there was only gloom. The same as before.

Harold swallowed his nerves, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He tilted his head, trying to see around the corner into the kitchen for whoever had made the sound. There was only stillness, but for the rhythmic beating of his own pulse in his ears.

“Come.” The voice repeated, tender and kind in tone. “No need to be shy.”

Harold turned back to the curtain, pushing his way through with a deep breath.

Let’s see who we’re dealing with.

As the beads fell away from his face, Harold was struck in awe by the unexpected opulence which greeted him. The second chamber was similar in size to the first, holding just as many if not more candles. Some of them were lit, putting Harold’s mind at ease, as they bathed the room in a warm inviting orange glow.

A deep blood-red carpet was stretched across the length of the chamber, in immaculate condition. The walls were decorated with paintings depicting medieval battles with dragons, paladins and beautiful princesses; all framed in brilliant gold. A broad chandelier hung low from the cavernous ceiling, strewn with dangling trails of shining glass which caught the candlelight, refracting it in a kaleidoscope of color. Unlike the previous room, there were no windows and no other exits that Harold could discern.

And there, kneeling at some form of pagan altar, was a lithe man, bare to the waist and facing away from Harold. Long golden curls fell about his bare back, soft and lustrous. The figure wore a pair of white satin pants, similar to the ones he had seen on the boys. In one hand he held an old hickory switch, encrusted with blood, which he had clearly been using to beat himself. Harold could make out the red welts beginning to form on his ghostly pale skin.

His eyes were drawn to the odd altar which the figure was worshiping. There was a kind of short marble plinth, wreathed in thorny vines with wilting red and yellow roses. On top of which was a fist-sized wooden idol carved in the shape of a bird, its wings spread as if preparing to fly away at any moment. But what really caught Harold’s attention was the picture hung behind the stand.

It was a large canvas, framed in heavy dark wood, virtually charcoal in color. The painting depicted a young winged toddler with curled hair much like the man. It reminded Harold of the cherubs he used to see all over the church where he grew up. But this cherub was trapped in a steel cage like a canary, a look of hopeless misery on its face, its wings tied together behind its back with rope.

Well, that’s creepy. Harold thought, almost saying it aloud before remembering his mission.

“Peter?” Harold asked, his deep voice echoing in the small room. The pale-skinned emaciated figure turned slowly to meet Harold’s gaze.

However, his trepidation immediately vanished upon seeing the man’s child-like youthful complexion. Though he was clearly a full-grown adult, his face was similar to that of the young boys he had met on his journey to the island. Peter’s eyes were a sparkling azure, wide and innocent like a doe. His effeminate lips turned up into a genuinely welcoming grin, as he dropped the well-used switch forgetfully.

“Oh my. A visitor.” Peter said in a tone even softer than before. “We don’t get many of those.”

Harold felt the tension leave him all at once as his shoulders slumped and his arms fell limply by his sides.

This is the guy everyone’s so scared of?

“Greetings. My name is Harold.”

“Harold what?” The youth asked without missing a beat, his friendly smile unwavering.

“Smith.” Harold lied.

“Pleasure to meet you, Harold.” Peter said with a courteous nod of his head.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Harold added, feigning concern. Peter paused for a few seconds, seeming to measure his words.

“Not at all.” He chirped, hopping to his feet lithely. He approached Harold calmly, holding out his hand. Harold shook it with a grimace, standing almost a full foot taller than the lad.

This is almost too easy.

“I can have one of the boys fetch you a drink? Will you be here long?” He asked eagerly. Harold scratched his stubble uncomfortably, trying to think of a quick lie. Before he could answer, Peter spoke again, his voice gaining cadence. “I do apologize. I don’t get to talk to many adults these days.”

“Not at all.” Harold half-smiled back. “I won’t stay long, I’m afraid. I’m here on business.”

“Ah.” Peter replied, his gaze falling upon the floor wistfully. “Not to worry, then.”

Harold let the silence between them ring, wondering if he should simply overpower the scrawny fellow and be done with it.

But then again, Harold pondered, I came all this way. It would be a pity not to enjoy it a little.

Harold took almost no pleasure in the act of killing itself, but the hunt could sometimes prove exhilarating. And there was something about this whole affair that had his curiosity piqued.

He just had to know more.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Harold inquired, splitting the silence in two.

“No, please, go ahead.” Peter answered cheerfully, returning to his sitting position by the altar.

Harold chose to remain standing. “Beautiful Island you have here.”

Peter beamed a grin. “Why, thank you.”

Harold started pacing, pretending to examine the many bizarre decorations. “But why all the way out here? It seems a tad inconvenient.”

Peter chuckled merrily. “It’s complicated.” He said, tilting his head quizzically at his guest.

“Ah, well, of course it would be.” Harold answered tersely before he could regulate his tone. Peter didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Did you meet any of the others on the way in?” Peter asked, turning the focus on Harold.

“A couple.” He answered truthfully, remembering the seemingly troubled youths. Their eyes wide and unblinking, staring right through him.

“No-one else?” Peter asked, for the first time sounding a tad uneasy.

“No. Just the boys.” Harold wasn’t sure if he should mention the shotgun-wielding Nun currently circling the island.

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” Harold questioned with genuine curiosity.

Peter’s smile faltered for a brief moment before recovering. “Oh no. I’m just surprised you didn’t meet my other half.”

Harold’s brow furrowed. “You’re married?”

“Oh, no. That’s not quite what I meant.” Peter replied evenly, not offering any further explanation.

Ah, playing coy, are we?

“What about these little white birds I keep seeing?” Harold fired back, changing the subject. Peter’s smile slowly faded to a blank expression.

“It’s a covenant of sorts.” He answered, the joy gone from his voice.

Yeah, now I’ve got you on the back foot. Harold mused to himself. He could sense something big was going on here, and he was too interested to let it go.

“With the Sisterhood?” Harold continued his questioning, seeming to put Peter further on edge.

“Yes.”

“Some kind of deal?” Harold all but whispered, already putting the pieces together in his head. The candles on the altar seemed to flicker as Peter’s face contorted with apparent sadness.

“Harold.” Peter began, his voice becoming low and menacing. “Be careful what you try to unearth. Once you know, you cannot forget.”

Harold had to steady himself as a wave of emotion flashed through his mind, images of the gore stained battlefields he had served on all flashing by at once.

Ain’t that the truth?

Instead of heeding the young man’s warning, Harold pressed on, sensing weakness as a shark smells blood in the water. “Have something to do with the orphans?”

Peter’s face scrunched up with unfathomable rage for a split second, then quickly regained its composure. Harold saw it and took note.

“They are here of their own free-will.” He spat back. “They’re safer here with me, I assure you.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

The sound of Peter’s bony fingers drumming impatiently on the stone floor echoed within the cavernous ceiling. “We care for them. Because we are the same.”

“We?” Harold interjected. Peter simply sat in silence, glaring up at his rude guest. Harold was already growing bored with their little cat and mouse game. He stepped thoughtfully to the opposite side of the room, letting Peter follow him with his sparkling cobalt eyes as he went.

“It’s just that,” Harold began quietly, “I couldn’t help but notice the unmarked graves on the beach on the way up.”

And I’ve seen plenty of those, boy, so don’t you lie to me.

Peter heaved a rattling sigh, and for a second Harold thought he felt the entire building vibrate in unison as if a squally wind had kicked up outside.

“That wasn’t my fault, Harold. Not entirely.” He spoke despondently.

Harold could feel his ire rising now. He could put two and two together, he wasn’t THAT dense. His apprehension at having to murder the youth was evaporating quickly, being replaced with red-hot anger.

His trigger finger was itching to squeeze.

“Then whose fault was it?” Harold inquired without a hint of sympathy.

The walls shook again, and Harold’s breathing became labored as the musty air seemed to grow heavy and dense, reminding him of the wet heat before a tropical storm.

What the fuck is going on here?

Peter sprang up suddenly, making Harold jump back a step. He crossed his thin arms over his shallow chest, fixing Harold with a blank stare.

“They know the price of growing up. It’s a sad but inevitable part of life out here, with Us.”

Harold was getting upset now, he could feel his temper flaring. He’d seen enough dead children for one lifetime.

“You keep saying Us and We. Who the hell are you talking about? Is there someone else out here with you? An accomplice?” Harold couldn’t stop himself from interrogating the cold-faced man, a vein now bulging from his head in wrath.

“Not exactly.” Peter replied enigmatically, unwavering from his position.

Right. No more games.

“I’ve got something for you, Peter.” Harold began, reaching into his left breast-pocket, expecting his prey to be startled by the movement. But he simply stood there, eyebrows raised with a hint of bemused curiosity.

Yeah, keep smiling asshole. It won’t be funny in a minute.

Harold pulled out a thin beige candle, which had been purposefully bent at a forty-five-degree angle, its wick snipped off, leaving it almost completely useless.

“This is for you.” Harold exclaimed, holding it out in offering. Harold was expecting a few different reactions: fear, anger, recognition at least.

Instead, Peter threw his head back and laughed like a musketeer from an old tale, dripping with hubris as it filled the chamber and made Harold’s battle-damaged ears ring. Harold’s arm lowered slowly and his brows furrowed in confusion as Peter’s boisterous cackle subsided.

Peter beamed a wide, knowing smile. He tilted his head to the corner beside Harold, indicating a pile of several dozen bent candles exactly like the one Harold was holding.

“You can add it to the rest.”

Without wasting a second, Harold’s instincts took over. With a practiced motion, he shot his hand into his coat, reaching behind to his holster and…

Found nothing.

His fingers fumbled and groped, trying to grasp the grip of his pistol.

“Looking for this?” Peter whispered, holding up Harold’s gun limply in his right hand.

Harold’s blood froze, and his mind stalled like a beat-up engine.

What the fuck? Was all he could think. “When did-?”

“I did try to warn you, Harold.” Peter interrupted with a smirk. “I’ve had it since you walked in. I thought you were smarter than that.”

Harold stood still as a statue, expecting Peter to turn the gun on him at any second. His eyes darted around the room wildly, searching for options.

“Didn’t the Sisters warn you? About my other half?” Peter inquired with a hint of venom.

Harold could feel his throat drying and tightening with primal fear, not that he had any intention of answering the boy. His mind was afire with frantic thoughts, desperately seeking an exit strategy.

“Not to worry,” Peter continued, ignoring Harold’s plight. “He’ll be here soon.”

“W-Who…?” Harold managed through rasping breaths.

“He was with you on the way in. Didn’t you notice? How else do you think I got your gun?” Peter smiled wickedly.

Harold took a step back, his legs shaking uncontrollably.

This is a trick! It has to be! I’m having a nightmare back at the convent, that’s it!

Harold pinched his trembling arm. The pain was all too real. He looked up at Peter, who was now leveling the gun menacingly at his quarry, a hint of madness in his expression.

“We tried to be good.” Peter spoke wistfully, taking a step towards Harold. “There was a time when we were inseparable. But I lost control of Him a few years ago, after the war.” His voice took on a hint of remorse but quickly disappeared.

Harold took another step away, feeling his back thump against the bare wall behind.

“Even the laudanum doesn’t seem to keep him tethered anymore. Hence the need for pain.” He pointed a thumb backwards to the altar behind. “I can’t stop Him from tormenting the others, and if He doesn’t have them He will simply turn on me. That’s why we live out here, to try and contain Him.”

Harold could feel his heart beating a crescendo against the icy stone wall. The last shred of hope quickly draining from his spirit.

“If He ever finds a way to fly, then God help us all.” Peter added with shallow misery.

Sensing that it might be his only chance to live, Harold bent his knees, preparing for a burst of speed. Before he could gather the courage to move, Peter spoke again, stopping him cold.

“Ah. Here he is now.”

Harold strained his ears, his eyes darted to the solitary exit and his body trembled as every sense turned to one task: Survive.

Where is He?! Where?!

Harold pressed harder against the wall, trying to keep an eye of the gun leveled at him as well as searching for the phantom threat. Peter continued to beam a knowing grin.

Harold felt something on the wall catch his coat, like a loose pin. He tried to turn but was stuck like a bug to flypaper.

Frigid cold finger-like appendages began to claw at his side, entangling with the fabric of his trench coat. Harold tried to wrestle himself free of the garment, but something incredibly strong grasped his arm, holding him in place like a vice.

Harold began to squirm and squeal like a stuck pig. “What is this?! Oh God, what is it?!” His voice cracked with terror as two long slender appendages, dark as pitch, extended out of the shadows behind him. They wrapped Harold in a secure embrace, a kind of slimy flesh leaving trails of an unknown ebony substance across his clothing. Clawed fingertips penetrated Harold’s garments with ease, piercing the tender flesh beneath, preventing sudden movements like barbed hooks.

“You just had to know, didn’t you Harold?” Peter said, licking his pink lips. “Well, now you know.”

Harold turned his head, sweat cascading down his face and mingling with the stressful tears which gushed from his eyes. He peered over his shoulder into the blackness of the shadows, and he could make out a pair of pale blue orbs, staring back at him from somewhere deep within the void, pupils vertical like slits.

“Oh God! GOD!” Harold screamed as the gangly forelimbs began to pull. Harold felt his insides writhe as his body was dragged into the freezing shadow like it was the surface of the sea. The darkness swallowed him as the maw of a gargantuan beast, hungrily encapsulating him and quickly muffling his horrified shrieks. Harold reached out desperately with his free hand, his fearful eyes fixing on Peter’s in pleading.

“Goodbye, Harold. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Peter said coldly.

With another groaning rumble from the building, Harold was gone, as was the entity which had stolen him away.

Peter sighed heavily, pocketing the pistol and kicking the discarded candle into the pile with the rest.

He returned to the altar, savoring the reclaimed silence.

[The End]

Submitted October 31, 2019 at 01:42PM by ChillyB6 https://ift.tt/2WstxVO