The Sacred Knife, page 3
“Dinner is served, Mrs. Simpson.” It was Gertrude who was standing at the doorway.
Eric followed Mrs. Simpson and her sister across the hall into the dining room. A large table occupied the centre of the room, surrounded with high-backed upholstered chairs. He quickly counted the settings: ten. Mrs. Simpson went to the head of the table while her sister took up a seat on her left. Mrs. Simpson looked at Eric and said, “You sit here, Eric. On my right.”
Unsure of himself, Eric sat in the chair next to Mrs. Simpson. He had never eaten at such a formal table; at the orphanage, they had sat on benches at long, rough tables, ten to fifteen children at each. In one of the placements he had been relegated to a corner.
He pulled the chair closer to the table, his feet swinging since they didn’t quite touch the floor. Unsure of what was expected in the way of manners, he decided it would be best to do as the ladies did. He observed that Mrs. Simpson took a linen napkin and placed it on her lap, so he did the same.
Gertrude reappeared and placed a crock on the table in front of Mrs. Simpson, along with a platter containing sliced, still-warm bread. Mrs. Simpson took a bowl and ladled some soup into it.
“Potato soup, Eric. It’s good for you.”
Eric didn’t care if it was good for him or not; it smelled delicious, and he was famished. The soup was hot, but not too hot, and he devoured it along with two thick slices of bread. When he stopped to catch his breath, he noticed the two ladies looking at him with amused smiles. Somewhat guiltily, he said, “Thank you, ma’am. That was very good.”
“It’s Gertrude you need to thank, Eric. She prepared the meal,” clarified Mrs. Simpson with a smile. “I hope you saved room for the main course.”
Main course? Didn’t we just have dinner? At that moment, Gertrude entered carrying two plates, with Henry in tow carrying a third. Henry placed his plate in front of Eric, and he felt his mouth watering as he looked at the mound of sliced beef, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots.
Was all this really for him?
He waited until Mrs. Simpson started to eat before he started on his. He tried to eat slowly, but he couldn’t resist the urge to inhale the food in case someone would take it from him. Five years in the orphanage had honed his survival instincts, and they kicked in automatically. He glanced up and noticed that Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Donaldson were not even halfway through their dinner.
“You can help yourself to more if you want, Eric,” instructed Mrs. Simpson. As he was reaching for the platter of meat she added, “Don’t forget there’s dessert, too.”
“Dessert?” he said in surprise. Then disaster struck.
He had been reaching for the meat platter when Mrs. Simpson surprised him with the dessert announcement, so he was looking at her rather than paying attention to what he was doing. The sleeve of his jacket caught the top of his glass of milk, and the ornate crystal goblet toppled over, spilling milk on the linen tablecloth.
“Oh no. Sorry,” gasped Eric. Mrs. Simpson was suddenly standing beside him, and he instinctively cringed.
Rose was shocked at the boy’s reaction. She gently but firmly pulled his arms away from his face and the look of fear on his face made her feel ill.
She took his hands in hers. “Eric,” she said softly but forcibly, “no one in this house will ever hit you.” The boy blinked as if he didn’t understand what she was saying, so she repeated, “No one in this house will ever, ever strike you. Especially because of something that was clearly an accident.”
Eric was totally mystified. At the orphanage, any child who spilled milk was punished. The fact it was an accident would have been irrelevant, an example had to be set.
“There, no harm done,” said Beatrice, who had been mopping up the spill. “I have two children, Eric,” she said, “and they are always spilling something.”
Eric looked at the other woman. “Don’t you punish them?”
Beatrice looked at him in shock. “Not for something trivial like this, and never by hitting them.”
Rose tousled Eric’s hair. “Now,” she said, “Gertrude has made some bread pudding for dessert. After all you’ve eaten, do you have room for some?”
Not trusting his voice, Eric just nodded.
Rose watched the boy as he nibbled at his dessert, darting quick glances at her and Beatrice when he thought they weren't looking. The boy was wary and suspicious. She was saddened to realize the child had no difficulty accepting rejection and punishment, but he seemed unable to accept kindness. She resolved that she would change that.
She thought about the other children at the orphanage. No—she couldn’t adopt them all, but she could make their life better, starting with getting rid of Whitehead. He might be efficient, she thought, but the price for that efficiency is just too high.
***
Later that evening, Eric, fully stuffed and slightly bemused, found his way to his room without getting lost—which was an accomplishment in itself, given the size of the mansion.
Eric changed into a nightshirt and crawled under the covers. He lay back on the pillow, hands tucked behind his head, and stared up at the canopy above the bed.
He was uncomfortable, but he didn’t really know why.
He glanced around the room, his room, illuminated by the soft glow of an oil lamp. The room was palatial compared to other rooms he had slept in, especially at the orphanage. His clothes were hanging on hooks on the wall at the end of his bed—several sets of clothes.
He also had his own commode! No trips to the outhouse in freezing temperatures! Was that what was troubling him? Unaccustomed affluence?
No, it was not that. What was troubling him was inside him, something he was struggling to understand. He knew he was not a deserving boy. Whitehead had made that clear on many occasions, and he was obviously right, otherwise families that wanted to adopt him wouldn’t have returned him to the orphanage. So why were these people treating him as if he were?
There was a soft knock on his door. He sat up when Mrs. Simpson entered his room carrying a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. She placed them on the table beside him and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at them and then looked back at her.
“Yes,” said Rose. “We thought it was probably an unsettling day for you, so Gertrude made a bedtime snack for you.”
Eric tentatively took one of the cookies as if he expected she would snatch it from him. She stood up and walked over to where his clothes were hanging and busied herself with straightening them, even though they didn’t need straightening. She turned back to him and said, “Eric, since you are living here now, there are a couple of rules you will need to follow.”
Eric regarded her attentively, as he noticed she said, “since you are living here” rather than, “if you want to stay here.” It was a subtle difference, but to a perceptive young boy who never really had a home, it was huge.
"In this house,” continued Rose, “we all respect each other and treat each other accordingly. That means we must be truthful with each other, no lying. The other thing I cannot abide is stealing. Those are really the only rules. Respect, no lying, and no stealing."
Eric sat quietly for a moment, staring at the cookie in his hand. “No other rules?” he asked.
“No,” said Rose.
No lying and no stealing. Well, he was a poor liar, so keeping that rule should not be a difficult task. As for stealing, he never stole. Being respectful might be troublesome, as sometimes his mouth got him into trouble.
“So,” Eric said tentatively, wanting to be sure he understood correctly, “the only things that would get me sent back to the orphanage would be if I was rude, stole, or lied?”
“No, Eric,” stated Rose emphatically. “You are never going back to the orphanage. If you lie or steal or are disrespectful you will be punished, but we will never send you back to the orphanage, and no one here will ever strike you.”
Eric searched Mrs. Simpson’s face, looking for signs of a lie. He had been lied to almost his entire life, so he was adept at detecting them. But he saw only truth displayed on Mrs. Simpson’s features.
Suddenly, whatever it was that was churning him inside was gone, and he couldn’t stop himself from breaking into a smile.
Chapter 3
Rose lounged on the veranda, seeking shelter from the hot afternoon sun, sipping contentedly on a glass of iced tea. A gentle sea breeze added to the pleasant coolness, carrying with it just a hint of salty tang. She gazed out at the deep blue water of the bay where small ripples raced each other to the red sandy beach. It was times like this that she missed Matthew the most—times that were meant to be shared.
She watched the two figures who were toiling in the garden despite the heat. At the manor they grew some of their own vegetables, but it took work to keep the weeds from gaining a foothold. She had suggested to Henry that they leave the weeding for a day or so until the worst of the heat wave had passed.
Henry had looked to the sky, sniffed, and shook his head. “No, ma’am. There’s a storm coming, and if I don’t get it done today, it’ll be a few days before the ground is dry again. It will only take a couple of hours, and then it’s done. If I wait, the weeds will get ahead of me, and it will take a lot longer.”
So, there was Henry, hoe in hand, wearing a wide-brimmed hat to protect his head and neck from the sun, chopping away at the weeds. He made it seem effortless. A young boy was working next to Henry, also wearing a broad hat, attacking the weeds with great zeal. She smiled as every now and then Henry would stop and say something to the boy. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but the boy was listening with rapt attention.
Yes, she thought, adopting the boy was one of the best decisions of my life.
Eric had been living with them now for almost two months, and he was slowly beginning to trust again. There were still occasions when he was wary and suspicious, especially with strangers, but with her and the household staff those instances were becoming less and less frequent.
Eric looked over at her from the garden and gave a quick wave. She returned the wave and the boy went back to his weeding. It was a small thing, but even a month ago Eric would not have initiated any form of greeting. He was also filling out, his thin frame responding to Gertrude’s cooking.
“Rebellious and lazy,” Whitehead had said of Eric. He was anything but. The boy was eager to please and insisted on helping Henry in the garden despite the heat. Poor child will have sore blistered hands tonight, she thought, but she was not going to deny him the opportunity spend time with Henry. The boy thrived on Henry’s attention and she was saddened that the boy had not been given the chance to know her husband.
Well, at least Whitehead was gone. After she had observed the effects of Whitehead’s administration on Eric, she had resolved that he would be dismissed. It didn’t take her long to convince the other board members—well, all except one—that Whitehead’s methods were detrimental to the children in the long run.
“It is difficult for a child to have a normal upbringing in an institution,” she had argued, “but happiness needs to be an integral part of childhood.”
The only one who was unconvinced was a man named Robert Manse. She knew little about the man, aside from the fact he was wealthy and had been living in Charlottetown for slightly less than a year.
To all appearances he was generous and seemed to care about the children in the orphanage, since not only did he donate money and clothing but, apparently, he had also arranged for several of them to be adopted off the Island with families on the mainland. She found it odd that a man who appeared to truly care for the children would defend a man who ultimately was doing them harm.
No matter, the man was gone. Whitehead’s dismissal did not produce immediate jubilant celebrations at the orphanage, but there was a definite change in the attitude of the children. They were more carefree, and their laughter was becoming more the rule rather than the exception.
Surprisingly—or maybe not so surprisingly—the biggest change occurred in the attitude of the orphanage’s staff, especially Mary and Carol, who Rose had met when she brought cookies that day in May. They were to share the administrative responsibilities and had immediately initiated programs for the children. Not only was schooling a part of their daily routine, but the children were introduced to music, art, woodworking, and a number of other activities.
No, the orphanage was not the ideal living situation for children, but at least it no longer resembled a prison.
***
Robert Manse sipped his whiskey as he sat in front of the fireplace in the parlour of his Charlottetown house. Even though it was a warm day, he had built a small fire because he enjoyed staring into the flame while relishing a glass of the amber coloured liquid. What was the point in being immortal if you couldn’t enjoy some simple pleasures?
Manse knew it would soon be time for him to move on. He had a couple of different routines that he used when preparing to change identities, depending on the circumstances.
To maintain his power, he had to routinely offer human sacrifices to his master. He preferred to live in large cities, where he could operate almost anonymously, doing his master’s work unseen and unknown. Large cities always had an abundance of homeless people, prostitutes, and street urchins whose disappearance would go unnoticed, providing him with an unlimited source of sacrificial offerings to his master. He would stalk a city for victims for a couple of years and then move on before anyone became too suspicious.
Other times, he would move to a smaller town or village, where he would ingratiate himself into the community. These were usually short-term arrangements that lasted about a year, or perhaps a bit more. Hunting his prey in the smaller communities was more thrilling, but because the communities were smaller, and everybody knew everybody, eventually missing persons were noticed.
He was fortunate that the orphanage had been overseen by a secret follower of Satan, who enjoyed seeing children suffer, yet was wise enough to not be excessive in his cruelty.
Manse had probed Whitehead’s mind when they first met, which was when he discovered Whitehead’s allegiance to the Dark. It was a wonderful partnership, with Whitehead arranging for the “adoption” of selected youngsters and sending them to the mainland. Whitehead would deliver the unsuspecting child, offering them candy and the hope of a better future. The only record of the adoption would be maintained in Whitehead’s files, and because no one knew the name of the adopting family, there was never any follow up.
Over the past year, Whitehead and Manse had arranged the “adoption” of five orphans; but alas, that arrangement had come to an end.
The widow, Mrs. Rose Simpson, had taken a dislike to Whitehead and had campaigned for his dismissal. Manse had spoken in defence of Whitehead, but the woman was steadfast in her determination to get rid of him. She had started to grow suspicious of Manse’s resistance, so he had to step back and allow the man to be sacked.
While it was inconvenient to lose a source of sacrificial offerings, Whitehead’s dismissal created a potentially more serious problem for Manse. Whitehead’s records would identify which children were “adopted” by families off Island, but if anyone examined them closely, it would soon be evident the names of the adoptive families were fictitious, and all of them could be linked back to him. Whitehead knew too much.
Manse told Whitehead not to be concerned about losing his post, as he would be well rewarded. He instructed Whitehead to take those five adoption records with him when he left and arranged to meet him at a secluded location for the exchange of the files and the money. Obviously, Manse had no intention of paying anything to Whitehead. He found it ironic that, in the end, Whitehead suffered the same fate as the five children he had betrayed.
His thoughts returned to the Widow Simpson. She was a good-looking woman—and wealthy, which was an unusual but highly desirable combination. True, her interference had complicated his demonic craving for blood, but he had carnal desires as well. To his thinking, it was not right for such a lovely woman, a lovely rich woman, to be living alone in that large house. Of course, she was not really alone, as she had a housekeeper and a handyman living there, along with some brat from the orphanage. That was not the same as having a real man to share her bed.
He thought back to one of his previous identities—his initial one, Alvarez Renaldo. He had been unable to catch up with the priest who had the knife, so he had decided to stay in Ciudad del Carmen for a while. Finding and retrieving the knife was desirable, but not essential. After all, being immortal, there was no urgency to locate the knife, he was confident his master would lead him to it at some point.
In Ciudad del Carmen he had fallen in with a widow who had two young children. The widow was not rich, but she did have a little money and a few paintings that were of some value. He moved in with her and she satisfied his carnal desires quite admirably—at least for a while. She died mysteriously one day, well, it was a mystery to all but Renaldo. Feigning grief at his loss, he sold the paintings, took the money, and he and the two children moved away. No one knew where they went, and they were soon forgotten.
Renaldo surfaced a few months later with a new identity. The two children were gone and secretly buried. The demon in him shivered with excitement as he recalled the children’s dying screams.
Maybe it was time to repeat that scenario, the Simpson woman was both more attractive and definitely had more money. Yes, it was time to develop a plan.
Chapter 4
Eric sat at the piano and started the tune from the beginning—again. His piano teacher sat beside him, patiently demonstrating where his fingers should be and listening impassively as he mercilessly crucified the tune he tried to play.
I’m hopeless, Eric thought.
For one hour, three times a week, the piano teacher would encourage, cajole, and occasionally even threaten him as he practiced his chords. Eric didn’t mind the lessons, because it was something that pleased Mrs. Simpson. Truthfully, he enjoyed music, and even though he wasn’t good at it, he hoped that someday he would at least be able to play a duet with Mrs. Simpson during the regular after-dinner sessions in the parlour.
