Lord Drown's Dream
By mlynnjohnson. Tuesday, 19. August 2008, 18:14:41
"I understand you have been considering leaving my service."
Lord Drown at a window, framed in gray light. He stood with his arms folded behind his back and his long, morose face turned toward the glass, celadon eyes considering the buffeting rain as if weighing each drop. An impeccable suit of dark velvet and tailored wool hung close to his narrow body, creating a lean figure. His gray hair fell loose on his shoulders and his face, reflected in the wet glass, was hatchet-sharp, birdlike and emotionless. His rumbling baritone--startling to hear emanating from a chest so slight--often put Peter out of sorts. He'd been terrified, in fact, when he'd first come to work for Drown as a youngster just out of university, where he'd heard about the Intelligence Minister's dark temper and odd habits. Drown had trouble keeping his staff; he was abrupt, cantankerous, trenchant, moody, and often downright cruel--or so Peter had been told by various former assistants and secretaries, and only after he'd accepted the job with the Ministry. The longer he worked for Drown, however, the more he came to realize how untrue and unkind those stories had been. The Intelligence Minister might have been moody and abrupt, perhaps, but never cruel--unless one counted the fact that Drown expected his employees to work as diligently and long as he did, sacrificing their social and family lives to the defense of the realm--or that he held no tolerance for fools. Depending on the situation's gravity, if a body couldn't answer his direct question immediately and with a crisp, decisive tone, he had been known to fly into a violent rage, wherein any loose item within reach became a missile. With this in mind, Peter had long ago discreetly removed any and all paperweights or letter openers from Drown's desktop, causing the minister some irritation whenever a gust of wind went through the open window or a letter arrived with several heavy seals. But otherwise, Peter hadn't yet run up against Drown's infamous temper, and he didn't consider himself a fool--at least, not any more so than anyone else--and he hadn't so far been fired. That didn't mean he was entirely happy with his job, though--and heaven knew his wife Marie wasn't, either.
"Me, sir? I haven't said anything--to anyone."
Peter felt a light sweat break on his upper lip--he hadn't, had he? He'd been very circumspect with his complaints, which were more to do with the hours Drown expected him to work, or the travel at a moment's notice (often in the middle of the night) on clandestine assignments to foreign parts, and mostly reflected his wife's opinions, which were dire. Marie disliked Lord Drown intensely and felt he expected far too much of Peter. "He'll work you to death," she told him. "That skinny old vulture wouldn't care if you dropped down dead in your traces like a dray horse." If anyone had been caught talking, it was Marie. Peter's stomach tightened.
The skinny old vulture glared in the glass at Peter. "I would be sorry to see you go," he said. "Of all my assistants, you've been the most competent."
"I'm not planning on going anywhere, sir," Peter replied, wincing internally at the stupid insincerity apparent in his voice. "Whatever you've heard. My wife is--"
"Your wife is Marie, correct? The little woman with too much dark hair and an unpleasant attitude? Don't you have a child?"
Peter flushed. Drown made Marie sound like a muskrat. She was prettier than that, and her attitude was only unpleasant in regards to his Lordship. "Robert, our son. You sent him a christening gift. Sir, I don't know what you've been hearing, but I'm staying right here--if you're satisfied with my efforts."
Drown said nothing for a moment. He considered the rain on the window, one hand propped under his emphatic chin. "Last night I dreamed of owls," he said out of nowhere, his stentorian voice muffled in his hand. "A parliament of great gray owls, with wings soft and silent as a midnight drift of snow. They settled on my chest and shoulders as I lay in bed."
Peter bit his lip. "Sir," he said, then stopped, unsure of himself; Drown had never spoken of his dreams to Peter before, and the familiarity made him distinctly uncomfortable. More than that, there was a drifting tone to Drown's voice that hadn't been there before, a wistful and slightly self-indulgent sound that Peter distrusted. It hinted at madness.
"They tore at my flesh, my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to fend them off," Drown whispered, his hands covering his face. He fell silent again and Peter, in anguish, impetuously went to the sideboard and poured out a glass of whiskey. He took it to Drown and, taking the older man's arm, steered him towards the chair by the desk.
"In a little while, there was nothing left," Drown said, addressing the leather desktop. His long, bony hands shook as he took the whiskey, and he considered the amber liquid with grave intensity before downing it in a gulp. A dry breath rattled in his throat and he seemed to shake off the dark moment with a tilt of his head. In his day he had been a handsome creature. Even now there was a ruined remnant of that youthful beauty, like a tumbled stone fort at the crown of some eroded hill; a hint of former strength and glory, wreathed now in ivy and mist, heralded only by crow calls. Drown cleared his throat and blinked at Peter, his eyes cool and calm as shards of sea glass.
"There are always movements afoot," he said. "A kingdom is never a static object. Power ebbs; factions rise. It does not matter a damn to me who is right or wrong or ethically sound. My duty is to the king who appointed me Intelligence Minister, and I am bound to support his reign, no matter how many come to tear him down. Aside from that, I fully approve of this king and intend to remain loyal--I believe in this monarch, in his policies and legislation. There are those who do not. Do you understand that much, Peter Fell?"
The question did not require an answer. Peter composed himself, his hands folded at his back, yet he felt alert, almost frightened, knowing he hadn't heard the worst yet. Drown leaned forward, his hands on the desk. "The opportunity to choose sides is always at hand," he said, his voice surprisingly kind. "I do not blame you for any decision you make. A man must have his family's best interests in mind."
"I'm not sure I follow you, sir," Peter said, though his voice shook; he followed him well enough, and Drown grinned at him--a rare, ruinous, beautiful smile belonging to a much younger man in more carefree days. Peter thought, a smile like that could get a man hanged.
"They want to change kings," Drown said, not troubling himself to enlighten Peter as to who 'they' might be. "And as I don't agree, I'm in their way. Things could get--" his voice dropped to a sepulchral whisper--"rather nasty before the end."
Peter swallowed at a dry throat. Here it was then; Drown was offering him his way out, manfully and without a lot of wifely whisperings and gossiping in the background. He could leave with his dignity intact, not like the other assistants who'd been unceremoniously given the boot--and undoubtedly, he'd easily find employment in some other branch of the cabinet. There was no reason he should remain bound to a sinking ship. Better indeed to jump at the offer and hie himself and his wife to another part of the city, to wait out the impending altercation. Marie would certainly agree, as would anyone with a scrap of sense.
"I'm not going anywhere, sir," Peter heard himself say--just as he would later hear his wife's words: Why? What on earth possessed you? What indeed? He couldn't give her any more coherent a reason then, and was afraid to tell her he just couldn't bear to tell Lord Drown no, or see that shaggy gray head any lower on the desk. Perhaps it was a sentimentality he often felt towards the underdog and the outnumbered--perhaps it was merely the fact, which Peter only now realized for the first time, that he had grown fond of the old misanthrope and his stubborn ways. Either explanation would earn him a swift smack on the back of his head, administered by Marie's plump little fist.
"I'm not going anywhere," Peter said again, aloud, as he came to his senses in a cold, damp, dark place, momentarily unable to move, a pain like an exploding blossom of fire behind his eyes. At least, he thought he spoke, but couldn't be sure; afterwards, a silence so deep and impenetrable settled down around him until his ears rang. He moved with a great effort and got his hands underneath his body, levering himself upright. He remembered falling, but not landing.
"Of course you're not going anywhere, stupid," Dauphine hissed in his ear, making him shout. "And shut up, will you? You'll wake the serpent." She seized his wrist in her hand and jerked him to his feet. "Follow me."
He stumbled along after her, blind in the dark. Her violet eyes were either used to the absence of light, or else she knew where she was headed. Something warm and sticky dripped down his face--he was bleeding again--and he couldn't get his balance, but kept staggering and half falling.
"Serpent?" he said, not sure he heard her correctly. "What do you mean--serpent?"
"Pray you don't find out," Dauphine replied, and yanked him along.
(c)2008 M.L.Johnson
Lord Drown at a window, framed in gray light. He stood with his arms folded behind his back and his long, morose face turned toward the glass, celadon eyes considering the buffeting rain as if weighing each drop. An impeccable suit of dark velvet and tailored wool hung close to his narrow body, creating a lean figure. His gray hair fell loose on his shoulders and his face, reflected in the wet glass, was hatchet-sharp, birdlike and emotionless. His rumbling baritone--startling to hear emanating from a chest so slight--often put Peter out of sorts. He'd been terrified, in fact, when he'd first come to work for Drown as a youngster just out of university, where he'd heard about the Intelligence Minister's dark temper and odd habits. Drown had trouble keeping his staff; he was abrupt, cantankerous, trenchant, moody, and often downright cruel--or so Peter had been told by various former assistants and secretaries, and only after he'd accepted the job with the Ministry. The longer he worked for Drown, however, the more he came to realize how untrue and unkind those stories had been. The Intelligence Minister might have been moody and abrupt, perhaps, but never cruel--unless one counted the fact that Drown expected his employees to work as diligently and long as he did, sacrificing their social and family lives to the defense of the realm--or that he held no tolerance for fools. Depending on the situation's gravity, if a body couldn't answer his direct question immediately and with a crisp, decisive tone, he had been known to fly into a violent rage, wherein any loose item within reach became a missile. With this in mind, Peter had long ago discreetly removed any and all paperweights or letter openers from Drown's desktop, causing the minister some irritation whenever a gust of wind went through the open window or a letter arrived with several heavy seals. But otherwise, Peter hadn't yet run up against Drown's infamous temper, and he didn't consider himself a fool--at least, not any more so than anyone else--and he hadn't so far been fired. That didn't mean he was entirely happy with his job, though--and heaven knew his wife Marie wasn't, either.
"Me, sir? I haven't said anything--to anyone."
Peter felt a light sweat break on his upper lip--he hadn't, had he? He'd been very circumspect with his complaints, which were more to do with the hours Drown expected him to work, or the travel at a moment's notice (often in the middle of the night) on clandestine assignments to foreign parts, and mostly reflected his wife's opinions, which were dire. Marie disliked Lord Drown intensely and felt he expected far too much of Peter. "He'll work you to death," she told him. "That skinny old vulture wouldn't care if you dropped down dead in your traces like a dray horse." If anyone had been caught talking, it was Marie. Peter's stomach tightened.
The skinny old vulture glared in the glass at Peter. "I would be sorry to see you go," he said. "Of all my assistants, you've been the most competent."
"I'm not planning on going anywhere, sir," Peter replied, wincing internally at the stupid insincerity apparent in his voice. "Whatever you've heard. My wife is--"
"Your wife is Marie, correct? The little woman with too much dark hair and an unpleasant attitude? Don't you have a child?"
Peter flushed. Drown made Marie sound like a muskrat. She was prettier than that, and her attitude was only unpleasant in regards to his Lordship. "Robert, our son. You sent him a christening gift. Sir, I don't know what you've been hearing, but I'm staying right here--if you're satisfied with my efforts."
Drown said nothing for a moment. He considered the rain on the window, one hand propped under his emphatic chin. "Last night I dreamed of owls," he said out of nowhere, his stentorian voice muffled in his hand. "A parliament of great gray owls, with wings soft and silent as a midnight drift of snow. They settled on my chest and shoulders as I lay in bed."
Peter bit his lip. "Sir," he said, then stopped, unsure of himself; Drown had never spoken of his dreams to Peter before, and the familiarity made him distinctly uncomfortable. More than that, there was a drifting tone to Drown's voice that hadn't been there before, a wistful and slightly self-indulgent sound that Peter distrusted. It hinted at madness.
"They tore at my flesh, my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to fend them off," Drown whispered, his hands covering his face. He fell silent again and Peter, in anguish, impetuously went to the sideboard and poured out a glass of whiskey. He took it to Drown and, taking the older man's arm, steered him towards the chair by the desk.
"In a little while, there was nothing left," Drown said, addressing the leather desktop. His long, bony hands shook as he took the whiskey, and he considered the amber liquid with grave intensity before downing it in a gulp. A dry breath rattled in his throat and he seemed to shake off the dark moment with a tilt of his head. In his day he had been a handsome creature. Even now there was a ruined remnant of that youthful beauty, like a tumbled stone fort at the crown of some eroded hill; a hint of former strength and glory, wreathed now in ivy and mist, heralded only by crow calls. Drown cleared his throat and blinked at Peter, his eyes cool and calm as shards of sea glass.
"There are always movements afoot," he said. "A kingdom is never a static object. Power ebbs; factions rise. It does not matter a damn to me who is right or wrong or ethically sound. My duty is to the king who appointed me Intelligence Minister, and I am bound to support his reign, no matter how many come to tear him down. Aside from that, I fully approve of this king and intend to remain loyal--I believe in this monarch, in his policies and legislation. There are those who do not. Do you understand that much, Peter Fell?"
The question did not require an answer. Peter composed himself, his hands folded at his back, yet he felt alert, almost frightened, knowing he hadn't heard the worst yet. Drown leaned forward, his hands on the desk. "The opportunity to choose sides is always at hand," he said, his voice surprisingly kind. "I do not blame you for any decision you make. A man must have his family's best interests in mind."
"I'm not sure I follow you, sir," Peter said, though his voice shook; he followed him well enough, and Drown grinned at him--a rare, ruinous, beautiful smile belonging to a much younger man in more carefree days. Peter thought, a smile like that could get a man hanged.
"They want to change kings," Drown said, not troubling himself to enlighten Peter as to who 'they' might be. "And as I don't agree, I'm in their way. Things could get--" his voice dropped to a sepulchral whisper--"rather nasty before the end."
Peter swallowed at a dry throat. Here it was then; Drown was offering him his way out, manfully and without a lot of wifely whisperings and gossiping in the background. He could leave with his dignity intact, not like the other assistants who'd been unceremoniously given the boot--and undoubtedly, he'd easily find employment in some other branch of the cabinet. There was no reason he should remain bound to a sinking ship. Better indeed to jump at the offer and hie himself and his wife to another part of the city, to wait out the impending altercation. Marie would certainly agree, as would anyone with a scrap of sense.
"I'm not going anywhere, sir," Peter heard himself say--just as he would later hear his wife's words: Why? What on earth possessed you? What indeed? He couldn't give her any more coherent a reason then, and was afraid to tell her he just couldn't bear to tell Lord Drown no, or see that shaggy gray head any lower on the desk. Perhaps it was a sentimentality he often felt towards the underdog and the outnumbered--perhaps it was merely the fact, which Peter only now realized for the first time, that he had grown fond of the old misanthrope and his stubborn ways. Either explanation would earn him a swift smack on the back of his head, administered by Marie's plump little fist.
"I'm not going anywhere," Peter said again, aloud, as he came to his senses in a cold, damp, dark place, momentarily unable to move, a pain like an exploding blossom of fire behind his eyes. At least, he thought he spoke, but couldn't be sure; afterwards, a silence so deep and impenetrable settled down around him until his ears rang. He moved with a great effort and got his hands underneath his body, levering himself upright. He remembered falling, but not landing.
"Of course you're not going anywhere, stupid," Dauphine hissed in his ear, making him shout. "And shut up, will you? You'll wake the serpent." She seized his wrist in her hand and jerked him to his feet. "Follow me."
He stumbled along after her, blind in the dark. Her violet eyes were either used to the absence of light, or else she knew where she was headed. Something warm and sticky dripped down his face--he was bleeding again--and he couldn't get his balance, but kept staggering and half falling.
"Serpent?" he said, not sure he heard her correctly. "What do you mean--serpent?"
"Pray you don't find out," Dauphine replied, and yanked him along.
(c)2008 M.L.Johnson
