Ravenshire Tales

Laid in exhaustion, shackled in chains, he could hear the hearth fire crackle in darkness—an imaginative uproar, perhaps, bred from despair. ‘Silas!’ a voice whispered; mocking his idleness. ‘Heed, Silas!’ the whisper echoed with an added syllable—soon silenced with the sound of a flicker. Blurred in vision and barely conscious, Silas observed a dim glimmer spark in distance, which soon resided within a lantern. He heard creaks near as the lantern’s glim beacon dimly exposed its bearer’s hand—aged, wrinkled, and untamed nails. ‘Silas, my child?’ same voice whispered in tremulous echoes once more—an old woman, who soon raised her sophic holly cane and poached Silas’s unconscious frame. The winds howled through the chamber’s breach and the mere sounds which accompanied their breeze were the clanks of Silas’ shackles. Motionless, grumps he uttered, as the old woman soon vanished back to whence she came. In slow measures, as the sombrous darkness expanded and reclaimed dominance—with a gemshorn’s concise, melodic interference—Silas roused in sharp breaths. Panicked and abashed he arose, as the darkness which demised his presence soon dwindled, and the gemshorn’s melodies vanished upon his return to sentience.

He was laid on a bed, in a cabin. The Spring had peeped in mid-March and the sun shone across the bedroom’s velvet curtains. ‘Curious dream.’ He mumbled as he placed his feet upon the warm timber floor. The cabin, bequeathed from his late uncle, Maestro Giovanni Ludovici—whom no one had seen nor heard from for nineteen years—was passed unto him in a curious letter which arrived one morning a week prior. The room, however, which had housed Silas and his curious dream, possessed a peculiar dampness which fragranced the air. Silas peered into the antique cheval mirror aside the bed, listlessly finger combed his supple black hair aback, and looked above, where an old candelabra chandelier—covered in cobwebs—lifelessly lingered. From aside, a hearth, where two mounted wolves’ heads were affixed atop—who peered the cabin ceaselessly—remained guard. Uneased Silas, who disdained his uncle’s conservative décor, looked across the room where an age-old bureau laid in patience, walked over, clutched the old Maestro’s letter laid atop and reread for the dozenth time:

--

Dear Silas,

Follow the Whisperers’ Trail, lad.
Signed, G. Ludovici, Esq.

--

The Whisperers’ Trail, a name in which he remembered since childhood—an era when his uncle’s bizarre tales would lead his imaginations wild, and his dreams disturbed. Silas recalled the locals’ hearsays about a hidden path which laid deep within the woodland and lured by-passers astray. Some claimed a mysterious cabin— which laid deep within Ravenshire’s three-thousand-acre woods—housed an old, bearded man who lived in isolation. Others, claimed of apparitions; menaces which lurked in shadows, yet, appeared human. ‘Fools and mere superstitions!’ his uncle would say. However, as Silas recalled, his uncle had avoided Whisperer’s Trail upon each occasion. The dead and crooked branches which served as an arched entrance, had overshadowed his childhood dreams.

The doorbell chimed. Silas looked upon the wall where an old wooden clock signified noon’s precise arrival. He placed the letter in his pocket, tightened his robe’s crimson straps, and headed downstairs—to discover whom sought his audience, in the desolate Craven Creep Cabin. Bemused wonders raced in his mind with each downward step, until he reached the door and gazed through the spyhole, where an old, hunched and curious being awaited. An elder—whose face creased into a smile as the door opened, but soon evolved impassive.

‘Maestro Ludovici?’ asked the elder—in an uncommon tone—as she peered deep within his eyes.
Bewildered by the unexpected visit, ‘No, no, madam. I am his nephew.’ He replied with a faltered speech.
‘Yes dear, Silas, the new Maestro.’ She exclaimed.
Amused and perplexed, ‘How do you know my name?’ he asked, curiously.
The old woman looked over her crooked shoulders with a dubious gaze, ‘Perhaps, we should speak inside, dear?’
Silas dithered in ambivalence and indecision. However, uncertain moments hence, ‘Please, come inside.’ He replied—with a warm hand movement which ushered the elder indoors, where she claimed refuge upon an old oakwood bench.
The woman peered across the cabin—as though she had never seen one prior— when her eyes settled upon packed rucksack, laid beside the hatstand, beside the entrance.
‘I arrived late last night.’ Said Silas from the kitchen, as he observed the old woman’s prying eyes; ‘Please, excuse the mess, miss?’
‘Ah, forgive an old lass, dear. I am Astrid, but the locals call me babushka.’
‘Babushka?’ he asked, as he claimed the parallel bench, placed two cups on the coffee table and poured from his lukewarm travel jug.
‘My family were immigrants from an old port town called Odessa, in Ukraine, dear.’ Astrid replied in reminiscence.
Silas sipped his cup in the silence which followed, and said ‘And what brings you here?’
‘Well, we had lived in the city when I was a young lass, you see; I was nineteen when I fell in love and married, which is how I ended up here in Ravenshire.’
Silas expressed a concise smile, ‘I meant here, madam; what brings you to my uncle’s cabin.’
‘Oh, how silly! Excuse me, dear.’ Astrid said as she grabbed a cup, sipped, sighed, and spoke. ‘Well, where do I begin? You see, dear, Giovanni and I have known one another many a year. We were once close. Then, one day, he was nowhere to be seen.’
‘Merely on seldom occasions, one local would claim to have seen him, but personally, I’ve only seen him once ever since.’
‘You’ve seen my uncle?!’ Silas interrupted. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
‘Why, yes and no, dear. See, the Maestro is rarely seen around here. But, whenever on the rare occasion he has been seen, he has disappeared soon after; as though, a purpose lies behind his visits.’
‘…a purpose?’ Silas asked, curiously.
‘Well, the last I had spoken with your uncle was some years ago. He had mentioned his nephew would soon be in charge of his cabin. The Maestro, however, made no mention of when you would arrive.’
Astrid looked down, placed her wrinkled hand inside her wrappings and brought out an old journal; within which, an old, folded letter laid. ‘The last I had seen Giovanni, he passed me this letter.’ She said as she leaned forward and handed it over to Silas. He locked gaze upon the elder, and anon, the letter:

--

Lady Astrid,

Yours,
Giovanni

--

Curiously incredible words, he wondered, and placed the letter on the table. ‘When did you receive this letter, to be precise?’
‘Oh, dear, if memory serves me well, I believe around some seven years ago.’ Astrid replied.
‘Seven? And how did you know to arrive today? My uncle’s letter has not specified…’
‘Well, dear,’ Astrid interrupted. ‘I have knocked seven times, ever since; once each year on this day.’ She added.
Unconvinced, Silas dismissed her story, ‘This is all interesting, madam. However, I am sure you can understand how uncanny all seems…’—when in sudden, loud knocks thudded the cabin’s backdoor.
Silas and the elder looked upon one another, both curious if the other expected company—another neighbour, perhaps, who has come to deliver another errand bestowed by the Maestro? Silas peeped through the spyhole and in the absence of a visitor, he opened wide the door. Nobody. Nothing—aside from winds and windchimes’ whose melodies accompanied the leaves’ rustles and a stream’s burbles. Oaks aside oaks surrounded the cabin—as did birds’ chirrups. Silas stepped down upon a withered trail which embraced the porch; where some yards yonder, a river—bedecked with a wooden bridge—streamed ceaselessly. Silas remembered the creek; his were childhood memories, morns and eves when he once laid aside the same stream and read his books. Peace entered within, as he reminisced upon his less troubled days. Times long passed and withered, like the trail he pondered upon, he observed. ‘This is a bad omen, dear. Be cautious!’ Astrid’s voice emerged from inside—unanswered. Upon moments hence, when Silas’ muse faded, he headed back to the cabin and exclaimed ‘There was no one! Did you hear the blows, Astrid?’ he questioned—also, unanswered. The old lass had disappeared. Silas paced towards the ajar entrance door—yet, aside from woods, winds, and the wide gravel drive on which his car was parked on—there was no sign of the old babushka, and merely her journal remained. The sun which once loomed across the horizon, evolved veiled behind dim clouds. The soil’s petrichor aroma grew denser as he peered across the reach—when a thunderous glow gleamed and was soon accompanied by ravage roars. Silas, overawed, slammed the door closed, paced and seized the old woman’s leatherbound journal. Inside, inorganic botanical sketches adorned the pages, whilst accompanied with numerous arcane symbols—animals and interwoven knots—seemingly, Celtic. Silas perused each with a stern frown. Towards the back panel, he observed the sole sentences:

--

‘The Seer who once prowled in shadows, has long lived across the narrows.
When dim skies are moonless and grim, he searches for what lays unseen.
Thence he hearkens whispers surround, and with the trail he soon is bound.’

--

‘When dim skies…moonless and grim…’ murmured Silas as he paid heed upon the words. ‘A riddle?’ he sneered, as he closed and plunged the journal back upon the table—when an immaterial metallic clink, reawakened his curiosities. Silas picked up the old journal and rubbed his hand across its solid spine. ‘Unusually rigid.’ He mumbled as he reached within his pockets, pulled out a small penknife, and sliced the panel’s upper edge. From within, he withdrew an old and corroded metallic piece—an antiquated skeleton key, he observed—adorned with a crimson-coloured crest which served as the bow. The stem was curved and oscillated like a snake and an edged tip served as the serpent’s head. Silas placed the key aside him and examined the panel’s interior, where an old parchment piece was placed. Inside, were adorned and vague sketches which mapped Ravenshire. Upon closer examination, Silas observed numerous lines over and across the map, seemingly, roads and crossroads. These were paths, which, as memories served, could not exist. ‘Remember lad, though, Ravenshire is comprised with three thousand acres in woodlands, she’d once borne many roads and routes, all are now withered with time.’ he recalled his uncle having once said. Pathways which once served a purpose, long evolved obsolete. Four crimson crosses marred the old map. Silas pulled his chair forth and observed how one cross, underscored an eerie old church, which—as he remembered—had been abandoned for years. The second cross underlined an old well which laid deep within the woods and, perhaps, reclaimed by nature. The third cross centred an old cemetery which laid between Ravenshire and her woods. The fourth, however, heralded his new uncanny abode, the cabin. Ravenshire was a curious old village which laid across her enormous woods and housed far fewer people. Ravenshire, a name which had seldom been whispered. Ravenshire, however, was a place Silas vaguely remembered since childhood. ‘What lays in Ravenshire?’ he wondered in his mind. Ten minutes hence, Silas was dressed. He grabbed Astrid’s journal, the skeleton key and old map and bagged them in his rucksack. He swiftly locked the cabin’s doors and paced to his car. Once inside, Silas locked gaze upon the old map once more, reversed, and drove down the dreary road.

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END OF CHAPTER #01