T.J. Laverne

© Copyright T.J. Laverne

 

Prologue

 

Massive, white flakes about the size of walnuts floated dreamily down from the heavens, coating everything in sight in the silent forest. The peaked, young man in the center of the fluffy snow-land tried to appreciate the peaceful beauty of the scene, but only felt the burning pain of panic and misery.

 

Though the air was bitterly cold, he was sweating as if he were in the Congo. Beside him, his brown Morgan shuffled impatiently and tugged lightly at the reigns, but it was pointless. The carriage was stuck in the slush. The peaked man stroked the horse’s velvety neck as he whispered a soft word of comfort, then collapsed listlessly upon the snow-covered ground beside his carriage.

 

Reaching a bony hand beneath the folds of his brown jacket, the man retrieved his golden pocket watch for about the zillionth time. He flicked open the cover and sighed, his breath freezing in the air before him. He was now three hours late. A beautiful, young woman smiled serenely at him from a tiny painting that was fastened inside the cover of the watch, and a familiar sinking feeling wrenched his stomach. He buried his face in his hands and clawed violently at his chocolatey hair as his whole body began to shake. Every second which passed was torture.

 

After several minutes of silent brooding, the man at last felt the courage to emerge from his hands and glance back at the peaceful scene. Though the snow was falling quite heavily now, there was not a sound to be heard for miles. The silence of the forest was consuming, as if the peaked, young man and his brown Morgan were the only living things left to the world. He let out a tiny sigh and resigned himself to defeat. The train for New Orleans had left half an hour ago. He was too late.

 

It was a while before he registered the clopping of hooves and the scraping of wooden wheels above the silence. When the sound at last permeated his frozen brain, his heart leapt to his throat, and before he knew it he was standing on his feet.

 

“Who is it?” came a voice. “Ah, it’s Mr. Bacon,” the voice exclaimed. A speckled grey horse emerged from the white curtain of snow, as did the face of an old man atop a small carriage. “What seems to be the problem, here? You caught, young man?”

 

Simon swallowed down a knot in his throat as he tried to quickly pull himself together. “Yes, sir. My wheel is caught in a rut.” He wanted to add, “Please help me,” but he managed to restrain himself.

 

The old man, Mr. Mooney, pulled his carriage to a halt behind Simon’s, and immediately jumped to the ground beside him. He examined Simon’s wheel for all of two seconds, then leapt back to his carriage and returned with a bundle of rope and a pick axe. Simon attempted to help him, but the old man slapped his boney hand away. Stepping timidly out of the way, he wiped his sweaty forehead with a shaky hand and simply watched.

 

“You all right, there, son?” Mr. Mooney looked up briefly from his work. “You look a little pale.”

 

Simon merely nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything else.

 

“Where you headed?”

 

Simon made another swallow. “The Brightons’ house. Ivan and . . . ,” he swallowed again, “Alexandra are leaving today for New Orleans. I was going to see them off, but . . . ,” he made a frantic shake of his head.

 

“New Orleans?” Mr. Mooney almost barked. “What the devil they want to go there for?”

 

Simon made a painful shrug and was beyond words a moment. “I just received a letter from Ivan yesterday. Apparently they’re going off to college . . . ,” his timid voice trailed off to nothing.

 

Mr. Mooney studied Simon’s young face a long moment, then gave a sympathetic nod and turned back to his work. After several minutes of nothing but the sounds of his work, he resumed his friendly chatter. “When are you and Miss Harriet to be married? Have you set a date?”

 

If it was possible, Simon’s face paled even further, and his mouth narrowed to a thin line. “April 21st,” he spoke almost inaudibly. “The first day of spring.”

 

“Ah, a spring wedding, eh?” Mr. Mooney said pleasantly. When he caught the expression on Simon’s face, his smile faded and he said no more.

 

The silence of the forest resumed, and Mr. Mooney at last allowed Simon to help. After much tugging, chipping, pulling and digging, two very sweaty men and two exhausted horses managed to free Simon’s wheel from its rut. A half an hour later, Simon was back on the treacherous road, another half an hour from his destination.

 

During that torturous half hour on the road, Simon’s mind raced with a million thoughts, all centered around the same object. There was still a shred of possibility they had not yet left, and he could see her face one last time. He fiddled endlessly with his pocket watch, if only to keep himself from going mad. Yet as he neared the final corner before the Brightons’ residence came into view, an unexpected and ominous sound slowly penetrated through his nerves and managed to reach his ears. It was a dull roar and a crackling, both dreadfully familiar and indescribable.

 

Simon gently pulled his horse to a halt and listened. Looking upwards, great clouds of gray smoke billowed up above the tops of the evergreens, dark against the bright white of the snowy sky. Simon’s senses dampened and his chest hollowed in horrific dread. Snapping his reigns with a yell, he steered his horse at a gallop around the final corner and was blinded by an intensely glowing mass of orange-white flames. The horse skidded to an abrupt halt and reared back in its own terror. Oblivious, Simon leapt from the carriage and fled wildly toward the burning building.

 

“Alexandra!” he cried out. He rushed toward the burning front door, but stopped when he caught sight of the empty barn. Ivan and Alexandra had already left. He hardly had time to acknowledge the wave of relief that had swept through him before he heard the screams. It was a woman—perhaps two—as well as a man, crying out a name. He stopped once again and this time caught sight of the carriage sitting beside the barn. He recognized it instantly and realized his mistake.

 

“Harriet!” he wailed. He stumbled to the ground, but was up almost before his knees had hit the snow. “Harriet!!” The woman continued to scream, tearing at Simon’s insides like a thousand knives. “Harriet, I’m coming!”

 

Simon was at the door in one second, and jumped back reflexively when the heat burned his fingers. His brain hardly registered the feeling, and he plowed forward without heed. He managed to detach the door from its frame, only to reveal a greater obstacle. Large, flaming boards blocked the entrance and the ceiling began to fall in. Simon braced himself and prepared to burst his way through, but was restrained by two very strong hands.

 

“Simon, no!!” came Mr. Mooney’s voice. “You’ll kill yourself!!” Simon struggled wildly against the old man, kicking and flailing and screaming with all his might. He almost managed to break free, but Mr. Mooney ultimately proved stronger.

 

The old man managed to pull Simon back several dozen feet when the most terrifying sound of all rent the air. In that moment, the great house caved in from the center, collapsing and crumbling to the ground in one miserable heap. The final screams of the occupants within echoed out to the surrounding winter forest before they at last fell silent and were no more. Simon and Mr. Mooney stood frozen in the silence that followed, then Simon broke down and collapsed to his knees, burying his face in the snow.