Phillips Harbour
October 15, 1868. Thursday evening.
It's been an interesting week since Bernice investigated one of Mrs. Everchild's piles of stones and organic debris.
Phillips Harbour seethes with rumors. Last Thursday, several people claim to have seen a strange girl with eyes that burned hot as blue coals on Shelley Street, traveling with a wolf at her side. One brave man tried to stop her, but she and her companion strode into a corn field and vanished without a trace.
Reverend Hale had recovered enough by last Sunday to give a sermon at the church service: he spoke in brief but forcefully on the topic of charity, focusing on the parable of the good Samaritan. "For it is easy to offer assistance to your friends and family, whom you've known all your lives. Indeed, such aid is often mere self-interest, as we help our friends so that later we may call upon them to help us. But it is harder, and yet more godly, to show kindness even unto strangers, whose friendless state makes their needs greater still."
The sermon is taken as a rebuke towards those who've grumbled against the influx of strangers and foreigners to the town. However, it's not sufficient to prevent renewed suspicion when word spreads that a corpse, of all things, has been stolen from Mr. Hobson's graveyard. When she first heard the news, Bernice half-expected the stolen body to be the corpse of her druid friend that had washed up a week and a half ago. But as it turns out, it was a local's body, an old woman who'd died of natural causes in early September. The sheriff questions her and Dr. Greene closely in regards to this morbid crime, but he doesn't seem to suspect either of them.
Dr. Greene and Bernice spent today treating a few men injured in an accident with a pile of logs at the lumber mill. Luckily, no one suffered anything worse than a broken limb, and even those were clean breaks that should heal fine after setting. But it was an ugly scene, and it's Bernice is relieved to return to the relative peace of home at the end of the day.
Even dinner does not go without interruptions, however. As she's sitting down to a meal of soup and bread, Bernice hears the hoofbeats, follow by a pause and then a knock at the door.
Bernice wads up the napkin she was preparing to drape across her lap, standing and making her way to the door. She carefully prepares her usual mask to hide the fussy worry that her soup will get cold and the agitation she feels at having to deal with someone outside a professional setting. "Easy, Bernice, it's probably nothing..." the doctor tells herself, and aloud she says, "Just a minute!" She opens the door a crack to peek out.
The Frenchman stands outside Bernice's little cabin, his long dark hair rumpled and pulling free of its ribbon. A fine-looking but nervous bay mare is tied to the post a few feet behind him, a lumpy pack laden across her withers. The Frenchman's falcon stands on her pommel, looking inscrutably in Bernice's direction. When Girard sees her crack open the door, he sketches a bow. "Ah ... good evening, mademoiselle."
The doctor's brows rise in genuine surprise. "Monsieur Girard!" she says, opening the door a little wider. "What brings you all the way out here?" Her mask slips a little, a certain part of her oddly glad to see the frenchman, but her uneasiness keeps the door from swinging open completely.
Girard answers her greeting with a smile that breaks some of the tension in his own face. "The sight of your face would be reason enough for a far longer journey," he replies, looking into her eyes. Then his smile fades as he adds, "But I fear I have additional cause. I've come to bid you adieu, mademoiselle Townes. Horus and I are leaving tonight, before the moon dies."
"So soon?" says a dismayed Bernice. She bites her lip, glancing out past Girard and into the woods, then decides to ease up her caution for once. "Well.. I was just going to have supper. If you'd like to join me, I could be sure you're following doctor's orders and eating well."
His smile returns, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "You are too kind, my lady. I would be delighted to join you." He half-turns to his horse, holding out his left arm, which is covered in a falconer's glove. "Horus?"
The falcon glances between the woman and his master, tilting his head to one side, then shakes it. He leans down to peck once against the pommel. "Do we not have time?" Girard asks, disappointed. But the falcon shakes his head again. He gestures to the door, waving a wing as if to shoo the Frenchman inside, then pecks the pommel again. "As you prefer," Girard says, turning back to Bernice with another bow. "Thank you, mademoiselle. It is my pleasure."
Bernice steps back to swing the door open, welcoming Girard in. "Are you in a rush, or does Horus prefer the outdoors?"
"We are not in a great rush; we have some hours left, I am assured. I would not say that Horus prefers the outdoors as a general rule, but it appears he does at the moment," the Frenchman says, stepping inside. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Your dinner smells divine, Mlle. Townes."
The doctor offers Horus a wave before shutting the door, then bustles back to her cookstove to prepare another serving of soup, fussing about for a butter dish for the bread, and looking for something more substantial to fix. "Oh, it was just a little something I threw together with leftovers. If I'd been expecting company, I would have cooked something proper. Please, make yourself comfortable." She begins chopping some fresh vegetables to add some salad to the meal, and the practiced motions let her glance over her shoulder as she does so, her 'kitchen' being a mere corner of the little cabin. "I must say, your departure is a surprise, sir, but I suppose it shouldn't be. You said something was going to happen at the new moon."
"Indeed, mademoiselle. The truce between Players ends tonight. Horus is not ... sufficiently recovered from our ordeal. To risk further harm in this venture would be foolhardy. The Game has defeated us both already, I am afraid." Girard pulls a three-legged stool up to Bernice's table, but he doesn't sit. Instead, he watches her work.
The rhythmic chop chop chop against the cutting board misses a beat. "Oh... I'm so sorry, Monsieur Girard. I wish I could have helped, but I don't know what could have effected you both so deeply." Bernice empties sliced cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, and some olives into a bowl, and seasons them lightly with vinegar and oil, then ladles another bowl of soup. She turns with a bowl in either hand, going to the table to place them at Girard's setting. "I'm woefully underinformed, it seems. I didn't even know there was a truce on." A hint of bitterness creeps into her voice. "Though whatever truce there was didn't seem to stop whoever robbed you of several days or the one who chased me through the woods."
A wry smile twists the man's mouth. "Ah, but there you see the nature of the truce: we all survived these experiences. After tonight, not even that much will be a given. I have discovered a new attachment to my life, mademoiselle, and I find in myself no wish to lose it, or, for that matter, to take another's. Under the circumstances, I do not think I can play this Game after all."
Bernice pales slightly, and nervously straightens the silverware to unnecessarily neat right angles after setting the frenchman's supper down. She moves to seat herself, laying her napkin across her lap again and sighing shakily at Girard's revelation. "That's likely for the best. I fear the same myself. Even just these past weeks have nearly frightened me to death, but I have too much at stake to stop. I only hope that if I do prove too weak, I at least accomplish something." She makes no move to touch her food, instead cutting a piece of the bread she had for her guest and buttering it.
"I ... I am sorry." Girard sits on his stool after Bernice takes her seat. "Although I do not know whether I regret more that I have worried you, or that I have not worried you enough. You are determined to pursue the Game, mademoiselle?"
Bernice nods numbly, setting the buttered bread on a saucer and placing it with the frenchman's meal. She begins buttering her own slice of bread with the mechanical vigor of someone doing something simply to ease their mind. She stops when her butterknife begins to press deep grooves into the bread. "I can't stop. Either I do my duty, fail, or die. No matter how weak I am, stopping isn't an option for me. A member of this game massacred a great many of my friends... for that alone, I can't stop, but my elder also charged me with this task, and if he believes it of deadly importance, then I can't be swayed by my fear and frailty."
The Frenchman winces at her words. "Then I doubly regret your position. I had no such high motives in joining the Game, Mlle. Townes. Perhaps that is why I find it possible to stop now, when I find myself without such reasons to justify the risks." He pauses, as if on the point of saying something else, but he does not continue. Instead, he places his napkin in his lap and lifts his spoon.
Bernice lays her hands on the table, leaning forward earnestly, nearly dipping her chest into her forgotten bowl of cooling soup. "If... if you have no more design on the Game, Monsieur Girard, then I beg of you any information you can safely part with. I've met many Players, and I'm sure they all believe it too risky to speak to one another. Now that the truce you speak of is ending, everyone is at risk, so I don't have the luxury of holding back anymore."
Girard sets the spoon into the bowl without tasting it, nodding. "I do not have a great deal of information about this particular game, mademoiselle. I've spent much of it already incapacitated -- further incentive for my withdrawal. But I will gladly tell you what I know. The only two other Players I am certain of are Madam Everchild and Reverend Hale. I suspect the China woman and the Englishman are as well, of course, but I cannot be sure of them, since I've had little contact with either. I do not think Mlle. Dembkowski or Madame Mysteria are Players, though I would not want to swear to the latter."
Bernice nods interestedly, then realizes she's letting herself get a bit out of hand, and settles back again. Deciding Girard is too much of a gentleman to begin eating before she does, she takes a spoonful of soup to show him he's free to tuck in, and once she's swallowed a bite of bread, the doctor speaks again. "I've been watching Mrs. Everchild. Have you had any dealings with her? And Reverend Hale seemed very concerned with your health, I assumed you were friends."
"I've met her on a few occasions. She is canny and perceptive, more so than her companions. Do not be fooled by her grandmotherly manners, mademoiselle. As for the reverend ... " A smile flickers over his lips. "We are not precisely friends. In fact, we've not actually been introduced. But we shared certain ... experiences." His eyebrow draw together in a frown as he continues. "On that note -- I do not think the Hill is a Player. I do not know what on Earth -- or off of it -- the Hill is, or what stake it has in the Game, but neither Horus nor I believe it's possible for it to Play. I would advise you to keep yourself well away from it."
"The Hill?" The perplexed young woman tries to match this up with anything she's encountered, and fails. "Who.. or what is it?" She taps the table when she recalls something else. "Speaking of hills, I did find something that Mrs. Everchild had erected out in the woods, a little pile of stones, rocks, feathers, and what have you. One of the feathers in the stack was a falcon feather, I thought it might be one of Horus'."
"You know the hills north and to the west of here? On one of those peaks there's a glade marked by a set of six old stones, in a triangular formation: one at each point and one midway along each side. Those mark the Hill. I'm not sure if the stones are there to mark it, or power it, or if they are it. I'm inclined to think they're some kind of pagan marking, perhaps for purpose of contacting or containing the Hill, but not the source of its power. In any case, the good reverend went to the Hill with some intention of confronting it, I gather. He lost. Horus and I investigated afterwards, and attempted to save M. Hale. What you see of the three of us now is the results of that attempt; a qualified success of sorts." Girard frowns anew at the mention of Horus's feather. "She used one of his feathers in a fetish? I mislike the sound of that."
Bernice nods again. "I don't know what the stack of stones was, but it was clearly there to take advantage of... of..." She frowns, but pushes past her misgivings. "I can sense certain things about places due to my, um, background. Where she placed those stones is a place where... something, I can't explain what, some sort of natural forces flow through there. Maybe it has something to do with that Hill?"
"Good Lord, I hope it doesn't." Girard shakes his head. "Can you tell me where it is? I want to get Horus's feather out of it, at the least. I'm not leaving any bits of him tied to this disaster."
Without thinking, Bernice reaches across the table to touch the frenchman's hand. "Of course, but you must be careful. I didn't touch it myself, because.. erm..." Well, Girard talks to his falcon, how bad can it be? "Because the crow who I asked to guide me out there said I shouldn't. We could both feel there was some danger about it. I don't know its purpose. Clearly, Everchild has a better understand of the forces at work than I do."
"I appreciate your concern, mademoiselle." Girard meets her eyes, smiling again. He touches her fingers with his free hand in reassurance. "I'll consult with Horus on the matter. I fear I am not the magician I once was, and even then I was no master. But my hunch is that removing it could not possibly present more danger than leaving some piece of him hostage to the Game."
Bernice describes the place out in the 'newer' woods, with the piled boulders. "If you go, let me go with you. I can guide you out there, I know my way around the woods. I won't approach the stones, but if something bad happens, maybe I can get you clear. If all goes well, maybe I can learn something." She squeezes Girard's hand. "Reverend Hale made a sermon about helping others at risk to ourselves. It seems apt. You say you're a magician, and so I wonder if your curiousity led you to wishing this... this thing to be opened. I will say that I mean to see it kept closed, that I and mine believe it a threat to our world, but I won't see you come to harm."
"As you wish, m'lady. A strange combination we make, but I cannot begrudge you your choice, given the reasons you've cited." Girard uses one hand to take a spoonful of soup, leaving the other under Bernice's fingers. "Ah, this tastes as good as it smells. Thank you again, mademoiselle."
Bernice smiles for the first time tonight, a smile warmer than the dinner she's prepared. "Strange indeed, but though our aims may have been different, it seems as though we hold the same things to be important, our friends and our way of life." She takes her hand back to have a little more of her supper as well. "It comforts me to know that this Game isn't played only by monsters."
"No. No ... in fact, the only monster I know of for certain isn't a Player. Unfortunately, I am not at all confident that the pleasant aspects I've seen so far shall survive the death of the moon tonight. So far as I can discern, the Old Man is missing at this Game, as he was at the last. But a rumor I've heard suggests the Beast may have returned for another round." He shakes his head, dipping his bread into the soup to sop some of it up before eating the bread.
The doctor flinches at the mention of this Beast. "A Beast? I wonder then if this could be what's been murdering my kin. When I fled my hometown, it was with a pack of otherworldly hounds baying at my heels. They would have torn me to shreds if they'd caught me, just like they did to the others." She shakes her head, taking a bite of salad to cool her tongue after the soup. "I had assumed it was some malevolent Player bent on ushering more of those creatures into the world. More bodies turned up after that, and just recently I've heard a body was stolen from the Harbor graveyard. Something dark is definately afoot."
"The Beast is a Player, although I know little about him other than reputation. The Beast killed at least three Players in the '49 Game. I'd assumed the Beast was a Closer, however, since obviously the Portal did not Open in 1849. Curious that the Beast would attack your kin, if it is the same person. And assuming the Beast was a Closer. But I don't see how he could have survived the '49 Game were he an Opener." Girard finishes his soup, mopping up the remainder from the bowl neatly with his bread.
Bernice looks a little taken aback at this revelation. "He... he was? Does anyone know his motives, or really, anything about him? You make it sound as though the '49 Game was fatal to nearly everyone." She rubs her temples fitfully, as if a new weight has landed on her mind with a thud. "Maybe something else was slaughtering us, but it chills me to think there's more than one force at work with that kind of savagery."
"There were a few survivors of the '49 Game. I suspect Reverend Hale might be one of them, though I've not asked him. The Beast survived, as did one other Player, an Irishman named Connor O'Connor -- he did not come to this Game, so far as I know. All the other Players were killed prior to the 31st by the Beast." Girard hesitates, then adds, "You do know that on the 31st, any Players at the Banefire who are on the losing side will perish, do you not?"
Bernice drops her spoon with a clatter.
Girard winces. "My apologies."
"N-no..." She reaches to the floor to take her spoon back up, and she clutches it tightly, both to keep from fumbling it again and to steady her trembles. "No, I didn't, but don't apologize. I'd rather know than not. The more I know about all this, the better my chances are. I can imagine worse things than joining my bretheren. In that one sentence, you've told me a great many vital things, and I'm grateful. I'm going into this as blind as a newborn kitten."
Girard sets his utensils down and moves his napkin to the table. "Excuse me one moment, mademoiselle. I shall be bak directly." He stands with a bow, then goes out the door.
Bernice looks puzzled. "Is everything alright?" She stands as well, and moves to a window when Girard steps outside.
"As all right as we get, m'lady." Girard is pulling the pack from his horse. He and Horus exhange a few looks while he does so. A moment later, Girard returns with it under one arm, and places the pack with a heavy thump on his stool. Horus accompanies him through the door, and lands on the edge of the table while Girard opens the pack and begins pulling out thick bound books of rough-cut pages.
Townes looks on curiously, and she hurriedly clears away Girard's empty bowls and her own half finished meal to make room. "Hello there, Horus," she says, smiling at the bird, and offering a little curtsey. "I'm glad you decided to visit."
The bird makes a small sqwaking sound in response to her greeting, though like all of the bird's prior utterances it's strangely incomprehensible to her. He ducks his head and spreads his wings in a bow reminiscent of her curtsey, however, and the meaning of that is clear. Then he goes back to watching Girard who is sorting through the books and putting a few back into the bag. The Frenchman holds a handwritten journal in his hand for a moment, staring at it, then sets it to on the table with the other. Last, he puts a package wrapped in soft leather atop the stack. Horus squawks again, and pecks at the man's hand and the package. "we're leaving, Horus," Girard says to the bird. "It doesn't matter now."
The bird hops back, wings fluttering, and eyes the stack. He pecks at a volume near the bottom. "Horus ... " The falcon continues, pushing it out from between the others. "All right, all right, you can keep that one. Any others?" Girard takes the book out of the stack, and puts it back in the bag.
Horus hops back again, wings fluttering. The falcon appears content now, however.
Bernice makes no move to touch any of the books, though from her intent stare it's clear she'd dearly love to. She looks on with fascination. "What's all this? Are they all about the Game?"
"Not about the Game, so to speak. They're books on magic, history, the occult. They all have references to the Game in them. I've notes in some of them, about the things we could or could not corroborate. I'm afraid much of what we knew about the Game was locked in Horus's memory, and I'm not even sure he remembers it all now. This journal -- " he taps the top book " -- is mine. It's got everything I took the time to write down about the Game in it. And a great deal of other nonsense, I fear, but I trust you can skim over the irrelevant parts." He colors as he speaks.
Bernice tilts her head. Could he really have written about her? The woman touches her collarbone, looking a little dazzled for a moment, then is brought back to the here and now and flushes a bit, pushing away silly thoughts. "I.. I don't know what to say, Monsieur Girard. These books must have inestimable value to you. They may just save my life, and many other lives as well. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, and... and I promise I'll bring them back to you."
"You shall have far more need of them than I," Girard says, his expression sober. "I appreciate your offer to return them when this is done. It would be gentlemanly of me to decline your offer ... but I think that, for more than one reason, I shall hope to that promise fulfilled." A brief smile, then he turns back to the stack. "Ah. There's also this ... "
He unwraps the leather bundle on top of the pile, revealing an oblong chunk of light brown stone, with the bumps and ridges around the sides and one end worn smooth. At the other end, it comes to a rough point, as if the stone had been broken there. The pointed is stained a dry, rusty brown, which streaks down from the point. "This is the Stone. There are several ancient and potent artifacts tied to the Game, which are useful for Opening or Closing. Some may be employed to achieve either end -- close the portal, or to open it. My understanding is that the Stone may only be used to Open, so I would not suggest you attempt using it at the Banefire. Still ... I have no need of it now, and perhaps it may serve you in some capacity."
"I'll guard it with my life, as I've been guarding another artifact," Bernice says, as resolute as ever. She hesitates, then reaches out to touch the Stone curiously. "In fact, you'd probably know more about it than I... it's a wooden rod capped with metal on the end. I questioned the great old oak in the heart of the forest about it. He told me it was a destructive thing, hewn in hatred, and bid me never bring it to the forest for the danger it presented. I've secretted it away... a strange coyote tried to take it from me, another animal and man pair that I assume have a hand in all this."
Girard glances to Horus, who looks incrutable, then back to Bernice. "We've speculated about that artifact before. Da Vinci's Secret Codex refered to it as a "fragment of the true cross", which is almost certainly not accurate. The Game began long before the Crucifixtion. However, there are other accounts of the Wand, an older artifact that matches your description. Unfortunately, beyond its appearance, I don't know anything of how to use it or of what it is capable."
Bernice nods thoughtfully. "I doubt anything as terrible as what the oak described could have come from the cross. When I blundered into provoking the coyote, and he hurt Slate, I very nearly struck him with.. I guess it's the Wand, and the oak admonished me to never do such again. It said the stick was grown from a tree older than the forest by far, grown from rage. I don't know what they meant by that."
"Whatever it means, it can't be good." Girard looks down at the Stone again, then adds, "Horus said once that some of the artifacts have powers associated with them. The Horn, for example, is believed to be able to call the -- " He stops, and stares at Bernice. "Did you say your friends were torn apart by a pack of wild animals?"
Right after Girard says "horn", Bernice lets out a little gasp, and her sentance tumbles out, mingling with her guest's. "Did you say a horn capable of calling-...? Yes! Yes, they were, and there was a horn call, as if a huntsman were directing the hounds!"
"That must have been the Horn!" Realization flushes Girard's face for a moment, before it fades into sobriety. "Then your opponent -- whether he's the Beast or some other person -- has possession of at least one artifact. I suppose it's good to know these things. But what I truly wanted to warn you against was using the powers of artifacts you mean to use at the Banefire. Horus told me that any artifact used in the month of October would be useless in opening or closing the portal at the Banefire. This murderer, he did not strike in October -- no, of course, he couldn't have. The truce began in October."
Bernice nods quickly. "Yes, I fled my town on the 21st last month. A day I'll not soon forget." This last with a hint of bitterness, then she adds, "Does the horn have some effect other than calling for those hounds? When I rescued my elder, he had been... been turned into a stag. Apparently all the others had too. I don't know if it's something the horn does, or whether that harridan St. John somehow did it."
"I've not seen the Horn in action, myself, but that is consistent with some accounts I've read of it. That it summons the Wild Hunt, which changes its victims into deer." Girard swallows. "I can imagine how ghastly this must have been for you, Mlle. Townes. Truly, you are a remarkably brave woman, to have the courage to come here and stand up to this killer, despite your experiences."
Bernice sighs, dumping herself into her chair again. She reaches out to run a hand across a book cover. "Brave, or foolish. I certainly don't feel brave, and I've felt the fool more than once. This Banefire... what little I understand about these artifacts is that they merely have to be present rather than used. I certainly don't want to have to face the power of the Horn. The hounds were discouraged by bullets at least, but I can't work Old Henry with hooves."
"If the Beast winds the Horn this month, you may have the consolation that it will be useless at the Banefire. Not that such would be much consolation." Girard shakes his head. "But if the Beast knows this, then he'll be reluctant if not unwilling to use it again this month."
Girard adds, "You actually shot these wolves? My lady, you vastly underrate yourself." His voice is full of genuine admiration.
Bernice looks away shyly, but she can't help a faint pinkening around her pixielike features at the flattery. "Well, it was from horseback. I know my way around a rifle, but I was simply firing to try to slow them down." Looking toward Girard again, she sobers. "St. John has shown no qualms about dispatching those in her way, and she seems merciless. If she's not the Beast, I don't want to meet whoever is."
"A woman?" Girard looks surprised for a moment, then gives a shrug. "On reflection, I suppose the Beast could be a woman ... I've no details on his, or her, appearance, only the name and some of the deeds. I certainly hope these is not a Beast and this St John monster of yours roaming this county."
Bernice shrugs helplessly. "I imagine that if this Beast can survive and thrive for a hundred years he, she, or it can probably manage all sorts of things. I dread facing it with wood and paper, but you see now why it can't be left to be. Though I have to wonder... what interest would it have in Closing?"
"I don't think the Beast is that old, actually. The '49 Game is the only one at which I know the Beast participated. Nothing like the Old Man's record. As for why it would be a Closer, or why it would attack you if it is ... that I know no better than you." Girard sighs.
Horus rustles his wings, then turns his head pointedly to the window. The cabin's grown dark while they spoke, and from the twilight visible outside, it must be near sundown.
Bernice glances curiously at Horus, then at the windows, and it dawns on her that it's dusk. "Oh my... Monsieur Girard, I've kept you to sundown, I'm sorry. There's so much to learn and speculate on, and time is scarce. When should we set out for Everchild's stone formation?"
"Now, I suppose." Girard gives his falcon a regretful look, then turns his attention back to Bernice. "Do not think that I begrudge the time we've spent talking, dear mademoiselle." He bows low before her, taking one hand to brush a kiss over her fingertips. "I am honored by your company, and appreciate your offer of assistance."
Bernice coyly puts a hand to her cheek at the gentlemanly gesture. "My dear sir, I've been privaleged. Though the Game put as at odds, you've become quite possibly my savior." She smiles again, genuine warmth behind the carefully maintained manners. "Would that all my 'enemies' could become my friends. Let's see that you and Horus get that feather back."