Castle Brynhyfryd

Trigger warning occlut, mental health and sexual themes.

​L'épreuve de la croix

​Part I: Les Épées

​Lucas coughed gently as he looked into in the rearview mirror. “We’re here, darling.”

​Behind, the clouds swallowed the moon, while a convoy of expensive black cars rolled past en masse without slowing. Accustomed to the sight, Lucas waited for the ornate iron gates to groan open, then stepped out to open Drusilla’s door.

​Her striking red velvet corset and matching lace bustled dress spilled from the vehicle.

​"La Pucelle d'Orléans," Lucas murmured with satisfaction, tipping his top hat to her—and to his own good fortune—before offering his arm.

​Drusilla stood closer than she ever had before. The heavy rock on her finger weighed down and quickened her steps. A marriage proposal in his company car—the hearse of The Vant Funerals on the way to an Eclipse Ball at Brynhyfryd Castle—had been entirely unexpected, but it was so purely Lucas Jacques La Vant.

​Now, she was to be his wife.

​"Onward and upward," Lucas said, addressing the rise in the bush track, dizzy that the most coveted young woman was fully in his grasp.

​A triggering flash of static burst across the high plateau, the cue to check his fob watch.

​"Three past eight,” the inner face read. “Right on time,” he thought.

​His eyes narrowed as a distorted electrical line short-circuited across the air, sparking and sizzling before shrinking to a blinding pin of light. It paused, detonated in a brilliant flash, and expanded into a glowing rectangular prism. Seamlessly, the blinding heat cooled and calcified, the molten edges hardening into heavy limestone as the glowing block folded inward and segmented itself into a grand three-story castle anchored by a towering center keep.

​"Now the test?"

​He gazed at Drusilla; her eyes were glazed. He stayed still, observing her. Her muscles tightened as the spatial anomaly ruthlessly barged into her subconscious, causing her to jolt and blink repeatedly. He wondered if she would fall into that meaningless chatter like the others who preceded her.

​Awoken by kookaburras laughing, her lowered eyes raised as the clouds shifted again, letting the full moon cast light over a eucalyptus branch, its shadow covering Lucas’s left eye and darkening to conceal it. Her neck tightened with a sudden flash of doubt: Would he remain faithful? Would he love her when her beauty fades? Would? Would?

​Sensing her vulnerabilities, Lucas snapped his mask over his face and swallowed the negativity. Leaning close, his voice dropped to a murmur.

​"J’ai besoin de ta force, ceci me dépasse..." (I need your strength, this is beyond me...)

​Gathering her long skirt just high enough to clear her boots, still stunned by his cold reprimand, she replied with dignity: "Les épées." (The swords.)

​Relieved, Lucas slipped a hand beneath her arm to steady her as she climbed the slick, mist-damp stone staircase.

​Formless voices whispered through a break in the gum trees. Out of nowhere, a cat hissed, then howled. Lucas swung around to the noise as a sharp pain stabbed his temple. "The castle has forty-nine rooms, dear," he slurred as a filter fell.

​Disgusted, Drusilla marched away from him, lifting her stag mask over her face to protect herself as she peered back through the eyeholes. "Forty-nine rooms?" she said. "Forty-nine rooms?" she repeated to herself.

​Lucas froze, caught in a contorted pose like he'd been struck by a poison dart.

​Continuing to hold the mask toward him in confrontation, she whipped her head toward the head-high paspalum lining the path. Cupping a hand theatrically to her ear, she threw her voice into the bush in a mocking tone: "Skippy... what's that? Huh? Oh dear Skippy, you think Lucas is horny and he can't control himself?"

​Snapping back, Lucas swallowed his pride and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow and clean his glasses.

​"Les épées," he replied. (The swords.)

​Drusilla tucked her mask neatly into the two loops designed for that purpose on the side of her corset. Silently, Lucas caught up to her, offering his arm once more.

​Part II: Les Bâtons

​Gideon D’Salvor turned the key. The engine choked—rr-rr. He tried again. Rr-rr.

​Euphemia let out a sharp exhale. Sitting stalled outside of a parking lot in a borrowed, beat-up Holden was plain humiliating, as her soft lips were pressed into a tight, furious line.

​"Back home," he said softly, trying to bridge the gap, "my family doesn't show off."

​"It's suffocating in here," she snapped, yanking the latch.

​She kicked the door open, but its heavy frame rebounded, jamming her shins.

​"Ouch!" Not giving up, cramped in the bucket seat with yards of delicate blue chiffon bunched brutally around her hips, she drew her knees tight and drove both heels into the door panel, sending it flying wide.

​Gideon winced, watching from the sheepskin-covered steering wheel as she stormed off into the night. Pink ruffles flapped around her ankles as she kicked a stone off the bridge. Behind her, the engine finally roared to life. Escaping, she thought it might be fun to play hide-and-seek. She rounded the bend. Seeing a weathered stone workers' cottage, she slipped behind it as a sharp crack split the dark, and a heavy branch crashed across the track where she should have been.

​Hearing steady, heavy, precise footsteps, knowing it was his, she crouched and huddled against the wall. Gideon searched the area with his eyes, his jaw tightening as he mumbled for her to hear, "Where is the little vixen?"

​A muffled giggle slipped out from the darkness. Euphemia quickly covered her mouth.

​He stiffened, at least knowing where she was. Slipping off his pristine white gloves, he grabbed a smaller branch and dragged the fallen limb off the path, then shoved the timber off the edge into the cavern, huffing when his dark-blue coat tails caught on the surrounding dry scrub. As it tumbled, rolled, and finally smashed on rocks below, he dusted his hands, snapped his gloves over his knuckles, and squared his red-and-white sash at his hip.

​Decisively lowering his voice with chilling, authoritative precision, Gideon stepped closer. "You possess a breathtaking lack of sense, Euphemia."

​Towering over her with severe, unyielding posture, he cast a long shadow. "You do not run ahead. Not here. The snakes in these hills are exotic crossbreeds; they will delight in stinging your pretty flesh."

​At first amused by his grand-ducal lecturing, seeing his eyes widen in horror, her mouth dropped as he lunged forward to block a red-bellied black snake rearing from the grass, striking his heavy leather boot before sliding away.

​Gideon bent down and stared into her eyes. It's gone now. But her eyes glowed like a bewitching Oracle where two children ran past in the flowered fields of his homeland. Then, in the chamber of his mind, the vacuum between ignorance and knowing threw a phantom echo: Papa, papa.

​Jumping up and back to her old self, Euphemia returned to the cleared path, her lips twisting into a wry curve. She raised her stag mask over her face. "Where's your mask, Mr. D’Salvor?"

​A massive, dark silhouette emerged over the path—a great antlered stag, its head bowed as it snorted into the night air.

​"Look at it, Gideon—wild and free in Australia," she purred, dripping with sarcasm. "Back in your dusty castle, your family would have mounted its head on a wall. And why?"

​Pulling her mask back, she pressed her mouth to his—hard, sudden, and hot—then pulled away with a smirk. "Because you're all terrified of your own animal nature."

​She turned, running and laughing. "Catch me if you can!" With a final slap to the shadowy beast's flank, she called out, "Go on, get, before he takes your head and mine!"

​Part III: Les Coupes

​Across the bridge, Hawk’s high Victorian collar obscured her face, her corseted shoulders moving in proud sync as her heavy black silk skirt swept the ground, petticoats rustling like whispering steps. She held the reins of her two Rottweilers, Hades and Aetos Dios.

​Phineous was late. In a hurry, he flung the car door shut. In the distance, Hawk stiffened to the noise as her dogs strained against their leads throwing deep, guttural growls. She listened as the wooden click-click of clackers gave way to a surging hum that tightened her skin, forcing the shell to split. As her skin shed like a snake, her eyes clouded over in pain, wind snatched her high collar to expose the raw red and purple birthmark that looked like scars tracing her neck and shoulder. Grabbing her throat, it whispered, Who will ever love an ugly woman like you, Cheryl?

​Phineous sprinted across the gap, the pleats of his kilt extending and his long hair streaming behind him. “Sit!” he bellowed to the dogs.

​Catching his breath beside her as she whispered, “My name is not Cheryl,” he held his mask up to the demiurge and remarked coolly, “Walking tall suits you, Hawk.”

​The light returned to her eyes as a shadow screamed out of her.

​“Thank you, Phineous,” she said, composing herself as she adjusted a falling ringlet. “I'm pleased you could make it on short notice.”

​“My pleasure,” he replied, looking at the moon through the canopy and slipping his mask back into his crossbody bag. Above, a crow settled in the mango tree and cawed three times. Phineous tensed as if caught in a courtroom by a hanging judge. Then, heavy bodies slammed onto the branches nearby, their calculated weight pressing down from the canopy like an unyielding jury.

​Phineous thought of his sister; he felt a surge of rage burn in his chest. What? It was too soon.

​Hawk dived for his hand.

​Landing in the square, before him stood massive dark oak doors. He grasped the doorknob—shaped like a fierce lion's head—and struck it three times. The heavy portal swung open slowly, revealing a dark, unlit antechamber. Then, electric filaments clicked, slowly warming to a dull glow before blooming into blinding light across a checkered tile floor. He saw his glowing sister’s face laughing with that man.

​Ahead, the hall exploded with chatter, piano music, dancing feet, and the tinkling of crystal glasses. The vast chamber was held up by high round pillars and adorned with large floral arrangements, beneath a fresco where Michelangelo's lovers lived on as ceiling angels, watching over hundreds of guests in elaborate Victorian attire. An announcer's booming voice cut through the din:

​"Monsieur Lucas Jacques La Vant and his fiancée, Mademoiselle Drusilla Boston!"

​He looked at Lucas’s adoring eyes as he extended his hand to Drusilla. The band—strings, drums, and wind instruments—swelled into the Polonaise. The Hosts watched from the elevated platform.

​1, 2, 3 — the couples dipped.

1, 2, 3 — the couples dipped again.

​Hawk kissed Phineous on the cheek. As he returned, he mumbled,

​"For every day you care for someone, it takes two days to undo and let them."

​Bringing her mask to her face, Hawk remarked, “My father says in order to gain something, Phineous, you have to give something up.”

​He nodded heavily. Happy it was over, she dropped her mask to reveal a sharp, knowing smile, tickling his palm in a way that instantly broke his spiral. “My father is fond of you, Phineous.”

​Part IV: Les Deniers

​Ingrid noticed the brown water churning beneath the timber planks first. Nudging Dave, she mumbled, “Looks like the dark runoff from last week’s rain, darling,” then taking a moment to appreciate just how handsome he looked in his charcoal suit and Akubra hat, and that emu feather tipped in red wax was something else.

​Dave bent his head toward her. She looked so innocent in her embroidered white dress, a crown of wattle, daisies, and dandelions resting atop her dark, curling hair as she beamed a grin under the pointer stars in the sky.

​Ahead, two shadows of joyous laughter blew past them and disappeared down the side of the bridge.

​Ingrid’s chest tightened. She stopped rigid.

​The laughter stopped.

​Dave’s eyes widened. It’s happening again. He yelled, as he wrapped his calloused hand around his wife's wrist and pulled her off the bridge step by desperate step until her boots anchored into the solid soil. In his mind, he wasn't on the path anymore—he was watching the treetops burst into flames, listening to his own heavy breathing as he stood helpless, yelling into the inferno, “Where the hell is she, Ingrid?!”

​Ingrid took a ragged breath, seeing Dave’s distant eyes.

​“We aren't at Bremer's edge anymore,” she said, her voice cutting through the roar of the fire in his mind. She pulled him, dragging him out of the shadows. “The water took her. She’s elsewhere now—we can’t change that.”

​Dave drew in a long, shaky breath, knitting his brows, dazed. “I don’t know what came over me just then,” he muttered, staring toward the castle as the thin cold night air announced:

​"Monsieur Gideon D'Salvor, accompanied by Mademoiselle Euphemia Schols!"

"Monsieur Phineous Boston, accompanied by Mademoiselle Hawk Kendrick.”

​Ingrid answered, "Chloe whispered something to the river… and it heard her.”

​Vox Corvis — Le Voyageur

​As women spun in the formation dance, a figure in a worn travel cloak skirted the edge of the room. Near the archway, she waved to the female host, whose eyes flickered an acknowledgment. Seeing the brief opening, she blew her a kiss goodbye.

​Dashing to the front door, she threw her arms around the doorman in a tight hug. His guarded posture softened, but his hands remained by his sides.

​"Thank you, Bartholomew," she whispered. "I shall miss you till the end of my next life."

​She broke away, running out to weave through the parterre.

​"Godspeed, Mademoiselle Isdora," he called out, wiping a stray tear.

​Boom.

​The ethers rippled outwards. The shockwave caught the young woman mid-stride, throwing her wildly into the air, compressing her body as the entire grand structure of Castle Brynhyfryd dissolved and vanished into thin air.

​On the ground, she blinked open her eyes. The land was entirely barren; only a faint, ghostly outline of the foundations remained in the dirt.

​Pushing herself onto her knees, chest heaving, she gathered her suitcase.

​"They said this would happen," she muttered, adjusting her vision to the dark.

​In the distance, the lights of Ipswich flickered below and the heavy town bell chimed midnight.

​"I'm late," she said, a sharp strain in her voice.

​She hurried past the rusted, hollow shell of an old caravan, racing down the decomposing stone staircase. She rushed past an obscure bubble-molded water tank onto an overgrown bush track where edges sank and ground slumped, half-hiding old mining tunnels and rusty gas hazard signs.

​She stopped and saw the bridge, unperturbed by the figure crouched over a phone, typing beside a bonfire.

​She recognized me at once.

​— I've heard a lot about you, she commanded.

​I ignored her, continuing to study my screen before slowly raising my head.

​— You're Isdora. Spelt I-S-D-O-R-A.

​She narrowed her eyes—a lifelong casualty of a misspelled name on her birth certificate, a bureaucratic oversight she never quite shook. I slid my hand into my pocket, where metal rattled, mumbling, "Darn autocorrelation gets me every time!" With a nod, she twisted her lips. "You're the writer."

​— Catch, I said, tossing the object.

​Her eyes glinted as it twirled through the air. Mesmerised, she held the large, old metal key ring up against the red glow of the fully eclipsed moon. I waited, knowing she wouldn't ask; she was too predictable.

​— They're Rahus's keys, I smirked.

​She raised an eyebrow.

​— All yours, I added, swinging my backpack over my shoulders.

​— Where are you going? she asked.

​— Deeper into the Reserve.

​Across the bridge, a wailing woman cut through the midnight air. I called back over my shoulder:

​— You'd better go, Isdora. Be careful.

​Through the quiet, a voice echoed: "Push, Theodosia!"—to be met by a sharp scream, and the beautiful piercing cry of a newborn.

​I mumbled into the dark, "Welcome to our world, Isdora."