If Morning Never Comes - Episode Ten
In Which: Charles Gets Some Sunday Advice
Welcome back to “If Morning Never Comes,” a serial adventure from and proudly published by . If this is your first time, catch up before you begin this chapter:
Episode One | In Which: We Meet the Ashley Family
Episode Two | In Which: Charles Makes A Grisly Discovery
Episode Three | In Which: The Subject of Vampires is Introduced
Episode Four | In Which: Charles Encounters a Fight, a Girl, and an Invitation
Episode Five | In Which: We Arrive at a Mysterious Manor
Episode Six | In Which: Charles Encounters the Raines Family
Episode Seven | In Which: Charles Escapes Disaster
Episode Eight | In Which: Charles Gets In Over His Head
Episode Nine | In Which: We Spend Sunday Afternoon in a Graveyard
The beautiful Sunday morning took no notice of the furious young man raging across the moor. Charles was annoyed by the blue sky and green grass. The one day there wasn’t a storm brewing! It was difficult to fume when butterflies danced on the breeze. He kicked the head off an unlucky violet as he passed.
He had no destination in mind, but drifted down the slopes, walking more or less parallel to the road without getting too close. The descent was gentle but definite. With every heavy step he let his rage at his family pulse afresh through his heart.
How could his mother manage to be so consistently obnoxious? She never failed to disgrace herself at every opportunity. And then to have the gall to try to correct him for being rude? And his sisters were no better. Even Eleanor had been insufferable today. How could he, with all his foibles, be the most polite person in that family? He knew he was no debonair, but at least he knew not to talk of another’s personal tragedy like he would discuss a game of whist.
A carriage passed on the road, a hundred yards or so distant. He hoped it was not his family’s. It passed without slowing.
Charles growled to the open countryside. And now his infuriating family knew of his interest in Genevieve Tarrant. He did not so much mind the teasing of Charity – although he knew it would be intolerable – but he had not expected such violent opposition from his mother.
It was that Edgar Raines. The man had been in his life for less than a fortnight and had already managed to drive such a wedge between him and his family that it beggared the imagination. What did Eleanor see in him? Whatever it was, it seemed to have bewitched his mother as well. Although her interest likely had much more to do with invitations and parties and ceremonies. She had always spoken of Eleanor’s potential for advancement, and Edgar Raines certainly seemed to fit into that plan.
Jenny Tarrant, apparently, did not. Just an hour before, Charles had been considering whether or not he should continue to pursue her. He had not come to a decision, but he resented the fact that the decision was being made for him. Or was this perhaps a godsend? Should he take this as a sign and direct his attentions to Amelia? Surely his mother would never object to that match.
He did not know. He only knew that he was angry. So he spent the time concocting the most scathing speech he could possibly give to his inconsiderate family. Of course, he could never manage to make it through a single complete sentence at home at the best of times. He would never get through a tongue-lashing, not at Ashwood. But it was cathartic to dream.
Before he had walked many miles, a small house appeared as he crested a hill. It was Georg Stryker’s cottage, where he had woken from his drunken stupor the week before. Charles had not realized how close to the church was this corner of his family’s land. There were no signs that anyone was home. But Charles decided to stop by. He had nowhere else to go, anyway.
He picked up the path to the doorway. Herr Stryker had allowed the grass to grow tall. Charles came to the front door and knocked. A short time later, he knocked again. He was turning to go when the knob turned and Georg Stryker opened the door.
Without ceremony, the old man asked, “What are you doing here?”
Charles did not have a good answer to that question, so he simply said, “Hello!”
Stryker looked past him as if for more guests. “Did you walk here?”
“Yes.”
“From the church?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Charles did not have an answer to that question either. He chose something diplomatic. “It’s such a beautiful day, and I felt like a walk.” Technically, both of those things were true.
Stryker grunted and shook his head, brow furrowed with deep wrinkles, still keeping his hand on the doorknob.
“Well, I suppose with a useless armleuchter like that as your chaplain, you can’t be expected to have proper respect for the Lord’s day.” He opened the door wide and gave a sharp gesture. “But you can be expected to learn. Inside.”
Charles stepped in.
The front hall was familiar. Stryker shut the door behind him and marched off without a word. Charles followed. They went to the opposite corner of the house from where they had breakfasted before. Stryker pulled out a set of keys and started looking for the correct choice.
“You should abstain from work on the Sabbath, Mr. Ashley,” he began, without looking up.
Charles rolled his eyes without the man seeing. “Yes sir, I know.”
“Heh!” laughed Stryker as he turned the key in the lock. “If you know it, then why did you do it?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly working, Herr Stryker.”
The German man had pulled out a second key to open a second lock on the door. “Sunday should be reserved for the Lord’s work, Mr. Ashley. Not for dramatic conflict with your mother.”
The second lock clicked and the door creaked open. A strong, sterile smell poured out of the room. Stryker walked in and Charles followed.
“How do you know I’m having a conflict with my mother?” Charles asked.
“You expect me to believe that you took a three-mile walk just to visit your grumpy old neighbor?”
“Perhaps I enjoy your company, Herr Stryker.”
“Heh!” the German hung his keys on the wall and pulled down a leather apron. He began to tie it on. “That may be true, but what is truer than that is your propensity to argue with your family under the slightest pretext.”
Charles laughed and picked up a tool off a nearby bench. He realized it was a bullet mold. “Well, maybe I wanted time for prayer and meditation after such a stirring sermon this morning.”
For a third time, the German barked, “Heh!” although this time there was a shade of amusement in it. “That is most certainly not true.” He tied a toolbelt around his waist. “But despite your reticence to speak of what is really going on, you are welcome to spend your Sunday with me.” Stryker put a strange contraption on his head that had a series of lenses situated above his eyebrows. He cycled through a few of them, flipping them down to his eyes, where they seemed to magnify his vision. He nodded and turned around.
Charles was intrigued. He continued to tease the old man, “If I didn’t know any better Herr Stryker, I’d say you were about to do some work on the Sabbath yourself.”
“My work is the Lord’s work, boy. God’s business can afford no rest.”
Charles laughed but was cut short as Herr Stryker walked over to a table in the center of the room and pulled a cover off of the corpse of a dead, bloody sheep. Charles hurried over and looked closer.
“Herr Stryker, is that the same sheep from the day we met?” he asked.
Stryker was pulling on a pair of leather gloves. “No,” he said.
“No?” said Charles. “You mean another sheep was killed on the moor?”
“At least one other,” said Stryker, searching through his toolbelt for the right instrument.
“What?” Charles exclaimed. “There are more?”
“I shouldn’t doubt it.” Herr Stryker flipped a set of lenses down over his eyes and leaned in close to the dead animal. “This, however, is the only other that I have found.”
Charles watched. Herr Stryker used a metal retractor to hold the animal’s skin open. This sheep had been cut and mutilated just as the first had. Stryker then took a hook and a small pair of grips and began to examine the creature’s flesh. Charles was disgusted, as before, but now that the shock was over, he was also curious.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Anything,” whispered Stryker. “Anything out of the ordinary.”
Charles observed for another moment. “Why?”
Stryker chuckled through his mustache, “God’s work, boy.”
The man was meticulous as he examined the animal. He studied the scrapes on the bone and lifted up every piece of tissue to see underneath. He seemed to be taking special care not to cut or tear the flesh any more than it already had been.
It was fascinating, but Charles soon grew bored of the man’s deliberate pace. He turned and looked around what he now realized was a workshop.
Every inch of the room was cluttered with metal, leather and wood. Here were rifles, pistols, sabers and hammers. Clothing with straps and buckles piled up on one shelf, and another was covered with what looked like unrefined ore. There was a stool piled high with curling wood shavings and a small cold forge. One interesting table was covered with vials, beakers and strange liquids. There was a pile of pelts with animal skulls piled on top. A jar contained a perfectly preserved bat, fangs bared, wings outspread.
Charles picked up a pistol and examined it. He pulled back the hammer and aimed at the window. At the sound, Stryker turned around, his eyes as bulbous as his nose through the strange spectacles he wore.
“What is all this?” asked Charles, gesturing to the room. “What do you do in this place?”
Stryker stepped forward and took the pistol from Charles. He released the hammer and set it down on the table. He looked at Charles, who snickered at the man’s ridiculous appearance. Stryker snapped the lenses up so he could look Charles in the eye.
“If you find yourself idle Mr. Ashley, I would be happy to provide you with something to occupy your time.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to work on the Sabbath?” asked Charles.
Stryker smiled and hummed a laugh behind his gray mustache.
Later, Charles was outside cutting grass with a scythe. He had mocked Herr Stryker for insisting that he take off his jacket and overshirt for the task, but now he was grateful for the advice. His arms were sore, and his eyes stung with dripping salty sweat. He had begun out front along the pathway, and now he was making his way around the edge of the house. He was almost to the window of Stryker’s workshop. Halfway done. He rotated a shoulder and wiped his face.
According to Herr Stryker, this did not qualify as work on the Sabbath because for Charles it was a means of sanctification. Charles did not understand, and Stryker had only laughed and gone back inside when he asked. The work was hard, but it had a therapeutic effect on his mood, as if his frustrations were being worked out through his labor. It was hard, but for some reason he did not mind it.
When he made it to the workshop window, he hacked down the overgrowth that crowded out the sunlight. He peeked in and saw the workshop was empty. The sheep had been covered again. He craned his neck to see where the old German could have gone.
He started when he heard the man call his name from the corner of the house. Charles stumbled back, embarrassed for snooping. But Stryker did not seem angry. He was waving him in for what Charles sincerely hoped would be lunch. He leaned the scythe against the wall and went inside.
Herr Stryker had prepared a lunch of cold sausages and bread pudding. Charles tucked in with energy after the German’s prayer of thanks. Neither of them said much as they ate, but the silence was not uncomfortable. Finally, Charles began to slow in his repast, and Stryker took the opportunity to speak.
“How are your hands?”
Charles chuckled and flexed his fingers open and shut, “Cramped. But I’m alright.”
“Any blisters?”
“One,” said Charles. He picked at a little white bubble on the inside of his right thumb. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Heh! It will,” said Stryker. “But that’s alright. Blisters break and grow up into calluses. God knows you could use a few.”
Charles laughed, “You don’t think much of me, do you Herr Stryker?”
Stryker shook his head and spoke kindly, “No, Mr. Ashley, I do not think poorly of you. You are young. Every young man needs a few scars.”
Charles laughed and bit into another sausage. “Well,” he said, chewing, “believe it or not, this is turning out to be one of the most enjoyable Sundays I’ve spent in some time. Especially considering how poorly it began.”
Stryker folded his hands on the table and set his shoulders back. “Do you care to explain, Mr. Ashley?”
Charles waved a hand, “Charles is fine, Herr Stryker.”
“Charles then.”
He chewed and swallowed and took a drink. He wanted to talk about it with the old man, but he was reluctant to open his mouth for some reason. It was not like him to be candid. He tried to minimize the situation.
“It was nothing really, just a bit of a disagreement with my mother.”
“A bit of a disagreement?” probed Stryker.
“And my sisters,” added Charles. He did not continue. Stryker’s blue eyes were intimidating.
“Well?” asked the German.
Charles took a deep breath, “Well, we had words outside the church this morning.”
Stryker said nothing.
“We yelled at each other,” admitted Charles. He worried that the old man would reprimand him, but Stryker just nodded.
“Go on.”
Charles went on, “Well, you know how she is. She was incredibly rude to Genevieve Tarrant this morning.”
Stryker raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut.
“So I yelled, and then she yelled and Eleanor yelled and...well, that’s when I decided to go for a walk.”
He looked at his companion for a reaction. Herr Stryker sighed and spread his hands on the table, sliding them to grip the edge.
“Charles, you are a grown man, so I will not speak to you like a child. Your mother is a difficult woman, and your sisters have inherited her personality. I understand your frustration.”
Those words washed over Charles like cold water on a hot day. He laughed a little.
“What?” asked Stryker.
Charles shook his head, incredulous, “No one’s ever taken my side against them before.”
“I cannot say that I have taken your side, Charles. But I sympathize.”
That was enough for Charles. Being heard like this, as a man to another man, was enough to lift his broken spirits, at least for the moment. He fell silent, unsure of how to proceed.
Stryker asked another question, “What did she say to Miss Tarrant?”
Charles hmphed a mirthless laugh, “She brought up her father and spoke tactlessly, like she always does.”
Stryker shook his head. “Poor girl.”
“Then Jenny left and that’s when we began to argue. Eleanor and mother are afraid that I’m interested in marrying Miss Tarrant.”
“Well, obviously,” said Stryker.
Charles tried to protest, but realized it was useless. Herr Stryker had heard him at her house, he knew what was going on. He looked sheepishly at the old German, whose eyes were twinkling as he smiled behind his mustache.
“She’s a sweet girl,” he said.
“I know,” said Charles. He fell silent again.
Stryker noticed his introspection. “But?” he asked.
Charles figured he had gone this far, he might as well complete his confession.
“But I think I may be in love with someone else.”
“Whom?” asked Stryker.
“Amelia Raines.”
Herr Stryker sat up at that. He folded his hands on the table and leaned in. His eyes were blue like ice.
“Boy, you can’t be serious?”
“Why not?” asked Charles. “She’s a lovely girl.”
“Heh!” dismissed Stryker with a wave of his hands. “Every girl is lovely when she’s twenty-one.”
Charles was a little surprised at the old man’s reaction. “Well, she’s also kind to me and exciting and,” he tried to think of the word. “Mysterious.”
Stryker laughed, throwing back his balding head. “Mysterious? You think that’s a good thing?”
Charles had only ever heard the term applied to women in a positive way. It was strange to hear it contradicted so bluntly.
He continued to protest. “Look here, Herr Stryker, she is a beautiful woman, from a good family,” here Stryker snorted, “and she has...expressed an interest in me,” he finished artfully, thinking of their frolic in the rain.
Again Stryker said, “Heh!” That sound had a way of making Charles feel as though whatever he had just said was useless or foolish.
“If she’s expressed an interest in you, she’s expressed it in every other young man she’s come across.”
The thought made Charles’ heart flutter. Could it be that Amelia had had similar moments of intimacy with other young men in the area? It made him sick to think about it.
“That’s not true,” he said.
“Believe me, boy,” said Stryker. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you can spot a girl like that from a mile away. Take advice from an old man.”
Charles was a little angry now, “She has done nothing untoward or inappropriate. How could you say that about her?”
Stryker shook his head and folded his arms, “She is of a sort, my boy. A sort you want nothing to do with.”
“I should say I don’t! She’s all I can think about, I lie awake at night.”
Stryker sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Charles, if you think you’re the only one in her life, you are a fool. Girls like that see romance as a game – a dangerous game, I might add – and try to play as many cards as they can get away with. I guarantee you that she does not feel the same way towards you.”
Charles wanted to push back again, but he had the smallest of suspicions that Stryker was right. Had not Amelia danced with every other eligible man at the ball? Why would he think that she was only interested in him? She probably flirted with whatever man was closest at hand. But what did that say about their kiss? It had felt so real. At least for him.
“I don’t know what to do, Herr Stryker.”
Stryker looked at the younger man with pity. He spoke more kindly now, “Charles, why would you want to chase after a girl like that when Miss Tarrant clearly likes you?”
Charles sighed, “I know, I know! But I can’t just turn off my heart. I can’t just choose whom to love.”
“Nonsense,” said Stryker. Charles looked up, surprised.
“Whatever do you mean?” he asked.
“You think love is not a choice? That’s exactly what love is.”
Charles was confused, “I’m not sure I understand.”
“My boy, when I married my wife, we were very much in love. She was a lovely woman – full and round as a woman should be, not some skinny little child. She used to tie her long, golden hair in beautiful knots. I was smitten and so was she.”
Stryker leaned in, “But, Charles, if you think that you can build a life on something as fleeting as passion, you are sorely mistaken.”
Charles laughed, “Well, that’s not very romantic, is it?”
“It’s the most romantic thing in the whole world,” the German shot back. “Love is not weeping and fainting at your loved one’s absence, or pretending to like some insipid sonnet. When your hair has fallen out and she has lost her figure because of the children she has born you, and you run out of things to talk about, but you choose to stay and take care of her anyway – that is love.”
Charles thought this over. He wasn’t sure if he agreed with that. But there was something about the way Stryker spoke that made him like the old German.
“What was your wife’s name?” he asked.
“Greta,” said Stryker.
There was a minute’s quiet between them. Stryker seemed lost in his memories and Charles pondered how this new insight might impact his current dilemma. The sun was bright as it shone through the window.
Finally, Stryker sighed and reached over to grip Charles’ arm. “Don’t you worry, Charles. This is the time of your life when romance is meant to be enjoyed. Just consider what I have said.”
Charles nodded and said that he would. Georg Stryker smiled with one corner of his mouth. Charles squeezed his knuckled hands with his soft ones.
“Well,” said Stryker, once the moment had passed. “You should go outside and finish. There are few problems that cannot be solved with good hard work. And if you like you may stay here tonight. A night away from home might do you good.”
Herr Stryker is such a cool character