If Morning Never Comes - Episode Two

In Which: Charles Makes A Grisly Discovery

If you haven’t read Episode One of this serial story, please start there.
~ The Editor

Charles strode through the front doors, following after Tom. Immediately the wind caught his hair and blew his frock coat to one side. The sky was overcast, as it nearly always was in that region. There was a large ash tree in the center of the drive before the house. The leaves hissed in the wind. It looked as though it might rain. A small carriage was parked in the drive, attendants standing by, but no one was in it. Charles watched it as he passed.

The young man led Charles onto the moor. Miles of barren ground stretched out before them. They passed a small group of men walking back to the house. They nodded at Charles and said, “Master Ashley.” He hiked up a rise in the ground. When he crested the hill he saw, perhaps a hundred yards away, a man kneeling and inspecting something on the ground.

“Is that it?” Charles asked.

“Yes sir,” Tom replied.

Charles took a few steps down the hill and looked back. Tom was not following. He stood still, wringing a glove in his hands.

“What is it?”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather stay here.”

“Why?”

Tom did not answer. Charles looked back out over the moor. Dark clouds churned and the winds howled. The man still knelt over some sort of bundle on the ground. Charles shrugged.

“Alright then. Carry on.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom sighed with relief. He walked, not slowly, back to the house. Charles wondered what could have set off the young man’s superstitions this time.

He observed from the distance the bustle of the help outside in their black and white uniforms as they received the carriage with its black horses. Ashwood was not the largest house in the countryside, but it was the best they could do, Charles supposed. The front door was set into a deep entryway, almost like a cave, with peaked gables on either side. The symmetry was pleasing to the eye. The whole house was painted the color of goldenrod, and the roof was an earthy brown.

He turned and made his way down the slope. The moor was dark green with patches of black dirt at this time of year. The ground was rocky and overgrown with scrubby bushes and long grass. It rolled out before him, stretching for as far as his eyes could see, other signs of civilization concealed by the hills and little valleys. He climbed over an old stone wall, long grown over and fallen into disrepair.

He walked towards the man, who stood as Charles approached. Charles hallooed, but he did not wave or answer. The grass was up to Charles’ calves and it whistled in the whipping wind.

He was an old man. His hair was mostly gone, combed over the top of his head. He had an enormous nose and an equally enormous mustache that covered his mouth when it was closed. His clothes were out of fashion, his long coat worn and frayed. It snapped in the wind. He was shorter than Charles, but Charles felt small when he met his blue eyes.

The man looked as though he had caught Charles burglarizing his home, such was the intensity of his gaze. He did not appear angry, but his eyes burned with a fire that made Charles wonder if the man did not have a rather tempestuous temper. He was like something out of legend, standing there on the moor, hat and cane in one hand, the other stained with the blood of the butchered animal at his feet.

Charles gasped when he saw the carcass. It was a sheep, the wool red and clumped where it wasn’t ripped out. The body had been ripped wide open, the neck snapped backwards. It was spread out on the ground as if it had been pulled apart. Broken rib bones stuck out from the hide. The ground all around it was soaked with its blood.

He stepped closer to see, then remembered his manners. Or rather, he was aware of the man’s gaze, and he felt he ought to venture some sort of conversation.

“Erm...How do you do, sir?” He extended his hand and gave his name, “Charles Ashley.”

The man’s mustache bunched up on one side. Charles supposed he was smiling beneath it. “A pleasure Master Ashley. I am Georg Stryker.” He spoke with a thick German accent.

The old man wiped his bloody hand on his pants and shook. Charles felt their skin stick together from the blood. The man’s grip was strong. Charles could feel his knuckles like small stones.

“Stryker? You are our new neighbor, then? Living in the cottage?”

“Yes sir, thank you,” said the old man, inclining his head.

Charles indicated the dead sheep.

“What happened here?”

Stryker turned around, “I’m not sure. I saw it from the carriage on my way to supper.” He squatted and examined the carcass. “Peculiar, yes?”

Charles stepped over and looked down. The body of the animal was cut open from the throat to the rump, with cuts running down the arms and legs as well. What was left inside was pulp. The animal looked to have been torn open and thrashed. He could see its eyes open and lifeless. The sheep’s tongue stuck out of its mouth, also red with blood. Charles caught the smell of the dead beast and thought he might be sick. He felt his stomach rear up into his throat. He turned and coughed into his handkerchief. Stryker watched him out of the corner of an eye.

Charles regained his composure and commented, “That is perhaps the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Is it?” asked Stryker. He sounded amused.

“Well,” Charles blustered, “I mean it’s one of...” he trailed off.

Georg Stryker did not seem to be in a hurry. He sat, staring at the dead sheep, still as a statue. Charles paced around the body, examining it from different angles without getting close enough to catch its scent a second time.

What possibly could have happened to it? He did not know whose sheep it was, or how long it had been there. For some reason, though, Charles felt a powerful need to know. He was not a curious person, he usually preferred to leave well enough alone. And he did not particularly care for animals, especially not enough to grieve for a butchered sheep. But this was not just nature at work. This was – wrong. He felt his familiar temper flaring up at the thought of it.

“What sort of animal could have done that?”

“Animal?” Stryker set his hat and cane down on the ground and grabbed one of the legs. He beckoned with his other hand. “Come here, boy.”

Charles took a few steps. The old man waved him closer and he knelt down. He held his breath. Stryker held up the leg and ran a finger down the cut. It was even and straight. The old man’s finger was broken at the last joint.

“You see? No animal did this. Unless you know of an animal that can use a knife.”

Charles turned his eyes on the man, “You’re saying that a person did this?”

The old man shrugged. “Well, it didn’t wake up like that, did it?”

Charles stood as well. “You don’t think a wolf might have done?”

“Would a wolf leave that much meat behind?”

“I don’t know,” said Charles honestly.

Stryker returned his gaze to the sheep. “No. It wouldn’t.” He said his double-u’s with a slight “v” sound.

Stryker examined the leg and lifted up the animal, looking at the underside. The sheep’s wool was crimson and ruined. The old man did not seem the least bit unsettled by the carnage. He let the animal drop. Charles watched him as he sat still, staring into the broken body. Finally, he wiped his hands on the grass and stood, placing his hat on his head.

Stryker pulled on his gloves and held his coat closed with a hand. He extended his arm to Charles and the boy took it. They walked back together across the moor.

The German did not strike up a conversation. But every few moments he muttered to himself. Charles tried to think of something to say, but he really had nothing to offer. He was not very good at pleasantries. He thought he had best keep the topic on the dead sheep, as it seemed to be the only thing he had in common with the man.

“I don’t suppose that will make for very good table conversation tonight.”

Stryker waved a hand as they walked. “Leave out the details. Don’t upset your mother.”

“You’re right, of course. She’s busy enough with the things she already finds upsetting, it would be cruel to add to the list.”

Stryker raised his chin and twitched his mustache as they walked. “Your mother is unhappy?”

“Usually,” chuckled Charles.

Stryker shook his head and stabbed the ground with his walking stick a little harder. Charles did not mind offending the old man, but he also knew he would have to sit through dinner with him tonight, and the last thing he needed was another informant to his mother.

“It’s only a joke, Mr. Stryker. I’m sorry.”

Styker nodded, “It’s alright, my boy. But you should respect your mother.”

Charles agreed, “Yes sir, you’re very right.”

So this German was stuffy as well as silent. And an expert on dead sheep. But he did not seem to need much help for an old man. He and Charles walked arm in arm, but he did not lean on him. Charles could feel wiry muscles through the man’s ragged coat. They marched up the hill at a brisk pace, the house coming into view. Stryker did not slow, but pointed with his cane.

“That is your house?”

Charles ran a hand over his hair, tossed by the wind. “Yes sir, that is Ashwood.”

“Ashwood?” asked the old man, his own hair blown vertical by the wind, his bald dome uncovered.

“Yes sir, my mother named it. It’s close enough to our name and she said it sounded distinguished.”

Stryker smiled another one-sided smile, his mustache bunching up and laughed a high-pitched laugh in his throat.

“As long as it sounds distinguished, yes?”

Despite himself and his prior chiding, Charles chuckled along. Perhaps this old man was not so bad.

Stryker turned to Charles, “What is that?” He pointed at Charles’ face and brushed his own voluptuous mustache with the side of his finger. Charles reddened.

“I’m growing a mustache.”

“Since this morning?” teased the German. Charles was not amused.

“No, Mr. Stryker.”

“Herr Stryker,” said the German. They walked through the whipping wind, the sky growing darker with every step. Stryker continued, “Shave it. No sense insisting upon what God has seen fit to withhold from you.”

Charles pulled away from the man, sticking his hands into his pockets. They wended down towards the house, the long grass turning to the trimmed green of the grounds. It soon gave way to gravel for the carriage drive. In the short time since they had left the gruesome sight on the moor, Charles had changed his mind about this man no fewer than three times. What did that foretell for the coming supper?

Not even the grisly object they had just left behind could dampen his annoyance. He had only just escaped the condescension and judgment of the tea party upstairs, only to bring another know-it-all into his house. His life was one long lecture, with no end in sight.

They walked into the tunneled entrance of the house and Charles picked up his pace. “I’ll have them announce you.”

Stryker clicked his tongue and grabbed Charles’ elbow. Charles turned. The old man’s expression had softened. “Don’t let it bother you, boy. Young faces should be smooth while they can. The girls prefer it that way, ja?” He poked Charles in the ribs. In spite of himself, Charles smiled.