Scott Nicholson - The Manor

He walked out onto the bridge, switched to a longer lens, and advanced the film. The air stirred around him, that mountain wind that could cut right through a bloke's bones. But it wasn't just the wind. The ravens had swooped from the forest and lit on the rails of the bridge. Dozens of them. Staring at Roth with those beady black eyes.

Waiting.

"Bloody hell," he said.

"Hell is only in the mind, Mr. Roth."

He turned, and Lilith stood in the middle of the bridge. How in blazes? Where had she come from?

"I hope you're not thinking of leaving us."

"Um. I was just getting this vista." He held up the camera. "The views around here are perfectly lovely."

He gave her a closer look. That black dress clung to her in a rather dramatic fashion. She was a bit pale, reminded him of those girls from North England, the ones from factory towns where the smog and rain cut down on the sunbathing. Still, she was young and she had curves. If serving girls were good enough for Korban, why not Sir William Bloody Bollocks-Swinging Roth?

"Lots of lovely views around," he said. He smiled. Younger girls liked his smile. Or pretended to, which amounted to the same.

"Yes. I used to paint them. Before I went to work for Ephram Korban."

"Work for Korban? He died a long time ago, and you're just a pip."

She gave her own smile, a fleeting, mysterious thing. Coy bird, that one.

"Say," he said, gently stroking his lens. "Mind if I get the most lovely view I've found since I got here?"

"Be our guest, Mr. Roth."

He lifted the camera and aimed it at her, zoomed onto her breasts, focusing on one nipple. Bras weren't part of the uniform, apparently. Likely not panties, either. This girl was definitely quick to serve.

He took a couple of pictures of her face, framed up nice with that hair and eyes as dark as the ravens, skin fresh as rocks in the rain, lips quick and clever with a smile. When he'd devoted enough attention to thoroughly flatter her, he said, "You ever get any time off? I wouldn't mind getting to know you a bit better. Take some pictures in a more secluded environment."

"That can be arranged, Mr. Roth."

"Call me William, love."

She imitated his imitation accent. "Okay, William Love."

Had a sense of humor, too. She'd be a joy to tumble. Roth moved toward her, wanting to get close enough for her to marvel at the sparkle in his smoky eyes. Something crawled across his face and he brushed it away.

God save the bloody queen, it was a spider.

He stepped back and saw the web spun between him and Lilith, stretching across the bridge like golden wire, the dew catching the sunrise. He detested spiders. From the African veldt to the Arctic tundra, the little buggers jumped at you with their sharp pincers. He'd read somewhere that, no matter where you stood on the globe, there'd be a spider within six feet of you, and he believed it.

He looked down at the rough planks of the bridge. The yellow-striped bastard was making for a crack, its legs scrabbling, its arachnid brain no doubt having a laugh at Roth's expense. Roth brought a boot down on the spider, grinding it into the grain of the wood, sending its soul to spider hell, where hopefully God fed them nothing but DDT.

"Sorry, love," he said to Lilith. "Hope that didn't upset you."

The smile flitted across the thin lips, fast as insects. "You didn't kill it. You delivered it."

"What's that?"

"Living things never die, they just move on through deeper tunnels of the soul."

"Er, righty right."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Mamie will be wondering where I've gotten off to. I can't stay away from the house for long."

She walked past him, and he took a whiff of her fragrance. He liked that sort of thing, collected their scents the way some blokes collected phone numbers or underwear. This one smelled a bit like earth, ripe and lush. Fertile and moist. He could dig it, all right.

She stopped at the end of the bridge. "I'll see you later, then."

"Wouldn't miss it for the life of me," he said, and watched her delightful small arse shake as she walked up the sandy road leading to the manor. When she disappeared through the trees, he turned his attention back to the view. The ridges had lost their glow now that the sun was rising. He'd best pack away.

The ravens watched as he returned his lens to its case. Bloody birds had no fear. He thought about waving them on, sending them scattering over the valley. Oh, bother that. The day was looking up, with fair and tender Lilith on the agenda.

He was about to head back for the manor and breakfast when he saw the web again. Still spread out in those fine and sinister patterns, shipshape. Lilith had walked right through it. And still it hung there, whole and perfect, waiting to snatch things from the air.

This place was going to drive him daft if he wasn't careful.

Mason hewed the flesh of the oak, excited by the tannic smell of the wood. He worked with his hatchet, scraping it around as if skinning an animal. The log was braced with a couple of old chestnut boards, a pain in the rump to work around, but art was never easy. With the wires adding support, the oak waited for his touch like a masochistic and naked lover in a torture chamber.

The reddish strips of peeled bark were piled around his feet, and he stumbled in them as he felt along the wood's smooth surface. Here would be the arms, one knee here, a strong spread of shoulder there. This knot could become the ball of one loose fist.

He hadn't lied to Miss Mamie. The statue would be worth the trouble. Nothing great was ever created without a little risk. Suffer for art, that was the ticket to the top. Sacrifice everything and everyone, especially yourself.

Mason drove the hatchet sideways, into the area that would be the neck. He drew back and struck again and again, the outline of the form burned into his mind, his hands sure of their work. He chopped until his right shoulder and biceps ached, removing the sections of dead wood that blocked the emergence of the true shape. The flames at the end of the candles bobbed as the air stirred with his blows and breath.

When he could no longer lift his arm, Mason stood back and pushed away the wood scraps with his shoe. He moved across the studio space and studied the log from different angles. The height of the shoulders, the angle of the elbow, the distance between the feet, all had to be perfectly measured. As he was taking a step back to get another view, he knocked over the oil painting that he'd leaned against the cupboard.

He knelt and picked it up. Again he was struck by its singular beauty. How would he feel if his own work never left the basement, if it stayed forever in the shadows, never to be appreciated and admired? His work would be better than this, but the painter had talent. The soft brushstrokes and colors, the off-white of the manor, the splendor of the night forest, the turbulent storm clouds as fresh as wet reality.

He looked closer, at the top of the house. The smudge along the widow's walk was brighter now and had spread several inches across the canvas. Mason peered into the mist and blinked. There were angles and shapes in the smudge. He brought the lantern from the table and tilted it toward the painting.

Mason traced a finger over one of the shapes. The shape was a deeper gray white than the smudge, suggesting a human shape. More forms hovered beyond it, behind the thick pale line that portrayed the rail of the widow's walk. People?

People would be out of place in the painting. The house was the subject, so dominating an image in itself that to besmirch it with humanity would be a cruel insult. Had somebody else made the same observation as Mason, and tried to blot out those shapes on the roof? Or did the artist realize the mistake upon completion, and sought to correct it before the oils had dried?