The Brank of Khosadam
by
Jon F. Merz
Copyright © 2010 by Jon F. Merz
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When it grew dark and the wind outside rattled the gutters against the heavy brick of the house, Uncle Geoffrey had his manservant Kilgore build a heaving fire in the hearth. Rains had fallen for three days previously and our moods were dour. Yet after a hearty meal of quail and roast potatoes followed by several snifters of brandy and one of Uncle Geoffrey's fine cigars, we were anxious for a good tale.
And Uncle Geoffrey was just the man to tell it. In sixty years of world travel, he had never failed to spellbind us with yarns whenever he returned to his sprawling mansion outside of Boston in the entangling woods of Weston, Massachusetts. Indeed, the pines and oaks standing sentry round the estate cast forever shadows across the house and all within it.
Three of us sat with Uncle Geoffrey and Kilgore on that cold, damp Autumn evening, when the grandfather clock in the outside hallway chimed eleven times before settling again into its metronomic cadence. Myself, his eldest nephew and perhaps the closest thing he'd ever had to a son, my good friend Jeremy Carltraith, and his sister Victoria, my secret adoration of the moment. Truthfully, I suspected she and I would be far more than casual lovers given appropriate time and effort. My suspicion would eventually grow into fact some years later.
Uncle Geoffrey had recently returned from an extended trip overseas and urged us all to visit him when the opportunity arose. Being veterans of countless Uncle Geoffrey dinners, we immediately agreed to journey out late one Friday and stay the weekend.
The weather this day had grown steadily worse since we'd set out from Back Bay Station. Jeremy and I met at three, and Victoria arrived a half-hour later, ending tea at the Ritz earlier than she might normally have preferred. The promise of dinner with Uncle Geoffrey could easily make one set aside less exciting ventures in favor a three-hour coach ride to Weston. We made excellent time despite the stormy weather and arrived in eager spirits around seven o'clock, under the canopy of dense ebon clouds.
Kilgore greeted us and I found myself marveling at the man's size as I always did. He stood six feet and almost as wide, with layers of tight muscle packed on to his sturdy frame. His strength of body was overshadowed only by the genuine warmth with which he ushered us into the dining room.
Uncle Geoffrey rushed to meet us. He was also a well-built man, but age was beginning to catch up with him. Lines and pockmarked scars charted a history of travel and adventure across his face, while a bushy white beard dangled from his chin. His eyes still gleamed with energy from behind his half-rims.
"Kilgore's only just served the soup. I swear he hears better than I do," said Uncle Geoffrey. "Now, sit, all of you, and relax. The weekend is ours."
Over dinner, we exchanged pleasantries, but I knew we were all much more interested in being done with dinner and moving on to the study for Uncle Geoffrey’s latest adventure.
He was quite an extraordinary man, and my own father, now ten years passed on, had often warned me to be wary of his brother. Perhaps he felt Uncle Geoffrey could open the portals of intrigue in any man's mind and cause him to search out the Fountain of Youth or Holy Grail while responsibilities lay forgotten. My father had made no effort to conceal his desire for his brother to settle down and marry.
Not to say Uncle Geoffrey wasn't successful, for he surpassed my own family in terms of wealth and material belongings. But his success also afforded him riches beyond the material realm. Those of us gathered tonight felt we were the sole beneficiaries of such a splendid verbal inheritance.
It was Victoria, in all her brash splendor, who first broached the subject of Uncle Geoffrey's latest trip when the dishes had been cleared and glasses of port poured. Jeremy cast me a knowing wink and I smiled. Victoria could be forgiven whereas men such as Jeremy and myself were supposed to have behaved with greater reservation.
Uncle Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and took a hearty gulp of the port before him. "To the story, then, is it?" He looked at Jeremy and me. "Gentlemen?"
"Absolutely," said Jeremy. "We've waited for your return with great anticipation. Please don't keep us in suspense."
Uncle Geoffrey settled his gaze on me, but no words passed between us. We had spent enough time together to forego such menial forms of communication. He merely raised an eyebrow and I scarcely nodded before he suddenly stood.
"To the study, then."
We walked down the great paneled hallway, lined with rows of books in glass cases, some centuries old. Above us, busts of beasts and predators loomed, souvenirs of Uncle Geoffrey's safaris to the dark continent of Africa.
The door ahead beckoned and I hurried us along. A hallway adorned with dead animals could frighten on evenings such as this. I had no desire to remain in the darkness any longer than necessary.
Kilgore settled five thick logs onto the hearth and produced a blazing fire. Uncle Geoffrey poured us snifters of brandy and then settled himself into a high-back leather armchair that had colored to a lighter shade of brown from years of use.
I breathed in the delicate aroma of brandy and passed a single sip down to my stomach, feeling the warmth and enveloping effervescence.
Jeremy occupied the love seat, with Victoria at his side, and leaned forward, his brandy all but forgotten in lieu of his excitement.
At last, Uncle Geoffrey cleared his throat, tamped down some tobacco into his curved pipe and began.
"Alas, the tale I share with you tonight is not a pleasant one. Indeed, I almost think it too disturbing. Yet perhaps it would do me some good to recount it, if only to make sense of it, for surely I have not been able to do so."
None of us spoke. In truth, many of Uncle Geoffrey's tales were not pleasant. I supposed that when one spent time abroad, there were as many chances of seeing the incredible as there were the accursed.
"I ventured this time out to the Eastern parts of Europe. To the Slavic states where the woods grow thick and branches hang like crooked fingers. Villages lie few and far between while the natives remain terribly distrusting of strangers. Fortunately, or indeed unfortunately as the case may bear itself out, my penchant for obscure tongues enabled me to gain the confidence of the peoples I encountered.
"Kilgore and I began in Budapest but traveled immediately east, passing into Romania and the Carpathian mountains. There, it was my intention to come into possession of an item of antiquity that has long held my interest."
"What was it?" asked Victoria.
Uncle Geoffrey exhaled several concentric smoke rings from his mouth and watched them float toward the ceiling. "There is a book I have - 'Curious Punishments of Bygone Days.' It was published only a few years ago, yet never enjoyed success, perhaps due to its morbidity. Of course, given my interest in such matters, I acquired it and pored over its contents. In particular, there was a chapter on what was called a brank."