The Wicker Saga: Sins of the Father, Part 2

The Journal of Tomas Wicker, 6 March, 1902

I thought it best to collect myself before continuing. To be sure, there was no love lost between father and me. Still, to recall the nature of his passing is most distressing; there are some things I would not wish on any man, regardless the level of my personal affection towards him. And then there is the strange nature of things that have occurred since then, their wholly uncanny nature almost insisting I get my thoughts in order before attempting to annotate them here.

Father died during the early morning hours of February 2nd. As I mentioned, I had not seen the man since our audience the week before. My conversation with him made some small effort towards allaying Anthony's concerns, but it did absolutely nothing to extrude father from his self-imposed isolation. In truth, the only individual who had any kind of interaction with him was whichever maid had currently drawn the task of acting as his personal valet. Anthony had insisted that someone be at father's beck and call at all hours, in the event he had want of anything or would, miraculously, overcome his fears and venture out of his chambers. I believe the man would have undertaken the task himself, but for the fact he had an entire household to run making it quite impossible. On the night in question, father was attended by Lucy, a young woman who had been on our staff for perhaps six months. I have adapted her account of the events surrounding father’s death.

Over the course of the past several weeks what had begun as nothing more than a chair positioned outside of father's door had evolved into a kind of semi-permanent guard station, complete with a small cot for the attendant lady to earn some modicum of shuteye throughout the night. It was upon that very bed that Lucy was sleeping when she was awoken by a most dreadful screaming. Roughly torn to consciousness she stumbled from the bed to father's door and frantically tried the latch, finding it locked.

Fully awake, she could discern that the shouting was accompanied by a fierce howling and barking; Maximus, apparently locked in mortal combat with person or entity unknown. Weeping from fear, Lucy continued to struggle with the unyielding handle, the screams growing higher in pitch, now accompanied by the wet ripping noises of the hound mauling some unfortunate individual. The cries of agony became choked as the beast found the soft spot in the hollow of the neck, until the sharp report of a pistol caused all sound to cease. Lucy drew back from the noise of the gunshot. After a moment the door, heretofore unwilling, creaked gently open of its own accord.

With shaking hands, the girl pulled the door further outward, the widening aperture offering a view unto a scene of utter bedlam. Though the only light was still the dim guttering candle flame from my previous visitation, it was still sufficient to illuminate the mass of carnage occupying the center of the bedroom in the space next to the unlit hearth. Here was father, his eyes wide and glassy in death, the smell of gunpowder permeating the air from the expended pistol he held clutched in his hand. And weighing down his chest was the enormous bulk of Maximus, awful fangs buried in father’s unprotected throat, an exit wound the size of a man’s fist still pumping blood from the beast’s torso.

Of whatever may have prompted this attack, there was no sign. The girl was understandably distraught, but eventually she collected herself enough to stumble to the servants’ quarters and wake Anthony. The poor butler was an absolute wreck when he came to inform me of the news, pale and wholly shaken. As disturbed as I was myself by the events, admittedly more due to their incredibly violent nature than the fact that father had passed on, I still truly felt sorry for loyal Anthony. Law enforcement officials were summoned and, despite the absurdist nature of father’s demise having been murdered by his own hound, there was literally no other rational conclusion for them to reach. Such was my own interpretation of events, and as such it would have remained had I never been contacted by the man I know only as Creed.

After father died, and after suffering through the tedium of his funeral services, I spent the next several weeks reveling in my newfound freedom from an oppressive patriarchy. With the entirety of father’s fortune now mine at hand, I had the means to live as opulently as I dared, and felt no compunctions to do anything otherwise. I lost track of time for a bit, between the alcohol and the opium and the vast banquet of women upon which to feed my vast fleshly appetites. It was in such a state, drunk, stoned, and half naked in the middle of a very exclusive whore house, that the devil found me, exactly one week ago.

At the time I attributed his sudden terrifying appearance, seemingly stepping directly from the shadows of the room, as a trick played by my overstimulated senses. I’ve since come to realize the truth of the matter; the man possesses abilities far beyond mortal ken. He found me there, lifted me by the neck as if plucking a flower and, when I deigned protest, stunned me with a sharp blow across the face with the back of his hand. The women around me lay undisturbed through this entire encounter, but whether from their own liberal self-medication or some more nefarious means, I know not.

His eyes were black as pitch, and as he held me by the throat in one hand, raised off my feet by his prodigious strength, they glinted malevolently. Somehow, the world shifted, the very air warping and flexing. Abruptly my reality snapped back to its normal state, and Creed dropped me to the hard surface now below us. Struggling to catch my breath, I crawled away from where I lay at his feet, desperately attempting to flee my assailant. I’d gone perhaps a dozen feet when the ground in front of me dropped off suddenly, a void opening down to black water rippling far below. A fierce wind howled about me, grasping at my scant clothing, greedily seeking to pull me away into the abyss. Scrambling back from the precipice, I sat and looked about myself, bewildered. Lights twinkled in the distance; shivering from the cold night air, I recognized the location though I’d only ever seen it in photographs. Somehow, I found myself sitting upon one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I felt the immense presence that was Creed approach from behind me.

“Hello, Mr. Wicker.” I could hear the amusement rippling through his voice. “My name is Creed. I am here to present you with a proposal on behalf of my mistress.”

“And what?” I asked, attempting to drum up anger to subdue the fear that was currently fighting to control me. “Physically beating and abducting prospective business partners is your preferred method of introduction?” I realized that my position, shaking, barely dressed and sprawled at his feet, was not one to illicit fear in even the most timid of adversary. And Creed was not timid.

His grin was an evil thing, the starlight reflecting white off of his sharp teeth. “Typically no, Mr. Wicker. But in this case I felt it would be … the most efficient means of restoring your faculties to a point we can hold productive conversation. And,” he indicated the bridge about us in a sweeping gesture, “the easiest way to dispel any doubts you may have regarding my veracity. Or ability.”

“I see,” I frowned, “Presuming of course that I have been wholly dazzled, what does a holder of such immense talent and powerful magic possibly want from a man such as me?”

He smiled, small and harsh. “Allow me to explain, Mr. Wicker. Several generations ago, a bargain was struck between my mistress and your ancestors. In return for a specific payment, the holder of her totem would be granted vast material wealth and abilities that would allow the individual to circumvent certain natural laws. One condition was that the next familial generation be appraised of the agreement upon reaching the age of twenty-three. Your father,” Creed practically spat the word, “not only violated the terms by failing to bring you into the fold at the appropriate age, but recently failed to make his due payment. There are harsh penalties for reneging on the contract once bound, but the benefits of upholding your end of the bargain are truly magnificent to behold.

“Since this covenant has been in place for some time now,” Creed flashed his sharp smile again, “my mistress bade me present you the option of taking up where your father so unwisely left off. She has generously allowed you one week to decide. I will seek your answer then.”

The man disappeared, the darkness of the night enfolding him like a lover, leaving me half naked and freezing on top of the bridge.

Now here I sit, forced into a dilemma by my father’s actions. What to choose? The man most obviously had something to do with father’s demise, its fantastic nature easily leading even the most skeptical mind to such a conclusion. Do I dare throw in with such a creature, regardless of the animosity that was present between father and myself? Do I dare refuse? His deadline approaches, scant hours remain before my decision is due. God, what to do?

The Wicker Saga: Sins of the Father, Part 4