Airel - Aaron Patterson [139]
He lit the taper and stepped forward cautiously into the icy darkness. It did not take long to look past barrels of flour and barley, jars of pickled beets, bottles of wine, toward a single wall with bits of plaster peeling from it.
He moved toward the wall, examining things closely on the way as he looked for clues. Behind a large barrel, he saw what he was looking for. There were cracks in the plaster in the shape of a square, where it was darker, fresher. He rolled the barrel aside with his free hand and set the candle on top.
He ran his fingers along the edges of the cracks. The plaster was moist, crumbling off and smearing on his fingertips. He cursed the old German, so freshly dead. “He hid the book here for some selfish reason, no doubt,” he whispered his abuses into nothingness. He wiped his grimy, sweaty hands against his clothes.
He searched for something to scrape the wet plaster from the wall, finding a stave from a whisky barrel. He looked around for enemies, deciding in the end that surely he had not been fated to get this close only to be struck down. He turned to his work and began to scrape the plaster away, revealing the lath boards beneath. As he stabbed at the crumbling wall and one of the boards broke, revealing a hollow behind.
He broke more boards away and gasped. There, revealed by the light of his candle, was a dark chest. It was small, about the size of a book. “At last!” he hissed, then cursed himself for making so much noise.
He pulled the box from its stealthy hole with a little effort and laughed in spite of himself. “This is it!”—he knew it. The bronze clasp gave way easily as he opened the lid. Inside was an antique book, hidebound. It was glorious, and he gasped again in worshipful awe. Once more he looked around into the edges of the darkness for sinister signs that the enemies he had made over the course of the last year of his life were awaiting him. His hands were dirty and sweaty, and he knew that he should not touch such a treasure with such hands... nevertheless he proceeded. His whole body shook as he reached slowly into the chest.
His finger grazed the cover and he shouted in shock, recoiling in horror. Eyes wide, he froze and cowered, shame-faced that the game was now over. Or was it? He looked to the door, then back to the book in awe. “What is this?” His whispers licked the gilded edge of the book.
Had anyone else heard it? He waited—for what felt like eternity—for the servants to come running to investigate. He shivered, feeling suddenly colder. He looked down at the chest that held the object of his desire and considered. This had been such a simple little quest. So innocent. He could never have guessed at any of this. In fact, he felt small…and did not like it. Resolved at last, he reached down and closed the chest with malice.
He stood and regarded his situation for some time, running over his “choices” in his mind. What happened, however, was inevitable. He reached down, grabbed the little chest, and placed it inside his greatcoat.
He burst from the cellar, leaving the door to crash down on its hinges, muttering profanities in his haste. The candle's flame was now the only life in the cellar.
He walked straight into the house and very hastily packed his only bag, burying the chest deep inside. He grabbed his satchel, with its own newfound valuable contents, and rang for the valet. When he came, Marsburg informed him that he would depart “at once.” Servants and footmen were soon scurrying every which way in the now heavily falling snow in front of the house. Marsburg looked on with impatience as the coach and horses were made ready.
He raced to the Stuttgart station and the soonest departing train to anywhere. He had taken that for which he had come.
The candle had been knocked askance by his frantic exit, finding a bit of cheesecloth, broken lath boards, dry timbers; and flames were spreading in the cellar. Soon it would consume the entire house, leaving nothing but a smoking black crater.
But as William Marsburg took to the rails