My Heir

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A candle I had set with meticulous purpose. The incipient marker of what was to become my legacy.

The ‘eccentric’, they called me, some call me still. In hushed whispers it was spoken; as if the term would offend. But I shied not from such labels, for it is who I was. Who I am.

The ‘genius’, said others, more openly; a compliment their intent. Though to have taken that label requires little effort when, in life, you are surrounded by simpletons: Foul snakes in human skin.

‘Millionaire, billionaire, rich beyond measure.’ So most others said. That part was effortless. When ‘genius’ you have, and scruples you have not; wealth comes with ease.

So too now does pain.

That night the five were to arrive in packs of two and two and one.

From the porch of the cabin, I would dawdle and wait. Knowing their smiles would be righteously fake.

Make haste, the flame beckons

Step into the cabin

Shadows are your weapon

My legacy shall not be forsaken

The candle still burns

A carriage; dark against the night. Solid wooden spokes ground the dirt, swirls of dust, lanterns swayed.

That night, the air was hot.

I knew at that time, what most others did not; that air was one part oxygen, to three parts not.

A top hat and cane descended from carriage. “We received word not a fortnight ago,” said he; a man with a counterfeit grin on a counterfeit face. “I must say, good Sir, we were quite surprised at the invitation, but we are … glad, if that’s the right word, to be here. Your telegram indicated an investment opportunity if I’m not mistaken?”

He was a snake; an aristocrat in the business of blood; a trader of slaves. The snake offered a hand. I did not accept. He withdrew and scathed me with venomous eyes.

“An opportunity indeed,” my words an answer to his.

His wife deigned to speak, “Another invention of yours? Your last one was quite profitable to the railroad I understand. A shame we were not included on that venture.” She now too offered a hand. Palm down, ring up. I hesitated. Another slight and I might see them depart. As such, I submitted to convention; took her hand in mine. My face inched lower toward an ostentatious gem.

“We can’t wait to see it,” she said with contempt. Her perfume raked my nose; set my sinuses ablaze.

The snake scoffed on a turn, “I hope your drink is better than your manners,” said he.

The air became cleaner when I no longer held their presence.

The flame beckoned.

Another carriage; another two.

The man; his eyes a grey wash, his suit blue and cold. “By God, Sir, what have you done with the place?” A rich snake. To the world, he was a peddler of oils ripped from the blubber of whales. But to those who knew; to those who saw; he was a purveyor of gamblers, drinkers and whores. A devil behind a white grin.

At least he knew more than to accost me with convention. He offered no hand, but his voice was relentless. As if he feared the silence of the world. Or the silence of his mind.

“Remarkable,” said he, “This old cabin; you’ve done quite a bit of work on it. Not a crack can be seen in these old walls. As if they are steel. And do you see the windows, darling? Just like her majesty’s fleet. What would you call those, darling?”

“Portholes, darling,” said she; the porcelain doll at his heel.

“Yes, portholes.”

“And the door, darling. How grand.”

“Grand indeed.”

“Incredible. You’ve outdone yourself, Sir.”

“Rather peculiar, though, I must say.”

“Nonsense. It’s wonderful. It is art, am I right, good Sir? Must have cost a pretty penny too. But what’s money to you, eh?” His laugh; a screech grated against my complexion.

Make haste

The flame beckons

Step into the cabin

Smiling is your weapon

My legacy shall not be forsaken

The candle still burns

My faithful servant caught my eye; I nodded to her with dignity; she began to pour the rye.

As drink was poured and food was served, the cabin burst from within. To me, the merriment hit as a stinging wasp. The chatter; as salt on an open sore.

Downwind, beyond the edge of wood; my manor; my house; watched me. Whispering with sadness.

‘Don’t judge me. Not yet. The night is still young.’

The aristocrats drank to abandon. Gawking at one another. False tributes and false accolades laid on thick toward their businesses and to their respective lives. I, within myself, stood on the porch alone, for she has not yet arrived.

Then, in a clatter of hooves, a rumble of wheels; the stench of wealth descended. The moonlight framed a silhouette. And she stepped from her carriage.

She does not smile.

She; the sight of her tore my heart asunder. The sight of her split the night sky. The sight of her held the time in stillness. My candle burned a little more bright.

But, she did not know – no one but I, and the whispering house, knew – that this night, this cabin, this candle; was for her.

“Remarkable,” said she, laying eyes upon the cabin. Those dark eyes, set deep; a window to her empty soul.

Her step was grace, her style divine.

“Come now,” said she. “I haven’t the time to waste on idle chatter.”

I nodded. Extended an arm in gesture.

Enter the cabin; my opiate queen.

Take time

The flame beckons

Step into the cabin

Your mind is your weapon

My legacy shall not be forsaken

The candle still burns

“Well, good Sir,” said the snake of slaves, “What’s all the show?”

A heartbeat passed and I, on the hot winds of that night, entered the cabin.

A nod to my faithful; my servant. She took her leave. She departed the cabin; toward the house. Toward the empty whispering halls.

The cabin was cramped, the space was quite small, the snakes sat and watched. And waited. For me.

“Imagine,” said I, “that this warm night, could be controlled. That the cool spring breeze could be summoned at will.”

The snakes mumbled and furrowed brow, one laughed and one sighed.

Only she held my eye.

“Imagine,” said I, “that you and your guests, on a warm summer night, or even a scorching summer day could find infinite comfort within your home. Or imagine that, in the dead of a cold winter, while the outside is frozen and the birds are scarce to sing, warmth beyond that of any fire could be beckoned at your fingertips.”

“Speak plainly, man,” the slaver snake sneered.

“Show us,” said she the opiate queen.

It was time.

From a concealed panel I turned a handle; what followed was a whisper and hiss. I yanked the handle from its moor.

A grated panel above their heads; a blast and a breeze descended.

“My god, it’s blowing cold air,” the whoremonger snake grinned.

“Remarkable,” said the doll at his heel.

“It is better,” said I, “if the room is sealed.”

Stepping out and into the night I closed the grand door behind me.

A key; a lock and a twist.

I dragged a small stool from the edge of the porch; tossing the handle along with key.

I sat afore a porthole; my fingers tented in anticipation; my candle burned bright.

The snakes chattered excitedly.

Only she held my eye.

I knew at that time, what most others did not; that air was one part oxygen, to three parts not.

The candle flickered.

She stood.

She sensed something amiss.

She tried the door.

“Open this door, Sir,” she demanded.

Said a snake, “Oh my, I’m finding it rather stuffy.”

“Indeed,” the slaver snake wheezed. “Alright, that’s enough, turn this contraption off.”

She pulled at the door, pulled with all her might, “Open this door,” she screamed and she pounded.

The snakes began to anger.

Anger turned to panic.

“Find the handle.”

“Turn this damned thing off.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“I feel dizzy.”

"Smash the window."

One part oxygen; five parts not.

She came to the window. Breath difficult to find. Striking at it was fruitless. Her strength dwindled; losing her resign.

Gasping and panting she screamed at me. Her words lost and meaningless; befitting that of her soul.

I withdrew a page; a short story I had writ. I held it to the window and watched as she read.

The others pounded and hollered. The slaver wife fell to the floor.

One part oxygen; seven parts not.

She was barely standing now, the colour drained from face.

Four others to the floor. Crawling and gasping for life.

The candle fading and dying.

Just like those inside.

One part oxygen; ten parts not.

She sat on the floor. She still held my gaze.

Her dark-set eyes; afeared and frenzied; knowing now she was to die.

Snakes on the floor;

writhing in pain;

trying to breathe;

dying in vain.

I sat back on my stool.

And smiled.

The flame beckons

No need to make haste

Stay in the cabin

Gone are your weapons

Your deaths are my legacy

The candle no longer burns

One part oxygen, thirteen parts not.

My faithful; my servant, approached from the manor. “They’ll be calling soon,” said she, “the drivers looking for masters.”

I nod; gone was my smile; fleeting as it were.

The candle long snuffed.

The snakes laying still.

The bright moon.

The hot night.

The empty house in the distance.

The cabin.

“Am I … am I any better?” said I, “than those devils on the floor.”

My house cried at the question. It knew the answer I sought.

My faithful shrugged. “Only God can judge,” said she.

“As it goes,” said I, “God may judge in heaven, but men will judge on earth.”

“Shall you flee?”

“No.”

“Shall I stay?”

“No.”

“Shall I take your note?”

“No.”

And when those drivers did arrive; seeking their lofty masters; I was still at the stool; the story I writ, clutched in my fist.

A flurry erupted.

“What have you done?”

“Quick, break down the door.”

“Someone get an axe.”

“By God … they’re all dead.”

“Call the constable.”

“Don’t let him go anywhere.”

Enter the cabin, drink and be merry, celebrate with me. The eccentric. The genius. The rich man in the trees.

Some still say eccentric, but no longer genius or rich.

Now they have other words.

Now they have hate.

Now they study me, question and berate.

Regret it, I do not. Change it, I would not.

I sit now, for hours, staring through this barred window.

Trying to listen for the whispers of my house.

From this cage, I can hear it, sometimes, when all else is still.

It cries, it weeps and it sighs. It does not approve of what transpired; what I did in that cabin; on that warm summer night.

But what’s done is done, and cannot be undone.

And as for my candle.

That story is now simple.

Without air, a flame cannot burn.

Thus, my candle will never be lit again.

My daughter,

Before you; her smile lit the rooms;

Before you; her dance filled the halls;

Before you; her voice brought me joy;

And now;

Now the rooms are dark; now the halls defiled; now whispers of her remain solely in my mind.

Your opium consumed her.

But she could not pay, nor play at your games.

You sold her as penance;

The slaver bought her;

The whoremonger broke her;

But it was you.

It was you who killed her.

Before you; she was my everything.

She was my heart.

She was my pride.

She was my air.