A Change in the Weather

Chapter 37: Anger

16 February, 2008 – 11:33 pm

Edgar felt an uncontrollable anger rise up from deep within, and he screwed his face up with disgust at the man standing before him who called himself Godfrey. But this was not the same man who he’d closely worked with for over a decade. It was almost as if he was hiding something inside of him, just below the surface, something that seemed sinister and malicious; something contemptible.

‘Where’s the mayor?’ asked Edgar. ‘And his family, what’s happened to them? I can’t take anymore of your lies!’

Godfrey smirked, but said nothing. He was relishing too much in the torture he was inflicting on Edgar to be bothered to reveal the fate of the mayor.

‘I must say this is rather unexpected of you,’ said Godfrey. ‘Have you been talking to someone you shouldn’t? Hmm?’

Edgar lashed out with his fists.

‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me!’

Godfrey stepped back, away from Edgar’s clumsy attack, to be replaced by another figure, who stood between them. Edgar looked up into the face of his old friend, Ichabod.

‘And you! You’re not the same person either!’ he wailed.

He stared at each of the Fiery Brand in turn. ‘Who are you people?’

Ichabod smiled.

‘Now, now. Don’t be scared,’ he said, with a voice that sounded as smooth as treacle. ‘The family succumbed to one of my special potions I’m afraid.’

Edgar looked confused.

‘Potions?’

Ichabod nodded and pointed to one of the nearby statues.

‘Yes, regrettably they’re just like these poor saps now,’ he said, with mock sadness. ‘How sad.’

A tear rolled down Edgar’s cheek, as he re-lived the conversation with Hillary in his mind.

‘The statues upstairs, they’re not statues are they? They’re his family aren’t they? His wife, his children? They weren’t some sculptor’s commission were they?’

Ichabod nodded. ‘Of-course they weren’t. Although they’re remarkably life-like aren’t they? Such a shame that our mutual friend, the mayor, wasn’t one of them.’

Edgar looked puzzled. ‘Why, where is he?’ he asked.

Ichabod sniggered momentarily.

‘The poor thing’s lying quietly mouldering at the bottom of a churchyard well. I’m afraid there’s nothing more you can do for him. That is, unless you know of a spell to raise the dead.’

Edgar found that he couldn’t contain his rage for much longer and ran past Ichabod, and towards Godfrey, his hands held out in front of him. His one ambition, right there and then, was to strangle the life out of the double that stood before him.

‘I’m going to kill you!’ he screamed.

His scrabbling hands squeezed at Godfrey’s throat. Scratching nails dug deep into his flesh, and within seconds he’d felt his neck bones snap and crack. I’ve broke his neck, thought Edgar for a moment.

And then Godfrey gripped him by his arm and threw him backwards so hard that he crashed into a statue which toppled over. Edgar sat there dazed, looking at his trembling hands.

‘I’m afraid,’ said Godfrey, clearing his throat and straightening his neck with a loud click, ‘we cannot die.’

Edgar began to scream as he scrabbled to his feet, and tried to run away, but Ichabod, Gideon and Augustus held him tight in a hold.

‘What are you?’ Edgar blubbed.

Godfrey took his ring off, and let it drop to the floor. Edgar watched, frowning, expecting that any minute, he would be on the receiving end of some violence. If that were the case, he thought, then it would be no worse that being back at boarding school. Physical pain was something that he could deal with.

‘Behold, Edgar. This is who we are.’

He watched, bemused at first, and noticed - over the course of a minute - something start to change in Godfrey. Every passing second altered his appearance, making him look more sallow and pasty. The change stopped when his skin had turned grey and saggy, and flesh and sinews became stringy and decayed. His flesh hung from yellowed bones, and his eyes had shrunk into the sockets in his withered head. Thinking he was about to vomit, he held a hand up to his mouth, but just made a retching sound instead. The feeling of nausea remained though.

‘Now,’ said Godfrey, bending down and making sure that Edgar got a good view of his real appearance. ‘I’ll only ask this once: Where is Hillary?’

Edgar began to stammer nervously.

‘He’s g-gone h-home,’ he muttered, meekly.

Godfrey grinned.

‘Now, why do I believe you?’

‘What now?’ asked Gideon.

Godfrey slipped the ring back on, and the illusion of being the mayor returned almost instantly.

‘Release the Cockatrice into the grounds. They can’t have gotten very far. Let the monster deal with them,’ he said, nodding towards the fire. ‘As for Edgar, you know what to do with him.’

Edgar followed Godfrey’s gaze towards the fire, and instantly knew what they’d got planned for him. No matter how much Edgar struggled, his captors held him firm and marched him to the big stone hearth, the fire that he’d stoked for them until it was red hot, not two hours ago. For a moment, he stared into the flames, the reflections of which danced like jewels before his eyes.

‘Curse you all to Hell!’ he muttered.

‘I’m sorry Edgar, but we’ve already been there,’ Godfrey said, quietly.

And then, with one almighty shove, they pushed him into the heart of the fire.

Godfrey stood and stared at the helpless figure engulfed in flames.

After a minute or so of screaming and writhing in utter pain, Edgar died.

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