An Inheritance (part VII)

The Story of Isocrates

Ch. 7

Now it was even, and it had been raining since shortly past midday, starting as a drizzle, and quickly becoming torrential. Seated at the table in the andron, Isocrates wore a wry grin, as he listened to the storm rage. The thought of the two goons out there in it, pleased him immensely, although they deserved far worse.

Stripe lay on the floor, beside his master, chewing on a ham-bone, which was all that was left of a meal. Upon his release, he had an attitude for having been left behind, but after he was fed, he forgot about it. Isocrates was still in no mood for eating, or for much of anything – other than going somewhere and lying down. The thought of the hags waiting, sent a chill up his spine, the likes of which, the warmth from the hearth could never reach. As such, he just sat there, refusing to surrender to his quarters and go to sleep, so sleep came to him.

And once again, the fire was all around him, and he was being chased and chastised by the indefatigable crones.

He jolted awake, back in the andron, where luckily the only flames present were those inside the firebox. Another paroxysm followed; he was left thrashing, and gagging, in an effort to regain his breath. Stripe spit out his bone and rushed over, resting his head upon Isocrates’ lap, as a show of his support.

After recovering from the fit, Isocrates stood; being worried that he might fall asleep in the chair again. Initially, his mind was set on more idle pacing, as he felt safe on his feet, then he had a better idea. He exited the andron, and made his way through the house – out the front door, and into the pouring rain. Stripe came out with him, keeping a watchful eye on his every move, on account of how he was acting inside.

Isocrates stood there and allowed the rain to wash over him, certain it would serve to counteract his grogginess. The hour had gone past even, into dusk, although, because of the storm, it seemed that Nyx had come early. Thoroughly soaked – but no more alert than before – he went back indoors, now needing to change his wet clothes.

Darkness was settling inside, as well; he stopped back in the andron, and lit up a torch to carry with him. Then he continued to his quarters, which he still considered off-limits, meaning to be in-and-out. Once he was there, he swept the room with the torchlight, then headed for the wooden chest where he kept his wardrobe. The chest had seen better days, showing signs of rot in several places, but it worked for storage, and the clothes inside of it were dry. He opened it, and clinging to the inner face of the rising lid, was the arachnid he had hoped he was rid of.

Before he could react, the spider did, going on the offensive – launching itself like a projectile. Isocrates went into evasive mode, falling backwards to the floor, which caused him to lose hold of the torch. But even in light of the fire-hazard, he was focused on the whereabouts of his attacker. Frantically, he began to brush himself off all over, inspecting his entire person, worried that it might well have been on him. As he was freaking out, Stripe came to stand over him, taking the opportunity to get in some face licks. Isocrates pushed him away – with no little effort – and sat up; it was at that point that he smelled something burning.

He looked over and saw that a rug had caught on fire, and leapt to action, stomping out the blaze with his sandals. The rug in question was ruined, but it might have been a true disaster – if the flames had gotten to a piece of furniture. From there, it could have gone on to spread, for while the walls were made of the stone, the beams and rafters were not.

Rather than being thankful for having evaded Hades, he went on a warpath, searching for his nemesis. But once again, it proved to be a master escape-artist; Isocrates was left scratching his head. He remembered, he came for a reason, and grabbed a chiton from the chest, making sure to shake the garment out thoroughly. He headed off to change, elsewhere, ending up back in his brother’s room; by then, the chiton that he was wearing was almost dry.

The encounter with the spider did more to wake him up than the rain had; now he was motivated by rage. As one can imagine, he was seething; sleep was the furthest thing from his mind – it would be another long night. He spent it imagining what would happen when he next saw his adversary; he would make it their final encounter. At some point, he noticed that it was no longer raining; by then it was quite late, but he was still full of yellow-bile.

When the sun rose, and the shadows throughout the house had receded, he headed back to his quarters – with a score to settle. This time, he did not bring a torch, but instead he brandished a sandal in his hand as a makeshift weapon. His heart was beating faster than it probably should have been; not out of fear, of course, but anticipation. He had made sure to put Stripe outside, to ensure the quietest entry.

Some operations require stealth protocols.

He slowly approached the wooden chest, and quickly opened the lid, with his sandal raised high, and at the ready. But all that he saw, was a stack of folded clothes, which he rifled through, leaving the chest in much disarray. Finding nothing there, he tossed the entire room, but to no avail – his enemy still remained at large.

Leaving the room as it was, he went off to break his fast, still lacking much of an appetite, but knowing he had to eat. To add to his list of woes, he had begun to suffer from a ringing in his ears, which bothered him to no end. It sounded like a great many crickets chirping away, as if he were in a forest, rather than at home.

In the kitchens, the only thing available were some breadcrusts, which his rapacious guests had been kind enough to leave. After eating the meager repast, he headed out to the shed, to get more wood to be stacked up in the andron. Tinder was always useful, but currently, he just wanted something that would keep him occupied. He knew that if he were to relax, sleep would take him; his best chance at fighting against it, was constant busywork. Stripe joined him on the way to the shed, but all he wanted to do was play – meaning he only got in the way.

Blue skies had returned, as did the heat, and now there was humidity, as well; in no time, Isocrates was dripping sweat. He made several trips, back-and-forth, before deciding that enough was enough, and looking for something else to do. It was early still, only a little past midday – for how he felt, he could have sworn it was later. The specter of fatigue refused to give up the chase, and manual labor proved to be a double-edged sword. It kept him from sitting idle, which posed its own risk, but exertion wears the body down, eventually.

He figured that it would serve him well to sharpen his spear, and while he was at it, he could put a new edge on his knife. But when he went looking for his Cretan stone, it was missing, then he remembered that No-Name had borrowed it. Of course, he had no recollection of it ever being returned – he realized that he was wasting his time searching.

Unable to stay on his feet for an eternity, he sat down on a dusty couch in the hall, for a spell. Stripe was still close by, keeping a watchful eye like a worried nurse, whose patient was on a steady decline. Although Isocrates only meant to take a short break, a moment was all his system needed, to shut down. We know what he saw next; the dream never changed, but there was no getting used to it – each time was equally terrifying. And equally difficult to get over, when he woke up afterwards; this time, he nearly coughed up a lung.

Now he was becoming worried.

Obviously, sleeping is mandatory, but doing so was proving impossible – at least, for a duration – how was he to square the contradiction? The naps were not helping in the slightest bit; they only exacerbated his pain, and suffering. He wondered how much longer he could put up with the torture. In all honesty, he was nearly ready to throw up his hands.

In need of a cup of water for his raw throat, he forced himself to his feet, and made his way back to the kitchens. He put some out for Stripe, in his bowl, but the hound seemed far more interested in him, and stayed at his side. He did look bad though; he was moving like an old man. His vim and vigor was all gone. As such, he needed to find somewhere to sit back down – his knees felt like they might give – he ended up back in the andron.

Sunlight still spilled into the room, through the windows; apparently, there was still a good deal of day remaining. With physicality ruled out, Isocrates effectively ended up in a staring-contest with the boar’s head. The swine was winning, when the sound of knocking interrupted the match. Stripe started running about, and barking.

“Settle down.” Isocrates said, but the dog was just as hard-headed as always – especially when it was excited.

The trip to the front room was a task, and it took a while; whoever was calling knocked a second time.

“Yay, I hear you.” Isocrates grumbled to himself - it was several moments later when he pulled open the door.

Standing there was his sister Carnaea, her husband, and – just beyond them – their servant, who was tending a mule.

“Tell me that this rumor concerning father is false.” Carnaea pleaded, clearly struggling to keep herself together.

Isocrates did not respond outright, but his expression alone, was all the answer she needed.

“Gods no!” She wailed, with tears welling up.

She began sobbing, and rent her clothes; her husband turned and wrapped his arms around her. Isocrates felt a stabbing pang – it was guilt – folly becomes ever clearer in hindsight. Upon recognition of one of his former caretakers, Stripe tried to show Carnaea a bit of affection. She proved to be too despondent, so Stripe shifted his attention over to the mule – which made it apparent the interest was not shared.

“I’m sorry that we keep meeting on such glum occasions.” Were the words of his sister’s husband, who was called Euandros.

Isocrates nodded, recalling their prior meeting, when he had come home on leave, to attend his mother’s funeral. The sorrowful reunion ended up moving indoors, though the servant was left to unload, and bring in the baggage.

“I could go for a bit of wine, after my travels.” Said Euandros, as they entered the andron, making for the table there.

“Sadly, my supply is depleted.” Responded Isocrates.

“But you don’t say!” Euandros looked mortified. “Luckily, we brought some along, only it’s still with the baggage.”

“You’ll just have to wait.” Spoke Carnaea, as they were all being seated; with that, she turned her attention to her brother, “Why didn’t you send a messenger, to deliver word that father had passed?” She inquired.

“Now that you say it, I realize that I should have…my mind has been somewhere else.” Responded Isocrates.

“That’s your excuse? – you just forgot your family might be interested in knowing?” She replied crossly.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“An apology would be nice; forgive me for feeling rather slighted.”

“I’m sorry for not thinking about you sooner.”

“You didn’t think about me at all – I had to learn from a member of the cooking staff!”

“Lay off of him Nae;” spoke Euandros, “the man has been mourning, and was simply overwhelmed.”

“Don’t take his side.” She responded in a cutting manner.

Euandros gave Isocrates a look that said he had tried.

“What about Demetrios; have you sent word to him?” Carnaea went on to ask.

“Not yet.” Isocrates had to admit.

“Well, don’t you think you should be getting on that?”

“I will, when I get the chance.”

Carnaea’s response, was to roll her eyes.

“When first we were informed of the tragic passing, we were both in disbelief.” Euandros explained. “Nae insisted, that we come here and see for ourselves.”

“I had to be certain – one way, or the other.” Said Carnaea.

“Rest assured, that it will not go unpunished.” Euandros announced.

Upon hearing this, Isocrates swallowed hard, “What makes you say that?”

“Your father was loved;” Euandros replied. “no one will rest, till his killer is brought to light.”

“Who said anything about killers?” Isocrates asked.

“How else would he pass, of a sudden?”

“Sometimes, that’s how it happens.”

“Yay, and at other times, we encounter foul play.” Euandros shot back, already sounding convinced.

“And what are the chances that he would fall at the same time as poor Agapetus?” Carnaea added, as further proof.

“Exactly! It must have been poison.” Euandros surmised.

“It was nothing of the sort.” Isocrates tried to make clear, as he would rather there were no fingers pointed. “The guilty party was a disease, not some unknown murderer.”

“And how would you know?” Asked Euandros, cocking an eyebrow.

“Because I’m the one who made the terrible discovery, and it was more than apparent, that sickness took them.”

“I’m pretty sure that people look sick, after being poisoned.” Euandros replied. “It’s best that a physician view the remains.”

“It’s too late for that; all that’s left of them is ash, and bone char.” Said Isocrates, relieved.

“You put the bodies unto the flame?” Carnaea cut in, appalled.

Incineration went against local custom.

“I wanted to be sure that the disease didn’t spread – to me or anyone else.” Responded Isocrates.

“That does make sense,” spoke Euandros, “but it would have been nice to have evidence, rather than mere hunches.”

“If it was a disease, I hope you were successful in getting rid of it – now would be a horrible time, to come down with something.” Carnaea said, showing distress.

“I don’t think there’s ever a good time, for a chronic illness; why would now be worse than any other?” Isocrates had to ask.

“Because a disease wouldn’t only affect me; it would also affect another life, growing inside.”

“You’re with child?” Isocrates asked, both excited, and surprised – for how long she had been trying.

“Indeed, I am. We had been planning on surprising father with the good news; now we’ll never get the chance.” Carnaea replied, starting to tear up again.

“There’s no use dwelling on it; we can’t bring him back.” Said Isocrates.

“Yay, but we can grieve for the loss.” Replied Carnaea, while wiping the tears away. “And back to the subject of disease; I can’t afford to catch anything.” She reiterated.

“Were anything lurking, I would have caught it by now.”

“In all honesty, you don’t exactly look healthy.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Might that be a symptom of the malady?”

“It’s a symptom of my emotions – you’re not the only one grieving.”

This statement gave Carnaea pause, long enough for her demeanor to soften, then she nodded and stood from the table, “I’ve something, in my baggage, that will help you with sleeping; I’ll go and fetch it – Philetos should have everything in, by now.” She added before proceeding in taking her leave.

“It should have taken us four days to get here; we made it in three.” Euandros complained, now that it was only the two of them. “Your sister never wanted to stop and rest; at several points, she tried to put the mule on her back – you know how she is.”

Isocrates sighed, as if to say did he ever. His sister was short and slight of build, having taken after her mother, but she certainly had her father in her. Being three years older, when they were growing up, she was prone to barking orders – she would have made a fine drill-sergeant.

“I should go help your sister unpack,” Euandros went on, “and see if I can locate that wine.” He added, before standing up.

“Save me a drink.” Said Isocrates.

Euandros smiled, and then went after his wife.

The sunlight coming in had begun to weaken; it would be time to light up the torches soon, but not quite yet. Isocrates struggled to his own feet, figuring that he ought to go see what kind of trouble Stripe was getting into. The dog had stayed outside, with the mule and the servant, and Isocrates was certain that it was pestering one of them. Along the way there, as he was passing the tapestry in the hall, he saw none other than his arch-enemy.

The spider was on the wall, just below the tapestry itself; Isocrates paused, and slowly slipped off a sandal. Now he approached, trying his best to walk quietly, although it was staring directly at him, the whole time. He still felt he would spook it if he made too much noise, or he if moved suddenly – he was taking every precaution. When he was just about close enough, his target spun around and scurried upwards, slipping behind the tapestry.

Isocrates hurried over, and began to strike the area where the thing disappeared – first with the sandal, then his bare hands. After this, he started ripping the tapestry down from the wall, in a maniacal search.

“What are you doing?” Carnaea asked, showing up looking quite dismayed; Euandros stood behind her, holding the skin of wine.

The sight of the pair standing there, staring with expressions of bafflement, snapped Isocrates back to his senses. He looked at the wall, and the tapestry which had been in the family for generations, which now hung in tatters.

* * *

Providing a suitable explanation for objectively irrational behavior is impossible. Isocrates tried though, describing the threat in no uncertain terms; alas, his words fell on deaf ears. No one seemed to believe that a spider could be so aggressive, and cunning; he went out of his way to stress the latter. His sister kept reminding him that he had destroyed a precious heirloom – he felt like he was not being heard.

Euandros was wise enough to stay out of the argument; he said that he was fetching a cup, and left the two of them to bicker. Carnaea proceeded with a spirited upbraiding; Isocrates could hardly get a word in, edgewise. After she had emptied her quiver, she produced the sedative, as promised, imploring him to use it post haste. As it was a powder, she said to mix it with water, adding that it only took a small amount. She went on to excuse herself, without giving any further details, leaving Isocrates with a few questions. He trusted her, and all, but he would have liked to have known the ingredients.

He also wondered how long she planned on staying.

After tracking Stripe down – and saving the servant from harassment – he decided that he should call it a day. He was rather eager to find out if the sleeping-aid really worked; at this point, he would try anything. As instructed, he mixed some of the solute in water, and then guzzled it; even for the small amount, there was a slight bitterness. He retired to his brother’s room, having to drag himself there, as he was still on the verge of toppling over.

Clearly, he did not need any help falling asleep, but hopefully the drug would keep him down. He lit up a torch, and with his night-light in place, he went ahead and got settled. Stripe was wide awake, and back on bedside duty. Isocrates shut his eyes and surrendered; sleep was on him in an instant – again, we know what he saw. But this time, when he reached the end of the burning hall, where usually he would wake on account of terror, the dream simply started over. This happened again, and again, and though he longed for relief, he was trapped in the hellscape.

(to be continued…)

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