Short Story: "The Enunciation"

THE COUNTESS

The countess shivered.

“How many times do I have to tell you to keep that fire fed?” she snapped at the servants accompanying her and her ladies into the sitting room.  Her words were icy clouds in the air. 

“Apologies, Your Highness,” a thin servant answered, head bowed.  He was a heatbringer, she recognized, and at once the servant began shuffling towards the dying hearth, his shoes were made of holes.    

The little gray man looked even more ragged standing next to the glowing embers.  He smelled too — disgusting: like sweat and the old meat they fed to the wretched haunts, or used to feed them.  Since this chill began, weeks ago, hunting had been nearly impossible, and the nobles confined to the castle had been more conservative with provisions.  If anyone was going to starve in this blizzard, it wouldn’t be them.  But so far, no one was in danger of such a fate, she’d been told that the castle’s stores would last another two moon-turns at least.  At present, the greatest threat to the countess’ well-being had been boredom.     

 The servant tossed an armload of logs into the hearth. The heavy wood cracked open dark coals to reveal bright orange innards.  The small man knelt down and blew on the embers causing their fiery veins to glow and spread.  He checked over his shoulder to see if the princess was watching him.  She pretended she wasn’t.  He leaned his head deep into the hearth, close enough to hear the coals searing with life. 

“Bah!” he spoke in a hushed tone, waves of heat on his breath.

Of course, the princess knew many of her servants could speak magick, but she did not like seeing it used around her.  Although, she had to admit that it was impressive, if not frightening, every time she did catch a glimpse of her servants’ mysterious skills.  Until recently, she hadn’t considered how she’d make fire without them. 

She’d once seen her husband do it before when they were young – rubbing sticks and rocks together or some-such nonsense.  It had been before they were married and he was trying to impress her.  But the two hours it had taken him to even make a spark ended up being more maddening than impressive.  Just the same, she’d humored the pathetic attempt.  She recalled how much she’d wanted to be countess back then.

Suddenly, the newly placed logs burst into flame, filling the room with light and dancing shadows.  All at once the room was warmer.  The countess allowed herself to fall back into the soft chair she was sitting on.

 “Ah, much better,” the countess acknowledged. “That will be all for the night, heatbringer” she added, shooing him away with a hand gloved in satin and returning her attention to the other finely dressed women that had sat down with her.   

She hardly noticed as the gray man receded from her and the room, careful not to turn his back on the noble women.

---

GIMM

The heatbringer ran down the steps to the servants’ quarters two at-a-time.  He was almost able to make it to the bottom of the spiraling stairwell before counting to thirty – the record Sheply, the castle’s Master Steward, claimed to have set more than a decade ago.   But young Gimm had only been indentured to the Count of Blackhill’s castle for little over a year and had to take the Master Steward at his word. 

Since the storm began, Gimm been reassigned to the staff of those attending to the Countess Eleanor.  A substantial step up from his previous assignment in the kitchen.   His new duties allowed him to see nearly every part of the Blackhill Castle, seeing as how  it was his responsibility to bring heat or make fire whenever and wherever the Countess needed it. 

“Twenty-Eight!” Gimm shouted to no one in particular as he leapt down from the second-to-last step.  A few of the other servants in the common area shook their heads, amused, when they saw who it had come from.

Gimm didn’t notice and darted towards the door at the end of the oval shaped room, furnished with old couches that the nobles had no place else to keep.  They were situated around a modest stove that provided warmth for the common room and the surrounding dormitories. When Gimm reached the end of the room, he knocked hard on the wooden door.  Without waiting for a reply, he burst into the room.

“I did it!” he blurted out stepping into the small room.

It was cold, and Gimm saw why.  The room’s one window was wide open.  Blowing snow filled the Steward’s room with freezing air.  Candles along the walls flickered for their life, casting wild shadows around across the walls. Standing directly in from of the window was Sheply, his eyes were closed.  Was he murmuring something?

 “Shep, what are you doing?  It’s freezing in here.” Gimm called to him.

“Oh!” Shep said, slamming the window shut, startled.  “I…you scared me, boy.”

“What were you doing?” Gimm asked him.

“I was a little warm after I’d finished tending to the Count, so I thought I’d crack a window to cool off a bit.  I guess I dosed off,” the older man answered.

“Dosed off standing at the window?” he laughed.  It was true that Gimm had seen the Master Steward fall asleep in some odd places, but with his face in a blizzard?

“You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite on your face in that cold!” Gimm added.

“Then I guess I’d have to get you to defrost me,” Shep said.

“Only if you don’t mind me burning off your eyebrows again,” Gimm laughed.

After that, Shep made the two of them some tea – with Gimm’s help of course.  The two played a game of Black and White, during which Gimm told how fast he’d made it down the stairwell. Shep laughed his big-bellied laugh, slapped the younger servant on his back, and said: “Well ain’t that somethin!”

And once they’d finished: “Now get yourself to the princess’ chambers, she’ll be wanting a bath soon.”

“But she said she wouldn’t need me for the rest of the night,” Gimm protested

“That one doesn’t know what she wants until she wants it.  But the truth is she runs like clockwork. She always says she don’t wanna be bothered right after dinner.  But once she’s sat by that fire for a while and caught a nap, she’ll wake up and want to get washed up for bed.  And if you make her wait too long, it’ll be your fault for not anticipating her needs.  So, unless you want to get on her bad side your first month on her staff, I’d suggest you get moving, son.”

 “Yes sir.” he said, pushing himself to his feet. 

When he was almost out of the doorway, Gimm turned around and asked, “What were you mumbling out the window when I walked in?”

For a moment, Shep didn’t answer; it looked like he was thinking deeply about something.

“Ah, come on!  You can tell me!” Gimm prodded.

“I was praying.” Shep said with a smile, adding, “for the storm.”

Gimm had imagined it was something more exciting, maybe even dangerous.  

He’s just an old man after all. Shep reminded himself.

“I guess we can use all the help we can get,” Gimm nodded, shutting the door behind him.

No sooner had Gimm finished heating the water in the bathing room than did he receive word that the countess would indeed be wanting a bath. 

Minutes later (far fewer than it would have taken Gimm to prepare the coals had he started when he’d received word) the princess arrived in a cloud of a steam and cold air that accompanied her into the nearly-opaque room.

Once inside, two female servants began undressing her.  Gimm wasn’t sure if she couldn’t see him because of the steam or because she was so used to ignoring any most any servant in her presence, unless she needed something of course. Either way, he didn’t want to be accused of peeping.  With his head bowed, he shuffled quickly toward the exit.

“You, heatbringer boy, where is it you think you’re going?” The princess called over her shoulder.  The two girls danced around her like little grey birds –unlacing this and unbuttoning that.

“Pardon me, Your Highness, I was just exiting.  I did not mean to…”

  “And who will heat my water when it gets cold?” She cut him off.

Gimm did not know what to think. He was behind her and could not see her face.   He’d never been asked to attend to a lady’s water while she was in it. 

But, “Yes, Your Highness,” was all that he could say.  Making sure to drop his eyes, he turned and walked back to the caldron of hot water in the corner of the room. 

When the two servants had finished undressing the countess, she stepped carefully into the white porcelain tub.  As her body was enveloped by the water, she gathered her long auburn hair and pinned it to the top of her head.  When her arm was raised, Gimm could see the curve of her breast beneath her shoulder, before it too disappeared in the water.  Gimm felt himself stiffen.

“Boy!” He heard her say. 

He shook his head a little to focus his eyes before answering: “Yes, Your Highness?”

“My water is too cold,” she said and nodded her head toward the caldron.

Gimm dipped a wooden carafe into the caldron and carried it over to the countess’ tub.  He had never heated bath water with a person in it before.

“Well, go ahead,” she demanded, “pour!”

After a moment to decide where he should pour, he began emptying the carafe at the end of the tub, where he thought her feet would be.  He knew that if he should scald her, he’d be severely punished.

“Sblood!” The countess cursed under her breath, tossing her head back against the rim of the tub.

Gimm almost lost hold of the carafe in his haste to stop pouring. 

“It’s not helping,” she sighed. 

She sat up in the bath and looked at Gimm.  Her breasts were like two glazed islands floating in the murky water.

“I thought this would help relax me.  I’m not even dirty.”  She held up her hands for Gimm to see.

“But you are.”  She scrunched her eyebrows, a sly smile on her face.  

“Would you like a hot bath, heatbringer boy?”

He looked around, unsure what to say.

“There’s no one here – it’s okay.”

“You don’t mean…?” He finally managed.

She laughed out loudly. “Oh, no.”  The countess gestured toward the empty tub sitting opposite the one she occupied.

After some additional hesitation, Gimm filled and heated a bath for himself at the countess’ insistence.  Then he took off his clothes and placed them in the corner near the caldron – on the opposite end of the room from the countess’ garments.  Covering his privates with his hands, he made quick, awkward steps towards the tub.

“Wait.” The countess called when he began to step into the water.  “What is your name?”

“Gimm,” he told her, feeling embarrassed.

“I’ve never noticed how young you are, Gimm.” She was smiling.  “And tall!  Let me see you standing up straight.”  She made a circular motion with a down-pointed finger: “turn around,” it said.

He turned and faced her, both feet squarely on the ground.  He pulled his shoulders back and tried to be as tall as possible.

“You’re going to have to move your hands if I’m to get a proper look.” She grinned.

Gimm put his hands by his side.  He could feel his face turning red.

After a few moments of staring, the countess gave a short “Hmmph,” and motioned for Gimm to sit in the tub.

As he lowered himself in the water, a ring of dirt and soot formed around him.  Despite himself, Gimm could not help but admit how great this felt.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

She nodded her head, acknowledging.

“Tell me about yourself, Gimm.  Where are you from?”

Gimm did not like to talk about himself, but he did not think he could refuse.

“I grew up on the south of heret, in Dappertowne.”

“Oh, that is quite a ways from Blackhill.  How did you end up here, in our service?”  The countess was wringing water from her hair.  She was looking at Gimm in a way that made him feel uneasy.

“When I was nine, my parents sold me to The Indenture after they found out I was different.”

“You mean that you can make flame?”

Making fire was but a small showing of Gimm’s abilities, but he knew better than to reveal that, especially to her.  Instead, he just nodded in agreement.

“Forgive me, but I was imagine that a family of peasants with a flame coughing boy could find a good use for him; could they not?”

They did, he thought.  But only smiled. 

“Bah-Ru,” Gimm said to his water, heating it back up.

 “When did you realize you could do that?” She was grimacing.

“When I was six years I set my parents’ house on fire.” 

A glimmer of panic that flickered in her eyes.

“It was an accident of course,” he went on.  “I’d come down with a fever and was having a coughing fit that set my mother’s drapery ablaze.  After that my parents decided I was too dangerous to keep.  They had other kids and a farm to worry about.  The Indenture offered my parents quite a bit of gold for me.  Apparently heatbringers are a valued commodity here in the northern provinces.”

“That they are,” she agreed.

After that they both grew silent for a time.  Gimm relaxed and let his eyes close.  It had been a long time since Gimm had a bath, and may be long again before he would have another.

Without warning, Gimm heard the door crash open behind him.  The look on the countess’ face told him all he needed to know.  And then, she screamed. 

“Thank goodness you came, husband!  He… he just got naked and sat in the bath I had made for you!  I tried…”

Suddenly, the count grabbed Gimm by his neck and dragged him out of the tub and slammed him on the floor.  The man was short but strong, and his large hands were like an iron vice around the Gimm’s thin neck.

“How dare you!” He spat, eyes bulging in his broad reddening face.  

Gimm saw the count’s fist coming but could not move or speak.

Gimm woke up in a cold dungeon cell – still naked and unsure how long he’d been out.  His head throbbed and his vision was still shaken. 

The stone floor was hard beneath his pale body, and he was cold.  He pressed an elbow against the ground to sit himself upright.  Clutching his knees to his chest, he started into the darkness that was beyond the iron bars.  But he could not see anything, and his captures had smartly stripped him of anything that he could set ablaze.  

Occasionally, he spoke heated words into his hands, but the warmth only remained for brief moments, and the effort had become more taxing than it was worth.

He sat in the dank cell afraid and shivering for what could have been days.  There was light in the cell, and Gimm only had his hunger to judge the passage of time.  He was especially thirsty, but decided that it couldn’t have been more than one or two days.  He had been hungrier; true starvation is not an easy feeling to forget. 

There came the faint sound of footsteps down the dungeon corridor where his cell was located.  When he heard it, Gimm scrambled to his feet and pressed his face against the rough, rusted and tried to make out who was approaching.  But the person was too far away, he could only make out the dim swaying of a lantern that approached with its bearer.  As the figure grew nearer, Gimm could make out the belabored gait of a man past his prime, though his broad shoulders and arms remained formidable.

“Shep!” Gimm called down the dark stone tunnel, his voice was a chorus of echos. 

“Shhhhh!” The older man replied, his gnarled finger lost in his bushy beard.  When he’d finally made it to the cell, Shep reached through the bars and clasped Gimm on the shoulder.  His eyes were wet in the candle light. 

For the first time since he’d awaked down here, Gimm allowed himself to feel scared.  Shep’s grip was strong – Gimm needed strength right now.

“What have you gotten yourself into, now, boy?” His tone was concern, protective.

“I…  She tricked me!” was all he could manage.  There were too many thoughts and feelings crashing around in his head.

He looked down at the stone floor.  “I was stupid for trusting her kindness.”

Shep took a deep sigh, “I was just as naïve at your age.” 

“What will happen to me?” Gimm found the courage to ask.

Shep stroked his beard and exhaled in a deep sigh that sounded more like a grunt.  His face was concerned.

“You will be beaten,” he answered, looking Gimm right in the eyes, stoic.

Gimm felt to flash of hot panic ignite in his stomach.  He turned away from the bars, towards the emptiness of a cell.  He was afraid and he did not want Shep to see it. 

“How many?” he asked wiping at his face with the heel of a dirty hand.

“Eleven.”

His back would be shredded.  Still most serious offenses concerning a servant and a noble got you at least twenty.  Gimm was glad of that at least.

“Why so few?” He asked.

Shep shifted his weight and dropped his eyes for a moment.  Then just smiled and said, “It is rude to inspect your gifts so closely, boy.”

The two spoke for a little while longer before Shep left to get supper started for the noble family.  Before leaving, he explained that there would need to be a public confession of the crime before an official sentencing could be made. 

“Tell them whatever they want to hear,” Shep told him, “and this will all be over with soon.”

Not long after, Gimm was brought food and a dirty tunic to wear.  He was grateful for it.  Three meals later, two mail-clad guards came to take him from his cell.

Beatings, mutilations, and executions usually tool place in the castle’s foreyard so that the indentured could bare witness to the consequences of any transgressions against the nobility.  However, because of the storm—Gimm’s lashing would take place in the Great Hall, where the count and countess held court.

Gimm was led through the castle, chained at the hands and feet.  Some of the servants he passed gave subtle nods of solidarity as he ambled through the hall.  Perhaps they too had once made this walk to be lashed or lose fingers or a hand or worse. In many ways Gimm was lucky to be receiving such a light punishment.  Just the same, he was terrified.

The doors to the hall were massive.  The two guards flanking him seemed to be pulling on the in slow motion, the hinges groaning all the while.  Gimm echoed their sentiment.

When the doors were opened Gimm saw the count sitting at the other end of the large room, directly ahead of him.  Seated next to him was the countess.  This time she was fully dressed, but did not look at him.  But Gimm didn’t notice, the only thing he was aware of was the dread thumping in his chest.  It was all he could do to keep his feet moving without collapsing right there in the middle of the marble room.

Even though the setting was irregular, many of the servants had come to see the confession and sentencing.  Gimm had never come to spectate one of these trials, he’d always found them too gruesome. 

He was led straight down the middle of the hall and the crowd parted as the guards and their captor approached.  Near the front of the crowd was Shep, the look he gave Gimm said “be brave.”

I will try, he thought.

When he’d reached the front of the hall, the guards shoved him to his knees, hard, in from of the Count.  The Count Filip Dunmere was sitting on a chair made entirely of ivory, a short, severe looking man with a long nose and gagged teeth.    He sat near the edge of the seat, his feet just making contact with the floor.

“What is your name, heatbringer?” The count announced.

Gimm hesitated, and was promptly shown the back of a mailed hand.  The force of the blow caused him to yelp.  His vision blurred.

The count stood up and walked towards Gimm, who was still heaving.  Leaning over the count said in a hushed voice:

  “I would suggest you find your words more quickly, boy. My own patience is only slightly more generous than that of my guards here. 

“I am called ‘Gimm,’ my Count,” he said through a swollen lip.  His eyes were locked on the floor, too terrified to look up.

“And tell me why you have been brought before me, Gimm?”  Count Dunmere said, standing up straight once again.

Tell him whatever he wants to hear, he reminded himself.

“Because of the improper and lewd things I done while tending to the countess’ bath.”

There were a few gasps in the crowd, most from the balcony where a several nobles had gathered to watch.

“And had my wife invited you to join her for a bath?”

The balcony laughed.

Gimm took a deep breath, and in this delay was greeted with another mailed blow to the head.

“Had she invited you to join her!?”  There was a flash of rage in his voice the second time.

“No – She did not.”  Gimm answered, heaving.

“No! She did not!”  The Count repeated the words so loudly that they echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

The short nobleman took a deep breath, and returned to the opulent chair beside his beautiful wife. 

“So then you tricked my wife?”  The question was an accusation. 

“I did, my count,” Gimm lied.

Whatever he wants to hear.

“How?”

Panic flared up in Gimm’s chest.  He hadn’t constructed a story to back up the lie that the countess had invited him.

The guard’s fist slammed into him again without warning.  The punch was so forceful that Gimm fell onto his side and had to be righted by the guard.

“How!?”  The Count demanded.

Gimm heard the guard next to him raise his arm for a fourth blow.

“A spell!” He shouted, cringing.

Now the count did stand up.  Walking forward, his eyes narrowed on Gimm: “What do you mean a spell?”

Whatever he wants to hear.

“After she sat down for her bath, I cast a spell on her so that she would fall asleep.  Then I drew a bath for myself.” 

He was terrified. Most knew that their magick could not control or influence other beings.  It was why they could be trusted as servants to the nobility, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. 

The count glared down at Gimm– his eyes cold fury.  Murmurs from the balcony and crowd behind Gimm were filling the room.

“How dare you,” he said.  “We allow you to live amongst us in the safety and protection of our lands, and in return curse us with your witchcraft?”

“I…yes.”

The count’s face was bright red, and his pale eyes were frantically scanning Gimm’s face for answers.

“How long have you been plotting against us?”

“What?” 

Another fist. And again Gimm collapsed to the ground.  This time the guards left him crumpled on the ground.  

Bloodied, Gimm was at a loss now.  He’d allowed himself to be led into a fiction that he didn’t know how to peaceably resolve. 

Shep would know what to say.  He was right behind him, but Gimm couldn’t see his face and wouldn’t implicate him by asking him for help.

“You will answer me!  I will not have traitors in midst, I will see every last one of you filthy haunts dead long before that! ”

He had no answers left for him.  The little man was maniacal now - out for blood.

Whatever he wants…

“For months now,” Gimm told him, forcing himself up on chained wrists. 

The Count’s eyes were fixed hard on Gimm. “And who else is involved?” he hissed.

“Only me,” Gimm said.

“Good,” the count said with a sly smile. 

Then he gave a nearly imperceptible nod to the guard, whose hands were yet unbloodied. And with two silent motions he removed a knife from his hip, and cut open Gimm’s throat.

---

SHEPLY

“No!” Sheply shouted, as young Gimm’s lifeless body fell to the ground.

“Bah - Fu - Shee - Bah - Shee!  The old man enunciated, the words were like thunder.  Immediately, both of the guards burst into outright flames.  The smell of their flesh boiling inside their armor filled the hall with a horrible odor.  His effort was none-the-less in vain; it was too late, the boy was dead, and this would not bring him back.

Did he know? Shep wondered to himself. 

But answers would have to come later.  He’d considered that the revolt might have to begin tonight, but he did not know it would come on the heels of such injustice. 

“We do this now!” Shep yelled to the crowd of servants standing around him.

His death will embolden them.

“For Gimm!” He shouted

“For Gimm the Heatbringer!” The crowd roared back.

All at once dozens of servants began shouting spells into the air, at the guards and the balcony above.  These were not the short and simple spells the nobles were used to seeing the servants perform.  No, these spells were complex and powerful.  waterspinners, needlers, woundmenders, woodslicers, metelshapers, cattlefinders, brickthrowers, birdsingers, dirtpushers, heatbringers and all the rest began attacking the guards and nobles all around the hall.  Many of them were caught unaware, killed almost instantly.  Noble men and ladies in sharp dublets and beautiful gowns ran screaming from the balcony’s ledge as flashes of light and other projectiles scorched past them. The fight was on.

For months now, Shep had been secretly meeting with several of the other servants working in various parts of the castle.  He had chosen them carefully.  Being the Master Servant allowed him the opportunity to find out which servants he could trust and which ones he could not.  The ones he found trustworthy and who he knew had enough backbone to fight when the time was right were invited to secret meetings, or rather classes, that the Master Steward held three times a week in the castle’s desolate aviary.  He taught them how to weave simple arcane words together into sophisticated spells. 

He had indeed been planning a revolution, but Gimm had not been one of those invited: too young and not enough backbone, he’d told himself at the time.  Though, the young heatbringer’s actions tonight proved Shep wrong.

“For Gimm!” Shep cried again, charging toward the Count, who was cowering behind two guards, seated on that ivory monstrosity.

“Pu - Jo!” he shouted, sending a guard crashing into a wooden post.

Then, “Stah - Day - See!” And nearly the entire eastern half of the balcony encircling the great hall came plummeting to the ground.  Screams through a cloud of stone and lace, then streams of blood.  The nobles who remained amble were quickly come upon by the servants on the ground.  

Shep kept moving towards his target.  There was only one guard protecting the countess.  When he saw Shep approaching, he unsheathed his sword.   The Master Stewart spoke a quick succession of words in the man’s direction, causing his sword to fly out of the knight’s hand and plunge itself in the guards unarmored calf.  He fall to the ground, screaming, blood gushing from the wound.  Shep stepped over the bleeding man, who was trying to pull the sword from his leg.  Without so much as a word, he grabbed the stunned countess, and dragged her over to the ivory chair and the count. 

More words and the guards in front of count Philip crumpled to the ground with the clatter of their armor on the marble floor.

“Tell him the truth,” he growled at the countess; he was still holding her tightly by the wrist. “Did you invite Gimm to bathe with you?”

She was crying, but did not reply to him. He shook her hard by the arm.

“Answer me!” he insisted, “or next time my words will not be so gentle.”

“Yes!” She whimpered, “Yes, I was just bored — so lonely.   I’m sorry my love.”

The look in her eyes was pleading.  It was Shep she should have been pleading with.  But even in the midst of all this you could see the anger and betrayal on the Count’s face.  

At this admittance, Shep released his grip on her.  She scrambled to her husband, who embraced her, though coldly.

“I knew it!” The count grumbled, looking up at him with furious eyes. “I knew you bloody haunts were plotting against me!  I bet this blasted storm was even your doing.”

Shep smiled a little. 

“What is it you want?”  The Count said.

Looking down at the man, the Master Stewart answered: “I’ll tell you what we want...”