The title of this story came from what I said upon seeing the sky, and it just went from there! I hope you will enjoy it, please let me know what you think on the comments, and also please follow me on Twitter where you can keep up with everything that I post on The Memoirs of a Witchfinder! So ladies and gents, this is: An Uncomfortable Shade of Purple, by Harry Tennison.
An Uncomfortable Shade of Purple
By Harry Tennison
An oil lit lamp cast shadows around the room. A man was
illuminated as he leaned in to the light, the small flame showing many wrinkles
on his once-youthful face. A pair of spectacles rested amongst the thinning
hair upon the top of his head; however they no longer held any glass. Alexander
Ivanovic wore them now out of habit, still pulling them down to rest on his
nose when he wished to examine something closer.
And he did this frequently for he was a toymaker, and attention
to detail was essential in order to survive. Many of the townspeople adored him
for his handicraft which not only brought smiles to the local children, but
also to the mothers and fathers, who loved looking in his shop window at the
expertly painted trains which puffed real steam. Alexander was a good man, and
often allowed the children of the town into his shop to play with his wares, as
he knew few could afford them. He would host great dinner parties, in which the
poor families with too many mouths could gorge themselves on bread, made by
Alexander’s wife, and the soft cheese, that his son would make from their cow
they kept in a small plot of land they had at the back of their house. The poor
folk loved Alexander and his family, but at the same time were very quick to
deny it.
For there were some in the town who were not so fond of the
Ivanovic’s. The mayor would often spoil his grandchildren rotten Alexander’s
toys, yet only ever sent his most trusted adviser, Cartlenko, to buy them.
Where Cartlenko walked, the floor boards creaked and the children hid behind
their mother’s legs. For as long as he had been around, a gun had rested on his
hip, and he was rumoured to sleep with a knife under his pillow. Few people
would stand up to Cartlenko, and many of the townspeople wondered how he had earned
the scar which ran along his left cheek. The town’s butcher said it was from
when Cartlenko killed a wolf which was eating his meats, but few believed him,
and even fewer noticed the look of contempt he shot at the Ivanovic’s shop
whenever it was mentioned.
Many years passed, and the townsfolk’s minds began to grow to
more serious matters, like surviving the harsh winter in which they were caught.
They were growing tired of cabbage soup, and envied the Ivanovic’s for a
seemingly endless supply of bread and cheese, upon which they could live quite
comfortably. Alexander would often walk with his wife and offer food to the homeless
and the poor, who received it graciously. But the cow was old and the wheat was
scare and their supply was running out. Times were getting darker for Alexander
and his family.
It was a particularly harsh day in which the wind whipped
around the mayoral house. The boards of the dining room creaked as the hard
boots of Cartlenko thundered down on them as he paced restlessly. The mayor sat
in a large upright chair, stroking his beard.
“So you think it is the right time now, my dear friend?” he
said.
Cartlenko stopped pacing and faced the mayor. “Yes my lord,
we can move now and have him done. No one will come when they hear the glass
break and we will burn his shop to the ground. Alexander Ivanovic will be no
more.”
The mayor paused. He often thought about his theory, and
whether he was right or not. He did not wish to bring unnecessary bloodshed to
his town, but at the same time, he wanted power, and would not anyone threaten
him for it.
“His hold on my people is too great,” the mayor said quietly,
“he will have to go.”
Cartlenko smiled and walked out, fingering the butt of his
gun, thinking sweet thoughts of revenge.
Ivanovic had heard whisperings and rumours on his walk that
afternoon. People looked up at the sky, shaking their heads.
“It’s an uncomfortable shade of purple today, Mr Ivanovic,”
one man said without prompting, “Nasty storm I’d say’s a-looming.”
Alexander returned home late that afternoon, for the clouds
were travelling very quickly. The wind had picked up and snowflakes had just
begun to fall. As he unlocked his front door, he had the sudden urge to turn
around, and doing so he saw a sight he did not wish to see. Cartlenko was
sitting on an upturned barrel, puffing a fat cigar. Alexander shut his door
quickly, but could still see his figure, and the large plumes of smoke circling
above his head.
It was time.
Alexander grabbed a bag of food and his cloak. He explained
to his wife that they were no longer safe here, and that they must leave
immediately. Tears crept into the corners of her eyes. Alexander held her close
to him, kissed her forehead softly. A clockwork ballerina was dancing on the
table, her graceful movements at one with the beating heart of his wife. He
said for her to run and get their son, who was milking the cow outside, whilst
he finished preparations. But as she opened the door, not only the harsh winter
wind greeted her, but a powerful blow to the head. A violent thud against the
hard wooden floor made Alexander jump. He turned and in the doorway stood
Cartlenko. His hulking figure blocked the icy wind with a shield of pure
malice. Cartlenko glared at Alexander, stepping over the limb body in front of
him, being very careful to tread on her hand, breaking her fingers. A cruel
smile lit up the dark face of Cartlenko. He had waited far too long for this
moment. All those years…
He raised his revolver, fingering the trigger as if it were a
necklace of gold. He took a final confident step forward. Yet the bullet never
left the mouth of the gun, and Cartlenko had ended up on his knees, rather than
at the feet of a dead Alexander Ivanovic, for at that moment, Alexander’s son had
appeared in the doorway, bringing a large wooden stave crashing down onto the
back of Cartlenko. Alexander grabbed his son’s arm and sped out through the
back, past the cow and out of their home. They took a horse which was tied
outside a neighbour’s house and both leaping on, sped out of the town’s gates
and into the wilderness.
Cartlenko arose as they left the gates, knowing he had
failed. He went to the bench, picking up the clockwork dancer who had been prancing
amongst the tools and paints. He crushed the toy in his great hands, tossing
the remnants onto the floor. He surveyed his work. He might not have killed his
prey, but he had mortally wounded it. There was just one more thing he must do.
They road for hours, high into the hills, until their thighs
were sore and they could no longer see more than few feet in front of them.
They gingerly got off the horse and looked down upon the town they once called
home. It was as black as the night ahead of them, except for an orange-red glow
in the part of town they one called home. Tears crept into the eyes of
Alexander’s son as they had his mother’s just a short while ago; Alexander took
him in his arms. He would not let his son go as easily. And as Alexander held him,
the snow began to fall.
He lifted his son on the horse once more and sat behind him,
wrapping his arms around his waist. He knew they must ride through the night to
ensure they would be safe. The snow began to cut his cheeks and the wind
whipped at his face. He reached for his glasses but found they were no longer
there. He peered into the night for what seemed like hours, hoping that something
other than the oppressing darkness would come into sight. And then, after many
miles upon miles of riding, a small woodland came into sight. Alexander made to
move his arms, but found they were frozen to his son. He gently pulled,
breaking the ice, his limbs aching from a lack of movement. As he moved his
arms, Alexander’s son fell, landing with a hard thud on the ground. Alexander
knelt beside his son. His eyes were shut, his face calm, as if he sleeping.
Small ice crystals were frozen to his face and he was as hard as marble.
Alexander picked him up and walked slowly into the woodland.
He found a rose bush and laid his son beneath it. As Alexander stood, the last,
remaining rose fell onto the white below, breaking like crystal when it hit the
ground. Alexander then curled up within the bows of a great oak, shutting his
eyes, and wondering if he himself would make it through the night; secretly
hoping that he did not.
