Gaston - Chapter 5 (Patreon)

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It had been hours since the sun set. The three individuals sat in comfortable silence, barely speaking amongst themselves. They had resolved themselves to remain awake through the night. The journey to the town of Villeneuve would take little more than half a day. Tomorrow, they’d be able to rest us much as they wanted after they’d arrived.

Margaret in particular had recovered a lot of her earlier ease. If it where up to her, she’d have called off this stakeout. The weather wasn’t even suitable for an ambush, it was simply too clear outside. She was currently staring up at the moon, which had journeyed halfway through the night sky. The stars flickered brightly, lighting the space above their heads like God’s great chandelier.

Maurice and Claude were talking softly amongst themselves. Margaret was a little interested, but it wouldn’t be professional of her to eavesdrop. Instead, she occupied herself by softly stroking the nearby sleeping children’s heads one by one.

When she’d first been hired over thirteen years ago, she’d not been too enthused about the idea of being a nanny. They had grown on her. So much, in fact, that she couldn’t bear to part with them even when it became extremely disadvantageous for her to stick with the Le Marquand family.

Now, here she was, a trained professional acting as a maid for children. She’d thought about returning to her previous manner of employment, but it held no appeal for her. She enjoyed this more. She was content.

She looked over at where the baron’s young son was sleeping. He had an interesting personality. Margaret disliked the fact that she’d gotten used to using Anastasia as a way of measuring a boy’s worth, but what could she say? The method worked. While Gaston was clearly lusting after the girl, he kept his composure while doing so. That alone was a tick in his favor.

Margaret returned her gaze to the shadowy forest. An amateur would have been spooked by the slowly swaying branches and the snapping of twigs, but she knew these to be nothing more than the normal sounds of nature.

“It will get misty soon.” Claude suddenly said, his deep voice easily reaching her ears where she sat some distance away, despite how softly he said it.

Margaret furrowed her brows. “I don’t see any mist.”

Claude glanced over at her while tapping his nose. “I can smell it. Old woodsman’s nose.”

Margaret drew softly inhaled through her nose. Now that he mentioned it, she could detect a hint of moisture in the air. “Is there a lake nearby?”

Claude shook his head.

Margaret thought that was strange. Mist didn’t usually just appear on a clear night like this.

Claude spoke as he looked up at the night sky: “Midnight has passed.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. She wasn’t a superstitious person. She’d been all over the world, and had never seen anything that could be interpreted as supernatural. The time between midnight and early morning held no special meaning to her.

She continued to stare into the forest, keeping an eye out for any mist. And indeed, as time passed, she could see a thin layer of vapor emerge outside the circle of firelight.

She heard a scraping sound. She looked over her shoulder to see Claude picking up his large axe from where it leaned against his leg to place it on his lap. She opened her mouth to say something, only to close it again. She eyed the blade near her before picking it up and placing it in her lap as well.

They sat in silence as they watched the rising fog. It drifted slowly between the tree trunks and brush leaves, the individual particles of moisture shining silvery in the starlight.

Margaret felt a soft breeze against her cheeks, the vapor carried within wetting her face. The fog kept building, almost sneakily. If she stared at a single spot for a long time, she wouldn’t notice much change. However, if she turned her head, she’d notice how the areas at her periphery had become opaque much more rapidly than expected. Every time she returned her gaze to a previous spot after looking somewhere else, it would suddenly be covered in mist.

Her tired mind was playing tricks on her. She’d been travelling and working the whole day, and the idea of sleep was becoming more and more appealing. Her eyelids fluttered closed for a moment.

When she came to, it was because of a sharp sensation against her neck. She opened her eyes to see Claude holding her own knife against her throat. Blood rushed to her face in outrage. She opened her mouth to say something.

However, before she could speak, she was interrupted by Maurice’s concerned voice: “Margaret, what… are you doing?”

Her face showed her confusion. “Sir, what do you mean?” She turned her head carefully to look at him, making sure not to cut herself on the blade at her neck.

Maurice’s white-faced expression became even more disconcerted at her question. “Margaret, where were you planning on taking Mirabelle?” His eyes travelled downwards to look at her arms.

Margaret’s gaze followed him only to find she was cradling the sleeping girl in her bosom. She looked around, her face contorting into bafflement and a hint of fright as she noticed her position. She was standing at the edge of their camp, a hair’s breath away from walking into the mist.

She shook her head dumbly, unable to comprehend her situation.

“Give me the child, Margaret.” Maurice said placatingly, in the same tone of voice one would use on a spooked animal.

She did as he asked her, uncaring of the weapon placed against her neck. Her veins were ice cold and her entire body buzzed with a numb sensation as she stepped forward to carefully deposit the sleeping girl in her father’s arms.

Seeing that she’d returned to her senses, Claude removed the knife from her neck.

“What were you thinking, Margaret?” Maurice asked in a loud whisper. He found her behavior tonight incredibly disturbing. She’d not responded to their pleas at all, and had only snapped out of it when Claude wrested the blade from her grip and set it to her own neck.

Margaret was still shaking her head slowly from side to side incredulously. She hadn’t thought of doing anything like this! She’d just dozed off for a moment.

Claude kept his gaze on her as he removed a pouch of something from his vest. He opened it while handing it to her. “Take a whiff of that. It should wake your right up.”

Margaret brought it to her nose only to be assaulted by the strong smell of ammonia. Her face scrunched up in distaste.

Claude’s mouth twitched a little before he once again became dead serious. “Give it a good smell. Trust me, it’s not piss.”

Margaret only contemplated it for a moment before she did as he bade her. She didn’t want a repeat of… whatever it was that happened tonight. Immediately, she felt as if someone had shoved a pick of ice into her brain. She recoiled from the pouch in shock as blood started seeping from her nose.

Claude snatched his smelling-salts from her before she could drop it, putting it back in his vest. “If you feel like you might doze off again, just tell me.”

The woman carefully nodded her head as she wiped at her bloody nose. She’d never felt this awake in her entire life!

They took their seats again, but closer to the fire this time. Maurice had laid Belle down on her bed. The herb was proving to be very effective, as none of the children had even so much as stirred despite the commotion.

The mist had become so thick in the meantime that it was no longer possible to see much of anything beyond the camp perimeter. Only the heat of the fire was keeping the mist at bay.

“Don’t let the fire go out.” Claude said, his voice grave. The bad feeling from earlier was getting stronger. “I’ll keep an eye on our surroundings. And don’t fall asleep.”

Maurice and Margaret looked at each other, nodding.

For a long time, no one said anything. At this point they were just desperately praying for the night to pass as soon as possible.

The fog grew thicker and thicker until neither the moon nor stars were visible any longer. The trees had become no more than a gathering of dancing shadows, hiding and being revealed as the mist moved and the firelight flickered over them.

Claude gripped the handle of his axe more tightly. Something suddenly felt off to him. “Does anyone else feel that?” He asked, his voice quiet.

Maurice and Margaret stilled at his question, trying to sense whatever it was he was talking about. Margaret in particular was paying rapt attention, having left her skepticism behind. 

She was still not a superstitious person, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t see the strangeness in what had happened to her earlier. She almost hoped that she’d accidentally eaten a dangerous mushroom or herb earlier in the day. It was preferrable to the… alternative.

“Yes, I do feel something…” Maurice said, his voice so quiet as to be almost inaudible.

Suddenly, Margaret noticed the problem. “It’s too quiet.” The forest’s nighttime sounds had all but disappeared. No branches creaked, no twigs snapped and no leaves rustled. It had become as still as a graveyard.

Claude nodded. Still, there was something else bothering him. He looked over to where Gaston was, suddenly feeling that the boy was situated too far away. He went over, easily picking him up with one arm and laying him down closer to the fire. Satisfied, he returned to his post.

The more Claude stared into the mist, the stronger the disconcerting feeling became. His brows furrowed as he tried to think of what it could be. A twig scraped against the back of his neck. He absentmindedly brushed it away before freezing.

He’d noticed the problem.

There was something wrong with the forest. It was hard to notice due to the thickness of the fog, but it had become clear to him now. A cold sweat broke out over his entire body.

He needed to confirm whether what he was seeing was real or not.

“Maurice, was there a stump in that spot when you arrived?” Claude asked the old merchant, pointing towards a dark, squat shape outlined by the mist.

Maurice’s brows furrowed in thought. “I-I don’t remember.” He said, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

In fact, he did remember. That was where he’d sat with Claude earlier in the day. There was no stump there.

Claude’s head stilled as his eyes flicked furtively back and forth. “How about that brush? Was it there earlier?” Claude asked, his voice so soft that Maurice had to strain his ears to catch the words.

Maurice followed Claude’s gaze over towards a leafless, dry shrub that rose from the ground. He shook his head, his mouth gaping open speechlessly. That was where Anastasia had rested when they’d just stopped for the day. There had been no such bush there.

Claud nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. “One last thing. Margaret, Maurice… where are the horses?”

The two individuals’ eyes went as wide as saucers. Their heads practically snapped from their necks as they looked to find that, not only were the horses gone, but the tree they’d been tied to had disappeared as well!

It was as if they were deep underwater, with the pressure coming down so strongly on their chests that they couldn’t breathe. 

Not one of them knew what to do. They were terrified.

Suddenly, a noise could be heard just outside the ring of firelight. It sounded like… the dying wheeze of an old man. One final breath to send him on his way to heaven… or hell.

They all froze.

Claude’s grip on his axe became so tight that the wooden handle started creaking under the strain.

They stood silently like that, unwilling or unable to tear their gazes from the direction of the sound.

Ten seconds passed.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Finally, a full minute passed.

Margaret was the first to break free of her terrified stupor. “W-What was th-…”

Before she could finish, Claude suddenly swung his axe!

His spin was so powerful that it disturbed the air around him, causing the fire to flicker and dance with the force of the gust. Sparks flew as the coals where buffeted by the displaced air. Margaret shut her eyes on reflex as most of the sparks were sent into her face.

Maurice opened his mouth to yell, but not even that movement wasn’t fast enough to keep up with the speed of the axe. The hunk of sharpened metal sliced through the air, making a sound somewhere between a whistle and a whir.

Maurice’s eyes tracked its path with horror. Claude seemed about to cut through his second-youngest son’s neck!

He wanted to tell him to stop, to say something, but his body was too slow to keep up with his overstimulated mind.

Yet, Claude’s axe didn’t strike the boy, but something beyond it. When Claude struck the thing, a pained scream rung loudly in the air.

That voice belonged to none other than Claude himself.

Maurice could practically see Claude’s bones bend from the rebound of his own strike. His blow seemed to hang in the air for an indeterminate amount of time before whatever was under his axe finally gave way with a crack.

A shadow disappeared back into the forest as silently as it arrived.

Claude dropped the axe to the ground, grunting in pain as he clutched at his sprained wrist. Maurice was shocked to note that the thick, robust axe handle had cracked and the solid hunk of black-iron that constituted the blade now had a large chip taken out of it. 

Whatever Claude had struck had been impossibly tough.

“Maurice… look at… your son.” Claude said, managing to huff out a sentence through his teeth, clenched as they were because of the pain.

Maurice and Margaret both turned to the sleeping boy, only to notice something… disturbing.

He, and the bedroll he’d been sleeping on, had been dragged some distance away from the fire. The fact that they hadn’t noticed it at all could only mean one thing: whatever had dragged him had done it so slowly and carefully that the movement didn’t even register in their peripheral vision.

Margaret raised her hand to her mouth in realization. The child had almost been stolen from right under their noses. Tears welled in her eyes: she felt both overwhelmed and numb at the same time.

She grabbed Claude with both hands, hard enough for her nails to dig into his skin. “To what damned place have you led us, you evil man?”

Surprisingly, it was the harmless looking merchant that seemed most able to retain his calm. He grabbed Margaret by her upper-arm, dragging her away from Claude. “Now is not the time to panic, Margaret. We must remain calm if we wish to protect the children. Anything else can be discussed after the night is over.”

With that, the three of them managed to rally their spirits, though not without the liberal application of Claude’s smelling salts. Their eyes were peeled wide as they retook their positions. With Claude out of action, and with Margaret practically incapacitated by fear, things didn’t look good for the three of them.

They old saying did indeed prove to be true: only in the most trying of times would man reveal his true nature. Maurice, who looked to be the most incapable of all of them, had a fearless expression on his face as he clutched the battered axe in his hands.

Fortunately for them, the witching hour soon passed. The mist retreated and the forest returned to normalcy once more. As soon as the bright, shining stars were revealed in the sky, seemingly twinkling with joy at seeing them again, Margaret broke down and started sobbing. Tears ran down her cheeks as she cried silently. The traumatic experience had proven to be too much for her.

Whatever evil had stalked the forest was now departed.

Maurice dropped into a sitting position, the beat-up weapon falling from his hands to thump against the ground. He turned his eyes to look at Claude. They met each other’s gazes, finding relief there, and… questions.

“I take it you have no idea what we encountered tonight?” Maurice asked quietly.

Claude shook his head. “I understand if you have doubts, given the way I spoke, but I’m just as clueless as you are.” Claude tenderly held his wrist, which had now swollen and was in the process of turning blue.

The two men sat quietly, each deeply immersed in their own thoughts. They didn’t discuss the auspicious timing of the fog’s appearance, nor its departure. It was as if there were some unspoken agreement between them.

Maurice watched tiredly as the Le Marquands’ servant finally stopped sobbing. She now sat with her arms folded around herself, staring listlessly into the fire. He desperately hoped she would be able to regain her composure by the time the children awoke…

Suddenly, a rustling noise could be heard from the forest.

Maurice immediately leapt to his feet, fumbling with the axe as he did so. Claude still had Margaret’s blade, which he held with his good hand. The woman in question buried her head deep between her knees, too frightened to do much else.

However, what emerged from the dark bowls of the forest was not the monster they were expecting.

They watched as a large black stallion entered the clearing, followed by five other horses.

The horse at the front bobbed its head up and down while pawing at the ground with one of its front hooves, almost as if it were trying to tell them something

The two men snapped out of their stupor, hurrying to quickly tie down the beasts to prevent them from disappearing again. In their relief, they’d almost forgotten about their problematic lack of horsepower.

It would truly have been too cruel, for them to have to spend another night in these accursed woods with no means of transporting the children or their luggage to Villeneuve.

Claude looked at the leading horse with a strange expression. He shook his head. With everything that had happened tonight, this was perhaps the least strange of all of them.

“Good job, Charbon.” Claude said, stroking the horse’s powerful neck.

The beast turned its head aside in displeasure.

Claude huffed in amusement. “Good job, Charbonneau Archambault Babineaux IX.”

In response, Charbonneau Archambault Babineaux IX neighed happily.

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