The Collector: Four

Iris stared, wordless, despite the discussion between the man-like shape and the boy on the couch. Despite still being quite young, the boy seemed hardly put off by the queerness of the host, who made no motion even as he spoke. Finally, Iris allowed the words in, frost melting in the ground and letting the seep of spring melt into the earth. She caught only a snippet at first, but then it seemed as though the creature was simply repeating the same apologies again and again until she responded.

“Truly, we should have waited until at least dawn to begin playing. We are so very sorry if the music disturbed you from your sleep.”

“I…” Iris shook herself to try to bring words and sense back to her head, “It’s okay. I’m just glad to be awake and safe, though I wish I knew where we are.”

“A safe haven, away from whatever manner of dread and terror you were faced with not long ago, but of course, you may just call this place Home. It would be easier, would it not?” the voice in the tunnel-like neck asked.

Iris eyed the boy, but Rennard had his head slung back across the couch, his arms slack at either side, “Well, you see, the thing is, I have a home. But I don’t know how to get back to it or how I came to be here instead of there.”

“Iris, pardon I know your name through crystal readings, but dear, I don’t believe you understand me. This is Home to you now. What you saw, the horrible, terrible things you saw before coming here, they were no nightmare. We saw you, my helpers and I, and we saved you from what could have been,” Father answered, hands appearing in the sleeves of his gown as though from the dark of space itself.

Still searching the rounded room in disbelief, Iris sought something to cling to, some sense of reality or normalcy. As far as she could reckon, this place was as near to home as a submarine at the bottom of the ocean. Everything here, beyond the boy and his instrument, itself of a macabre make but no less a chordophone for it, was all she could find of roots to anything she knew. The entire setting felt more like a dream than the night terror she had just been roused from by this strange siren song. It was quickly getting too much for her, and Iris began to panic.

Father lurched forward a bit, flustered by the reaction, but instead of consoling, he called out to Rennard. Flinging his head up from the languid and docile position over the couch, the boy inspected the scene. Becoming incensed by the creature’s actions, he rose and became a buffer between the two. With a boom of sound, but the dulcet tones of a nurturing mother, Rennard reached out to Iris, “Hello. You’re Iris, I’m Rennard, you can call me Ren if you like. Would you like me to show you around, perhaps get a breath of fresh air?” 

“I… I… I…” tears were welling in her eyes, then, “Yes!”

“Rennard, what are you about?” hissed Father.

As quietly as he could, he whispered, “It’s a bit much to wake to; I should know. I’ll soothe her, calm her, if need be, I’ll explain things, but give her space.”

“I’ll trust you this once, Rennard. Do not forget your manners.”

The shade of Father relented before shrinking away down the far corridor until not even the dark hunch of his figure was apparent. As the air began to clear of the foreboding aura Father gave off, Iris breathed slightly easier. With her nearly calm, Rennard sat on the arm of the chair and took one of her hands. Gentle as though removing a stinging insect from her, he pet the angel-soft flesh on the back of her hand. For how many he had seen come and go, Rennard could find that feature untouched as time went on. 

No matter what they came from, every child here began as that soft, supple flesh, uninitiated into the habits and awful of the world. Yet, unlike any child that found themselves on the island, hands like that would grow older, rougher, and wrinkled with age. The children would all leave the notions of youth behind to become more calloused and ill until they were cracked and depleted of life. In time, it would come for them all, but not Rennard yet, and as he hoped, not for a long time for Iris. Though that hope for a long span for the child was almost more a condemnation, he figured, than a blessing.

Rennard fought his mind to rebuke the wish, knowing that time, even that spent without weathering, was an agony. The years that should have passed and all the children now in the past made his every waking hour a hell unlike any the most gruesome devil could deal. It called to mind his grandfather and that cursed saying, ‘To struggle is one man’s pain, to watch another struggle is hell for two.’ 

“…hell for two,” Rennard half-muttered, lost in thought, until Iris gently tugged her hand out of his palm. 

She looked up at him, true oaky eyes fixing him with a compassionate stare, “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Old words from an old man, now said so many times by a young man that he’s getting too old for it even.”

Nodding, she let the question lie, “Were you going to show me around here then?”

“Of course.”

“I’m a bit scared. I only just woke up in that weird bedroom and came in here and… It wasn’t much better,” her eyes meandered over to the organ.

Rennard didn’t need to follow her eyes, “To be fair, this may be one of the strangest rooms in the manor that we’re permitted in, and that is usually only on special occasions. Down the hall you came is the rest, and up this way is all that we may not visit without the master’s company.”

“There aren’t more of him, are there?”

Rennard scoffed before allowing her grim stare to bring him back to sincerity, “I surely think not. There’s only one of the master… Father, that’s what he likes us to call him, but between you and me, I don’t much care so long as no one calls him less than that to his face.”

Iris hesitantly rose, moving like a fawn just out of the womb with shaken and skittish movements. Rennard offered a hand which the younger child so gladly took with fervor. For a moment, humor struck the boy until he realized how terrifying the situation was on the other end of things. Keeping the girl in mind, he fished in a pocket of his vest until he found the amber tube nestled in among so much lint. Proferring it between two fingers, like the adults did with fags back where he came from, he offered the treat to the girl.

Though it should have come as a danger to her, Iris didn’t think twice about taking the thin rod of fluid from the older boy. She smiled at him though it was evident she wasn’t entirely sure why she should. It wasn’t as though she felt uncomfortable dealing with Rennard. In fact, Iris felt completely confident he would do her no harm, but the gesture was lost on her. He made an indication that the substance could be consumed, drank even, but Iris still looked from Rennard to the tube and back in confusion. As they came to the entrance of the room, he stopped the two of them and took the treat from her, only to return it with the top torn off between his teeth.

The act itself was quick and violent and would have caused Iris to again spiral into a panic, were the thick, homey scent of warm honey not there to dampen the feeling. She looked at the tube in her hand with the dense amber fluid welling up and spilling just down the side of the container. Still, she hesitated, less because of the man’s spital on the edge but because she didn’t feel right to so quickly snatch this kindness from a near stranger. Finally, the scent penetrating her nostrils, racing through her airways, forcing her heart to pound just a spell faster, convinced her, and Iris slurped down the entirety of the tube. 

There was a heat to the honey, not like that of a chili pepper but a cinnamon that lived and smoked with natural strength. It clung to her mouth and leaked down her throat as the droplets from the gutter of a daylong drizzle. As it passed through her, Iris felt a comforting warmth she had only ever equated to a warm cup of cocoa. And just like a sip from a mug of steaming hot chocolate, the honey gave her a sense of security, as though her mother and father were beside her. Rennard smiled as the soothing tide washed away the fear and mania that had ceased the girl earlier. 

He held out his hand again, “There are others here, children, I mean. Most of them are younger, probably your age. They should be at play if not ready to break and prepare for bed. I’d like you to meet them before I show you too much of the manor. They’re our family, now and forever, the same as those we left behind.” 

“Left behind? Isn’t there any way to go back to our own homes?”

Rennard’s grin became somber now, “Someday, maybe we will find our way back, across so many tides, this ocean that separates us from everything… but for now, it is better we make brothers and sisters of those alongside us.”