The Collector: One

Stagnate, chilly water splashed at corpse-colored flesh as the drainage pool rose with the flow of rainwater spilling through the channel. The rains would be a blessing, the humidity and warmth, the fresh and soothing scent, and the cleansing purity of it washing away long-standing water; however, for the girl in the sewer, it was potentially fatal. Iris’s face was poised towards the rising fluid, her nostrils nearly touching decaying vermin that had begun to ebb and flow with the push of new water. With her apnea, her mouth was wide and welcoming to the murky, grayish tide as it became transfused with pure rivulets. She was small enough for the current, once it picked up, to wash her away if she did not drown first.
Thunder rippled and roared through the subterranean cement space, booming with enough volume to wake the dead. However, Iris was still, and even if she awoke, she would be fully numb. For more time than she could have counted, Iris had been wet and cold, which only compounded with her malnourished frame. To wake then, to be forced to watch the wretched pool rise inch by inch until she was brought under or swept away, would be the cruelest demise. The dark of the tunnel was illuminated once, then again in sporadic fashion as lightning danced like mating snakes across the bruised sky. A finger twitched in the light, a hand crawled against the coarse, rough stone. The reeking water covered the nails with their half-chipped away pink lacquer.
Bit by bit, the wastewater was overtaking the small girl; the rain picking up only forced more water through the drain. Her body spasmed slightly, here and there, from the sensation of frigid damp soaking more and more of her. Almost as though by instinct, Iris’s body pulled closer to the wall, away from the tide that struggled between cold and warm. The rain was accompanied by hail, pellets that seemed to gravitate to her flesh. If the pool itself was not the culprit to Iris’s death, hypothermia would surely be her killer, and the one watching no less guilty.
The shade of a man, though hardly part of humanity any longer, had sensed the girl, discovered her, and then stood sentry over her in the low-ceilinged space. He had summoned others, two of the oldest, to descend on the far side of the fetid river and retrieve her. There was no consideration for how long it would take. Navigating the grounds of the island, especially without a guide, was near impossible for the wisest among them. Tangled masses of brambles, ingrown trees sprouting between giants with twisting, gripping branches, and of course, the creatures that found shelter from the storm beneath the canopy. It was a death sentence as much a duty. It was a maze with several minotaur and not a simple walk in the woods. Yet, another child meant more news, one more glimpse into the world beyond the crawling, endless dark seas.
With several shudders, as though the door could only open a few inches at a time, the cover was moved off of the access ladder. A boy’s voice echoed into the underground passage, “I’m not going down there. You do it.”
“Jacob, my dress,” returned a girl’s voice.
The squabble did not bother the watcher a moment as he continued to stare at the unconscious child. The echo came again of the boy, “I have to hold the stupid grate. You have to get her.”
The water was beginning to slosh up to Iris’s lips, not yet in but just on the borderline of entering. The hail increased its fervor, the clicking and clacking of ever-growing ice wads impacting stone drowned out the argument. Within seconds, the chips of ice, soddened with the filthy water, were pressing themselves onto the girl’s face, across her lips like hoarfrost on spring trees, and coming just to the threshold of her mouth. Thunder crashed again, but this time was accompanied by a more physical boom, the sound of the access panel slamming shut.
Unshod feet slipped down the rungs of the damp and half-rusted ladder jutting out from the wall. Before another moment could pass, another pebble of ice push into Iris’s open mouth, the swarthy young boy pulled her into his arms. As though she were his own sister, he pressed the cold, pale face to his chest, trying to stir life where it looked to have fled. Pain stretched across his face, the horrid thought of another child dead. He shifted his twisted expression to focus on their host, “You’d just stand there, would you? Stand and watch as she fades!”
The face in the darkness looked unphased, as though the very notion of death was meaningless. After a moment, he indicated the passage to his rear that neither the boy nor any of those who had come from above had known of. The face rarely changed in expression, but now it looked as though that parchment-skinned mask was giving the faintest grin. Rennard had trouble trusting that face in its normal arrangement, but looking at it now, staring into that endless eternal with only that ghastly face to keep one company on the journey into the abyss, he couldn’t help but feel the creature was nothing but evil.
“Jacob, Luna, I got here! Head back. I found a way out!” Rennard called at the panel as the two younger children tried again to move the rusted crank. He never broke eye contact with their host’s empty sockets, “She’s weak, cold. You’ll need to lead the way for us.”
With a nod, the wrapped being turned about and shuffled into the dark passage that had brought him to this low place on the island. Rennard forged the increasing current of the drainage sewer, never minding the horrible things that floated among the freshwater pushing along the pool. As he crossed the deepest swath, Rennard saw something he could not place but found familiarity in its shape. The conclusion that struck him, a suspicion he could not confirm was quickly dismissed as he reached out and grasped the metallic square sticking out from the water. He concealed the piece beneath the girl’s dress and pushed up onto the far side of the pool and into the shadows.
The tunnel leading away from the refuse pool was pitch as a starless night, and longer than Rennard could imagine, the whole island was in any direction. At no point did it seem to rise or fall, but inevitably the corridor ended at a level higher than the drainage shoot sat. The infirmary was just as unwelcoming as the sewer or the path between, but instead of the horrid stench of festering fluids, it was a sickly sanitary smell. Rennard followed his host to the first chamber off of the main hall. Inside, it was noticeably warmer, the interior lacking the poisonous stench of chemicals, and was outfitted with plush sheets and a few stuffed toys.
Rennard looked at the bundle he carried, a petite girl who might appreciate the hand-me-down stuffed puppy and kitty. As he moved to set her on the bed, the voice erupted from the hollow of the worm-like man’s face, “Her clothes are wet and sodden with filth. She will not warm in that state.”
“Ok. I need Helena to come down then. Can you call her?”
“No time. She is in the library right now; too far off, too much time would pass. I will get the implements while you remove the wet material,” the ghastly voice answered before slinking out of the room.
Rennard’s hands froze, floating over the girl, soaked to the bone and barely with a palor of life in her face. If he could trade places with anyone else in the manor, he would do so at that moment. Alone with the girl, he carefully began to undo the buttons of her dress. All that Rennard could do was pretend it was his sister in need of a bath. It would be the only way he could be comfortable in undressing her until he saw the slightest hint of an undershirt that was far less filthy though no less damp. It would be no problem to remove those if he was bidden to do so while she was under the sheets. Though no less disgusted with his task, Rennard could more easily carry out his duty.
Iris was placed in the bed and quickly tucked in her, flesh still flush and white, but her limp and lifeless state seemed to dissipate. A knock came from behind Rennard as he sat at the foot of the bed, keeping a close eye on his charge. As he whirled to face the master of the island, he instead found Thecla setting up a stand for a tray of different implements. She smiled her gap-toothed grin as though her presence was expected. At the same time, Rennard couldn’t help but frustrate over the fact she could have switched roles with him. Before he could give voice to the issue, the master returned.
“Where do you need me, Father?” Thecla lisped gleefully as though there were not a child just paces away, near death.
In that hollow voice, the master responded, “Place the warm pads around her arms and legs. Make sure they’re spread well. If she twitches, restrain her.”
“Do you require me any longer, sir?” added Rennard.
“Those clothes should be disposed of. The incinerator, if you would, child.”
“Yes, sir,” Rennard grumbled before scooping up the reeking, wet mass of clothes, her shoes included. In time, if she recovered, the boy knew she would wear whatever garments the master found suiting. Just as he was too often forced to dress in garish violet and silk. Rennard could only hope the girl would be given more dignity in her dress.