Having been thwarted in his efforts to find diversion in the comforts of the cozy library, Charles had escaped to the outdoors to get as far away as possible from the raucous din of Marie’s so-called singing.
Having run the whole stretch of the expansive front lawn, he stopped a short distance from the river where he arrived at a swinging, rattan, egg-shaped basket-chair that hung from a tree limb there. This was one of Great Grandfather’s many finds from when he had traveled to India, and one of Charles’ favorited places to curl up and stay out from under foot and safe from harm’s way. He climbed up into the cozy, cushion-lined chair. Lulled by its gentle swinging motion, he fell into daydreaming and soon dozed off into a light slumber.
He dreamed about the soldier he always imagined himself to be when he would attend military school, as his father had promised he’d do before the year’s end. Having no real knowledge of the strict regimen to which he would be subjected at such an early age in a boy’s military institution, he was most anxious to begin what he thought would be a great adventure.
He saw himself in a regimental, tailored, bright red uniform, looking most splendid with long trousers, and pockets too. Gold epaulets festooned his shoulders, and a shiny saber was harnessed at his side. On his head, he would wear a military hat with a big white plume and a patent leather band to match his belt. He had once seen and admired just such a uniform depicted in one of his picture books.
He would march around with lots of other soldiers. They would hunt, explore and perform numerous other exciting feats – perhaps some even dangerous, such as on battlefields or in jungles. Maybe even joining in exploration and rescue missions and fighting fire-breathing dragons. Charles dreamed on, then fell into a deep, heavy, dreamless slumber.
Charles was abruptly and rudely awakened by the frightening sounds of secret whispers and mysterious whines and groans. It was only the breeze blowing through the branches of the trees. A cold, gusty damp wind was still swinging the wicker basket-chair. Chilled to the bone, he looked overhead to see dark, rolling clouds moving toward the towering oaks around him. He could see that the usual peaceful flow of the narrow river was now broken by choppy waters.
Charles shivered with the cold as he climbed down from the still swinging basket-chair. With hunched and cringing shoulders, he hugged his arms around himself and hurried up the lawn towards the safety of his home.
Charles heart began to pound as he hurried past the shadowy figures of the sculpture garden that somehow did not look so friendly or inviting as usual. As he drew closer to the house, he noticed that the once beautiful, free-hanging moss of the giant oaks bordering the estate was now being whipped by the wind and swinging in a wild frenzy. It appeared to Charles as specters and sylphs, dancing in long trailing, decayed shrouds.
The storm-torn strands of moss, danced in a rhythmic, frenetic orgy of movement. In Charles’ chilled, anxious state, he imagined hysterical screams and maniacal laughter emanating from the wind-ravaged, swaying trees.
Charles shivered, hugging himself even tighter, then scurried around to the back of the house and down the stone stairs to the familiar haven of Mathilda’s kitchen, hoping for some warmth and a bite to eat.
When he stepped inside he could see that every pot, pan, jar, ladle, sieve, strainer and scrap of food had been stored neatly away, and no one was in sight. Absent was the usual warm, cheerful feeling of the hustle and bustle of Mathilda’s kitchen. The cellar quarters were cool, quiet, dark. . . . and completely empty.
