Spiced Mead
The millions of miseries Toussaint placed before me drags myself heavily. I waited so patiently for the inevitable plague to expel his soul, but not even the devil pities me. I spitter and sputter nefarious fantasies of the unimaginable, but it only fuels my temper for an ephemeral. [he, my teacher]
The strident clashes of anomaly [he plays]; the man was deaf in both ears! Discordant in every feasible atmosphere. I play ballads of impeccable technique, sonnets of exquisite tenderness. And the cadenzas, oh yes! The cadenzas, which I conjure with such ease. To produce with extreme embellishment; should fetter me, at once to a stake, and burn me, for possible witchery!
And it is where you find me now. In the apartment, which stood in the highest, most remote, parlor of his chateau. T’ was I seated paralyze, playing Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. The oriented flambeaux hung low, admitting a shallowly scarlet-like hue to the murky atmosphere. The old man minded the divergence I described in every note. As he stood ahead, prompt, on a plateau of some sort, appeared akin to that of a vulture. Adjusted to disheveled mousy hair, he ravaged through sacks of dried lentils, which issued a brittleness to his teeth, to accompany his sickly pallor. I most solemnly hated Toussaint. The paradox of the man unhinged me at best.
And the piece was done. With not a note two-seconds too fast; I was quite impressed myself. My teacher cranked at his back, snickered at the piano, and levied: “I am leaving to my cellar for more dried lentils, you want a pouch for your trek home, boy?”
Toussaint never shared a shrill of doubt in mind that my good-will of virtue imposed; for heavens, expressing hypocritical structure was indefinite! Though, I have no heavy heart to harm Toussaint. He was an admirer of my father’s art: a mazer alike. Every autumn dreary, he barters for spices and yeast to ferment a cask of seasonal spiced mead at beck and call, to consume the entirety, before the eve of the new year. It was no surprise to probe the idea that this autumn, no doubt I’ll deliver his request, but perhaps, exceed to impair a novelty to his usual order. Thus began the wait.
Saturday, 13th of September: I arose before dawn to take part in the preparation of his spiced mead. He, with combined scoliosis, wagered me to hallow out a niche under a decease oak tree to ferment the cask. He claimed: if the ale, too young saw yellow light, it shall torment until death at midnight… (I didn’t understand it either.)
Wednesday, third of December: Toussaint beckoned me to fetch a rather large shovel to exhume the cask. My hands achieved a blueish-black discoloration. He boycotted the lesson that night and sent me away.
Monday, 15th of December: Toussaint seemed to obtain an unsettling nervous approach. He peered his eyes, scoping around the apartment with rapid incoherent breaths, counting the pounding of the metronome.
And thus, began the new season. I went a fortnight without inspecting Toussaint. It was cold and bleak the entirety of that winter; the sun never bothered to show.
I arrived by night to his chateau. The snow was on par with my shins, and the notoriety of him was oblivious. An amorphous black fervor perceived the air, and t’ was I seated paralyzed again. Playing, Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. No vulture stood prompt on the enigmatic plateau. So, I proceeded to the toccata portion. Every measured ricocheted in the deathly halls of that ghastly manner. Tenacious! — the fever grew steadfast, I played faster and faster; the blood felt uncirculated in my third and fourth finger. The tension gained triple-fold. To the grandeur: the title theme struck! The ivory keys shattered at the singular slam of my fingers; tempting pieces impaled the callus that waxed my skin. And Toussaint appeared in the doorway, phantasmagorically.
I quelled at a shock and radically compelled myself to stand, causing the wooden bench to fall. Toussaint was no longer a man. It was St. Anthony’s Fire; an infectious illness that metamorphosed his body to a hairless rat. He ached and forcefully dragged his carcass across the splintered asylum. His night robe was stained with mahogany blots and reeked of fecal matter. The varmint submissively bit the pocket of my coat.
Whimpering: “Cold! — I am very cold— I cannot sleep— the woman that wallows in blood and the skinned figure who lingers in the ebony of night!”
He struggled sporadically, holding his breath. His sunken eyes offered an optimal reservoir to inhabit the collective dirt and tears.
“and The Voices” he breaks a new sound, one of that I recognize of a young boy, “the voices that evoke my thoughts…”. He exposes a discoloration of a black and purple palm; the fingers appeared to have fallen.
Toussaint was on the merge of self-destruction. And with still intact a partial left hand, my teacher reaches the bottom compartment of the bureau to guzzle the last particles of his seasonal spiced mead.
At last! A new testament arose in his caliber! Perhaps his ardent affair of mead struck his will once more. The placebo infected his mind.
“HARK! Huguette, take me to my court at once. We must ferment another cask!”
Weak was he no more, the spiced mead perceived to have rejuvenated his tone. And sprung with unforeseen vigor, he had even ushered himself out the gates. Compelled under the oak tree, Toussaint spurred at me: “Heed me a cask and spade in the hovel!
Compliant as I was quickly assured his desire.
“Now, you stand away, boy. This trench must be bottomless, I say!”
“Heavens no… your scoliosis…” I reprimand
“Good riddance, when did you become so soft?”
He got at the trench, one level deep, two levels, three, four, five, six, I had lost count. And so, it wasn’t until when the spade had reached its maximum effect. Toussaint arched his back and, with the mere turn, catalyst his scoliosis to corrupt, falling into the bottomless pit where the last taunt of his malady expelled his soul.
Toussaint was dead. And as the prepared overseer, a long-awaited smirk finally rests upon my forsaken brooding visagé.