Ceallach Part 3

“You forget you are still one of us, Ceallach.” Cecil uttered.

“Am I?” the tired man begged, turning to face the opinionated young man. “Is it common for a man to outlive his children’s children? Is it normal for a man to never feel sickness?-- other than those plaguing the heart and mind? My body is as it was three-millennia ago. Or has it been longer? I can hardly tell anymore.” He sighed tracing the gold-leaf binding of the black novel that found its way back into his hands. Contemplating the scores of memories it held, Ceallach, the Immortal, returned the black novel to one of the many shelves lining the library walls. Thousands of books, all bound with the same gold-leaf print, filled the shelves. Some containing stories far older than the others.

*
“You were. And by all accounts you are the most human person I know. If you’re not human, then no one is.” Cecil chuckled, thinking to lighten the mood.

“None of you are human. Not as intended. Not as mankind once was.” Ceallach brooded, fingering the patterns on one of the books with a faded-red cover.

“And what exactly does that mean Key?” Cecil coughed, rolling his eyes at another one of Ceallach’s ominously vague comments.

“You’re all abominations...”

Cecil’s jaw dropped at the nonchalant statement. He held his breath, awaiting an explanation.

But none was to come.

Ceallach waved Cecil away over his shoulder and walked out of the library, gold-leaf flakes trailing him as he disappeared into the mansions many halls.

“I guess I’ll see myself out then.” Cecil sighed as he turned toward the door. Coming upon the inside of the main entrance, Cecil noticed the doorknob had been polished. It was an ugly-looking creature- with a face resembling that of a man, but frozen in a snarl, revealing jagged teeth and a tongue draping to the side. Peculiarly split into three, serpentine tongues.
‘Where does he find this stuff’ Cecil thought as he walked down the mile long driveway leading from the mansion.

‘What strange days these are...’ had become a more frequent expression in Ceallach’s mind, and he uttered it again as he passed through one of the mansion’s many studies. This one in particular was furnished with all kinds of cloth. The walls adorned with purple silk instead of wallpaper, loosely fitted, making the room seem alive whenever a door opened. Any change in pressure causing the walls to breathe and sigh at a visitor’s entry or departure. It was at the end of its sigh following Cecil’s exit, as Ceallach ran his left and across the walls. He hesitated, recalling the distance smells and sights the silk’s touch ignited in the memory of his senses. Flashing memories of shapely figures in the dark warmth of summer evenings held him still in his systematic pacing.

Bombarded by images of flashing smiles swirling beneath bed sheets and the unending spiral of a young girls dress spinning in the sunlight brought Ceallach to his knees. “How long had it been? How could he forget her name?” The fringes of a tattered-skirt skidding by his mind’s eye, eluding his focus as he fought to keep the image still in his mind. Catching only a glimpse of freckles on a dimpled cheeck, or the curve of a shoulder underneath the bounce of auburn hair, he reached out in frustration to capture the young girl with his hands. And a sudden crash broke the illusion. The giggling vision before him evaporated as the dust rose from a freshly broken end table- the weight of the book he had released in his fervor had been too much for the ancient furniture.

Coughing on the dust and choking back his tears of frustration, Ceallach bent down to retrieve the novel from the pile. As her rose inspecting the damage to the novel, his atention was caught by what would be the new supply of firewood for the night. This table, where did it come from? It held his attention, or as much attention as his tired mind could handle at the moment, until he exhausted any possibility of remembering the relevance of the furniture.

“All is well. Saves me a trip to the woodshed.” He noted.
Heading for the kitchen to occupy his mind with the ideas evoked by flavor, Ceallach turned over the novel he’d rescued from the silk-rooms. Leafing through the pages to ensure it was intact, he took notice of an odd scent wafting from the pages-and he froze.

Images, faces, names, sounds, and adrenaline, all pumped through Ceallach’s mind as he sprinted back to the Silk-room. Scarcely able to refrain from diving into the pile of broken cedar, Ceallach threw the two-halves of the tabletop into the hallway. Grabbing one of the tables six legs in hand, he shook it by his ear, listening for the slightest sound of shifting.
Nothing.
He tossed the disappointment into the hall with the rest of the table, one broken leg after another. Reaching for the only remaining piece of the furniture remaining in the room, Ceallach grabbed it with the intensity of a hunter, finally savoring the pleasure of its’ kill.
Breathing in deep as he glanced about the silk walls of his prison, his eyes fell dull as he whispered:
“Aliana...”