I chose to give only a part of the second chapter, as it's pretty long. If you need to be refreshed on the last chapter, here's a link to it. I hope you enjoy!
At my true waking, my ears were in diverse pain. My mind felt as my ears did, and I curled into myself on the bedding I had been placed on. All looked dark about me, apart from a square of light against a wall, a window. As my mind stilled and my ears eased their throbbing, my vision as well began to return. I did not trust myself to stand, as my legs felt weak and even my hands shook as though I were possessed. Instead I turned my head about the room, searching for any sensible placement of my location.
The first observation I made was that I was surrounded by wood. Not the sort one would find in a cabin, but that of a rustic yet regal home. The walls were a deep shade of polished brown wood, issued in large elegant squares. The floor was wood of a lighter color, but equally polished and refined. My bed was wood as well, superb in structure and very regal looking. There was a quaint desk and chair in one corner, with several papers and, strangely, a feather pen beside a small container of ink. I puzzled at the antique tool a moment before moving on. There were several paintings hung on the walls, each of simple things, such as a tree or flowers in bloom. One had a quaint scene that seemed to be from the mid nineteenth century. After taking in enough of my surroundings, my eyes shifted to the window.
The outside was dimly lit, the effects of late fall coupled with evening. But that was not what caught my attention. What I could make out from my place on the bed informed me that I had been taken somewhere very far from my home. In my life I had never moved from my hometown and knew nearly every house and street. But outside, I saw houses that bore not even the slightest resemblance to any I had seen. They were old, and impressed upon me the wood and stone of earlier centuries. They were not medieval, but certainly of nineteenth century build. Or older. I gazed at them for a good while before taking in any other detail. They were elegant, and wonderfully made, but antique nonetheless. To build such a house in the twenty-first century could certainly only be done with good money and for stylistic choice. I soon caught upon the people and had the houses quickly departed from my confusion.
They walked about as any people do, some purposefully and some meandering. But there was an aspect of them that was incredibly foreign, that being their clothing. For where jeans, button-downs, and a general casual aura had once been I now beheld elegance and formality. Men wore colorful high cut suits with high-waisted trousers, dress shirts, tall boots and top hats. Those who wore no top hats exposed hair much freer than that of the twenty-first century. Whether curled or straight, it was longer, not unruly but fashioned and not further than the shoulder. Regarding facial hair, such seemed to be a mixed topic. Some men bore mustaches, others carried long side burns, and some had clean shaven faces. But there were no slick or long beards similar to that of the twenty-first century style. Some carried canes and others let their hands swing beside them. And while the men were certainly out of touch with the twenty-first century, it was the women who convinced me I had entered a backward world.
Not a single two legged piece was in sight, each woman whether old or young wore long gowns. These gowns were of varied description but seemed uniform toward a set era. The majority were high waisted with simple shoulder sleeves, coming down to ankle height. Some had intricate designs, and some were one solid color, but each possessed formality and elegance in its own way. Some bore frills, and others lacing, while some bore neither. Some of the women wore gloves, each stainless white, and some did not. Their hair was done up to a degree, not a single woman had free flowing hair. Frills, curls, or intricate weavings constrained their hair and held it in place. All was elegant and old.
The children behaved much as children usually do, although there was a greater margin of restraint. Only the boys ran, those who did so being noticeably less fashionable. The girls walked daintily, imitating the elegance with which their mothers and older sisters graced the streets.
What impressed me most was a sense of modesty and respect. Men tipped their hats and gave friendly nods, while women nodded or gave short curtsies. This may not seem an entirely visible capturing of my compliment, but by it I could tell that these men and women carried a different sort of standard. I know very well that no man is entirely without indecency, whatever standard he hold himself to. But here it seemed as though a great improvement had been made upon public behavior.
After I had watched a good deal longer, I heard footsteps on the other side of my enclosure. My heart lept and panicked as I remembered the circumstances prior to my confinement. While I had been provided for in a seemingly hospitable manner, I recalled that my daughter had been taken and I rendered unconscious by someone. I calmed myself and prepared to treat whomever opened the door warily.
The door opened, and a small woman entered. She was similar to the women I had seen outside the window only much more simple. My only sensible conclusion was that she appeared to be a maid in whatever strange place I had woken in.
“You’re awake,” she said with a kind smile. She entered the room carrying a small tray laden with food and water. “I trust you are feeling much over the weather, then?” she asked, and I could not help but notice that she spoke with an outdated sort of properness.
“Um, yeah,” I answered. I was still very much under the weather, and no doubt such was visible.
“Well don’t you move too much,” she said as she placed the tray on a nightstand beside my bed. “Mr. Ernest says you are to recover fully before you leave the room.”
“Who’s Mr. Ernest?” I asked, while my stomach rumbled at the boiled eggs and sausages prepared.
“Mr. Walter Ernest,” she repeated, as if it was obvious. She then took on an apologetic expression and continued with sympathy. “I suppose you do not rightly remember Mr. Ernest,” she concluded.
“No,” I shook my head. Upon doing so, I remembered painfully that it was still terribly fragile.
“Be at ease, sir,” she said, “and put thinking aside for the moment. Mr. Ernest will be in after you’ve had some breakfast.” She then left before I could say thank you.
I did not hesitate to consume the breakfast she had brought. It was heartier than the cereal and coffee I was accustomed to, and immediately satisfied my hunger. After a matter of moments I had consumed all the maid had brought, and placed the tray back on the nightstand to let myself think for a moment.
I suddenly felt the urgency of fatherhood grip me, and began to rack my mind for a solution to my situation. Emily had been taken, and I as well had been taken to where I knew not. I decided I needed to contact the nearest law enforcement and announce that my daughter had been kidnapped. I was unaware of how long I had been unconscious, but had to hope that it was not too late. I was so distracted by my thinking that I did not notice the door open.
“Calm yourself, friend, I mean you no harm,” a man said as he stepped in. His speech was similar to the maid’s, and much as the way in which I write this: a mutation of proper English. He was dressed in accordance with the fashion I had observed from the window, and his suit was a deep purple. His trousers were darker than many of the others I had seen, but not enough to clash with his purple. His hair was wavy, and parted to one side so that it fell nearly halfway down one side of his head in a controlled manner. His face bore a trim moustache, the same color of his deep brown hair. “May I ask your name?” he beckoned.
I did not answer. I found myself trapped between frantic worry for my daughter and wife and the man’s simple question. He seemed to understand my troubled state, and pulled the chair from the desk and sat in front of me.
“Easy, man,” he said in a calming tone. “Breathe deeply,” he instructed.
I did so, and found that I was able at the very least to listen to him.
“My name is Walter Ernest,” he said. “Marjorie informed me that you do not know me.”
“No,” I said, remembering not to shake my head. “I don’t remember what happened,” I continued frantically. “Where am I? What happened to—”
“All in good time,” he reassured me, putting his hands up gently. “For the moment, simply recover.”
“But—”
“I must insist,” he said, taking on a slightly more stern tone. “When you woke last, you sought action too quickly, and distressed the entire household.” He nodded and then gently continued, “so please, be calm and rest.”
I was silent, although I felt a sudden burst of emotion fall upon me. My daughter, tucked under the arms of a strange man returned to me in full force. I covered my face and began to cry, not caring whether there was another strange man sitting beside my bed.
“Now now,” Walter said, mild discomfort slipping out, “bear up, good man, bear up.”
I continued my pitiful regression without heed.
“Oh come,” he said, losing a bit of his gentle demeanor. “We cannot have you behaving as a heartbroken woman!” he said with a stern whisper.
I tried to control myself, sniffling and wiping my eyes.
“I understand that you have faced some difficulty, the nature of which we will eventually discuss,” he continued. “But please make an effort to control yourself and behave with some dignity.” He then lowered his tone to a whisper. “I request this for your own good,” he said. “The other young men will look at you scornfully should you continue to blub in this way.”
I stopped, much more confused than I previously was.
“Where am I?” I asked, and then added, “I’ll try to be calm, but you’ve gotta give me something,” I pleaded.
“Very well,” he said, “although I do not know where you picked up that form of speech.” He then cleared his throat and gave me a proud look. “You are currently within Living Ernest, a young men’s tutelage center,” he said. “I am the master of this house and tutor of the largest majority of Dovermen.”
“Dovermen?” I asked, the title seeming much like that of a breed of dog.
“Why yes,” he answered. And then, seeing that I truly was confused even as to this point, sighed. “Surely you have not misplaced Dover?” he asked.
“I have no idea what a Doverman is,” I said, and then added, “or Dover.”
“Bless me,” he muttered, “you earnestly have undergone some trauma.” He then quickly cleared his throat and gave me a confident look. “You give your worry to recovering, we shall sort out the rest of your difficulties later,” he said, and then rose as to leave.
“Wait, there’s so much I need to know,” I protested.
“And you shall know it,” he assured me, “all in good time. Does the good Lord give us rain when we need sunshine?”
I didn’t answer.
“No,” he said with a smile. “When we need sunshine the most, sunshine is what He gives us. ” He paused and gave me a promising nod. “You need recovering, and therefore we shall save the rain for later,” he concluded. “Here,” he said, placing a book on the nightstand. “A volume of Edgar Allen Poe, something to keep you busy while you recover.” He then left, taking with him the tray now consisting only of empty plates.
After he left, I found myself in a deeply broken state. I had lost my child, that precious angel I had been blessed with and had intended to guide safely through life. Further, the woman with whom I had vowed to spend my lifetime with was gone from me, and I knew not where. If I had her with me I knew I could have borne it all better. But, seeing as I had only Poe to console me, I easily gave in to despair.
I chose to sleep and pity myself long before I picked up the volume Walter had left me. Reading would do me no good in this situation, and I had no desire to read. At that point, I had heard of Edgar, but never read him. I cared little for literature, history, and many other scholarly things at the time. When I had been happy, my wife and daughter with me, I had cared most for simple things. The things that I invested in were my work, that being a factory engineer, and my family. And seeing as neither work nor family required Edgar’s somber works, I felt no need to partake of him.
But, after I had spent a good deal sobbing and sleeping, I decided to pick up the volume. I could not yet trust my legs and needed something to distract me. Whether by chance or some fateful mockery, I flipped to The Raven, which I now understand to be Poe's most famous work. I was tragically captivated by the somber questioning of the narrator and the sleek bird’s repetitious “Nevermore.” I could not help but draw the obvious comparison to myself and the narrator, and my wife and daughter to Lenore, them being removed and I asking whether I might find them. “Nevermore” rung wretchedly in my ears, and I quickly shut the volume after completing the poem.
I am certain Walter meant well, but I cannot understand that anyone might believe a volume of Edgar Allen Poe would lift the spirits of one suffering from a traumatic incident.
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