The Endraga Anthology: Book One, Chap. 1

Breckenridge, Colorado. USA, 1992


The grandfather clock struck midnight with a cacophonous chime that resonated throughout the manor. An ancient thing, it seemingly threatened to disintegrate into dust each time it announced the arrival of a day's end. Henry had inherited the archaic keeper of time from his late father, and he from his, and so on and so forth. He had no idea how long the piece had been in his family, only that it was the longest living member of his lineage, and that it was unwavering in its duty of chronological mastery. Henry glanced up from the mound of papers at his desk to look at it. Memories of a younger time permeated his consciousness. He and his sister would frequently use the clock as a blocking mechanism to keep each other from becoming "it" in games of tag. More than once, the clock had fulfilled a secondary goal, but no less important than its primary, by being a staunch defender from the dreaded "it" label.

Moreover, Henry had fond memories of his childhood in general. Bedford Manor had stood in the rocky mountains of Colorado for quite some time now, and was built by his Grandfather and Grandmother in 1859 when Breckenridge was established. Henry and his sister had never met their grandparents due to their passing before they were born. Stories of how kind, loving, and hard-working they were got frequently told to the two of them by their parents. Many a conversation that was started regarding them ended in, "they would have absolutely adored the both of you." And a wistful look of longing in their parents' eyes. Henry's father was a caring, but stern man. And every summer that he lived at the family home was spent doing manual labor and helping him run errands. Thus instilling within Henry the value of hard work. Henry's mother was every bit as caring as his father was, but twice as mischievous. She would often steal him and his sister away from work to go on hikes, and picnics, and strolls by the lake. Returning them home to a disapproving father in the entryway. But she would simply fold her arms and stand as tall as she could, saying nothing, as if to dare him to challenge her parenting methods. He would shake his head and walk away, but he couldn't hide the ever-so-subtle smile on his face from Henry as he feigned disappointment. Perhaps it was from her that Henry had gained his sense of adventure and independence.

He turned his attention back towards his work. He had been trying to decipher these old texts for days now. A colleague of his at the museum had recovered them at an excavation in the Middle East. Afghanistan, in the Kandahar mountains. And although he knew a multitude of languages, some of them considered dead by the world over, he couldn't even begin to identify the origin of the one written on these pages. It was a script unlike any he had ever seen. A sweeping style of writing, with long, thin, vertical loops and littered with tiny dots grouped up in places they had no place being in. Everything about it was wrong based off of his experience in languages. It was a conundrum, and not the good kind where you know there's an answer and it's solvable. He didn't even know if there was an answer. And yet it intrigued him to no end. His curiosity for the enigmatic dialect ran deep, and his desire to interpret it ran even deeper. But for now, perhaps, he should call it a night. His eyelids felt heavy and his mind was weary. Through the consolidation of his subconscious, he would wake up refreshed, and ready to tackle the manuscript once more. He was just taking off his glasses and setting his papers aside with a sigh when he heard a knock at his front door.

It wasn't the knocking itself that startled him, it was the hour at which it came. Who could that be at this time? he thought to himself. It was a quick succession of three abrupt knocks that echoed staccato in the cavernous home followed by silence. It did not come again. After what seemed to be an eternity waiting for a second series of knocks, Henry began to believe he was just hearing things. A flood of possible explanations entered his mind. Maybe it was just his brain playing tricks on him, fueled by the mental exhaustion of attempting to translate the mystery manuscript. Maybe he hadn't heard knocking at all, and instead it was his cat, Jeffrey, bounding about the manor in a clumsy way. Or perhaps he had finally gone crazy, and was experiencing a sort of psychosis. Which, if that was the case, he would need to notify his doctor first thing after he woke up. But the second that he had finished running through all of these possibilities, he was vindicated. Because once again, the knocking came, and in the exact same pattern as it previously did.

Henry got up from his workstation and began traversing his way through the halls towards the front door. A cold chill of nervousness settled in as he drew closer to the oaken entrance. He shuddered at the thought of his late night guest turning out to be a character of ill intent, potentially seeking to rob him or any other number of horrific crimes. For safe measure, he retrieved a carved, wooden walking stick from it's perch on a mantle just in case he needed to defend himself from the unannounced visitor. As he approached the threshold to his home, he could see the silhouetted outline of a tall figure through the thick-paneled glass surrounding his front door. Not a particularly large build, quite slender even, but with broad enough shoulders that Henry believed them to be a man. Surely the museum wouldn't have come calling at this hour, and besides, he was still behind the deadline he was given to decipher the manuscript, so there was no reason for them to be pestering him at 12:15 in the morning. Henry gripped his walking stick tighter and inhaled deeply before finally opening the door. The door, like everything in Bedford Manor, was old and creaked under the weight of numerous generations as it relinquished entry to the unknown person. Standing before Henry was a long, slim, robed man with a hood partially obscuring the top half of his face. He stood about a good 5 inches taller than Henry. 6'3" or 6'2" perhaps. His expression was featureless, but the details of his visage were those of elegance and grace. From what he could see, the man was most likely in his late 20s or early 30s. Age had not yet claimed residence in the form of lines under his eyes or on his cheekbones, and his chin came to a slight point that gave him a distinguished look. He was of a fair complexion, pale even, and his skin seemed impossibly smooth, like sanded porcelain. In the light of the foyer shining past Henry and the man, Henry could see the faintest glimmer of emerald green eyes shadowed within the shade of the hood. They seemed to pierce through him with an intensity Henry had only ever seen once in his life, when his father was still alive. Henry briefly withdrew from the gaze in sheer whiplash of memory, before quickly regaining his composure and returning his own eyes to meet the man's once again.

"Good morning." The man said, in a delicate, foreign tone. He definitely wasn't American. In fact, his accent was entirely unfamiliar to Henry. It sounded like a cross between Romanian and French. This caught Henry by surprise, for he was a well-traveled man who had been all over the world researching and studying different languages. He was already apprehensive that this man was being forthright with him, and instead attempting to decieve him by using a poorly done, fake, made-up accent.

"Good morning, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit Mr....?" Henry ended the sentence abruptly and let it hang in the air in the form of a question.

"Quince. Mr. Quince." The man replied stoic. His expression had not changed once since they had started talking. He still had the same featureless look to him.

"Well, Mr. Quince, how can I help you at 12:15 in the morning?"

"I apologize for the early morning intrusion, I assure you that I wouldn't be at your door at such an unseemly hour if it wasn't important. It has come to my attention that you have in your possession a most inquisitive piece of history. I wager that it has given you quite a difficult time in revealing its secrets. I was wondering if perhaps I could take a look at it. I may be able to help you."

Henry was already uneasy, but now he was uncomfortable. No one but the museum knew that he had the manuscript. And it wasn't like everyone within the museum had known that they had unearthed it. It was all very hush hush. Only the people who needed to know of its existence knew about it. And this total stranger, this Mr. Quince, somehow knew that Henry had it. It didn't add up.

"And how exactly do you know that I have something like that in my possession, and, even if I did, how would you intend to help me?" Henry asked him guardedly.

"I'm much more resourceful than my appearance implies Henry Bedford, and to answer your second question, because it is of my heritage. It is of my ancestors." Each word spoken by this man was done so with eloquence and punctuality. He conversed as if he was trained to deliver speeches in a congressional hearing. He didn't waste time mincing words. He was direct, and to the point. But however persuasive his way of speaking was, Henry wouldn't allow it to distract him from the facts at hand. He had taken just about enough of this man's ridiculous demands as he could handle.

"You knock on my door at a quarter past midnight, using an artificial accent, asking to examine and help decipher a piece of history that I don't have, and now you claim to be a descendent from said piece of history's origins? Forgive me if I am unable to suspend my disbelief any longer. I believe I have humored this charade long enough. Have a good night, er, morning Mr. Quince. Mind your footing on the way out, there's a loose brick on the last porch step." Henry took a step back to return the front door to its original position and to put a solid barrier between himself and the bizarre Mr. Quince. Before closing the door, Henry stole one last glance at the man. Mr. Quince was staring intently at something behind himself and to the left, somewhere off in the darkness of the mountains. When he turned his head back around to face Henry, a peculiar sight was etched into the man's facial features. From the moment they had met, Quince had been completely devoid of any emotion. But now, his expression betrayed that of anxiety. That of fear.

Quince looked at him with a fervent seriousness and blinked once before opening his mouth to speak.

"I've run out of time. I know that the Tome of Demistrique resides within your home. The forces that oppose my kind know it as well. In approximately 2 minutes, they will arrive here and act much less amicable than I have been. You must now make the most important decision of your life. Stay here, and die alone on this mountain. Or help me, and live."