"Major Pearse " A voice thick with a beautiful accent, foreign to me cut through the air, calling my name, and pulling me from my appreciation.
I turn around to the door of the house and see a tall, slim gentleman in his later years. His skin shone a beautiful ebony, his short, almost buzz cut hair a perfect topping of grey. Immaculately dressed in what can only be described as a butlers uniform of a jacket and tails, he elegantly pointed the driver into the house, who followed quite promptly after securing my suitcase and effects from the trunk of the car.
I approached him and offered one hand, and trying, yet failing with the other to stifle a yawn.
“My apologies, good sir, I’m afraid I have just awoken from my vehicular slumber,” I half attempted to laugh to try and seem less rude and lighten the situation. The stranger seemed at least to appreciate the effort, or at the very least, played along with the charade to its completion.
I turn around to the door of the house and see a tall, slim gentleman in his later years. His skin shone a beautiful ebony, his short, almost buzz cut hair a perfect topping of grey. Immaculately dressed in what can only be described as a butlers uniform of a jacket and tails, he elegantly pointed the driver into the house, who followed quite promptly after securing my suitcase and effects from the trunk of the car.
I approached him and offered one hand, and trying, yet failing with the other to stifle a yawn.
“My apologies, good sir, I’m afraid I have just awoken from my vehicular slumber,” I half attempted to laugh to try and seem less rude and lighten the situation. The stranger seemed at least to appreciate the effort, or at the very least, played along with the charade to its completion.
“It is quite alright, Sir, we are a little a ways away from you’re neck of the woods, you best be gettin’ inside and getting comfortable. I can whip up some food and you can get acquainted with the house before your host returns from his business out west.”
His accent was a delight, but one I was unfamiliar with. It reminded me of Mammy from Gone with the Wind, but more refined, gentler, and less of a caricature. I later discovered it was the accent of Baton Rouge, a gorgeous Cajun and Creole area not far from where we supposedly were.
He invited me inside and offered me sanctuary in the lounge.
The inside of the house was a betrayal to the outside in some ways. As I saw the first glimpse of this place I felt like I was in a pre civil war plantation house, surrounded by slaves and cotton fields. Inside the same luxury was afforded to me as it would be in any modern home. The area was temperature controlled, lit and furnished with modernity and was less humid than outside. The furnishing were a perfect mix of modern, yet Robust and instantly timeless. The library was large room. The walls were all covered in bookshelves, which in turn were absolutely full of books.
Despite my polite insistence, the butler, who introduced himself as Mister Thomas, disappeared to prepare some food, or at least see that the preparation was being seen to. I would hardly assume he was the lone staff member in such a beautiful and enormous house.
I was delighted, and likely did not hide it well. I was starving. A standard flight from Dublin to Heathrow, followed by a helicopter escort from there to an undisclosed RAF base, from there then a lengthy, private military flight aboard a C-130 to an unknown site, and then what felt like an instant drive to here, though I am sure it was longer than it felt, and less sure that I wasn’t drugged to ensure I hadn’t woken up during the transit. The driver wasn’t the same gentleman I greeted when I embarked the car either. Or at least I don’t think he was.....
I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and proceeded to peruse the shelves. I found myself out of curiosity looking through the itemized and well moderated catalog. Out of interest, and possibly some form of self indulgence I searched for my own name. I appeared in the historical section, alongside the title of my book, “The Hidden Immortals; an analysis on historical accounts from witnesses of supernatural events in wartime”
I scoffed at the title and walked to the section where it was supposed to be. There was it’s notable absence. I could only assume that my host has the book with him on his travels to familiarise himself with me. I felt decidedly disarmed. I knew nothing about this Hastings character, only that he wished to speak with me over the course of a few days, and requested I bring materials to assist in the preparation of a set of memoirs or perhaps an autobiography.
I turned away from the shelves and observed the room. The walls were a bright white plaster, that was beautifully framed by the dark wooden floors and the cream coloured ceiling. The bookshelves which ran the entire perimeter of the room were a dark varnished wood, every shelf adorned with the livery of several dozen books, each one a different colour, texture and material for the spine.
In the center of the room was a circle made of chairs and couches. The chairs all matched, in gorgeous brown leather, both antiquated and in great condition, showing great dedication in their maintenance.
I took a seat in a random chair and felt the weight of my journey began to take hold again. The effects of whatever sleeping agent they had given me still clinging to my limbs and eyelids.
I felt myself drifting off once more before Mister Thomas entered the room with a small gold, ornate catering trolley. He pulled it beside me and set a place on the table with practiced speed and precision. In a perfect and precise moment, there was a set of cutlery, a glass, a small napkin, folded into a subtle pyramid, and finally a small jug of iced water. The condensation mirroring my own perspiration.
He lifted the lid from the trolley, and revealed a sight that was more welcome than anything else at that moment. A smell of beautiful bread, warm butter and black pepper caressed my olfactory senses And my mouth began to water.
Mister Thomas has prepared a mix of items for me to choose from, as he figured I was hungry from such a long trip. He prepared egg mayonnaise on brioche bun sandwiches, a bowl of traditional Jambalaya, some crackers, a little place of various cheeses, some sourdough bread and a small plate warm salted butter. I felt as if I wanted to eat it all, and completely forgo any shame I wanted to feel, but thankfully, Mister Thomas bid me a good evening, and simply stated that my room was at the top of the stairs, the first door on the left. It had its own bathroom, and if I needed anything, simply to ring the bell attached to the wall behind the bed. He finally left after advising me to eat as much as I wanted and leave everything here, it would be cleaned up by the morning.
I had never eaten such wonderful food before. The flavours a wonderful blend of smoked meats, earthy spices and sharp pepper flavours, all melding together in a beautiful hot broth. As soon as I found myself appreciating it, it was gone. I moved on to the bread, and after buttering it slightly, used it to mop up the rest of the broth. My lips tingled with spices and my palate was still ablaze with the smoked pepper flavours when I realized my eyes were growing heavy and weighted.
I stood, and slowly made my way to the bedroom. I can barely remember even making my way there before I found myself closing the door, and peering around the room. Such antiquated majesty mixed with modernity I had not seen. The room was highly spacious, like a hotel room. A four poster bed sat in the centre of the room, with the headboard against the wall. A large, beautiful and ornamented wooden desk rested in one corner, and in the other was a door. Through this door was the bathroom. The bathroom was beautiful. A cream coloured claw foot bath lay by the wall, connected to the floor, and a shower head rested above mounted to the wall. The mirror was playing a news broadcast, and appeared to feature controls for the shower and sink. I returned to the bedroom and quickly disposed of my clothing, sitting on the bed. I felt a familiar anxious need in my mind and looked towards the large bureau. Inside, was a selection of liquours and whiskeys that felt like it was just for me. I picked a bottle of Jameson twelve. Not exactly cheap, but not top shelf. I poured a generous glass and gulped it down, before chasing it with another. I filled another up to about halfway and made my way to the bed. I sat back down, and drank the glass, this time appreciating the gorgeous acidic warmth that washed over me, before the earthy flavors gave way to a sweet aftertaste, and the heat flowed into my stomach to join the rest, which I had barely felt at all. My head found the pillow at last. My body melted into the smooth, cool sheets, and a brisk but comfortable breeze crept in the open window and massaged my near naked form. I was asleep before I even got under the covers.
His accent was a delight, but one I was unfamiliar with. It reminded me of Mammy from Gone with the Wind, but more refined, gentler, and less of a caricature. I later discovered it was the accent of Baton Rouge, a gorgeous Cajun and Creole area not far from where we supposedly were.
He invited me inside and offered me sanctuary in the lounge.
The inside of the house was a betrayal to the outside in some ways. As I saw the first glimpse of this place I felt like I was in a pre civil war plantation house, surrounded by slaves and cotton fields. Inside the same luxury was afforded to me as it would be in any modern home. The area was temperature controlled, lit and furnished with modernity and was less humid than outside. The furnishing were a perfect mix of modern, yet Robust and instantly timeless. The library was large room. The walls were all covered in bookshelves, which in turn were absolutely full of books.
Despite my polite insistence, the butler, who introduced himself as Mister Thomas, disappeared to prepare some food, or at least see that the preparation was being seen to. I would hardly assume he was the lone staff member in such a beautiful and enormous house.
I was delighted, and likely did not hide it well. I was starving. A standard flight from Dublin to Heathrow, followed by a helicopter escort from there to an undisclosed RAF base, from there then a lengthy, private military flight aboard a C-130 to an unknown site, and then what felt like an instant drive to here, though I am sure it was longer than it felt, and less sure that I wasn’t drugged to ensure I hadn’t woken up during the transit. The driver wasn’t the same gentleman I greeted when I embarked the car either. Or at least I don’t think he was.....
I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and proceeded to peruse the shelves. I found myself out of curiosity looking through the itemized and well moderated catalog. Out of interest, and possibly some form of self indulgence I searched for my own name. I appeared in the historical section, alongside the title of my book, “The Hidden Immortals; an analysis on historical accounts from witnesses of supernatural events in wartime”
I scoffed at the title and walked to the section where it was supposed to be. There was it’s notable absence. I could only assume that my host has the book with him on his travels to familiarise himself with me. I felt decidedly disarmed. I knew nothing about this Hastings character, only that he wished to speak with me over the course of a few days, and requested I bring materials to assist in the preparation of a set of memoirs or perhaps an autobiography.
I turned away from the shelves and observed the room. The walls were a bright white plaster, that was beautifully framed by the dark wooden floors and the cream coloured ceiling. The bookshelves which ran the entire perimeter of the room were a dark varnished wood, every shelf adorned with the livery of several dozen books, each one a different colour, texture and material for the spine.
In the center of the room was a circle made of chairs and couches. The chairs all matched, in gorgeous brown leather, both antiquated and in great condition, showing great dedication in their maintenance.
I took a seat in a random chair and felt the weight of my journey began to take hold again. The effects of whatever sleeping agent they had given me still clinging to my limbs and eyelids.
I felt myself drifting off once more before Mister Thomas entered the room with a small gold, ornate catering trolley. He pulled it beside me and set a place on the table with practiced speed and precision. In a perfect and precise moment, there was a set of cutlery, a glass, a small napkin, folded into a subtle pyramid, and finally a small jug of iced water. The condensation mirroring my own perspiration.
He lifted the lid from the trolley, and revealed a sight that was more welcome than anything else at that moment. A smell of beautiful bread, warm butter and black pepper caressed my olfactory senses And my mouth began to water.
Mister Thomas has prepared a mix of items for me to choose from, as he figured I was hungry from such a long trip. He prepared egg mayonnaise on brioche bun sandwiches, a bowl of traditional Jambalaya, some crackers, a little place of various cheeses, some sourdough bread and a small plate warm salted butter. I felt as if I wanted to eat it all, and completely forgo any shame I wanted to feel, but thankfully, Mister Thomas bid me a good evening, and simply stated that my room was at the top of the stairs, the first door on the left. It had its own bathroom, and if I needed anything, simply to ring the bell attached to the wall behind the bed. He finally left after advising me to eat as much as I wanted and leave everything here, it would be cleaned up by the morning.
I had never eaten such wonderful food before. The flavours a wonderful blend of smoked meats, earthy spices and sharp pepper flavours, all melding together in a beautiful hot broth. As soon as I found myself appreciating it, it was gone. I moved on to the bread, and after buttering it slightly, used it to mop up the rest of the broth. My lips tingled with spices and my palate was still ablaze with the smoked pepper flavours when I realized my eyes were growing heavy and weighted.
I stood, and slowly made my way to the bedroom. I can barely remember even making my way there before I found myself closing the door, and peering around the room. Such antiquated majesty mixed with modernity I had not seen. The room was highly spacious, like a hotel room. A four poster bed sat in the centre of the room, with the headboard against the wall. A large, beautiful and ornamented wooden desk rested in one corner, and in the other was a door. Through this door was the bathroom. The bathroom was beautiful. A cream coloured claw foot bath lay by the wall, connected to the floor, and a shower head rested above mounted to the wall. The mirror was playing a news broadcast, and appeared to feature controls for the shower and sink. I returned to the bedroom and quickly disposed of my clothing, sitting on the bed. I felt a familiar anxious need in my mind and looked towards the large bureau. Inside, was a selection of liquours and whiskeys that felt like it was just for me. I picked a bottle of Jameson twelve. Not exactly cheap, but not top shelf. I poured a generous glass and gulped it down, before chasing it with another. I filled another up to about halfway and made my way to the bed. I sat back down, and drank the glass, this time appreciating the gorgeous acidic warmth that washed over me, before the earthy flavors gave way to a sweet aftertaste, and the heat flowed into my stomach to join the rest, which I had barely felt at all. My head found the pillow at last. My body melted into the smooth, cool sheets, and a brisk but comfortable breeze crept in the open window and massaged my near naked form. I was asleep before I even got under the covers.
