The Macabre Tales of Young Edgar

Breakfast was in the arboretum, both for Edgar and for the plants. Lord Edmund Vile's was a carnivorous garden, crammed with Venus fly traps, deep-throated, blushing pitcher plants with rouged lips, tall trees with saucer-sized leaves through which the sunlight filtered, and vines which hung like anacondas in the canopy. In the misty, primordial dawn, they supped on soups of insects and crunchy carapaces, wriggling and snapping and stinking with relish.

The garden was housed in a self-contained wing of the Manor, which to Edgar looked very much like a gigantic greenhouse. While the overcast sky curdled with a fresh storm, the glass dome kept out winds that would have shredded the fragile foliage, so that the air inside was quite still. In this permanent, churning eye, the few slanting rays of sunrise that escaped the clouds were incubated under a ceiling built high enough to accommodate fully grown trees.

Inside the arboretum there were many cobbled trails and flower beds. The various spiral pathways wound as tightly as the coiled tendrils of the catcher ferns, when they were as yet unfurled. With their spines lying flat, the new leaves of these plants reared up like cobras poised to strike. From the heart of each clump of leaves, a woody stalk rose, and on the tips of these stalks were buds as large as cabbages, with curling, fat, pink petals.

The blossoms looked rather like roses, but Edgar knew that they would eventually bloom with a terrific stench, which Lord Edmund had described as mimicking rotting horse flesh. They wore this macabre perfume, he had explained, to court the arboretum's buzzing flies. These last were doomed to dissolve in the foul soup inside each flower, the better for the catcher ferns to digest.

There were other exotic plants, too. In trough-like containers, ropey climbers scaled wrought-iron trellises. Their many spines were sticky with dewdrops that glistened poisonously. Although Edgar had not learned their names, he could have sworn that there were more of them each time he came here in the morning. They seemed to grow at an alarming rate, though he could never catch them at it. His head snapped and his eyes flicked in their direction as he sat in one of two chairs at the small breakfast table. He half suspected they were slithering higher and higher, cheating snakes upon ladders, whenever he turned his back.

Beside the devilish climbers, speckled trumpets, elegant flutes and slender piccolos burst out of half barrels, their lids lifted like the caps of organ pipes. An orchestra together, they spouted an aromatic tune to entice gnats, dragonflies and aphids. Above them, leaves were moulded into jugs that hung low, offering forbidden fruit in the hopes that unwitting insects would slip into their deathtraps.

One plant in particular, however, had Edgar fixated. A pale lilac flower, the colour of a fresh bruise, grew up on its own from a cluttered bed. It resembled an open umbrella, and was equally as large . Each of the pinkish spines between its webbing was lined with suckers, and at the centre of its funnel were three stamen that hissed and twirled around, like tongues encircling a black hole of a mouth.

Into this pit Edgar stared, hypnotised, like many a hapless fly before him. His eyes were glazed, his fringe was plastered to his forehead, and perspiration made his white linen shirt cling to his bony collarbones. The fabric was so thin and damp that it was almost transparent in places, yet he still felt quite feverish. He might have sat in a steamy, sub-continental jungle, rather than in the cool midst of his benefactor's collection, for all the heat he felt. Since midnight, he had not slept at all.

'I see you have noticed my latest acquisition,' Lord Edmund said smoothly as he poured more tea into a china cup for his young charge. His semi-lidded eyes did not implore the youth directly, but rather glanced over him.

'Ah, yes, I am very proud of that one- the Dionaea tarantula. An African specimen, and a gift from a good friend of mine. The three stigma act as a lure, baffling prey so that the sepals,' he indicated the ribs between which the webbing stretched, 'can close around it.'

While he added sugar cubes and stirred the tea, Edgar watched as the plant did exactly what had been described. A small gecko emerged from over the top of one petal and shimmied down the inside of the flower. Just when it had reached the centre, its own tongue shooting in and out anxiously, as though it had just detected something off about the sweetness in the air, the whole plant collapsed. The flower gulped once, and then gave a satisfied rattle, shaking its fringe like a mane.

Edgar gulped too, and looked away. It reminded him too much of the fate he had nearly suffered in his dream, at the hands of dozens of deadly tentacles.

'My dear boy,' said Lord Edmund kindly, mistaking his ashen look for ordinary sickness, 'you look quite unhealthy. Why, you've barely touched your egg and toast, and sipped nothing but tea all morning. You simply must eat something!'

Still pale and sweaty, Edgar next regarded the boiled egg in its cup. A silver egg spoon lay beside it, an ornate 'V' for 'Vile' embellished on its hilt, surrounded by the curling limbs of a miniscule kraken in place of contemporary floral decorations. The egg and spoon were spread out on a tray which also contained a large plate, kippers and fried tomato, the teacup and its saucer, a matching silver knife and fork, and a stack of several pieces of buttered, and now stale, toast.

Edgar let his eyes slide unblinkingly from each implement to the next, more staring than seeing, and worrying his host with his harrowed appearance.

After an exhausting night of work, the egg and toast had sounded appetising at first. However, when the tray had been presented, its gleaming surface was simply too like a mirror, while the boiled egg with its top taken off had made his stomach turn. To make matters worse, Edgar was rarely very hungry. Although he was so skinny, and normally empty of food, his head brimmed with ideas and visions. He always felt quite full.

It would have helped, he thought, if the meal had been served in a more normal location. The plants, though they did not have eyes, seemed to watch as he warred with his appetite.

'Have a little yolk, at least,' Lord Edmund entreated. 'It's very good on toasted fingers. Just slice some of those,' he nodded politely at the crispy stack, 'into narrow strips and dip them right in. If you like, I could, er, do it for you?'

He sounded hopeful, but Edgar turned from ghost white to sickly green, and Lord Edmund put down the knife he had picked up optimistically. Fresh perspiration beaded on the boy's forehead, beneath his tousled mop of hair, which he had only absently attempted to comb. With his damp clothes and limp slouch, he looked not only like a corpse, but specifically like somebody who had drowned. His hands hung loosely by his sides, and it was difficult to tell what held him upright. He might have been lashed to the back of the chair, as to an anchor. Lord Edmund felt his own forehead crease, when he thought of the rest of the McArbre family, lost at sea.

'I really will not have it,' he said, sounding deeply concerned, and also irritated with nobody in particular. 'I will not suffer my young protégé to be so ill! While everything else in this arboretum flourishes, you are the only piece of my collection that wilts. It is such a great unfairness, therefore, that you should be the very best piece- my, ah, prize specimen, if you will, more irreplaceable even than my new Tarantula!'

He threw up his hands, which had been briefly liberated from their gloves for breakfast, and waved them dismissively in the direction of the plant. It returned his affection with a traitorous gurgle. Edgar, meanwhile, hung his head.

'Is this because of that story you so kindly finished and placed on my desk last night?' asked Lord Edmund, perceptively. As he raised a querying eyebrow, he nudged some toast and kipper towards Edgar, who was thereby coaxed to nibble at it.

'Because, if it is,' said his benefactor, 'then I feel our bargain, erm, obliges me to remind you that it is only a story. While I must confess that it was very good, and, ah, exceptionally convincing, it was only a dream that bore it. Oh, I know it must be burdensome to have such gifts as yours. Truly, I know it must. There is a little bit of madness in magic, and, er, a bit of magic in madness, after all. Yes, indeed. Yet, you should not let your talents trouble you so. Art is suffering, yes, but don't get carried away with it.'

He paused, and gave Edgar a weak, reassuring smile. Edgar, however, remained silent.

As if he had secretly smiled to encourage himself, Lord Edmund went on. 'I can say with certainty that your current level of artistry is more than enough for me. I do not mean to gush, but you are, well, simply everything I had hoped for when I wrote to you. I mean, ah, of course charity also motivated me. I could not bear to see such misfortune strike a young man such as yourself, leaving him, er, with no, ah, guidance and direction in the world, and myself with such wealth hoarded away in an empty Manor!

'Naturally, I could not stand that. Not at all. But,' his pitch shot up, along with one eyebrow and a gloveless finger, 'I must confess, I had also hoped for a prodigy in you. I cannot express my delight at having found it.'

This time, Edgar returned his smile, grinning sheepishly with a mouthful of fish.

'I hope you will share my excitement, therefore,’ the Viscount added, ‘when I say that I have forwarded your work to my correspondent at The Bulletin. To further advance your career, you know.'

There was a brief clattering of cutlery which rang throughout the arboretum.

'Excuse me?' said Edgar, freshly blanched. His last bite of kipper was lodged in his throat, so that it took a great swallow to send it down.

'Well, er,' Lord Edmund twiddled his thumbs before reaching for a handkerchief to mop his brow. 'I didn't mean... I only meant... To advance your career...'

‘I don’t recall that ever being a term in our agreement,’ said Edgar, stiffly.

‘No, er, but,’ Lord Edmund stammered. ‘I suppose I’ve taken a liberty.’

His young charge was livid. The fresh colour in his face only sketched the ringers underneath his eyes more strongly. ‘I never gave you permission to show my work about!’ he raged. ‘It was meant for you, and only you!’

‘My dear boy!’ The Viscount wrung his hands anxiously. ‘Do not be so hasty. Please consider…’

‘I will do no such thing.’

The only sound that followed as Lord Edmund's mumbling trailed off was that of a chair scraping on the ground. With unforseen strength, Edgar thrust it away from the table. With a sudden fierceness in his eyes, and a grim expression on his face, he stood up straighter than his benefactor had thought him capable of. Rather than white, as he had once been, he was now an angry shade of pink. Only his eyes did not tremble.

With a stamp that clipped the cobblestones, he turned on his heel, marched away, and was swallowed by the jungle.