The Cursed Abhorrent Vessel

Chapter 1

Ilike to dig holes. When walking en plein air, I always wonder what texture the soil might have if I were to run my fingers through it.

Moist and sticky? Or dry and powdery? But it’s not the earth that fascinates me, though I admit I enjoy geology just as much as any gentleman might; it is what might be hiding between the layers.

Much to the dismay of my parents, I spent most of my time as a child wandering the gardens in search of the perfect place to dig.

Oftentimes, the grounds were littered with small scattered holes, causing the gardener to trip to the delight of my sister.

Of course, I was only interested in digging them up rather than filling them in again.

I wish I could say I was one of those lucky souls to have discovered Roman ruins under their ancestral lands, but alas, no such thing ever occurred.

I did, however, amass quite an interesting collection of rocks and, on occasion, little shards of glass and pottery.

Naturally, I was convinced these finds belonged to an ancient yet still unknown civilisation, but my governess was of the opinion that they were only broken household dishes left by a lazy cook.

This time, though… This time I know is different.

The comforting weight of my latest discovery bears my valise down on my thighs. Even dirt-crusted and unrecognisable, I’m certain I found something more than just common household waste.

The train ride home stretches a thousandfold. The summer air is thick and stifling, but even without my coat, perspiration coats my skin. Feeling entirely uncomfortable, I’m grateful to have the compartment to myself so as not to be imposed upon by another overheated individual’s odour.

Usually, I travel while reading or daydreaming about lost cultures, but now I only clutch today’s find, wrapped carefully in old rags and placed in a wooden box for safety. With legs twitching in unison, I stare out of the window, thinking of nothing but the possibility held between my hands.

I make my way home from the station faster than I thought possible, leaping over the portico steps as if chased by ravenous wolves.

As I clumsily fumble for my keys, the door opens before I manage to pull them from my pocket.

Godfrey moves as dryly as he always does.

At first, he glares at me, but his expression softens upon recognising my face.

Like the gentlemen of yore, he steps to the side, lowering his head.

“Sir Balfour, you returned so soon?’’ he says, dropping his gaze to the valise still clutched in my hands. “Do I presume correctly that you found something of note this time?”

“Perhaps, Godfrey, although it’s much too soon to tell.”

“Shall I send the afternoon tea to the study, then?”

I nod my agreement, striding up the stairs as quickly as my legs allow.

Not bothering to remove my travelling attire, I head straight to my study.

I carelessly drop my coat and tie over the nearest chair, then remove the wooden box from the bag, meticulously placing it on the table near the window.

There, the bright summer sun provides enough illumination for me to work.

I draw a hand through my hair, trying not to let the nervousness affect my pulse.

I know it could be nothing. Just another old trinket among all the others I’ve found.

Even so, there is no point in hesitation, so I roll my sleeves up, lift the lid, and place the bundle of cloth on my desk.

I carefully unwrap the item. Little specks of dirt fall onto the wooden surface.

I grab my tool case, unfold the leather ribbon, and lay it out before me.

With my coarsest brush in hand, I start to clean my find with slow, careful strokes.

It’s tedious work, but the nervousness falls from me the longer I brush.

The comforting smell of long-forgotten things soothes my senses, and my body falls into my favourite dance.

Brush, blow, scrape, then brush again.

The thing in my hands becomes thinner and thinner as the pile of dirt next to it grows larger. It’s more soil than I would expect clinging to any artifact.

Eventually, a distinct shape appears. Switching to a softer brush, I continue to clean as delicately as I can manage. Though my hands are larger than the average man’s, I’m grateful for my practised, steady fingers.

When I finally hold the object to the window, I let out a sigh of disappointment.

It’s nothing but a stick.

Dark brown, semi-regular in shape, and slightly larger than my hand. If I had to guess, I would say it was made out of a kind of wood. A heavy sort, since there’s quite a weight to it, but still recognisably wood, likely petrified from being buried under the sediment for so long.

But it’s a stick nonetheless.

Dropping my head onto my hands, I close my eyes. My throat hurts, and my shirt feels too tight around my chest. It’s too hot, and the mouldering scent of the dirt no longer comforts me.

Why was I so hopeful in the first place? I should know better. Not a single artifact of note in forty-six years of life. Why did I expect this to change now? I suppose hope really does die last.

When I sit back up, I notice dusk has fallen upon the city, with darkening shadows crawling along my bedroom floors.

My stomach churns, and I realise I skipped both lunch and tea.

I place the stick in the vitrine with the rest of my insignificant finds and head to the kitchen to look for sustenance.

Mrs. Tully greets me with a smile.

“Back so soon?” she asks.

I drop into the nearest chair. “I suppose I am.”

“Oh, Mr. Balfour, you look proper disappointed. Was it really all that bad?”

I shrug and let my hands fall to the table. “I thought this time might be different.”

“That’s a real shame, and with you being the most handsomest archaeologist to grace this beautiful earth and all.” She winks cheekily.

I can’t help but chuckle at her words. “I’m certainly no archaeologist. The society wouldn’t even come near me with gloved hands and pincers.”

“Well, if it counts for anything, you’re a proper archaeologist to me! But I know you aren’t here for my opinions. I suppose you’d like some food. Was tea not enough for you?”

“Tea?”

“Godfrey brought it to your study.”

“Oh,” I say, running a hand through my hair.

She places a sandwich on the table. When I move to pick it up, she chuckles. “Maybe you want to wash those hands first, eh?”

I look down at myself. My hands are ashen from the dirt, and my shirt is sprinkled in shades of brown.

“I apologise, Mrs. Tully.” I stand up and turn to the door.

“Never mind propriety, sir. Simply wash your hands over this here sink and then just eat your food. I’ll make you another cuppa while you finish.”

I comply, rather embarrassed by my current state, but the groaning from my stomach stops the feeling before it can fully take hold.

“And please, call me Geneva,” she adds.

With my mouth full of food, I nod absently. I finish the four cucumber and cheese sandwiches quickly, then drink two glasses of milk. The gourds are crisp, the cheese is pungent, and the bread is so fragrant, I’m sure Mrs. Tully—I mean, Geneva—baked it this very morning.

When my body finally settles, I thank her, brushing crumbs from my trousers.

“It’ll be alright, sir. I know you’ll find something soon. Don’t give up hope just yet. I have a sense for those things. I always have,” she says with conviction, nodding at each word as if it were a law of nature.

“I have not lost hope.”

“Just make sure to tell that to your face as well,” she smiles brightly.

Is my disappointment really that obvious?

I feel utterly gawkish, standing completely filthy in the middle of the kitchen. Mrs. Tully is still smiling at me. My hands are much too heavy at my sides. I lift them and then drop them again.

“Thank you for tea,” I finally say, then quickly leave the kitchen.

When I cross the foyer toward the stairs, Godfrey approaches. “Do you need my help for your toilet, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Godfrey. You aren’t my valet; this exceeds your duties.”

“Maybe you might consider hiring a valet now, sir?” he says without reproach.

I know I must look like I’m in a state, but I don’t need reminding.

“I’m perfectly alright, thank you. I don’t need someone to help me dress as if I were a child. I am quite capable of that myself.”

“As you wish,” he says with a click of his heels.

I wish he were less formal, but he’s been my family’s butler since I can remember, and he still clings to the same archaic values as my parents.

I know he hails from an entirely different generation.

I cannot begin to imagine how much the world has changed in his lifetime.

Of course, I’ve read about it in books and heard so in my grandparents’ stories.

Even in my comparatively short years on this earth, I’ve experienced the advent of the lightbulb, the motorcar, and the phonograph.

I remember as a child, I would look at the daguerreotypes of my parents’ wedding, so strangely stiff and silver-tinted; yet now, moving pictures are a common pastime, entire stories told on a flickering screen accessible to the ordinary man.

Inventions arrived in such rapid succession that people had little time to adjust to the changing world around them.

What was it like to live in a world where music could only be enjoyed if it was played by someone in the same room?

What a silent world it must have been for the artistically uninclined.

Then were my family’s archaic values.

I remember the way my grandfather spoke of the title, as if it were the most precious occurrence to happen to our family in generations.

When he was around and not dozing off in a dark corner in his favourite armchair, he would speak of the day he was granted the lordship.

He told it so often, I practically had it memorised.

What would he think of his grandson now if he knew I cared nothing for such a thing? What do titles mean to me? They convey no signs of good character. No intelligence. No kindness. No good deeds for humanity. Only riches, luck, or old parentage.

In the bathroom, I open the left tap all the way, wishing for the hottest water possible.

I slip my braces off, letting them droop at my sides like wilted flowers. The shirt is next, peeled from my torso and falling to the floor, unwanted. After the trousers, I take extra care to remove the garters, placing them into their assigned case.

I know the act of dressing and undressing is tedious for many men, yet for me, it’s one of the few pleasures of life.

But now, I get little joy even from this.

With bare feet, I push the pile of cloth aside, dragging myself to the mirror to see the state I’m in. The man who stares back looks utterly drab and tired. I turn away with a groan, not wanting to face the disappointment that I am.

Don’t fuss in front of the mirror. It’s unseemly for a man, I hear my father’s voice scold me as if I was still a youth. Would his lecturing ever leave me, or was I to die with his archaic principles echoing in my mind?

I slip into the scalding water with a sigh.

Folding my limbs, I try to fit all of them in the tub as best I can.

With my height, this is always entirely futile; nonetheless, it doesn’t stop me from trying.

I let my legs hang over the edge, fully submerging my face and hair.

Beneath the water, I open my eyes, seeing a blur of tans and browns above me.

I stay like that until my lungs burn and force me to the surface.

Once I finish washing up, I notice, to my dismay, water draining in an embarrassingly muddy shade. I rinse off quickly before exiting, then wrap myself in my favourite robe.

Usually, a bath would soothe my soul enough to feel at least a little bit more myself, but now, my body is still gripped by a strange tension that even the hottest water can’t dissolve. At the very least, I smell fresh, and my skin is no longer sudorific.

After putting on my pyjamas, I choose a book and drape myself into my favourite armchair. Even if the bath didn’t help, I’m certain this will.

Nevertheless, no matter how many different positions I try, I can’t seem to get comfortable. Even the words on the page hold no interest for me.

I read and reread the same sentence many times over, but its meaning feels entirely hollow.

I drop the book and pick out one of my favourites from the pile next to me.

It opens to a particularly well-read passage, the spine knowing which part I like the most. The pages are marred with thin pencil on the margins holding my most private thoughts.

These words never fail to fill me with joy, their significance always making my heart skip a beat.

The familiar scent of its pages has comforted me since youth.

But now, I feel nothing.

I hold the book closer to my face, inhaling its scent, but no comfort fills me.

I read the words again. Nothing.

I start at the top of the page, paying close attention to its meaning.

Still nothing.

I flip to the first chapter. I remember the opening vividly, the way I felt the first time I read it decades ago. The way it gripped my soul and made me feel seen more than anyone or anything before.

But right now, I am not filled.

I am not seen.

Inside of me is nothing at all.

I close the book, dropping it into my lap, and realise with growing dread that something is utterly and completely wrong.