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The Cabin Upon The Hill

By D.Hoy

By Dan HoyPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
5

The cabin was soaked in the subtle stench of sea salt, but when the broad windows sitting on the back wall were opened, the salt was masked by the rich smell of oak trees standing tall some 20 feet from the building. From the side of the French Armoire which he was slanting against, drinking, as always, a decanter of port, Lucas Marx studied the startling blues and purples of the blossoming flowers that rustled gently in the light evening breeze, and, moving his eyes, followed the flowers, until he caught the bright orange glare the sun cast over the treetops.

As the first delicate stars began to break through the sky, and the sun disappeared behind the trees, he turned swiftly, and, closing the windows, ushered the thin curtains together before making his way towards his study; then, pulling a broad and leather-bound book from one of several scattered and disordered bookshelves around the room, he slumped peacefully into his camelback reading sofa. Reaching up with tired hands, he steadily lit the candelabra that rested precariously on the edge of the oak bureau beside him, and, suddenly, the room was drowned with the intense yellow light of the candles, that slowly dimmed to a quiet light and failed to reach the furthermost corners of the relatively small study. Before opening the book he held in his lap, he peered across the room, his eyes lazily darting across the many books that covered the walls, floor, and bureau, then rested upon the window in the far corner, through which he could see the astonishing moon, whose light reflected, sharply, bouncing off the ocean far below. Marx leaned his head back, resting it on the spine of his seat, and, closing his eyes, traced his fingers over the front of the book. The pages slid smoothly through his fingers as he turned to the page that was home to a thin red ribbon roughly a third of the way through the book, before he opened his eyes and began reading.

As soon as he’d spoken the first line in his head, the calming silence that he appreciated so thoroughly was suddenly disrupted by the startling knocking at his door. Three distinct knocks rapped hollowly through the cabin, followed, immediately, by silence. Marx made no move towards the door, for the night was well upon him and, therefore, as usual, he felt no obligation to rise, nor meet, the unexpected visitor. He sat comfortably, although he was unable to continue his reading, being beside himself wondering who could possibly be coming to visit him at this point, so late into the day, that even the sun had tired of his presence and retired until the next morning. He had no plans in place till the next day when he would host his dearest friend Sir Andrew Hickery. Soon after, the three distinct knocks sounded throughout the cabin once more, and, unsatisfied that his unwelcome guest would leave anytime soon, he rose, calmly, despite his obvious agitation, and stalked towards the main door, adjusting his expression along the way to resemble some form of a smile, that failed, abysmally, leaving a scar of a grimace upon his lips. Accompanied by a stifled cough that sailed through the window standing ajar on the cool September evening, and muffled by the scarlet silk taffeta curtains, his hand, moved, slowly, towards the small brass handle, and, upon opening the door, Marx was suddenly rushed. His assailant barged into the cabin, pushing the door wide so that it swung round and banged clumsily into the small cupboard under the window, and ran at him, gripping him in a tight bear-hug. “It’s so good to see you Lucas,” his assailant whispered to him before stepping back and holding his shoulders at arm’s length, his face beaming with a proud grin, “far too long has it been since last we met my good friend!”

Before him stood Sir Andrew Hickery. He was shorter than Marx, but not by much, his beard was well groomed, and his bald head shone in the candle light. There was quite a resemblance between the two of them that caused many to assume the two were brothers, but looks were the only thing Hickery and Marx shared. Marx was calculated, articulated, methodical, and some would even venture to call him cold, though never to his face; yet his counterpart was a jolly fellow, a social necessity at any party that was worth its weight in gold, and was never one to hide his opinion. They were both well respected, but after Marx’s unforeseeable self-exclusion from society, only Hickery went on to gain a title of any real value, though Marx was titled, one might say only too appropriately, as a recluse. “Wipe that grin off your face, it pains both of us for you to look like that.” Hickery joked as he closed the door behind him and turned back to face his friend, to which he was met by only two words that were perhaps delivered more dryly than intended: “You’re early.”

literature
5

About the Creator

Dan Hoy

U

Aspiring author

Sci-Fi, Supernatural, Thriller, and stories to make you think...

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