“We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” The Tempest, IV.i.156-7
“That,” I said, taking in the seeming infiniteness of the cleaver’s bulk, “may be the most ridiculous object I have ever had the displeasure of viewing.”
Jasper, the wielder of the weapon, was quick to dispute me. “Nah, it’s not. It’s terrifying, this is.” He lifted the cleaver a few inches higher, so that a light reflected off of the blade. It was rather pretty, I thought, which was entirely against our purpose.
I shook my head. “Not in the slightest. Wherever did you even happen upon such a silly instrument? It’s too large by far to be of use to any butcher or chef, no matter how Herculean in stature. Are you even capable of striking with it?”
“Won’t need to, will I?” Jasper set the knife down on the well-polished table, which we two had recently inherited, along with this rather agitating profession, from our mother. Dear old mum, you see, had died while at her work, so we were well aware of the dangers that our new positions entailed. Nonetheless, because we were and are the most filial of gentlemen, Jasper and I abided by each and every peculiar word of our mother’s final testament.
“Oy, Barnum.” Jasper snapped his fingers. “I said, ‘Won’t need to,’ didn’t I? Alright?”
I tried my hand at lifting the knife up from off the table but found the monstrosity’s weight far beyond what any normal man could lift, much less a feeble-bodied man of science, such as myself. “I suppose not, but it is of a rather inconvenient size. Any half-wit could see that the weapon is impotent.”
“Well, what’s she got written then?” Jasper asked, referring to our late mother’s instructions. “Don’t it say we use this, eh?”
I took up the explanatory notebook and glanced through until I had procured the appropriate chapter. Most irritatingly, I found myself contradicted. “Well done, Jasper. It says that we are, in fact, to use that impractical thing in our endeavors with the Wincham woman. Curious. How do you suppose mother managed to bear it single-handedly all-”
“It’ll be well and fine later, Barnabas,” interrupted Jasper. “But we’ve a job to attend.” He glanced down at himself, inspecting his clothing with the unperceiving eyes of one unaccustomed to paying his attire any mind. “This all fine then? Dark enough, is it?”
With my far more discerning sensibilities, I compared Jasper’s apparel to mother’s careful description. “Satisfactory, I suppose. You will need to don the balaclava, but only after we have arrived at Miss Wincham’s.”
Jasper took up the cleaver again and looked at me for a moment with an expression that seemed to me to suggest thoughts of a most unbrotherly nature. “You don’t mind much for my understanding, do you? Eh, Barnabas?” He tested the blade by running his fingertip down its length, drawing out a thin string of blood. “What’s it I’ll be bringing? A balca-”
“Balaclava,” I corrected. “You know, that mask that covers all of the head save the eyes.”
“You might’ve said that then.” Jasper produced the object from out his trouser pocket and flourished it before me as though I required evidence. “And you’ve the other, alright?”
“Of course,” I replied, tapping the breast pocket of my jacket, “Shall we depart?”
Without uttering so much as a word of polite response, Jasper exited through the front door of our tiny home at a great speed, requiring that I run or chance losing sight of him. The night was unremarkable and of a moderate temperature. There was no weather to speak of, not even a moon to light our dreary way. We were thus entirely dependent upon streetlamps and the dampened glows escaping from the houses of persons burning the midnight oil.
All those years our mother had complained of long voyages to her place of occupation, yet it took us mere minutes to reach our destination, a house indistinguishable from its neighbors. Jasper read the address aloud. “This’ll be her. Alright then?”
“There really is no need for anxiety, dear Jasper,” I said with the proper amount of confidence for a man of my good breeding, “For this profession is in our very blood.”
Again, Jasper ignored me, rude fellow that he is. A less understanding, less educated man would have been miffed at his many indiscretions, but I was wholly unaffected by them. With much adeptness for one with hands so large and untrained, Jasper undid the lock using a wire and a pick. The door clicked as he opened it, and we crept within.
We made our way to Miss Wincham’s bedchambers with a bandit’s swiftness of foot. The woman had left a candle burning, perhaps because she feared the uncommon darkness of a moonless night. Jasper extinguished the flame with a short exhale. He then donned the aforementioned head mask, and drew the cleaver out from behind him, bringing it high over the woman’s head as she lay sleeping, so that the blade was just above her neck.
“Now,” he said softly.
From the opposite side of the bed, I leaned over Miss Wincham and whispered a soft wind into her ear, crescendoing slowly so that she would awaken at a similar speed.
“Nh?” She muttered after a few moments, rubbing her eyes as she sat up in her bed, presumably to learn what had waked her. It must have upset her, poor thing, to find the gracious light extinguished, but it could only have been a momentary, insignificant fright when compared with the horror that assuredly clutched her breast upon glimpsing Jasper so violently poised above her.
It was my responsibility to carefully watch Miss Wincham throughout the encounter, to be sure that I caught the precise moment. It would have to be perfect. I drew the bottle from out my jacket and prepared to complete the most difficult aspect of our new occupation. If I had failed, we should both have failed our mother irreparably.
When her mouth finally opened to permit a wild shriek to spring out into the night, I uncapped the bottle. Without so much as a sigh, Miss Wincham was returned to her slumbers.
As we stepped together from out the lady’s home, Jasper slapped one hand onto my shoulder, far too indelicately, as he always did. “Off for a pint then. You coming along?”
“No, not tonight,” I replied, “I should go home to examine and appraise the evening’s work. Perhaps,” I smiled, something I do only very occasionally. Despite my assurances to my brother, my own jacket seeped with nervous perspiration. “Miss Wincham will be more artfully frightened tomorrow.”
“You get to that, Barnabas, good lad.” Jasper grinned back at me, displaying the many voids in his mouth where teeth ought to have been. “Made mom proud tonight, you did. Would’ve done her heart well, us taking on the family business, eh?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I think it would.”
The night had become glorious in the wake of our recent success. The evening, I ardently felt, was no longer brimming with dreams, but, in our honor, with nightmares.
Copyright 2009 Amanda Martin
©Amanda Martin 2009
