Vialle

by Tori Lewis

The house shakes once more, the tremor spreading through the hard, stone floor and up the walls of the ancient estate. I can feel the force of it more keenly in the cellar—where I have spent the better part of the week—deep within the bowels of the manor I have called home for nearly a quarter of a century. The dusty bottles lining the walls clink together as the rumbling continues, and I raise my glass, toasting the end of days. It seems a shame that I, having carefully curated this selection of Europe’s finest wines, must now watch it fall to ruin without having the pleasure of savoring and appreciating each of the 733 vintners’ offerings around me. Yet, I intend to do my utmost to rectify that travesty before the earth opens its hungry maw and swallows me whole—the ever-growing collection of empty bottles littering the floor, a testament to my resolve. The laugh welling up from within me is humorless and bitter as I realize the two great loves of my life—wine and archaeology—will be the only two things accompanying me to my end: one flowing freely in my bloodstream, the other weighing heavily on my mind.

The house stills, the quake desists, and silence descends upon the room. I close my eyes, willing sleep to claim me, but it remains a stranger. I cannot remember when last I slept. My mind has been too preoccupied over the last several months, and sleep has eluded me. Prior to this week, I would often be found wide awake at dawn—having never retired to my chambers after dinner—by members of the house staff who would plead with me to take to bed; but the importance of my research, combined with the anxious state in which I found myself, would not allow it. Oh, to sleep. What a blessing, what a welcome reprieve that would be—to stretch out on this cold, stone floor and lie, unmoving—a corpse entombed. This cellar feels like a tomb: cold and silent, save for the rumbling of the earth and the rattling of the glass bottles. It calls to mind the Egyptian tombs I explored many years ago—the ancient resting places of pharaohs and kings; but I am no king, and my only legacy is the destruction of this world.

With shaky legs, I rise from my spot on the floor, my knees threatening to buckle from the strain, from the weight. The weight is heavy, you see. Oh, that phrase—that phrase we hear over and over again: He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. How casually we toss it about, how often we use it as an explanation for why one seems downtrodden or overwrought with worry. I myself have uttered the phrase without so much as a thought, but now, I know—I feel—the truth of those words. I feel the weight of the world, and it is crushing.

I steady myself against the wall, and the cool, hard stone pressed against the thin fabric of my shirt grounds me, if but for a moment. The walls of the cellar—this hole in the world—nestled neatly within the earth, beneath the halls of my father and his father before him, help to straighten my spine, and I breathe deep. The musty damp of the wine cellar fills my nostrils, and I savor every note as it dances across my senses: home.

But home it has not always been. Prior to The Great War, home had been a grand, English estate in the Peak District, just north of Derbyshire—my mother’s family manor, passed down through generations. My father was a Frenchman, and the details of my birth were cloaked in scandal and secrecy as he and my mother were unmarried. In fact, I knew nothing of the man until his death in the spring of 1918. He was killed at the front, mere months before the armistice was agreed upon, and I, a young man of twenty-four—who had barely survived the war myself—received a letter informing me of the inheritance which awaited me in France: Château Vialle.

Vialle. The name itself means “caretaker,” and upon my arrival, I could think of no more fitting a term, for what was I if not the caretaker of this resplendent, Parisian estate? I knew nothing of the property or the man I’d come to refer to as “father,” and though I had never laid eyes on his person, the fact that I was his only son was inescapable, and the responsibility of Château Vialle had fallen to me. Nevertheless, I felt it my duty to uphold its splendor, regency, and grandeur in a manner befitting the family name which had been bestowed upon me.

For the last twenty-two years, I have enmeshed myself in this estate. It is a part of me now—linked to my very soul—and as the earth begins to shake again, I whisper an apology to these hallowed halls; an apology for failing to save them, for failing as caretaker. I brace myself against the wall as the house is rocked by several short, consecutive tremors. The glass in my hand falls to the floor, my grip loosening against my will. The sound of shattering glass reaches my ears, ringing out above the sonorous rumbling around me, and I glance down at the Petit Verdot splattered across the stone.

Red on stone; rivers of red running through the cracks and crevices of the floor. The sight calls to mind another image, an image I painted in the sitting room above me. I did everything in my power to prevent this outcome, to undo the cataclysmic events I set in motion with a selfish act of hubris, but my efforts proved futile in the wake of the sinister force shaking the earth and tearing its way into our reality. I push the image of red to the back of my mind and stumble across the cellar to the far wall where the oldest vintages are stored. Though the ground has stilled, my legs tremble beneath me, made unsteady by wine and lack of sleep. My physical capabilities have been compromised by my level of exhaustion. Even now, my hands tremble and my strength wanes—a fact made evident by the shattered wine glass on the floor.

I grab the bottle nearest me and run my hand across the label to clear the dust. My vision betrays me in my current state, and I cannot make out the region or vintage, only the words “Château Haut Brion,” which tell me everything I need to know: decadent, expensive. It will do. After fumbling with the corkscrew from my pocket, I manage to uncork it and bring the bottle to my lips, drinking straight from the source. If I were of a more sober mind—a mind I fear I can no longer trust through the haze of exhaustion—I would break down the flavors, analyze the subtle notes layered throughout this particular vintage, but my skills escape me and seem of little import now. How trivial such talents and skills prove to be now, at the end of all things.

The house shakes again, and I nearly lose my footing. Closing my eyes, it’s as if I can hear them bursting through the earth—bursting forth from their mystical prison below the surface. They are coming, and soon, ruin and ash are all that will remain of humanity. The thought no longer sends me into a frenzied panic as it did before. Once the earthquakes began, I realized my attempts at placating the Old Ones had failed. Desperation gave way to resignation, and resignation led me to the cellar, to drink away what little time I had left.

I take another drag from the bottle and make for the stairs, struggling to stay upright with every tremor that rocks the house. It won’t be long now, and if I must go, I will go gazing at the early light of dawn, not trapped in this tomb as the house collapses atop me. My entire body aches with the effort it takes to ascend the stairs to the kitchens, and I must take a moment to rest before tackling the next flight up to the main floor. Pushing open the green baize door, I shuffle across the hall, the floor vibrating beneath my feet as the house continues to shake. I find my study just as I left it: in complete disarray, a scattered mess of papers and ancient tomes strewn about the room, untouched since the moment I surrendered to the inevitable. There is no one left to clean up after me now, you see.

I see its image there, the photograph laid amidst the clutter on my desk: the cursed discovery that set this catastrophic chain of events in motion. It began with my obsession with Robert Koldewey’s excavation of ancient Babylon. From childhood, I followed the progress of the decades long expedition, enraptured as I was with archaeology. Last year, I joined the German archaeological team in the Middle East for a tour of their findings, when we made a discovery of our own, miles to the north of where the Ishtar gate was initially unearthed. Such a curious item it was—a large, flat, circular, disk that seemed to be lodged in the earth. I determined it to be made of a precious metal—bronze or gold—and etched across its surface were elaborate inscriptions in an ancient language I was unfamiliar with. I took several photographs, the flash of the bulb lighting up its shimmering surface, and I was unable to quell my ignorant, innate desire to reach out and touch.

Oh, if only I had waited for the translation, if only I hadn’t let my curiosity and ego take the reins in that moment. But, alas, I am human—weak and fallible—and I ran my hands across the ancient words and symbols. One of the guides pulled me back abruptly, demanding I stay away. Initially, I took his reaction as a professional, archaeological desire to protect the discovery, but I know the truth now. I know he recognized the language, understood the inscription for what it was: a warning.

Another tremor rattles the house. It’s louder now—the rumbling drawing ever nearer. Out of fear, I have yet to turn on the radio to hear of the destruction stretching across the globe. My guilt is unbearable as it is, and hearing reports of a world on fire would destroy the very heart of me. Upon my return home, I began to hear murmurings of cataclysmic events, predictions of fire and ruin, and I knew: I had caused it. For months, I locked myself away in this study and delved into translating the inscription on the seal. My success was devastating as the reality of what I had done sank in.

The inscription spoke of the Old Ones, the ancient demons and gods who walked this earth long before man was pulled forth from the dust. This was their realm—a realm of nightmares hitherto unseen—which had been locked away beneath the surface at the emergence of humanity. There they remained for millennia, until I foolishly touched the seal. I had set them free; I had unleashed hellfire and destruction upon an unsuspecting world and would have to watch as it was reduced to ash and swallowed up by the quaking earth below.

Yet, betwixt the frenzy and despair, an epiphany was had. In all my studies of ancient civilizations, there was one thing the most primitive of pagans had in common: ritual sacrifice. It was a way to appease the gods, you see. We call them ignorant, carnal, savages, when in reality, they were the ones who truly knew what lurked below the surface of this world. I was running out of time and options, and reluctantly accepted the knowledge that only blood would appease the Old Ones. Luckily, this house had blood to spare. Despite how many times I wash my hands, I feel it still—running down my fingertips, splashing across my face, drying on my skin. My only defense is that I did what I did for the greater good. Sometimes, blood must be shed for the greater good. That was how we rationalized the carnage we witnessed in The Great War… “the greater good.”

My mind is a blur. The wine and exhaustion, combined with the raw, open wound of guilt I feel gazing at the photograph of the seal are overwhelming. I reach for it, with a trembling hand, to lift it from the desk, but something is wrong. Try as I might, my fingers cannot grasp the edges. I see it there before me, the photograph, but it seems… stuck somehow—stuck on the pages of a book. That cannot be. Abandoning the wine bottle on the desk, I grab the book with both hands and run my fingers across the image of the seal. Inexplicably, yet undeniably, the photograph is printed on the page of this book. Flipping it closed, I read the cover: A Study in Antiquity: Ancient Babylon Reborn. What is this? How did they come to possess the photograph I took?

Another rumble shakes me from my thoughts, and the book slips from my hands, landing on the hard, wooden floor with a thud. No. No, I was there. I know I was! I took that photograph; I took several photographs! They were right here, only days ago… but try as I might, I cannot seem to locate them! The only images I find of the seal are looking back at me from the pages of the books and journals covering my desk.

A cold sweat breaks out across my brow as I notice the one item which seems out of place amidst the mess. Surrounded by ancient texts and archaeological journals is a newspaper, and I begin to shake uncontrollably as my eyes scan the headline printed in bold, black letters: “L’ARMÉE ALLEMANDE ENVAHIT LA FRANCE!” and the date which reads “5 Juin 1940.” A loud blast resounds from outside, and the house rocks from the force of it. I instinctively bring my hands up to cover my ears and fight to push away the image the sound calls to mind—an image of mud and blood, barbed wire, and mustard gas.

“No.” I scarcely realize I’ve said it aloud as I back away from the desk. “No, no, no, no!” It is the only word my brain can conjure, the only word my lips can form. The headline cycles through my mind, mixing with the haze of alcohol, and I turn and run from the room, stumbling as I go, pushing through door after door, until I find myself in the sitting room and stop dead in my tracks.

The stench hits me before my mind registers the scene before me—the picture I painted several days ago. There, laid out side by side, stretching the length of the room is the staff—throats cut and drained of blood, with sigils and symbols carved into the skin of their naked bodies. I did that to appease the Old Ones. I did that before fleeing to the cellar at the sound of the shifting earth. I remember their screams, the way they each pleaded with me to stay my hand, insisting I was not in my right mind, but their petitions fell on deaf ears as I brought the knife down time and time again.

“Sometimes, blood must be shed for the greater good,” my voice is a whisper, barely reaching my own ears over the cacophony of sound echoing beyond the walls of the house.

The knowledge of what I have done hits me like a mortar—which I swear I can hear from outside the confines of my mind—and I double over, spilling the wine-stained contents of my stomach with a painful retch. It mixes with the blood on the floor, and I am undone. I cannot stay here. My only option is to flee—flee this room, flee this estate. I am no longer the caretaker here; I am no longer Vialle.

Unbarring the front doors requires nearly all the strength I have left, but at last, I pull them open and stagger outside. The early morning light is blinding after nearly a week spent in the cellar, and I shield my eyes until they can adjust. The rumbling of the earth continues, and I brace myself against one of the marble columns, my eyes slowly registering the sight before me. Smoke rises from the north, and the sound of artillery fire reaches my ears as tanks and military vehicles cut across the grounds of the estate, headed for the streets of Paris. The earth trembles as the enemy advances, bringing me to my knees, and memories of the initial murmurings of war from months prior flood my fractured mind.

“‘L’armée allemande envahit la France,’” I repeat the headline of the newspaper; the newspaper I read days before the signs of their imminent arrival began to rattle the house; days before I barred the doors and grabbed the knife.

“German army invades France,” I cry, slumping against the massive column at my back, eyes closing as unconsciousness takes me against my will.

Not again; not this. Anything but this.