The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 2

The broken wind chime hung from a single rusty nail outside the front door. It struggled to choke out a melody in the night breeze. The old chime had seen many seasons and many other breezes, but as time typically bestows upon the long lived, it now sang a worn and exhausted song. Qulin pushed through the front door which barely hung to its hinges and stepped out onto the front porch. He considered the faulty chime, considered its irritating performance, and snatched the crippled device within his hand. He loathed the possibility that its pathetic and clamoring racket would draw attention to his home. Any bit of attention was the last thing he wanted. Any distraction that pulled him from the thought of his blue halos. They swirled around endlessly in his mind, brilliant and mighty. He dared let himself search for a sense of delight, of hope, though he was clueless as to what either felt like anymore. He'd seen the halos form around the orchids. He was as closer to finishing the elixir as ever. It was just as Cora described in her diary. And soon, he would see her again.

He squeezed the chime snapping the metal clapper as brown flakes of rust fell from his hand. The ridges of his scarred face filled with blood as his furrowed gaze tracked the flickering lone streetlight at the end of his driveway. In the light stood the crooked dead apple tree in his front yard, its lone branch jutted out flagrantly like a judging, bony finger pointing towards his neighbor's impeccable New England colonial—the Hustons.

He hurled the chime towards their yard. It crashed into a mocking heap just under their mailbox.

This morning they had interfered and denied him the one chance to determine what might have caused those wonderful blue halos to blossom from the orchids. His precious and long sought after halos, were right at his fingertips before those nasty Huston kids distracted him with their hysterical and perverse laughter. How it flowed like a raging squall into his yard where he worked. That miserable Huston boy, what was his name?—Mitch, sending barrage after barrage of errant baseballs into his yard with the sole purpose of stoking his anger. It succeeded. Distraction after distraction. Even now, recalling their miserable laughter brought a rush of nausea to his mouth.

Underlying this disdain for neighbors, was a vivid fear of those who lived close by. Qulin, in his many centuries living in Derryton, had known those by your side were the least trustworthy. They were the first to gossip, the first to call you monster. How easily butterflies turn to maggots when the sun disappears. And even after centuries not much had changed. They still whispered about him. Perhaps they had good reason.

His thoughts returned to the blue halos. Who knew if he'd be able to conjure them again. What brought them out? It had all been such a mystery. He stepped over broken planks of the front deck, and made a course toward the mailbox at the tail-end of the driveway. Broken chunks of driveway and dead leaves fell away under his feet leaving a moldy earthy odor. Moonlight bounced off in crooked strands from the splintered roof and broken windows. He reached into the mailbox and pulled out the single piece of mail. The unmistakable town hall insignia—Potter's Bluff with a downward facing sword wrapped in a prickled vine—was stamped in bright red ink in the left corner. He knew what was inside. He'd been warned numerous times by city hall officials regarding the failing conditions of his house. It was unsafe they said. It was in no shape for habitation they said. He somehow knew Mr. Huston had his hand in this. However repairing his house was the last thing on his mind. His hands urged him to tear up the letter then something caught his attention. The FOR SALE sign that had been posted outside the first house in the neighborhood was gone. A sour taste slapped across his mouth—another neighbor. He cursed the four other Colonial style houses on the street. If only he could use his magic. Summon a flood to sweep them all away. Anger seized him. It would be so easy. He whirled towards the sound of the clock striking quarter till midnight coming from his living room. He hurried towards the front door. He had lost track of time ruminating like a fool. With his head down, he burst through the front door and passed the crackling fireplace, keeping his eyes away from the painting above the mantle. He snapped his fingers and a flood of light beamed from the incandescent bulbs hanging from rafters in the basement. With another swirling of his hand, the phonograph needle slid over onto the motionless black LP. A dark and somber piano score drifted from the trumpet horn.