The Final Tale of Andrew Lahr | Part 4 | Read It For Free Today
- Adrian Vladimir
- Oct 26, 2023
- 6 min read
THE FINAL TALE OF ANDREW LAHR
Copyright 2023 by Adrian Vladimir
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system of any kind, without prior written permission of the author.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to thank the authors and editors who helped me bring this story to life: Stacey Longo, David Daniel, Ursula Wong, and Rob Smales. Most of all, I'd like to thank my wife, Jordana, who never complains no matter how many times she has to go over a manuscript with her savage red pen.
FOUR
Tattered issues of Old Story Literati had made their way even to the hovels of my humble district, and the idiots of Monson began speaking to me with respect. “The Moonlit Girl” caused them to reconsider my worth.
I was no longer detested as the nephew of the dead wizard, a man reviled by the savages in this godly community. I was encouraged by this development, for there is loneliness and despair in existing at the edges of your own people.
“Lost in the Mariner’s Eye” earned me an invitation to a Boston conference of artistic minds. I was by no means the most famous artist to attend, but at just twenty-three years of age, I was the youngest, and so my appearance caused a bit of a stir.
It was here I befriended artists, businessmen, professors and priests, politicians, and wealthy benefactors of the arts. My standing was much improved by my attendance, and the doors to fame began to open.
It was there that I met the sculptor, and he and I became friends of a sort. My time is short, dear publisher, and so I must leave what came next to the imagination, but suffice it to say he provided me with the ability to pen “The Statue’s Man.”
I knew by then that while talent might lie within me, my talent was dormant without a crucial spark to ignite my imagination. What a gift my uncle had bequeathed upon my undeserving head! He had given me back that which I had lost—or perhaps had never had!
In Philadelphia, I met the weaver, and wove “The Crimson Thread.”
In Richmond, I met the musician, and composed “Tune of My Birth.”
In Ohio, I met the blacksmith, and forged “The Fire in Steel.”
The amulet was a scattering of rainbow stars by then, and I peered into it often in search of inspiration. Blue and yellow and red and more!
On I went, fame stretching out before me like a highway paved with gold. I moved only in the highest social circles, tasting flavors I’d never imagined, captured by stratagems petty and grand, seduced by lifestyles of both the pure and the unchaste, each possessing their charms.
In Savannah, I met the architect, and built “Towers of Sin.”
In Trenton, I met the potter, and shaped “Absence of the Molded Form.”
In Blacksburg, I met a master of stained glassmaking, and illuminated perhaps my most scandalous piece, “Window into God’s Mirror.”
I was dazzled by New York, and at that time was enjoying the luxuries of the vast Long Island estate of a titan of industry, an elderly gentleman who’d made his fortune in exports to England and Europe. In my finest suit, in the company of the city’s most powerful, I attended an amazing performance: A Show Grander than Grand, a confluence of drama, music, dance and exquisite costumes.
But it was the violinist who stunned me with her beauty and skill, a buxom maiden with golden hair and a fine patrician face, garbed in a crimson gown. Her hands flowed over the strings, her bow weeping, raging, and singing in turn. I was captivated by her.
“Do you know this woman?” I asked my benefactor.
“Hush, Andrew,” was all he could manage.
After the thunderous applause at the conclusion of the performance, my companion said he did not know this attractive woman, for A Show Grander than Grand was a traveling spectacle, and thus he’d not had the pleasure. I heard the regret in his voice, for like a moonflower blooming in a darkening eve, she would’ve added a spot of color to his life.
Breathless, we stumbled from the concert hall, and I took leave of my companion, making my way to a nearby café. He did not protest, for he was much older and in need of rest, and I had long become accustomed to existing in the night. Sitting at an outdoor table, I considered how to engineer an introduction to this most astounding artist, whose name I now knew to be Claretta Winn. The very thought of her warmed my body.
“Claretta … Claretta …” I mused under my breath.
I soon noticed a man in the shadows of an alley across the street. At first, I gave him no heed, intent as I was upon Claretta Winn. As other patrons came and went, the man did not. I departed the café, and when I peered over my shoulder, a dirty and disheveled figure tottered after me. I turned onto another street, and then onto a third and a fourth.
I stopped in the pool of a street lantern’s light, peering into the gloom behind me. Nothing. Nothing at all, save my own pounding heart and … footsteps. Quiet and crafty. The scarecrow materialized into the light of a lantern not three houses behind me! He raised his trembling hand, pointing at me with a claw of a finger. Then he charged.
I fled, shouting for a constable, but the hour was late, and the streets were empty. I turned into an alley, then onto another street, but he pursued me. Fear overtook me, and I ran blindly, until I shed my pursuer at last.
Breathless and shaking, the light shining on a very fine carriage outside the steps of an elegant hotel beckoned me. My pursuer still lurked somewhere nearby. I peered behind me every few steps, and when I had nearly reached the hotel, the scarecrow burst from an alley by the door and struck me across the face. Stars shattered my vision. Rough, callused hands shook me, and I peered into bloody eyes in a face gaunt as a skull, breathing in the stench of a man unaccustomed to bathing.
But he was strong, so strong, and he yanked me close, shouting into my face: “Charlatan! Impostor! Thief!”
He raised a knife above my head, and my heart went cold with terror. I was doomed!
“Do not!” a voice shouted.
The knife hovered above me like the sword of Damocles, and my attacker glanced toward the carriage. A radiant woman stood beside the open door, as impenetrable as a fortress.
“Please, sir, do not shed blood while I watch,” she said.
“Then look away,” he growled, his grip tightening on my suit.
“I will do no such thing.”
“Miss, please! Leave them be!” begged a dapper manservant, rushing around the back of the carriage with the lady’s bags in hand.
“I will do no such thing,” she repeated, her blue eyes locking with the bloodshot eyes of my attacker.
For several heartbeats the two regarded one another, before my attacker shoved me to the ground and fled back into shadows. I trembled as her manservant helped me to my feet and attempted to hide my fright by brushing off my suit. I was shaking.
“Too many in this city have lost a little of what makes life worth living. Don’t you agree, Mister …” Her voice was light and playful, her eyes twinkling, and I found I could barely speak.
“Lahr,” I croaked.
Her smile bloomed. “Well met, Mr. Lahr. Your reputation is exemplary.”
“Well met? Indeed not. This wasn’t the most courageous of my encounters.”
“Manliness is seldom revealed by death, Mr. Lahr.” She laughed, and the sound caused me to breathe a bit more easily.
“Please. I prefer Andrew.”
She hooked her arm in mine. “And I prefer Claretta. Shall we have a drink?”
~~**~~
“Do you know him?” Claretta asked. We had taken a small table in the hotel restaurant, and although the hour was late and such luxuries closed, this was Claretta Winn. We had no trouble securing service.
“That scarecrow? I’ve never seen him before. Just a mugger, I’m sure.” I concealed my lie with a sip of ale, for by then a realization had dawned.
My attacker’s hands had been scarred by rough work, his skin cracked by the wind, his eyes squinted from peering over decades of waves. I had hardly recognized him, for his face was leaner and he sported a ratty beard, but it was the poet, nonetheless. We were hundreds of miles and two years from Cumberland.
I was being hunted.
Will the poet destroy Andrew Lahr, or will imagination save him?
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