Blackwood Manor, Demomire
23rd January 1867
Dear Mama,
I reckon it’s been a stretch since you’ve heard the scratch of my pen or imagined the sound of my voice through written words. The guilt sits heavy on my chest, knowing the worry that must have gnawed at your heart. These past months—or has it been years?—have seen me cast adrift on tides of fortune and misfortune alike, leaving little room for correspondence. I can only hope this letter finds you in good health and that Papa’s cough ain’t troubling him much.
Africa, Mama. That’s where I roamed, far beyond the tales of old men by the saloon stove. I wish I could spin you yarns of golden savannas and beasts the likes of which you’ve never seen, but truth told, most days were a grueling dance with danger. Your boy has come back a touch leaner and a mite wiser, though not unscathed.
You didn’t hear from me, not for lack of trying. Many times, I’d draft a letter only to have it snatched away by circumstance or lost to the wilderness. I hope you can forgive my silence.
You know I’ve always had a knack for landing on my feet, like a cat thrown from the loft. It’s that very knack that’s landed me employment at Blackwood Manor, in a Town called Demomire. Its a beautiful and rich place, Mama. You would love it here, and it might even help Papa’s cough if you came. The manor is perched high up on The Eastern Sentinels, a mountain range running along one side of a beautiful valley. It’s god’s country Mama.
This place is something else, Mama, Blackwood Manor’s got a queer way about it. The place is a living puzzle, forever adding pieces to itself. Just yesterday, I watched as fine furniture and fixtures from across the seas made their way through the main hall—chairs carved with such intricacy they’d shame the finest lace you’ve ever seen, and chandeliers that could make the night sky jealous with their shimmering crystals. It’s an endless stream of luxury, each piece finding its place in rooms that seem to multiply like rabbits in spring.
And yet, for all its grandeur and the ceaseless construction of new chambers and parlors, the manor’s halls echo with a certain emptiness. The Baron, a man of singular presence, lives alone amidst this expanse of stone and splendor. Not a wife nor child to share his table, which is long enough to seat a regiment.
Curiously, the previous overseer disappeared without a trace.; The tale of which hangs over my position like a specter. There was no sign of him, save for his neatly folded clothes found center stage in his woodland cabin. The locals whisper about it in hushed tones, but no one dares to speak outright of what might have befallen him.
It is curious though; everything else was left untouched – his possessions still in place as if he’d step right back into his life at any moment. The Baron hasn’t said much on the matter, and I’ve learned better than to press him for information he’s not inclined to give.
Upon offering me the job, The Baron, insisted I stay within the manor walls—”for my own safety,” he claimed. But between you and me, Mama, ain’t no walls or locked doors can ensure a man’s safety when there’s foul play about. Still, I agreed, seeing as it’d be foolish to turn down such generous lodging.
That brings me to another strange thing about this place. The Baron gave me strict instructions never to wander the manor at night unguided. “The manor,” he said in that voice of his that could command armies or calm storms, “is vast and complicated. One could easily lose their way amidst its corridors.”
I’ve taken to exploring during daylight hours when my duties allow. Every corner turned reveals another locked door with these curious crystals flanking each side—pulsing softly as if alive. It’s like walking through a dream dreamed by another man—a dream you’re none too sure you oughta be part of.
But don’t fret none about me; I’ve got a good head on my shoulders and a pocket compass Papa gave me before I left home all those years ago. Still, it’s hard not to feel like an ant in an anthill built by giants—this place has got more stories than the Bible itself.
I suppose you and Papa, might be curious about my whereabouts and the discoveries from my journey. I ended up in Africa, Mama. Africa – a continent too immense and untamed to be confined to mere words, yet it brimmed with adventure and the promise of exploration. The thrill of uncovering this untamed territory captivated me, Mama.
I Joined up with a band of folk lookin’ to find themselves some glory and gold. We sailed that dark continent, searching for whisperings of a city lost to time. Africa didn’t greet us with open arms – no, ma’am. It tested us with fire and fury. We met creatures that stared us down with eyes full of midnight, and lands that offered no quarter. The folks there, they knew the land’s rhythms, and they suffered no fools.
Under a celestial blanket glittering with countless stars, we chanced upon our quarry. A city that appeared to emerge directly from the thick jungle surroundings. It was an ancient metropolis that had weathered the passage of time. Initially wary, the inhabitants gradually opened up, paving the way for a budding friendship.
The tribe appeared amiable, and in time, it appeared I had earned their confidence. Regrettably, my companions felt differently. They regarded the tribe and their customs with disdain, despite the evident fact that this society had constructed a sprawling metropolis and possessed a heritage potentially as enduring as their own.
One evening, as the sun bled its last light over the horizon, some tribesmen called me to join them around a fire that crackled with life. The men gathered in a circle, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames that cast dancing shadows on their features. The leader stood before me and gifted me an amulet, one like all the tribe wore, just like the one around his neck—a piece crafted from bone and adorned with intricate carvings and tiny beads that shimmered like distant stars.
That night under a canvas of endless stars, I lay back on the earth feeling its steady breath beneath me. The amulet rested against my skin—a constant reminder of where I’d been and who I’d become. It wasn’t just an adornment; it was a testament to a journey deeper than any marked on maps—a journey inward to places I didn’t know existed within me.
That night, the stars must’ve seen the folly of man, as I lay awake, clutching the amulet gifted by the tribe. The moon hung heavy in the sky, a silent witness to the treachery that unfolded. It started with a whisper, a shuffle of feet outside my tent. Curiosity, ever my companion, drew me out into the cool night.
There they were, Mama—the men I’d traveled with—pillaging artifacts from a sacred site we’d been shown in trust. The very heart of the city’s heritage was being torn out by greedy hands. My heart sank to my boots. In the distance I could hear a great commotion, which began to grow louder; our presence had stirred the spirits of the place—or so it seemed until shouts in an unfamiliar tongue rose from within the city. We’d been caught.
Chaos erupted as tribesmen emerged like vengeful ghosts from the shadows. In that instant, survival instincts took hold—I made a dash for it, darting through alleyways and vaulting over low walls. Behind me, cries of anger and the clash of conflict rang out as I fled deeper into the embrace of the jungle.
I left them behind, Mama—my legs carried me far from their greed and betrayal until all that remained was the pounding of my heart and the distant calls of pursuit swallowed by night’s embrace.
So there I was, Mama, alone in the belly of Africa with nothin’ but the clothes on my back and the amulet ’round my neck. The jungle was a beast of a different kind, full of sounds that kept a man’s eyes wide in the pitch of night. I wandered, days blurring into nights, each step leadin’ me deeper into the unknown.
Hunger gnawed at me somethin’ fierce. I’d managed to snare a rabbit or two and found berries that didn’t kill me outright, but it was a sorry state for a man used to a hot meal and a soft bed. I could feel my strength waning with each sunrise, and there were moments, Mama—moments when I thought the earth might just swallow me whole.
One evenin’, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky with streaks of fire, I stumbled upon a clearin’. Exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. I collapsed to my knees, thinkin’ maybe this was it—that maybe this clearin’ would become my final restin’ place.
But fate, it seems, had other plans for your boy. A hunter found me there, crumpled in the dirt like discarded cloth. He was a wanderin’ sort himself, with eyes that spoke of years lived under the open sky. He saw the amulet glintin’ at my throat and somethin’ like recognition—flickered across his face.
Without a word, he hoisted me up over his shoulder as if I weighed no more than a sack of feathers. We walked—or rather, he walked and I lolled—until we reached his village. It was a modest gathering of huts nestled against the backdrop of whisperin’ trees.
They tended to me there, fed me broths that warmed from the inside out and wrapped my feet in bandages. The hunter watched over me like a guardian spirit. Under his care, life flowed back into my limbs like spring water.
I owe that man my life, Mama; he pulled me from Death’s grip without so much as knowin’ my name. In those days of recovery, as strength returned to me in slow trickles, I knew I couldn’t linger in that village forever. The pull of home tugged at my heart with each dawn.
As soon as I could stand without the world spinnin’, I sought passage back to civilization—a steamer headin’ for ports known and lands charted. My mind was set on returnin’, on seein’ familiar faces and walkin’ streets where no one questioned your past or how close you’d come to meetin’ your maker.
The journey back wasn’t easy; no true journey ever is. But every mile that rolled beneath me brought me closer to home—to you and Papa and all things familiar. And now here I am in Demomire, far from Africa’s embrace but carryin’ its lessons deep within me.
My sole remorse lies in abandoning a woman; I believe she might have been my destined partner, Mama. Her brown eyes haunt me still. It pains me deeply to have deserted her amidst such a treacherous crowd.
Now listen close, Mama. There might come some smooth-talking men with badges or without, asking after me with smiles as false as a gambler’s promise. Don’t pay them no mind. They’re searching for a ghost—a man I used to be but ain’t no more. Don’t show ’em this letter or breathe a word of my whereabouts. You know better than to trust strangers at their word.
I miss you something fierce—the way your voice would soothe even the rowdiest of tempests in my head, the scent of your apple pie cooling on the windowsill, and Papa’s tall tales that stretched longer with each telling.
With all my love,
Cody
Author
