Dreams

Amontillado's Spirit

Click-clack, click-clack.

Mary came down the marble staircase from the foyer, lifting the ends of her maid dress from the ground as she walked.

"Mr. Archer?"

I turned in my dinner chair, setting down the glass of wine onto the table.

"Yes, Mary, what is it?"

I didn't like her interrupting my dinner at all, but she must have some reason - Mary was a pertinent maid ever since the day I hired her: a dam bad cook at that, but a good maid.

"Someone's here at the door," she said, in a light tone. "He's asked to see you." There was a brief pause as Mary swallowed and regained her voice. "His name is Mr. McDonald."
McDonald - now that was a name for the ages. It must have been years ago since I last heard it uttered, and nearly twice as long before I last saw his face. The name rung a bell, but oddly enough, no image would conjure no matter how hard I tried to recall. McDonald from the Latin School: McDonald in Greek Class, or McDonald in the university courtyard, lounging over gifted champagne from the professors and ruminating over Socrates and Plato.

I paused. "McDonald, you say? That's a name. That's a name."
Mary stood firm in her spot. "Shall I let him in, Mr. Archer?"
I nodded: yes, what else could one do for an old friend? McDonald was a good student, a good man overall: cunning like a red fox and sharp as a whip, but mostly a straight-forward sort of fellow. One, two, three, maybe, glasses of brandy talking over old times at the Academy would tide him over. I can imagine him now, faceless, like a pink scrubbed mannequin, gentle fondling the Venetian glass like an Italian lover as we reminisced about the times before, grudges buried and burned out. Was he terribly feverish with nostalgia, or desperate for some human contact? Locked up in his chambers to study for years and years, deprived of all human contact except through the yellow-thin leafed pages of books? The life of an Academic like him is a lonely no without a doubt, but it is the one he chose.

Mary nodded in affirmation and clicked back up the stairs. Looking over, I gave Bernard, the other servant standing by, a knowing look; he knew what to get. Five minutes later and he was back with my cane: I took in hand, feeling over the coarse head knotted with little bits of wood and worn chips. It would be a task getting used to this old thing, but something about it felt right.

"Bernard, quick," I said in a hoarse voice, "Ready two glasses of brandy. I'll be in the study."
I sat down in the study, propping the cane against the glossed wood arm of the chair and waiting for the bell to sound again, signifying that someone had entered the doors. After a while I heard it, and two minutes later McDonald was ushered into the study by none other than Mary, discrete and discerning as ever.

"Thank you Mary, you are dismissed," I said.

She nodded again, and left without a word.

There was a moment of silence as I looked upon my old friend, McDonald, letting the face bring back the memories of so many years ago. Fiery red hair, sharp, defined lips like crimson, not a single blushing emotion to be found on his face. He seemed even younger than I remembered him being, and I supposed that he must have treated him well; it was apparent the same could not be said for me.

"Hello, old friend," he said, approaching me with an air of confidence. "I hope you do not mind the sudden nature of this meeting, but I desperately need to speak a few words with you."

It was at that moment Bernard peeked through the door, the silver platter holding two glasses of brandy shivering nervously in his arms.

"Here are the glasses," he said, in a high tone. "You wanted them?"