The Eternal Doom

Chapter 5, Shadowed Memories

Ginger was standing outside, scanning the heavenly world: the path curling down in the mist, the green grass front of the little old house of Mr Walter's childhood, the small pillars of stones and the small gate of wooden panels just a little lower than the height of the pillars; the small wall with the old lamps over it. He saw the tall trees hidden by the cliffs; the place was as calm as though no one else lived there; the sky was rolling down over the cliffs, mixing up with the atmosphere. He took a long breath and started to stagger back inside, when he heard the sound of the ravens somewhere from the distance, a sound of the many ravens. They were croaking; their voices seemed to jab Ginger on his way, with his eyes darting here and there over the sky when he saw as the ravens dived out from one of the tall trees as if something had frightened them, out of nowhere Ginger was standing, with his expression appearing kind of paranoid. The voices of the ravens were still echoing when suddenly the faded memory got him, and there he found himself standing, wearing a fine waistcoat with a black velvet tie in the middle of the collar of a white dress shirt: a suit for a perfect young butler. Though he seemed more like a young decent gentleman, who was dusting the vase with the faces of the children carved over it lying over the log of oak wood, which was standing under the arched space of the huge window.

Ginger was quite busy in his work when some heavy sound made him peek through the glass of the French window at a black car which was coming driving up the long driveway of bricks, shaded with the trees and bushes on both of its sides, the garden rolling down into the slope at either side of it, and then the car circled over the round drive through the ten-acre mansion of the famous award-winning author and painter known as Walter Albert.

Now the car had finally stopped in front of the window, and, after a moment two guys appeared from inside, in formal dress, standing at the façade of the huge artistic mansion. The one was slim and height not more than five-nine, whereas the other was about six feet, with broad shoulders and chest. Ginger saw the man standing quietly, taking a complete view of the facade of the mansion, running their eyes over the garden sloping down from the street, stretching almost twenty feet below from the mansion, so the mansion was so many feet high from the garden, that made its shape of the most artistic little word. The steps of the stones, going down through the slope, buried under the grass: Ginger could feel the amazing desire and envy in their eyes from the way they were gazing at it. Ginger carefully placed the vase back on the wooden log, and prepared himself for the doorbell; and as the huge bell rang like a church bell, so he slightly opened the screen door and those two men appeared standing in the middle of it. "Hello, sir, may I help you?" he said to them, in a most sophisticated accent.

"Yes, please! I'm Edward Scrooge, and he is Richard Clark. We are both journalists; we were given time to meet Mr Walter to discuss his new novel." Ginger had already read their names on the cards hanging from their neck.

"Are you expected by him?" Ginger said meekly.

"Pardon me for asking you these questions, because Mr. Walter is kind of busy."

"Yes, we are expected. Please will you just tell him our names; perhaps he will spare a little of his time for us," the man with broad shoulders said in his hoarse voice.

Ginger seated them on a long Victorian wooden couch in the huge entrance hall. The smell of the dark wooden floor of it spread all around the thin man, who ran his hand over the dark maroon velvet of the couch as if he was enjoying its softness. The entrance hall was so huge and well equipped with Victorian antiques; the furniture was so lavish, but in the old style, with the Roman touch, that one of the men, whose name was Edward Scrooge, got himself up from the couch and started to linger in the hall like a spy. He walked himself to another open hall through two or three pillars in the entrance. The heavenly carved wings of the angel entangled by the carved veins in dark wood which was covering those pillars seemed so real that no one could judge whether they were carved, or had grown naturally around them. He paused in the middle of it, as he started to gaze comically over the huge painting covering the wall of many feet. The painting was an absolute masterpiece, which became a desirable passion for the world, the value and the worth given to the painting was of billions of dollars. The masterpiece had become legendary, with an undefined story; so the man standing found himself in the strange darkness of the painting. The wooden wall of strong texture in its background was so real; the royal bathtub of the brace and with the carving of leaves and vines over it; the crimson water was flowing out from it, as the great lion head was lying in it, half-sunken and half revealing outside from the strange majestically royal bathtub, his eyes open, filled with emotion, yet it was hard to tell if he was dead or alive. Dry and dead leaves, along with fresh green leaves, were scattered along with the bunches of grapes, and entwined vines on the dark wooden floor, though some of them were dangling down from the side edge of the bath where the crimson was spilling along with them from its side; and on the right side there were sitting two mysterious yet horrific figures of huge black barbaric