Trophy
by zoogirl
(1)
Major Richard Sanderson was a man who liked to possess things. That a person or object might not wish to be possessed would never have occurred to him. He enjoyed beauty in all it's forms and accordingly he surrounded himself with beautiful things. Even more than the owning of something, he loved the getting of it.
Richard Sanderson loved the hunt.
He had only just returned from a three month excursion to Africa the previous week and he was looking forward to the delivery of a number of heads, skins and complete animals which had been sent ahead to the finest taxidermist in London. His Trophy-room already boasted a fine collection of specimens from South America, Europe, Asia, and the Canadian North. The African exhibits would round things out nicely.
He was sitting in his library, sipping a fine whisky and reading the Times. The door opened softly and his young wife stepped into the room.
"Richard, I've had to give Mary her wages and let her go. She said that she would simply refuse to go into the Trophy-room if any more animals came in. She said it gave her the queerest feeling to work in there alone and of course a maid who won't work is very little use."
"Quite right." Sanderson turned his page and took another sip. One maid, more or less meant nothing to him.
"I was sorry to do it, Richard." Helen Sanderson bit her lip She knew perfectly well that her husband considered emotion a waste of energy, but she went on in a rush. "I'd got quite fond of Mary. She was always cheerful, always quick with a bright word, and such a hard worker, for the most part. It was only the Trophy-room that put her off, but Richard, she was so frightened!"
''Nonsense! Nothing in there could possibly hurt her. I made quite sure of that!" He permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. None of the animals had been bought or taken by the native bearers. Every one had felt the bite of a bullet that he had personally fired, with deadly accuracy.
Helen turned and left the room. She stopped in the hall for a moment and took a deep breath. When she felt steady again, she went up to her room and readied herself for another lonely night.
Things had been so different when she and Richard had first met. She'd been halfway engaged to Tommy Evers, but Richard had gone out of his way to be charming and pleasant. She'd fallen in love with him and dropped Tommy without a second thought. The marriage had begun well enough. Richard seemed to take pleasure in her youth and beauty and for a time she'd been happy. The thrill of ownership had worn off within the year though and now she slept alone most nights. He'd seemed to forget that she had any feelings of her own as soon as his had cooled. That she did still care for him was her own problem.
Now Mary was gone too. The girl had been more friend than servant. Out in the country, hidden away in the house that had belonged to Richard's people for almost three centuries, she had very little contact with anyone her own age. Sending Mary on her way was the hardest thing she'd ever done, and the kindest. If Richard had found her shirking her job, he'd have sent her packing with a sharp word and the clothes she stood up in. Thanks to Helen, she'd gone with a fine reference, as much of Helen's old clothing as she could carry and an extra ten pounds in her pocket.
Helen sat up as she heard Richard's step on the stairs. Might he possibly understand what she was going through? Helen wished with all her heart that he would come in for just a moment, maybe sit in the big armchair and talk to her like he used to, or even slip into the bed and hold her throughout the long night, but the steps went on without a pause. She heard his door open, then close firmly. After a long time she finally slept.
(2)
The next morning Helen busied herself with telephoning the agencies in search of a new maid. Richard had decided that the local girls were too full of superstition and ordered her to find a good, sensible town girl. Most of the agencies held out little hope of finding anyone willing to work in such an out of the way spot, but one or two said it might just be possible, in a month or so. In the meantime, the housework would be done by Mrs Jennings, who kept her own little cottage, and Helen herself.
Helen was actually looking forward to having something to do. Richard, when he noticed her at all, expected her to look like a lady at all times. She'd read every book in the house, embroidered 'til her fingers bled and learned all the music in the piano seat so well that she could play the hymns better than Miss Jones, the Church organist. In short, she was completely bored.
Now she stood with a long feather duster in her hand, surveying the mounts in Richard's Trophy-room.
It was easy for her to understand why Mary had been put off. The heads seemed to stare at her in accusation. It was as if they wanted her to find their bodies and make them whole again. The full mounts were even worse. They seemed ready to step off their stands. She could almost feel the sharp claws of the cougar, hear the soft hiss of the cobra as it stood, coiled and ready.
She shook her head and they became still again. After all, they were just bits of fur and claw, draped over plaster and wood, unable to think or feel or know, ever again. Helen was overwhelmed with pity.
She reached out and touched the muzzle of a bear. "Poor old boy. You'd rather be out picking berries, wouldn't you? Or catching a nice salmon for your dinner. Richard caught us both unaware, didn't he? In a way, Bear, I do believe you're the lucky one" She reached out and gave his head a quick pat. Feeling suddenly foolish, she went on with her dusting, firmly pushing the animals out of her mind.
That evening Dr. Hanson came to dinner. He was their nearest neighbour and had been the family doctor for over forty years. Richard enjoyed a game of chess as he enjoyed any chase and the Doctor was a fine player. Helen left them alone after the meal and they settled down to a stiff game.
"So, my boy, I hope your latest safari was all you'd hoped." the Doctor said as he made his first move.
"Not quite." Richard replied. "I went at the wrong time of year, or rather the year didn't behave as expected." He countered the Doctor's move.
"What do you mean?"
"I hit a drought, you see. Instead of chasing the beasts through the jungle or stalking them out on the Savannah, I was reduced to sitting at the waterholes while they came to me. A poor lot they were, too. Most of them were skin and bone. Only a few who were in any condition to take as trophys."
"The best of them, always, hey Richard?" The Doctor gave him a sharp look. "I don't suppose you left any of the strong ones behind, did you?"
'Whatever for? They were there, they were mine and I took them." Richard looked puzzled.
"For continuance of the species. Did it never occur to you that those strong ones were the hope of the herd? Only the finest of each kind can last through something like a drought and their offspring will be the one's best fitted to carry on the line. By taking them you may have killed a whole species."
"What of it?" Richard reached out and moved his man."There are hundreds of different kinds of animal. What's one less?"
Dr.Hanson stared at him, then shook his head. "Richard, when I brought you into this world, you were a fine, well formed lad. I think now that something had been left out of you and the sad thing is, my boy, you don't even know it."
(3)
That night he heard it for the first time.
It began as a soft thumping. He'd gone to bed and lay in the soft drowsiness that just precedes full sleep. It was hard to pinpoint the source of the sound. It seemed to come from nowhere in particular and was just loud enough to be aware of. He finally put it down to some trick of the plumbing and fell into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning he told Helen to call for a plumber and have him check all the drains. "It's past time it was done, anyway. Did you hear anything odd last night?"
"Odd? In what way?" She looked at him curiously.
"Oh, I don't know. Sort of a drumming. It seemed to go on steady for a bit, then cut off quite abruptly. I heard it several times."
"Well, I didn't. Richard, without a maid, there will be quite a lot of work and I know how particular you are about your mounts. Do you want me to dust them or would you rather take care of it yourself?" She said it cooly, but she let out a sigh of relief when he replied that he had better do it himself.
Helen had no desire to spend time in that room. When the cases full of the latest trophy's arrived that afternoon, she made an excuse to run into the village and didn't return until nearly suppertime. Mrs Jennings served them and then went off to see to the pots before going home.
"Well, my dear, while you were gone Bert Jennings and I got all the new mounts set and in their places. I'm really quite pleased. You must have a look." He was so eager that her heart went out to him. For just a moment he was the bright, cheerful, Richard she'd fallen in love with.
"Of course I will!"
As soon as they were finished he led the way to the Trophy-room and flung open the door. Helen stepped inside.
A wall had always been left bare against the day that the African safari would take place. Now it was filled with heads. Wildebeest, warthog and eland looked down on her. Dozen of animals were represented, from the tiniest dik-dik to enormous water-buffalo. On the floor lay rugs made from the skins of lions and zebra's. In one corner was the cruelest mount of all. A magnificent Thompson's gazelle stood, head bowed in the act of nuzzling a tiny calf.
"Oh, Richard!"
He took her cry as admiration, but she was filled with horror. All those lives... Helen managed to get hold of herself and turned smiling to her husband. "It's - awe-inspiring." she finally said. "I feel quite overwhelmed. And you did this all yourself?"
"Every one!" he replied proudly. "Wait until old Hanson has a look! I don't think he really approves of hunting, my dear, but even he will have to admit that this is the finest collection in England!"
"I'm sure of it." Helen smiled at him again. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She went stiff with surprise for a second but then put her arms around him and held him tight. She tried to push the death all around her away and bury herself in the pleasure of actually being in Richard's arms. It was all worth it, if it made him happy enough to notice her.
He let her go finally and led her around the room, explaining each shot. How he'd stood and how the animal had been placed. How the shot had been clean and quick or how he'd had to track the animal before delivering the coup-de-grace. By the end of the night Helen had felt as if she were covered in blood and she'd lain for a long time in her bath before going to her silent bed.
Richard had slept well enough himself, for the first hour, but then the soft thumping had woken him. It was louder this time, but still impossible to locate. Thud thud thud, and then silence.
(4)
The plumber arrived first thing in the morning and by afternoon every drain had been thoroughly gone over. Nothing more than a small root in the sewerline had been found and the plumber assured them that they wouldn't need his services again for some time.
Richard spent several hours in the Trophy-room, but much to his surprise it didn't calm him as it usually did. On the principal that if one sort of beauty didn't serve, another would, he'd taken the Bentley for a fast drive to the nearest town and back. As always he reveled in the ownership of such a fine machine. The craftsmanship of the car made him feel full of pride, as though he had built her himself.
He was tired by the time he got home and went to bed shortly after dinner. It started almost immediately.
This time the sound changed periodically. First a soft thup thup thup, followed by a faster beat and then abrupt silence. Once or twice the pounding had seemed to stutter, regain strength and then die away slowly. It reminded him of something. Native drums? Something like that.
The sound stopped around two am, but he'd lain awake until nearly dawn, waiting for it to come back.
He asked Helen again whether she'd heard anything in the night, but her sleep had been uninterrupted. For some reason, he held back from fully describing the sound to her. It had been so ambiguous.
Over the next week it had gone on, louder and louder. Now it was an ambush of sound, a threat, directed only at him. Even worse was the sudden hatred he felt for the Trophy-room.
He'd been in there, happily dusting, when the uneasiness first hit him. Suddenly the eyes seemed full of light. He thought it must be the sun, so he'd drawn the curtains and turned on the electric lamps. In the dimmer light, the eyes didn't seem quite so harsh and he'd finished steadily enough.
Over the next few days the feeling grew on him that he was being watched. Sometimes he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. It always turned out to be something quite ordinary - a moth or the shadow of a passing bird - but his nerves were all on edge. He would walk into the Trophy-room and see, not the animals beauty, but their lives. For the first time he looked at them and saw sentient creatures in the dead faces.
The growing fear made him harsh. He'd never hurt Helen purposely, but he often spoke to her sharply and then watched in dismay as her face dimmed and she sat silently. He discovered that her pain made him feel sorry. It was completely new to him, this awareness of another's emotions. He'd always used people for what he needed, whether it was Helen's beauty, the Doctor's talents at chess or even poor Mary's housekeeping skills. Once they'd served him, he seldom even thought of them.
By the end of the week, he couldn't go into the room.
On Saturday it all blew apart.
(5)
Friday night had been Hell. He'd sat in the library until well past midnight. Although he'd had his customary late-evening brandy, something made him stop at that. He craved oblivion and would have gladly drank himself into a stupor if it would only make the infernal drums...just....stop.
He would need his wits about him. Of that, he was quite sure.
So he's sat there, sober, quiet and more terrified than he'd ever been in his whole life. He stood at last and made his way up the stairs with a tread more fitting to a condemned man on his gallows than an English gentleman going to his own bed.
The pounding began before he even undressed. He almost welcomed it. He could feel crescendo approaching like some unstoppable force. Surely this thing would burst soon and either kill him or make him understand...understand what?
He felt as though he was being led along by the drums, into a wild dance. Now the beats followed a new plan. First the slow, steady, thup, thup, thup, followed by a quickening, then a galloping. For a moment the beat would pause and then it would rise into a kind of wild tattoo before falling suddenly silent.
At other times there would be the familiar beat, cut off in mid-pulse as though by the flick of a switch.
Now there were eyes, too. As soon as his own closed, he could see them. Hundreds of eyes, all around. Some of them reflected firelight and some held the light of the sun. Some were closed and then sprang open to look at him with a deep, uncomprehending, pain. Some hated him.
When he couldn't bear it any longer, he fled into Helen's room.
She was awake, waiting for him in the soft light of a candle. "Come in, it's cold." She pulled back the blanket and he lay beside her, stiff with fear and a kind of shame.
"I heard you tossing and turning all this week and I hoped you'd come to me." She rolled on her side and pulled him close, warming him with her body. "Can you tell me?"
He spoke so low that she could barely make it out. 'I've done something wrong, Helen. I've been all wrong for a long time, and I don't know how. I don't understand!" He was struggling to make her see what he didn't recognise himself.
He clung to her that night, finally sleeping fitfully for a few hours after daybreak. Helen managed to coax a few bites of breakfast into him by being as cheerful and ordinary as possible. She made no reference to the night before, but talked about small, safe things.
Things went well enough until early evening. Richard knew that he had to go into the Trophy-room, alone, and he knew it would be almost the last time.
As he stepped through the door, the world shifted. Now he was on the Savannah, now he was deep in a Peruvian jungle. The animals were there and he could hear them as well as see them.
That low purring sound, that was the magnificent lion he'd taken in Nairobi. The grunting and snuffing came from the grizzly he'd caught fishing in a British Columbia river. Soft and rhythmic - what was that? Ah, yes. The Thompson gazelle, nursing her calf.
The beat was there too, and in a sudden flash of horrified guilt, he recognised it for what it was.
Heartbeats.
Heartbeats, cut short and unaware of the danger or pumping hard to send the animal fleeing for it's life. Pounding in terror.
"Oh God! All those lives! I've taken all those lives!" He was screaming and for the first time in his life he was crying.
Now there were voices in the maelstrom of sound. Mary's voice, shaking in fear and Dr. Hanson's voice, saying that something had been left out of him. There were the voices of women he'd used and men whose friendship had meant nothing to him. Loudest of all was Helen's voice. It was soft and gentle. There were tears in it, but not for her. For him. For the first time he understood compassion.
He couldn't stop crying. When Helen finally opened the door, with Dr. Hanson close beside her, he was lying face down on the floor, saying over and over "I'm sorry", in a cracked and hoarse voice.
They laid him on the library couch, where he slept until late Sunday afternoon. As soon as he could stand he told Helen he had something he must do.
It took him most of the night, but by Monday morning all the mounts lay in a huge pile behind the house. Helen stood by his side as he lit the torch and flung it into the mountain of death.
He took her into his arms and held her. "I've been so blind, Helen. I had to own everything. I never thought, it never crossed my mind that anything or anyone else could feel..."
"You know now."
"Yes, Helen, I know now. Look! Do you think they're free?" He gestured to the blaze. "Do you think I'm free?"
She held him tight.