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Transgression	By : IosPillowBook Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 1467 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Ch I
- 2-II
- 3-III
- 4-IV
- 1
- 2
Transgression

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caolite tossing his burning hair,
And Niam calling
Away, come away …

From the poem The Hosting of the Sidhe by William Butler Yeats, 1899

"In the last months of 1100 a strange army appeared in Northern England …"

"King Henry's counsellors agreed that fairies were naturally wicked. They were lascivious, mendacious and thieving; they seduced young men and women, confused travellers, and stole children, cattle and corn".

From the prologue to The History and Practice of English Magic by Jonathan Strange,
Published by John Murray, 1816

I

Naturally wicked, lascivious and mendacious … Orlando puts down the book, smiling to himself. Bast would love that. And his customers will love it, too.

He closes the dog-eared volume, tenderly running his fingers over the leather. The frayed leather feels soft. One by one, he traces the intricate letters on the cover, faded gold upon dark red. With a small sigh he puts the tattered folio aside.

Spontaneously, he can think of at least two gentlemen who'll be willing to pay an almost obscene amount of money to purchase this work. And if his assumption proves to be correct, if his latest find actually turns out to be an authentic first edition of Jonathan Strange's book, one of the rare copies that didn't dissolve itself into air, the price will rise astronomically.

Lazily, he stretches on the wide bed. He lets his eyes wander over the marvellous trompe-l'loeil painting that covers the entire ceiling, a serene summer sky with puffy white clouds, peacefully sailing away. So easy to imagine being somewhere in the countryside, lying on a meadow, with birds singing, bumblebees humming and a soft breeze on his face.

He yawns. How is it that it's only 6 o'clock and he already feels tired? His day wasn't particularly exhausting. First, he rang Dominic who runs the shop in his absence to keep up to date with all current matters. Then, he phoned a few special customers to give them details on his latest purchases.

Most of the time, however, he spent researching magical and supernatural topics, fairies in particular and late occurrences of so-called 'practical magic' etc.. He must have spent hours on the computer, he realises now. Yes, that's why he feels so tired; he isn't used to staring at a computer screen for such a long time. Normally he spends his days differently, always on the move, paying visits to far-off country estates or small town flea markets, hunting for rare antiques.

Now he finds himself in this hotel. It's so quiet here. The thick, burgundy red, velvet curtains keep all street noises outside. Time seems to follow a somewhat irregular pattern in these rooms, like sand trickling down in an hour glass, sometimes fast, sometimes nearly in slow motion. Now and then he looks up from his books or from the computer and is surprised to notice that it's already afternoon. At other times, he can watch a wasp on one of the exquisite flower arrangements for what seems hours to him, while in reality only a few minutes have passed.

The late afternoon sun bathes the room in a warm twilight. All of a sudden he wonders what day of the week it is. Tuesday? Wednesday? He seems to have lost track, but somehow he doesn't care. He'll ring room service and order supper. It's about time, high time, as he completely forgot about lunch over his studies. And after that he'll keep on reading.

Soon the book will pass on to a new owner; he wants to make the most of it while it's still with him.

***

"Don’t go to the farmhouse that lies on the road to B.," they told her when she was a girl. "It's haunted. Old Miller hanged himself there after his wife died in childbed."

"And what about the baby? Did the baby survive?" she had asked, the idea of a newborn all alone in an empty house unsettling her.

Aunt Millicent shrugged her shoulders. "They never found a baby, neither living nor dead. Who knows what happened. Maybe the father himself killed the child in his grief and buried it afterwards, maybe someone took the little one away." She sighed. "Nobody ever found out. God bless the poor thing, perhaps it was better this way."

The next day, Liv went to the house nevertheless. She loved forbidden places.

She climbed the highest trees, never afraid of falling, and descended into the deep, dark cellars of deserted houses, not afraid of the darkness either.

When returning from her forays into the woods her knees were often bruised and her dresses soiled. Every time she showed up like this, and she was always too late, her mother would scold her. "This is too dangerous for a girl. I don't even want to think what could have happened to you. Livvie, you must promise me you won't do it again."

And Liv would nod in all honesty, with fingers crossed behind her back. And go off the next day, just like before.

***

It was a warm, drowsy summer afternoon when she went to the Miller's house, a long, low building, well-hidden behind high hedges. In the garden the grass had overgrown all paths. Pale-pink rambling roses had climbed up the front of the building and onto the roof. It was not a scary place at all.

Liv gave the door a gentle touch and instantly it swung open with a low, creaking sound. Quickly, she stepped inside. The house was empty apart from a moth-eaten sofa in front of the fireplace. On the adjacent wall there was a shelf with a handful of dust-covered books.

It surprised her that a man like Old Miller had owned books at all, but maybe they had belonged to his wife. Liv picked up a leather-bound book and wiped away the grime with the sleeve of her sweater. Intricate golden letters appeared on the cover.

***

Orlando rolls over and reaches for the wine glass he left on the tray next to the empty plates on the floor. Taking a sip, he stares into the fireplace and watches the flames as they spring up and slowly eat away the logs.

Meanwhile it's utterly dark outside the windows. All of a sudden Orlando's heart jumps. It's a completely irrational notion - yeah, perhaps he's a bit drunk - because suddenly he's under the impression that somebody else is in the room, watching him very closely.

Nervously, he turns left and right, looks in all corners and behind the curtains, shaking his head at himself and his sudden fit of uneasiness. Of course, there's nobody – how could it be otherwise? He must be imagining things.

Then he sees the portrait over the desk to the left of the fireplace. Why didn't he notice it before? He could have sworn that it wasn't there the day before.

It's relatively small, only about 12 x 10 in size. The frame's not too elaborate, most likely much younger than the painting itself which could be early 19th century, deducing from the style of painting, though one can't say for sure with this feeble light.

It's the portrait of a man in his early forties, though there's something ageless about him. Light brown, shoulder-length hair, prominent cheek bones, a chin cleft. A thin white scar runs across the man's upper lip.

The artist's devotion to details is amazing; even if the painting's not realistic in a modern sense, the face seems alive, especially … - Orlando's breath stops - especially the eyes, steel grey and inscrutable. It's as if the man was looking right back at him.

Orlando turns abruptly. Nonsense, I'm drunk and tired. I should go to bed now.

***

Liv spent the whole afternoon in the dusty twilight, reading. Yet, later she could never recall what she had read. Her memory was filled with shadows, just like the old farmhouse on that afternoon, living, breathing shadows. Nobody had spoken to her; nothing had actually happened during those hours. But there was this very distinct feeling that she hadn't been alone. There had been a presence in the room, but whatever or whoever it was, it hadn't frightened her. It was as if she had been held in a gentle embrace.
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Transgression