Mysterion’s Journal

Molly | Timmy | Ben | Jean-Pierre | Mysterion

September 21, 1919

So many weeks of running. So many weeks of hiding. So many weeks of starving. But I’m here. I’m here!…

“What language are you speaking, urchin?” my Master asked me, with a glowering eye.

“English, sir,” I answered. But it must have come out some other way to his refined ear because he acted as if he didn’t understand me.

“Don’t they speak English in Wales?” he shouted to no one in particular.

I stared shamefacedly at the ground.

“We speak the King’s English, here,” he said regally. “The King’s English. Now you may not know how to speak, but surely you know how to sweep.”

I took the broom, but wasn’t sure where to start. This pause proved to be my undoing.

“Hellfire!” he shouted. And before I knew it, the cat had clawed my back, for he held a nine-tailed strap in his hands and I realized that I would become well-acquainted with this infernal device if I chose to stay and study with this man.

But where else can I go? It’s a long way from Urangurig to London. A longer way back…

My dream has finally come true. I am a student of Thornton the Great. Be careful what you wish for…

September 25, 1919

It has been two days already and the master has taught me nothing! Nothing! Just “sweep this” and “scrub that” and if I don’t anticipate his every whim, it’s the cat. That infernal cat! No longer can I sleep on my back. And I don’t dare ask for a lesson. I know where that will lead…

While the master slept last night, I explored the house, hoping to find a clue, just one of his many diabolic secrets. I slipped through the door of my room (with brooms for my room-mates) and padded down the hall. Silent. Silent. I dared not make a peep as I passed my master’s bedroom. I’m already too familiar with how lightly he sleeps. Then, down the stairs, skipping past the ninth which screams like a banshee at the lightest touch. A warning signal of intruders no doubt. Then through the main room to the kitchen. How is it that this great man can live in a domicile so small? My end goal: the door to what I presumed was the basement (as my sense of the ground-plan left no doubt that there was no more room on this floor for another chamber). Surely his lab was down there. I became even more certain as I tried the knob. Locked. Naturally.

So I padded up the stairs and back to my bed, careful to lie on my side as my wounds had already seeped through my nightshirt.

To get into that basement! Where does he hide the key? …