The Cherry Pit

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John R. Muth

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This story occurs as so many do:
A tale of murders, ending with one too.

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It can only do good to confess my distaste for the brothers residing at Edengarth manor. An ironic, if quite bold, name, considering their origins. Their house, located in a drabby marsh no other would dream of calling home, was a relic of bygone times and as disconcerting, in its tired old bones, as the brothers themselves. The single-lane road, snaking around the wetlands, was usually flooded, and I was the only one who dared come out here at all, anymore. 

I returned each weekend, at their request, but more than that out of my own curiosity regarding their existence. You see, the brothers are immortal creatures, an affront to everything this world was said to stand for. I had wanted to learn all I could, so when the day came, I’d be ready to send them to an eternal resting place. I accepted their invitation this week ready to put my knowledge to the test.

“I tried the tea at the market in Oxford,” I lied, not putting the cup anywhere near my mouth. 

“It is very good, Henry. Have you tried it yet, Montague?” Algernon asked. He took a sip with a bony finger wrapped through the handle of his small porcelain cup while looking across at his brother slurping it down with hardly a shred of decorum. 

Montague held out his cup as his brother was already pouring him a second. “You know what it reminds me of… Where was it, Algernon? Minsk?”

“Kyiv,” Algernon said, placing the chipped and dull teapot down, bringing his cup to his lips for another measured sip.

Montague placed his teacup on the saucer after a hearty slurp to the rim, and said: “Kyiv, yes. That’s right. Have I ever told you, my dear Henry, how my beloved brother killed me the first time?”

“Come now, brother, we’ve gone down that road a thousand times,” Algernon said, a firm look switching from my eyes to that of his brother. “Are you still playing the victim even after all this time? You’ll recall, you murdered me first.”

“Oh yes, that. Well, we hardly knew we were immortal then, did we?” He took a breath, clearing his throat and drawing up the dark phlegm from deep within his bowels. 

A part of me felt honored they were comfortable enough to speak so plainly of their immortality in front of me, but something else within irked and twisted at my soul. No being should have this longevity. None but the Almighty. It seemed at this point as though I’d been blessed (or cursed) with being the one to end their insult to all that’s right and natural. Being the town’s doctor, it had been to my terror when in my youth a rabid crowd had dismembered the brothers after some unspeakable act carried out against three families just to the east. The brothers’ remains were brought to my chamber, where I treated the dead to their last dignities. I noticed a wiggling finger. Then a blinking eye. And then, horror of all horrors, their pieces began to move and rejoin each other. I’ve long since retired and spent all my resting years plotting just for today.

Algernon tapped his ill-manicured fingernails on the wingback chair’s armrest. The faded red crushed velvet had worn through revealing shreds of bone-white framing and grayish-blonde horse-hair stuffing from centuries of use. And for the first moment in some time there was what passed for silence.

“You know, I don’t think I have heard that one,” I said, blinking away the awful memories that introduced me to these abominations, and taking advantage of the pause. I continuously stirred my tea, suspiciously eyeing each brother. Waiting for their decrepit voices to spoil the air some more.

“Oh, well good. You see, our friend hasn’t heard the story,” Montague said, reaching for a third serving. His lapels and neck-scarf were drenched and soiled from the dripping liquid, along with the well-dried stains of other, no doubt illicit, fluids and juices the brothers assuredly consumed. 

I had heard tales of one brother continually slaying the other for millennia. Slings and arrows, swords and axes, hangings and beheadings. Oh, and the rock to the head, obviously. Knowing the mutilations each of these creatures have sustained, the scars were considerably minimal. But if one has looked as closely as I have—it became clear, they were there. 

Seeing these cracks in their pallid ivory shells made me realize long ago that while immortal, the brothers weren’t completely invulnerable. Therein laid the odds they may actually have a weakness, and one I thought I’d found. Their stories were of brutal, physical massacre, and I had dared not ask once I realized this singular omission, in case they saw their own weakness made clear, and safeguarded themselves by refusing any more visitors—namely me. Therefore, as I watched them pour each other and drink down the tea I had brought them, I knew today would be the day my theory would be put to the test. I prayed to the heavens I had guessed correctly.

“We were in the heart of Kyiv. Now this is in the, I’d say eighth century: right in the halcyon days of the Roman empire migrating to Constantinople.”

“That’s a very charitable description, brother,” Algernon said, taking another sip and winking at me. 

Of the two brothers, Algernon was my least despised. Generally having a more congenial personality, he was also the least ghastly in appearance of the two. They were both quite unseemly to look at with their strange bone structure, long limbs with nary a muscle on them, and their yellowed eyes which seemed to be eternally dry and unblinking. Algernon, though, maintained a composed appearance, with combed hair and dark colors that at least attempted to cover the stains his clothes might also contain.

“The Romans had a major trade route heading from the capital to Scandinavia, and we had just been introduced to these new exotic morsels called cherries. Most people weren’t touching the things. Their blood-red juice and the tartness that carried its own sweetness, reminded people too much of blood. Much like life itself, the beauty is hidden in the grotesque, wouldn’t you agree? Apparently, there was something else people knew about cherries which kept them away. I have always been more of a meat and bone, man, myself. Algernon, though, aware of all the Greek myths—and possibly the basis of others—related one to the masses pertaining to cherries containing the elixir of life. So, he came up with an idea where we’d hold a contest on who could eat the most cherries. Seeds and all.”

Algernon smiled at me. “It is fascinating how strangely mortals are always so willing to take on the challenge of facing death. Whether for the promise of immortality, or whatever else. Just put a little money on the line and they’ll sign everything away.”

He waved his hands in the air, and I caught a brief quiver in my leg.

“Algernon talked me into participating,” Montague said, gesturing to his brother and spilling some of his cup across the stringy, faded rug from some eastern land. Beyond the stains and dirt, the shadowed outlines of glorious fruits and fig leaves could be seen, slowly dissolving away with mildew and rot. “He said I should even chew the seeds inside, just to show how safe the delicate little berries could be. But you had other plans didn’t you, Algernon?”

“What can I say, brother, you have your virtues. I have mine.”

My eyes wandered from one to the other. Montague’s yellowed eyes sharpened as he expectantly glanced at me. A dark-mouthed grin revealed his grotesquely receded gums and  black tipped teeth, cracked and worn down after millennia of use. “He hadn’t told me he’d removed the pits from all the other cherries but mine.”

They both let out concussive laughs, shaking their heads and holding their hollowed out bellies. It felt as though the frail old house’s foundation shifted under our feet. The sickening noise seemed to mock me, as they turned into a rhapsody of coughing and hacking. Then I saw Montague wipe at his lip, bringing away a spot of blood and I felt a pang of hope. 

My breath caught in my chest as Montague still lifted his teacup and took a deep swallow, emptying it yet again. Placing his cup and saucer on the side table, he leaned forward with a sickening belch. 

“Pardon me,” Montague said, wiping away his wet lips again, then continuing. “I was more than surprised when after only six cherries I was feeling woozy, and everyone else was seemingly having no problem at all. Even after they had seen I was eating the pits and others began to do the same.”

Algernon slowly nodded. His own toothy smile wide across his face, looking like the specter of the Devil himself, he interrupted. “The crowd, becoming aware of what was happening, called for them to stop. I warned, while upping the entry charge as new audience-members appeared, someone was now likely to die. But Montague wasn’t aware I’d replaced the other pits with cracked walnuts.” He straightened his trousers as a small cough caught in his throat, and he tried to wave it away as his brother continued, but I saw on Algernon’s sleeve how the cough had brought up some blood. I dared to believe my mission may succeed and I would cure the world of these fiendish creatures. I felt as though my spine was straightening, full of a short-lived pride in my on-coming victory. My eyes kept a firm watch for any other change until Montague brought away my attention with a revelation that made my blood run cold.

“Algernon knew cherry pits could be poisonous. Did you know that, Henry? I’ll ask you something else: Did you know in all our lives, I’d never tried poisoning him once before? There was every possibility that could have been the end for me.”

“You never know until you try,” Algernon said, smirking toward his brother. 

I had gotten the story I’d dreamt of, only to realize where it was headed. I hadn’t planned of what to do in the event that I failed. My weary eyes flicked around the room seeking out objects I could use to fend off these deathless monsters, but most would only put off my demise. I just had to hope. It was all I could do.

Montague pulled at his collar, his breathing becoming ever more labored. His nose watered ever so much, and his eyes started to bulge with a redness around the eyelids. How quickly tides turned against them, seemingly toward me. I could feel the ancient china within my grasp starting to crack from my strangled fingers.

Algernon took a drink of his tea, wiping his lips. He was the younger of the two brothers, and according to them, he was the first person murdered on this earth. He perfectly refilled their cups, emptying the pot. I saw a couple drops from the spout hit the floor. The redness of the tea dribbled down Algernon’s hand and he demurely licked it off. My fear expounded on seeing just how ineffective my attempt had been. The alchemist I had spoken to said this was sure to work. He said it was made of the most potent ingredient containing cyanide. Instead, the brothers seemed to cherish the brew I had brought them. They were clearly getting sick, but dying? I couldn’t tell. How wrong I’d been to place my faith in man’s science against such unknown creatures. Even without moving it seemed they were encircling me. The walls of their skeletal house narrowing and winding its way around me.

Montague’s eyes widened, but his lips curled upward. “Why, you haven’t drunk any of your tea, Henry,” he said, choking through a mix of defiled liquids crowding his mouth.

“Yes, it’s very rude to bring us poison and not try it yourself,” Algernon concluded. I felt the brothers’ leering looks focus on me as my bowels turned. “Who knows, you might find you’re immortal as well.”

 I felt the brothers’ looming over me as my stomach turned. At this point my doom seemed inevitable. All my research had fallen prey to their endless life experiences. I felt stupid to think I could have outsmarted them; a child to these sempiternal gods.

Montague’s dark smile turned away, convulsing and further defiling the floor with putrid fluids from his insides. 

Algernon’s eyes met mine with a twitch of jaundiced appeasement reflecting back at me. 

“Don’t feel bad, my dear Henry. Everyone who learns our secret tries it eventually…” Algernon stopped mid-sentence and started coughing furiously. Blood sputtered from his pale blue lips, making it across the table onto the sleeves of my Sunday best. When he finally regained his composure, Algernon’s smile returned, blood covering his teeth and a dribble running down his chin. “As I was saying, I respect the restraint it’s taken you to wait this long. The fact you’ve listened and at least tried something more unique than simply burning us alive or cutting off our heads is quite the mark in your favor. And getting us to serve ourselves: Bravo.”

Montague’s shaking hand lifted his cup to his gore-covered lips, in a final attempt to take another sip. It fell from his tremulous hand, crashing to the already soiled rug, then he fell on top of it—dead. I felt a sliver of hope break through the looming clouds which always seemed to cover this area. A ray of sun came in through the dirt-tinged windows, warming my back and my soul. I saw a chance that I could yet succeed.

Algernon did not pay any attention to his brother’s demise. Instead, taking his handkerchief away from his mouth after another bout of hoarse wet coughs, revealing more blood pouring from between his teeth, he asked his next question as if to snatch away that last glimmer of success. “Do you know what poison resides in the pits of cherries, Henry?”

I slumped defeatedly. Though positive of the answer: I couldn’t speak. I felt the shake of my teacup and saucer. As quickly as the light had come it now faltered and a chill flowed through my veins. I knew my end was coming soon.

“It is a classic,” Montague whispered, his eyes opening back up, bloodshot and half unfocused. Half his face smeared in the muck he’d unleashed only moments before. He grotesquely struggled back to his chair. “Now it’s one of our favorites.”

The brothers’ cold reptilian eyes turned back to stare at me. Expectantly.

Algernon smiled again and said, “Drink up, Henry. We may live forever, but we haven’t got all day.”

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John R. Muth getting into the Halloween spirit.

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John R. Muth is a writer and cartoonist who is fascinated by the world and the things that make us all tick. He takes in the viewpoints of others and tries to reconcile it with what he’s seen. John has lived and traveled many places otherwise to be noted. He’s been published in Hyphenpunk Magazine and a number of literary journals. Find more of his indie-work at www.ridiculousendeavorpress.com or MYLIFE (turned upside down).

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