The Belmont Family Picnic

by Lawrence Harding

The wind howled up the hill towards the house as the Belmonts sat down to their picnic, as had been their tradition for seventy-three December full moons.

The venue for their repast was the Old Temple, built new by Obadiah Belmont, a patriarch revered and feared in equal measure by his descendants. It stood south of the main house, at the end of the gardens. It had been hewn, at Obadiah’s insistence and considerable expense, from a single piece of stone. The walls were, mercifully, thick, with only two small entrances to admit the elements. Between those portals (one east, one west) were a series of niches. Some held crude ceramic urns of varying style. Many were still empty, containing only an expectant air.

The centrepiece was a great round table, the middle of which held a firepit that now flickered with flames, though they provided little warmth from the winter chill. The table was surrounded by curved benches carved with all manner of symbols. Obadiah had left no corner of paganism unrepresented in his designs. It was these benches which the Belmonts now occupied.

Twelve were present, all dressed in grey as tradition demanded. At what might be called the head of the table were Marcus and Sofia Belmont, current patriarch and matriarch respectively. To their left were their daughter Maria and her husband Hans, along with their triplets—Hermann, Claudia and Victoria, the latter being named by her mother in a pique of patriotism. The children, though barely more than babes, sat quietly and did not fidget. To the right was their son, Francis, with his wife Charlotte. They had brought their son, Bertram, now of courting age and already making all the mistakes expected of such a time. Also present were the cousins, Laurence and Julia, as serious-faced as their kin. They were visiting for the picnic alone. Being family, they understood its importance.

The table was set for thirteen. Francesca, Bertram’s current lover, however, had declared thirteen to be an inauspicious number, the weather grim, and the setting of a pagan temple silly if not outright un-Christian. She had excused herself from the party to remain at the house.

Nonetheless, they left a place for her, should she change her mind.

The servants laid out the first course—round upon round of finger sandwiches. In deference to the weather, they held hearty fillings: tongue, chestnuts, and walnuts with cheese, and were accompanied by a full urn of tea.

Bertram was dour as he nibbled his sandwich. His eyes slid constantly to where his lover was not sitting. He had pleaded with Francesca, to no avail, and now ate as if he had no life to return to. Time, the family knew, would prove him wrong.

The wind howled northwards, covering what little conversation there was.

The sandwiches disappeared, one by one. The empty plates were whisked away to be replaced by a second course of game pie, beef, salads, cold potato, mustard and pickles. The Belmonts ate gratefully, making a few choice remarks as to the quality of the cooking. The cook forced a smile and curtseyed. There was little other conversation.

The wind’s wail continued. Yet, as the meal progressed, there was something more to it. Just faintly, on the edge of hearing, footsteps in the snow. Bertram listened intently for a moment, then sagged. They were not Francesca’s. They were heading away from them, north towards the house. He prodded at his beef as the others continued eating.

The final course was received as a triumph—an enormous pudding, so large that the cook and butler had to raise it from its basket together. Having been swathed in blankets, it was still pleasantly warm. Even Bertram was able to fill his belly with something approaching enjoyment.

All eyes kept darting to Francesca’s empty seat. There was still time for her to appear, though that time soon ran out. She did not come.

As the last crumbs of pudding were brushed away, a gale briefly rose as the wind changed direction, now rearing its zephyrous head south, towards the temple. Those Belmonts who cared to strain their ears could just about discern the same noise again beneath it: a careful tread on packed snow.

Marcus nodded meaningfully to the servants, who immediately began to pack away what they hadn’t already. The Belmonts left with no overt haste, but little ceremony.

As the party trooped back to the house across a lawn that was surprisingly green for December, their thoughts turned to Francesca. She would not be told, as expected. That night, they would dine in black and there would be only twelve at dinner.

The next day, another niche in the temple would be filled.

Lawrence Harding is the literary alter-ego of a recovering medievalist from Cambridge, UK. They write fantasy fiction that blends the dark and the whimsical. They also have a thing for monks. They run a small zine called Endless Otherwheres, and can be found on Twitter at @lhardingwrites