Brad's Inheritance

Brad’s Inheritance

Brad or, to give him his full name, Bradley Orville Jameston Grandborough Maximilian Deetman Artur von Manstein Hecklenburg-Oadby, had pondered often in his life on his long and apparently multinational name. What possessed his parents to name him in such fashion was a constant source of wonder to him, although he considered his best guess to be a strange homage to the various European ancestors that had combined to produce himself on a new continent.

In this, he was at least to some extent correct, since his first name, Bradley, subsequently shortened to Brad for ease of use, was fairly typically American in origin and use. The others, however, whispered vague dreams of various lands, known and unknown to him, spread across the map of Europe with who knows what tales to tell of themselves.

It was not something he discussed much and, in general, he was accepted in society as a fine example of the modern American male, a man known to everyone as Brad. His surname, reduced for convenience to Oadby, was rarely mentioned.

So it was with some surprise that Brad opened his door to a polite ring of the doorbell one bright and early morning, to be greeted with the sight of a man in what appeared to be 18th Century dress upon his doorstep. That the man then took off his three-cornered hat, sweeping it in a great arc from his head to his waist, while bending himself into a most impressive bow at the same time, took Brad even further aback. Unaware of any correct response to such an approach, Brad said nothing but gave his head a little nod, as if in recognition of the honour he was being paid.

The man then straightened and addressed Brad directly, saying, “Am I correct in assuming your good self to be the owner of this establishment, Baron Bradley Orville Jameston Grandborough Maximilian Deetman Artur von Manstein Hecklenburg-Oadby?”

Brad nodded again and said hoarsely, “Call me Brad.”

“As your Excellency wishes,” replied the man. “I am Alexandru Aldea-Barbaneagra, Special Envoy of the Limbuan Embassy to the United States of America.” He then smiled at Brad before adding, “You may call me Alex.”

Not being able to think of anything else in the absurdity of the moment, Brad answered, “Thanks.” And then, after a moment’s thought, he added, “Alex.”

They stood there awkwardly for a moment before the Envoy glanced quickly at two other 18th Century-equipped fellows standing to his right and left. Brad had not noticed them in the confusion of the Envoy’s first appearance but he thought immediately of the word “footmen.” Not that he knew what footmen were supposed to do, of course.

But the Envoy was now asking if they might step inside and Brad, unable to think of a reason why they shouldn’t, stood to one side while ushering them in. They went into the living room where there were just enough chairs for them all, although the footmen had to sit together on the undersized couch.

Alex then began an explanation of the reason for their visit to Brad’s humble abode. This was long and complicated and I shall avoid a detailed account, confining myself only to a general description of the essence of what was said. It began with a geography lesson. Limbu turned out to be a small country in the Carpathian Mountains, sandwiched between Slovakia and Romania. It had only one town, the capital, also called Limbu, and had been ruled for hundreds of years by the Duke of Limbu, a title inherited by the eldest son of the preceding Duke.

At this point, the story became a lot more personal to Brad. It seemed that the old Duke had died recently and, in following through the nearest line of succession (at which point Alex unrolled a great chart of family trees that entwined and fused into a mess of complexity), it had become apparent that the only male ancestor currently entitled to the throne was the first born of the von Manstein Hecklenburg-Oadby line.

It seemed, in other words, that the rightful heir to the Duchy was none other than Brad himself and the Envoy was there to advise and persuade him, by whatever means necessary, to take up his legacy. This was, apparently, a matter of some urgency, since, if the Limbuans were not able to place a new Duke on the throne within a certain length of time, the Duchy would revert to the Holy Roman Empire.

Brad was stunned. At first, he tried to argue his way out of it. He happened to know that the Holy Roman Empire was long defunct but Alex patiently explained that there were still several living descendants of the Habsburg family that would be only too happy to take up their claim on Limbu and use it as a seed to regrow the Empire in the future.

Then Brad pointed out the financial problems for himself were he to take up the offer. And the Envoy smiled and told him of the great wealth of the little Duchy, it being a favourite tax haven for Europe’s rich and famous. Since those who kept villas and estates within the Duchy also hoarded their riches in Limbu’s banks, the exchequer grew fat with all the fees and interest levied on such deposits. With little to spend on, apart from luxuries for the Duke, Limbu’s little cache of cash grew larger every year and their gold reserves currently exceeded those of Germany and France combined. Money was the least of the Duke’s problems, it seemed.

It was at that point that Brad knew what his final decision would be. He was tired enough of his barely adequate means of existence to have dreamed often of sudden riches falling on him in just such a fashion as now seemed inevitable. For a while, he raised other problems, quickly dispensed with by the Envoy, then announced himself happy to go along with the plan.

Brad had hoped to have a few days to put his affairs, such as they were, into order, but Alex assured him that he would have the footmen take care of that. It turned out that Brad’s journey had already been arranged and he would be flying to Brussels that very evening. From there, a seat awaited him on Limbu’s royal executive jet, standing ready to whisk him off to Limbu and his future.

Alex helped Brad to pack a few things, while he donned the clothes presented by Alex as being rather more suitable to his new status than the worn and faded bathrobe Brad had worn when answering the doorbell. He was relieved to see that they were considerably more stylish than the old fashioned gear worn by the Envoy and his men.

Then it was off for the airport, Europe and a new and sumptuous life.

–ooOoo–

Limbu was the most beautiful place Brad had ever seen. Set like a jewel on the shores of a blue lake with the Carpathians soaring above like a protective wall, the town was spotlessly clean, medieval in style and boasted a central square dotted with parked Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Bugattis. The owners of these fabulous vehicles strolled in the sun and sat languidly at cafés in the shade, impeccably dressed and universally dark glassed. Birds sang in the trees lining the cobbled square and, high above, the palace of Limbu, oddly named Meckleheim Castle, steepled and battlemented, draped itself on the heights of Monte Limbu.

Brad’s limousine carried him up the winding road to the gates of the palace and he entered upon his magnificent inheritance.

The next few days were filled with explanations of his rights and duties, the history of his new domain and what he should expect in the course of his coronation. This took place with some haste, the deadline for reversion to Habsburg becoming uncomfortably close, and Brad found himself, still a little breathless with the speed of the transformation of his life, the head of a little state completely unknown to him less than a week earlier. He looked forward to an opportunity to rest and become accustomed to his position.

Alex had other ideas. He embarked upon a long series of discourses on the storied history of the von Manstein Hecklenburg-Oadby family. In spite of his weariness, Brad found himself drawn into the magnificent and increasingly dark tale of his ancestors. He hardly noticed that outside the windows of the great hall they occupied, the weather grew stormy, with huge thunderclouds filling the skies from the west and deep rumblings of far off thunder. The temperature in the room dropped as Alex arrived at the darkest point in the story, the family’s relationship to a more famous branch that had controlled the Transylvanian Mountains for centuries.

These were the dread Dracul family, feared and infamous for their evil ways and legendary, perhaps mythical, practice of blood drinking. The von Manstein Hecklenburg-Oadbys rarely admitted their relationship to the Draculs, regarding them as cursed and somehow reduced from greatness in their habits. The Limbu line was much higher in ambition, breeding and repute, assured Alex.

No, the distinctive trait common to all who sat upon the Limbu throne was a custom much finer and more civilised than the curse of the Draculs. There was no doubt that Brad had inherited this for he now occupied the highest point of Limbuan achievement.

Alex fell silent and a great crack of thunder shook the palace. The lights dimmed and darkness crept from the corners of the hall. Brad felt the theatrical nature of the moment but could not help asking, “And what exactly is this custom?”

“It is hard to explain,” replied the Envoy. "It has become tradition for the knowledge of this to be withheld from the new Duke until the evening after his coronation. Soon now, within a few minutes indeed, you will understand and your full glory become apparent.”

Brad frowned. “Not sure I like the sound of this,” he commented. Then something stirred within him and he gasped.

“It begins,” said Alex.

Brad’s chest expanded, as though he were taking a great breath of the new feeling that filled his being. “I don’t underst…” His voice cut off as the mantle of greatness fell upon him, the world turned deepest indigo for a moment, and he knew what he must do. He turned to Alex who now edged away a bit, not in terror but caution.

“I understand,” said Brad in a voice that was now deep and ominous in its power. “Thank you, Alex, you have been a great help to me in this. But where are the fangs I am supposed to grow? I can feel none but my own teeth and nothing seems different in my mouth.”

“Ah, that’s just it, your Excellency. The von Manstein Hecklenburg-Oadbys do not stoop to mere blood sucking in their desires. The royalty of Limbu are greater and suck the very souls from the bodies of their, umm, subjects. You have no need of carnival, pointy fangs, my lord.”

Brad smiled a smile that would freeze the blood of a werewolf. “Ah yes,” he said enthusiastically, “That is the more satisfying. And, of course, no mess or nasty stains. I can feel it now, I need to fly.”

“Be careful, Lord,” said Alex. “Flight requires a little getting accustomed to at first.”

“Hah,” replied Brad, “the work of a moment. My body knows how.” He turned towards the open windows. “I shall return later. Be sure to inform the court of my transformation.”

Alex nodded and Brad continued, “You may tell them that I shall be known as Brad the Inhaler.”

With that he leapt to a window and was gone into the night.


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For Weekly SCREAMS!!! 07.27.22
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