THE QUESTIONABLE ADVENTURES OF
COUNT CAMPULA

II: Of Decorators And Magnolia

Count Campula was a man of action. And ‘action’, which was altogether more questionable.

But it was the first type of action that Campula was interested in, on this particular evening; which in itself was a rare enough occurrence that Arnold was more than a little worried.

Campula was standing in the main hall, at the bottom of the grand staircase, where he would greet his party guests a week on Saturday. His stylish, silk-lined purple and black cloak billowed out behind him: a fact which seemed odd at first, as there was no wind, until you realised that Campula had hidden a small, hand-held fan about his person in order to make himself look as overpoweringly sophisticated as possible.

He was, however, rather unhappy, which was very worrying for Arnold, mostly because when Campula was unhappy, people tended to get hurt, in the unpleasant sort of way. And right now, Arnold was ‘people’.

“What,” Campula demanded, his fangs quivering angrily, “is this?”

Arnold glanced from side to side, looking for an escape route, but none presented itself. “Um…” he began, “um…your hall, Your Darkness, sir…”

Campula turned around and drew himself up to his full five feet and four inches. He realised too late that this was not a particularly impressive height to draw himself up to, and with this in mind continued to draw himself up for some seconds after he had reached his destination.

“This,” he hissed, terrifying Arnold despite his lack of height, “this is not my hall. This is an atrocity, Arnold, an atrocity! Do you understand me?”

“…yes sir…” whispered Arnold meekly.

“Hire a decorator. Immediately. I will not have my guests subjected to…to…” Campula gestured expansively, “…magnolia!” Shuddering at the mere mention of the word, he snapped his fingers and stalked off. Behind him strutted Dale and Chad, shooting twin glares at Arnold every time they got a chance, until finally Campula grabbed them both by the bowties and insisted they walk faster.

Arnold sighed. Sometimes he wished he’d been an accountant.

--

Having secured the services of the bravest, or possibly the most drunken, decorator in the village, Arnold then had the unenviable task of convincing Prince Narcissus to get out of the castle for the day.

He caught up with Narcissus in the Prince’s dressing-room, which was where he spent most of his time. When Arnold found him, he was wearing a peculiar creation made mostly of gingham. He stood up very quickly when Arnold came in, and hid what he was doing behind him, but Arnold was almost certain he’d interrupted the Prince having a teddy bears’ picnic.

“What do you want?” Narcissus asked rather snappishly. Arnold blushed.

“There’s a sale on, Your Highness,” he explained, “for…party dresses. In town.”

Narcissus frowned a little. “I thought we lived above a tiny hamlet village?”

Arnold smiled nervously… “Uh, you wouldn’t believe how far these villages have advanced. High street knockoffs are becoming more and more common and as such designer labels have had to adjust not only their selling prices, but also their methods of selling in order to attract more consumers.”

Narcissus blinked, and frowned again. “How do you know that?”

“Um…uh…erm…” Arnold struggled. “Um…don’t frown. You’ll get creases!”

As if by magic, Narcissus’ golden features sprang back to their previous radiance. “Very well,” he said in dulcet tones. “I shall go shopping…I shall be the belle of the ball! Now all I need is a fairy godmother…”

Arnold backed quietly away.

--

The decorator, who was going by the name of Jorge, was late, and Campula was bored. And bored Campula was slightly disturbing Campula…well, more disturbing than regular Campula, anyway.

“Arnold…” he whined, “I’m bored, Arnold…”

“I know, sir…” Arnold said in a tone intended to be reassuring and only mildly patronising.

“Arnold…Entertain me, Arnold…”

Arnold blushed as unmentionable thoughts came to his mind, most of them involving rather unpleasant and unusual sexual acts. “Um…er…” he stuttered desperately.

Campula smiled toothily at him, small fangs poised perfectly. “Please?”

Arnold tried to think of a substitute for ‘no’ that wouldn’t lead to even more unpleasant sexual acts. He stuttered noncommittally a little bit more.

Luckily for Arnold, at that moment, Jorge announced his presence with a knock on the door.

Arnold turned the exact shade of magnolia Campula had earlier been protesting rather vociferously against, and scuttled off to answer it.

--

When Jorge had received the call from Arnold, he had been understandably rather dubious about the whole thing. After all, the castle was populated by ‘the Creatures we do not speak of’, as the townspeople referred to Campula and his staff.

But Jorge needed the money, and anyway, he was an inquisitive soul. So on the morning of the day he was to meet Count Campula, he allowed his wife to pack him a lunch of ham sandwiches and ginger-ale, and he set off for an adventure.

He reached Campula’s castle in plenty of time. Unfortunately, he was making his way through the castle’s considerable grounds when a Strange And Terrible Creature appeared before his very eyes, sped past him as though chased by all of Satan’s Hordes, and – horror upon horrors! – pruned a rosebush. It was gone before Jorge had the chance to react, but left him rather unnerved to say the least.

Had Arnold, or indeed any of Campula’s staff, been present at the time, they could have reassured the shaken Jorge and explained that the Strange And Terrible Creature was in fact only the gardener, Oswald. He was not particularly Strange And Terrible, but he was a Creature of the Night and as such hated daylight – hence his rather unorthodox gardening technique. But Jorge was alone, and had to drink all of the ginger-ale and eat most of the ham sandwich to give himself the courage to continue.

So by the time he reached the grand doors which led from the sinister-looking porch into the unfathomable depths of the castle itself, he was rather late.

He coughed once or twice experimentally, and was just about to rather cautiously reach out his had to the great iron knocker that was easily as big as his head, when he noticed a somewhat scruffy cardboard sign attached to the door. It hung limply, clearly the victim of previous rainfall, and read simply in rather smudged Biro “Tradesmens Entrence” with an arrow pointing to Jorge’s right.

Gratefully, Jorge headed toward the tradesmen’s entrance, which was much smaller. He knocked on that door instead.

A small man came to open the door. He was a quite peculiar shade of pink, as though he had just finished some strenuous physical exertion, and was rather rotund. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Follow me.” Jorge recognised him as the man who had secured his services to begin with. He followed him inside, stepping over the threshold with a rather wary look at what lay beyond it, which appeared to be mostly stone and cobweb.

The small man led him up a gloomy flight of stairs and down a long corridor, all of which was very medieval in appearance. Jorge felt the need to speak up. “Um…” he began.

“Yes?” asked his guide, turning around to shoot him a rather derogatory glance.

“Well, it’s just that…I don’t think my work would…well. You’ve got a nice theme running here, very…um, very…castle-y, and I wouldn’t want to, um, impose…” Jorge began.

A silky voice behind him said “Impose? You couldn’t impose if you tried, my dear…”

Quaking, Jorge turned around, very slowly. From the shadows before him stepped the illustrious figure of Count Campula.

He was not particularly tall, but managed to appear so. He was pale, with lips a deep red, the only hint to his true identity the small fangs which poked almost coyly over them. He was strikingly effeminate, yet oddly masculine…and he was staring straight at Jorge.

Jorge blushed, wondered briefly whether or not to bow. He eventually settled for a respectful incline of the head and the extension of a rather grubby hand. “Um, I’m the decorator…um…sir,” he said, unsure of how exactly one should address a count, particularly a vampire count eyeing one up in a distinctly worrying manner.

However, the Count said nothing about Jorge’s conduct, although he did raise an eyebrow. “Pleasured,” he said, extending his own pale hand. He shook Jorge’s gently and held onto it for a second too long.

Jorge extricated his hand and coughed again. “Would you like to, um, tell me what you want, um, sir?” he asked, wished he’d stayed at home and reorganised the garage instead.

Campula’s eyes gleamed in a way that made Jorge wish he’d phrased the question differently. “What do I want, Jorge?” he replied smoothly. running his small pink tongue over his lips. “I want…well, to begin…I want you to paint my hall.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Jorge blurted out before he could stop himself. He bit his lip fiercely, cursing his big mouth.

Campula hesitated only for the very briefest of seconds before he smiled wickedly. “If you want it to be…”

Jorge blushed furiously. “I’m straight…” he whispered desperately. The small man who’d shown him in drew breath sharply and involuntarily.

“Alright, Arnold, you’re dismissed,” Campula said to him irritably. Arnold nodded thankfully and scuttled off.

Jorge turned to find Campula’s eyes on hm again. “You just can’t get the staff, these days, Jorge…it is Jorge, by the way?”

Jorge nodded, and was suddenly aware that he had not mentioned hi name. He was about to ask Campula how he knew when the Count said, “I’m a vampire.” Expecting some weird confession, Jorge made a small strangled noise in the back of his throat. “How I knew your name,” Campula explained. “We can read minds. Only a little, mark you, only the things you think every day…how’s your wife? Lucy?”

“She’s…um…she’s well, thank you,” Jorge mumbled. He followed Campula, who was walking down the corridor.

“And the children?” Campula asked, but Jorge did not reply, as, at that moment, Campula pushed open the door they had been heading towards and Jorge’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Campula’s grand hall was vast. It would have easily fit almost all of Jorge’s village within its majestic walls. The floor was polished wood which gleamed as Jorge stared at it. One wall was almost entirely covered in a huge tapestry with the word “Campulus” at the top. It appeared to be some form of family tree. “I come from an ancient line,” Campula said proudly, indicating the tapestry, but Jorge eyes were unable to tear themselves away from the other walls. Each was colossal, each was magnificent, and each, from floor to ceiling, was a particularly hideous shade of magnolia.

“Um…is this what you want me to paint?” Jorge said weakly, mind boggling at the sheer enormity of the task.

“By a week on Saturday,” Campula replied, “I want it purple.”

“This…this is going to…I can’t do it on my own,” Jorge breathed.

Campula sighed. “You’ll have to. No-one else in the village will come within a mile of it.”

“But…” Jorge protested vainly.

“You shall live here until it is complete. Which will be by a week on Saturday. Of course.”

Jorge did not dare protest any further. There was an edge to Campula’s voice that warned him not to: instead he nodded feebly.

“Good,” Campula smiled. “IN that case, I shall leave you to get started. Someone will fetch you later for a meal. You will eat with my staff. If you need anything, they will supply it. Yes?”

“My…um, my wife,” Jorge hazarded nervously, “…she needs to know where I am…”

Campula waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll send a rider.” He swept out.

“Thank you,” Jorge replied bemusedly to his disappearing back. He was still rather bewildered by what had just taken place, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he was thinking of how wonderful it would be to say he had painted Campula’s castle. The Count’s name was known and feared countywide – with a reputation like that, Jorge thought, he might even be able to find work in the city, decorating the mansions of the overly rich bankers and politicians that populated its filthy streets. He could give Lucy and the children everything they’d ever wanted!

But first…Dazedly, Jorge climbed down the staircase. At the bottom of one of the walls was a very small pot of purple paint. It didn’t look as though it would cover any sizeable amount of the wall, but it would do, he supposed, for now. He stood before the wall and laid out the tools of his trade. They looked rather pathetic against the gargantuan task. He picked up his paintbrush and dipped it into the purple paint. Then, taking a deep breath, he held it up at face height and moved it slowly towards the wall.

He began.