He forced himself to close the curtains, climb into bed, and pull the comforter around him.
* * *
He awoke late in the night, filled with deep foreboding, uncertain for a moment where he was. Recalling himself, he peered out the window; the gas lamp cast its comforting glow across the yard and it had ceased raining, though lightning still flashed overhead. The Bobby was gone. Drawing the curtains, he lit the oil lamp beside his bed and watched its flickering flames cast shadows across the room. The mantel clock said quarter past two.
Although the night was warm enough, he considered lighting a fire in the hearth for comfort, for he found little inclination to return to sleep. As he reached for a candle on the mantel, he pushed against one of the fireplace bricks, which slid in at his touch.
A slow, scraping noise sent him scooting across the chamber and up against the bed, as the entire hearth swung slowly outward, revealing an opening three feet wide and tall enough for a man. Gathering his courage, he lifted the lamp and gazed into a small, dust-laden chamber, empty, with wooden floors and a narrow stair leading upward.
He ran his hands over his face. Three things he feared most, feared them even though he called them childhood terrors not fit for a man: closed places, drowning in deep water, and darkness. Though he remembered little else about it, he knew the Room of Horrors had been filled with Things in the Dark.
“Only a fool would go up there at night,” he muttered. But even as he said it, he knew he would do so, if only because he
did
fear it. After a moment’s debate, he put on his clothes, drew the saber from its sheath above the mantel, and mounted the thin steps, holding the lamp aloft.
His shoes left tracks in the dust; the stair creaked; the paneled walls ran smooth on either side, unbroken by any design. He felt his heart pounding beneath his shirt, but as the stairs went on and on, the repetition calmed him. He wished, too late, that he had bothered to count the steps.
Eventually, the stair opened directly onto the wooden floorboards of what felt like a vast, empty chamber. By holding his lamp high he could just see the center beam of the sloping roof of a great attic, its walls lying beyond the circle of his light. Boxes and trunks lay scattered across the floor with bits of forgotten finery and ceramic dolls.
A cloud of small bats skittered away from the light, startling him, their soft cheeping loud in the silence, their flapping wings whirling like bolas. He crouched while they passed and waited till the stillness returned and his heart subsided before drawing a deep breath and rising again.
Since he could not pierce the blackness on either side far enough to glimpse a wall, he proceeded straight ahead, the better to retrace his steps by his tracks in the dust. He passed old hats and kettles, brooms and wooden trunks, books written in strange, unrecognizable tongues, and flags from countries he did not know.
He had not gone far before he found the dirt before him disturbed. At first he thought a wind sometimes blew through the attic, but closer inspection revealed an animal print many times greater than a man’s. He shivered, then chided himself on his fantasies; no brute so large could live in an attic. Still, it did resemble the four-clawed foot of some beast.
He proceeded again, but halted abruptly, thinking he heard a soft, lowing moan. At the same time, he found another footprint, exactly as the first, spaced to indicate a creature capable of twenty-foot strides.
The stillness of the place rushed into him all at once, and he became aware that he heard neither wind nor thunder, as if the room were cut off from the whole world; he knew if he died there no one would ever know his fate. He started to turn back until he saw what appeared to be a massive piece of fallen sculpture, gray and cold beneath the wavering flame. It had a curious, oily look, and he tapped it with his foot. It was strangely resilient.
Slowly, terribly, the form quivered, unfolding itself, lifting into the darkness, while the floorboards groaned in complaint. A serpentine head, filled with rows of massive, sharp teeth, with red eyes large as his fist, and a flickering red tongue raised itself nearly to the ceiling. He had kicked the monster’s whiplike tail, which now slid reptilian across the floor, forcing him to avoid being struck by leaping over it.
It stood on two legs, balanced by its tail, its short, front claws dangling before it. He had no thought of using his sword, but fled across the attic floor, back the way he had come. The beast roared behind him, a sound like a whole jungle howling at once. Leviathan feet pounded at his back.
His flight was a madness, a desperate whirl across that nightmare junkyard. He had a slight lead, and the monster was slow; its footsteps did not sound often, but it covered a great distance with each stride.
He banged his knee against an old trunk, stumbled and nearly fell. Great jaws snapped shut just to his left, crushing the trunk like an egg. He dodged to the right and ran on while the beast worried the trunk.
The respite lasted but a moment before the pounding footsteps resumed. Hot breath blew across his back as he spied the stairwell. He cast the lamp and sword behind him and gave a desperate leap.
He made the last of his headlong lunge in darkness, as the beast trampled the lamp, snuffing it out. Carter’s breath was knocked from him as he bounced over the threshold of the stair and rolled down it face first. He covered his head with his hands; the fall seemed to go on and on as he skipped across the steps.
At last, he came to rest, sprawling in blackness upon the stair. He crawled on all fours, twenty steps farther down, then stopped to listen. Above him, the monster shuffled and growled its frustration. Fetid breath blew across him; fire gushed down the stair, a blast of flame falling short by inches, its heat singeing his brow.
He scrambled down the steps, finally pausing to take stock of himself. His shoulder, arms, and ribs were badly bruised, but nothing seemed broken. Pain throbbed through every part of his body, but he was alive, if he could only make his way back to his room.
He cringed as a voice like rumbling thunder boomed down the stairway. It was a moment before he recognized the words within it.
“Who is the little man who enters my attic, the fillet buttered in his own oils?” it asked. “Speak. Tell me your name, the name of your kin, the name of your station.”
“I am … the Steward of the house,” Carter called, for so his father’s will had named him. “Who—what are you?”
“I am Jormungand, the Last Dinosaur, destroyer, devourer, ravager of kingdoms and epochs, all greed and covetousness, brooding loneliness. Once I was Dragon, but in this scientific age that is no longer stylish. The flames I kept for high drama. Now I, who was once Behemoth, am only pieced-together bones, first believed to belong to biblical giants, fresh-dug by nearsighted archaeologists, given flesh by faint intellects, made poorer by lack of imagination. But you aren’t the Steward of the house. If you were, I would have seen the Seven Words of Power within you.”
Carter paused, uncertain where he had heard of the Seven Words before. “I became the Steward only recently.”
“A Steward without the Words of Power? A fish in a bucket, a duck in the desert, fodder for your enemies. But you are fortunate. I know the Words well. Come up here and I will teach them to you.”
“Perhaps you could tell me while I sit here.”
Jormungand chuckled mirthlessly. “Perhaps we could sit together with little pastries and tea and play bridge. And afterward, harmonica on the front porch.”
Another torrent of fire poured down the steps, but fell far short of Carter. Through his fear, he faintly wondered why the staircase did not ignite.
“Still there?” Jormungand asked.
Carter lay very quiet, not daring to speak.
“I can see you, unblackened like a missed marshmallow. Conversation
is
a lost art. You’re like all of them, skipping up the stair, hoping to steal my hoard of Wisdom, perfectly willing to skewer me for it, cowering when things don’t go well. And what did I ever do to you? I suppose now you’ll go whining about your mistreatment. But if you flirt with monsters you should expect an occasional nip on the nose.”
Carter crept slowly downward, wanting to hold no more conversation, since it only allowed the dinosaur more time to consider how to reach him.
“Leaving, I see,” Jormungand said. “It’s been lovely. Come back sometime. Bring your friends. If you have the Words of Power I might even answer questions. If you knew them once, but do not recall, you might look in the Book of Forgotten Things. But if you return without them I will use your bones for those little toothpicks normally found in less-fashionable dining establishments. This is my attic and my kingdom, the dominion of the Last Dinosaur.”
Carter heard Jormungand tramp away, his massive frame shaking the whole stair. He made his way carefully downward, feeling as he went. Between his bruises and the blackness it seemed a long age before he finally reached his room, where he groped his way to the fireplace mantel, and with shaking hands lit a candle. He moved the brick that returned the hearth to its original location, then sat on his bed and examined his battered limbs.
Throughout his childhood this had been his room, but in all his play he had never found the concealed chamber. He wondered if it had always been there. With the danger past, the full magnitude of his peril filled him. But even through the fear and pain, a joy like a tiny flame ignited his thoughts, for the dinosaur had reminded him of that forgotten day, so long ago, when he first looked at the Book of Forgotten Things.
* * *
He awoke late the next morning to the low rumble of thunder, the soft patter of rain against the windows, and diffused light falling upon the blue comforter. For a time he lay, unwilling to think, watching the curling paint upon the sill, the drops of water upon the pane, the gray moth battling to reach the light outside the glass. Slowly, he recalled his own mad flight across the attic floor, and rising, touched the hidden mechanism opening the passage, to reassure himself of its existence. But he did not dare ascend back up those murky steps.
He dressed and made his way downstairs to find Mr. Hope at the dining-room table, successfully pursuing a quarry of French toast, scrambled eggs, and marmalade.
“Good morning,” Hope said. “I must commend the chef. The meals here are wonderful. My father is portly and I’m afraid I’ve inherited his love of food. I haven’t a chance, I suppose.”
“I’ll join you,” Carter said as Brittle appeared from the kitchen, a young assistant by his side. “May I have the same?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Brittle, do you know of any secret passages in the house?”
“Passages, sir?”
“Yes, you know. Hidden rooms.”
Brittle glanced down at the table. “And did the master sleep well last night?”
“Not well at all. I discovered another outlet from my chamber.”
Brittle smiled knowingly. “And you followed it?”
“I did, to the attic. There was something up there.”
Brittle’s smile turned into an absolute grin. “And you survived.”
Carter frowned. “You astound me. I survived by chance, but I don’t know what it all means. We need to talk after the will is read.”
“All the Masters of the High House have faced a baptism of fire,” the butler replied. “I am delighted you escaped.” So saying, he turned back to the kitchen.
“He’s a bit brisk for a servant,” Hope said.
“I’ve known him a long time. He’s more of a grand-uncle than a butler to me. If he pulled my ears and sent me to my room, I would probably go.”
Hope laughed. “Sounds like you had a night of it.”
“How long do you plan to stay?” Carter asked. “What I mean is, I know your business is concluded after the reading of the will, but I wonder if you might remain a time? The rain has ruined the roads, no doubt; traveling through mud will be tedious. I could provide a retainer for your time, of course.”
“In what capacity am I to serve?” Hope asked. “You speak of restitution, so you offer no holiday.”
Carter’s breakfast arrived just then, and he buttered his toast before continuing. “I need your advice and your keen eyes. I told you yesterday this house had many strange customs. Could I dare relate a fantastic tale, not just from last night, but from my youth? First, you must agree to stay, a week at least. The roads should be dry by then.”
Hope reflected, frowning. “I’m unmarried, but I will need to send word back to my office. I love this old house; I have the most marvelous dreams sleeping in it. I find it compelling, both legally and romantically. How could I resist?”
The two shook hands and Carter launched into the tale of his father’s many visitors, of the Book of Forgotten Things, even of the Bobby, though he did not mention the creature’s lack of a face, and he related his loss of the Master Keys and his being sent away. Then he told of the dinosaur in the attic. The attorney appeared scarcely disturbed by the bizarre story, although Carter wondered if the man wore the same face when confronted by the lies of an accused murderer.
“Can you believe a word of it?” Carter asked.
Hope gave a warm smile. “It is incredible, and I would require tangible proof, but you appear sane enough, and I see no purpose in an elaborate hoax.”
“You surprise me, sir.”
“Because I concede the possibility of the fantastic? But I have heard utter fancies spoken in the courtroom. And as a boy I observed many things unfathomable to a child; could that not also occur as an adult?”
“You indulge me, surely,” Carter said. “I saw it myself, and I scarcely believe it.”
“I do not make light of the matter,” Hope replied. “I am not a credulous man; remember I have only acceded to the possibility. All my life I have lived by the law. Laws can change from moment to moment, simply by the way they are interpreted by the magistrates. Why should the laws of the universe be any more irrevocable? You tell me you have discovered a behemoth in the attic. However implausible this seems, should I follow you into those upper reaches, I would be unsurprised to discover myself in the verdant forests where such creatures dwell. A matter of interpretation, that is all.”