Undermajordomo Minor (5 page)

L
ucy trudged uphill to stand before the massive riveted doors of the castle, knocking bare-knuckled in the cold. But it was like knocking on the trunk of a tree; it produced a sound so slight that he himself could hardly hear it. He spied a middling-sized bell hung away and to the side of the entrance, and pulled on the dangling rope to ring it; only the rope came away from its pulley, slipping through the air and disappearing with a whisper into the snowbank beside Lucy's feet. He looked all around, then, for what he couldn't say, it simply felt an apt time to take in his surroundings. And what did he see? He saw trees and snow and too much space. He upended and sat upon his valise. Reaching for his pipe, he found it missing. He thought of Memel embracing him, and he scowled. “I don't quite know what to do just now,” he admitted.

An inventive notion came to him, which was to throw stones at the bell. Rooting about in the snow, he was pleased with himself for thinking of the scheme, or for receiving it; success proved elusive, however, for the stones were hard to come by, the bell was placed very high, and Lucy's aim was abominable. Now he was panting, and a clammy sweat coated his back. Abandoning the project, he pressed his belly against the castle and peered up. From this angle the facade looked concave, and its height invoked a queasiness, so that he felt his legs might give way, and he would topple backward down the hill, the thought of which made him laugh. He listened
to his own laughter with what might be described as an inquisitive detachment. Much in the same way he had never been able to reconcile the connection between his reflection and his mind, Lucy could not recognize his voice as relating to his person.

He resumed his valise-sitting. Sunlight drew down the front of the castle, bisecting his face levelly, a lovely yellow warmth from the nose-bridge to the apex of his cap, while below there clung a beard of bitter, blue-white chill. He closed his eyes, considering the activity of his own padded heartbeat, the transit of his blood. For a moment Lucy was happy, though he didn't know why.

When he opened his eyes, a peripheral movement originating from the forest to the east of the castle caught his attention. He turned to witness a sheet of dry snow drop from a tall branch and to the ground, this landing with a soft-clapping
shump
. Through the aftercloud he saw a man's famished face emerge from behind the broad trunk of an oak tree. This face held Lucy's gaze, and Lucy, alarmed, sat upright. A second face, similarly famished, appeared from behind another tree, and Lucy stood. Now a third face came into view, now a fourth, and all at once a group of twelve or more men materialized from the shadowy wood. They were each of them holding a bayonet, and they walked in a huddle toward Lucy, who retreated some steps so that his back pressed flat against the cold wall of the castle.

T
he men affected a militarily homogeneous air, the lot of them wearing top to bottom gray-green wool, with bands of red encircling their arms at the biceps and black sashes cinched about their waists. As they drew nearer, however, Lucy could see that the cut and style of each man's outfit was dissimilar to his fellows': one wore long trousers, another knickers with tall boots; one sported a shearling collar, while his neighbor trailed a scarf. Even their rifles were dissimilar, the lengths of the bayonets varying drastically. It was as though they had each of them made their own garments in the privacy of their homes, with but the vaguest aesthetic prescription to guide them. Only their unshaven, haunted faces were alike.

Lucy was afraid of these men, naturally, for they carried themselves so grimly, and it seemed they intended to set upon him and for all he knew bring him to harm. But when at last they reached him they merely stood there, breathing in and out, and watching him as though he were some part of the scenery. They were looking at him but thinking of their own lives, and not of his.

A man stepped from the rear of the pack, and from the moment Lucy saw him it was clear he was one apart from the others. While the rest possessed the swollen-eyed expression of malnourished desperation, this man's skull wore the hunger well, and his gaze described intelligence and the most natural manner of confidence. He was, in fact, exceptionally handsome, so that Lucy could not
look away from him. The man was perfectly serious as he stepped closer, and when he spoke, his deep voice denoted no hostility, only a measure of import, as though time were a pressing consideration for him.

“What's your name, boy?”

“Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

“That's my name, sir, yes.”

“What's all this with the stones, Lucy?”

“I was trying to strike the bell.”

“And why?”

“I'm eager to gain entrance to the castle.”

“And why?”

“That I might begin my appointment there. Also because I'm cold.”

“I don't believe I've seen you before.” He pointed down the valley. “Do you come from the village?”

“No, I come from Bury.”

“What's Bury?”

“A location, sir. I come from there.”

The exceptionally handsome man puzzled a moment, as one completing an equation in his mind. “So you are Lucy from Bury, is that what you're telling me?”

“I am.”

“And you mustn't tarry, as you're in a hurry?”

“Yes.”

“Because you're chilly?”

“I suppose that's all correct, sir, yes.”

The soldiers were stifling laughter, as was the exceptionally handsome man, and Lucy stood by, considering the enigmatic nature of charisma. If he could change a single thing about himself, it would be to possess that atypical luster certain people were blessed with. The exceptionally handsome man was rich with it, and in witnessing and identifying this, Lucy experienced both
covetousness and admiration. He watched the man whisper into one of his soldiers' ears; the soldier nodded and saluted before hurrying away into the woods. Now the exceptionally handsome man spoke again to Lucy, only all of the playfulness from the moment before had gone:

“Do you have any food?”

“No.”

“A biscuit, perhaps? Or a piece of cheese?”

“Nothing whatsoever, sir, no.”

“Any money?”

“I have a very small amount of money.”

“May we have it?”

“It's all I've got, sir.”

The exceptionally handsome man stepped closer, gripping his bayonet, and there entered into his voice an emotionless, droning tone. “May we or may we not have the money, Lucy from Bury?”

Lucy handed over his small purse of coins, and the exceptionally handsome man emptied it into his palm.

“This is all you have?”

“Yes.”

“This is all you have in the world?”

“Yes.”

The exceptionally handsome man returned the coins to the purse, sulkily stuffing this into his coat pocket. He appeared to take Lucy's insolvency personally, and a cumbersome quiet came between them. Lucy was casting about in his mind for some bit of chit-chat when the soldier who had gone on scout returned, whispering in the exceptionally handsome man's ear. The exceptionally handsome man received the news, then addressed the others, who stood at attention, ready to receive his instruction. “All right, we're heading back to base camp in a single push. The bastards are up to something or I miss my guess, so let's stay on our guard. Are we up for it, yes or no?” The soldiers called back in a single voice that shocked Lucy with its volume and alacrity: “Aye!” And then, just as
quickly as they'd come, they departed, with their leader bringing up the rear.

Rounding the corner of the castle, he ceased walking, as though plagued by an unknown anxiety. Turning, he leveled his rifle at Lucy; his expression was stony, and Lucy once more found himself concerned for his own safety. But there was no danger; the rifle was raised higher, and higher still, and now the exceptionally handsome man took aim and fired his weapon. The bullet ricocheted off the hip of the bell and the peal pulsed in the air, this mingling with the echo of the rifle's discharge. As Lucy was standing under the bell itself it was as though the noise created something physical surrounding him, a chamber of vibration and sound. Looking upward, he watched the bell's slow, circular sway. When he looked back down, the exceptionally handsome man was gone.

A
fter some minutes, the door was unbolted from the inside. It budged a laborious half inch, then another. Lucy couldn't see who was responsible for these efforts, but there came from the black crack a wispy, whispering voice:

“Who's there?”

“Lucien Minor, sir.”

“Who?”

“Lucy, sir. I'm reporting to my post under a Mr. Olderglough. Is that you?”

“Mmmm,” said the voice, as if unsure.

“I'm happy to make your acquaintance. Thank you again for the position. I'm eager to begin my appointment, and I should think you won't regret taking me—”

Lucy heard the distant pop of a rifle discharging. It was a miniature and cotton-wrapped sound, and he wondered at the chasm separating the quaintness of this noise and the actuality of a hurtling bullet. There came another report, and a pause; now there followed a rushing crescendo of pops, like a handful of tacks strewn over hardwood. Lucy's feet were numb, and his stomach felt airy and scooped out.

“May I come in, sir?”

The voice uttered a reply but Lucy couldn't make it out.

“What was that?” he asked.

The voice rose to a shriek: “Push the fucking door!”

Lucy's recovery from the directive was admirable and timely. He pushed with all his strength; the heavy door hesitated, then swept slowly, evenly open.

M
r. Olderglough stood in the underlit entryway, an elegantly skeletal man of sixty or more outfitted in a suit of black velvet. His white hair was uncombed or unsuccessfully combed; a lock spiraled past his brow and over his eyes, to roguish effect. His right arm hung in a sling, his fingers folded talon-like, nails blackened, knuckles blemished with scabs and blue-yellow bruising. Bowing a bow so slight it hardly amounted to a bow at all, he said, “I apologize, young man, for my vulgarity of a moment ago. I woke up in a foul mood this morning, and the world's been against me ever since.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir.”

“I had a terrific nightmare, is what.” Mr. Olderglough leaned in. “Eels,” he said.

“Eels, sir?”

“That was what the dream was about.” But he offered no further information regarding the eels, no description of what malice they had represented. Lucy made no inquiries about it, the reason being that he didn't wish to know any more. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, now he saw that Mr. Olderglough's attire, which had appeared so regal at the start, was actually quite scruffy—buttons mismatched, and stains illustrating his lapels. Lucy thought he looked like an aesthete chasing a run of foul luck. Pointing at the sling, he asked,

“Have you had an accident, sir?”

Mr. Olderglough stared at his hand with what Lucy took for regret. “No, not an accident,” he answered, and now he laid his left hand atop his injured right and began to stroke it consolingly, which summoned in Lucy a revulsion he couldn't put words to. Mr. Olderglough emerged from his reverie and asked if Lucy would like a tour of the estate; before Lucy could answer, the man tottered away down the darkening corridor. Lucy followed after, not because he wanted to particularly, but because he could think of no other option, and because he didn't like the idea of standing alone in the dim, dank place. Other than the stillness of the air it was not noticeably warmer inside the castle, and he did not unbutton his coat.

M
r. Olderglough was not an enthusiastic guide.

“This is a room,” he said, pointing as they passed. “Not much use for it these days. Better not to go in at all, is my thought. And here, here too is a room, just a room, serving no purpose whatsoever.”

In fact, most every space in the castle was not in use, and the property in general had fallen into disrepair: the furniture was covered with canvas, the heavy velvet curtains drawn, and clumps of dust had built up in the corners and doorways. None of the fireplaces they passed were in use, and Lucy asked,

“Do you never light a fire, sir?”

“I wouldn't say never. I'll admit that it's rare. Room.”

“I wonder,” said Lucy, “on what occasion do you light one?” For the deeper they traveled into the castle, the more the temperature fell, with the light growing dimmer all the while.

“I avoid them, myself,” Mr. Olderglough answered. “It seems I get nothing done with a fire going other than have a fire going. The notion of reading by the hearth is pure farce, so far as I'm concerned. Every half a page I have to set my book aside to nurture the flames—not at all my idea of a relaxing evening.” He gave Lucy a reproachful look. “You're not cold, are you?”

“I am not warm, sir.”

“Well, if you're after a fire, you may be my guest. But you'll
have to forage your own wood, as the little we have stocked goes to the scullery stove.”

“That's fine, sir, thank you.”

“Yes, boy. And now, if you'll follow me, please.” They entered a cavernous ballroom. Ringing the high walls were any number of ornately framed oil paintings, portraits of similarly regal-looking individuals, the Barons and Baronesses of yore, Lucy supposed, and correctly. Mr. Olderglough stepped to the center-point of the space; when he spoke, his voice was staggered by an echo on the air. “Yet another room,” he said, “and a very large and empty room it is, wouldn't you say?”

“It is large and empty, sir.”

“This dingy chamber once was filled with music and dancing and laughter and gaiety. And look at it now. Quiet as the grave.”

Indeed, the ballroom gave Lucy an uneasy feeling, as though it had been host to some godless occurrence or other. “And where have all the people gone to, sir?”

“After the Baroness left us, then we fell into our Decline.”

“Do you mean to say she died?”

“I don't mean that, no. Only that she departed, and hasn't returned, and likely will not return. But her leaving was like a death, if you'll allow me my small melodrama.”

“Please.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Yes. Well, we're coming on a full year now that she's been away, and not a day goes past without my lamenting her absence.”

“You were very close to her, sir?”

“As close as one in my position can be. She extended me every kindness—kindnesses many of her stature would have forgone.” Mr. Olderglough moved to stand before a painting of a swan-like beauty in a light blue silk and lace gown: the Baroness Von Aux.

“A light in a dark place,” Mr. Olderglough said.

“She looks to be afraid of something.”

“Yes. Oh, but she was very brave, as well.”

Lucy asked, “And where is the Baron currently, sir?”

“The Baron goes where the Baron wishes. And often as not he wishes to go nowhere at all.”

“I should like to thank him for the appointment, if I might.”

“The Baron has no knowledge of your appointment. In fact he hasn't the remotest interest in the mechanics of the castle. Six days out of seven he won't even leave his room. Seven days out of seven.”

“And what does he do in there, sir?”

“I suspect it involves a degree of brooding. But this is not your problem to ponder; it'll be months before you lay eyes on the man, if you lay eyes on him.”

“I will wait to thank him, then,” said Lucy.

Mr. Olderglough shook his head, with emphasis. “You don't understand what I'm telling you, boy. Don't speak to the Baron if you see him. As a matter of fact, don't see him at all, if you can avoid it. That is to say, don't let him see you.”

Lucy asked, “Am I not meant to be here, sir?”

“No one is
meant
to be here.” Mr. Olderglough was gripped by a shiver. Once it passed he turned to Lucy and asked, “Are you ever seized up like that, boy?”

“We all catch a chill, sir. I should think a fire would allay it.”

“No, it's quite something else, I fear.” He pointed to the exit. “Moving on, then,” he said, quitting the ballroom in what could be described as a hurry.