Undermajordomo Minor

Eirik & Alexander

The assistant train engineer, named Eirik, was entertaining disappointment in the tavern after hearing news that his junior colleague Alexander would be made full engineer, an insult considering Eirik’s seniority and years of loyal service to the company. He had had nine plum brandies when Alexander entered the tavern, nodding his small greetings all around but making no announcement of his advancement, which somehow was worse than if he had, for it was plain just to look at him that he was distending with pride. He took a seat beside Eirik and laid a palm on his back. Eirik felt a measure of pity in that hand, and he rolled his shoulder to remove its weight. Alexander volunteered to buy Eirik a drink but he declined. “Thank you all the same, but I’m not quite destitute yet.”

“I wish you wouldn’t take it that way,” said Alexander.

“Wishing is a pastime for disappointment, nothing more,” Eirik replied. “Take it from one who knows.”

Now Alexander became serious, and he spoke with an edge to his voice Eirik had never heard before: “Look, now. We’ve got to work together. Tomorrow morning and each morning after. You and I have always got along well enough; I do hope there won’t be any problems between us now.”

Eirik found himself regarding the ringed baby flesh of the man’s neck, imagining what it would feel like to grip it in his hands. And in that same unsettling way one realizes he’s left the door to his home ajar, Eirik knew that he could kill Alexander. Not that he would, but that it was possible.

“There won’t be any problems coming from me,” Eirik said, and he excused himself, bowing exaggeratedly before weaving from the tavern and into the road. He went home for his supper but found no solace there, his foul mood compounded by his wife’s miserly cheese portion. His wife was always miserly with her cheese portions but the amount he received that night was even more scant than usual. He sat at the table alone, staring at his empty plate and considering his private theory, which was that his wife secretly ate the cheese herself while he was at work.

“More cheese,” he called.

Her voice, from the larder, was unemotional: “There is none left.”

“How in the world did we eat through an entire wheel in less than half a month?”

“What can I tell you? You eat it, and then it’s gone.”

“But I don’t eat it, that’s just the problem.” He moved to the kitchen and found her stacking plates, her back to him. “You eat it!” he said.

She stiffened, then turned to look at her husband, loathing everything about him: his weak chin, his sour odour, his lopsided moustache, his stoop. The thing was, she really did secretly eat the cheese. No sooner would Eirik leave for work than she would go for the hidden wheel and tug away a goodly sized piece, savouring this in a corner nook otherwise unused save for this lone and lonely activity. But she was unsatisfied in most every aspect of her life, and the cheese was one of the very few pleasures she had. And now it appeared that this, too, would be stolen from her. All right, then, she thought. Take it all, even my smallest happiness. Reaching her arm deep into the cupboard, she removed the hoarded cheese and laid it on the counter before making for the privacy of the attic, where she wept in the full-throated style, feeling just as sorry for herself as a person could ever hope to feel.

Eirik stood awhile, swaying and listening to his wife’s jerky, breathy sobbings. He knew he should move to comfort her but found the desire to do so entirely absent, being far too excited about this unexpected surplus of Gouda. I’ll pay her a visit after a snack, perhaps, he thought, and brought the cheese to the dining-room table, consuming the entire half wheel in addition to a bottle of elderberry wine, afterwards passing out in his chair and suffering through a cycle of horrific dreams and visions: Alexander furiously copulating with his wife while eating his, Eirik’s, cheese; his wife lying on the table nude while Alexander carved elegant swaths into her broad white calf with a paring knife, for she herself was fashioned from cheese; that his penis was cheese which broke off while he urinated; that his penis was cheese his wife nibbled on while he slept — all through the night like this, and so in the morning, in addition to the state of his head from the wine and plum brandy, his sense of peace was compromised as he set out for work.

He arrived at the station ten minutes late with bloodshot eyes and a halo of fumes swarming his head. Alexander recognized the man’s impairment and felt a professional impulse to chastise him.

“So you kept it up last night?” he asked.

“I did what I had to do.”

“And now?”

“Now I’ll do the same.”

An uneasy beginning, then. They spoke little as the hours went by. Eirik’s pain and insult were stubbornly insistent but he knew he would get through the day, and that the next day would not be quite so bad. In passing time, he thought of the loveliness of a glass of brandy, the first glass after a shift, the way it drew down his throat and coated his insides with flammable heat, afterwards leaving an aroma of smoked plum smouldering in his nostrils and mouth when he exhaled. It was very invigorating, that first plum brandy, and he began to look forward to the tavern with earnest, uncomplicated appreciation. His anger diminishing, he decided he would buy his wife a wheel of cheese on the way home from the tavern, and that he would encourage her to eat as much as she wanted, in plain sight — just so long as he could have his fair share as well. And when this ran out, so what if they had to buy another? Perhaps he wasn’t a full engineer, but he earned a good wage and there was room for occasional extravagances so long as they weren’t too dear. Eirik hit his stride with his coal spade and the flames shimmied and spit in the firebox. Sweat ran off his nose and chin and into his eyes, and this was agreeable to him. Life was not such a trial after all, he mused. It wasn’t easy, but then, how dull an experience it would be if it were so. He began to whistle, and this meant that he was happy.

Alexander sensed the change in his partner’s mood, and felt calmer for it. Allowing his mind to drift, he fell to thinking of the difficulties of his youth: his mother dead mere months after his birth; his father, waylaid from sorrow, vanished one autumn morning, never to return, never sending word. From the start Alexander was instilled with the knowledge that whatever shape his life took, it was up to him alone to sculpt it, and so to have risen to the level of engineer, he couldn’t help but feel proud of himself. Surely this is understandable, but half an hour shy of Bury, he made the mistake of verbalizing his satisfaction: “My maiden voyage as engineer,” he said. “I can’t deny it, but it feels good.” He turned to Eirik, who said nothing, but looked stonily ahead. Alexander said, “Won’t you allow me a moment of boasting, old friend?”

“Boast away,” Eirik said. “I won’t stop you.”

“Why can’t you be happy for me?”

“Who’s to say I’m not?”

“But how would I know if you were?”

Eirik jammed the spade in the coal tender. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Alexander became sheepish. “Typically, when a man has a turn of good luck, his fellows will offer their congratulations.”

At this last word, Eirik’s black mood returned, a virulent poison which leached through to the deepest parts of his soul. Alexander’s neck looked velvety soft to the touch, and Eirik’s fingers began to twitch and grip. He resumed his feverish shovelling and as the train barrelled along the rails he waited for his hatred to ebb, but it never did, and in fact it only doubled and redoubled, so that he felt lost to it. Resignedly, he waited for the best moment to exorcise this feeling.

The train eased into the station at Bury. Alexander peered out, an attitude of calm defining his person. He turned to Eirik, meaning to offer some minor encouragement or compliment, when he saw his co-worker was watching him with a fanatical look, his eyes dreadful, grotesquely transformed. The look made Alexander wary, and he asked, “What’s the matter?”

“You want me to congratulate you?” Eirik asked.

“Don’t you feel it’s in order?”

“Indeed it is. But you’re certain you want me to?”

What manner of test was this? Would Eirik strike him with a fist? Well, then, better to have it out. Alexander was a healthy man, if portly, and had seen his share of tavern battles — he was not afraid of the stingy wretch who stood before him. Resting his hand on the brake lever and gripping it in his fist, he struck an upright and confident pose, and said, “I’m certain, Eirik. Let’s have it.”

The spade stuck out an angle from the coal tender. Later, speaking to his cellmate, Eirik would muse that it was as if the spade were leaning towards him, offering itself for assistance. He swung it in a quick, tight circle, bringing the edge down on Alexander’s hand, severing cleanly the man’s foremost three fingers, while the fourth hung as if on a hinge. This swayed up and back and Alexander stood there watching the blood drain from the stumps with the look of a man who had just witnessed a baffling illusion.

“Congratulations,” Eirik said. He collected the fingers with the spade and tossed them into the churning firebox.

Lucy knew none of this, and would never know. By the time he arrived at the station Alexander had been led away in a dizzy stumble, and Eirik was being helped down from the train and onto the platform by the constable. It seemed a friendly gesture, and Lucy found nothing amiss about the two men as they walked away, though he was curious about where the assistant engineer might be going five minutes before the scheduled departure, and why the constable was so insistent about holding the spade.

Rain fell in plump drops which made Lucy blink and wince, but he didn’t mind getting wet. He felt triumphant about the lie he’d told Marina, and rather than hinder his optimism, the foul weather merely added to the feeling he was embarked on an adventure. He entered the third-class compartment, stowed his valise, and found a sliver of space among the charwomen and labourers and scattered elderly. No one spoke, and Lucy wondered why it was that the impoverished classes were biased towards public silences.

The train was delayed for reasons already discussed, and Lucy passed forty-five minutes in the airless cabin while the conductor and stationmaster searched for someone to fill in as engineer. He was lost to his own plotless thoughts when there came a knock on the window from outside the train. He turned and saw Marina hovering in the air above the platform; her fist remained aloft next to her face and she wore the pleased expression of the cat after a kill. The effect of her countenance, along with her floating in the window like that, was unsettling to Lucy, and he felt a premonition of danger which brought about a head-to-toe rash of gooseflesh.

Now he noticed a pair of brutish, hairy hands were holding Marina aloft at the waist; presently these hands returned her to the platform, and she and Tor stepped back, that they might both see inside and be seen by those inside the compartment. They stood arm in arm, smiling at Lucy, perfectly at ease with each other. If they had had an argument relating to Lucy’s lie then it was past. The conductor happened by and Tor called the man over, speaking imploringly to him and pointing at Lucy directly. The conductor watched Lucy while Tor spoke; when Tor had finished, the conductor made for the train, and Lucy’s compartment.

“May I see your ticket, please?” he said.

“My ticket?” said Lucy.

“Please.”

“Why do you want to see my ticket?”

The conductor held out his hand. Miserably, Lucy passed it over. The man studied the stub and shook his head. “Whatever is that gentleman talking about?” Looking out the window, he addressed Tor and Marina, rapt in their waiting. “It’s third class!” He waved the stub back and forth. “A third-class ticket!” Tor held a hand to his ear, pretending not to be able to hear. Marina slapped him on the arm, as though he were being too cruel; and yet, she didn’t truly want him to stop — she was enjoying the sport they made of Lucy. The conductor waded through the compartment to the window and slid it open. “The young man has a third-class ticket,” he said.

Tor, perplexed: “The stick-like fellow? The red-faced chap just there? The famished one? You’re certain he’s not in first class?”

“Would you like to see the ticket for yourself?”

Tor performed a slight bow. “I would never deign to tell you your own business, sir,” he said, and he rested his mitts on his hips and pursed his mouth, an approximation of confounded frustration. “Oh, but I was certain he was to be in first class. The young man possesses a noble bearing, wouldn’t you say?”

The conductor, along with the others in the compartment, regarded Lucy dubiously. “Well,” said the conductor, “the lad is where he is meant to be. And I don’t know what else to tell you about it.”

“Yes,” Tor agreed. “What else is there to say, after all?”

“Good day,” said the conductor, closing the window.

“Good day to you, sir,” Tor answered, his volume halved by the pane of glass. He offered a parting wave to Lucy, and to the compartment in general; Lucy did not respond but others around him did. Now Tor and Marina turned and walked into the village, arm in arm, and by the looks of them they were very much in love. Everyone watched them go; once they were out of sight the collective attention returned to Lucy. His face was no longer red, but pale, his gaze darkened, impermeable.

“Friends of yours?” asked the man beside Lucy.

“No.”

“They’re a handsome couple.”

Lucy closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to be alone in the well-appointed room he housed deep within his mind.

The train headed east, crossing the great green valley and ascending into the mountains, winding ever higher as they followed the broad back-and-forth swoops of the track. As the stars assembled it looked to Lucy that the train was hurrying the night along by plunging into the stomach of the sky. He slept sitting up, propped by a body on either side of him.

In the night there occurred an untoward happening. Lucy awoke or partially awoke to find two men, one tall and one small, creeping into the compartment. Their movements were stealthy beyond the call of good manners, and this, combined with the fact of their faces being obscured behind the upturned collars of their coats, brought about a wary interest in Lucy, and he watched them with half-shut eyes.

The compartment was quiet, the dozing occupants’ faces cast in silvery moonlight, and the men moved to stand before a bony older woman clutching a tartan satchel to her chest. Her mouth hung slackly and a rill of spittle drew down the side of her face; the larger of the men regarded her with a cocked head, then set to work removing her fingers from her bag. This was accomplished in delicate stages, one finger at a time, and Lucy was expectant that at any moment the woman would come to and let fly a bloodcurdling shriek. But the man was so adept, as though he were precisely aware to what extent he might molest the woman’s person without interfering with her slumber, that she gave no indication of disturbance. Soon her grip was unfurled, and so the man could gain access to her bag, from which he removed unknown objects, passing these to the smaller man, who tucked the booty away in his long coat. After gleaning all he could or cared to, the larger man returned the bag to the woman’s grip and stepped to the side, that he might focus on the body to the woman’s left. It was in this workaday manner that the duo robbed each person on the bench opposite Lucy; and now they were doubling back to do the same to him and his benchmates.

As the men drew closer, a fearsome unease came over Lucy, for he had not a clue what he should do. He might put up a fight, but there were two men against his one, and it was a safe assumption that these bandits were all the more familiar with the ways of violence than he. Mightn’t he leave the compartment? Simply stand and go, without a glance back over his shoulder? But no, the men would notice his exit, and perhaps it was that they wouldn’t want him to leave. What option remained, then? In the end he could think of no alternative other than feigning sleep and letting the men make away with his meagre possessions. A shameful conclusion, it was true, but still preferable to the other chilling possibilities, and so there Lucy sat, awaiting the inevitable.

The men were just setting upon him when a train travelling on the westbound track hurtled past, rocking the compartment, drenching it in flashing light, and disturbing most everyone’s rest. The thieves quit the compartment like shadows thrown across the wall; and though many passengers were momentarily awakened by the passing train, none had seen the pair go, and so none realized they had been robbed. Lucy looked about for a body to speak with, but all had resumed sleeping. He buttoned his coat to the throat and looked out the window at the world of night. The moon held its position admirably and unwaveringly, pegged as it was to its corner of the sky.

Lucy awoke in thin winter sunlight, lying on his side, now. The train had stopped any number of times and the compartment was empty except for a shabbily dressed man sitting on the bench across from him. The man was staring at Lucy expectantly, as though waiting for him to awaken, that they might make discourse. But Lucy didn’t want to speak to anyone just yet, and so resumed his window-gazing.

They were above the snow line, well beyond the first pass and into the deeper ranges where the drifts formed impossible meringue shapes and were painted blue and green in their shadows. The first-and second-class compartments were heated with engine run-off, but not so the third; the wind rattled the windows, and Lucy could make out his breath before him.

Lucy studied the man in the reflection of the pane. He seemed to be neither young nor old, or rather, young and old — his eyes were adolescent, full of verve and mischief, yet the flesh beneath the sockets drooped to water-filled crescents; his hair was thick, swept back in a high-crested roll, but its ink-black colouring was run through with white strands, these creeping upwards from the sideburns to the crown. The man could have been eighty years old or he could have been forty. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose; as he returned the kerchief to his coat, the visual of the man’s fingers slipping past a lapel reminded Lucy of the thieves from the night prior, a recollection which must have upset his composure, for the man asked, “Are you quite all right, boy?”

“I am, sir,” said Lucy, “but tell me, please, did you pass the night on this train?”

“I did.”

“You’ll want to check your purse, then, for there were two thieves preying upon the passengers while we slumbered.”

A look of dread came over the man. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Is it really so?” He patted the pockets of his coat and trousers; finding his possessions accounted for, he told Lucy, “No, all is where it should be.”

“You’re a lucky one, then. Luckier than the others, anyway. You should have seen the way these devils roamed about the compartment. It was as though the notion of consequence never entered their minds.”

“Is that right?” the man said. “They do sound devilish, anyway. And what about you, boy? How did you fare?”

Lucy waved the thought away. “Nothing to worry about there. It was I that chased them off when they came too near.”

The man leaned forward, visibly impressed. “Did you really?”

“I did.”

“Chased them right off, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“That was very daring of you.”

“I’ve no patience for shirkers and thieves, is what.”

“That much is clear.” The man stood and bowed. “I salute you.”

Lucy thanked the stranger; he was pleased to be making such an impression. Again he looked out the window. They were passing through a dense forest, now. A deer stood in the distance, away from the track, considering the train with a sidelong glance. When Lucy returned his attention to the compartment he found the man was studying him much in the same way.

“Yes, sir?” said Lucy.

“Well,” said the man, “it’s just that I find myself wondering, at what point did you do this chasing away?”

“At what point, sir?”

“Yes. That is to say, did you actually see these thieves robbing anyone?”

“I did indeed. Half a dozen people at least.”

“And why did you not intervene before they got to you, I wonder? As one who proclaims to have no tolerance for thieves, for shirkers — for devils, as you yourself call them — I would think you’d have leapt into action at the first sign of wrongdoing. And yet you did nothing, until they came your way.” The man blinked. “Or perhaps it is that I’ve got the story wrong.”

“Well,” said Lucy, “yes, hmm,” and he sat awhile, thinking about what he might say in his defence. In the end, all he could come up with was to state that he’d been slow to act due to his being heavy-minded from slumber.

“Ah,” said the man, nodding. “Still sleepy, were you?”

“I was.”

“A foot in each world?”

“Correct.”

“That explains it, surely.”

Lucy felt he had deflected the interrogation handily, and yet he also wondered if he couldn’t identify a suppressed smile upon the man’s lips. Was this frayed individual making fun of him? No time to ponder this, however, as there were more questions being put to him:

“May I ask you where you’re headed?”

“The Castle Von Aux. Do you know it?”

“I do indeed.” Scratching his belly, he asked, “You wouldn’t perhaps be Mr Olderglough’s new man, would you?”

“I am. How did you guess it?”

“Poke in the dark.”

“Do you live at the castle?”

“I most certainly do not.”

Lucy thought he detected in these words some trace of pique, and so he asked, “Why do you say it like that?”

The man held up a finger. “For one, I am not welcome there.” He held up another finger. “For two, I have no inclination to visit such a place.” He held up a third finger, opened his mouth to speak, shut his mouth, and balled his hand to a fist. He sighed. “Do you know,” he said, “I was saddened about Mr Broom.”

“Who’s Mr Broom?”

“Your predecessor.”

It hadn’t occurred to Lucy that there’d been a predecessor. The man deduced this and asked, “Have you heard nothing about him?”

“No.”

“I find that strange. There’s a story there, after all. Poor Mr Broom.”

Lucy sat watching the man, who apparently did not plan to elaborate.

“Won’t you tell me?” Lucy asked.

“It’s not for me to tell. Ask Olderglough. Though he’ll likely not tell you either, that rascal. Ah, well. We’ve all got our lessons to learn, haven’t we?”

“I suppose that we do,” said Lucy, finding the sentiment, and indeed the man himself, vaguely threatening. Hoping to mask this feeling, Lucy casually removed his pipe from his pocket, to study and admire it. The man took an interest as well, and asked if he might have a look for himself. Lucy handed the pipe across, and the man held it this way and that. He nodded his appreciation. “This is a very fine pipe.”

“Thank you,” said Lucy.

“Very fine indeed.”

“Thank you, yes. May I have it back, please?”

The man returned the pipe, but there was an unhappiness in his eyes, as though to part with it pained him. When Lucy tucked the pipe away in his breast pocket, the man stared at Lucy’s chest. The mountains had eclipsed the sun and the compartment dropped to a cold colouring; the conductor passed in the corridor, stating it would soon be time to disembark. The man stood as the train eased into the station.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

“Lucy.”

“Lucy? I like that. I’m Memel.” He pointed out the window. “And there’s your new home.”

The Castle Von Aux stood a half mile beyond the station; Lucy could make out a broad, crenellated outer curtain wall and two conical towers. It was built at the sloping base of a mountain range, standing grey-black against the snow — a striking setting, but there was something chilling about it also. Lucy thought it was somehow too sheer, too beautiful.

Memel was buttoning up his coat. Once accomplished, he did a curious thing, which was to tilt his head back and speak into the empty space before him: “Mewe,” he said. “We’ve arrived. Will you come out, yes or no? I’m sorry that we argued.” Bending at the waist, he peered under the bench and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on, already. What are you going to do? Stay here forever?”

A boy rolled like piping from beneath Lucy’s bench and stared up at him. Lucy took in the boy’s features, which were a source of fascination; for whereas Memel was an old man who seemed far younger than his years, here was a boy of perhaps ten with the mark of bitter time impressed upon his face: a hollowness at the cheek, a bloodless pallor, wrinkles bunching at the corners of his eyes. When he extended his hand, Lucy shook it, but the boy, Mewe, said, “I meant for you to help me up.” Lucy did help him up, and now the three of them made for the exit. The wind was swirling snow outside, and Memel and Mewe flipped up the collars of their coats before disembarking. Only now did it occur to Lucy just who these people were.

They stepped into the shin-high snow blanketing the platform. The station was a fallow cabin with its door half off the hinges and the windows knocked out. Animal tracks darted in and out of the homely structure but there were no human footsteps to be seen. Neither Memel nor Mewe had any baggage; they pushed on in the direction of the castle, punch-punching through the frosted snow, while Lucy stood awhile by the train tracks, preferring to be apart from these two. But when they noticed his falling behind they ceased walking and called for him to hurry along, that they might travel together. Lucy could think of no alternative other than to fall in line, and so he did this, saying to himself, I am alone with two bloodthirsty thieves. We are walking into an anonymous field of pale snow. Hoping to keep their criminal minds occupied with chatter, Lucy spoke, asking Memel if Mewe was his son, or grandson. Memel said no, they were merely friends.

“Not today we’re not,” said Mewe.

“No, that’s true. Today we’re not friends. But normally, yes.”

“Why aren’t you friends today?” Lucy asked Mewe.

Mewe shook his head. “Memel likes to talk; he’ll tell you.”

“You’ll only interrupt me,” Memel said.

“No, I won’t.”

“It’s an unremarkable thing,” Memel admitted to Lucy.

“If idiocy is unremarkable,” added Mewe.

“Of course idiocy is unremarkable. That’s its chief attribute.”

“I’ve found your idiocy to be quite remarkable at times.”

Memel rolled his eyes. “Mewe takes refuge in insult,” he told Lucy.

“Quite remarkable indeed,” Mewe said. But Memel remained silent; he wouldn’t participate in the lowly discourse. Mewe kicked at the snow. Wearily, he said, “We just like to fight, is what it is.”

Memel pondered the statement, apparently a virgin notion for him. “It’s true. We do,” he said. He was displeased by the admission; it appeared to make him remorseful.

Lucy had been watching the pair for a time, but as their conversation fell into a lull, now he looked up at the castle, and when he did this he startled, for it was much closer than he’d sensed it to be, as if the property had uprooted itself and met them halfway. Lucy considered its facade with a dour expression, and he thought about how buildings often took on the qualities of a living being for him. His own home, for example, was the architectural embodiment of his mother; the tavern was a tilted, leering drunkard; the church was the modest yet noble double of the good Father Raymond. But what was the castle representative of? It was too early to name it. He only knew that it spoke of something colossal and ominous and quite beyond his experience.

They approached a shanty village, built up in a cluster apart from the base of the castle, a hundred or more haphazard domiciles linked side by each in the shape of a teardrop. A series of larger, open-air structures formed a cross through the centre — marketplace stalls, Memel explained. Lucy watched as the villagers went about their business: shawl-covered women ducking in and out of doorways, children wrapped to their breasts or trailing behind; men standing in groups of threes and fours, speaking animatedly, gesturing, laughing. Memel pointed out his shanty to Lucy, and with pride, though it was indistinguishable from the others: a warping shack fashioned from tin scrap and mismatched timber. A chimney pushed through the roof, tall and tilted, issuing wispy woodsmoke.

“And does Mewe live with you also?” said Lucy.

“No, I live alone,” said Mewe. “Just this side of Memel’s, do you see?”

Lucy nodded. He asked Memel, “How long have you lived here?”

“I was born here. Mewe, too. We all were.”

“And how long has the village stood beside the castle?”

“Just as long as the castle has been here, so has the village.”

“But where do you all come from originally?”

“I don’t know, actually.” He turned to Mewe. “Do you know?”

“Nowhere, I should think.”

A second silence, and Lucy’s attention drifted away, to the face of the mountain looming beyond the castle. At first he was simply reviewing the scenery, but then he realized there was some manner of human industry taking place in the snow: bodies moving about, and puffs of smoke floating along on the air. “Those are people up there,” he commented.

“Ah, yes,” said Memel.

“What are they doing?”

“Wasting their time.”

“Wasting their time doing what?”

“Playing a silly game.”

“And what is the point of the game?”

“To kill but not be killed oneself.”

“Killed?” said Lucy.

“Yes. Did Olderglough not tell you about that either?”

“There was no mention of killing.”

Memel chuckled. “Rascal! Well, not to worry. You aren’t in any danger.”

“No?”

“Very little danger. A small danger. Keep on your toes, and you’ll be fine, I would think. The others are much worse off.”

“What others?”

“The killed, the killing. The rebels and their tyrannical opposition.” He pointed to one side of the mountain, then the other. “They are often out and about.”

“These two parties are at odds, is that what you’re saying?”

“They are at war.”

“Why are they warring?”

“Ah,” said Memel. “Long story.”

“And what is the story?”

“It is most complicated and long.”

“Mightn’t you tell it to me in shorthand?”

“It would never do but to tell it in total.”

All this was troubling to Lucy. “Perhaps you will tell it to me later,” he ventured.

“Perhaps I will,” Memel said. “Though likely not. For in addition to being a long story, it’s also quite dull.”

They had arrived at the edge of the village. Memel and Mewe said their goodbyes, the former taking up Lucy in a lurching embrace which went on far longer than was seemingly necessary. Lucy was embarrassed by the show of affection but made no objection, thinking it likely a local custom, something he decided to endure as an example of his tolerance.

Lucy 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 and tobacco, he found it missing. He thought of Memel embracing him, and he scowled, admitting to himself, “I don’t quite know what to do just now.”

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 backwards 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 towards Lucy, who retreated some steps so that his back pressed flat against the cold wall of the castle.

The men affected a militarily homogeneous air, the lot of them wearing top to bottom grey-green wool, with bands of red encircling their arms at the bicep 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 neighbour 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 lustre 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 levelled 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 upwards, he watched the bell’s slow, circular sway. When he looked back down, the exceptionally handsome man was gone.

After 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.