“Sixty a month it is,” said the crone. “Of course, for that price you’ll have to look after more than just the garden. I’ll make you caretaker for the whole estate. You’ll have food to eat and a roof over your head. If you last the month, you’ll be well on your way to being a rich young man. What do you say?”
He didn’t like the implication behind that warning, “if you last the month.” Her estate must be a very troublesome place if she couldn’t keep someone employed there for a whole month, he thought.
“I don’t know anything about growing flowers,” he told her, certain that this admission would cause her to retract her offer.
She didn’t take the bait. “I have plenty of books on the subject in my library.”
“I can’t read,” said Duncan stubbornly.
Her angled brows shot up beneath her colorless fringe of hair. “Oh, is that so?” she asked, seeming somehow pleased by that information. “Well, the flowers do mostly care for themselves. I’m sure you’ll get the knack of it in no time. I know you’ll get no better offer to work anywhere else.”
She was probably right about that. As a penniless runaway, Duncan didn’t exactly have the luxury of picking and choosing his work. Here, through no effort of his own, a perfect stranger was offering him a job and a place to live. That that perfect stranger resembled the wicked witch of every cautionary tale his mother had told him as a boy only set off a couple of warning bells in Duncan’s mind, but these he easily suppressed. He didn’t believe in fairy tales, after all. The old crone’s house wouldn’t be made of sweets, and she wouldn’t be growing poisoned apples in her orchard. She was just a very old woman with an acerbic tongue and a penchant for poking things with her cane. And she was offering him sixty silvers a month to work for her.
He had already exhausted his excuses for declining the offer. Surely if he was going to work for a stranger anyway, it shouldn’t matter which stranger. “Is it very far to your estate?” he asked reluctantly.
“Half a day’s journey on foot. Come on, then. Climb up on Goliath and he’ll have us both there in no time at all.”
Duncan hesitantly obeyed. Somehow, he managed to fit his foot in the stirrup and heft himself atop the enormous black horse. He sat behind the old woman in her saddle, feeling extremely oafish and clumsy there. She was even tinier than he had first suspected, like a sack of flour with appendages. She couldn’t weigh more than seventy pounds, and from the way Duncan’s legs dangled so far past hers, he guessed that she was only about four feet tall, if that.
“The name’s Dame Groach,” she told him as she goaded the horse forward with her knobbly cane. “Make sure you don’t fall in love with me!” Then, she cackled in maniacal mirth.
Duncan helplessly wondered what sort of mess he had gotten himself into.
The road passed swiftly beneath them. Goliath, the great black beast, loped along easily, his strong legs trampling past miles of country. Duncan clutched the back of Dame Groach’s saddle for dear life, terrified of tumbling from the horse’s back and dashing his head against the rocks below. He barely noticed when the road split and they took the right branch into a heavily wooded area.
If I catch one whiff of gingerbread or candied plums, I’m making a run for it, he thought desperately, but all he could smell was horse-sweat and a musty odor that emanated from Dame Groach—herbs of some sort, he thought, but long dried so that their essence had all but vanished.
At long last, Goliath slowed to a walk. Duncan forced himself to relax as the horse turned down a narrow, dusty lane and passed beneath a curtain of willow trees. The land opened up after that into a wide expanse of lawn and a huge manor house, old and seasoned, and constructed entirely of masonry. Ivy sprawled over most of the structure, testament of its age. The lawn, too, was overgrown and strewn with weeds, which also spotted the gravel way that led to the manor’s entrance.
“Home, sweet home,” Dame Groach announced. “Straight to the stables, if you please, Goliath.”
The horse obediently turned to a path that skirted around the side of the house, into an overgrown alleyway flanked by high shrubbery. At the end, set back behind the manor and separated by a small weedy yard, lay a dilapidated stable. In the center of that yard stood a high, spindly step-stool, next to which Goliath promptly sidled up. The mystery of Dame Groach’s ascension was solved.
“Down with you first, boy,” she said crossly. “Have you got a name? I don’t think you told me.”
“It’s Duncan,” he said as he slid off the giant horse. He was so very thankful to have solid ground beneath him once more.
She grunted and hopped down to the waiting stepstool. “Tending to Goliath will be one of your duties. You’re not afraid of horses, are you?”
“No,” he said instinctively. He had never had much interaction with horses, truth be told, but the old gray mule his father kept had been foul-tempered enough to teach him to be on his guard around any such creature. Duncan was not afraid, for as ill-humored as Goliath seemed to be, he couldn’t be more so than the old gray mule.
“Good,” said Dame Groach. “It’ll be your job to rub him down and comb him every day. Change his water, and feed him from the barrel of oats. Think you can manage that?”
He nodded.
“I have another horse, a white one,” she said abruptly, and her crackly voice had gone cold. “You’re to take care of it as well. It’s a wicked creature, though, so beware. It lives in the far stall and must never be let out. You will feed it straw, and change the water only when it gets too muddy. And every evening before the sun sets, you must beat it with the cane I keep next to its stall.”
Duncan recoiled at the harsh instructions. His alarm showed so plainly on his face that Dame Groach felt the need to reiterate her warning. “It is a wicked creature, do you understand? It will bite you or trample you the first opportunity it gets. Keep it within its stall and be certain to beat it as hard as you can each and every night. There’s no telling what sort of wickedness it might perform if you fail. Now, take Goliath to his stall and put away his tack. Rub him down and give him his feed, but keep away from the white horse for now. I want to show you your other duties, so be quick.”
Gingerly he took the reins. The black horse snorted and followed, its heavy steps clip-clopping behind him as he entered the small stable. There were only two stalls within, their openings perpendicular to the doorway. The nearest stall stood open, awaiting its occupant’s return. From the far stall came sounds of quiet movement, but no glimpse of the dreaded white horse.
In some ways, that was more eerie than if the creature had been hanging its head over the stall door, foaming at the mouth and bucking nervously. Duncan did very well with perceived dangers, but the unseen unnerved him. His fingers shook as he worked to unbuckle the black horse’s tack. Quickly he rubbed the beast down; Goliath nipped at his hands irritably once or twice, but Duncan barely noticed. His attention was trained on that corner stall even as his eyes remained fixed on the task at hand. Every rustle, every slight sound caught his ears.
Even though they were side-by-side, the two stalls were walled off from one another. Goliath’s was open to the stable on the end and one side, but the other stall was enclosed but for that half-door that led within. Duncan shut the enormous black horse away, refilled its feeding trough with a couple scoops of oats, and hurried back toward the door. Goliath whickered indignantly.
“I have to come back later,” said Duncan defensively. “I’ll change your water then.”
He thought he heard some sudden movement in that far stall; it prompted him to bolt outside, back into the bright sunlight. No shadowy corners with wicked occupants here. Already the creative side of his brain had conjured up the image of a demon horse, with fiery rolling eyes, a heavy ring in its nose, and gnashing teeth that could tear apart anyone unlucky enough to come near it. Perhaps instead of hooves it had sharp claws.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” he muttered under his bre
ath in an attempt to kill the image.
He spotted Dame Groach as she descended from the manor house, her tiny, sack-like body hurrying down a back staircase. She clutched an impressive set of keys in one hand, and a wide grin creased her already wrinkled face even more.
“Finished at last, have you? Come along. We’ll have a look at the garden first.” So saying, she bustled away down a worn gravel path, its edges choked with weeds and grass. “There’s plenty of overgrowth to be cleared away. That’ll be something you can occupy your time with, though it’ll be a dull task. Here we are.”
She came to a high wall and a set of wrought-iron gates. Carefully extracting a long key from the ring she held, she unlocked the gate and motioned Duncan through. “Here’s the garden. As you can see, everything could do with a good pruning.”
That was something of an understatement. Duncan’s eyes traveled the expanse before him in disbelief. The whole place was overgrown with plants run amok. Vines and shrubbery sprawled across the ground every which direction. Menacing tree branches clawed at the sky. Rose bushes were choked with weeds and refuse. The place was teeming with deadwood and dried thatch.
“Springtime is almost over. The whole thing needs to be manicured for the summer.”
“I don’t know how to care for flowers,” Duncan said helplessly. He didn’t even know where to begin in a mess like this.
“Just use common sense. It’s not that different from growing vegetables. Everything has to be cut back and kept under control.”
He wasn’t convinced, but he had already agreed to the bargain so he couldn’t very well back out now. “What’s over there?” he asked, pointing to an open area some hundred feet down the way. The land itself was covered with weeds, but the trees had all been cleared away.
“That was my vegetable garden some ages past. It served its purpose, and I abandoned it. I don’t mind if you start a new one there, but you’ll have to clear away all the brambles that have come up first. Aside from the pruning and such, there are a number of statues around the place. Most of them are overgrown with vines by now. They’ll need to be uncovered and cleaned when you get the chance. It doesn’t seem right to let them get buried, but I’m an old woman with too many other things to worry about.
“The shed with all of its tools lies that direction,” she added, and she stabbed one finger to the left, “and the keys you’ll need to open it are here. I’m going to give you this whole set, as you’re the caretaker.”
She jingled the keys enticingly. Duncan made no audible response, too overwhelmed with the work that had been presented to him.
His lack of enthusiasm pleased Dame Groach, if the satisfied glint in her eyes was any indication. He thought this was a rather curious reaction on her part.
“Now, on to the manor itself,” she said, and she turned to lead the way back to her house.
As they approached, Duncan noticed that the place was just as run-down as the stable and gardens. Beneath the climbing vines, the stonework crumbled in places. The paint on the eaves had almost universally cracked and peeled to expose the aged wood beneath. Duncan mentally tallied the number of needed repairs he could see and felt even more overwhelmed.
“You’ll be responsible for the upkeep here as well,” said Dame Groach, thereby fulfilling his dire expectations. They walked past a life-sized statue of a beautiful woman. It was badly tarnished. Duncan added yet another project to his growing list.
They crossed a wide porch into the dimly lit manor house. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he took note of the opulent furniture and heavy velvet drapes. Empty picture frames hung on the walls, and a large, moldering carpet covered the floor. Dame Groach trekked through the room ahead of him, dust puffing beneath her with every step. Duncan followed behind at a more sedate pace, looking around with interest.
The furnishings were far richer than anything he had ever encountered, but they had been left to waste away. A closer inspection of the frames on the walls revealed not emptiness, but pictures blackened with soot and age, their contents barely discernible in the darkness of the room.
More tasks to add to his growing mental list, he thought dully.
“Don’t dawdle,” Dame Groach said at the doorway, and her voice was severe. “I want to show you your room and give you a tour of the rest of the house. This is just an insignificant sitting room.”
He trotted forward, dust puffing beneath his feet as he went, and Dame Groach continued on, down a dark, narrow hallway. Duncan nearly lost sight of her squat figure among the shadows.
“To the right is the kitchen. You can cook for yourself, if you’re able, but a meal will be laid in the dining room every morning at eight, and every evening at seven. The dining room is here on your left. This hall here leads down to the servants’ quarters. They’re empty at present.”
“Do you do the cooking?” Duncan abruptly asked. The estate looked completely abandoned, but someone had to provide the two meals.
“Oh, yes,” she said in an oddly amused voice. “This way, please.” They turned a corner into a wider hallway, where mottled daylight glowed from behind a filthy window. “There’s the back stairway. That door there, just beneath—” She paused to stab her finger at a low wooden door that, given the space behind it, could only lead to a small closet, and her voice turned menacing. “It is always locked, and you are never to open it. Do you understand? Never.”
Duncan swallowed and nodded. “All right.” He wondered what lay inside—perhaps the bones of the house’s original owners had been stashed there, he thought wryly. The dust just in front of the door had been disturbed recently. A semi-circle curved across the floor, no doubt traced by the outer corner as it had hinged open. It was probably her private coat closet, Duncan decided, and he promptly dismissed the place from his mind.
Dame Groach continued down the passageway and led him through another dusty sitting room to the front entry. Here a grand staircase swept upward to the second floor. Several steps were cracked or broken, and those that weren’t yet creaked ominously as Dame Groach led the way upward. Duncan stepped gingerly behind her, taking note of the broken balustrade and threadbare carpets.
“Up here we have the blue room, the green room, the red room, and the gold room,” said Dame Groach, and she pointed toward the east wing of the house. “They’ll need cleaning, but you’re welcome in them at any time. The keys are here.” She jingled the key ring again and turned toward the west wing. “Here is the bathroom. There’s hot water at dawn and again after sundown, for an hour at a time. You have used an interior bathroom before, haven’t you?”
She fixed one beady eye on him, and Duncan shifted nervously. “No, ma’am,” he admitted. On his father’s farm, baths were performed in the nearby stream or down at the lake it fed into, depending on the time of year.
“Backward country folk,” she muttered ungraciously. “It’s a bath and an indoor outhouse.” She pushed open the door for his inspection. He was astonished at the sight that met his eyes.
“It’s clean!”
“Of course it’s clean!” Dame Groach retorted. “Dirty bathrooms are beyond disgusting! Make sure to keep it clean, too!” She moved further down the passage then. “This is my room here, right next to the library. I keep the door locked, but you’ll have to go in and out to feed the canaries I keep there. The key is here on the ring. Over here we have the purple room, the white room, and the orange room. Lastly there’s the black room, which I think will suit you nicely.”
“Me?” said Duncan sharply.
“I said I was showing you to your room. You’ll sleep there.”
“B-but… I thought… That is, the servants’ quarters are downstairs.”
“Psht! No point in exiling you down there when there’s all this space up here. No, the black room will do nicely.”
She picked through the keys until she came to a dark one whose metal exactly matched the lock on the door. Deftly she inserted it and turned the doorknob, which wa
s cut from black glass to match the room’s decor.
It was more like a gray room, Duncan thought unhappily. She expected him to sleep there? The whole place needed a thorough cleaning. But, then again, it wasn’t a hedge by the side of the road.
“Is there some place to do laundry?” he asked.
“The laundry house is just beyond the stables. There’s also a root cellar, a wine cellar, a cow shed, and a chicken coop, though the last two are unoccupied at the moment. You have all the keys here. Are we agreed, two silvers a day to be caretaker of this estate?”
He nodded uncertainly. “It’s a lot of work for one person. I suppose you’ve been living elsewhere until recently.”
“No. Why would you suppose that?”
“Well, because…” He floundered for a moment, worried about offending her. “Th-the whole place needs fixing. I just thought maybe it had been abandoned for a few years.”
“I got busy with other things,” Dame Groach said gruffly. “When you’re as old as I am, time gets away from you. You turn your back and suddenly the whole place is going to ruin. Do you want the job or not?”
He longed to ask how old she was, but he knew enough of social conventions to realize that would be terribly rude. “I’ll do my best,” he mumbled instead.
“Then get to work,” she told him, and she shoved the key ring into his hands. “I’ll be in the library if you need me. I usually don’t come out at all. I’m sure you can find things to occupy your time.”
Goldmayne: A Fairy Tale Page 2
