“Now, Duskin,” Murmur said, “he returned because he was called. Brittle had orders.”
“How old are you now, Duskin?” Carter asked. “Fifteen, I suppose?”
“Sixteen last month,” Duskin said. “Old enough.”
“Not old enough to be civil,” Carter replied. “But you won’t spoil my homecoming. Many nights I prayed to be brought back to Evenmere.” He turned from his half brother as if dismissing him from his thoughts. “Brittle, might I have my old room?”
“It has already been prepared,” the butler replied.
“I’m surprised you don’t want the Master’s chamber,” Duskin said.
Carter felt heat upon his face, but he said, “You’ve learned nothing if you think there is competition between us. If there is to be a Master here again, the house itself will choose. That was Lord Anderson’s last words to me. For myself, I believe our father still lives. I intend to do my best to find him.” He nodded toward Murmur and followed Brittle from the room.
They walked back up the transverse corridor, past the morning room to the right, and the dining room to the left, to the main stair, all of dark oak, with eagles’ talons for decorations, and an ironwood eagle with a six-foot wingspan hung upon the highest landing, ready to dive upon any daring to walk beneath it.
As they ascended to the second floor, Carter said, “It seems Duskin is now her sword, while she stands behind, gloating.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Brittle said. “She insisted on greeting you first. Things have been … difficult since your father departed.”
“Of that I am certain.”
They turned left at the top of the stair, down a long corridor paneled in oak, carpeted in vermilion, its rafters wrapped in shadow, that brought them quickly to the familiar door of Carter’s room. To his surprise, two old friends waited within. Seeing him, both Enoch and Chant sprang from their seats. The ancient Windkeep defied all propriety by laughing and throwing his arms about Carter. His grin made his olive skin crinkle all around his eyes. “Murmur wouldn’t allow the servants to meet you in the drawing room,” he said. “She wants us to know our place, so we arranged a meeting here. You look tall. You look handsome. You were scrawny when you left; now you’re the brawny one. How are you?”
“Wonderful!” Carter cried. “Especially now, to see all of you. This is a homecoming indeed!” He clasped Chant’s hand. “You each look exactly the same. I thought you would be shorter, or older, but you’re not.”
In truth they seemed wholly unchanged. Chant’s hair retained the same touch of gray, while Enoch had always appeared ancient as a great oak and just as stout—his dark eyes were merry as ever; he walked like a young man. Carter scarcely constrained himself from weeping once more.
“Fourteen years is not so long,” Chant said. “Not when you live in a house old as time.”
“So you still light the lamps each night?”
“Of course.” Chant’s rose eyes twinkled. “Then I’ll come when I’m a man, With a camel caravan; Light a fire in the gloom, Of some dusty dining room. As always.”
“And you wind the clocks?”
Enoch laughed. “Every one.”
Carter sat upon the silk coverlet, stroking it with his hand. “You’ve left the room the same. I thought it would be altered.”
Enoch sat beside him and looked intently into his eyes. “We have been waiting for you. We need you now. Your father has been gone ten years; will he ever return? But the house must have a Master. You’ve been brought back to see if you might be the one.”
“There is Duskin,” Carter said.
“Yes,” Enoch replied. “Perhaps. He, too, is an Anderson. But things don’t work that way in this house, to be passed from father to son. The Master must be worthy. His mother makes Duskin bitter; many years may pass before he learns better. But who knows? You are home! What could happen? Anything!”
Carter looked at the three smiling faces surrounding him. “I have learned one thing while I was away, that the High House is unlike any other. In the outside world, guests do not appear dressed in medieval garb, bobbies all have faces, and houses don’t have infinite corridors. I learned not to tell my tales; even my foster parents thought me filled with fancies. Or did I simply dream those things? What is this house?”
“That will be explained,” Brittle replied.
“Would you learn it all in a day?” Enoch asked. “It’s too long for that. Today you should remember. Walk the familiar ways. See if the house fits you.” He pulled a pocket watch from his coat and groaned. “I have clocks to wind that can’t wait.”
“And I, lamps to light,” Chant said.
Just then thunder boomed overhead. Brittle peered outside and shook his head. “It will be a great storm tonight. Twilight will come early.”
They said farewell and left him to reminisce among his old things. And if they departed abruptly, Carter thought little of it, for he knew they were thinking of his father, and that made the meeting, however joyous, hard as well.
He sighed, opened his suitcase, and drew out four wooden soldiers, a notched wooden sword, and a picture of his mother, all of which he placed on the dresser. Then he lay down on the bed and gazed at them.
Later, he wandered amidst the rooms, looking at all the old things: the picture gallery, with the portraits of the former Masters hung in long somber lines down its length; the conservatory, fragrant with lilacs and roses; the morning room, happy in yellow and gold; the gentlemen’s chamber, drab as an old man; the library, ponderous and strange—and all the other rooms, except only the dining room, which he wished to save for later. There was much he had forgotten, and much he saw with new eyes. Most of all, he remembered the last week he had spent with his father. Lady Murmur’s words had stung him, yet as he considered, he realized he, too, had said good-bye in those final days. She could not take that from him, not even with cruel insinuations masked behind pleasantries.
Near twilight, he wandered out the garden entrance into the yard. With a trace of anxiety he looked at the old well, slightly smaller than he recalled, its stone worn as ever, the verdigris creeping over its brass plate, and he gave a shiver, remembering the fall, the cold water, and the fear. But he did not dwell upon it long, for he had spent too many happy days in that yard, and his mind drifted toward those times.
Large, sparse raindrops descended as he made his way to the low brick wall. For an instant he was tempted to step over it, to defy the barrier, but instead he wandered into the grape arbor, though not without casting a sideways glance to insure the gate was locked. The wall ascended to meet the top of the arbor, making of the gate a white wooden door. The shading leaves left the arbor in shadow; he could hear the rain pattering against them, soft as angels’ feet. He listened a moment, his mind empty and joyful at the same time, watching the water rill down the branches.
Thunder rolled in the distance, and the rain increased. He shivered violently from a sudden chill as he left the arbor and strolled to the porch. Looking back, he saw the dark figure of the Bobby standing beneath the lamppost light, faceless in the obscuring rain, as if he had waited there all through Carter’s exile. Sudden anger seized him, that his enemy remained while his father was gone; he wanted to launch himself over the wall, to destroy this evil with his bare hands. But he restrained himself with cold determination, saying softly, “You no longer deal with a boy. I will uncover your secrets.” He would confront the horror when he knew what he faced. He glared at his enemy a long moment, then strode back into the house, bolting the door behind him.
* * *
Supper that night was a pleasant affair, since neither Lady Murmur nor Duskin joined Carter and Mr. Hope in the dining room. Both sorrow and joy swept through Carter as Brittle ushered him into the room where his father had dined and kept council with numerous lords and ladies so many years ago. He saw with new eyes the splendor of the room: in some remote time the inglenook had been transformed into a formidable construction of whi
te marble, with a tall, fluted arch adorned with plaster grape clusters, a two-foot bas-relief border above it depicting a pandemonium of squirrels bounding between maple branches, and a heavy stone apron below, descending nearly to the fireplace mantel. It made a romantic hideaway beneath, with hooded chimneypiece, patterned tiles, and pre-Raphaelite ladies in Morris stained glass. Two cushioned benches rested to either side of the fireplace, so that one could sit within the nook, under the shadow of the heavy arch. Upon the mantel, carved in wood, was written: “Gainsay Who Dare” above a triple-towered castle with an armored hand holding a sword rising from the topmost turret. The floor was covered with Persian rugs of royal purple, with great golden sunflowers. The ceiling and walls were paneled in ornamental oak, and held a built-in sideboard with a curved top. The rectangular oaken table, with massive clawed legs and a leather edging, seated sixteen. Etchings of little mice scurried around the borders of the crystal chandelier.
Brittle brought him to the head of the table, to his father’s black leather chair, but he took the seat beside it. Mr. Hope sat across from him, there being no other diners. They ate a vegetable broth of shredded cabbage followed by center-cut salmon steak covered with a spread composed of fresh herbs, egg yolks, butter, and capers, alongside large loaves of brown bread, and it seemed a better feast than any Carter had eaten since he left.
“A lovely dinner,” Hope said, between mouthfuls. “And a beautiful manor as well. I’ve never seen a house quite as grand.”
“Yes,” Carter said. “It remains so beautiful and unchanged. Now that I am here, my life away seems a fading dream, as if only the house was real.”
“I understand. It is truly compelling; I hope to have time for a full tour before I leave. But Brittle said the will is to be read tomorrow, so I’ve spent most of the afternoon examining it.”
“You sound concerned. Is all in order?”
Hope hesitated as he tore at a loaf. “I am somewhat anxious. Before we came, I took it upon myself to check the tax records. They are paid in full, but both the land and the house are deeded to a trust, which makes no mention of your family’s name, neither your father, nor his father before him. It’s almost as if the house belongs to no one at all, and never has. Don’t be alarmed; I’m certain it is nothing, and my secretary is working on it. I was hoping your father’s will would shed some light.”
“And it doesn’t?”
Hope gave his short, barking laugh. “Perhaps I should say no more, but you’ll know soon enough. The will allows you and Duskin to remain in the house as long as you desire. It also makes you Steward of the house, ‘until the Master is chosen.’ That’s the exact wording. You have the rights, but not the property. Neither is the Master given title to the house, but is to ‘serve’ as its lord. Quite unusual. I hope I haven’t alarmed you.”
Carter smiled. “No. Nothing about this house surprises me. It is very old, and its customs very strange. I’m unconcerned.”
They sat smoking cigars and talking late into the evening.
Carter found William Hope to be much to his liking; he had an honesty, almost a naivete, of thought not normally associated with lawyers. Probably the man could never pursue a successful career because of it.
* * *
Afterward, they bid each other good night, and Carter retired to his room. He sat down on the bed where he had not slept for many years, touching the posts and the comforters, taking off his shoes and socks to run his bare feet upon the wool carpet. The thunder rolled outside, the flashes lighting the windowpane. He looked at the scarlet azaleas on the wallpaper, the carved angel on the mahogany fireplace mantel, the saber in the silver sheath above it, and the heavy dresser with the oblong looking glass. He put out the lights and sat in the darkness, listening to the rain beating against the windows, to the creaks and groans of the ancient manor, to the wind rushing through the great trees outside, the old commonplace noises of his childhood. He was home, who had never thought to sleep in this room again.
He went to the window, pulled back the damask curtains to view the storm, and gave a start. For an instant, a face seemed to press against the glass, gone at once, so he could not be certain he had seen it. His first thought was that it was impossible; he was on the second floor and there was no balcony. With his heart hammering in his chest, he moved his head about, seeing if some trick of the shadows had caused the effect. He suddenly saw the Bobby, standing beside the gaslight beyond the yard, looking up at Carter’s window, heedless of the rain, his face vacant in the distance, a pale blob beneath his helmet, the lightning flashes turning him all black and white. Carter shivered. For a moment the darkness of the well, the darkness of the Room of Horrors, filled him, an unthinkable terror, like a great pit threatening to engulf him. He gave a sharp breath, almost a sob, and clutched his fist, infuriated by his own weakness. “I never should have returned,” he murmured. Then, “I never should have left!”
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 hi
s 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.
The High House Page 4
