The High House

by James Stoddard

  He returned the afternoon following its discovery, determined to reach its end if it did not go too far. Because Enoch was anticipating the arrival of Glis, he came alone. Rain fell on the windows, the continuance of the endless storm, but the air was warm, and he felt a cheerfulness he had not known for some time. He did not understand the feeling, except it was good to walk again, and to see the anarchists could not control everything, even if it were only this empty attic.

  He traveled much of the afternoon, testing doors and poking into open spaces, seeing no one but often finding signs of humanity: children’s toys, discarded jackets, a glove or a gnarled walking stick. Despite the solitude, he felt no unease, and he examined the discarded articles as if they were treasures, musing over the children who must have made war with the carved cannons, and the grandfathers who had steadied themselves on the broken canes.

  After several hours, a weariness overcame him, a reminder he was not yet as hardy as he wished. He sought a resting place, and soon found a rounded room jutting into the attic, whose door had fallen from its hinges long before, with four grimy windowpanes looking out into the gray sky. Within lay a cot, dusty, but otherwise sturdy. Carter lay down to rest his leg. The attic was still, the gray illumination comfortable. He closed his eyes, intending only a moment, and drifted into thick slumber.

  Whether hours or seconds passed, he did not know, but he abruptly sat up, a premonition of danger upon him. The room had another window, besides the one facing outdoors, that looked into the attic, its casement shuttered, its panes shattered. He crept to it, moved the shutters enough to see, and beheld the face of the creature who had sought entrance into the Clock Tower, the thing he had come to call Old Man Chaos. Seen in full light, it was even more horrible, its body all gray, misshapen like a clay doll, its shoulders humped and uneven, one thin arm longer than the other; it walked with a limp. The melting-candle look of its face made it too long; blue and black circles inhabited the hollows of its gray eyes. The hand Enoch had severed was restored. It muttered incoherently and moved without purpose, like a lost ghost.

  As it approached Carter’s hiding place, it stopped, seeming to stare right into his eyes, and the wild glance made the Steward’s heart recoil within him; it was all he could do to keep from shrinking back. The creature sniffed the air, like a hunting dog.

  Then the abominable head turned away and Carter withdrew into the deepest shadows of the small room, though he doubted it was dim enough to conceal him. A coatrack draped with mildewed garments stood against one corner; he slipped behind it and pressed himself against the wall.

  Between the tattered folds of the clothing he saw the Old Man thrust its inhuman head into the room, still sniffing, grinning the crooked snarl of a rabid wolf. Carter’s terror of the monster went beyond physical appearance, for it was surrounded by a palpable aura that spoke of endless space and swirling gases, of forces and energies beyond control and infinities beyond comprehension. Its face was that of the Void, and Carter pressed himself harder against the wall.

  Suddenly he found himself swinging away from the coatrack, performing a gentle circle that he could not control. He saw the side of the wall, then rotated into darkness. After a breathless moment, he realized that it was the corner of the room itself which had turned; he had been leaning against a secret panel, built to revolve floor and corner alike, so that he now stood on the opposite side, removed from the other room, facing darkness. He stepped forward cautiously, then turned back to discover the familiar blue glow indicating a secret way—apparently he had missed seeing it on the other side because of his haste. He also noticed a spy-hole, which he used to look into the room he had just left, where he saw Chaos still grinning. The creature came right up to the coatrack, brushed it aside, and seemed to stare straight into Carter’s eyes. But to his great relief, it turned away, apparently having detected nothing, and departed the room.

  He turned to examine his surroundings, and as his eyes adjusted, found it not as pitch as he had first thought. He was in a long corridor, with a soft light providing bare illumination from around a corner. He crept to it, peered out, and was surprised to find four long windows, each with a window seat before it, and a little girl sitting at one of them, softly weeping.

  “Hello,” he said quietly, trying not to frighten her. She looked up from beneath black curls, her eyes large and blue. She appeared to be about eight. She did not try to run, but sat up expectantly, saying, in a voice like rung crystal: “Please, sir, my mother told me not to go far, but I was chasing Campaspe, and got lost.”

  He smiled at her innocence and approached her. “And who is Campaspe?”

  “My cat, but she has been very naughty, leading me so far away. I will scold her when I get home.”

  “You should certainly not be alone. Perhaps I could take you back to the Clock Tower with me.”

  “Oh, no, sir, please!” she cried, tears welling up once more. “We would have to go through the halls of the Crooked Man. Mother says I must never go there!”

  “Very well.” Carter spoke hastily to fend off the tears, fairly certain she referred to Chaos. He dropped to his haunches to be on her level and deliberated. Up close, she possessed a face of exquisite beauty, its symmetry wholly unmarred, a loveliness found often in illustrations, but seldom in real life. He questioned her to find out how long she had been gone and through what portions of the house she might have passed. She had no idea, and in the end he could do nothing but lead her down the hall, she taking his hand in utter trust. He told her his name, which she said she liked, while she was called Anna.

  “I usually bring my dolls, Gwalchmai and Corenice, if I leave my rooms,” she said. “They would have known the way back.”

  “And do you leave your rooms often?”

  “Oh, no, because Mother does not allow, but if I did they should come with me. They are very lovely, except that Corenice has lost an eye. It was not her fault. I dropped her when I was little. When we get home, we will have a tea party, you and I and Gwalchmai and Corenice, and we shall invite Mother and Granmama. We will have crumpets. I have a very nice tablecloth and white dishes with red flowers.”

  They came to the first intersecting passage, and Carter saw the slender figure of a woman gliding toward them. “That’s my mother!” Anna declared.

  As the woman left the shadows and the light fell upon her, he gave an involuntary gasp, for perfection lay upon her like a tiara, and the comeliness of the daughter, mirrored in woman’s form, achieved an exquisiteness he would have thought impossible. So alike were the two, they might have been duplicates, separated only by age. The mother appeared unconcerned by Carter’s presence, but said in a voice like tinkling bells, “I am Anina.”

  Her hair, her eyes, and her lips were dark, and her face exceptionally pale, and if she had told him she was Aphrodite come to earth, he would have believed. Her gown was raven, and her earrings crescent moons. She met his eyes unflinching, and he suddenly realized he was staring.

  “Carter Anderson,” he said, giving a slight bow, a thing he had not done since a boy. “I found her wandering lost,” he added.

  “There are no chance meetings,” Anina said. “If you will return to our apartments, we will offer hospitality.”

  In that moment Carter discovered there was such a thing as beauty both great and terrible, for he found himself afraid to walk beside this woman, with a fear beyond shyness, as if she were holy and he merely mortal. No logic could account for it, no cynicism dispel it, and if it would not have shamed him, he would have declined her offer and bolted down the corridor, completely overawed. As it was, he managed a smile and nodded heavily.

  Anina took Anna’s other hand and together the three of them marched down the passage until they came to ocher double doors, with brass lions for knockers. Anina unlocked the door with a gold key, and ushered him into a chamber with sunlight streaming through skylights. Puffy clouds dotted the blue sky.

  “The storm is passed,” Carter
said, surprised.

  “I do not approve of gloom,” Anina said, as if in explanation. She crossed the white marble tile and reclined upon an ivory couch, while Anna disappeared into the back rooms. Carter glanced around the chamber, which was large as a small hall and adorned solely in white. Sculptures of frost lions sat on their haunches in the four corners, a chandelier hung from the festooned ceiling. Pearl dolphins sported in a pearl fountain at the center of the room, and white tapestries of jousting white knights covered the walls.

  “Come sit beside me,” she said, indicating a nearby chair. She rang a silver bell taken from a marble table and a servant appeared, also clad in white, her face pale and white as well, bearing silver goblets and a bowl of fruit upon a silver tray. The clouds overhead stood still as if painted; the sunlight warmed his feet.

  “I am fortunate you found Anna. Old Chaos has been about. It would like to have her.”

  “I’ve seen the monster,” Carter said. “It almost came unawares upon me as well. A vile creature.”

  “More horrible than you can know. It would ruin every good thing if it could. I, who would have beauty and truth always about me, am ever plagued by it. Often it walks these very passages, and I am forced to bolt the door.”

  Carter sampled the beverage in the silver cup, and found it to be apple juice sweeter than any he had ever tasted before. “This is wonderful!”

  “There is a walled garden beyond this chamber, and I plant every type of berry and fruit there; it is my greatest joy, to cut away the wild things and reveal a beautiful landscape. Later you will come with me and I will show you.”

  The fruit was as good as the juice, apples red and unblemished, peaches of perfect texture, strawberries sweet as kisses, grapes larger than Carter’s thumb, ripe and succulent. There were slabs of bread and cheese brought as well, rich as the good earth, and he ate until well content, while she nibbled daintily.

  Afterward, she played a harp that glistened like alabaster, its notes resonating off the marble floor, the music rushing from her hands and then returning from every corner of the room, sonorous and manifold. When she sang, her voice was snowfall on the hillsides, each flake identical in its perfection, green grass in a well-tended garden, lilacs and roses all in rows, each note unerringly accurate and sweet as young corn. He did not watch her much, for he feared her beauty still, though her kindness had put him more at ease.

  And in that music, as he lay almost dreaming beneath its tenderness, he saw himself truly the Steward, and perhaps soon the Master, of the High House, with the rights and position of such a one, lord of a vast domain, who might be bold enough to seek the hand of a woman such as this.

  When she ended her playing, he roused himself from his trance, smiling sheepishly upon her, but her eyes were very bright, and she began to tell short, exquisite tales, so that he saw she was not just a musician, but a storyteller as well, each account a small polished gem, its facets revealed one at a time, always in the proper order, with a nicety and compactness of description. At the end of one he laughed aloud, at another he sighed, at a third he found tears brimming his eyes.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” he finally asked.

  “There are many things,” she replied. “But what I do, I do well.”

  So they sat through the long afternoon. When she had told her tales, she asked of his, and he found himself confiding all: his wondrous childhood and the great house; his father, and the mother scarcely remembered; Brittle and Chant and old Enoch. He even confessed his taking of the keys, and spoke of the years of exile in his foster home and of his return. She seemed to find him amusing, for she laughed at his small jokes and nearly wept at his sorrows. And she amazed him, this skilled storyteller who also possessed the art of listening, for he knew few who could do both.

  Later, they walked in her walled garden, where Carter felt the undiluted sun upon his face for the first time in days. He breathed the soft fragrance of countless flowers, set out in precise design; the pink hollyhocks in the heart-shaped beds; the purple hyacinths in the ordered squares; the tree peonies in the oval rings; the red roses in the well-kept rows. There was sweet alyssum, petunias, marigolds, zinnias, and many more. Orange trees guarded the four corners; hydrangea picketed the borders. Even the ivy upon the walls lay not in tangles, but in sculpted patterns shaped like balloons, clown faces, and the signs of the zodiac. She took his hand and led him around the low hedges, showing him each plot, surrounded by its white stones. His heart beat strong against his chest at her touch.

  “You couldn’t do all the labor yourself,” he said.

  “Almost all,” she said, “since I trust no other. But perhaps you would like to help.”

  “Yes, I would. Do you mean now?”

  “The garden must be attended each day, else the wilderness will overtake it.”

  She did not excuse herself to change her garments as he would have expected, but simply slipped on a pair of soft white gloves. From behind the hedgerows she produced gardening tools, and they soon set to work on a patch of periwinkles. At first Carter could not see what to do, for the beds were already immaculate, but under her tutelage he discovered her desires, and was soon making minute progress. She hummed sweetly, pausing occasionally to indicate areas requiring attention, and they spent a pleasant hour.

  Anna appeared in the midst of their labor, but remained very quiet. She did not play as children normally do, but sat silent on a little white stool and watched them.

  At last, as the shadows lay long across the hedges, Carter rose and stretched. “I fear I must return to the Clock Tower.”

  “There are quarters if you would like to stay the night,” she said.

  “Please stay!” Anna burst out. “You haven’t had tea with my dolls yet.”

  “I am sorry, I can’t. Enoch will be concerned.”

  “Then perhaps you could come again tomorrow,” Anina said, smiling.

  “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  Patting Anna on the head, he reluctantly took his leave. As he marched down the drab halls he whistled softly under his breath, his heart light for the first time in many days. But as he approached the secret doorway he slowed and fell silent, remembering Old Man Chaos. He peeked through the spy-hole. To his consternation, he discovered the creature peering into the room, as if it had remained there all day. Carter drew back hastily and paused to consider. There would be no returning to the Clock Tower so long as the monster remained, and he had no way of sending Enoch a message. Yet, if the old servant came seeking him, he might run headlong into the beast. He determined to linger awhile to see if the horror departed.

  But when he looked through the spy-hole again he discovered Chaos lying on the floor just beyond the doorway to the room, apparently preparing for slumber. He watched for a long hour, until the fading rays of the sun no longer breached the attic rooms, and shadows gloomed the spaces. When he could no longer even discern his enemy’s form, he decided to return to Anina’s apartments and seek the Clock Tower at first light. He departed reluctantly, burdened by guilt at having spent such a pleasant day at the expense of possibly placing Enoch in danger. Yet, he doubted the old servant would dare the attic at night; Enoch was a man of endless patience and wisdom; he would not brave the dark unless in urgent need.

  Anina greeted him at the door, showing no surprise at his return. When he explained how Chaos blocked his path, she only smiled and said, “Accompany me, and we will allay your concerns.” She led him into an inner chamber, as spacious as her garden, all carpeted in gold, with gilded bird cages hanging from ceiling chains, occupied by many kinds of fowl, from white doves to resplendent peacocks. She drew a gray pigeon from its golden stockade. “These birds will go as I direct, and this one knows its way to the Clock Tower. We will tie a message to its leg.”

  “Why, this is wonderful!” Carter said. “I won’t have to worry then. I’ve seen carrier pigeons, of course, though it is remarkable that the bird could find its way to t
he tower. I thought no one went there but Enoch.”

  “I have lived here many years, and the birds are easy to train. One never knows when it might be necessary to send a message to nearby parts of the house.”

  Mollified, Carter wrote a hasty message saying: All is well. Chaos prevents me from returning, but I am safe. I will try again tomorrow. Carter.

  She took the bird into the garden and released it. It circled once with fluttering wings and then vanished beyond the walls. Afterward, she fed him a splendid dinner of chicken breast, coated with egg and bread crumbs and fried in butter, with steamed cabbage, brussels sprouts, green peas, and miniature potato soufflés washed down with an apple nectar better than wine.

  He slept that night beneath a covered, four-poster bed, in a red-carpeted room with massive furniture and a picture of a yellow dwarf upon each wall. The mattress was comfortable, and he fell asleep thinking he might like to remain his whole life in that house.

  * * *

  Anna woke him the next morning, her little face peering up to the high bed. “The yellow birds have come into the garden. Will you see?”

  He smiled, said he would, and sent her off while he dressed. Sunlight poured through the windows, which he found curious after the endless storms. He glanced out and saw he was on the seventh story of a square tower built of dark green stone. Shorter buildings lay below his window, and he could see the Clock Tower nearby, across a sea of flagstones.