The High House

by James Stoddard

  He sat at the desk with a pencil and pad at his right hand, drew a jagged breath, and turned to page six. Slow colors rose from the volume, patches of forest-green, too indistinct for identification. Gradually, the scene coalesced not into a wood, but a gray hall, with a tall man, dressed in black, looming above a boy of twelve. He recognized the scene; it was the moment of his abduction. His pulse raced, his fists clenched as he watched his younger self pursued, overtaken, cast over the shoulder of the Bobby’s assistant, and carried helpless down the halls. He moaned at the anguished cries. For several minutes, his captors followed the Long Corridor, then on through a doorway leading through endless halls, twisting stairs, through rooms great and small. After a long while they passed down the unforgettable , ebon stairway, where the diabolical adornments, vulture-winged and red-eyed, glared at the boy.

  Despite Carter’s distress at watching the scene replayed, his right hand sketched a rough map of the path taken. He made marks to number the doors at each landing, which were illuminated by green gaslights, carved as skulls. Finally, the company reached the bottom, the heavy, black marble door of the Room of Horrors. His skin went clammy as he watched the Bobby twist the sable key in the lock, heard the clatter of the latch, felt the low rumble as the door rolled open. The edge of the desk bit into his hands where he clutched it, as his younger self was cast carelessly into the chamber. He gave an involuntary shout of despair as the door slammed shut, leaving the child wailing in the dark.

  The image faded. He sat, fingers still clenching the desk, gasping for breath, trembling, terrified and enraged, aching to return to the vision, to unlock the door. It took several moments to master his passion, to recall himself to the quiet room, the butterfly lamps, the stained-glass angel watching from above. He glanced at the marks he had drawn on the paper. Though irregular, they would serve for a map.

  “Thank you,” he said, though whether to the book or the angel he was uncertain. When he sought to rise, his limbs were as feeble as when he had learned the Words of Power. He locked the volume back in the bookcase and crept out of the library, where he found Hope pacing the corridor.

  “All right?” the lawyer asked, hurrying to him.

  “Well enough. I have what I need, but I’m as drained as ever.” He stumbled, and Hope caught hold of his arm to steady him. “One would think it would become easier.”

  “One would,” Hope said, “if one understood the forces we were tapping.”

  Carter gave a ghostly smile. “I intend to leave tomorrow, if I have the strength. I don’t know how long I will be gone. If the Green Door was unlocked the journey would be brief; as it is I must take the long way around, and avoid the anarchists as well.”

  “Are you adamant about not taking a war party? Glis himself could lead a company. Others could be brought in from the White Circle.”

  “No. The anarchists would meet us in full force.”

  “But our intelligence shows their numbers are small, though growing. We could surely defeat them.”

  “But at what cost? Not just in men’s lives. The Master Keys are kept in the Room of Horrors because the Bobby believes I dare not go there. If an army appears and he realizes the objective, he will simply move them to another location. Then we would have to seek them again. But our time is short; with the river of darkness swallowing whole kingdoms, we can’t afford to seek the keys twice. I can’t take an army.”

  Hope sighed. “Your argument is sound, but I don’t like it. A handful of men, perhaps …”

  “Stealth will be my tool. There is more to it, too. It is the nature of this house that the Master often go alone, walking the secret ways, feeling the rhythm of Evenmere upon the floorboards, seeking the mysteries before him. I can’t put it into words; it is beyond words. I must do the task.”

  “And would there be room for just one other?” Duskin said from behind him, having entered the corridor moments before from upstairs.

  Carter hesitated. “It will be dangerous, and I wouldn’t allow even you to enter the Room of Horrors. Only one should face that fate.”

  “But I could accompany you until then. We did well together before.”

  Carter smiled. “Together, then. It was more than I could ask, but your company makes it all a bit less ominous.”

  * * *

  They slipped off early the next morning while the house still slept. Enoch was away winding clocks, but Chant and Hope were present, the Lamp-lighter his usual stiff-lipped self, the lawyer fussing and obviously worried. Carter spoke the Word of Secret Ways, and opened a slender passage hidden behind the built-in sideboard in the dining room.

  Standing before the shadowed corridor, untrod for decades, a fear fell upon him that he might never return.

  “Godspeed,” Chant said. “Remember, though it appears bleak, not all the power lies with the anarchists. We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams;—World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams; Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. And they have no poetry. How can they prevail?”

  Carter shook the Lamp-lighter’s hand briskly, saying: “Standing here, this moment, it seems I’ve never truly known you. Enoch has told many tales, while you have said nothing of yourself. You say you were a doctor. What else did you do before you came here?”

  Chant gave his quiet laugh, his rose eyes sparkling. “I taught metaphysics at Oxford for a time, but my demeanor seemed to disturb the faculty. Before that, I lived … somewhere else. It is a long story, for I have trod the upward and the downward slope; I have endured and done in days before …”

  “I will have that tale one day,” Carter said. “I think it would be worth hearing.”

  He turned to Hope, who was trying to ascertain if they had everything they needed. “You’ve done a remarkable job,” Carter said. “I could have accomplished nothing if you hadn’t been back here helping me.”

  “On that you may be correct,” Hope replied, “simply because there is so much to be done. I’ll try to keep it operating until you return.”

  “And would you consider a more challenging position as well?” Carter asked. “Perhaps one with an extraordinary raise in title, say to the position of—butler?”

  Hope broke into a wide grin. “I was wondering if you would ask. I can’t do Brittle justice, but I would like to try. We can discuss particulars when you return.” The lawyer suddenly stiffened, standing quite tall, and said, “Will that be all, sir?”

  “It will,” Carter said, shaking the man’s hand. Duskin did likewise, and they stepped into the passage, the younger Anderson holding a lamp aloft. The sideboard silently closed behind them, cutting off the light.

  “I trust you know where we’re going,” Duskin said.

  “More than ever before. This passage will take us into a set of secret ways called the Curvings, which wind not only from side to side, but between floors. I’ve chosen them because they offer several routes to the Long Corridor. From there we have to find the stair leading to the Room of Horrors. There are risks; we can’t take the Curvings all the way. Eventually we will be out in the open.”

  The passage led straight a short distance before reaching what appeared to be a dead end, but Carter searched the floor until he found a trapdoor. They had to pry it up with their knives and it opened with a long groan, revealing a rickety wooden ladder.

  They descended into another passage with exposed wall studs. The low ceiling brushing against their heads made them stoop; their boots clattered across the bare boards. The walls were too close to walk abreast and Carter felt the touch of his old claustrophobia, but he mastered it by keeping his eyes on the edge of their lamplight. The Curvings arched gradually to the left.

  Carter led. Their path slithered back and forth, rising and falling as if following some unseen contour of the house. Two hours passed in this manner before they came to a spy-hole, marked by a headrest for the forehea
d and chin. Carter covered the lamp, looked through the opening, and saw the intersection of two corridors, with three black-clad anarchists standing at its center, speaking in sepulchral voices, their words unintelligible. Duskin looked as well, then they crept down the hall, wary of the creaking boards.

  Once safely away, Carter said, “We will see many such; the Bobby must have guards posted throughout this area, to catch any attempting to leave the Inner Chambers.”

  “But they already know we have access to the White Circle.”

  “Yes, but the anarchists can easily watch that way, to see who comes and goes; it is riddled with places for a spy to hide. So they know any clandestine movements will be on other roads.”

  They soon came to another spy-hole, revealing a portion of a carpeted corridor lit by a candle in a single brazier. At first Carter saw no one, but soon a pair of anarchists strolled into sight, speaking in subdued tones, smoking short, curved pipes. They strolled past the spy-hole and down the passage, but soon returned, so that Carter perceived they were sentries guarding two or more intersections. With his pocket watch he timed their schedule through two full rotations.

  “They come by every two minutes,” he whispered. “Half that time, this corridor is probably still in their sight. There is a secret panel at this wall and another across the hall. We have to cross.”

  “For promoters of anarchy they’re terribly organized,” Duskin said.

  Carter located the mechanism to open the panel and, at the proper moment, gently pulled the lever. The wall slipped outward with a soft click.

  After insuring their adversaries were beyond view, they stepped into the hall and shut the panel, which had been concealed by a floor-length portrait.

  They crossed quickly and silently as possible to the opposite wall, where hung an identical painting. Seconds passed as Carter ran his hands beneath the bottom of the frame, seeking the spring mechanism, only to find nothing. He glanced up and down the corridor, assuring himself that there were no other portraits, then dropped to one knee and peered beneath the frame, knowing where the lever must be, but not discovering it. In the distance, the soft talk of the anarchists drifted down the passage.

  At last his fingers struck upon it. He pushed without success, but when he pulled outward, the lever moved, and the portrait swung away with a perilously loud groan. A small block of wood, placed inside the opening for some unknown purpose, toppled against the baseboard with a solid thunk.

  Carter swooped up the block and both men stepped into the hidden passage. The door shut behind them with another moaning protest, wafting the smell of tobacco into their sanctuary. Carter groped his way to the spy-hole. One of the anarchists hurried into sight, his revolver drawn, peering uneasily down the hall.

  The other soon joined him, saying, “Undoubtedly rodents.”

  “Enormous ones, then. I tell you, I heard a door.”

  “There aren’t any doors in this passage. You heard the wind.”

  “You heard it, too. Do you deny it?”

  “I heard something, but the house is ancient, full of creaks and moans, always settling.”

  The other man scowled. “The Bobby won’t like it if anyone slinks past us. And what he dislikes he casts into the Room. Those who go there return changed, all eaten up inside.”

  “Then we should speak no more of it. If there was something it was quick, and we have nothing tangible to report. Let’s go about our business.”

  After ascertaining the anarchists’ departure Carter turned away satisfied and relit the lantern. This new passage was identical to the first, being still part of the Curvings.

  “When this is over, remind me to carpet these floors,” Carter whispered as the floorboards groaned beneath their boots.

  “How does one carpet a secret passage? Do we kill all the workers afterward to keep it confidential?”

  Carter snorted in amusement. “Enoch claims God built the house, or at least had it built.”

  “And does He do remodeling, then?”

  “I suppose He might if we could send Him a work order. All jesting aside, Enoch’s explanation makes as much sense as any. A house that runs the universe, mechanism unknown, and I its Master. We don’t really even know who the anarchists are, much less the Bobby. Fallen angels?”

  “Risen devils, more likely. I don’t know about the Bobby, but the rest are men. Chant says they serve Entropy, as if that were a person.”

  “Lucifer himself, I suppose. I wish I knew.”

  “We may know as much as we ever will,” Duskin said. “We’ve been given a job, and the tools to do it. Nothing more may be required or offered. We don’t always have to know the whole story.”

  Carter nodded, thinking Duskin wise beyond his age.

  They followed the Curvings all the rest of that day, tedious labor made unnerving by the obscurity and the need for silence. To save oil, they doused the lantern to eat their cold rations, and slept that night in their bedrolls on the hard floor. Carter awoke many times, sweating, suffering from a recurring dream of being imprisoned in a coffin. Each time he opened his eyes the unrelenting darkness gave no reassurance until he thrust his hands out to dispel the illusion of being contained. Then, still half-asleep, he remembered he was going to the Room of Horrors, and sheer dread clawed at his chest.

  So overwhelming were his passions he could return to sleep only by playing a mental game, telling himself he would either die before reaching the room, or simply refuse to go. Then he would drift back into a slumber uneasy as mice in moonlight, only to dream and start the cycle all over.

  The whole night passed thus, and he was relieved when a struck match revealed six o’clock on his pocket watch. “These halls are always dark,” he murmured huskily as he tapped Duskin on the shoulder. His brother replied at once, as if he, too, had scarcely been asleep: “A warm bath, if you please, and a nice breakfast.”

  “You’ll have neither, I’m afraid. I’m going to light the lamp. I’m sick of the dark.”

  They ate dried fruit, dry bread, and tough strips of salted meat, and were soon on their way. Almost at once, they came to a cul-de-sac. Carter found a spy-hole, but could see nothing for want of illumination in the room beyond.

  “This will be difficult,” he whispered. “The Curvings continue a floor above us and several corridors away. I don’t know what’s out there and we dare not use the lamp, but I think I can lead us even without light. Remember, we mustn’t be seen.”

  Duskin nodded. Carter twisted the knob and the panel slid soundlessly to the side. Once in the passage, he fumbled several moments before locating the closing mechanism, a small knob at the bottom of the baseboard. Though blind, he knew they should be standing in a corridor with passages leading to either side and straight ahead, and that the next branch of the Curvings could be reached either by going forward or to the right. After some mental calculation, he took the right-hand way, a slightly shorter route.

  Carter felt Duskin grasp the soft-leather edge of his Tawny Mantle for guidance. Though he had a clear mental map of the corridors, he did not know the furniture, and immediately banged his knee against a low table. He stifled a grunt of pain, and determined to stay arm’s length from the right wall, his fingers barely touching.

  Thankfully, the corridor was carpeted, cushioning their footfalls. A breeze drifted from somewhere, smelling of roses and sweet showers. Within the Curvings they had been isolated from the noise of the storm, here they heard rolling thunder, the patter of rain, the water rilling down the eaves. He proceeded slowly, longing for silence, listening for voices, hoping he was not leading them into the hands of the anarchists. He knew the passage was long, with no doorways to either side, but it was difficult to estimate how far they had come. He counted his steps as he went.

  It took over an hour to cross the corridor—the noise of the storm, the settling of the house, gave a hundred separate noises to spur his imagination, so that he paused often, straining to hear—and at its end he though
t he detected soft, scraping sounds. He froze, certain it was simply a fancy, this low gurgling, but the longer he waited the more he believed it to be the soft buzzing of human voices, made unintelligible by the rain. He chanced another step forward.

  Men were murmuring in the darkness, lurking in the absolute ebony. They could only be anarchists. Gradually, bitterly dismayed, with Duskin following, he retreated, recounting the steps, feeling his way, moving more swiftly. They returned to the intersection much sooner than he expected, and turned to follow the alternate path. If there were sentries down this corridor as well, he vowed to slip past them.

  Again he kept to the right-hand way, arm’s length from the wall, counting the steps once more. This corridor was shorter, but he paused often to listen, made wary by the presence of the enemy. Eventually, they reached a turn to the right, and there they stayed a great while, attending every noise, straining to hear past the rhythm of the storm. When nothing extraordinary occurred, they moved around the corner, and almost immediately Carter felt a slight pressure against his shins. He stooped, feeling with his fingers until he discovered a thin cord stretched across the hallway, obviously either an alarm system or a trap. He dared not even whisper for fear of warning any anarchists lurking nearby, but took Duskin’s hand with infinite care, and placed the back of it against the cord. Alerted, Duskin ran his hand along its surface, examining it.

  With his brother aware, Carter stepped slowly over the line, one foot at a time. Less than ten inches from the first, his left leg touched another.

  He had to dare a whisper in order to warn Duskin, speaking as softly as possible directly into his brother’s ear, saying, “There are more.” Then he stepped over the second line while Duskin straddled the first.

  Again Carter’s leg touched a cord, again he warned Duskin, this time by tapping his three fingers, one at a time, against his sibling’s hand. He stepped over the third.