Maxwell's Closet

by Steven Belskie

  Maxwell’s Closet

  A Novel by Steven Belskie

  To those who inspired it

  Chapter 1 Maxwell was a remarkably ordinary child, whose classmates regarded him as rather dull. Most of his time was spent with his nose pressed so closely to a book that it was often black with ink rubbed from the page.

  He had always been enthralled by tales of trolls and tree people, stories of sorcerers and squires, odes to ogres and orcs, haikus of hobgoblins and horsemen. Max thought it was strange that everyone had such interest in the dullness of life when such exciting adventures awaited anyone willing to crack a book or close one’s eyes. Yet still the gray adult world plodded on with no change from one day to the next, just the slow ticking of life’s clock.

  Max lay awake in his bed, the soft sheets clinging to his body in the warm night’s air. He tossed and turned, visions of princes and princesses spinning in his head. Day had faded into night as he had read, for the umpteenth time, the enchanting story of King Arthur and his knights. What Max would have given to be a knight!

  He sighed in frustration at this thought. Why had he been born into a world devoid of mystery, a world where romanticized concepts were mocked by reality, where honor and loyalty were replaced by deception and infidelity? Why couldn’t he have been a knight, a brave and noble fighter for truth and justice?

  As these ideas swirled like a hurricane through his mind, distantly he heard the ticking of the old mahogany clock that stood in the hallway just a few feet outside his door. The darkness outside his window was complete. He had been lying awake for such a long time. Surely it must be almost midnight, he thought, as the clock began to ring out twelve strokes. One, two, three… As the twelfth strike sounded, the house filled with an eerie silence.

  It seemed as if the house held its breath. He waited silently for the clock to tick, but he heard nothing. An overactive imagination sprang to life and horrid thoughts flooded into his brain. They spilled and crashed across ridges and through valleys, raging ever deeper into his mind. Soon he was in a state of dreadful unease.

  Tension hung in the air, thick and sticky like cold molasses, but just as Max believed the silence could not grow any deeper, it was broken.

  The door to his closet was thrown open from within. It crashed against the wall, and Max shot up in his bed.

  From within the closet Max heard thick, phlegmy voices arguing. They rasped their words loudly, as if wanting to whisper, but also wishing to add a certain emphasis to their words.

  “Dis da place?” the first voice asked.

  “Yeh, that looks like da one in da picture,” said a second voice.

  As a cloud shifted somewhere in the night sky, moonlight trickled through the open window; Max could make out two squat figures lingering in the shadows. They stood only four feet tall but had large thick legs and broad chests.

  “Is someone there?” Max asked.

  Both figures grew silent and stood motionless. They looked like two dark stone statues standing for some odd reason in the doorway to Max’s closet.

  “No.” The first voice spoke.

  “Surely, if you answered— then by any logic you must be there,” Max said.

  “How dare you tell you me where I must be? You ain’t my master. You can’t tell me where I must stand.”

  “I did not mean to suggest that you were obligated to stand there, but rather I meant that if you answered me then you must be there.”

  Max saw the first speaker scratching his finger across his chin as if considering the point.

  The second speaker cut him off.

  “Who cares where we are? It doesn’t matter if we are there, here, or everywhere. Let’s just get him and be gone.”

  They both moved toward the bed. Max scrambled back off the edge of the bed like a frightened mouse. He fell hard on to the floor, kicking and shouting as he felt hands close around his arms.

  “Don’t struggle. There’s not much use.”

  They dragged him across the carpet and into the closet. It was larger than Max remembered.

  The first speaker released his grip on Max’s arm and began to rummage around in the closet. He rifled through the pile of dirty laundry that Max’s mother had been yelling about for weeks. Finally he withdrew his hand; it held a sock.

  He grabbed Max again, and the world began to swirl. Vibrant yellows and oranges began to pervade the fabric of the now spinning world. Flashes of brilliant green and blue exploded around them while the world spun faster and faster. Nausea welled up in the pit of Max’s stomach, but just when he thought that he would be sick, a flash of white light blinded him and the spinning stopped.

  He blinked for a few moments before his vision returned; a massive castle towered above him. Tens of tall narrow spires wound their way around each other up into the sky. They were crowned by circular rows of sharp spikes topped with human heads. The faded stone walls were covered with an innumerable manner of dark green vegetation. Vines snaked in and out of the cracking stone, spreading themselves like tentacles across the towers.

  The towers seemed ready to topple over. They jutted left, then right, and left again, all the while traveling higher into the dark sky. A few of the junctions had apparently needed patching, as crudely cut slabs were placed precariously where the original stone was missing.

  Max had read enough to know that this was some sort of dark fortress. Perhaps a dark lord or troll lived there. He was excited nearly as much as he was terrified.

  Acrid smoke and ash filled the air around him. Dark plumes of sulfur billowed up from holes in the charred ground. The noxious fumes collected above and blotted out the sun. While it seemed to be night Max knew it could be midday and no one would be the wiser.

  Max’s captors dragged him across the harsh, ash-covered ground. He bounced on jagged rocks, and his flesh was scraped against the coarse ground. Soon his shins were bruised and his knees bloodied.

  A massive black gate adorned with an assortment of spikes, skulls, and various weapons loomed in front of them. They veered off to the side, however, rather than enter through this grand display

  “We can’t go through da front. We have to use da service entrance when escorting prisoners,” the one to his left explained.

  “Could I ask who you are exactly?” Max said.

  “I’m Swart and dat’s Eck.”

  “What are you?” Max asked.

  Eck and Swart laughed in unison.

  “We are orcs, of course,” said Swart.

  In time they arrived at an unimpressive stone arch that stood at the side of the massive fortress. A small termite-eaten door hung on rusted hinges. As Swart swung it open, it creaked.

  Inside was a dimly lit and narrow hallway. Torches dotted the walls; several were extinguished and none shone with any particular degree of brilliance. The shadows in the room flickered and danced magically in the odd lighting.

  Puddles of green water lay along the walls. Rats scurried on the ceiling, running to and fro along the rotted wooden rafters. Spider webs hung thick from the ceiling and their denizens watched the party with interest. Swart and Eck held their hands out in front of them, clearing the cobwebs as they went.

  “It’s only a bit farther down the hall,” said Eck.

  “Where exactly are you taking me?” asked Max.

  Eck looked away as he hefted Max up onto his shoulder. Max bounced like a rag doll as Eck picked up his pace.

  “We have to take you to see Grogga.” Swart said.

  He trotted down the hallway, struggling to keep pace with Eck.

  “Here we are,” said Eck as he dropped Max onto the cold and wet stone ground.

  In front of them stood a tarnished bronze door, with worn engravings and a slender, orn
ate door handle. Eck turned the handle and entered the room. Reaching back he grabbed Max, dragging him forward with as much care as one might give a bag of garbage.

  The chamber itself was unimpressive. It appeared to be octagonal though each of the eight corners was so thoroughly worn it would soon be circular. Hanging from the ceiling was a pyramid-shaped framework of bones. They were wrapped crudely together with frayed vine. Several holes had been hollowed out and in them burned candles: an orkish chandelier

  A faded throne of gold stood in the center of the chamber. Many blemishes and scratches marred what might once have been a rather charming piece. At the foot of the throne lay the remainders of some unfinished meal. Judging by the massive collection of mold and flies, the leftovers had been there some time. Max wanted to vomit as the smell from the potpourri reached him.

  A large creature, whose skin shared a color and texture with mildew, was seated crookedly on the golden throne. His massive legs protruded like tree trunks and his stomach hung well over his belt. His hair was rough and was strewn with pieces of food.

  “Who have you brought me?” His voice boomed like thunder.

  “Dis is da one da Merchant wants” Eck stammered.

  Grogga stared around the room, his eyes unwilling or unable to meet Max’s inquisitive gaze.

  “You are sure dis is da one?”

  “It has to be. He fits the description and he was in the right spot.” Grogga studied the orc for a moment before rising to his feet.

  “Which way is up?” Grogga looked at Max for the first time.

  Max was startled by the odd question. He looked to Eck and Swart, but they regarded him without interest. Max silently raised a finger, pointing to the ceiling.

  Laughter like a cannon sounded from the mouth of the large beast. “You are a silly child. There is no up.”

  “What can you possibly mean?” Max stared, dumbfounded.

  Grogga grabbed a small pouch of marbles and poured them onto the ground. As they clattered to the floor Grogga stared at Max, waiting for some sign of understanding to cross his face. He huffed angrily when it did not come.

  “Can’t you see, boy? When I drop them, they go down. Not up, down!” The last words were shouted.

  Max still stared unable to see what proof this offered.

  “Imbecile!” (At this comment Eck snapped to attention but soon realized he was not being addressed.) “Everything goes down. It is the natural tendency of this world. Up does not exist because it is illusion, only a fairytale given to the downtrodden to give them hope as they till the master’s field for just one more day.

  “Take this insolent beast from my sight. Inform the executioner he shall have another victim in the morning.” Grogga turned away as Eck and Swart grabbed Max and began to drag him from the room.

  “But doesn’t the Merchant want him alive?” Eck asked meekly.

  “He will still reward us handsomely, I think, even if his quarry is dead. Do not question me again.”

  Max struggled against the arms of his captors. He screamed, his voice cracking as reality replaced fantasy. He didn’t want an adventure anymore. He just wanted to be home in his own bed.

  Eck and Swart carried him down the hallways until they came to a small unadorned door. Without ceremony they escorted him into the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Instead of landing on hard cold stone as he expected, he found himself on soft, warm grass.

  A metal window cover slid open on the door and Max saw Eck staring in at him.

  “My apologies about the luxurious condition. I realize you were probably expecting some cold, dark cell. We have it like dis cuz we normally keep orcs who misbehave in here. They obviously can’t stand it. I hope you’re not too comfortable.”

  “I’ll try not to get too comfortable,” said Max, bewildered.

  “Alright. Well, I got business to attend to…” Eck paused as if he was going to say something then slammed the window shut and walked away.

  Max rose to his feet and attempted to brush himself off (this was a rather lengthy task as the trek to the fortress, through the halls, and then lying on the grass had made him quite a mess). He was unsuccessful and sat down to sulk under the large pink-leaved tree that stood in the middle of the room.

  Max wondered how the room could create an illusion of the sun. He knew he must still be inside, but a bright shining orb hung high up on the ceiling, and the entire area was bathed in its warm light.

  Perched high above on a branch was a bird whose deep blue feathers stood in stark contrast to the rose-colored leaves. A long, dominating beak protruded and hooked down like a scimitar from his face. His eyes gleamed with a silent intensity that made Max nervous.

  He spread his wings, revealing a wingspan longer across than Max was tall. He pushed effortlessly from the branch and soared out from the tree. He circled the tree, descending toward the ground. With his claws he grabbed hold of a branch a few feet above Max and landed upon it.

  The bird cocked his head and stared at Max; his intense red eyes seemed to pierce into Max’s mind.

  “You are worried, my friend,” the bird spoke in a quiet, sage voice.

  “How should you know?” replied Max.

  “You are so upset you hardly seek to conceal your emotions. You are read as easily as one reads a book.” The bird’s voice was dreamy and captivating.

  “I am not,” shouted Max.

  The bird chuckled.

  “I find it quite humorous that you humans take offense to such a comment. You hold books as fine art yet to be compared to one is an insult. Peculiar… very peculiar.”

  “And why shouldn’t we?” Max asked.

  “Whole lives are spent attempting to accomplish what you have refuted. How ungrateful that should seem in the eyes of thousands who have sought in vain.”

  The words hung in the air. They seemed to diffuse and spread like smoke. They wrapped and weaved, and they weighed on Max’s mind.

  “I meant no disrespect,” said Max.

  “They never do”, said the bird coolly. “So what is it that has you frightened?”

  “They are going to kill me,” Max said sadly.

  “Is that really so bad?” The bird turned his head and looked away toward the setting sun.

  “The sun goes beyond those hills and the world goes black. The warmth steals away, and we are left in cold. Yet if we never knew the night we could never know joy as the sun rises slowly and the warmth crawls over the hills, reaching its fingers through the morning frost.”

  “But what if the sun doesn’t rise?” asked Max.

  “No one can tell the sun it may not rise, for it holds dominion over all earth. It shall only set forever if it so chooses.”

  “Why would it choose not to rise again?”

  “If it is afraid to set again.”

  “So, I must die then?” asked Max.

  “No, my dear boy. Now is not your time, but you must remember that death begets life and life begets death.”

  Without saying another word the bird flapped its wings and lifted off from the branch. He circled the tree several times, climbing upwards toward the heavens. His wings flapped and he careened to the left. He glided directly toward the setting sun. The shadows that played across his feathers made a majestic display, but as the sun’s last ray retreated over the hills all went black, and the bird was lost from sight.

  Chapter 2

  “Time ta get up, sleeping beauty.”

  He rubbed his eyes. The rough voice stirred Max from his slumber; he awoke with the speed and energy of a sloth.

  He patted the ground near where his head had been, searching for his glasses. He closed his hand closed around them and he placed them on his face. The hair on his head was jutting out in many directions, and he struggled to straighten it.

  “Time for your execution.”

  Max felt a rough hand grab him from behind and hoist him into the air. He bounced up and down as the orc moved out of th
e cell and back into the dark, dank hallways. The ride was similar to what he had experienced yesterday, and it was equally unpleasant.

  Max felt himself being tossed off the orc’s shoulder and onto the damp stone.

  “Hello, Max.”

  A large dark orc entered the room, and the orc who had been carrying Max left. The large orc crossed the room in a few lengthy strides.

  “What would you request for your last meal?” the orc asked.

  “Well,” said Max, thinking hard, “pancakes have always been my favorite.”

  The orc frowned. He turned his back and began to scribble furiously in an old worn notebook.

  “I regret to inform you,” he said without turning his back, “that we haven’t any pancakes.”

  “Oh,” said Max, disappointed. “I guess pizza would be fine.”

  The orc turned to Max with a large frown on his face. He shook his head as recorded this most recent development.

  “Pizza is also unavailable, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, not to be rude, but what exactly do you have?” asked Max.

  The orc nodded his head and walked to the far corner. Max tracked his movement and saw that he stopped at a large black cauldron whose lid was shaking from the boiling steam. He removed the lid and fumes rose and swirled into the air.

  “We only have this stew.”

  He pointed to a thick pinkish concoction that bubbled slowly. The smell reached Max’s nose and he recoiled in disgust. His throat tightened and he gagged, coughing. The stew looked more like vomit than anything that anyone would wish to eat.

  “It looks as if it’s just about ready.” The orc stirred the stew with a large wooden spoon.

  He withdrew the spoon and tried to shake the thick goo off into the cauldron. Failing to do so, he scraped it off onto the side.

  “Why exactly did you ask me what I wanted, if all you had was…” Max waved his hands in the air, struggling to find the proper word, “that?”

  “Firstly, if you had asked for stew I would have seemed very hospitable to have it nearly ready for you, and secondly, even if you didn’t ask for stew I should consider myself rather rude if didn’t at least ask what you wanted,” the orc said.