Castle: A Novel

by J. Robert Lennon

  But every moment I held on still required an expenditure of energy. And so I continued, finding a hold for my left hand and pulling myself up another few inches.

  At this point the going became rough. The rock provided few handholds, and my fingers scrabbled over the surface, desperate for purchase. Several times I had to move back down, pull myself laterally across the face, and seek another route. I had one frightening moment when I was certain I would fall: what I thought was an outcropping on a ledge proved to be no more than a loose shard of stone, and I was thrown off balance when it broke away. But my other handhold was secure, and I suffered little more than a racing heart.

  It took the better part of an hour, but soon I realized that I was near the top. The grade dropped off precipitously, and I was able to scurry up the last ten feet on all fours. The sun beat down, warming the weathered stone, and I collapsed upon it, grateful and exhausted. I had reached the summit.

  When my heart had calmed and I was breathing easily, I took a sip of water and got to my feet. The view around me was indeed spectacular—but, as I had imagined, no more spectacular than the view from my window. I could see over the trees at last, all the way down the valley to the distant steeples, rooftops, and power towers of Gerrysburg. It was the loveliest day since I’d arrived, and it gave me special pleasure to be able to enjoy it here, on the rock I had eyed with curiosity for all these weeks.

  I turned then to look back, to the west, toward my house. Even from this distance, its roof appeared dark and tidy, the edges straight, and I felt a sudden and surprising upwelling of pleasure at the work I had done. Perhaps it was my exhaustion and pain; perhaps it was the weather, or my emergence from the woods into the light—but the sight of that roof, peaked tightly against the cloud-studded blue, moved me quite nearly to tears. I took in a deep, grateful breath at my good fortune.

  My mood thus buoyed, I began to walk around the summit, looking down into the woods below; and this is what led me to make a discovery that could only be regarded as astonishing. The summit was a slightly convex cap of smoothly weathered stone approximately fifty feet in diameter, and as I have said, I knew that the western face was a sheer cliff, and the southern a gentler slope, the “ankle” that led to the rock’s “toe.” I had not, however, yet explored the northern and eastern faces. I was pacing in a clockwise direction, beginning from the west, and so as I rounded the northern edge (more cliff, it would appear) I was able to peer over the eastern lip to the forest ceiling. Except that what I saw there was not that gently undulating sea of trees. Rather, I saw what first appeared to be a peculiar, peaked cap of stone. I stepped closer to the edge, eager to have a new stimulus for my troubled mind, and looked more closely. There was not one such outcropping, I observed; there were three, plus a fourth that was shaped like a box. They were all connected by a high stone wall, and were not natural formations at all.

  I was, in fact, gazing down at the ruins of a castle.

  EIGHT

  It was, in its design, much like the fifteenth- or sixteenth-century castles popularly portrayed in movies and on television, with towers on three corners and a keep on the fourth, all connected by a curtain wall. Inside the wall, opposite the keep and pressed into the corner, stood a large stone building with small, barred windows; it appeared to open out onto an L-shaped yard with a rough flagstone floor. To the outside of the southern wall was attached a kind of vestigial barbican, which, in the absence of a moat, appeared to serve as a grand entrance. Of course, the entire thing was significantly smaller than a real castle—it was a reproduction in miniature, though quite large in comparison with a regular house. Were it to stand in an otherwise normal neighborhood, it would be perceived as a highly eccentric mansion.

  Having given the castle a cursory examination, I revised my perception of it as a “ruin.” Rather, the castle was unkempt—the flagstone yard was overgrown with shrubs and saplings, which partially concealed broken pieces of equipment made of wood and metal. The equipment gave the yard the appearance of a playground or outdoor gym now fallen into disuse. The crenellation of two of the towers was crumbling, with many stones missing, and the third, which stood over the main building, bore the remains of a conical slate roof, now caved in. For all that, however, the structure could be made habitable with a little bit of work, and for a moment I grew excited imagining such a project, the supplies I would need, the steps I would take, the time it would consume to complete them. And then I remembered the survey map that had been included with the title abstract to the property, and the cryptic hole in the middle of it, beside the rock. I lay on my stomach and poked my head out over the edge. The castle’s western wall had been built mere inches from the eastern cliff. There was no question in my mind. I did not own the castle.

  I lay back on the rock, closed my eyes, and thought. The castle belonged to someone, and this person had been blacked out in the title abstract. The law office handling the land sale had not been able to locate the name, or had been unwilling to. Should I wish to purchase the remaining property, then, would I have to undertake a search for this person, to find out if he or she were still alive, or if the land had been passed on to family? The prospect of doing so made me uneasy.

  The fact was, if I didn’t own that plot, my work on the land would be incomplete. This was all the more true, given what I knew to be standing there. The “missing” land, and the castle, seemed to me like a sore, a wound, in my property; and a wound untreated could of course taint the flesh around it, could kill the entire organism. It bothered me greatly that Jennifer the real estate agent, and the firm of Barris and Haight, should subject my residence here to this impurity, this small corruption. I began to grow angry.

  But then, I reasoned, what was the point? There was nothing to be done about it now. I took several deep breaths, clearing my mind of these dark thoughts, and decided instead to explore the castle.

  My descent was no less challenging than my ascent had been—more so, even, as I was forced to look down to find the hand- and footholds. Luckily, I remembered more or less where they were, and so, with great care, slowly made my way to the bottom of the “ankle.” I passed the little grotto, with its lone pine, and continued to the “toe,” which I slid down without difficulty. I then proceeded around to the eastern face, where the castle stood.

  It was quite cleverly concealed, I could see now, by a thick stand of pine trees, similar to the one on the rock. Even now, with the deciduous portion of the woods not fully in leaf, I could not make out the castle at all, until I was nearly upon it.

  I reached the barbican first. It was the approximate size of a large garage, with two arrow-slit openings flanking a large, eight-foot wooden door. The door had not been fashioned to appear “old,” but was clearly custom-made from very heavy timber, with crude iron strips holding the pieces together. Its hinges were as large as a man’s foot, and they were heavily rusted, as were the enormous latch and padlock that held the door closed. I stepped up to this entrance and tried the handle. The door, of course, did not budge. Indeed, it might as well have been part of the wall, so tightly was it shut. I pushed my fingers into the cracks along the top and sides, and felt no jamb—the door had to be at least three inches thick! I moved aside a few feet and reached up toward one of the arrow slits. I could touch it, I discovered, only if I jumped. So I ignored my aches and pains and leaped, catching hold of the opening. Finding some purchase on the mortared stones with my climbing shoes, I scrambled up far enough to peer through the slot—but alas, there was nothing to be seen but darkness. The only indication that there was a room there at all was the scent of dampness and mold.

  I dropped to the ground and continued to walk around the building. My impression of the curtain wall’s great height had not been incorrect: it was twenty feet tall, and sheer, and no windows broke the uninterrupted surface. Only the towers and keep bore windows, and they were far too high to see into, except the few that framed a small rectangle of sky. Soon, I had made my way
back to the rock on the north side, and I had seen no other point of entry.

  It was at this time that I realized I was growing hungry, and that I had brought very little food with me—certainly not enough for a second night in the woods. The time was likely to be late afternoon, and the sun would not last long; if I wanted to leave for the house, the time to do so had come. I would eat some fruit and meat, and drink my water, and then begin to find my way back.

  My pack, however, had been left behind, by the grotto. So I returned to the “toe” of the rock, clambered up once again, and walked in the afternoon sun to pick it up. I was astonished to discover that it was gone.

  I closed my eyes, trying to remember precisely where I had left it. Unless my injuries had addled my mind, the pack had been lying on the northern edge of the grotto, in the shadow of the pine tree, half in and half out of the humus. I crouched at the spot and examined the ground: yes, the pack’s impression was still visible, and several smears of soil trailed six inches or so in the direction of the “ankle.”

  When was the last time I saw it? I must have glanced down at the grotto as I was scaling the rock; surely I would have noticed had it been gone. It must have been taken while I was on the summit, perhaps during my few minutes of repose in the sun. Certainly, I was distracted by my discovery of the castle; the safety of my pack was the last thing on my mind.

  What, then, had taken it? Though the forest had seemed to harbor very little wildlife, it seemed clear that the thief was an animal, drawn to the pack by the scent of food within. If this were the case, then the pack was probably not far away: the animal had likely dragged it to a sheltered area, forced it open, and taken the food, leaving the rest behind. Acting upon this deduction, I began to search the area, peering into each fissure on the rock’s surface, and then, when this tactic proved futile, making a careful circuit of the edge, to see if the pack lay on the ground below. I found nothing. I then climbed down off the “toe,” and made a careful examination of the surrounding ground, penetrating about fifty feet into the forest in every direction.

  Forty-five minutes of concerted effort left me with nothing, and little sunlight remained for my journey back to the house. The time had come to give up the search. I drew a deep breath, and prepared to make my way out of the woods.

  The most immediate consequence of my pack’s disappearance was the loss of my boots, which had been tied to one of its straps. I was wearing, remember, climbing shoes, helmet, and gloves. I had stripped off my fleece jacket, as well, and stored it in the pack; and while I still wore a long-sleeved climber’s shirt, the material was thin, and not very warm, out of the sun. I had to act fast, and find the road quickly.

  It was then that I had an idea. The castle, mysterious as it was, had to have been built in a more or less conventional way. That is, supplies would have been needed: scaffolding, tools, mortar. The stones it was made of surely came from somewhere other than the woods—they had to have been purchased from a quarry and delivered by truck. So at some point, the woods must have been penetrable by such a vehicle. I knew, of course, that none of this area harbored old-growth forest. But there had to be a strip of land—a former road—where the forest was thinner than elsewhere. With this in mind, I once again walked around the rock, my eyes attuned, this time, to the ghost of a road.

  And with the light dying behind me, I found it. It led east, a barely perceptible tunnel through the trees. Saplings had grown up through it, mature trees had fallen across it or leaned into it, but it was there, easy to miss unless you already knew it existed. Immediately I began to walk. The difference underfoot was obvious now: the ground was hard-packed and much drier beneath the leaves and branches, and the going was swift. In places, the road had veered to one side or the other, in order to avoid a particularly large tree or, in one place, a six-foot-wide boulder, presumably left here by the same glacier that had deposited the rock. But these diversions were minor, and the road righted itself easily after them.

  The light in the forest, meanwhile, had dimmed to brown, then gray, and would soon be gone entirely. I picked up the pace, careful not to trip over some hidden obstacle, and just as I thought I could no longer walk safely in the dark, I found myself standing before a rise that gave way to gravel, and then pavement. I had reached Minerva Road.

  As I stood on the road surface under a deep purple sky, all of the past two days’ anxieties and injuries came crashing down upon me at once, and I felt a deep ache over every part of my body. My journey had proved far more dramatic and upsetting than I had anticipated, and had left me with more questions than I had when I embarked upon it. I turned once more to the woods, to mark the entrance of the former road. It was obvious, now that I knew it was there—the road was flanked by the trunks of two maples, each leaning toward the other, forming a kind of natural gate. The weeds and saplings between them had caused their significance, upon my initial circumambulation of the forest, to elude me. I would not forget them now. I sighed heavily, then turned south and began, under the darkening sky, my final trek back to the house.

  It was full-on night when I felt the crunch of driveway gravel under my feet, and made my way to the front stoop. There was mail in the mailbox; this I removed, and I laid my hand upon the knob, and prepared to go inside. A hot bath was on my mind, a nutritious meal, and a warm, comfortable bed. I turned the knob, walked into the house, turned on the light, and shut the door behind me.

  I stood there in the hall, perfectly still, for several minutes, listening. For what, I didn’t know. In any event, there was nothing: not even a mouse or a rat, or a squirrel scampering across the roof. Only silence. After a minute had passed, I relaxed my muscles, let out breath, and headed for the kitchen. And at that moment, a tremendous clank sounded underfoot, and a thundering whoosh, and the house trembled, and I shouted, jumping into the air and dropping my mail all over the floor. I was pressed, terrified, to the wall, synapses popping in my head, when I realized that I had merely heard the furnace switching on. I slumped to the floor and rested my head in my hands. It had been a long two days.

  With effort, I rose to my feet, went to the kitchen, and prepared a makeshift meal of fruit, cheese, and stale bread. I ate it with animal desperation, stuffing the food into my mouth and choking it down with large gulps of water. I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d been. When I was through I fixed another helping, and then another. At last I was sated: time for a bath. I turned the thermostat down and paused at the foot of the stairs, again irrationally unnerved; and after chastising myself for my fear, I switched on the landing light and climbed to the second floor. I threw open the door to each room, to each closet, revealing nothing but stale air. I opened each upstairs window several inches, to let in the spring; then I drew my bath, undressed, and lowered myself into the heat.

  I performed a long, indulgent wash, scrubbing my hands and upper arms with extra vigor, making certain that I was clean. When I was through, I dried myself, went to the bedroom, and put on my pajamas. I was exhausted and eager to sleep; and yet unease again crept over me. The bedroom window hung before me, the same I had gazed at from the summit of the rock that afternoon. High and uncurtained, ready to let in the light of dawn, it revealed nothing but blackness now. I went to it. The glass, reflecting the bedside lamp, was creased with age. I threw up the sash as far as it would go and looked out into the moonless night, trying to make out the rock. But it was invisible now, blending with the forest that surrounded it.

  At last I closed the window and turned out the light. I ought to have dropped off to sleep immediately, as I had many times under far more stressful, indeed terrifying, circumstances, but instead I lay awake, listening to the silence. Every now and then a car or truck could be heard passing in the distance, but otherwise there was nothing, and the small sounds of the house as it cooled took on ominous significance. The rhythmic tick of the dormant furnace, slowing gradually, would give way at any moment to a deadly explosion; the old timbers settling against themselves
creaked like the careful footsteps of an assassin.

  And then another sound gradually impressed itself upon my consciousness, so faint at first against the ambient roar of the air in my ears that I wasn’t even certain I was hearing it. It was a whine, as of air escaping through a narrow opening, a kind of keening, which gradually resolved itself into an intermittent animal cry. It was the sound of solitary despair, a high, drawn-out weeping, a noise made by a creature, man or beast, not to draw attention but to console the hopeless self.

  I had heard this sound before, in the place I had worked before I came here, the sound of men without hope crushing their misery into a tiny space in the throat, from where they could not prevent it escaping, even in sleep. It chilled me, brought me fully back to wakefulness, and I sat up in bed, the covers falling from my bruised body. Where was it coming from? I held my breath, strained at the sound, but now, as if in response to my motion, it had seemed to stop.

  A few moments later, I again lay down, and as the minutes passed, I became convinced that the sound was a product of my imagination. My eyes closed, my breathing slowed, and I felt myself pulled toward sleep. And then I heard it again.

  I was certain it was there. I could feel a sympathetic cry gathering at the back of my own throat. It was human, this sound. It was real. I tried to isolate it in my mind, to shut out everything else, my heartbeat, the sheets against my flesh, the ringing in my ears. There was only the sound, and my perception of it. Where was it coming from?