Undermajordomo Minor
“Boast away,” Eirik said. “I won’t stop you.”
“Why can’t you be happy for me?”
“Who’s to say I’m not?”
“But how would I know if you were?”
Eirik jammed the spade in the coal tender. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
Alexander became sheepish. “Typically, when a man has a turn of good luck, his fellows will offer their congratulations.”
At this last word, Eirik’s black mood returned, a virulent poison which leached through to the deepest parts of his soul. Alexander’s neck looked velvety soft to the touch, and Eirik’s fingers began to twitch and grip. He resumed his feverish shoveling and as the train barreled along the rails he waited for his hatred to ebb, but it never did, and in fact it only doubled and redoubled, so that he felt lost to it. Resignedly, he waited for the best moment to exorcise this feeling.
The train eased into the station at Bury. Alexander peered out, an attitude of calm defining his person. He turned to Eirik, meaning to offer some minor encouragement or compliment, when he saw his co-worker was watching him with a fanatical look, his eyes dreadful, grotesquely transformed. The look made Alexander wary, and he asked, “What’s the matter?”
“You want me to congratulate you?” Eirik asked.
“Don’t you feel it’s in order?”
“Indeed it is. But you’re certain you want me to?”
What manner of test was this? Would Eirik strike him with a fist? Well, then, better to have it out. Alexander was a healthy man, if portly, and had seen his share of tavern battles—he was not afraid of the stingy wretch who stood before him. Resting his hand on the brake lever and gripping it in his fist, he struck an upright and confident pose, and said, “I’m certain, Eirik. Let’s have it.”
The spade stuck out at an angle from the coal tender. Later, speaking to his cellmate, Eirik would muse that it was as if the spade were leaning toward him, offering itself for assistance. He swung it in a quick, tight circle, bringing the edge down on Alexander’s hand, severing cleanly the man’s foremost three fingers, while the fourth hung as if on a hinge. This swayed up and back and Alexander stood there watching the blood drain from the stumps with the look of a man who had just witnessed a baffling illusion.
“Congratulations,” Eirik said. He collected the fingers with the spade and tossed them into the churning firebox.
6
Lucy knew none of this, and would never know. By the time he arrived at the station Alexander had been led away in a dizzy stumble, and Eirik was being helped down from the train and onto the platform by the constable. It seemed a friendly gesture, and Lucy found nothing amiss about the two men as they walked away, though he was curious about where the assistant engineer might be going five minutes before the scheduled departure, and why the constable was so insistent about holding the spade.
Rain fell in plump drops which made Lucy blink and wince, but he didn’t mind getting wet. He felt triumphant about the lie he’d told Marina, and rather than hinder his optimism, the foul weather merely added to the feeling he was embarked on an adventure. He entered the third-class compartment, stowed his valise, and found a sliver of space among the charwomen and laborers and scattered elderly. No one spoke, and Lucy wondered why it was that the impoverished classes were biased toward public silences.
The train was delayed for reasons already discussed, and Lucy passed forty-five minutes in the airless cabin while the conductor and stationmaster searched for someone to fill in as engineer. He was lost to his own plotless thoughts when there came a knock on the window from outside the train. He turned and saw Marina hovering in the air above the platform; her fist remained aloft next to her face and she wore the pleased expression of the cat after a kill. The effect of her countenance, along with her floating in the window like that, was unsettling to Lucy, and he felt a premonition of danger which brought about a head-to-toe rash of gooseflesh.
Now he noticed a pair of brutish, hairy hands were holding Marina aloft at the waist; presently these hands returned her to the platform, and she and Tor stepped back, that they might both see inside and be seen by those inside the compartment. They stood arm in arm, smiling at Lucy, perfectly at ease with each other. If they had had an argument relating to Lucy’s lie then it was past. The conductor happened by and Tor called the man over, speaking imploringly to him and pointing at Lucy directly. The conductor watched Lucy while Tor spoke; when Tor had finished, the conductor made for the train, and Lucy’s compartment.
“May I see your ticket, please?” he said.
“My ticket?” said Lucy.
“Please.”
“Why do you want to see my ticket?”
The conductor held out his hand. Miserably, Lucy passed it over. The man studied the stub and shook his head. “Whatever is that gentleman talking about?” Looking out the window, he addressed Tor and Marina, rapt in their waiting. “It’s third class!” He waved the stub back and forth. “A third-class ticket!” Tor held a hand to his ear, pretending not to be able to hear. Marina slapped him on the arm, as though he were being too cruel; and yet, she didn’t truly want him to stop—she was enjoying the sport they made of Lucy. The conductor waded through the compartment to the window and slid it open. “The young man has a third-class ticket,” he said.
Tor, perplexed: “The stick-like fellow? The red-faced chap just there? The famished one? You’re certain he’s not in first class?”
“Would you like to see the ticket for yourself?”
Tor performed a slight bow. “I would never deign to tell you your own business, sir,” he said, and he rested his mitts on his hips and pursed his mouth, an approximation of confounded frustration. “Oh, but I was certain he was to be in first class. The young man possesses a noble bearing, wouldn’t you say?”
The conductor, along with the others in the compartment, regarded Lucy dubiously. “Well,” said the conductor, “the lad is where he is meant to be. And I don’t know what else to tell you about it.”
“Yes,” Tor agreed. “What else is there to say, after all?”
“Good day,” said the conductor, closing the window.
“Good day to you, sir,” Tor answered, his volume halved by the pane of glass. He offered a parting wave to Lucy, and to the compartment in general; Lucy did not respond, but others around him did. Now Tor and Marina turned and walked into the village, arm in arm, and by the looks of them they were deeply in love. Everyone watched them go; once they were out of sight the collective attention returned to Lucy. His face was no longer red, but pale, his gaze darkened, impermeable.
“Friends of yours?” asked the man beside Lucy.
“No.”
“They’re a handsome couple.”
Lucy closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to be alone in the well-appointed room he housed deep within his mind.
7
The train headed east, crossing the great green valley and ascending into the mountains, winding ever higher as they followed the broad, back-and-forth swoops of the track. As the stars assembled it looked to Lucy that the train was hurrying the night along by plunging into the stomach of the sky. He slept sitting up, propped by a body on either side of him.
In the night there occurred an untoward happening. Lucy awoke or partially awoke to find two men, one tall and one small, creeping into the compartment. Their movements were stealthy beyond the call of good manners, and this, combined with the fact of their faces being obscured behind the upturned collars of their coats, brought about a wary interest in Lucy, and he watched them with half-shut eyes.
The compartment was quiet, the dozing occupants’ faces cast in silvery moonlight, and the men moved to stand before a bony older woman clutching a tartan satchel to her chest. Her mouth hung slackly and a rill of spittle drew down the side of her face; the larger of the men regarded her with a cocked head, then set to work removing her fingers from her bag. This was accomplished in delicate stages, one finger at a time,
and Lucy was expectant that at any moment the woman would come to and let fly a bloodcurdling shriek. But the man was so adept, as though he were precisely aware to what extent he might molest the woman’s person without interfering with her slumber, that she gave no indication of disturbance. Soon her grip was unfurled, and so the man could gain access to her bag, from which he removed unknown objects, passing these to the smaller man, who tucked the booty away in his long coat. After gleaning all he could or cared to, the larger man returned the bag to the woman’s grip and stepped to the side, that he might focus on the body to the woman’s left. It was in this workaday manner that the duo robbed each person on the bench opposite Lucy; and now they were doubling back to do the same to him and his benchmates.
As the men drew closer, a fearsome unease came over Lucy, for he had not a clue what he should do. He might put up a fight, but there were two men against his one, and it was a safe assumption that these bandits were all the more familiar with the ways of violence than he. Mightn’t he leave the compartment? Simply stand and go, without a glance back over his shoulder? But no, the men would notice his exit, and perhaps it was that they wouldn’t want him to leave. What option remained, then? In the end he could think of no alternative other than feigning sleep and letting the men make away with his meager possessions. A shameful conclusion, it was true, but still preferable to the other chilling possibilities, and so there Lucy sat, awaiting the inevitable.
The men were just setting upon him when a train traveling on the westbound track hurtled past, rocking the compartment, drenching it in flashing light, and disturbing most everyone’s rest. The thieves quit the compartment like shadows thrown across the wall; and though many passengers were momentarily awakened by the passing train, none had seen the pair go, and so none realized they had been robbed. Lucy looked about for a body to speak with, but all had resumed sleeping. He buttoned his coat to the throat and looked out the window at the world of night. The moon held its position admirably and unwaveringly, pegged as it was to its corner of the sky.
8
Lucy awoke in thin winter sunlight, lying on his side, now. The train had stopped any number of times and the compartment was empty except for a shabbily dressed man sitting on the bench across from him. The man was staring at Lucy expectantly, as though waiting for him to awaken, that they might make discourse. But Lucy didn’t want to speak to anyone just yet, and so resumed his window-gazing.
They were above the snow line, well beyond the first pass and into the deeper ranges where the drifts formed impossible meringue shapes and were painted blue and green in their shadows. The first- and second-class compartments were heated with engine runoff, but not so the third; the wind rattled the windows, and Lucy could make out his breath before him.
Lucy studied the man in the reflection of the pane. He seemed to be neither young nor old, or rather, young and old—his eyes were adolescent, full of verve and mischief, yet the flesh beneath the sockets drooped to water-filled crescents; his hair was thick, swept back in a high-crested roll, but its ink-black coloring was run through with white strands, these creeping upward from the sideburns to the crown. The man could have been eighty years old or he could have been forty. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose; as he returned the handkerchief to his coat, the visual of fingers slipping past a lapel reminded Lucy of the thieves from the night prior, a recollection which must have upset his composure, for the man asked, “Are you quite all right, boy?”
“I am, sir,” said Lucy, “but tell me, please, did you pass the night on this train?”
“I did.”
“You’ll want to check your purse, then, for there were two thieves preying upon the passengers while we slumbered.”
A look of dread came over the man. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Is it really so?” He patted the pockets of his coat and trousers; finding his possessions accounted for, he told Lucy, “No, all is where it should be.”
“You’re a lucky one. Luckier than the others, anyway. You should have seen the way these devils roamed about the compartment. It was as though the notion of consequence never entered their minds.”
“Is that right?” the man said. “They do sound devilish, anyway. And what about you, boy? How did you fare?”
Lucy waved the thought away. “Nothing to worry about there. It was that I chased them off when they came too near.”
The man leaned forward. “Did you really?”
“I did.”
“Chased them right off, eh?”
“Indeed.”
“That was very daring of you.”
“I’ve no patience for shirkers and thieves, is what.”
“That much is clear.” The man stood and bowed. “I salute you.”
Lucy thanked the stranger; he was pleased to be making such an impression. Again he looked out the window. They were passing through a dense forest, now. A deer stood in the distance, away from the track, considering the train with a sidelong glance. When Lucy returned his attention to the compartment he found the man was studying him much in the same way.
“Yes, sir?” said Lucy.
“Well,” said the man, “it’s just that I find myself wondering, at what point did you do this chasing away?”
“At what point, sir?”
“Yes. That is to say, did you actually see these thieves robbing anyone?”
“I did indeed. Half a dozen people at least.”
“And why did you not intervene before they got to you, I wonder? As one who proclaims to have no tolerance for thieves, for shirkers—for devils, as you yourself call them—I would think you’d have leapt into action at the first sign of wrongdoing. And yet you did nothing, until they came your way.” The man blinked. “Or perhaps it is that I’ve got the story wrong.”
“Well,” said Lucy, “yes, hmm,” and he sat awhile, thinking about what he might say in his defense. In the end, all he could come up with was to state that he’d been slow to act due to his being heavy-minded from slumber.
“Ah,” said the man, nodding. “Still sleepy, were you?”
“I was.”
“A foot in each world?”
“Correct.”
“That explains it, surely.”
Lucy felt he had deflected the interrogation handily, and yet he also wondered if he couldn’t identify a suppressed smile upon the man’s lips. Was this frayed individual making fun of him?
“May I ask you where you’re headed?” the man said.
“The Castle Von Aux. Do you know it?”
“I do indeed. You wouldn’t perhaps be Mr. Olderglough’s new man, would you?”
“I am. How did you guess it?”
“Poke in the dark.”
“Do you live at the castle?”
“I most certainly do not.”
Lucy thought he detected in these words some trace of pique, and so he asked, “Why do you say it like that?”
The man held up a finger. “For one, I am not welcome there.” He held up another finger. “For two, I have no inclination to visit such a place.” He held up a third finger, opened his mouth to speak, shut his mouth, and balled his hand to a fist. He sighed. “Do you know,” he said, “I was saddened about Mr. Broom.”
“Who’s Mr. Broom?”
“Your predecessor.”
It hadn’t occurred to Lucy that there’d been a predecessor. The man deduced this and asked, “Have you heard nothing about him?”
“No.”
“I find that strange. There’s a story there, after all. Poor Mr. Broom.”
Lucy sat watching the man, who apparently did not plan to elaborate.
“Won’t you tell me?” Lucy asked.
“It’s not for me to tell. Ask Olderglough. Though he’ll likely not tell you either, that rascal. Ah, well. We’ve all got our lessons to learn, haven’t we?”
“I suppose that we do,” said Lucy, finding the sentiment, and indeed the man himself vaguely threatening. Hoping to m
ask this feeling, Lucy casually removed his pipe from his pocket, to study and admire it. The man took an interest as well, and asked if he might have a look for himself. Lucy handed the pipe across, and the man held it this way and that. He nodded his appreciation. “This is a very fine pipe.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy.
“Very fine indeed.”
“Thank you, yes. May I have it back, please?”
The man returned the pipe, but there was an unhappiness in his eyes, as though to part with it pained him. When Lucy tucked the pipe away in his breast pocket, the man stared at Lucy’s chest.
The mountains had eclipsed the sun and the compartment dropped to a cold coloring; the conductor passed in the corridor, stating it would soon be time to disembark. The man stood as the train eased into the station.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.
“Lucy.”
“Lucy? I like that. I’m Memel.” He pointed out the window. “And there’s your new home.”
The Castle Von Aux stood a half mile beyond the station; Lucy could make out a broad, crenellated outer curtain wall and two conical towers. It was built at the sloping base of a mountain range, standing gray-black against the snow—a striking setting, but there was something chilling about it also. Lucy thought it was somehow too sheer, too beautiful.
Memel was buttoning up his coat. Once accomplished, he did a curious thing, which was to tilt his head back and speak into the empty space before him: “Mewe,” he said. “We’ve arrived. Will you come out, yes or no? I’m sorry that we argued.” Bending at the waist, he peered under the bench and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on, already. What are you going to do? Stay here forever?”
A boy rolled like piping from beneath Lucy’s bench and stared up at him. Lucy took in the boy’s features, which were a source of fascination; for whereas Memel was an old man who seemed far younger than his years, here was a boy of perhaps ten with the mark of bitter time impressed upon his face: a hollowness at the cheek, a bloodless pallor, wrinkles bunching at the corners of his eyes. When he extended his hand, Lucy shook it, but the boy, Mewe, said, “I meant for you to help me up.” Lucy did help him up, and now the three of them made for the exit. The wind was swirling snow outside, and Memel and Mewe flipped up the collars of their coats before disembarking. Only now did it occur to Lucy just who these people were.