Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

Lucy made no sound as he fell.

Only a moment before and his heart had been beating with such violence as to burst; now it seemed not to be beating at all. He was somersaulting through the air, and so with every rotation saw the light of the sky above him, followed by the absolute darkness below. As he fell farther, the light became softer, and the air ever cooler. When he arrived at the bottom of the Very Large Hole there was a surprise awaiting him there, namely a body of running water, which he plunged into with such violence that he blacked out. A long moment, and his body bobbed to the surface, then eased lazily downriver.

“Have you got him?” asked a breathless voice in darkness.

“I’ve got him,” said a second voice. A pair of hands clamped down on Lucy.

Lucy could not at the start grasp just what was happening all around him, for his senses were stunned, his eyes unused to the darkness; but as he became acclimated, now he deduced that he’d been collected from the water and was lying supine upon the incline of a sandy bank. Two men were attending to him, one young and one old, and both of whom, judging by their looks, had not seen civilization in some time — their clothing was tattered, their hair stringy and wild, and they wore unruly beards not in keeping with the fashion of the day. In spite of their appearance, they were in possession of their faculties and health and, it would seem, their good cheer, and so Lucy did not offer any opposition to their assistance.

The young man was holding Lucy’s head in his hands and tilting it this way and that. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from,” he said. “Can you tell?”

The old man’s face came into view. Squinting, he answered, “I can’t, no. Shall I fill up the boot to wash him?”

“Yes, please.”

The old man hurried off, while the younger continued his inspection of Lucy’s head. When their eyes met, Lucy said, “Hello.”

“Well, hello there. How are you feeling?”

Lucy shrugged. Licking his lips, he tasted blood, and scowled.

“You’ve been injured,” said the young man, nodding. “Though for the life of me I can’t locate the source of the bleeding. This is troubling, I won’t deny it; but it is also, we must admit, preferable to the wound being highly visible, would you agree?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask who you are?”

“Lucy is my name.”

“Well, Lucy, you’ve made a misstep, in case you hadn’t noticed. But not to worry; we’ll get you cleaned up in no time, and then afterwards we’ll have a nice piece of fish. What would you say to that?” When Lucy didn’t answer at once, the young man asked, “You do like fish, I hope?” Judging by his tone, it was a question of some importance.

“I like it,” said Lucy.

The young man was soothed by the answer. “Fine,” he said. “That’s just fine.”

The old man returned holding a woman’s boot, this filled with river water. Kneeling, he emptied it over Lucy’s face, cleaning the blood away, and now the two men regarded his countenance with unabashed curiosity.

“He’s just a boy,” said the old man. The young man, meanwhile, had located a diamond-shaped wound just below Lucy’s hairline and asked Lucy to press his finger over top of this to staunch the bleeding. Lucy did as he was told, and made no complaint as they propped him upright. He took in his surroundings from a seated position.

It was a cavernous space, similar in scope and shape to the interior of a grand church. A moderately sized river emanated from a tall cave on the north-facing wall, then looped the patch of sand upon which the three men sat before disappearing into the wall facing the south. There was a pillar of sunlight shining down from above; this spotlit a circular section of river before the island. In staring absently at this, Lucy saw a fish rise at its centre, and as the resulting reverberation rippled outwards across the surface of the water, a thought came to him. To the old man, he said, “You’re Tomas, the gambler. And you’re not dead at all.” Next he addressed the young man: “You’re Mr Broom. I hope you don’t mind it, but I’ve been using your telescope.”

The pair were for a time struck dumb by Lucy’s words, and their expressions read of perturbed amazement. At last the young man spoke, asking his aged partner, “Now what do you make of this, I wonder? A mystery come down from the skies?”

“I find myself curious,” the old man said.

“That’s only natural, and of course I feel just the same. But shall we bombard him with questions all at once, or shall we hold off, and first put him at ease?”

The old man gnawed awhile on his knuckle. “Lord knows I wish to bombard him,” he said. “But no, let us resist the impulse.”

“Yes.”

“He is our guest and so will be comforted.”

“Yes, bravo.” The young man rested a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “He likes fish, is my understanding.”

At this, the two men laughed, a violent laughter which multiplied hugely in the gaping cavern, and was reminiscent of thunder in that it was at once vivid and vague. This laughter went on for what seemed to Lucy to be an inappropriate length of time, and he was not at all certain how he should feel. After consideration he decided he should feel afraid, and so he was.

Supper was served — fish, as promised, though it was not a piece as Mr Broom had said but rather a fish entire, one per man, unscaled and uncooked, for there was neither flame nor blade to be found in the Very Large Hole. The fish were retrieved live from the river; the two men had built up a network of stone-walled corrals diverting from the current proper, and into which fish would innocently amble. Upon finding their transit blocked they would backtrack, only to discover that the point of entry was now likewise impassable, as either Mr Broom or Tomas had built up a fourth wall to hem them in. Thus confined, the fish would languish in what Tomas described as arrant boredom until such a time as it was removed from its cell, rapped upon the head, and consumed. Lucy thought the method of capture ingenious, but this ingenuity did little to allay the fact of the meal being repellent to him. He stared at the fish, hanging limply in his hands, and his posture denoted a level of disappointment.

“Well, let’s begin, then,” said Tomas, and he and Mr Broom bit into the clammy bellies of their fishes, rending away the flesh in animalistic swaths. Soon blood and scales were shimmering in their beards, a sight which stole away Lucy’s appetite completely. Setting his fish to the side, he decided he would not partake, at least not yet, for he knew that if he were to remain he would at some point be forced to follow the others, an eventuality he considered with repugnance. The woman’s boot sat in the centre of their circle, refilled with water, a communal vessel; Lucy drank from this to wash away the very thought of the taste.

The meal reached its conclusion, and now came the interrogation. After establishing how it was that Lucy had identified them, Tomas and Mr Broom, so pleased for the company and break in routine, wished to know most every detail of Lucy’s life, from the occasion of his birth and up until the present moment. Lucy had no objection to fielding the queries, and his answers were for the most part truthful. He spoke of the melancholy circumstances of his childhood, for example, with a frankness which surprised even himself. Regarding his decision to leave Bury, to say farewell to all he had known in his life, there was not so much as a fact misplaced. And yet, when he arrived at the question of how it was he’d fallen into the Very Large Hole, now he discovered the truth to be insufficient. For would it not have undone the balmy social atmosphere to admit he had attempted to murder a man in a style both cold-blooded and cowardly? Lucy affected the attitude of one in possession of overwhelming sorrows, and when he spoke, his voice was halting, cautious: “I’m not proud to admit it,” he said.