Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

“Take your time,” Mr Broom told him.

“By all means, you must,” agreed Tomas.

Lucy nodded his thanks. “Yes. Hmm. As it happens, and if you really want to know, I threw myself into this pit bodily.”

“On purpose, you mean?” Tomas asked.

“That’s right,” said Lucy.

“But why would you do such a thing?” Mr Broom wondered.

“I was despondent.”

“Clearly you were,” Tomas said. “But what were you despondent about?”

“A great number of things.”

“Such as what?”

“The overall circumstances of my life on earth.”

“Life in general, you say?” Mr Broom asked.

“Yes.”

“Top to bottom, is that what you mean?” said Tomas.

“That’s it.”

“No solace to be found?” asked Mr Broom.

“Anyway I could find none, search as I might.”

“As bad as all that, eh?” Tomas said.

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

Mr Broom and Tomas shook their heads sympathetically. A thought came to the latter, and he brightened. “Possibly things will take a turn for you now, have you considered it?”

“I hadn’t, actually,” Lucy answered.

“This might be your starting over point.”

“It’s a thought.”

“The moment at which you begin afresh.” Tomas nudged Mr Broom. “From here on out, a new beginning.”

“Yes,” Mr Broom said. “It pleases me.”

“After all, is that not how it has been for us, my friend?”

“It has indeed, and indeed it has.”

The bearded duo sat awhile, digesting. Tomas was cleaning his teeth with a fish bone, while Mr Broom pinched at the tip of his tongue once, twice, thrice; he plucked away some bit of matter, which he fell to studying. Lucy, in regarding these two, was visited with the chilling knowledge that he would soon be assimilated into their society. Naturally this did not sit well with him, so that he felt impelled to ask after the possibilities of escape. The pair of them nodded, as though anticipating the question; Tomas, holding up a corrective finger, said, “There is no possibility whatsoever.”

“Surely there must be,” Lucy answered, looking about the cavern, as if to locate some solution.

“The walls cannot be scaled,” said Mr Broom.

“The river, then.”

Tomas shook his head. “The downriver route is, you can plainly see, impassable, disappearing as it does into sheer rock. The upriver route presents the only option for escape, and I say without reservation or shame that it cannot be bettered.”

“So you’ve tried, then?”

“Of course we have. In my years alone here I attempted it more times than I care to recall before abandoning the thought entirely. Then, when Mr Broom arrived, I was swayed by his youth and enthusiasm, and I made several more attempts by his side, each outing a thoroughgoing failure. I suppose it is that you’ll want to take a look for yourself, and you’re welcome to do this, but I for one will opt out, as will Mr Broom, I imagine. Isn’t that right?”

Mr Broom nodded, with emphasis.

Tomas pointed upriver. “You enter into the cave,” he said, “and walk a hundred yards, at which point you’ll come to a fork. You may elect to take the route to your left, or the one to your right; it makes no difference, for whichever you choose will lead to yet another fork, and then another, and another, and on like this, endlessly or seemingly endlessly, and in total darkness. It’s slow going against the current, the footing is slick and treacherous, and of course, as you know, the water temperature is not what you’d call inviting.” Tomas paused here, remembering. “Our last excursion was catastrophic. We had been away some days when I wrenched my ankle, and Mr Broom was forced to carry me on his back. We were delirious with hunger and frozen to our bones and I make no exaggeration when I say we had abandoned all thoughts of survival. At last we simply gave ourselves to the current, bobbing along in the darkness and hoping against hope not to be dashed against unseen boulders. Halfway back, and Mr Broom broke an arm.” Here he turned to look at Mr Broom, who drew back his sleeve, revealing a wrist bent to a grotesquely unnatural angle. “Think of it, boy,” Tomas continued. “Floating downriver in pitch black, expecting at any moment to have my skull stove in, and the only sound to be heard other than the rush of the frigid waters was Mr Broom’s screaming, echoing off the roof of the cavern.” He made a sour face and shook his head. “It’s the devil’s own playground in there, and if you don’t believe me, then you be my guest.”

Lucy stared at the river, puzzling at the fates which had landed him in his present location. What could the future possibly hold for him here? And what of his life beyond the confines of the cavern? He wondered what Adolphus had told Klara of his disappearance. Presumably he’d told her the truth, and so she was mourning his passing. It pained him to think of her being pained, to say nothing of the idea of Adolphus offering his comforts. “We must try again,” said Lucy.

“Must we?” Tomas asked.

“Of course we must. Otherwise we’ll die here.”

Here Tomas spoke gently, and with tranquil understanding. “That’s not how we see it, Lucy.”

“How do you see it?”

“We’ll live here.”

They passed a night huddled close for warmth, and in the morning awoke to face another meal, this identical to that of the evening prior. Lucy was very hungry by this point, and yet he still could not deliver the fish to his mouth. Neither Mr Broom nor Tomas commented, for they had each been through just the same ordeal, and knew Lucy would eat when he was ready. During breakfast, and afterwards, Lucy noticed that Mr Broom was watching him with a woebegone look on his face. This continued for such a time that Lucy asked if something was the matter. Mr Broom said, “It’s just that, I find myself wondering if you’re aware you and I arrived here under similar circumstances.”

“I’m aware of it,” said Lucy.

“And how are you aware of this, may I ask?”

“Mr Olderglough referenced it, as did the Baroness.”

Upon hearing that the Baroness had returned, Mr Broom’s eyes darted away. He was silent for a long while before asking, “When did she come back?”

“Some weeks ago.”

“And how does she seem to you?”

“I had the impression she was relieved to have returned. At least at the beginning, this was the sense I had.”

“Do you mean to say that something has changed since then?”

“There has been a change.”

“And what is the change?”

Lucy was unsure how to describe it. “It seems to me that she is weakening.”

“She is ill?”

“Not physically ill, no.”

“How is she ill?”

Lucy said, “There is an increasing dearth of sensibility in regard to her actions.”

“How do you mean?”

“She keeps unsavoury acquaintances and engages in unnatural social acts.”

“Speak plainly.”

“I dare not.”

“Tell me all you know.”

“I shall not. All that I’ll say is that I believe there is an unwellness rampant in the castle.”

“What does that mean, unwellness?”

“A pervasive unpleasantness.”

“What is unpleasant?”

“It’s something which I can’t put into words other than to say I suspect all who live there are affected in time. Did you not feel imperilled at any point during your stay?”

“No.”

“Fixed in the clutches of something larger than yourself?”

“No.”

“And yet you chased death into the Very Large Hole, where you now find yourself living in rags and eating away at the belly of a raw fish and calling it supper, or breakfast, for that matter.”