J. Lennon - Castle

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.