J. Lennon - Castle

“Good morning, Eric.”

“Good morning, sir.”

He turned to my father. “That will be all, Brian,” he said.

My father’s hand had been resting on my shoulder. Now it tightened, as though nervously, and slipped away.

“All right then!” my father said, drawing a deep breath. “So I should see you here at…?”

“Sundown.”

“Eric,” my father said, “I’ll see you later.”

I stood very still, and did not speak.

“Son, I’m heading out.”

Doctor Stiles faced me, his brow creased, his hard eyes boring into mine. I blinked and tried to look past him, at the house. I hoped my father would understand that I was not able to speak. But he persisted.

“Son, turn and say goodbye to your father.” He was angry, to be sure — he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around to face him.

“Good bye, Eric,” he said, in a tone that would brook no argument.

Quietly, as if there were some chance that Doctor Stiles wouldn’t hear, I said, “Goodbye.”

“Speak up,” my father answered. “I can’t hear you.”

At last I gave up all pretense. I stood straight and barked out a second farewell: “Goodbye, Father.” My father smiled, less at my words, I think, than at the fact of his having retained authority over me. My goodbye extracted, he shook Doctor Stiles’s hand and drove away.

As soon as the car was out of sight, I heard the faint crack of Doctor Stiles’s shoulder, and the whisper of his sleeve against his arm, and a moment later I found myself lying on the gravel, my right ear exploding in pain.

My instinct was to get up, but I remained on the ground. I heard the Doctor’s footsteps as they climbed the front stoop, and the sound of the door being opened. A few minutes later, I heard him emerge.

“Stand up.”

I did as he said, and faced the road, as I had been doing when he hit me.

“Turn around.”

His face was expressionless. “You will be very uncomfortable today,” he said, “and your clothes will be ruined. Next time, you will dress more appropriately.” He paused to make sure I wouldn’t answer. Then he nodded once, and said, “Follow me.”

I followed Doctor Stiles to the treeline, where he stepped over a deadfall and into the trees. Though the sun was fully risen now, the air was cold and the light dim. The woods, though hardly impassible, were tough going, and I had difficulty keeping up. The Doctor walked with complete confidence, seeming to follow some zigzagging, almost arbitrary path, and I understood that, wherever we were headed, I would be entirely incapable of finding my way back without him.

We walked for what must have been the better part of an hour. My blood raced and my mouth was dry, perhaps from the coffee I had drunk, and to which I was unaccustomed; and I was growing very tired. In addition, I had to urinate, and Doctor Stiles, disinclined to turn around, would never see my raised hand. Branches raked my face, my good pants tore on a fallen tree limb, and my stiff dress shoes were rubbing my skin raw.

I was momentarily distracted from my discomforts, however, when the trees thinned and what I thought to be a huge gray wall came into view. It was, in fact, a giant stone, protruding from the ground as if dropped there from the sky. The wall was sheer and stretched high into the air.

But Doctor Stiles did not stop to admire it. Rather, he turned left and continued around it, at an increased pace now that the ground was clear of trees and brush.

Ironically, it was at this moment that my fatigue overwhelmed me, and my thin legs gave out. I lay in the dirt as my bladder emptied, and tears stung my hot and filthy face. I wanted to cry out, to ask the Doctor to stop and wait, but I knew how such a request would be met: with violent, dispassionate cruelty. I thought, uncharacteristically, of my sister, and longed to fall into her arms. And it was this very thought — and my growing disgust for myself, for thinking it — that eventually forced me to my feet, and the tears from my eyes. I stood panting for some seconds, trying to get my bearings. The enormous wall of rock was to my right, and we had arrived from my left — but what these directions represented, and what our goal might be, was impossible to discern. I assumed I was being led to Doctor Stiles’s castle, but none was in sight. I could only continue in the last direction I had seen the Professor walk — and so, gathering up my strength, I set off along the rock wall.

In a moment, the rock began to curve, and soon it had turned a corner, running off to the right. It was less smooth here, but still rose nearly vertical into the sunny sky; I walked along it for a few minutes more.

And then, at last, I came to a man-made wall about twenty feet tall, and I knew I had arrived at the castle. The wall terminated at each end with a tower, one topped by a conical turret, the other stout and square with slotted sides. The slots seemed to penetrate deeply into stone, giving the castle an impression of tremendous strength. There was, however, no sign of my tutor.

I continued around the castle, staring up at the towers, alert for any movement. Soon my neck grew tired and I was forced to lower my head. Eventually I made it all the way around, and came to an enormous wooden door, bound together with iron straps and spikes. There was a handle, as well, but no matter how hard I pushed and pulled, I could not budge it.

It was when I stood back to reconsider my tactic that I heard the Doctor’s voice, faint and distorted by echoes, bouncing off the cliffs above.

“Eric. Find your way in.”

May I say that I am embarrassed to recount the relief, even joy, that I felt when I heard that voice? It was as though I was hearing the voice of God. My exhaustion, the acrid damp of my ruined pants, my aching feet: all of it fell away and I felt the full, validating force of my mentor’s call.

I knew better than to reply — for that, I would be punished. I began to examine the enormous door more carefully now, searching every crack and irregularity for some hidden lever, hasp, or key that would allow me to open it. I must have spent half an hour, at one point even dragging a large branch from the woods to climb up on, in order to search the upper portion of the door. My efforts were futile, though, and I returned the way I came, feeling along the curtain wall for some handhold.

An hour’s work made it clear that there was none. I tried several times to climb the wall, but the masonry was even and firm, and I slipped back down to the ground each time.

For some long minutes I sat on the forest floor, my back against the wall, and I fell asleep. When I woke, the sun was lower in the sky, my mouth was rank and dry, and I was very hungry. Yet I was determined to attain my goal.

I walked back the way I had come, toward the wooden door, then passed it, heading for the place where the wall met the rock. And it was there I found my answer — a narrow gap between the two, wide enough to admit me. I hurried down it, my eyes raking the ground for the point of entry, and within minutes I had discovered the hole in the wall, and the wooden block with the handle. I pulled it out, ducked inside, and shimmied through the tunnel and into the castle.

I would soon have ample time to take in the courtyard, but at this moment my attention was focused, fifteen or so feet from where I stood, upon a strange but welcome sight — a crude wooden table, standing on the flagstones, overlaid with a white cloth, and bearing a single dinner plate, utensils, a drinking glass, and a folded napkin. The plate was heaped with mashed potatoes, steak, and peas, and the glass full of milk. Even from here, I could see the steam rising from the food. I raced to the table, tripping and nearly falling on my way, and collapsed into the wooden chair tucked underneath the place setting. I had never been so famished, and began to shovel the food into my mouth, barely chewing before I swallowed and scooped up another load.