J. Lennon - Castle

Now, in the forest, my vision had returned, and my body was once again under my control. But I remained still for some time, alert for the presence of my quarry. There had been a breeze when I emerged from behind the castle wall; now the wind had died to nothing, and the woods were silent.

Perhaps it was a sixth sense that caused me to think of the rock. I took a step back, then another to the west, until an opening revealed itself between the boughs of the tall pines, and I was able to see up the cliffside to the northern lip of the “ankle.” At first, I believed that I was seeing nothing more sinister than an unremembered outcropping. But then it moved, and I realized that it was the Doctor’s form, outlined against the starry sky. He had been there, watching me, waiting for my next move.

Before he could decide to give up his wait, I retreated farther into the trees and made my way west, and then south, toward the “toe.” The woods were fairly sparse for the first twenty or so feet beyond the treeline, and I stuck to this easier terrain, taking care not to strain or twist my weakened legs. It wasn’t long before I had made it to the southern end of the rock, and I crept to the clearing’s edge, and peered out from the cover of the woods. The moonlight sharply outlined the rock, and I searched its face for any sign of Doctor Stiles. If he still stood on the northern lip, my angle of sight made it impossible to tell.

I waited several more minutes, to be sure I was safe, then gathered my strength and sprinted across the clearing to the “toe.”

It was easier, this time, to climb up over its lip, and onto the broad plateau where the lone pine grew from its soil-filled bowl. I soon found myself at the base of the “ankle,” staring up into the moonlit night, and trying to remember the series of hand- and footholds that had taken me safely to the top. Time was of the essence — Doctor Stiles wouldn’t stay there forever, and I did not wish to meet him on the rock face, where his doubtless superior climbing experience would put him at an advantage. I could not be burdened by my pack, so I lowered it quietly to the ground, keeping only my climbing shoes, gloves, and quiver. My helmet I had left behind at the house, never dreaming that I would need to scale the rock face again — I would see if the smug sporting goods clerk had been correct in his confidence that it was unnecessary.

With as much speed as I could muster, I began to clamber up the sheer face, pushing my weakened arms and legs to the limit. It was with some surprise that I remembered my former path of ascent — the holds came quickly and naturally, and my progress was speedy. Under normal conditions, I am certain, I would have been unable to find the strength to climb that cliff, but extreme circumstances draw out hidden powers in men, and my aching body proved more capable than I could possibly have hoped.

I paused on a ledge to catch my breath and give my fingers a break. The wind, which had died down to nothing some minutes before, now somehow seemed deader still, as if time itself had stopped, and not merely the motion of the air. I had reached the roof level of the forest canopy, and the treetops stretched out in all directions like a stubblefield. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought it would be possible to walk across it, this landscape of gentle silver swells, or to sail it, navigating around those few signs of human habitation below: radio antennas, church steeples, office buildings. It was a heartening, restful sight.

But for now, my rest was over. The motionless air pressed in. Every sound was magnified — my shoes on the rock, my shallow breaths. I turned back to the wall, found my handholds, and climbed.

As I came closer to the summit, I slowed, and concentrated on keeping quiet. I hoped for a breeze, to cover the noise of my ascent, but there was nothing. Soon I could detect the cliff’s edge just above me, and I knew that Doctor Avery Stiles was there — possibly at the northern lip of the “ankle,” standing with his back to me, and possibly just above, waiting for my face to appear, waiting to send me to my death with a single kick.

For one brief moment, I wondered if it was all really worth it, if I should simply turn back and leave all this behind — the woods, the castle, the rock, the Doctor. I doubted the very reasoning behind my entire mission: was it absolutely necessary to have come out here in pursuit of the old man? If Doctor Stiles wanted to kill me, then why didn’t he come into my house while I slept, and do away with me there? There had been ample opportunity for him to take me by surprise, to attack when my guard was down. Indeed, his capture of me was entirely attributable to my encroachment into his territory. If anything, it was I who was the aggressor.

And what would I do once I’d gained the upper hand? Would I attempt to extract some promise from him, that he would never bother me again? An admission that he was no longer my master — that I had absorbed, then exceeded, his tutelage? Or would I merely kill him?

Moreover, was this the reason I had come to Gerrysburg? To find an old man and murder him? Clinging there on the rock face, I cast my mind back to the day I decided to return to my home town. Obviously, I believed I had unfinished business here — I thought that, by revisiting the site of my tutelage, I might somehow clarify my memories of those strange years, and soothe the humiliations of the recent past. But specifically how this would work, I didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t believe that I’d ever known; and the details of my decision to begin this adventure seemed hazier in memory by the minute. I shifted my position incrementally, seeking a more comfortable hold, and wondered about my motives and desires. In my life, I had dedicated myself to understanding the motives of others, through careful study of their words and actions, as had Doctor Stiles before me. But could it be that neither of us had ever really known himself — indeed, that such understanding was impossible? That this mad adventure in the forest was the product of little more than blind instinct, a pathetic expression of formless paranoia and masculine pride?

I felt rather dejected at this moment, and once again considered turning back. But I shook off my doubts and began to build my resolve once more. To succumb to confusion would be to fall directly into Doctor Stiles’s hands. The danger he represented, after all, had always been subtle, insidious, and difficult to pin down. He controlled others by the threat of action, not by action itself. His very existence was the threat — indeed, he was most dangerous when he was doing nothing, allowing his victims’ imagination to run wild with the terrifying possibilities. My job, as I saw it, was to neutralize this danger, and to shirk that duty would represent a grave cowardice.

With these thoughts still ringing in my head, I drew a deep breath, reached up to the final handholds, and swung myself onto the roof of the rock.

He was there, right where I had imagined him, facing north and peering down at the clearing he mistakenly thought I might, at any moment, re-cross. The sound of my shoes scraping the rock surface spun him around. At last, I faced my nemesis.

The moonlight revealed a wry smile on that ageless face; the Doctor relaxed his stance and took two casual steps forward before he stopped suddenly and raised his hands into the air.

“Eric!” he called out. “What are you doing up here?”

“I’ve come to kill you, Professor.”

It wasn’t until I’d said it aloud that I realized it was true — the Doctor’s death was indeed the real objective of my mission. I felt a long-missing piece of my life’s puzzle falling at last into place. The words hung between us, awaiting a response.