Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (16 page)

“But I didn’t get the impression he was very glad to see me for some reason. Did my coming here upset him?”

“Not at all. I think he was just surprised. You are very young. That is unusual. In Jonas’s time, the Undertakers would come to Arvale much later in their lives. But times change, do they not? We are all very happy you have come, I promise you.”

Silas was willing to play it their way. He looked about the hall, but Maud pulled his attention back. “You are moving rapidly through the spheres, nephew. You only recently became Undertaker. How goes your work?”

“I think I am doing well. Probably it’s best that I just keep pressing on. It’s what might happen if I take time to stop and think that worries me.”

“You are wise, I think, in that. Alive or dead, I’ve always preferred an active existence, a daily regimen.”

They circled the room and approached the front door.

There was more to this simple conversation than the words they were exchanging. Silas could tell that she wanted things between them to be pleasant and for him to trust her, and he could sense that she had a reason for asking him about his work. She wanted something from him. He didn’t like being scrutinized or set up. If she wanted something, she should just say it.

To push the focus from himself, Silas pointed to a cloth-hidden chair, prominently located near the door.

“What’s this?”

“Furniture,” she replied flatly, moving away, trying to draw him away with her.

Silas didn’t move. “Why is it covered?”

“It is an ancient thing. You’ll find this house is full of relics.”

Maud’s tone had grown taut. Silas could tell he’d stumbled on something interesting.

“Everything in this house is old,” Silas said, “so why is this particular chair covered?”

“I would like to tell you more about it, but I think, just yet, the others wouldn’t approve. Not everyone has as much faith in you as I do. Leave it be for now. You’ll see it soon enough, I promise you. There is nothing in this house that can’t be yours if you just show a little patience and perhaps a bit of restraint. This is not for you, at this time. Not yet.”

But Silas couldn’t let it go, now that his curiosity had been aroused. “Why all the secrecy about an old chair?” Maud had already begun walking toward the far end of the hall.

“Now, where has Lars gotten to?” Maud called out, changing the subject, gesturing for Silas to follow her. She drew up a little silver bell that hung from a cord about her waist and shook it. Lars, who had been waiting just beyond the archway, looked in.

“Lars, perhaps it is time to allow our guest to take his rest?”

Lars nodded.

“Yes. A little rest would be much appreciated, “ Silas said to Maud very politely. But to himself he thought,
I’m not on my home turf. Family and familiarity are not the same. I am a traveler. I must abide by the local customs and let it be for now.

Led by Lars, Silas and Maud walked to the arch before the hallway where the stairs could be seen. Cool air came through the archway, and the smell of dust and mold and wood filled his nostrils as he breathed. He wondered how long his family had occupied this house. Then a thought came to him. “Aunt Maud?” Silas tried out the title, which somehow, considering their distance in the family tree, seemed appropriate.

“Yes?” Maud smiled at the cordial, familial term.

“Do any of my more recent relatives reside in this house? Is my grandfather about somewhere?”

“He is not, Silas. He preferred a quiet afterlife, and soon took the waters and went the way of Peace. His last years were difficult, and he wished only for rest. He made the decision himself, and was under no compulsion.”

Silas nodded. There was brightness upon her face as she spoke. Her words rang true. Slowly, without looking up, he asked, “Is my father among the company of this house?”

“No,” said Maud, looking back at the door. “Your father is not presently within this house. As you know, in life he often insisted on his own way. He was no different in death.”

Silas’s heart began to race at her words. Could he find his father again, even in death? He had imagined that Amos had simply gone to his rest after a troubled and tragic life. Their last meeting in the bell tower in the Narrows had been calm and loving. There had been no mention of shadowlands or wandering. Now Silas began to feel, with a strange hopefulness, that he and his father might meet again.

“Do you mean he
was
here? Where did he go?”

“He used to come to Arvale regularly until he broke with many of our customs. He was very proud, you see. He made a perfunctory visit after his demise, but followed his own path, leaving us here to . . . our own business. I cannot say where
his
business might have taken him, only that he was, it seemed, under obligations that would not allow him to remain among us.”

“When was he here, exactly?” Silas asked, his voice growing desperate. He could see Maud was becoming uncomfortable again. The details of her face began to darken and blur. She was slowly drifting away from him.

“Silas, the nature of my existence does not lend itself to exactitude where time is concerned. I believe your father was here very recently. He did not enter the house, however. I doubt he ever shall again. He made it very clear that Arvale was
our
place, not his.” Maud’s voice grew bitter and she looked away from the door as if it hurt her eyes.

Lars shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

“Normally, Silas, those who come to this house must find their own way. But I’ve had rooms put at your disposal very close to the hall. That way, there will be less chance of getting lost. I hope you will be comfortable. Lars will take you now.” She turned to Lars and added, “Please stay close to him, will you?”

Lars nodded in agreement, but did not look Maud in the eyes.

“Rooms? That sounds lovely. Thank you,” Silas said. “But I wasn’t planning on staying here long enough to require ‘rooms.’ ”

Somewhere past one of the smaller doorways, a light laughter broke out among some lingering members of the family, who hadn’t yet faded back into their accustomed regions.

Maud waved her hand dismissively and looked at Silas. “Silas, you may stay as long as you want. You are not a prisoner here. You are free to come and go.” She glanced quickly at Lars who, for the briefest instant, looked wistful. “Lars can show you something of the house. Let me say this to you, however. Now that you are here, the traditions of the house must be met. It would be unwise to attempt departure before you have undergone the initiations into your appointed place. By coming here, you are now subject to the laws of this house and certain . . . obligations must now be met.”

“Can you just tell me if—”

“It would be better for you to rest before we discuss anything further. You have come a long way, farther than you know. Let us leave any questions for another time. Settle in. Be comforted by the presence of your kin. Prepare yourself.”

“For what precisely?”

“Lars!” Maud said, apparently finished with the conversation, pulling him from his wandering thoughts. “Please show Silas to his rooms.” She turned back to Silas. “Dinner is at ten, by custom. Return to the hall at that time and you shall know something more of this place and its dependents. Do not be late. A moment beyond the appointed hour and I cannot be responsible for where, or in what company, you may find yourself.”

L
EDGER

In my Father’s house are many dwelling places:

if it were not so, I wolde have told you:

I go to prepare a place for you.

—J
OHN
, 14.2 (
UNDERLINED IN RED INK ON A PAGE TORN FROM A COPY OF THE
G
ENEVA
B
IBLE
, 1560)

L
ARS AND
S
ILAS LEFT THE HALL
and climbed a staircase bearing massive carved newel posts in the shapes of standing lions, their paws clawing at the air. When they reached the landing, a short hallway lay before them, lit with candles in bronze sconces. Lars kept saying, as though it were a hope and not a fact, “Almost there, at your rooms! Your rooms should be just ahead. Yes. We are almost to your rooms.”

Did he need to repeat it for some special reason? Silas remembered the first time he went into the shadowlands. He had needed to focus his mind on where he wanted to go. Was this the same? Did the house contort and alter its topography to accommodate the travelers of its halls and corridors? If so, what kind of a shadowland was this?

And there was to be a dinner. This made Silas mildly uneasy—it meant there would be food he would be expected to eat. Otherworldly food was often taboo. But this was a complicated matter. In some cases, the injunction against eating was severe, but only because it then bound one to the otherworld in some way. But as an Undertaker, Silas was already bound to the otherworld. Indeed, his job was to traverse it. So for Silas, the rules were different. He had to judge each shadowland individually. In one that he knew of, the Peony Lantern Teahouse, eating meant forgetting, very dangerous even for an Undertaker. Yet here at Arvale, Silas surmised, eating from the ancestral table represented obligation, respect, and perhaps in some way embodied another aspect of his initiation into the family mysteries.

Just as Silas came to the conclusion that he would eat what was offered to him, he arrived at the end of the hall. The architecture made the breath catch in his throat.

That was
his
door.

He was now, in Arvale, standing before the door to
his
house back home.

As they approached, he could even see the word “ARVALE” scratched into the wood as it had been just before he’d left.

“Here we are!” said Lars with visible relief, oblivious to Silas’s mounting confusion.

Silas backed up. “What is this?” he gasped.

“Your rooms,” said Lars, unsure of what was wrong.

“My rooms? This is the door to my house. In Lichport.”

“Yes?” said Lars. “Yes. We are in Lichport. Well, just at the edge of it. In your family’s house. And these are your rooms. Silas? Are you all right? Your face has gone positively white!”

Silas stepped up to the door again and ran his hands over the painted wood. It was the door to his house. Here was a patch of chipped paint; he’d picked it away one day waiting on the porch for . . . for someone he couldn’t quite recall. The handle of the door was familiarly worn. It was the same door.
Where am I?
he thought with rising panic.
I am in Arvale. I am a part of this house. This is an illusion, an image. The house is showing me that we are connected, that I am a part of this place. That I belong here. Nothing more,
he told himself, trying to soothe his fraying nerves. But Silas still felt somewhere down in his gut that what he was looking at was more spider’s web than welcome mat.

Lars was standing behind him, clearly worried by Silas’s abrupt change in mood. Silas composed himself and clapped Lars reassuringly on the arm.

“It’s okay, cousin,” Silas said to Lars. “Let’s go in.”

Past the door, the room before him was familiar as well, but only in portions, as though certain pieces of the rooms from his house had fallen into this one, or been laid over it. There was his father’s desk, but behind was a paneled wall, much older than the wall of his house back in town. Here were bookshelves with familiar carvings, but these were nearly empty, whereas his shelves at home were spilling with volumes.

“It will feel more homely once we lay a fire,” Lars said, moving to the hearth, taking dry wood from a copper bucket and arranging it on the grate. He took out a tinderbox and a moment later small flames licked at the little branches at the bottom of the pile.

Other objects in the room at first seemed new to him, but as he gazed upon them—the medieval chest and table; the large, elaborate Jacobean mantel; the tapestries on the walls—everything began to feel familiar, and a voice in his mind said,
This is your room, Silas. It has always been your room. It always shall be.