The High House (7 page)

“You have an unusual outlook for a modern man.”

“I have simply thought through the ramifications of the law. I tell you, sir, the world is a strange and mysterious place, full of oddity and coincidence beyond the ken of mortal flesh. Why should I be surprised by a dinosaur, when I have been transfixed by the wonders of an octopus, a steam engine, and a sunset, miracles all? Why should I debunk magic, when I have gaped at the enchantment of clouds billowing unsupported in the sky? Is a tree, a splayed wooden stick with the appearance of an upside-down root covered with green fur, a credible thing? Keep an open mind—there is my motto. I consider a giant lizard hardly less likely than that a house should have no owner, though it
has
been owned for many decades, or that a will be drawn which gives away nothing.”

“Thank you for giving me your trust,” Carter said with a relieved smile. “Can you also give me counsel?”

“I might suggest we poke around the library after the proceedings, to see if we can discover any old records concerning the mansion. There seems almost a conspiracy of silence among the servants. We need to know more.”

“I would be grateful,” Carter said, feeling he truly had an ally.

The reading of the will proved a dreary affair, the only ones present being Hope, Carter, Lady Murmur, and Duskin, while Brittle bustled in and out, bringing tea. As the attorney had said, the document made Carter Steward of the house until a Master was chosen, a wording that troubled both the lawyer and Lady Murmur greatly; Mr. Hope because it was vague, the lady because she had wished for more.

“Is there nothing for my son?” she demanded, while Duskin glared at his half brother. “Is he to live in the house at Carter’s discretion?”

“The document is specific,” Hope said. “Both the Anderson sons have the right to dwell in the house, but the Steward controls its assets. The method of choosing a Master is not specified. I can only assume there is some unknown mechanism for doing so, one that might eventually surface. I intend to research the matter further.”

“Perhaps you will, and perhaps another attorney should be summoned,” she said. “You seem to know Carter too well.”

“Madame,” Hope replied. “If you insinuate tampering, it is preposterous. This document, along with several others, was deposited with our firm nearly a decade ago. I am a junior partner at Dyson, Phillips, and Hope, having worked there only six years, but the facts are attested by my associates. Mr. Carter and I met day before yesterday. Do you deny that this is the signature of your late husband?” He held the document up for her inspection, while she squinted down the planes of her sharp nose.

“I deny nothing!” she said, rising to leave. “See that you do, indeed, ‘research the matter further.’ We will await your results. Come, Duskin, let us return to our rooms.”

Duskin followed his mother out, all anger and malice.

“She seemed unsurprised that your father made no provision for her,” Hope said, once she was gone. “He left her entirely at your mercy. You could have her removed.”

“Yes, but my father loved her for a time, though I think he knew at the last what she was. And Duskin is my brother. She has poisoned him to me already. Why repay evil in kind?”

“Quite right,” Hope said, rubbing his hands together, as if cleansing them. “Best to take the high road. And with that task done, perhaps the library will offer some clues.”

They left the dining room, and passed down the transverse corridor to the tall doors of the library, which were made wholly of heavy oak, with such herds of seraphs and hippogriffs circling their embroidered edges that it took the servants a whole day to polish them. Despite the weight of the oak, at the turning of the jade knobs the doors swung easily on soundless hinges, revealing the room Carter had always thought the most mysterious, misty gray as a marsh, the watery edges of its walls borders he had often approached as a child, but never quite reached. Heavy carpet, all russet cattails on olive fronds, ran between the stacks. A small sitting area lay to the left of the entrance, its verdant couches stretched long and sporting carved hunting hawks arching down mahogany armrests. Gray dolomite pillars supported the low ceiling there, which was also gray with tendrils of yellow and brown. Beyond the couches Carter saw the narrow door that led into the chamber of the Book of Forgotten Things.

Past the sitting area, tall oak shelves formed intricate mazes on the main floor. Beyond these, a curved staircase led to a gallery, also filled with bookcases, bordering all four walls of the upper story.

“Formidable,” Hope said. “Or perhaps I should say ephemeral; it doesn’t seem quite substantial.”

“There is a card catalogue,” Carter said. “But what exactly are we looking for?”

“Clues as to the traditions of the house, specifically the way the title is passed down. I need to find the legal section.”

The card catalogue was thirty feet of dark cherry. Hope quickly identified several volumes and the two men wandered the aisles to find them.

Walking amidst the stacks was like plunging into jungle shadows, with the slow running of a stream, the cries of birds, the lowing of oxen, the stamping of warrior feet just beyond hearing, and dark leather all around. The pungent odor of books surrounded them, old, forgotten, ponderous with words, deep antiquity in rectangular form. Carter saw a centipede flowing across the carpet.

“Odd,” Hope said, stopping before a section with FICTION carved upon the top of the shelves. “Everything is out of place. The legal books are here.” He searched a time before choosing a tall, moldering tome.

Carter, who had moved farther down the aisle, gave a chuckle. “You should see the HISTORY section.
Vathek
by Beckford,
The World’s Desire
, even the
Orlando Furioso
, fantastic books all. Why, here’s even the dreaded
Krankenhammer
of Stefan Schimpf, the mad cobbler of Mainz, a book of magic outlawed in most countries. Bad filing, you think, or an odd sense of humor?”

As Carter scanned the misplaced editions, he saw a small gold book wedged between a pair of larger volumes, with the prestigious title:
The High House, Evenmere, Being a Genealogy and History From Its Founding
.

“I might have something here.” He took it and sat in a red velvet chair, in a small alcove built into the nearby shelves, with a modest desk and a green lamp overhead.

“I’m going to poke a bit farther on,” Hope said, disappearing between an opening in the stacks.

Carter’s excitement on finding the book lessened when he discovered the chronicles ended more than a hundred years before his father’s birth. The genealogical list, though dull, was of amazing length. The names and the history proved enigmatic, the events and references being of an obscure nature, although he did find mentioned the
Tigers of Naleewuath
and the
Master Keys
. But mostly the book told of the times when the Masters of the house were summoned to various countries to perform inexplicable services. It reminded Carter of the strange folk who used to visit his father, dressed as if from another age.

Pondering the volume, thinking of the past while the soft lapping of water trickled unaccountably at the edge of his hearing, brought a heavy drowsiness upon him, made worse by his previous sleepless night. His head soon drifted to the top of the desk; the book fell from his hands. His last conscious thoughts were that there must be a fountain somewhere in the room.

Dreaming, he raised his head and found himself still at the desk, although the dimness had given way to a soft mist high up on the paneled ceiling. He looked down at the table, where the book lay open to the last page, and saw his father’s signature upon it, proceeded by a brief history.

“Why, that wasn’t there before,” he said.

“Of course not,” Brittle said, causing Carter to start. The butler stood looking down upon him, his face drawn and waxen pale. “It wasn’t there because you are only dreaming now. You must have fallen asleep at the table. Yet, we all find ourselves here together. You should leave the library at once.”

Carter looked around, perplexed and suddenly suspicious, uncertain if people in dreams say you are dreaming. He shut the book quickly and stood. “Perhaps I should.”

“Try to reach the main doors,” Brittle said. “I will see if I can find some way to forestall them.” Turning, he hurried away between the shelves.

Carter sought to leave, but discovered the library all changed, the bookshelves no longer in neat lines, but at various angles, more a maze than before. He walked a short distance, turning right, then left, following the labyrinth until he reached a dead end. An ominous whispering fled around the shelves, but when he looked, he saw nothing but the books. The sound grew louder until he could almost understand it, and he became afraid. There was something menacing about the way the bookcases leaned toward him, threatening to pounce.

With the logic of dreams, he decided to push the books off the shelves and make his way out of the library by crawling between the spaces. He withdrew a handful of volumes at eye level.

The blank face of the Bobby stared at him from the other side, a white emptiness without eyes, nose, mouth, or ears. Carter bellowed in surprise and fled back against the shelves.

“Come to me,” the Bobby said, low and earnest. “Join us. Or do you want the Room of Horrors again?”

Carter rushed back down the rows of books, the whispering all around him. “Join us,” it said. “Join us or die.”

He tried to turn a corner, banged into a shelf, and fell to his knees. Far away, he thought he heard the growling of a large animal, a hunting beast. Looking up, he saw the bookcases changed, half-organic: leaves branched from the volumes, moss grew down the tops and sides of the shelves.
A jungle of books
, he thought, rising to run again.

Around the next corner he found Brittle stalking along the aisles, poking between the books, a bright sword in his hand. Gold specks danced on its point.

“What is it?” Brittle demanded, seeing Carter’s expression.

Carter halted. “Didn’t you hear the noise? The Bobby pursues me. Come with me.”

Brittle stood and listened. “It is very faint to me. And it is hard to see as well. They are controlling the dream, but they won’t have it all their own way. You should hurry.”

“Come with me,” Carter urged again.

“Not yet. You go ahead. Find Hope. He is in danger as well.”

Carter paused, confused. It
was
a dream, wasn’t it? It even
felt
like a dream. Yet, he could not escape the inordinate sense of fear. What was the saying, that if a person dreamed they were falling and hit the bottom before they awoke, the shock would really kill them? But who had ever hit the bottom and found out?

He continued down the maze, turning right, left, then right again, nearly colliding with the man waiting for him, a long knife in his hand, the very same man who had helped abduct him many years before.

“Been looking for you,” the man said.

Carter backed up, while his assailant followed. Reaching to the side, he grasped a book and threw it with all his force, striking his opponent in the forehead, sending him reeling. Carter fled once more down twisted aisles resembling more and more a wildwood; branches drooped from the ceiling; bird calls filtered down through heavy foliage.

He turned another of the endless corners and found Mr. Hope standing perplexed.

“Carter, what the devil is happening?”

Carter had no time to reply before one of the bookcases toppled toward Hope with a loud rumble. He yanked the attorney away, saving him from being crushed as a whole row of shelves fell in domino fashion. Out of the dust and rubble, Brittle came running, brandishing his sword before him.

“They are right behind me!” the butler cried. “Continue ahead! Seek the second floor; there is a door to the north.”

From behind the fallen bookcases came the Bobby, the other man with him. A large black beast proceeded them, like a great cat, but a shadow creature with a continually shifting form. The chandeliers rattled as it roared.

“You can’t stay here!” Carter cried.

“Someone must hold them off,” Brittle said. “You are the one they want. Hurry!”

Carter turned, Hope with him. He thought himself a coward, leaving Brittle like this. But wasn’t it all a dream? They rushed down the aisle, dodging and turning through the maze. They had gone no more than fifty yards when they heard the scream of the dark animal, this time crying in pain, and Brittle’s ancient voice, shouting, “For the High House!”

A thunderous crash followed, and then silence. Carter and Hope kept running, straight into another dead end. They exchanged frightened stares. Hope was dripping with sweat, looking terrified; Carter was certain he looked the same.

“Over here!” a gruff voice said.

A center section of one of the bookcases slid forward, opening like a door into a dull, shadowed chamber. Within it sat a lanky man wrapped in penumbra. Even in the darkness, Carter saw his clothes were old, mismatched like a vagabond’s. His face remained hidden by the wide brim of his stovepipe hat. The collar of his patched coat hid the rest of his features.

“Who are you?” Carter demanded.

“The Face Outside the Window. The Thing the dog barks at in the night, which it cannot see. I am the Thin Man. In here, quickly.”

Despite his reservations, driven by need, Carter followed, Hope behind him, and the door slid into place at their backs. The stranger held a tiny candle, which barely illuminated the way before them, revealing a rounded tunnel, with a stair angling upward.

“Where are we?” Carter half whispered.

“Headed away,” the Thin Man replied.

They climbed one flight of rickety steps, but then descended as if toward the basement. Carter wondered if he could defend himself in this narrow way if the Thin Man meant them harm.

They came to a door, and the stranger grasped Mr. Hope’s sleeve. “You go through there,” he ordered. “You will be safe.”

Hope looked at Carter and licked his lips. “This is just a nightmare, isn’t it?”