Chapter 2 #2
When I arrive, I can’t help but scoff. For a moment, I wonder if I’m in the wrong place.
There are no flowers, just an impenetrable hedge of vines.
I inspect it closer. The branches are peppered with needle-like spines, eager to tease the blood from my fingers.
The air here is strangely stagnant, carrying the scent of rot and abandonment.
Thankfully, there are thick leather gardening gloves in a bucket, a sturdy canvas apron, and a tiny little pickaxe. I pull the ancient gloves over my fingers, but they refuse to conform to my hands, and I hope that my meagre body heat is enough to make them more pliable.
As I’m trying to differentiate between the vines and the weeds, I smile, realising that the task of weeding a weed is even more pointless than brushing off shrivelled-up potatoes.
The work is dirty, my fingers thoroughly chilled from digging in the damp soil, and the smell of mildew pushes my skull against my suddenly too-tight cap. At least the sun finally makes an appearance, warming my back and offering a bit of relief.
The deep croak of a crow startles me. I’m surprised that a living being dared to come so close to this bleak place.
I continue to pull up random bits of green and drop them into the bucket. I don’t put much effort into figuring out what’s a weed and what’s a plant. No one here would care either way.
When the bucket is full, I walk over to the marked spot and tip the contents onto the heap.
I have no idea how long I’ve been working, but the sensation of my skin being cooked from the inside has firmly embedded itself in me, a sign that I’ve spent too much time outside.
Unfortunately, I take more after my father in that regard, and my fair skin has never been resilient enough to handle nature beyond the bare minimum.
“Mister Bloom, lunch is served in the kitchen.” A sharp voice startles me out of my thoughts, making me flinch.
I jump up, and Bayard is suddenly there, too close, his distended eyes flat and unreadable. I take a step back and nearly fall into the bushes behind me.
“Alright, thanks,” I mumble, trying to shake off the dirt clinging to my gloved hands.
“Leave it all there,” he says with a shake of his head. “Come with me.”
I follow Bayard through a different path into the kitchen. And when we arrive, I’m surprised to see two steaming bowls waiting for us at the table. After yesterday’s chilly welcome, I hadn’t expected to ever eat with Bayard. He struck me as the kind of person who didn’t need food at all.
I wash my hands quickly, the cold water burning my icy fingers, and sit down to inspect the food: a sickly yellow porridge of indeterminate origin. It’s hot but so bland, I can’t begin to guess what grain it used to be.
I glance up at Bayard as I eat. He sits straighter than a board, moving his spoon strangely deliberately. Yellowed nails gripping the utensil. Bony knuckles covered in flaccid skin. Then I notice something unusual: a cockroach clings to his shoulder. It’s so still, I wonder if it’s dead.
Bayard continues eating in silence. The cockroach sits there the entire time, until, it moves.
It roams along his lapels as if it was trying to catch stray bits of food.
Bayard’s eyes stay fixed on the bowl in front of him.
He looks like an automaton, making no attempt to appear even remotely human.
But I can’t stop looking at the cockroach leisurely walking on his jacket. Is it a pet? Or is Bayard a reanimated corpse, secretly puppeteered by a thousand roaches?
Before he notices me staring, I look away and continue eating.
I know I’ll be working with this man for the next several months, but I have no interest in making friends.
I don’t attempt to start a conversation, and neither does he.
So we sit in silence, eating the flavourless slop.
It makes me wonder: did he cook this himself, or are there invisible servants making these “gourmet” meals for us?
Once Bayard is done, he stands and washes his bowl in the sink, then he and his cockroach leave without a word.
I finish my own food quickly and do the same.
I’m still washing my bowl when I hear him return to the kitchen.
He drops a large crate onto the freshly cleaned table and tips it over.
A sea of seeds spills across the wooden surface, many tumbling over the edge and onto the floor.
“Peel them,” Bayard commands, pointing to the pile.
I force myself to look away from the cockroach and focus on his hands.
He squeezes a seed between two skeletal fingers until I hear a quiet crack, then strips the skin off and drops it into the crate.
I raise my eyebrows, seriously questioning this man’s sanity.
But he just stands there, watching me expectantly, so I take a seed and peel it just as he showed me.
“I’ll return for supper,” he says, turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen.
I stare at the pile in front of me, each tiny kernel taunting me with its stubborn, papery skin.
“Whatever,” I mumble as I sit down to start this ridiculous task.
I hull kernel after kernel until my fingers are sore and my eyes ache from the effort. The only sound around me is the steady drop of seeds into the box. No other noise drifts in from the open kitchen door. The silence feels almost oppressive.
This place sounds deserted and feels abandoned.
Even with the sun shining brightly outside, little light penetrates the room, leaving it in a state of permanent twilight.
An icy draft creeps through the thick stone walls.
Even the wool of my livery fails to keep out the chill.
I sit there until the scarce daylight dims, and I light a lonely candle left forgotten on the counter.
As I peel seed after pointless seed, I feel like I’ve accidentally stumbled into the Twilight Zone. Maybe I’m in a mysterious house that traps normal people, forcing them into endless busywork until they go mad.
Luckily, I’m not normal. And if boredom could drive a man mad, well…some might say it’s already too late.
By the time Bayard finally returns, he tosses dense bread and stale cheese in front of me. I’m so exhausted, I can’t muster the energy to take a single bite.
“Mmmhh.” His tone is so dry and judgmental, it cuts through the air.
I follow his gaze to the heap of seeds I was supposed to hull today. The dent I made is comically small, and despite a somewhat respectable pile of shiny, peeled kernels sitting in the crate, Bayard remains thoroughly unimpressed.
I down a glass of water in one gulp but misjudge the distance when I set it down, causing it to land with a loud thump. Bayard jumps at the sound and glares at me indignantly.
“I’m too tired to eat. Can I just go to sleep now?” My voice comes out rough, like I haven’t used it in hours.
“As you wish,” he says, already turning to leave the kitchen. I follow him through the castle corridors, suddenly aware that the cockroach is no longer on his shoulder.
When I catch glimpses of the darkness outside, I wonder what time it must be.
I never wear a watch, and being this removed from any time-telling devices is quite disorientating.
I nearly collide with Bayard’s back when he abruptly stops in the middle of the hallway.
He walks away without a word, revealing the doorway to my room just ahead.
Tonight, my discomfort wins over my exhaustion, so I finally pull my toiletries from my backpack.
There truly is nothing like using a new bar of soap for the first time: the waxy softness, the familiar smell of coal tar, and the same words carved on the back; perseverando vinces.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at the motto. How very fitting.
I wash and change quickly, taking more time with my hair today. Even though it’s fairly low maintenance, it still requires some upkeep the longer it gets. I decided to let it grow until I could sit on it, and at this pace, I reckon I’ve got another year or two to go.
Even though my hair feels just as foreign as the rest of my body, I like having it long. It’s an unusual shade of faded taupe, one I’ve never seen on anyone else. It’s weird and unexpected, a secret hidden under my hats. Something only I get to see.
When I’m done brushing, I crash onto the bed, and for a brief moment, I fool myself into thinking that my exhaustion will let me sleep.
But after who knows how long, I get too frustrated just laying there and leave the bed.
Even though my body should be completely drained, I feel strangely restless, and I consider going for a walk.
I don’t remember hearing the door being locked, so I try and turn the knob. It swings open silently. I quickly pull the uniform’s coat on and, in my socked feet, quietly walk down the hall.
I have no particular destination in mind.
Not that I know this castle that well at all.
The places I’ve been to so far—the garden, the cold kitchen, or the damp cellar—seem completely unappealing.
So when I pass a set of stairs climbing to another floor, I decide to follow them.
This time, I pay close attention to the turns I take, counting the doors and memorising every detail.
It’s a challenge since the corridors are dim, and the colours blend into each other.
Like the house is following a description from an old Gothic novel, everything is kept in bleak shades of greys, browns, and dirty beige.
The scattered gas lamps try their best to break up the monotony, but they fail miserably.
I climb up several flights of stairs, careful not to make each groan under my feet, hoping to reach the tallest tower.
Unfortunately, I hit a locked door on the fourth floor before I can continue any higher.
Still restless, I feel the familiar tingle of curiosity at the bottom of my core.
I follow it and explore the top floor. This place seems built entirely of endless halls, making me wonder just how big it truly is.
Finally, at the end of the corridor, I see light coming from an open doorway.
I follow it until I stand at the threshold of a large room.
I’m not entirely sure if it’s a study or a library.
Bookcases line the walls, and a large desk stands in the centre.
Reflections from a giant fireplace dance and shimmer on the dark wooden surfaces of the furniture.
Even though I’ve never cared much for reading, I still want to take a closer look.
Despite the fire, the room feels empty. Bleak.
At least it’s a bit warmer than the rest of this freezing castle.
The surface of the desk is stacked with random notebooks and loose pieces of paper, making me wonder if this is the place where Bayard writes the daily tasks.
Uninterested in the desk and Bayard’s possible workplace, I move toward the window. I can’t see much in the dark without artificial lights anywhere. Only the eerie shadows of clouds moving over the inky forest surrounding the castle’s grounds.
“Do you like the woods?” a smooth, silken voice asks.
I turn, startled. I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room. A man is leaning against a bookcase, dressed all in black, face not visible in the dim firelight.
“Uhm…I dunno,” is all I manage to say, too surprised to be able to formulate a real answer.
The man steps forward, and the moment the light hits his face, my breath hitches.
He’s unusually striking, and I can’t help but stare.
From here, his eyes look completely black, but his large nose and full mouth make him look wild and breathless.
His features are too much at once. Dramatic.
Unbalanced. Overwhelming. Black wavy hair falls to his shoulders, the strands reflecting the light from the fire just as much as his silken waistcoat.
He approaches with confident steps, getting larger the closer he gets. I feel like I’m shrinking or, in a way, like I’m being trapped without my consent. He strides through the room until he stops next to me, not close enough to touch, but enough to notice just how much larger than me he is.
“You ever long to become one with it?” he says, his voice as soft as velvet. The sound does something to my brain.
“What?”
“With the darkness. Just sink in until nothing remains,” he explains quietly, almost a whisper.
I follow his gaze outside. I know exactly what he means, but before I can say anything I hear shouting from the door.
“Get out! Get—” Bayard hollers, entering the room.
I flinch at the sudden noise, and realise he’s addressing me.
The man in black turns, and I could swear with just the power of his gaze, he suspends Bayard mid-sentence just above floor level.
The old man lets out a pathetic squeak, almost like someone was cutting off his air supply.
As quickly as it all began, Bayard is back on his feet, catching himself gasping, red-faced.
He takes big gulps of air while bowing deeply, mumbling apologetically. As soon as he’s able, he rushes out.
Before I can start to process any of it, the man turns to me again.
“How arrogant of you to assume I would speak to someone like you,” he says between his teeth, almost like a hiss.
“What?” I say, so utterly confused that my entire vocabulary shrinks to just that one word.
“Do not dare creep about my castle again,” he warns, moving closer.
I want to step back, but I can feel the cold glass of the window pushing at my back.
He looms over me, his body blocking out the light coming from the fireplace.
My thoughts rush through my mind, trying to understand what exactly is going on.
But all I see are images of Bayard’s eyes bulging out as he clutches his throat.
Wait, did he just say “my castle”? That would make him…
“Do you understand?” he says, clipped and short, the menace of the words apparent.
“Yes,” I nod.
He narrows his eyes at me, and for a moment, I think I see them flashing red. As soon as he strides out of the room, I recognise the cadence of his steps. Slow, deliberate, and charged with barely restrained anger. Aba?. My employer. The same man who screamed in my face only yesterday.