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I
go. My arms start to quake and quiver and burn with fatigue; I stop to rest,
arms splayed downwards and to each side, grimacing as my head and back
encounter rough protrusions in the stone. My legs start to quiver too. I
resume and shuffle on upwards, settling into a racked, unsteady rhythm; one
hand gripping the rope, pulling, then one foot up, then the other hand, and
the other foot.
I slip, near the top. One tired hand encounters something slick and slimy on
that filament and my grasp fails; I jerk down, instinct clamping both hands to
the rope as the winch housing creaks loudly above. My grip catches on the
quick friction and I stop, legs dangling. My palms and fingers burn as if
charred, making me moan into the rope as I hang there, bright stars of light
flashing dizzyingly across my field of vision. I swing like a hanged man, feet
bumping into the shaft's walls. Tears course down my cheeks. I push out with
my feet to wedge myself. I could drop, give up, stop the pain flooding from my
hands just by surrendering to the earth's seductive pull; death or
unconsciousness, it scarcely matters. But something in me will not let go and
knows the union of those burned hands on that cold and run out rope for what
it is; a fuse.
Moving my fingers, making them open and close on that rough surface, makes me
gasp. I weep with the pain and effort; my arms are shaking so hard I am
certain they must buckle and give with the very next exertion. Deciding to
rest, I push up with my shoulders and almost cry out when my head drops back,
unsupported, and hits off horizontal stone.
I have achieved the ground's summit; I am surfaced. I can feel and hear the
difference and smell the fresher, cooler air. I bring my feet up and out, then
roll to one side, clutching at the rocky wall, almost failing back down again
as my clawing grip on the stones slips. Instead I flop off the stone circle
and fall down on to the cobbles of the courtyard, at the side of the
lieutenant's gun, bulking in the courtyard's stony ring of darkness. I press
my hands to the cold, soothing cobbles, letting the castle cool my rope
scorched skin.
The castle is not quite dark; its electric lights are out but a few old garden
torches flicker, feudal. A scrappy silence reigns; I hear a distant cough, and
a cry; perhaps human. I stand, waiting, breathing hard, swaying a little. The
night sky sends down a little drizzle, sprinkling rain upon my upturned face;
I
raise my hands to its coolness, as though in surrender. The fading light of
the guttering torches catches on the metal solid mass of the gun, its dumb
mouth raised to the blackness. I stumble to the nearest jeep, just to sit. I
hold my hands in front of my face, flexing them despite the pain.
Sitting back, I find a bag stuffed down between the seats, and something hard
within. I reach in, sucking on the pain, and bring out an automatic handgun,
heavy and dully gleaming. I turn it over. Its coolness soothes my hand. I hold
on to it and push myself away from the jeep, walking down to where the dropped
portcullis blocks the passageway under the guard chamber. Beyond the short,
dark tunnel there is a hint of firelight illuminating the broken balustrade of
the moat bridge. I peer through the black grid of wrought iron.
I hear a snore, almost underneath me, from just the other side of the
portcullis. I start back. There come the sounds of someone waking, shifting
and muttering. I gain the impression of darkness moving, of people rising to
fill the space in front of me. Then a rasp, and a match flares. I shield my
eyes, and through the separating grid of metal see first a hand, then a dark
face, then three more'. The men from the camp stare back through the pierced
gate, its apertures graphing a resigned concern on to their drawn and grimy
faces.
'Who is that?' I ask. The match flickers. I can read nothing in these faces;
are they frightened, resigned, angry? I cannot tell. 'Do I know you?' I ask
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them.
'Do I know any of you? Who are you? What's happened? What time is it?'
The match flickers, near its end. Dropped at the last moment, it falls, but
extinguishes before it hits the cobbles of the passageway. I open my mouth to
repeat my questions, but there seems no point. I can hear shuffling, settling
noises, and sense the men lowering themselves again, lying down once more.
I try the iron wheel which raises and lowers the portcullis, but the padlock
has been secured. I start to turn away, then recall the key I took from
Arthur's bedside and slipped into one pocket. Did I remember to transfer it
when I
changed my clothes? I gently pat my pockets with my free hand. I find the key,
lift it out with clumsy fingers and try it, but it rattles loose in the
padlock's opening, useless. The men stir at the noise, then settle back, and
soon soft snores begin again.
I stand there, heavy handed, clutching a wrong key in the almost total
darkness, then turn and leave the men waiting beyond that locked but open gate
and walk back up towards the heart of the castle, motive and yet motiveless,
but already, I think, guessing that I am heading for some slight undoing.
Chapter 16
Dark on dark the castle stands, held in suspension in the Dair's warped
symmetry, of some solution no guarantee but letting me, soiled and unearthed, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]