He made the last of his headlong lunge in darkness, as the beast trampled the lamp, snuffing it out. Carter’s breath was knocked from him as he bounced over the threshold of the stair and rolled down it face first. He covered his head with his hands; the fall seemed to go on and on as he skipped across the steps.
At last, he came to rest, sprawling in blackness upon the stair. He crawled on all fours, twenty steps farther down, then stopped to listen. Above him, the monster shuffled and growled its frustration. Fetid breath blew across him; fire gushed down the stair, a blast of flame falling short by inches, its heat singeing his brow.
He scrambled down the steps, finally pausing to take stock of himself. His shoulder, arms, and ribs were badly bruised, but nothing seemed broken. Pain throbbed through every part of his body, but he was alive, if he could only make his way back to his room.
He cringed as a voice like rumbling thunder boomed down the stairway. It was a moment before he recognized the words within it.
“Who is the little man who enters my attic, the fillet buttered in his own oils?” it asked. “Speak. Tell me your name, the name of your kin, the name of your station.”
“I am … the Steward of the house,” Carter called, for so his father’s will had named him. “Who—what are you?”
“I am Jormungand, the Last Dinosaur, destroyer, devourer, ravager of kingdoms and epochs, all greed and covetousness, brooding loneliness. Once I was Dragon, but in this scientific age that is no longer stylish. The flames I kept for high drama. Now I, who was once Behemoth, am only pieced-together bones, first believed to belong to biblical giants, fresh-dug by nearsighted archaeologists, given flesh by faint intellects, made poorer by lack of imagination. But you aren’t the Steward of the house. If you were, I would have seen the Seven Words of Power within you.”
Carter paused, uncertain where he had heard of the Seven Words before. “I became the Steward only recently.”
“A Steward without the Words of Power? A fish in a bucket, a duck in the desert, fodder for your enemies. But you are fortunate. I know the Words well. Come up here and I will teach them to you.”
“Perhaps you could tell me while I sit here.”
Jormungand chuckled mirthlessly. “Perhaps we could sit together with little pastries and tea and play bridge. And afterward, harmonica on the front porch.”
Another torrent of fire poured down the steps, but fell far short of Carter. Through his fear, he faintly wondered why the staircase did not ignite.
“Still there?” Jormungand asked.
Carter lay very quiet, not daring to speak.
“I can see you, unblackened like a missed marshmallow. Conversation is a lost art. You’re like all of them, skipping up the stair, hoping to steal my hoard of Wisdom, perfectly willing to skewer me for it, cowering when things don’t go well. And what did I ever do to you? I suppose now you’ll go whining about your mistreatment. But if you flirt with monsters you should expect an occasional nip on the nose.”
Carter crept slowly downward, wanting to hold no more conversation, since it only allowed the dinosaur more time to consider how to reach him.
“Leaving, I see,” Jormungand said. “It’s been lovely. Come back sometime. Bring your friends. If you have the Words of Power I might even answer questions. If you knew them once, but do not recall, you might look in the Book of Forgotten Things. But if you return without them I will use your bones for those little toothpicks normally found in less-fashionable dining establishments. This is my attic and my kingdom, the dominion of the Last Dinosaur.”
Carter heard Jormungand tramp away, his massive frame shaking the whole stair. He made his way carefully downward, feeling as he went. Between his bruises and the blackness it seemed a long age before he finally reached his room, where he groped his way to the fireplace mantel, and with shaking hands lit a candle. He moved the brick that returned the hearth to its original location, then sat on his bed and examined his battered limbs.
Throughout his childhood this had been his room, but in all his play he had never found the concealed chamber. He wondered if it had always been there. With the danger past, the full magnitude of his peril filled him. But even through the fear and pain, a joy like a tiny flame ignited his thoughts, for the dinosaur had reminded him of that forgotten day, so long ago, when he first looked at the Book of Forgotten Things.
* * *
He awoke late the next morning to the low rumble of thunder, the soft patter of rain against the windows, and diffused light falling upon the blue comforter. For a time he lay, unwilling to think, watching the curling paint upon the sill, the drops of water upon the pane, the gray moth battling to reach the light outside the glass. Slowly, he recalled his own mad flight across the attic floor, and rising, touched the hidden mechanism opening the passage, to reassure himself of its existence. But he did not dare ascend back up those murky steps.
He dressed and made his way downstairs to find Mr. Hope at the dining-room table, successfully pursuing a quarry of French toast, scrambled eggs, and marmalade.
“Good morning,” Hope said. “I must commend the chef. The meals here are wonderful. My father is portly and I’m afraid I’ve inherited his love of food. I haven’t a chance, I suppose.”
“I’ll join you,” Carter said as Brittle appeared from the kitchen, a young assistant by his side. “May I have the same?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Brittle, do you know of any secret passages in the house?”
“Passages, sir?”
“Yes, you know. Hidden rooms.”
Brittle glanced down at the table. “And did the master sleep well last night?”
“Not well at all. I discovered another outlet from my chamber.”
Brittle smiled knowingly. “And you followed it?”
“I did, to the attic. There was something up there.”
Brittle’s smile turned into an absolute grin. “And you survived.”
Carter frowned. “You astound me. I survived by chance, but I don’t know what it all means. We need to talk after the will is read.”
“All the Masters of the High House have faced a baptism of fire,” the butler replied. “I am delighted you escaped.” So saying, he turned back to the kitchen.
“He’s a bit brisk for a servant,” Hope said.
“I’ve known him a long time. He’s more of a grand-uncle than a butler to me. If he pulled my ears and sent me to my room, I would probably go.”
Hope laughed. “Sounds like you had a night of it.”
“How long do you plan to stay?” Carter asked. “What I mean is, I know your business is concluded after the reading of the will, but I wonder if you might remain a time? The rain has ruined the roads, no doubt; traveling through mud will be tedious. I could provide a retainer for your time, of course.”
“In what capacity am I to serve?” Hope asked. “You speak of restitution, so you offer no holiday.”
Carter’s breakfast arrived just then, and he buttered his toast before continuing. “I need your advice and your keen eyes. I told you yesterday this house had many strange customs. Could I dare relate a fantastic tale, not just from last night, but from my youth? First, you must agree to stay, a week at least. The roads should be dry by then.”
Hope reflected, frowning. “I’m unmarried, but I will need to send word back to my office. I love this old house; I have the most marvelous dreams sleeping in it. I find it compelling, both legally and romantically. How could I resist?”
The two shook hands and Carter launched into the tale of his father’s many visitors, of the Book of Forgotten Things, even of the Bobby, though he did not mention the creature’s lack of a face, and he related his loss of the Master Keys and his being sent away. Then he told of the dinosaur in the attic. The attorney appeared scarcely disturbed by the bizarre story, although Carter wondered if the man wore the same face when confronted by the lies of an accused murderer.
“Can you believe a word of it?�
�� Carter asked.
Hope gave a warm smile. “It is incredible, and I would require tangible proof, but you appear sane enough, and I see no purpose in an elaborate hoax.”
“You surprise me, sir.”
“Because I concede the possibility of the fantastic? But I have heard utter fancies spoken in the courtroom. And as a boy I observed many things unfathomable to a child; could that not also occur as an adult?”
“You indulge me, surely,” Carter said. “I saw it myself, and I scarcely believe it.”
“I do not make light of the matter,” Hope replied. “I am not a credulous man; remember I have only acceded to the possibility. All my life I have lived by the law. Laws can change from moment to moment, simply by the way they are interpreted by the magistrates. Why should the laws of the universe be any more irrevocable? You tell me you have discovered a behemoth in the attic. However implausible this seems, should I follow you into those upper reaches, I would be unsurprised to discover myself in the verdant forests where such creatures dwell. A matter of interpretation, that is all.”
“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.
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