Castle: A Novel

by J. Robert Lennon

  “Son, turn and say goodbye to your father.” He was angry, to be sure—he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around to face him.

  “Goodbye, Eric,” he said, in a tone that would brook no argument.

  Quietly, as if there were some chance that Doctor Stiles wouldn’t hear, I said, “Goodbye.”

  “Speak up,” my father answered. “I can’t hear you.”

  At last I gave up all pretense. I stood straight and barked out a second farewell: “Goodbye, Father.” My father smiled, less at my words, I think, than at the fact of his having retained authority over me. My goodbye extracted, he shook Doctor Stiles’s hand and drove away.

  As soon as the car was out of sight, I heard the faint crack of Doctor Stiles’s shoulder, and the whisper of his sleeve against his arm, and a moment later I found myself lying on the gravel, my right ear exploding in pain.

  My instinct was to get up, but I remained on the ground. I heard the Doctor’s footsteps as they climbed the front stoop, and the sound of the door being opened. A few minutes later, I heard him emerge.

  “Stand up.”

  I did as he said, and faced the road, as I had been doing when he hit me.

  “Turn around.”

  His face was expressionless. “You will be very uncomfortable today,” he said, “and your clothes will be ruined. Next time, you will dress more appropriately.” He paused to make sure I wouldn’t answer. Then he nodded once, and said, “Follow me.”

  I followed Doctor Stiles to the treeline, where he stepped over a deadfall and into the trees. Though the sun was fully risen now, the air was cold and the light dim. The woods, though hardly impassible, were tough going, and I had difficulty keeping up. The Doctor walked with complete confidence, seeming to follow some zigzagging, almost arbitrary path, and I understood that, wherever we were headed, I would be entirely incapable of finding my way back without him.

  We walked for what must have been the better part of an hour. My blood raced and my mouth was dry, perhaps from the coffee I had drunk, and to which I was unaccustomed; and I was growing very tired. In addition, I had to urinate, and Doctor Stiles, disinclined to turn around, would never see my raised hand. Branches raked my face, my good pants tore on a fallen tree limb, and my stiff dress shoes were rubbing my skin raw.

  I was momentarily distracted from my discomforts, however, when the trees thinned and what I thought to be a huge gray wall came into view. It was, in fact, a giant stone, protruding from the ground as if dropped there from the sky. The wall was sheer and stretched high into the air.

  But Doctor Stiles did not stop to admire it. Rather, he turned left and continued around it, at an increased pace now that the ground was clear of trees and brush.

  Ironically, it was at this moment that my fatigue overwhelmed me, and my thin legs gave out. I lay in the dirt as my bladder emptied, and tears stung my hot and filthy face. I wanted to cry out, to ask the Doctor to stop and wait, but I knew how such a request would be met: with violent, dispassionate cruelty. I thought, uncharacteristically, of my sister, and longed to fall into her arms. And it was this very thought—and my growing disgust for myself, for thinking it—that eventually forced me to my feet, and the tears from my eyes. I stood panting for some seconds, trying to get my bearings. The enormous wall of rock was to my right, and we had arrived from my left—but what these directions represented, and what our goal might be, was impossible to discern. I assumed I was being led to Doctor Stiles’s castle, but none was in sight. I could only continue in the last direction I had seen the Professor walk—and so, gathering up my strength, I set off along the rock wall.

  In a moment, the rock began to curve, and soon it had turned a corner, running off to the right. It was less smooth here, but still rose nearly vertical into the sunny sky; I walked along it for a few minutes more.

  And then, at last, I came to a man-made wall about twenty feet tall, and I knew I had arrived at the castle. The wall terminated at each end with a tower, one topped by a conical turret, the other stout and square with slotted sides. The slots seemed to penetrate deeply into stone, giving the castle an impression of tremendous strength. There was, however, no sign of my tutor.

  I continued around the castle, staring up at the towers, alert for any movement. Soon my neck grew tired and I was forced to lower my head. Eventually I made it all the way around, and came to an enormous wooden door, bound together with iron straps and spikes. There was a handle, as well, but no matter how hard I pushed and pulled, I could not budge it.

  It was when I stood back to reconsider my tactic that I heard the Doctor’s voice, faint and distorted by echoes, bouncing off the cliffs above.

  “Eric. Find your way in.”

  May I say that I am embarrassed to recount the relief, even joy, that I felt when I heard that voice? It was as though I was hearing the voice of God. My exhaustion, the acrid damp of my ruined pants, my aching feet: all of it fell away and I felt the full, validating force of my mentor’s call.

  I knew better than to reply—for that, I would be punished. I began to examine the enormous door more carefully now, searching every crack and irregularity for some hidden lever, hasp, or key that would allow me to open it. I must have spent half an hour, at one point even dragging a large branch from the woods to climb up on, in order to search the upper portion of the door. My efforts were futile, though, and I returned the way I came, feeling along the curtain wall for some handhold.

  An hour’s work made it clear that there was none. I tried several times to climb the wall, but the masonry was even and firm, and I slipped back down to the ground each time.

  For some long minutes I sat on the forest floor, my back against the wall, and I fell asleep. When I woke, the sun was lower in the sky, my mouth was rank and dry, and I was very hungry. Yet I was determined to attain my goal.

  I walked back the way I had come, toward the wooden door, then passed it, heading for the place where the wall met the rock. And it was there I found my answer—a narrow gap between the two, wide enough to admit me. I hurried down it, my eyes raking the ground for the point of entry, and within minutes I had discovered the hole in the wall, and the wooden block with the handle. I pulled it out, ducked inside, and shimmied through the tunnel and into the castle.

  I would soon have ample time to take in the courtyard, but at this moment my attention was focused, fifteen or so feet from where I stood, upon a strange but welcome sight—a crude wooden table, standing on the flagstones, overlaid with a white cloth, and bearing a single dinner plate, utensils, a drinking glass, and a folded napkin. The plate was heaped with mashed potatoes, steak, and peas, and the glass full of milk. Even from here, I could see the steam rising from the food. I raced to the table, tripping and nearly falling on my way, and collapsed into the wooden chair tucked underneath the place setting. I had never been so famished, and began to shovel the food into my mouth, barely chewing before I swallowed and scooped up another load.

  Because of my manic attention to the meal, I failed to notice precisely when Doctor Stiles appeared and sat down across the table from me. I only registered his presence when I heard him say, “Stop eating.”

  I looked up, stunned, and swallowed the bite of potatoes and meat I had been chewing. My eyes narrowed involuntarily as I awaited the blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, the Doctor rewarded me with a half smile.

  “I’m sorry, Eric,” he said. “Please, continue.”

  After a moment’s hesitation to make sure I wasn’t being tricked, I resumed eating, this time at a more reasonable pace. I hazarded a glance at the Doctor every few seconds, alert for changes in his demeanor. He appeared strangely composed, given the unusual setting, and our having made our way here through those dense, treacherous woods.

  “Have you noticed, Eric,” he asked me suddenly, “anything unusual about these woods?”

  I slowed my chewing as I considered, then swallowed and said, “No, sir.” My voice came out hoarse, as if I’d been sc
reaming for hours.

  “What usually bothers you, Eric, when you eat outdoors?”

  “Rain?” I offered, and drained the milk glass.

  “Perhaps, but what I’m referring to is insects. Have you noticed any here?”

  “No, sir,” I admitted, shaking my head.

  “What about squirrels?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Aside from a few birds high overhead, or perched on the rock,” Doctor Stiles said, “there aren’t any. Not that I’ve seen. At first, I thought that the construction of the castle had simply disrupted their environment. But it’s been several months now since it was finished, and the animals have not returned. Do you know what I think, Eric? I think this place is tainted.”

  The food was almost gone. I couldn’t remember ever having eaten so much in a single sitting in my entire life.

  “I’m sure you wonder what could taint a forest. I’ll tell you my theory. I believe this is where, in the early 1800s, every single member of the Kakeneoke tribe of Indians was massacred by white settlers. I have read about this massacre in a few books of local history, and a number of historical journals. It is also mentioned in the handwritten journal of a retired Revolutionary War soldier named Ezekiel Cordwell, who homesteaded nearby. None of these sources are specific about the time and place of the massacre, and they all have spelled the tribe’s name slightly differently. But I believe they are all referring to the same event, and I believe that this event happened here.” He leaned forward. “Do you wonder, Eric, what evidence I have for this belief?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll tell you, Eric—I have no evidence. But I can feel it, in my gut. Do you know what I mean by that?”

  “No,” I said, and a jolt of fear sent me bolt upright in the chair. I had left off the “sir” and expected the Professor to hit me. But he continued to speak as if he hadn’t noticed.

  “I mean that I have taken all available information—the peculiarity of the woods, the stories I have read, the maps I have pored over—and processed it through the unique filter of my particular intelligence, and have come up with a feeling, an almost physical sensation, that I am correct. Sometimes, Eric, it is possible to know you are correct. The feeling I get when I am right about something is very powerful, and infallible. The massacre happened here.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” he went on, stretching out his legs and gazing at the sky, as though to judge the time of day. “I believe that whatever lingers here from that gruesome event, whatever force or substance or idea that has tainted these woods, is what sickened and killed my wife and daughter. Somehow, the essence of the massacre has remained here, in the ground, in the very trees and wind and water, and has retained the power to kill.” He paused, then turned to me, his gaze frightening and direct.

  “You and I, Eric, are in no danger. I can promise you that. We have something my family did not—we are strong. We are destined for greatness. Don’t forget that.”

  He was through speaking, and he stared at me now for many minutes on end, seemingly without blinking. For my part, I did not entirely understand what he said, though I would remember his words and reflect upon them often in the years to come. I did understand, though, that I had been declared exceptional, and I believed it to be so. I knew it to be so.

  I don’t accurately recall the journey out of the woods that night, although I do remember that it was nearly dark when we emerged at the house, and that my father was there to collect me, and that he was forced to pull over to the side of the road on the way home, in order to let me vomit. I also remember my mother’s stricken expression when she saw my face and clothes, and the wonderful sensation, once I had bathed and was comfortably tucked into my bed, of succumbing to absolute exhaustion. I don’t think I have slept so deeply in my life, nor do I expect to ever again.

  SEVENTEEN

  That summer, and the next, were filled with moments of terrible isolation, loneliness and fear, hours in complete darkness, exhaustion and pain. But I also know that I experienced great joy there—with Doctor Stiles’s help, I honed my strength and agility, lifting and building structures, climbing walls, hunting the Doctor and hiding from him in the woods.

  It was this latter activity that has provided me with perhaps my most intense memory of those days, an event that occurred in late summer of my second year with Doctor Stiles.

  For some time, the Professor had petitioned my parents to allow me to spend the night in the castle with him. This would certainly have been acceptable to my father, and to me as well, but my mother objected, and for whatever reason, her opinion was respected. It was understood that I would be returned at the end of every training day to the house at the top of the hill. Eventually this arrangement became routine, and after a while I no longer even thought about the possibility of its being otherwise.

  Each morning, when the Doctor and I embarked upon our journey to the castle, we entered the forest from a different location at the edge of the yard, and struck out through the trees in a different direction; on the way back, we would do the same. Though I sometimes thought I recognized some familiar landmarks—a particular stand of trees, or marsh, or patch of moss—I never felt as though I could find my way to the castle on my own, nor find my way back out to the house or road. Initially, this disorientation caused me some unease, but I had long since grown used to Doctor Stiles’s unorthodox ways, and come to expect these idiosyncratic treks. Indeed, at the time this incident occurred, I had even become rather complacent—though my days in the woods were always a challenge, I was confident that the challenge was always one I could meet.

  On the morning in question—a hot, overcast, and muggy one in the

  middle of August—the Doctor and I set out as usual, with him nimbly hopping over bramble and deadfall, from one clear patch of ground to the next, and me following carefully about ten steps behind. By now I knew how to dress on these outings—I had acquired a pair of khaki jungle pants with zippered legs that could be removed below the thighs, to protect from abrasions or excessive heat, and wore sturdy, lightweight boots and a wide-brimmed hat. I remember feeling particularly self-assured and comfortable that day—at the age of eleven, I had achieved what I considered to be an unusual level of self-confidence and physical well-being.

  About half an hour into our journey, the Doctor stopped suddenly, raised one hand in the air, and cocked his head, as though to better hear some faint noise. Needless to say, I stopped as well, and listened carefully.

  We were standing on the sloping bank of a slight depression in the forest floor, with a patch of swampy ground at the bottom, bisected by a moss-covered fallen tree. I could neither see nor hear anything out of the ordinary. Ten feet ahead, Doctor Stiles lowered his hand and used it to reach into his pocket. He pulled out a small mason jar, unscrewed the lid, and removed what appeared to be a white handkerchief. Then he set the open jar down on the ground. As I looked on, he slowly turned and made his way toward me, on his face an expression of slightly amused alertness. I waited for him to address me.

  Instead, he reached down and placed his free hand on the back of my head. The gesture was affectionate, even loving, and for a moment I wondered how I was expected to respond. But before I could, the Doctor brought up his other hand and pressed the handkerchief to my face.

  His grip was strong, and I was unable to move. The handkerchief reeked of something acrid and antiseptic, and I gasped in spite of myself. My throat and nose burned, and I thought I could feel the burn rocket straight up through my sinuses and into my brain. I crumpled, insensible, to the ground.

  When I woke, the day seemed later, the sun higher in the sky, the air more oppressive. My head ached, and sticks gouged my side where I lay. I was incredibly thirsty.

  I reached down for my canteen and discovered that I was naked.

  The realization motivated me to sit up straight, and I let out a yelp. I looked around me. There was no one and nothing. I had fallen somewhat farther down
toward the center of the depression, and one of my heels rested in the pool of water at the bottom. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and my lungs burned as I drew breath after gasping breath.

  Slowly I remembered what had happened—Doctor Stiles, I understood, must have knocked me unconscious. I began to lay out, in my mind, the possibilities. This act could indeed have been of sinister intent, but it was much more likely to be some kind of escalation in the Doctor’s testing regimen. The latter explanation gave me some comfort, but I was still a child, accustomed to the supervision of an adult, and still quite modest about my body. It occurred to me that Doctor Stiles must have been the one who undressed me. He had seen me naked! The thought disgusted and excited me—I tried to put out of my mind this strange and entirely unexpected transgression.

  I stood up slowly, wary that I might be sick to my stomach. But it seemed that my head had cleared, and though I remained thirsty, I felt otherwise physically sound. I looked around, taking stock of my surroundings, wondering what I was supposed to do now, and where I was supposed to go. I had no compass, no rope or knife, not even any shoes. I was not terribly uncomfortable now, but I knew that, as soon as I began walking, my feet would be cut and scraped, and would likely become infected. The tasks and challenges the Doctor typically assigned to me always seemed to have some purpose—the strengthening of a vital survival skill, or the sharpening of my wits—so I struggled to understand what the point of this one might be. But after long minutes of contemplation, I was forced to admit to myself that I had no idea.

  Of course, this might be the point—perhaps Doctor Stiles intended for me to realize that there was no point. Maybe I was supposed to be learning how to act with no goal in mind, and no viable option for proceeding. If so, I was failing, because all I felt was a growing despair and boredom, and a creeping fear. I had never been naked anywhere, let alone the woods; and though Doctor Stiles insisted that there were no wild animals here, the likelihood of attack seemed high. Surely the beasts of the forest could sense the presence of an unprotected human being. Were there bears here, or mountain cats? What about hawks and vultures—did they ever attack human beings? I looked down and found my genitals covered by both my hands, in an involuntary, instinctive, and futile gesture of protection, and I’m afraid I began to cry. Was the Doctor watching? Was he off somewhere in the trees, observing, noting my transgressions against his tutelage? What punishment would be meted out for my weaknesses? I must have stood there, intermittently thinking and blubbering, for at least fifteen minutes. Then, at last, bored and disgusted with myself, I took my first tentative steps out of the depression.