I quickly gather myself and follow him through the dimly lit building.
Memorising the way to my room seems impossible as Bayard leads me through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors. I can only hope I don’t accidentally end up in an oubliette while trying to walk to the kitchen. What a horrible way to die: starving to death, forgotten in the dark.
I study Bayard as I trail behind him. He looks like he’s nearing his 70s. Maybe even older. Thin grey hair is stuck tightly to his scalp in a greasy shell, as if it’s trying to keep his sagging skin from falling to the ground. His uniform is so tightly tailored that it looks like he was sewn into it. His walk is as starched as his clothes and so swift that I have a hard time keeping up. Strangely, Bayard’s steps are soundless, while each of mine makes the ancient wood groan in despair. He doesn’t utter a single word until we finally reach our destination.
“The instructions are on the bed,” he says, tone clipped. “I will return in 30 minutes.”
The door closes with a nearly inaudible click behind him, leaving me alone in a very small room.
The walls are made from bare rock, and they slant slightly as they reach the wooden ceiling. The only furniture inside is a narrow bed, a tiny chest of drawers, and a basin with a water-filled jug. I don’t mind the simplicity of the room. This is muchnicer than the studio I left in the city. All I owned for the past several years were an old mattress and a carton filled with my things. I never saw the point of furniture or even owning anything beyond the bare necessities.
I drop my backpack on the mattress, old rusted coils squeaking under its weight. Sad sun rays squeeze through the small window, failing to push aside the gloom. Outside, the forest is barely visible through the dirty glass. From up here, it looks as ominous as an illustration from an old fairy tale. Like a warning.
I know I probably shouldn’t have entered this so-called house. I should’ve run far away when the large man started to scream until his voice went hoarse. But, I suppose I’m just, well?—
I lean over to the bed to look for the instructions. A piece of paper covered in small, neat handwriting is waiting on a stack of clothes. I quickly glance over a tightly scheduled list of duties before putting on the uniform provided for me. It looks similar to the one Bayard was wearing, with dark pleated trousers, a starched white shirt, and a black woollen coat, only that my uniform also includes a small cap. The clothes are incredibly uncomfortable, rough fabric scrapes against my skin, and the too-tight yet unfitting cut constricts my movements. But I appreciate the addition of the cap. It isn’t particularly flattering, but I’ve never left the house without something covering my hair. At least this way, I don’t have to start now. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought, since for the foreseeable future, I probably won’t be leaving the house at all.
I don’t have a watch to check how much time I have before Bayard comes back to fetch me. But I decide to use what’s left of it to try memorising the crudely drawn map on the back of the paper. I pull my Walkman from my pocket, put on the music again, and lie back on the bed to wait.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I hear is a loud knock at the door. The light in the room has shifted, and my brain hums, slightly dazed. Before I can pull the headphones down, Bayard is already looming over me with a stern look.
I’ve always hated it when people do that. I’m aware that, with my short height, most people usually loom over me. But it still doesn’t change the fact that I loathe how it makes me feel even smaller.
I stuff the Walkman into my pocket and stand up straight, waiting for instructions.
“Follow me, and do not make a sound,” Bayard says sternly, holding a thick white candle in his right hand. “The young master Abas does not like to be disturbed.”
“Understood,” I reply and follow him through the corridors again.
As we walk, Bayard quietly goes over every rule in great detail, putting extra emphasis on all of the many things the so-called young master doesn’t like, especially everything I should never do, under any circumstances. It seems that life here is extremely regimented and every chore timed to the second. According to Bayard, no deviation will be tolerated, and every single rule is to be obeyed.
“Follow the chore list exactly as instructed,” he warns. “And once you finish your duties, stay in your quarters for the evening.”
With each word, his sagging cheeks shake like a hound dog. Fascinated by their dance, I barely register his words. Something about being allowed to walk the grounds, but never—wrinkly lips stretched tightly over yellowed teeth—is dangerous in the dark— The words float in from nearby. I blink trying to focus on something else, but his flapping neck draws me back in. Did all old people look like this, like forgotten newspaper drenched inrain? The rooms will be locked and in the morning—watery eyes roll around the sockets like old apples?—
Suddenly, Bayard stops, and with a glare, he insists, “It is of the utmost importance you understand and follow each of these rules.”
“Yes,” I say, knowing full well I missed at least half of that.
When we continue, I focus on trying to memorise the layout of the building again. I’ve never particularly followed instructions well in the past, and I don’t plan on starting now. I took this job because it seemed easy, and I was told I’d be left alone. I’m not gonna deny that it does sound a bit like I’ll be locked up in this castle just to do menial tasks. But even if that’s the case, as long as I’m far away from people while given a roof over my head, I don’t particularly care about the exact details of it.
“For today, you can brush off the tubers.”
Bayard’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realise I don’t know how we got to where we’re now standing. It seems that we’ve ended up in a damp room with a low ceiling. It’s so cold here, it’s making my skin prickle.
Bayard clears his throat and lifts an eyebrow. “Once they are clean, stack them up neatly over there,” he says pointing to a corner, then hands me a brush and the candle. Before I can say anything, he leaves, closing the door behind him.
The room, a root cellar completely devoid of windows, is dark and clammy. The dim candlelight barely penetrates more than an arm’s length around me. The little bit I can see is so dirty, it makes the muddy potatoes seem nearly spotless. Somehow, the fabric of my uniform is even scratchier in this chilly air.
I walk around looking for a place to sit before getting started on the pile of potatoes so big it looks like it could feed an entire village for a month. I spot a little half-rotten stool toppled over in a dark corner and drag it over to the pile of vegetables whileputting my headphones back on. The Swans’ familiar broken sounds fill me as I turn the volume up all the way. I’ve been told too many times to count that loud music will ruin my ears, but it’s the only comfort I got. I’d rather ruin these ears than deal with the world in silence.
I grab a potato and start brushing for who knows how long. Eventually, my brain turns off, and my body moves on its own. Scrub. Turn. Then scrub again. Place each cleaned potato in a perfectly stacked pyramid inside a wooden box.
The world suddenly comes back. I stop moving, holding a somewhat cleaner potato mid-air. I don’t know what pulled me out of my automation, but something feels strangely different now. Since the shrinking candle isn’t doing the best job at lighting the cellar, I push my headphones off, listening intently.
Nothing.
The silence, though… It’s eerie and unusual. Had it been like this before?
