Castle Nowhere

C >> Constance Fenimore Woolson >> Castle Nowhere

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'I wonder if it is not anchored after all,' he thought.

'Just a few shavings and one little stick, Lorez,' said Silver;
'enough to give us light and drive away the damp.'

Up flared the blaze and spread abroad the dear home feeling. (O
hearth-fire, good genius of home, with thee a log-cabin is cheery and
bright, without thee the palace a dreary waste!)

'And now, while Lorez is preparing supper, you will come and see my
pets,' said Silver, in her soft tone of unconscious command.

'By all means,' replied Waring. 'Anything in the way of mermaidens?'

'Mermaidens dwell in the water, they cannot live in houses as we can;
did you not know that? I have seen them on moonlight nights, and so
has Lorez; but Aunt Shadow never saw them.'

'Another member of the family,--Aunt Shadow?'

'Yes,' replied Silver; 'but she is not here now. She went away one
night when I was asleep. I do not know why it is,' she added sadly,
'but if people go away from here in the night they never come back.
Will it be so with you, Jarvis?'

'No; for I will take you with me,' replied the young man lightly.

'Very well; and father will go too, and Lorez,' said Silver.

To this addition, Waring, like many another man in similar
circumstances, made no reply. But Silver did not notice the omission.
She had opened a door, and behold, they stood together in a bower of
greenery and blossom, flowers growing everywhere,--on the floor, up
the walls, across the ceiling, in pots, in boxes, in baskets, on
shelves, in cups, in shells, climbing, crowding each other, swinging,
hanging, winding around everything,--a riot of beauty with perfumes
for a language. Two white gulls stood in the open window and gravely
surveyed the stranger.

'They stay with me almost all the time,' said the water-maiden; 'every
morning they fly out to sea for a while, but they always come back.'

Then she flitted to and fro, kissed the opening blossoms and talked to
them, tying back the more riotous vines and gravely admonishing them.

'They are so happy here,' she said; 'it was dull for them on shore. I
would not live on the shore! Would you?'

'Certainly not,' replied Waring, with an air of having spent his
entire life upon a raft. 'But you did not find all these blossoms on
the shores about here, did you?'

'Father found them,--he finds everything; in his boat almost every
night is something for me. I hope he will come soon; he will be so
glad to see you.'

'Will he? I wish I was sure of that,' thought Waring. Then aloud,
'Has he any men with him?' he asked carelessly.

'O no; we live here all alone now,--father, Lorez, and I.'

'But you were expecting a Jacob?'

'I have been expecting Jacob for more than two years. Every night I
watch for him, but he comes not. Perhaps he and Aunt Shadow will come
together,--do you think they will?' said Silver, looking up into his
eyes with a wistful expression.

'Certainly,' replied Waring.

'Now am I glad, so glad! For father and Lorez will never say so. I
think I shall like you, Jarvis.' And, leaning on a box of mignonette,
she considered him gravely with her little hands folded.

Waring, man of the world,--Waring, who had been, under fire,--Waring,
the impassive,--Waring,--the unflinching,--turned from this scrutiny.

Supper was eaten at one end of the long table; the dishes, tablecloth,
and napkins were marked with an anchor, the food simple but well
cooked.

'Fish, of course, and some common supplies I can understand,' said the
visitor; 'but how do you obtain flour like this, or sugar?'

'Father brings them,' said Silver, 'and keeps them locked in his
storeroom. Brown sugar we have always, but white not always, and I
like it so much! Don't you?'

'No; I care nothing for it,' said Waring, remembering the few lumps
and the little white teeth.

The old negress waited, and peered at the visitor out of her small
bright eyes; every time Silver spoke to her, she broke into a radiance
of smiles and nods, but said nothing.

'She lost her voice some years ago,' explained the little mistress
when the black had gone out for more coffee; 'and now she seems to
have forgotten how to form words, although she understands us.'

Lorez returned, and, after refilling Waring's cup, placed something
shyly beside his plate, and withdrew into the shadow. 'What is it?'
said the young man, examining the carefully folded parcel.

'Why, Lorez, have you given him that!' exclaimed Silver as he drew out
a scarlet ribbon, old and frayed, but brilliant still. 'We think it
must have belonged to her young master,' she continued in a low tone.
'It is her most precious treasure, and long ago she used to talk about
him, and about her old home in the South.'

The old woman came forward after a while, smiling and nodding like an
animated mummy, and taking the red ribbon threw it around the young
man's neck, knotting it under the chin. Then she nodded with treble
radiance and made signs; of satisfaction.

'Yes, it is becoming,' said Silver, considering the effect
thoughtfully, her small head with its veil of hair bent to one side,
like a flower swayed by the wind.

The flesh-pots of Egypt returned to Jarvis Waring's mind: he
remembered certain articles of apparel left behind in civilization,
and murmured against the wilderness. Under the pretence of examining
the vases, he took an early opportunity of, looking into the round
mirror. 'I am hideous,' he said to himself, uneasily.

'Decidedly so,' echoed the Spirit in a cheerful voice. But he was not;
only a strong dark young man of twenty-eight, browned by exposure,
clad in a gray flannel shirt and the rough attire of a hunter.

The fire on the hearth sparkled gayly. Silver had brought one of her
little white gowns, half finished, and sat sewing in its light, while
the old negress came and went about her household tasks.

'So you can sew?' said the visitor.

'Of course I can. Aunt Shadow taught me,' answered the water-maiden,
threading her needle deftly. 'There is no need to do it, for I have so
many dresses; but I like to sew, don't you?'

'I cannot say that I do. Have you so many dresses then?'

'Yes; would you like to see them? Wait.'

Down went the little gown trailing along the floor, and away she flew,
coming back with her arms full,--silks, muslins, laces, and even
jewelry. 'Are they not beautiful?' she asked, ranging her splendor
over the chairs.

'They are indeed,' said Waring, examining the garments with curious
eyes. 'Where did you get them?'

'Father brought them. O, there he is now, there he is now! I hear the
oars. Come, Lorez.'

She ran out; the old woman hastened, carrying a brand from the hearth;
and after a moment Waring followed them. 'I may as well face the old
rogue at once,' he thought.

The moon had not risen and the night was dark; under the balcony
floated a black object, and Lorez, leaning over, held out her flaming
torch. The face of the old rogue came out into the light under its
yellow handkerchief, but so brightened and softened by loving gladness
that the gazer above hardly knew it. 'Are you there, darling, safe and
well?' said the old man, looking up fondly as he fastened his skiff.

'Yes, father; here I am and so glad to see you,' replied the
water-maiden, waiting at the top of the ladder. 'We have a visitor,
father dear; are you not glad, so glad to see him?'

The two men came face to face, and the elder started back. 'What are
you doing here?' he said sternly.

'Looking for my property.'

'Take it, and begone!'

'I will, to-morrow.'

All this apart, and with the rapidity of lightning.

'His name is Jarvis, father, and we must keep him with us,' said
Silver.

'Yes, dear, as long as he wishes to stay; but no doubt he has home and
friends waiting for him.'

They went within, Silver leading the way. Old Fog's eyes gleamed and
his hands were clinched. The younger man watched him warily.

'I have been showing Jarvis all my dresses, father, and he thinks them
beautiful.'

'They certainly are remarkable,' observed Waring, coolly.

Old Fog's hands dropped, he glanced nervously towards the visitor.

'What have you brought for me to-night, father dear?'

'Nothing, child; that is, nothing of any consequence. But it is
growing late; run off to your nest'

'O no, papa, you have had no supper, nor--'

'I am not hungry. Go, child, go; do not grieve me,' said the old man
in a low tone.

'Grieve you? Dear papa, never!' said the girl, her voice softening to
tenderness in a moment. 'I will run straight to my room.--Come,
Lorez.'

The door closed. 'Now for us two,' thought Waring.

But the cloud had passed from old Fog's face, and he drew up his chair
confidentially. 'You see how it is,' he began in an apologetic tone;
'that child is the darling of my life, and I could not resist taking
those things for her; she has so few books, and she likes those little
lumps of sugar.'

'And the Titian picture?' said Waring, watching him doubtfully.

'A father's foolish pride; I knew she was lovelier, but I wanted to
see the two side by side. She is lovelier, isn't she?'

'I do not think so.'

'Don't you?' said old Fog in a disappointed tone. 'Well, I suppose I
am foolish about her; we live here all alone, you see: my sister
brought her up.'

'The Aunt Shadow who has gone away?'

'Yes; she was my sister, and--and she went away last year,' said the
old man. 'Have a pipe?'

'I should think you would find it hard work to live here.'

'I do; but a poor man cannot choose. I hunt, fish, and get out a few
furs sometimes; I traffic with the Beaver people now and then. I
bought all this furniture in that way; you would not think it, but
they have a great many nice things down at Beaver.'

'It looks like steamboat furniture.'

'That is it; it is. A steamer went to pieces down there, and they
saved almost all her furniture and stores; they are very good sailors,
the Beavers.'

'Wreckers, perhaps?'

'Well I would not like to say that; you know we do have terrible
storms on these waters. And then there is the fog; this part of Lake
Michigan is foggy half the time, why, I never could guess: but twelve
hours out the twenty-four the gray mist lies on the water here and
outside, shifting slowly backwards and forwards from Little Traverse
to Death's Door, and up into this curve, like a waving curtain. Those
silks, now, came from the steamer; trunks, you know. But I have never
told Silver; she might ask where were the people to whom they
belonged. You do not like the idea? Neither do I. But how could we
help the drowning when we were not there, and these things were going
for a song down at Beaver. The child loves pretty things; what could a
poor man do? Have a glass of punch; I'll get it ready in no time.' He
bustled about, and then came back with the full glasses. 'You won't
tell her? I may have done wrong in the matter, but it would kill me to
have the child lose faith in me,' he said, humbly.

'Are you going to keep the girl shut up here forever?' said Waring,
half touched, half disgusted; the old fellow had looked abject as he
pleaded.

'That is it; no,' said Fog, eagerly. 'She has been but a child all
this time, you see, and my sister taught her well. We did the best we
could. But as soon as I have a little more, just a little more, I
intend to move to one of the towns down the lake, and have a small
house and everything comfortable. I have planned it all out, I shall
have--'

He rambled on, garrulously detailing all his fancies and projects
while the younger man sipped his punch (which was very good), listened
until he was tired, fell into a doze, woke and listened awhile longer,
and then, wearied out, proposed bed.

'Certainly. But, as I was saying--'

'I can hear the rest to-morrow,' said Waring, rising with scant
courtesy.

'I am sorry you go so soon; couldn't you stay a few days?' said the
old man, lighting a brand. 'I am going over to-morrow to the shore
where I met you. I have some traps there; you might enjoy a little
hunting.'

'I have had too much of that already. I must get my dogs, and then I
should like to hit a steamer or vessel going below.'

'Nothing easier; we'll go over after the dogs early in the morning,
and then I'll take you right down to the islands if the wind is fair.
Would you like to look around the castle,--I am going to draw up the
ladders. No? This way, then; here is your room.'

It was a little side-chamber with one window high up over the water;
there was an iron bolt on the door, and the walls of bare logs were
solid. Waring stood his gun in one corner, and laid his pistols by the
side of the bed,--for there was a bed, only a rude framework like a
low-down shelf, but covered with mattress and sheets none the
less,--and his weary body longed for those luxuries with a longing
that only the wilderness can give,--the wilderness with its beds of
boughs, and no undressing. The bolt and the logs shut him in safely;
he was young and strong, and there were his pistols. 'Unless they burn
down their old castle,' he said to himself, 'they cannot harm me.' And
then he fell to thinking of the lovely childlike girl, and his heart
grew soft. 'Poor old man,' he said, 'how he must have worked and
stolen and starved to keep her safe and warm in this far-away nest of
his hidden in the fogs! I won't betray the old fellow, and I'll go
to-morrow. Do you hear that, Jarvis Waring? I'll go to-morrow!'

And then the Spirit, who had been listening as usual, folded himself
up silently and flew away.

To go to sleep in a bed, and awake in an open boat drifting out to
sea, is startling. Waring was not without experiences, startling and
so forth, but this exceeded former sensations; when a bear had him,
for instance, he at least understood it, but this was not a bear, but
a boat. He examined the craft as well as he could in the darkness.
'Evidently boats in some shape or other are the genii of this region,'
he said; 'they come shooting ashore from nowhere, they sail in at a
signal without oars, canvas, or crew, and now they have taken to
kidnapping. It is foggy too, I'll warrant; they are in league with
the fogs.' He looked up, but could see nothing, not even a star.

'What does it all mean anyway? Where am I? Who am I? Am I anybody? Or
has the body gone and left me only as an any?' But no one answered.
Finding himself partly dressed, with the rest of his clothes at his
feet, he concluded that he was not yet a spirit; in one of his pockets
was a match, he struck it and came back to reality in a flash. The
boat was his own dug-out, and he himself and no other was in it: so
far, so good. Everything else, however, was fog and night. He found
the paddle and began work. 'We shall see who will conquer,' he
thought, doggedly, 'Fate or I!' So he paddled on an hour for more.

Then the wind arose and drove the fog helter-skelter across to Green
Bay, where the gray ranks curled themselves down and lay hidden until
morning. 'I'll go with the wind,' thought Waring, 'it must take me
somewhere in time.' So he changed his course and paddled on. The wind
grew strong, then stronger. He could see a few stars now as the
ragged dark clouds scudded across the heavens, and he hoped for the
late moon. The wind grew wild, then wilder. It took all his skill to
manage his clumsy boat. He no longer asked himself where he was or
who; he knew,--a man in the grasp of death. The wind was a gale now,
and the waves were pressed down flat by its force as it flew along.
Suddenly the man at the paddle, almost despairing, espied a light,
high up, steady, strong. 'A lighthouse on one of the islands,' he
said, and steered for it with all his might. Good luck was with him;
in half an hour he felt the beach under him, and landed on the shore;
but the light he saw no longer. 'I must be close in under it,' he
thought. In the train of the gale came thunder and lightning. Waring
sat under a bush watching the powers of the air in conflict, he saw
the fury of their darts and heard the crash of their artillery, and
mused upon the wonders of creation, and the riddle of man's existence.
Then a flash came, different from the others in that it brought the
human element upon the scene; in its light he saw a vessel driving
helplessly before the gale. Down from his spirit-heights he came at
once, and all the man within him was stirred for those on board, who,
whether or not they had ever perplexed themselves over the riddle of
their existence, no doubt now shrank from the violent solution offered
to them. But what could he do? He knew nothing of the shore, and yet
there must be a harbor somewhere, for was there not the light? Another
flash showed the vessel still nearer, drifting broadside on;
involuntarily he ran out on the long sandy point where it seemed that
soon she must strike. But sooner came a crash, then a grinding sound;
there was a reef outside then, and she was on it, the rocks cutting
her, and the waves pounding her down on their merciless edges.
'Strange!' he thought. 'The harbor must be on the other side I
suppose, and yet it seems as though I came this way.' Looking around,
there was the light high up behind him, burning clearly and strongly,
while the vessel was breaking to pieces below. 'It is a lure,' he
said, indignantly, 'a false light.' In his wrath he spoke aloud;
suddenly a shape came out of the darkness, cast him down, and
tightened a grasp around his throat. 'I know you,' he muttered,
strangling. One hand was free, he drew out his pistol, and fired; the
shape fell back. It was old Fog. Wounded? Yes, badly.

Waring found his tinder-box, made a blaze of driftwood, and bound up
the bleeding arm and leg roughly. 'Wretch,' he said, 'you set that
light.'

Old Fog nodded.

'Can anything be done for the men on board? Answer or I'll end your
miserable life at once; I don't know why, indeed, I have tried to save
it.'

Old Fog shook his head. 'Nothing,' he murmured; 'I know every inch of
the reef and shore.'

Another flash revealed for an instant the doomed vessel, and Waring
raged at his own impotence as he strode to and fro, tears of anger and
pity in his eyes. The old man watched him anxiously. 'There are not
more than six of them,' he said; 'it was only a small schooner.'

'Silence!' shouted Waring; 'each man of the six now suffering and
drowning is worth a hundred of such as you!'

'That may be,' said Fog.

Half an hour afterwards he spoke again. 'They're about gone now, the
water is deadly cold up here. The wind will go down soon, and by
daylight the things will be coming ashore; you'll see to them, won't
you?'

'I'll see to nothing, murderer.'

'And if I die what are you?'

'An avenger.'

'Silver must die too then; there is but little in the house, she will
soon starve. It was for her that I came out to-night.'

'I will take her away; not for your sake, but for hers.'

'How can you find her?'

'As soon as it is daylight I will sail over.'

'Over? Over where? That is it, you do not know,' said the old man,
eagerly, raising himself on his unwounded arm. 'You might row and
sail about here for days, and I'll warrant you'd never find the
castle; it's hidden away more carefully than a nest in the reeds,
trust me for that. The way lies through a perfect tangle of channels
and islands and marshes, and the fog is sure for at least a good half
of the time. The sides of the castle towards the channel show no light
at all; and even when you're once through the outlying islets, the
only approach is masked by a movable bed of sedge which I contrived,
and which turns you skilfully back into the marsh by another way. No;
you might float around there for days but you'd never find the
castle.'

'I found it once.'

'That was because you came from the north shore. I did not guard that
side, because no one has ever come that way; you remember how quickly
I saw your light and rowed over to find out what it was. But you are
miles away from there now.'

The moon could not pierce the heavy clouds, and the night continued
dark. At last the dawn come slowly up the east and showed an angry
sea, and an old man grayly pallid on the sands near the dying fire; of
the vessel nothing was to be seen.

'The things will be coming ashore, the things will be coming.
ashore,' muttered the old man, his anxious eyes turned towards the
water that lay on a level with his face; he could not raise himself
now.

'Do you see things coming ashore?'

Waring looked searchingly at him. 'Tell me the truth,' he said, 'has
the girl no boat?'

'No.'

'Will any one go to rescue her; does any one know of the castle?'

'Not a human being on this earth.'

'And that aunt,--that Jacob?'

'Didn't you guess it? They are both dead. I rowed them out by night
and buried them,--my poor old sister and the boy who had been our
serving-lad. The child knows nothing of death. I told her they had
gone away.'

'Is there no way for her to cross, to the islands or mainland?'

'No; there is a circle of deep water all around the castle, outside.'

'I see nothing for it, then, but to try to save your justly forfeited
life,' said Waring, kneeling down with an expression of repugnance. He
was something of a surgeon, and knew what he, was about. His task
over, he made up the fire, warmed some food, fed the old man, and
helped his waning strength with the contents of his flask. 'At least
you placed all my property in the dug-out before you set me adrift,'
he said; 'may I ask your motive?'

'I did not wish to harm you; only to get rid of you. You had
provisions, and your chances were as good as many you had had in the
woods.'

'But I might have found my way back to your castle?'

'Once outside, you could never do that,' replied the old man,
securely.

'I could go back along-shore.'

'There are miles of piny-wood swamps where the streams come down; no,
you could not do it, unless you went away round to Lake Superior
again, and struck across the country as you did before. That would
take you a month or two, and the summer is almost over. You would not
risk a Northern snowstorm, I reckon. But say, do you see things coming
ashore?'

'The poor bodies will come, no doubt,' said Waring, sternly.

'Not yet; and they don't often come in here, anyway; they're more
likely to drift out to sea.'

'Miserable creature, this is not the first time, then?'

'Only four times,--only four times in fifteen long years, and then
only when she was close to starvation,' pleaded the old man. 'The
steamer was honestly wrecked,--the Anchor, of the Buffalo
line,--honestly, I do assure you; and what I gathered from her--she
did not go to pieces for days--lasted me a long time, besides
furnishing the castle. It was a godsend to me, that steamer. You must
not judge me, boy; I work, I slave, I go hungry and cold, to keep her
happy and warm. But times come when everything fails and starvation
is at the door. She never knows it, none of them ever knew it, for I
keep the keys and amuse them with little mysteries; but, as God is my
judge, the wolf has been at the door, and is there this moment unless
I have luck. Fish? There are none in shore where they can catch them.
Why do I not fish for them? I do; but my darling is not accustomed to
coarse fare, her delicate life must be delicately nourished. O, you do
not know, you do not know! I am growing old, and my hands and eyes are
not what they were. That very night when I came home and found you
there, I had just lost overboard my last supplies, stored so long,
husbanded so carefully! If I could walk, I would show you my cellar
and storehouse back in the woods.

'Many things that they have held were honestly earned, by my fish and
my game, and one thing and another. I get out timber and raft it down
to the islands sometimes, although the work is too hard for an old man
alone; and I trade my furs off regularly at the settlements on the
islands and even along the mainland,--a month's work for a little
flour or sugar. Ah, how I have labored! I have felt my muscles crack,
I have dropped like a log from sheer weariness. Talk of tortures;
which of them have I not felt, with the pains and faintness of
exposure and hunger racking me from head to foot? Have I stopped for
snow and ice? Have I stopped for anguish? Never; I have worked,
worked, worked, with the tears of pain rolling down my cheeks, with my
body gnawed by hunger. That night, in some way, the boxes slipped and
fell overboard as I was shifting them; just slipped out of my grasp as
if on purpose, they knowing all the time that they were my last. Home
I came, empty-handed, and found you there! I would have taken your
supplies, over on the north beach, that night, yes, without pity, had
I not felt sure of those last boxes; but I never rob needlessly. You
look at me with scorn? You are thinking of those dead men! But what
are they to Silver,--the rough common fellows,--and the wolf standing
at the castle door! Believe me, though, I try everything before I
resort to this, and only twice out of the four times have I caught
anything with my tree-hung light; once it was a vessel loaded with
provisions, and once it was a schooner with grain from Chicago, which
washed overboard and was worthless. O, the bitter day when I stood
here in the biting wind and watched it float by out to sea! But say,
has anything come ashore? She will be waking soon, and we have miles
to go.'

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