The Choice

I’d had the job for exactly three months and three days when I first heard the sobs, and I’m still not sure if they just started, or if my familiarity with the normal background sounds increased my awareness. No one else mentioned them, so I didn’t ask – a cushy job like this is rare; with my being a student again, and crippled a bit and completely bored by what passes for TV entertainment. Still, sobbing is hard to ignore, especially when there is no one here.

This place is a museum by day – and well suited for it. A pretend Duke had this crumbly castle brought over from ‘the old country’ a century ago and the heirs could hardly to heat the place, no less desire to live in. So, the “Folklore Preservation Society” wound up with it with the proviso that some person must always be on the premises – absolutely silly, but a covenant none the less. Well, I qualify as ‘someone’ is nothing else, and lock myself in from 10 PM each night ‘till 6 AM. Nothing to do but raid the kitchen and wander the halls and read these incredible books. I even get paid – amazing! During the day I teach a course in Creative Writing at the Community College and plunder along on my PHD aspirations. I get by and more, and have little to complain about – except this damnable sobbing.

I’ve checked every room, of course – nada! I take random and quickly darting explorations of the sixty rooms, and have crawled around and perched on ladders – yet have at best determined that the sounds are equal throughout the place. No muffling of cold hard stone. No waning of volume on twisting stairs. No directional intensity nor Doppler shifts. I would guess at faulty plumbing – except that there isn’t any beyond modern stuff in the kitchen and visitor lounge. All my wanderings did produce a nagging sense of displacement, however – as I realized that the reachable rooms did not account for all the space. In the center of the castle there seemed to be a shaft perhaps twelve feet across that spanned all four floors. Yet there were no unaccountable doors and I could but prepare a map of the floor plan. It took a couple of months, working alone with a 25 ft measure and graph paper; but my instincts were confirmed – it was there all right. Now to the roof!

I am not sure that my commitment to be ‘in’ the place allowed for an exploration of the open space up there, but I decided to risk it. One turret window gave a view of part of the tiles – enough to know there were path-like low walls intersecting the patchwork of spires and domes and crenellated edges. The full moon would be enough to avoid a fall and a warm breeze whift around the seams of the wooden door. No lock! Only an idiot would go out there, or no one cared if some tourist jumped, I guess. It was about 12:30 when I stepped out. The sobbing stopped!

Now, you would have jumped back inside, I know – but reading those hundreds of ancient books had driven away all fear from my questing mind. Besides, if ‘going out’ had invoked some curse it was too late anyway—and it isn’t as if the walls fell down or lighting struck or anything. I was on a mission, remember, and it was actually fairly easy to locate the dome over the shaft by pacing from the edges. It was also the only one with a split across the top; just like a telescope observatory except flatter – and it was metal instead of stone. Still time to return to my desk and tea – and I might have save for the sobbing having stopped -- and finding the wheel in an alcove in the turret close by. You know – a large turn-wheel like on a dam or culvert grate. Surprised it wasn’t rusted tight. Oh well. A couple of turns and the dome opened a crack. Enough to look in. Stupid, huh?

I can’t explain how I communicated with it – Jenlish, I mean – the creature in the pit. It was too far down for me to see, or for it to get out. I got glimpses and snatches of images about two inches behind my eyes – pictures of places weirder than any in those tomes down stairs. That and a message – a wave of deepest appreciation and affection – relief. It made no sense but had no fear around the edges either. I knew it was incredibly old and wise and lonely. It did not explain how it came to be here in the pit, or how it survived – and I didn’t think to ask. You see, its entire focus was in broadcasting a request to me – a simple one as it turned out – but I did have a choice. I could meet its plea or close the portal and return to my mundane life – and the sobbing. It would have been easier if it had been ugly or mean or demanding. What would you choose?

I climbed the nearby turret after opening the dome all the way – finding another wheel at the top of the iron rungs. This too spun free – not too strenuous, but endless! Maybe a thousand turns. Slowly the entire conically spired roof jacked up at an angle – becoming precarious in balance – then stopped. I walked to the edge and stared down into the pit below – seeking guidance and assurance. No solace! Just a wafting of affection – and affirmation of the plea. I would have to do the last bit myself – as it should be!

I took more will than strength – more faith in touch of hand that aid from tear filled eyes – more courage than life should demand. I pushed!

The massive stone projectile arched forth and out and down. Its graduated sides served to center its mass on the shaft, and it plunged down with hardly an inch around to spare. I hadn’t though it would whistle -- but that perhaps masked any scream – I do not know.

At least the sobbing is gone now – no sound from the walls at all.

My sobbing will have to serve.