Half-Castle

Margaret was given the task of cleaning out her dead uncle’s house because she was the only family member not currently employed. She had argued that completing her second master’s program (Ancient Cultures, Religions and Ethnicities) qualified as “employed,” but none of the relatives had taken her side. Being a twenty-five-year-old student who lived in the loft above her parents’ garage didn’t give her a lot of clout in the family meetings. 

Uncle Clarence hadn’t had a wife, children or, apparently, any friends, which was probably why no one bothered to clean out his house for a year after his demise. But the holidays were coming up, and Margaret’s mother had decided that selling her brother’s house would buy them a week at a nice resort in the South of France. So, she’d popped upstairs while Margaret was skimming through a new catalog of master’s programs and made the announcement. 

“You’ve got to empty out Uncle Clarence’s house this week,” she said. 

“I do?” Margaret asked. 

“It’s going on the market next Tuesday, and the real estate agent needs to get in there to take pictures. Clarence was a bit of a hoarder; God rest his soul.”  

“Mom, I can’t, I’m busy,” Margaret said, making a vague sweeping gesture at the paperwork in front of her. 

Her mother collapsed onto the pink slipcovered couch with an exasperated huff. “Your father is pulling double shifts at the hospital all week and I am up to my eyeballs in unfiled paperwork. We are busy, Megs. You are manufacturing busyness to distract from the fact that you can’t decide what to do with your life.”  

“That’s harsh,” Margaret replied, but it was also accurate, which was why the next day she drove to the opposite end of town, unlocked Uncle Clarence’s house, and shoved the front door open.

She had to shove because a year’s worth of mail had accumulated below the mail slot beside the door. The air was stuffy and thick with dust. Margaret pulled her shirt up over her nose while she opened all the windows and took stock of her task. 

Hoarder was a generous term for Uncle Clarence. Captain’s trunks—the kind found in antique stores and old movies—were stacked against every wall. A collection of wooden crates stuffed with linens blocked the entrance to the kitchen. One bedroom was filled with rusting metal machinery. The other was full of clocks.

Margaret’s instructions were to take it all to the dump. She put her hands on her hips and sighed. At this point, arson would be faster. 

She was so wrapped up in contemplating the Herculean nature of her task that when a knock on the door roused her from her despair, she didn’t bother pulling her shirt down from her nose before answering. 

The man on the doorstep wore large round spectacles, a well-pressed navy suit, and a wide-eyed look of surprise.

“Mr. Clarence Thomson?” he asked. 

Margaret pulled her shirt down, and a puff of dust floated away from her. Some of it stuck to the man’s suit. 

“His niece,” she said. 

“Yes, I can see that now. May I come in?”

Margaret folded her arms. “Come in?”

“It’s rather important.”

“How did you know I was here? Were you watching the house?” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you from the government?”

“Oh no, ma’am. I’m from the SPDI.” 

“Which is…” Margaret prompted.

            “The Society for the Prevention of Dungeon Infestations.” 

            Margaret paused to digest the acronym. The man gave her a crooked half-smile. “It’s a fun phrase to trot out at parties.” 

“My uncle is dead,” Margaret said finally, and jerked her head towards the house. “Do you want some tea?”

#

As a child, Margaret had met Uncle Clarence a handful of times, and always under unfavorable circumstances.

He’d dropped by unannounced in the middle of her fifth birthday party bearing a handful of confetti-filled helium balloons. When the balloons brushed past the pointy chandelier in the foyer, three of them had popped, and a horde of tiny spiders had poured out. Margaret was nearly trampled in a stampede of screaming children, and the rest of her birthday party was spent holding an icepack to the lump on her forehead and listening to Uncle Clarence insist that the balloons hadn’t contained spiders when he’d bought them. 

When Margaret was ten, Uncle Clarence had invited them all over for a New Year’s Eve party, and she’d broken her ankle roller-skating on the sidewalk outside his house.  

Halfway through her fifteenth year, Uncle Clarence had come for Christmas. “Don’t open any presents from him,” her mother had whispered frantically as he set down an armful of parcels. Margaret had listened, but her younger brother Charlie had not, and the eternally bouncing ball! from Sri Lanka had ricocheted around the room before slamming into Margaret’s face and knocking out one of her front teeth.  

At the age of twenty, halfway through her undergraduate program, she’d passed Uncle Clarence on one of the college campus walkways. At least, she’d thought it was him; she’d recognized his oversized nose, broad forehead, and characteristic low ponytail. But when she’d stopped abruptly to say hello, the girl behind her had run into her and spilled coffee down the back of her shirt. By the time she’d recovered, Uncle Clarence had vanished.  

Which is simply to say that, in hindsight, the warning signs were there. 

#

“The power’s been turned off,” Margaret called back over her shoulder. “So, I guess I can’t offer you tea. And I wouldn’t trust anything in the pantry. Want me to see if the water’s still on?” 

“No, thank you.” The man did a full circle in the living room, most likely looking for a place to sit. Finding none, he gingerly set his briefcase down on top of one of the captain’s trunks.

“I assume you got our letters?”

“Nope.” 

“We sent quite a few.” 

“Then they’re probably in there,” Margaret said, pointing at the piles of envelopes and magazines strewn around the entryway. “Want to check?” 

“Ah.” The man pushed his glasses farther up his nose and let out a sigh. “How long has your uncle been… deceased?” 

“What did you say your name was?” Margaret asked. 

“Hmmm?”  

“Your name.” 
            “Oh, right, sorry, yes I should have led with that.” He gave her another apologetic smile. “Not my best introduction, but I was a bit confused by the, erm,” he pointed at her shirt. “the way you opened the door. And the fact that you were not Clarence Thomson. I’ve been waiting a very long time to speak with him, you see. If we’d known he was dead, we would have sent the letters somewhere else. Was it recent?” 

“Twelve months ago, give or take.”

“That long? Oh no, that’s not good at all.”

He sounded so distressed that Margaret was tempted to apologize, although she wasn’t entirely sure what for. It wasn’t her fault Uncle Clarence had shuffled off the mortal coil. “Is that… a problem?” she asked. 

“Were you aware that your uncle was in possession of a castle?”

“A what?” Margaret exclaimed. “Get out. You’re joking.”

The man unclipped his briefcase and pulled out of a piece of paper. “It’s not far, actually. Thirty minutes by car, I’d say. Out in the countryside.” 

Margaret tried to make sense of the paper, although only half of it was written in English. The other half was a mess of squiggles and dots. “What is this, like a deed of sale? Clarence Thomson hereby agrees to purchase Castle Lunsford…” she squinted and glanced up at the man. “Can I see it?” 

“You probably should,” he replied. “Are you his closest living heir?” 

Margaret allowed herself a moment to consider the ethics of a little white lie. If she said no, would she still get to go see the castle? Besides, was anyone in the family actually close to Uncle Clarence? She was the one sorting through his effects, after all. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said. “And I’ve never been inside a castle before.” 

The man looked surprised. Actually, he hadn’t stopped looking surprised since she’d opened the door. It was possible that his eyes were simply that wide through an unlucky genetic combination. 

He cleared his throat. “I suppose that’ll do,” he said. “Do you want to drive?” 

“Absolutely.” She snatched her keys off a nearby pile of books. 

The man, who still hadn’t given Margaret his name, followed behind. 

#

It should be noted here that Margaret was unlucky in love.

She’d had a boyfriend in high school who lived on a ranch and loved eating dinner at Margaret’s house. When her older brother, a rookie police officer, pulled him over for speeding, the boyfriend turned out to be neither a rancher nor a high-schooler. That revelation had put Margaret off the quest for true love for quite some time.  

Halfway through her senior year of college, she’d met a penniless bagpiper who busked on street corners every weekend and was often given money to stop playing. He’d told Margaret that she had a pretty smile and Margaret—who was having a lonely week—agreed to go out for coffee with him (her treat). The relationship lasted two months, until Margaret invited him to a family dinner, and he came with his bagpipes and left with her mother’s diamond earrings. 

Margaret had tried to be more discerning after that experience, but even the real estate agent with the nice house and perfect skin was, it turned out, involved in a ponzi scheme that sent him (and very nearly Margaret) to jail. 

After that, Margaret had sworn off dating until she turned thirty and was a better judge of character. Five years wasn’t that long. She could probably fit in at least one more master’s program before then.  

#

“Do you still have the deed with you?” the man asked between gasps. He was gasping because Margaret was a terrible driver and the road was a terrible road, and between the deep potholes and Margaret’s inability to brake smoothly, the car was ricocheting all over the narrow highway that ran beside the cliffs. 

“Yep.” Margaret saw the next pothole coming and tried to brake too late. Her car nose-dived into it, and the man gasped again. “Why?” she asked. 

“You might need to show it as—aah!—proof of ownership.” 

Margaret frowned. “Show who?” 

“All castles in this part of the country come with a clause from the SPDI that states that the owners must—oh look out!—inhabit their castle for at least one month out of each year.”

“Is that for taxes or something?” Margaret asked. 

“Not exactly. Take the next left.”  

“Then what exactly is it for?” Margaret asked. She swerved around the corner. “Why did Uncle Clarence have to live in a castle for a month?” 

The man’s knuckles gleamed white on the grab handle. “Because if he doesn’t live there, something else will.” 

#

“Castle was a generous term,” Margaret remarked as they stood in the driveway and surveyed the house. It was a three-story-tall tangle of stone and ivy, and it almost had four walls. One wall was in the process of returning to dust.

The man pushed his glasses up his nose. “The title has more to do with the age and history,” he said. “Some duke or minor prince lived here at some point. Possibly in exile. At least there’s a turret,” he pointed out. 

“And… a dungeon?” Margaret said. “That’s why you’re here, right? Where would that be, the root cellar?”   

“Yes, we should start there. Best to get the worst out of the way.” 

They trudged through the tall weeds around the house and stopped in front of a peeling, black cellar door. The day was bright and calm. A faint breeze carried the sweet smell of ragweed across the fields. 

“When you said something would move into the dungeon,” Margaret said, staring dubiously at the door in the ground, “you meant, like, rats?” 

There was an enormous crash from the depths of the cellar, followed by a long, low moan. 

Margaret and the man simultaneously took a step back. 

“If only,” the man said. “You still have the deed of sale with you?”

She pulled the paper out of her back pocket and waved it towards the doors. “I’m not entirely sure whatever is down there will care,” she said.

“Never hurts to be prepared.”

Another crash broke the tranquil silence. The cellar doors rattled. 

“Maybe we should just let it keep the place,” Margaret said. 

“Oh no, you can’t do that,” the man said hastily. “You’d be charged with negligence.”

“I would?” Margaret asked incredulously. 

“You did say you’re his closest living heir, so yes. You’ve got to fix this.”  

There was a fizzling, popping noise, like tiny firecrackers, then a high-pitched shriek that made Margaret jump. 

 “It seems rather unfair,” she remarked, “that I’m the one who has to clean up this mess.” 

“Did you have something better to do with your time?” the man asked. “It’s not as if you’ve got a lot going on.” 

“Excuse me, my master’s program is very demanding and… hang on—” Margaret said slowly. She turned to face the man who was studiously brushing pollen off his lapel. “What do you mean I don’t have a lot going on?” 

He blinked and looked up. “Pardon?” 

“How would you know how much I’ve got going on in my life?” Margaret put her hands on her hips. “We just met.”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “It was a safe assumption considering you were cleaning out your dead uncle’s house.” 

“Oh no,” Margaret shook her head. “That is not a plausible explanation. And how did you know I’d be at his house in the first place?” She realized then how very desolate the countryside around the “castle” was. Not a soul in sight, only a herd of cows off in the distance. And she didn’t have any weapons. Maybe she could use the car keys, but she’d left them in the car.  

The man sighed. “Look, all the SPDI needs is for you to pop into the cellar and hand whatever’s down there that piece of paper. It will leave, you’ll get a castle, and I’ll get out of your hair, alright?” 

“And you never gave me your name,” Margaret said. “I asked, and you made me… forget, I think? Are you playing mind tricks on me?” If she took off running, could she get to the car first? The man didn’t look like he could run very fast in that suit.

“I am not—” A roar from below cut the man off. He waited patiently for it to stop before trying again. “Look, it’d be better for both of us if you just do what I asked, then you can forget you ever saw me. I’ll even walk home.” 

“There is nothing around for miles!” Margaret said in exasperation. “And you’re wearing very expensive shoes. I should know, my ex-boyfriend had those exact shoes.” She stopped short. “Hang on.”

The man sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Humans are so dense sometimes.” 

“What’s your name?” Margaret demanded.

“I’m under no obligation to tell you.” 

“Do I get three guesses?” 

“No.”

“Tam Lin.”

The man snorted. “Do I look like I’d let myself get caught by the fairy queen?”

“Cupid?” 

“Is that because your love life is so awful? I only did that out of spite.” 

“LOKI!” Margaret shouted, and the man winced. “I knew it. Now, you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on, or I’m going to shred this piece of paper up and drive off without you.” She held it up above her head.

“Don’t you dare!”  He snapped and reached for the deed, but Margaret danced away. 

“I’m under no obligation to do what you say.”

“Give that back to me!” Loki shouted.

“Tell me what’s in the cellar!” Margaret shrieked. 

“YOUR DEAD UNCLE CLARENCE!” Loki shrieked back. 

#

Loki was sulking in the tall grass. 

Margaret sat cross-legged a safe distance away and wove a clover chain while her mind performed a similarly difficult linking process. 

“You were all of my boyfriends?” she asked. “Even that terrible bagpipe player?”

“I’m a trickster, not a musician,” Loki muttered. 

“And you thought that by dating me, you’d meet my Uncle?” 

“He was very difficult to locate. I didn’t realize your Uncle was a five-year-phoenix until his last cycle.” 

“So the shrieking in the basement is…”

“His rebirth. Apparently, it’s unpleasant.” 

 Margaret squinted up at the sky and sighed. She was uncomfortably warm in her wool sweater, and her ponytail was starting to hurt. “I only ever saw Uncle Clarence like every five years and—”

“Exactly every five years. Right after his rebirth. When he still looked mostly human and wasn’t a full-scale walking disaster.” 

“Oh, that does explain a lot,” Margaret said softly.

“Look,” Loki stood up and walked towards her, but Margaret held up a hand.

“That’s close enough, boyo, I am still thinking.” 

Loki kicked at a pebble and it went scurrying off into the fields. “All I need is for you to get your uncle to hold that piece of paper. The second he touches it, I’ll have my powers back, and I’ll be gone. Believe me when I say that I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here.” 

“You went to jail for that ponzi scheme,” Margaret said. “I almost went to jail for your ponzi scheme.”  

Loki sighed. “I was bored. I’m still bored. Walking through the years like humans do is unbelievably boring.” He gave her a sharp grin. “If you don’t help me out, I might stick around the rest of your life.” 

Margaret rolled her eyes and stood up, dusting off her jeans. “If anything could convince me, that would be it.” She eyed the cellar door. Things had been quiet for several minutes. “Do you think he’s dangerous?” 

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never been around for a phoenix rebirth.”

 Margaret rolled her eyes. “For being a lesser god, you are utterly unhelpful.” 

“I can still shapeshift if you think that would help.” 

“I don’t want any more interference from you, probably forever,” Margaret snapped. “I swore off dating for years, thanks to you.” 

“We had a few good dates,” Loki protested. “I was an excellent line dancer.” 

“One good date.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.” 

The cellar doors were heavy, and it took both Margaret and Loki working together to heave one of them open. A faint smell of sulfur drifted up from the darkness.

“Uncle Clarence?” Margaret called out.

Silence. 

“What if he’s really dead?” Margaret whispered. 

Loki’s face paled. “Then I might never get my powers back.” 

“Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?” Margaret snapped. 

“Not if I can help it.” 

“Why did you steal my mother’s diamond earrings?” 

“Old habits, etcetera. Hurry up, please.” 

Margaret tentatively put her weight on the first wooden step. When it held, she hurried down the rest until she reached the bottom. The sunlight shone weakly down through the open door, revealing a small, cold room lined with empty shelves. 

A body lay on the ground, surrounded by feathers and what Margaret hoped was water. 

“Uncle Clarence?” Margaret said again. 

The body stirred slightly and moaned. He was, thankfully, not naked, although the plain brown shirt and pants were ripped and stained. Her uncle lifted his head. His long, damp hair hung across his face. 

“Margaret?” he said weakly. “How did you find me here?” 

She glanced up at the cellar entrance. Loki had stepped away, hidden himself from sight. 

It would be the easiest thing in the world to hand him the piece of paper right now. He would take it, Loki would be free, and she could go home. 

It was what Loki would do. 

“Loki lured me here,” she said. “He tried to trick me into thinking you were a monster while you were transforming, and that giving you this piece of paper would get rid of you. I thought it was a deed, but I’m guessing the squiggles are a release of contract.” 

“That was an awful lot of unnecessary information,” a surly voice from above said. 

“Clever girl,” Uncle Clarence said, and Margaret smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had called her clever.

“We thought you were dead,” Margaret said. 

Uncle Clarence coughed. “I thought I was, too. But the Manticore venom only paralyzed me for thirteen months instead of killing me. I was going to pop by for a visit after the change, you know. Put everyone’s minds to rest.” 

“Do you think we could get on with this?” Loki’s voice drifted down to them. 

Margaret and her uncle looked at each other. “Do you want to let him go?” Margaret asked. 

“Not particularly,” Uncle Clarence said. “I spent quite a lot of money on the scroll that holds his powers. Do you?” 

Margaret chewed on her lip. “If we don’t let him go, he’ll keep moping around me forever trying to get to you. And I guess I wouldn’t have found out about you if he hadn’t showed up.” 

“I don’t mope,” Loki muttered. 

“You won’t tell your mum, will you?” Uncle Clarence asked as he pulled into a sitting position. “She thinks I’m a travelling insurance agent.”

“Definitely not,” Margaret replied. She held out the piece of paper. 

With a sigh, Uncle Clarence took it. “Alright, Loki, you’re free to—” there was a loud POP, and through the door, Margaret saw a brilliant flash of green in the sky.

In the distance, a cow lowed.

“Well, that’s that,” Uncle Clarence said. 

Together, they climbed out of the cellar, blinking in the sunlight.

Margaret rolled up her sleeves. “This is not much of a castle, Uncle Clarence.” 

“I’ve been meaning to do some repairs, I just haven’t had the time.” He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “What are you up to these days?” 

“I’m,” Margaret stopped. “I think I was sort of waiting for something to happen to me.” 

“Well, something has happened, I’m not sure if it’s what you had in mind, though. But it’s an offer, if you’d like it.”    

“So, if I stay here, and help you fix this place up and whatever else it is you do—” 

“The chances are high you’ll end up having at least one near-death encounter a year. More, the closer I get to my rebirth.”

A sparkle in the weeds caught Margaret’s eye. She bent down and picked up one diamond earring.

“Of course he would only leave one,” she said.

“It’s possible he’ll come back sometime to return the other one,” Uncle Clarence said. 

“Oh don’t worry,” Margaret said. “I’ll be ready.”  

*** 

Image courtesy of dailymail.co.uk