Lucy was disinclined to leave the castle, and took to maundering in the halls, carrying his burden here and there, eating little, sleeping less, and saying nothing, for he found speaking to be actually painful for him. At last he retreated to his room, blacked out his window with ash, folded and stowed his telescope, and took to bed. At the start he had no specific thoughts or notions but was merely inhabiting a deep, even ache; then came the visions of merciful death, and he pondered the variants with a swooning reverence. On the third day of this, Mr. Olderglough came to visit, and Rose was at his side. As they entered the room, Lucy drew the pillow over his face. “Please don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what, boy?”
“Don’t say it.”
“Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say anything.”
Mr. Olderglough sat on the bed. “Are you not well, Lucy?”
“I’m not, no.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not well.”
“I suppose it’s something to do with Klara, is that it?”
Lucy didn’t answer. Mr. Olderglough bowed his head, and his forelock came uncoiled. “What may I do to help you?”
“Nothing.”
“And when will you be better, I wonder?”
“I don’t want to be better.”
“That’s no kind of attitude.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Must you speak with the pillow over your face?”
“I must, yes.”
Mr. Olderglough set his forelock in place, looking sterner. “Lucy,” he said, “I’m here primarily because of my being worried about you. But there is also the fact of your being paid to perform services in the castle, and it has been some days where you haven’t done so. Now, we all come down with a trace of gloom from time to time, but—”
“You’ve never once paid me,” said Lucy.
Mr. Olderglough scowled. “Oh, come now, boy. That can’t be true.” He thought a moment. “Is that true?”
“Never once.”
“Well, that’s just terrible.” Mr. Olderglough paused, then brightened. “What if I did pay you? Then would you work?”
“No.”
“This is all very discouraging. May I ask after your plans?”
“I have none.”
“But surely you must. What of the future?”
“There isn’t one.”
Mr. Olderglough sighed. “I cannot claim to be enjoying this conversation, if I’m to be honest. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go away, now. I’ll leave Rose here with you, if you don’t mind. I found her wandering the halls this morning.”
“Fine. Goodbye, sir.”
“Yes, goodbye.” Mr. Olderglough left. Rose climbed onto the bed to lie next to Lucy, who presently returned to the swamp of his own self-pity, which was a relief, for as a habitat it was magnificent in its direness; and since it had been created from his own fabric, he felt some stamp of gratification as he wallowed there. There had always been something comforting in melancholy for him, as though it were a purposeful tradition he was taking part in.
The next afternoon, Memel called on Lucy. Lucy did not cover his face for the visit, but stared away at the ceiling. Memel said, “Mewe is down with the grippe. Will you and Rose come for a walk with me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too sad to.”
Memel puckered his face. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Why.”
“It’s sort of disgusting, don’t you think?” He sniffed the air. “Why don’t you empty your pot?”
“I don’t care about it.”
“Clearly you don’t.”
There was a discordant note to Memel’s voice; Lucy looked at him, and was shocked to see how unwell the man appeared. He’d lost weight, and his color was gone, and he was trembling. “You’re still feeling poorly, Memel?”
Memel said, “There’s something gone sour in me. I can’t seem to get rid of it, whatever it is.” He regarded his stomach, then turned back to Lucy. “Won’t you come along? I don’t feel like being alone today. And besides that, there’s something I want to show you.”
Lucy did not in the least want to go, but Memel seemed so nakedly vulnerable that he felt duty-bound to come along, and so he rose from the bed and dressed, and they struck out, with Rose leading the way. Memel made some weather-related comments in hopes of conjuring a conversation, but Lucy would not be lured into speaking more than a word or two. Finally Memel asked him what was the matter. When Lucy told him nothing was, Memel pointed out that this was a lie.
“Isn’t it true that you’re having troubles with Klara?”
“I suppose that I am.”
“Because of that soldier?”
“Yes.” Lucy felt strange discussing Klara with Memel. “I wonder what she wants,” he said pallidly.
“I couldn’t answer that, boy. And I doubt she could, either.” Memel laid a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “I don’t know what she sees in that other one, to tell you the truth.”
“Don’t you care for him?”
“I have no regard for a man so willing to give his life for an idea,” said Memel, and he spat on the ground to emphasize his indignation. Lucy, for whom the war was still a mystery, said, “Yes, and what is the idea?”
“Precisely,” Memel answered, pausing to catch his breath, though they’d not been walking at all briskly. Lucy offered him an arm; Memel accepted this, and they continued, heading for the tree line. They were passing a section of forest he’d never seen before, and presently they came to a clearing in the wood, a grassy knoll, uneven rows of homely tombstones: the villagers’ cemetery. Lucy followed Memel through the rows. They arrived at a grave and Memel pointed. “Klara’s mother,” he said. “Alida, was her name.” Kneeling, he said, “I suppose I’ll be joining her soon enough.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. I’ve already written my epitaph. Would you like to hear it?” Lucy said that he would and Memel cleared his throat, speaking skyward, as one reciting a poem:
“He wandered here and there over rolling hills.
He never saw the ocean but
dreamed of it often enough.”
He turned to Lucy with an inquisitive expression.
“It’s very nice,” said Lucy.
Memel bowed his head modestly. “Have you ever visited the ocean?”
“No.”
“A man once told me it was wide as the sky and twice as blue. Do you believe it?”
“I suppose I do.”
Memel shook his head at the wonder of this. “What do you think your stone will say?” he asked.
Lucy had never thought of it. What was an epitaph meant to be, exactly? A summation of accomplishments? A representation of one’s general outlook? Fine, only he had as yet accomplished nothing, and he had no overarching opinion regarding his life or anyone else’s. Lucy was stymied; he shrugged the question off.
“It will come to you in time, likely,” said Memel.
Lucy wasn’t so sure. “Why did you bring me here, Memel?” he asked.
Memel nodded, gesturing to Alida’s grave. “I was wondering if you were aware that she did the very same thing to me that Klara is doing to you now? And with my dearest friend Tomas, no less?”
It was curious to think of Memel with any other friend besides Mewe. “I haven’t met a Tomas,” said Lucy.
“You wouldn’t have. He’s been dead a good long while. A gambler, Tomas was. He and I were as close as could be, since we were boys, even.”
“And when did he die?”
“Just after the impropriety was revealed. He was murdered, you see.”
“He was?”
“Yes.”
“Who murdered him?”
“I did.”
Lucy said, “You murdered your closest friend?”
“Yes.”
Lucy thought about this. “How did it come to pass?”
“You want me to tell you?”
“I want you to tell me.”
“Well then, I will.”