They stepped into the shin-high snow blanketing the platform. The station was a fallow cabin with its door half off the hinges and the windows knocked out. Animal tracks darted in and out of the homely structure but there were no human footsteps to be seen. Neither Memel nor Mewe had any baggage; they pushed on in the direction of the castle, punch-punching through the frosted snow, while Lucy stood awhile by the train tracks, preferring to be apart from these two. But when they noticed his falling behind they ceased walking and called for him to hurry along, that they might travel together. Lucy could think of no alternative other than to fall in line, and so he did this, saying to himself, I am alone with two bloodthirsty thieves. We are walking into an anonymous field of pale snow. Hoping to keep their criminal minds occupied with chatter, Lucy spoke, asking Memel if Mewe was his son, or grandson. Memel said no, they were merely friends.
“Not today we’re not,” said Mewe.
“No, that’s true. Today we’re not friends. But normally, yes.”
“Why aren’t you friends today?” Lucy asked Mewe.
Mewe shook his head. “Memel likes to talk; he’ll tell you.”
“You’ll only interrupt me,” Memel said.
“No, I won’t.”
“It’s an unremarkable thing,” Memel admitted to Lucy.
“If idiocy is unremarkable,” added Mewe.
“Of course idiocy is unremarkable. That’s its chief attribute.”
“I’ve found your idiocy to be quite remarkable at times.”
Memel rolled his eyes. “Mewe takes refuge in insult,” he told Lucy.
“Quite remarkable indeed,” Mewe said. But Memel remained silent; he wouldn’t participate in the lowly discourse. Mewe kicked at the snow. Wearily, he said, “We just like to fight, is what it is.”
Memel pondered the statement, apparently a virgin notion for him. “It’s true. We do.” He was displeased by the admission; it appeared to make him remorseful.
Lucy had been watching the pair for a time, but as their conversation fell into a lull, now he looked up at the castle, and when he did this he startled, for it was much closer than he’d sensed it to be, as if the property had uprooted itself and met them halfway. Lucy considered its facade with a dour expression, and he thought about how buildings often took on the qualities of a living being for him. His own home, for example, was the architectural embodiment of his mother; the tavern was a tilted, leering drunkard; the church was the modest yet noble double of the good Father Raymond. But what was the castle representative of? It was too early to name it. He only knew that it spoke of something colossal and ominous and quite beyond his experience.
They approached a shanty village, built up in a cluster apart from the base of the castle, a hundred or more haphazard domiciles linked side by each in the shape of a teardrop. A series of larger, open-air structures formed a cross through the center—marketplace stalls, Memel explained. Lucy watched as the villagers went about their business: shawl-covered women ducking in and out of doorways, children wrapped to their breasts or trailing behind; men standing in groups of threes and fours, speaking animatedly, gesturing, laughing. Memel pointed out his shanty to Lucy, and with pride, though it was indistinguishable from the others: a warping shack fashioned from tin scrap and mismatched timber. A chimney pushed through the roof, tall and tilted, issuing wispy woodsmoke.
“And does Mewe live with you also?” said Lucy.
“No, I live alone,” said Mewe. “Just this side of Memel’s, do you see?”
Lucy nodded. He asked Memel, “How long have you lived here?”
“I was born here. Mewe, too. We all were.”
“And how long has the village stood beside the castle?”
“Just as long as the castle has been here, so has the village.”
“But where do you all come from originally?”
“I don’t know, actually.” He turned to Mewe. “Do you know?”
“Nowhere, I should think.”
A second silence, and Lucy’s attention drifted away, to the face of the mountain looming beyond the castle. At first he was simply reviewing the scenery, but then he realized there was some manner of human industry taking place in the snow: bodies moving about, and puffs of smoke floating along on the air. “Those are people up there,” he commented.
“Ah, yes,” said Memel.
“What are they doing?”
“Wasting their time.”
“Wasting their time doing what?”
“Playing a silly game.”
“And what is the point of the game?”
“To kill but not be killed oneself.”
“Killed?” said Lucy.
“Yes. Did Olderglough not tell you about that either?”
“There was no mention of killing.”
Memel chuckled. “Rascal! Well, not to worry. You aren’t in any danger.”
“No?”
“Very little danger. A small danger. Keep on your toes, and you’ll be fine, I would think. The others are much worse off.”
“What others?”
“The killed, the killing. The rebels and their tyrannical opposition.” He pointed to one side of the mountain, then the other. “They are often out and about.”
“These two parties are at odds, is that what you’re saying?”
“They are at war.”
“Why are they warring?”
“Ah,” said Memel. “Long story.”
“And what is the story?”
“It is most complicated and long.”
“Mightn’t you tell it to me in shorthand?”
“It would never do but to tell it in total.”
All this was troubling to Lucy. “Perhaps you will tell it to me later,” he ventured.
“Perhaps I will,” Memel said. “Though likely not. For in addition to being a long story, it’s also quite dull.”
They had arrived at the edge of the village. Memel and Mewe said their goodbyes, the former taking up Lucy in a lurching embrace which went on far longer than was seemingly necessary. Lucy was embarrassed by the show of affection but made no objection, thinking it likely a local custom, something he decided to endure as an example of his tolerance.