Stranded at Styx

You're sitting beside a crackling warm fire, pulling the blanket round close and trying to balance a mug of hot coffee as the rain lashes the windowpane. Ready? Here's a story from more than 5 years back:

James Farthing woke with a start. He was feeling hot, very much so. He wasn’t much of a sleeper and he went to the window for a breath of fresh air. It was snowing outside and James watched the snowflakes dance as they fell to the ground, blanketed by a thick layer of snow, which had been falling for the past couple of days. The village clock began chiming; striking eleven in slow, deep booms which resonated through the decrepit walls of the old manor. 

From its East Wing, where James stood, only the yard could be seen. In fact, only James’ room had the doubtful privilege of having a view of the garden. It wasn’t much of a sight, uncared for and allowed to run wild with weeds, fading into the thick mist, which would curl up from the marshes to the north. The manor too, was in disrepair and people would associate it with its shrouds of dust and cobwebs, nooks and niches where jackdaws built their nests and the ominous caws of the rooks, swept away by the wind.

James sighed. He loved the manor and was sorry to see its condition. Earlier it had belonged to a retired army officer; but ever since he had died, the manor was never really looked after; and even though James loved the manor, he was in no position to do anything about its maintenance. There was a maid in the house but she was old, hard of hearing and incapable of moving even from one wing to the other. She stayed in the manor because she had no place to live in ever since her master’s death and she felt it her duty not to let the house fall in ruins, although most of it already looked as though it was part of some ancient civilization.

That night, after making sure each door in the manor was locked and bolted, she made her way to the hall in a painstakingly slow manner. Midway she remembered that she hadn’t taken her knitting with her and thanked her stars that she hadn’t already gone down the stairs. She turned to the left and groped for the antediluvian knob-like switch on the wall. Having finally found it, she waited a bit, adjusting her eyes to the dim glow of the lamp at the end of the pitch-black corridor. She then walked slowly towards the light, her short footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, thickly covered with dust. She fumbled for her keys and opened the lock. The door unwillingly creaked open and the maid went to the table by the window. She looked out and cursed the state of the garden, the cold and everything rotten that winter was usually accompanied by. She picked up her knitting and plodded out; making sure to lock the door before leaving. She finally reached the hall, catching her breath after the expedition down the stairs and resting her aching body on a monstrous armchair. She fed the fire some more wood and then sank down peacefully in the chair to her knitting. About fifteen minutes later, James entered the hall, making his way to the cane chair, the only other piece of furniture close to the armchair. The maid had fallen asleep, but she woke with a jolt, muttered something and pulled her shawl closer. James waited, expecting her to speak. The maid was silent for a few seconds, staring at the fire for some time. She sighed and looked at her knitting, fallen to the floor. “If only master were here. The house was so full of life back then. Now…”, and she broke off. James gave a smile –  one that masked great sadness - “How right you are”, he whispered, “How right you are”. He looked at the dying fire and rose. Then he left the hall and made his way back to his room. The night passed uneventfully.

That morning, much to the maid’s surprise, she heard a knocking at the door. She hurried as fast as she could to open it. A decent-looking couple was standing outside and they introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. White, who were looking forward to buying the manor. They were interested, apparently, in old houses, and the real-estate agent had confirmed that the manor was practically from the Mesozoic Age. The maid hesitated a bit, but asked them in. They made some perfunctory comments as to how huge the house was, the good old oak doors and so on. They were then shown into the hall. Mr. White let out a slow whistle of appreciation. He walked over to the mantelpiece above the fireplace and admired the huge muskets hung on the wall. “They’re the master's, them guns”, the maid said. “He belonged to the army, you know”, she added. “Oh!”, exclaimed Mrs. White. “Are you saying these actually belonged to the Captain Farthing the agent was talking about?” “Yes, yes, Captain James Farthing, isn’t it?”, Mr. White turned to the maid.

The maid nodded, “Great man, Mr. Farthing, sir. If only he was with us now…”

***