Where There Is Nothing

Chapter 5

Far in the distance, beyond wild ferns and wooded foothills, a looming steel fence encircled Gray Towers from the outside world.

Having been battered by episodes of thunderstorms over the many cold months, the railing of the old steel fence curved in all directions a lot like the branches of the invasive pine whom had grown like wildfire into the bodies of the comely oaks that once freely populated the surrounding  grounds. The Father, in hope of encountering someone to open the gate, climbed atop the scaffolding and made himself known with a stern and resolute plea. Yet no one appeared, and as the day was beginning to descend, there was no time to turn back to town. He stepped down and set his belongings on the ground and began to pace back and forth, as he was inclined to do so when deep in contemplation. As sure as the wind it became evident that there was no more time to waste. He thus determined to find his own way in one way or another.

He began to feel the squelching mud beneath his feet yield to his weight, all along the perimeter of the fence, every step, slowing his stride as his boots sank deeper into the mire. Unbeknownst, the fence had stood as a formidable defense, resolute in protecting Gray Towers from prying eyes. Its frame and on an incline too steep to climb, its gaps too narrow to accommodate a human form, and yet, after a grueling effort, the Priests perseverance broke the chains of the gate's resistance, and he erupted into a strained, breathless laughter as he saw a breach, with some caution, he approached, and with little effort, pried a loose panel, exposing a sizable gap for a small human. He thrust his head through, and his contorted body followed squeezing through the peculiarly shaped aperture. His break in did not come without a price; as a thorn from nearby rose bush drew blood down from his ankle, mixing in with the damp earth beneath his booth.

The battle had been won, or so it seemed, as he found himself within a breathtaking courtyard, with many winding paths, leading to the entrance of the House. Climbing the steps of one such path, he couldn't help but notice the stars, casting streaks across the courtyard. He glanced back at the fence, feeling drained and famished from his ordeal, recalling the townsfolk's dire warnings of his imminent failure. Yet, here he stood, just a few feet away from the House, allowing himself a wan smile. And still, as the building slowly came into focus, the House seemed to swell with size, and imposing beast of a manor that dwarfed everything around it.

Taking a deep breath, he marveled at the structure perched upon the hill. Its exterior, constructed of solid bricks and stones, displayed a blend of white and red hues, each beam adorned with a window looking out at the garden and, more importantly, at the Woods. No curtain obstructed the view, no light spilled from its recesses, it appeared uninhabited, as if wanting for its lost soul to return. Confronted by the grand double doors, he cast one last glance at the Woods that encircled the House, and beheld the splendid scale of the wilderness that encircled them, rendering him insignificant in the vastness.

Rev. Dolling lingered for a moment more before mustering the courage to rap his knuckles upon the door. He waited in silence, the anticipation heavy in the air, for a response, but none came. He pressed his ear closely to the door.

A voice from behind the closed door, called out, "Who goes there?"

"Arthur Dolling," he replied, his voice trembling from the cold.

"Have you any relation to Mr. Svensdotter?"

"No," Mr. Dolling replied.

"Is there something that I can be of assistance with?"

"I think not," Mr. Dolling said, hastily adding, "I've come at the request of your proprietor."

A muffled sound was heard from behind the door, but still it remained shut. "I'm afraid that's impossible!" the voice from within called out.