Stranded at the Styx

Stranded at the Styx

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, and nooks and
niches where jackdaws built their nests and the ominous caws of the
rooks were 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. Then, more
to herself than anybody else, she said, "If only master were here. The
house was so full of life back then. Now?", and she broke off. James
gave a smile - an odd one because it was strangely crooked, as though
he were smiling through some great agony. "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 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 masters, 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?"