Froelich's Ladder (18 page)

“All right. Like I’ve been trying to say—” Lashing the reins about his wrist, the soldier soothed his mare, kneading her flank with his one good hand. “Miss Josephine has been taken hostage.”

With a bark of laughter, Frank rolled his eyes. “What do you mean, hostage?” he said. “Hostage to one of her moods? You know teenage girls, Sergeant Major.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” the soldier replied. “And I mean exactly as I say. Confined to quarters with a hostile interloper. A Deutschman, I think—we can’t see through the door, and he refuses to speak English. Now, would you care to accompany me back to Fort Brogue?”

“You’re serious?” Frank could feel his stomach lurch—like that long-ago morning on Fulton and Pearl, the newsprint still tacky on his palms. The instinct to do harm was so pronounced he had to fold his arms to stay his hands. “She’s really in trouble—my Josie?”

“Can I say it any more plainly?”

“I know some German,” Gordy blurted out. Everyone turned to look at him. “You say he’s a Deutschman? Well, I know a little.”

“Then come with us,” Frank declared. “You can ride with me.”

“Me, too?” Gak asked.

Surprisingly, it was Gordy who answered her. “No,” he snapped. “Not you.”

There it was again, the fissure. Whatever tension existed between them, it wasn’t far below the surface. Too fraught to be a lovers’ quarrel, it had the feeling of something more intimate, something intractable. Though the greater portion of Frank’s mind was now occupied by his niece (how best to subdue Josie’s captor, and what manner of torture would be most appropriate), he was happy to facilitate Gak’s comeuppance.

“What?” she protested. “No, I—”

“Your friend has spoken,” Frank interrupted. “I have a need for him—but if he doesn’t want you, then you’re dead weight. For all I care, you can sod off.”

“She’s going to the Logging Camp,” Gordy
volunteered. “To find her daddy.”

“Sergeant Major,” Frank said. “Can your man escort her there?”

“Lieutenant, do you know the way?”

“Yes, sir,” the young soldier confirmed. “Down the coast, sir.”

“Good—commandeer another horse and take her there.”

Suddenly, everyone was in motion.

“Now wait just a minute,” Gak insisted, but no one appeared to be listening to her. Frank and Gordy had started walking toward the stable, and the Sergeant Major had steered his mare around. When the lieutenant dismounted from his horse to offer her a boost, Gak batted him away.

“Gordy!” she said. “I’m talkin’ to you! Let’s all of us go together, so we can find your uncle. Then maybe afterward, we can—”

“
My
uncle,” Gordy cut her off. “Not yours—
mine
. I don’t need your help—I’ve had enough of that already. Go and help yourself for a change.” With that, he continued toward the stable.

Before Gak could respond, Frank brought his face close to hers—so close that her eyes went crossed. “What’s done is done,” he said—able, at this proximity, to smell taffy on her breath. “Now run along by your lonesome self. And the next time you accuse me of welshing, just remember I pay my debts.” Withdrawing a step, he added, “Good luck finding your daddy.”

Th
rough the aperture of the keyhole, Froelich eyed his captors. He was mindful not to stand too close, lest they be tempted to jab something at him, but he could see them even from a distance—their cheeks shaved, like a grotesque mob of babies. They spoke English in a variety of accents, too fast for him to comprehend, and banged on the door with the flats of their hands. Yet another reason to stand back, lest they take the thing off its hinges.

Ever since he’d woken to find them, these man-babies
had remained a constant bother. It seemed they were trying to communicate with him; moreover, Froelich got the impression they wanted him to leave. Not one to suffer the yoke of authority, he was inclined to ignore them, but for the fact that he was otherwise trapped. So the man-babies continued to stare at him, while he continued to stare back, and little was done to resolve the situation.

When he wasn’t engaging in mutual surveillance, there were other pursuits to occupy his time. He’d already experimented with lying down: the bed, perhaps a little short for his legs, had been as soft as a mother’s embrace. Now that he was fully rested, he’d also experimented with sitting on the mattress. The position required nothing of his arms and shoulders, and very little of his legs, besides. Occasionally, one or the other of his buttocks would go numb and he’d have to massage it to regain sensation, but otherwise Froelich enjoyed the decadence—a state of leisure he’d rarely been afforded while supporting himself on the rungs. But always the man-babies would bang on the door again, disturbing his tranquility and making him feel harried.

“What is it?” he yelled, keeping his back turned to the keyhole. “What do you want? I’ve got no candies for you!”

They wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d left, and if he were going to leave it would have to be out the window. Thus, raising himself up from his seated position, Froelich limped across the room to look outside. The herd of clouds continued to graze on the turret, happily producing their bleating noises. If he were going to escape, he could ride one of them to freedom. Only, this time, he might pick an older steed—not a baby, like before, but one of substance and heft. No more fear of the bottom collapsing, or of being digested over time.

Truth be told, the idea of piloting a cloud didn’t appeal to him. Froelich wasn’t confident he’d be able to steer it, which begged the question: where would his new cloud take him? Out to sea, obviously, but what coast beyond the distant horizon? Not the Deutschland of his youth, he hoped; that sad and desolate place held no more appeal to him now than it had upon his departure. Less so, without Harald by his side! How pitiful everything would seem, minus the company of his brother. Who would deride the pig farm, if not the two of them together?

“Not today,” Froelich said, reaching out the window to pet a downy flank. “Maybe some other time I’ll ride you. For now, my two feet are comfortable on the ground.”

The window still offered a means of egress, cloud or no. To the untrained eye, the turret may have appeared smooth—slick, even, as a result of the ocean spray. But Froelich could distinguish seams in the wood, and depressions where the moss was masking irregularities. Testing his grip against the window pane, he knew he’d be able to climb down, his fingers made vise-like from years on the rungs. But even if he managed his descent without injury, where would he go when he reached the bottom?

Peering down from this vantage point, Froelich was reminded of Sir Knost’s ladder, the third tallest in recorded history. As boys, he and Harald had traded tales about knights of the Teutonic Order, playacting their exploits. Sir Knost had been a favorite of Froelich’s, a minor knight known for his vanity. When a lord of the Lithuanian highlands had declared his daughter to be off-limits, even going so far as to have her sequestered, Sir Knost had conspired to woo her.

After arriving in the highlands, Sir Knost and his squire had visited a nearby grove, wherein they’d discovered a remarkably tall tree. In medieval times, knights had used escalades to scale castle walls. More often than not, these escalades had been constructed from whatever materials were available on hand. But before Sir Knost was able to chop down the tree, a wood sprite had emerged.

The timber belonged to him, the wood sprite explained, but he’d exchange it for a lock of Sir Knost’s hair. The knight agreed to these terms and set to work. The tree was exceptionally tall, as was the resulting escalade—so tall, in fact, that twice Sir Knost compared it to his storied manhood. (His squire, a pimply boy of twelve, suffered these jests in silence.) Finally, when their labors had been completed, the wood sprite returned to receive his payment, but Sir Knost reneged on his debt, threatening the creature at swordpoint.

Fleeing, the wood sprite cursed the escalade and anyone who would scale it. But Sir Knost would not be deterred. Up he climbed, until he felt he should’ve reached his good lady’s window—and still he’d climbed. Up and up, until it seemed like he’d been climbing for hours. Up and up, until afternoon became night, and he was forced to sleep on the rungs. Only when a new day had dawned did it occur to him that enchantment was afoot.

Henceforth, it hadn’t mattered if Sir Knost climbed
up or down: the rungs had extended endlessly in either direction and no breach in the wall would ever appear. The days had grown shorter and the seasons had changed. Sir Knost had aged, and his gorgeous hair had fallen out. Worst of all, he’d become lonely. When more time had passed than he cared to recall, he let go, plummeting to his death. His companion, who’d witnessed the whole affair, would later swear that he’d never climbed higher than the twentieth rung, nor had an hour elapsed. Sir Knost had lost his wits, and nobody mourned his passing, least of all his pimply-faced squire.

But now the man-babies were hammering on the door again, causing Froelich to start. With a rueful laugh, he stepped back from the window.

“It’s unwise to yell at someone so close to the edge,” he barked. “Such a person might be tempted to jump!”

Outside, his captors continued their protests, honking and bleating. The sounds they made were frightening, Froelich would admit to himself, as was their hideousness—but were they even real? Or were they the product of another fever?

Keeping his back turned, he elected to sit at the writing desk. It had been years since he’d last occupied a chair, and he spent a few minutes admiring its construction: like a miniature ladder, only with the rungs and stiles arranged differently. Though his left buttock went numb almost immediately, he found that he enjoyed the respite—leaning back, and taking the full weight off his feet. Idly, he scanned the surface of the desk: some mementos, paper and an inkwell, and a fresh quill.

In that moment Froelich decided: he would not leave this place. Maybe it was real, maybe not. Maybe, climbing out the window, he would fall to his death like poor Sir Knost, or find that he’d fallen off the ladder some time ago, and only now lay sensate at his brother’s feet. But for as long as this delusion persisted, with the squalling man-babies outside his door, he’d appreciate the perks it had to offer, be they lying down or sitting up. He only had to explain his absence to the one person who might notice. Thus, choosing a piece of paper from the top of the pile and inking his nib, Froelich thought for a moment before composing his first sentence to Harald.

Th
e Logging Camp had grown since Gak last saw it, this being her third visit in four years. Venues like the Chinese laundry and the smokehouse had erected plywood walls, steam issuing from tin chimneys like pale vines. It was hard to say how large the camp had become, since its borders remained undefined and were veiled in a constant fog—certainly big enough to warrant a charter. But who among these lost souls would petition for such a thing? If any of them desired a social contract, they were welcome to find it elsewhere.

As Gak traversed a familiar network of footpaths, she reflected on the previous day’s events: Carmichael and Nantz, the jitney driver, and finally Francis Myers. The one constant had been Gordy, and now he’d forsaken her. Kicking a toadstool, she tried to summon indignation, in the hopes that it might enliven her, but all she could feel was a deep and abiding shame. Gak had been no safer as a boy than as a girl—in fact, she’d been a danger to others! If not for Gordy, she’d be dead twice over; as a result of having saved her, he wanted her gone. It was impossible to reconcile. As it was, she had too much ground to cover and too few resources at her disposal.

Cresting a low hill, to where a brook ran shallow beside a half-dozen campsites, she recognized a face. Zyke’s Menagerie had been given a wide berth by its neighbors, most of them sleeping under tents, with a few covered wagons parked alongside. Approaching the lonely caravan (its gilding leached of vibrancy), Gak could see why.

“Hey, Owen,” she called out. “Nice bear.”

The rotund man looked up from his breakfast and blinked at her. Whatever fate had befallen the original Zyke, he’d borne no relation to Owen—nor, Gak imagined, had he shared the same rheumy eyes. When he chewed, Owen betrayed an allowance of rotten teeth. The menagerie, won in a poker game, boasted no more than five or six animals at a time, whatever he could trap himself.

One time, Gak had helped him catch a feral pig, but even that was relatively tame compared to a bear cub. The bear in question was small, but still larger than Owen. She wore a conical cap, affixed by a chinstrap, and bangles that chimed when she moved her paws. Otherwise, she was unbound, no more a captive than anyone else. Sitting on the opposite side of the campfire, her damp fur stinking something awful, the bear exhibited all the signs of human despondency.

“Is that you, Gak?” Owen said. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Yeah, thanks—she’s all right.”

“Is she? Because she looks kinda sad.”

“She’s had a rough go of it, lately.”

“Where’s the monkey?” Gak asked, looking around.

Gesturing at his companion, Owen replied, “She ate him.” Immediately, the bear emitted a piteous groan.

“Not the monkey!” Gak said. “I liked him!”

“So did she. You might even say they were the best of friends. But these things happen.”

“I suppose so,” Gak agreed, surreptitiously eying the bear. “Say, Owen, have you seen Gaylord?”

“Can’t say that I have. You asked Harmony?”

Gak scowled. “I was hoping not to.”

“If you’re looking for Gaylord, that’s where I’d start. But now that I got you, Gak, can you spare some money?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh—okay. Spare a cigarette, then?”

Reaching into her pouch to oblige him, Gak tried to muster a sympathetic farewell. In her experience, Zyke’s Menagerie had always prospered. A bear was no small attraction, literally or figuratively. And if Owen needed something more exotic, he was sure to find it. But none of this was easy to convey, in the all-too-obvious absence of the murdered monkey.