unfurled, with the words Gut ist der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser . She didn't know any German, but she guessed that Schlaf was something to do with sleep, since the nun appeared to be sleeping. But why standing up, in a field? And who was the man with his back turned? It reminded Effie of a scene from a tarot card, mystic and pseudo-medieval, magical rather than historical.
For a moment, while she looked at the window, it seemed to Effie that the sobbing had stopped. But then she heard the woman cry out, a thin high-pitched cry, and then start to weep and beg as if somebody were hurting her and wouldn't let her go.
She went quickly and quietly up to the top of the second flight of stairs. As she passed it by, the stained-glass window threw the pattern of the nun's closed eyes across her cheek, and then the black banners momentarily flew across her forehead.
At the top, she found herself at the crossroads of three corridors: one directly in front of her that was shadowy and thick with dust-bunnies, leading across to the north side of the house; a second that led to the western wing, which looked as if it had once been the staff quarters,' because there were so many small bedroom doors; and a long corridor which led back to the east, to the front of the house.
This corridor was partly in shadow and partly sunny, because the roof had collapsed in several places, and clogged it with fallen rafters and ceiling plaster and heaps of tiles. She could see the crippled oaks that guarded Valhalla's gate, and beyond them, to the highlands, where heavy charcoal-coloured clouds still hung, and lightning flickered spitefully at the treetops.
Because so much of it was open to the sky, the corridor was still dripping from the storm, and wet tarpaper flapped in the breeze like the last feeble convulsions of a wounded crow. There was a strong smell, too: a smell that Effie didn't like at all. It wasn't just damp and decay, it was death, too, and when she started to climb over the first heap of broken tiles, she found out what it was. Her foot crunched through splintered clay, and rotten laths, and into a rancid underworld of feathers and straw and tattered fabric. The stench of this material was appalling, but it was only when Effie was able to extricate her foot that she realised what it was. A huge, thick layer of squirrels' nesting, as springy and fibrous as a mattress. It was thick with the bodies of squirrels' young: some skeletal, some partly mummified, some that were liquefied horrors of hair and claws and glutinous yellowish-grey slime.
Effie felt her stomach contract, and she gagged. She dragged out her foot - then skipped, half-hopped along the corridor. Her heart was palpitating as if she had a huge moth trapped inside one of her ventricles, desperate to get out.
She stood still to steady herself, her hand pressed against her forehead. God, she had once heard a handyman warning her father not to allow squirrels to nest in his rafters, but until now she had never known why.
She took six or seven deep breaths to steady herself. The corridor was silent now. The sobbing seemed to have stopped. Effie crunched over another heap of broken tiles, keeping one hand against the wall to steady herself. Then she stopped, and listened, and very far away she could hear the sound of traffic on Route 9.
For a moment, she wondered whether she had been imagining the sobbing. Maybe it had been nothing more than the sound of the wind, blowing through the roof. After all, who could be here, and why would they be weeping so desperately?
She was plucking up her courage to step back over the crushed tiles and the squirrels' nest when she heard the sobbing yet again: and, this time, it sounded very much closer.
She called out, 'Hallo? Hallo? Can you hear me? Where are you? Which room are you in? I'm coming to help you!'
There was no reply, but the sobbing
For a moment, while she looked at the window, it seemed to Effie that the sobbing had stopped. But then she heard the woman cry out, a thin high-pitched cry, and then start to weep and beg as if somebody were hurting her and wouldn't let her go.
She went quickly and quietly up to the top of the second flight of stairs. As she passed it by, the stained-glass window threw the pattern of the nun's closed eyes across her cheek, and then the black banners momentarily flew across her forehead.
At the top, she found herself at the crossroads of three corridors: one directly in front of her that was shadowy and thick with dust-bunnies, leading across to the north side of the house; a second that led to the western wing, which looked as if it had once been the staff quarters,' because there were so many small bedroom doors; and a long corridor which led back to the east, to the front of the house.
This corridor was partly in shadow and partly sunny, because the roof had collapsed in several places, and clogged it with fallen rafters and ceiling plaster and heaps of tiles. She could see the crippled oaks that guarded Valhalla's gate, and beyond them, to the highlands, where heavy charcoal-coloured clouds still hung, and lightning flickered spitefully at the treetops.
Because so much of it was open to the sky, the corridor was still dripping from the storm, and wet tarpaper flapped in the breeze like the last feeble convulsions of a wounded crow. There was a strong smell, too: a smell that Effie didn't like at all. It wasn't just damp and decay, it was death, too, and when she started to climb over the first heap of broken tiles, she found out what it was. Her foot crunched through splintered clay, and rotten laths, and into a rancid underworld of feathers and straw and tattered fabric. The stench of this material was appalling, but it was only when Effie was able to extricate her foot that she realised what it was. A huge, thick layer of squirrels' nesting, as springy and fibrous as a mattress. It was thick with the bodies of squirrels' young: some skeletal, some partly mummified, some that were liquefied horrors of hair and claws and glutinous yellowish-grey slime.
Effie felt her stomach contract, and she gagged. She dragged out her foot - then skipped, half-hopped along the corridor. Her heart was palpitating as if she had a huge moth trapped inside one of her ventricles, desperate to get out.
She stood still to steady herself, her hand pressed against her forehead. God, she had once heard a handyman warning her father not to allow squirrels to nest in his rafters, but until now she had never known why.
She took six or seven deep breaths to steady herself. The corridor was silent now. The sobbing seemed to have stopped. Effie crunched over another heap of broken tiles, keeping one hand against the wall to steady herself. Then she stopped, and listened, and very far away she could hear the sound of traffic on Route 9.
For a moment, she wondered whether she had been imagining the sobbing. Maybe it had been nothing more than the sound of the wind, blowing through the roof. After all, who could be here, and why would they be weeping so desperately?
She was plucking up her courage to step back over the crushed tiles and the squirrels' nest when she heard the sobbing yet again: and, this time, it sounded very much closer.
She called out, 'Hallo? Hallo? Can you hear me? Where are you? Which room are you in? I'm coming to help you!'
There was no reply, but the sobbing
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