The Castle Under the Stars

A drop of water pelting my nose wakes me to another monotonous day. Crisp spring air carries notes of last night’s rainfall. If there’s ever a reprieve from the rain, it’s for a brief window in the wee hours of the morning. The hours I usually prefer to spend sleeping. Chirps and caws bounce off brick walls like ping-pong balls. Sunlight beams through the old frosted glass, casting a scene of a bustling world of shadows, colours, and light refraction.

My naked toes and my button nose tingle from drafts of cold air. I run warm, so I like to leave the window open at night. Trouble is, by morning, it becomes a tomb in here. Thankfully, with the sun now letting itself in, these old castle walls will warm up in no time. It’s not quite summer, but I always sleep in the nude. I should be grateful for the spring breeze before I’m using no blankets at all and wearing nothing but sweat to sleep in the coming months. Living alone in a massive abandoned castle has its perks in the way of freedom of clothing. You won’t find a single tan line on my slim body in July. Although one has to be careful about sunburns. I haven’t figured out a natural sunscreen yet, but you only make the mistake of burning your penis once.

Okay, twice.

Three times.

But not four.

Five hundred years ago, right now, servants would be lighting fires and serving bread and cheese for breakfast, while others attended mass. Preparations would then be underway for “dinner” to be served at 10 AM. I swear I can still feel all of that bustling energy in these thick walls, which would have been decorated with rich tapestries. Today, they sit as naked and deserted as myself, with no servants or lords, no praying—thankfully, and no bread or cheese. I’ll be lucky if I can find some juniper berries or mushrooms to calm the pleading growls of my empty stomach. I’ll have to head out and do some proper hunting later today.

When I first arrived here, all I knew how to do was boil water from the nearby loch and pick blueberries, the only berries I was confident wouldn’t kill me. Quickly, I learned how to catch fish, and I found some old rusty hunting traps in the castle that I taught myself how to catch rabbits with. Still, I often have to choose between lunch or dinner, rationing my food to stretch as long as possible, because it’s not guaranteed that I’ll catch another rabbit, or that the fish won’t eventually outsmart me.

My only friends are the spiders in their webs in high corners, and the web of stars in the sky. I’ve named them. The spiders and the stars. There’s Donald and Kenneth, the two largest arachnids who I’m pretty sure are in competition for who has the larger web. I don’t know what gender the spiders are, so I call a third one Mary and another Margaret. The stars are my more alive and connected companions, though. Each night, they show up without fail. I can always find Malcolm, Duncan and David, always hanging out in their little trio. I give the constellations names too, since I like to talk to them. I call the Big Dipper James and the Little Dipper Alex. I don’t have a diary, so I recount my boring days and boundless thoughts to the cosmos each night before bed.

“You know, Alex, when I first found this place, I thought it was entirely too good to be true. How could there be nobody keeping watch on this huge, ancient castle? I figured it would give me a day or two of refuge. But here we are. Look how much we’ve gotten to know each other, Alex. Sleep tight, my good friend.”

“I can’t explain why nobody has ever come here and discovered me, James. When I arrived, I was sure I’d quickly get into trouble, or I imagined a handsome prince might come galloping down the dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake as he rode desperately towards my heart. He wouldn’t know I was here, of course, but once he saw me, he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself from loving me, and would proclaim me his Prince Consort. Nowadays, such hope is lost. Night, James.”

“Today, I caught two rabbits, and I picked some mushrooms, wild garlic, and dandelions to go with it for dinner. It was delicious, having been cooked over the fire. I’m truly becoming quite the natural chef, aren’t I, Alex? I’m going to dream of a bountiful breakfast. Sweet dreams!”

“You’re lucky there isn’t dust in space. I’m allergic to the stuff. So today, I used the fur from last week’s rabbits on the end of a broomstick and dusted as much of the castle as I could reach. I swear, there might be grime in here from before the Union of the Crowns.”

“This afternoon I found an old portrait of what I assume to be the family that used to live here. I have no pictures of my family. They all left me. Or, they forced me to leave them, rather. So I’m going to put this old portrait up in my bedroom and pretend they are my family, next to you guys, of course. The three of you have never left each other’s side. It’s always been Malcolm, Duncan and David, for probably millions of years. Forever constant. Unconditional. I thought I had that with my parents, but I guess light lasts longer than love. Goodnight.”

“I read six books today! One of them was actually about you guys! It even mentioned you, Alex! The Little Dipper! You know, I had a dream recently that I built a spaceship and came up and visited each of you, bouncing between stars like we all bought houses in the same suburban cul-de-sac. But then I woke up and remembered that it’s just me and hundreds of acres of nothingness. Which, I guess, isn’t that dissimilar to you, Alex.”

When I really need to get something off my chest and feel heard, I call a “Conference of the Stars”, where all my friends gather to listen to me intently.

“Do you guys ever feel lonely up there? I mean, you all have each other. Like, a septillion of you, according to that book. I have nobody. I know you are hundreds, if not thousands, of light-years away from each other, but is it not comforting to at least know that you’re not alone up there? Maybe you are alone, but at least, Malcolm, you can see that your neighbours, Duncan and David, have their lights on all the time. Plus, James and Alex are two peas in a pod. I guess some could argue that you’re much more alone in the void of space than I am down here, but somehow, it feels lonelier here. Like how I imagine a fish would feel happier to be alone in the great ocean versus being alone in a tiny glass bowl. I don’t necessarily mind being alone, but it’s when I’m reminded of what I lack that I feel like I’m failing at being a human. Seven billion of us down here, and not a single one chooses me. I’d rather be a star. Goodnight, Alex. Goodnight, James. Sleep tight, Malcolm, Duncan and David.”

★☆★

Nearly three years I’ve lived here. Unbeknownst to anyone for two and a half of them. Around six months ago, the first and only stranger I’ve encountered since I started squatting here crossed the cobblestone path of my castle. When I awoke to Bowtie, as I call him, standing over my bed, it scared the living daylights out of me, and I punched him in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious to the ground for a few seconds. I jumped out of my bed before remembering that I’m stark naked, so I grabbed the old curtain I use for a blanket to cover myself before he came to. He got up from the ground and straightened out his clean button-up white shirt and black bow tie. He clearly lives a life opposite to mine. He looked nearly twice my age, but his clean skin, coke bottle glasses, trimmed beard, and attire would have made him appealing to one’s eyes had he not restarted my heart and made me fear for my life.

“Dè tha thu a’ dèanamh anns a’ chaisteal agam?” he half-shouted, rubbing his head.

“No, why are you in my castle?” I asked in return.

“A bheil thu a’ tuigsinn na Gàidhlig?”

“Yes, I understand Gaelic,” I answered. “A bheil thu a’ tuigsinn Beurla?”

“Yes, I understand English,” he said, through a gruff and thick accent. “I own this castle! Who are you?”

I told him my story of how I got kicked out of my house at seventeen, though I left out the details of why, not knowing how such information might be received by this stranger. I recounted how I wandered for what must have been at least a week through thick forest and high hills, surviving off of whatever I could find in nature before I stumbled upon this castle, and how I’ve been tending to it and the land ever since. I told him the work I’ve done to clean the castle, and how I’ve respected everything I’ve found in it as if it were my own. I begged him to let me stay.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yes, other than Alex, James, Malcolm, Duncan and David.”

“Who are they?”

“Stars.”

“Stars,” he repeated, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, and the spiders.”

“And they have names, too?” he asked in the same even tone.

“Donald, Kenneth, Mary and Margaret.”

“All Kings and Queens of Scots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are educated.”

“I am.”

“You are living here.”

“I am.”

“You are naked.”

“I am. Are you going to arrest me?”

“Do you have clothes?”

“Do I need to have clothes for you to arrest me?”

“No, but it would be preferable.”

“I don’t think you have the authority to arrest me, at all, actually.”

“I suppose I do not,” he said, as I watched his eyes dart up and down the length of me before looking at my makeshift bed and out the window.

“You seem like a nice boy,” he said with a sigh. “Are you?”

“A boy? No, I’m nineteen.”

“No. Are you a nice boy—or—man, rather. Are you an honest man?”

“My parents might not say it, but I’d like to think so.”

“You look strong,” he observed. “Are you?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“I might have to agree with you,” he said, again touching the swollen spot on his head.

“Sorry about that.”

“You can stay,” he said. “Put some clothes on.”

The castle belonged to his estranged grandfather. He inherited it from his own father, who inherited it from his, and so on. For decades, it has sat untouched, being too expensive to restore it to its former glory. His grandfather lived alone on a small private island off the coast, and when he died, nobody knew. The castle remained untouched until Bowtie’s own father died, leading him to discover the island in his inheritance, thus finding the old bones of his grandfather and the deed to the castle, originally signed by King James VI.

Bowtie wants to actually do something with the castle, but permits have delayed his plans to turn it into a tourist attraction. It could be another year before he can do anything. He agreed to let me stay, but not for free. He gave me a list of maintenance and cosmetic tasks to complete, telling me he’d be back in six months’ time to see how I’ve done. If he’s happy, he will give me more work and another six months.

“What will happen when you get the permits?” I asked him.

“You’ll have to find somewhere else to live,” he said, before taking in my face, which looked like a child who just dropped two scoops of fresh ice cream off his cone. “Or, perhaps there will be more work to be done.”

“Who are you?” I return his earlier question.

“See you in six months, boy.”

I will do everything he wants of me, and I’ll do it better than he could have ever expected. I’ll do more than what he asks. I’ll have this place looking like I’m receiving a visit from the King himself. Mr. Bowtie is pretty much a King to me now. He has a castle, he is certainly higher in status than me, he has my future in his hands, and I feel an overwhelming desire to please him and earn his goodwill. I must do an exceptional job so that he will let me stay here. So that he won’t kick me out. So that he is proud to call this his castle. So that he is proud of me.

★☆★

In the thick, lingering September heat, sweat drips from my unclothed body, darkening spots on the timber planks beneath my feet, themselves leaving wet footprints. I’m nearing the end of the list Bowtie gave me in his delicate handwriting. I’m currently bringing up boxes of old wine from the basement so that Bowtie can cart them off to be sold. It’s so swelteringly hot in here, I could cook an egg on a window. If I had any eggs. With the last box brought up, it becomes essential to wipe the stink of hard labour off me. The bright green, overgrown grass, well watered from months of rain, tickles my feet as I make my way to the loch for a late afternoon skinny dip. I usually come here every three or four days for an indulgent bath in the warmer months. I understand why the Greeks are always naked in their statues—when given the choice, why wouldn’t one choose freedom? It helps that there’s nobody around for a country mile.

Fresh as the freshly plucked daisy in my hand, I leisurely stroll back to the castle.

“There you are,” a voice startles me before I realize I’m not alone. Before I realize I’m standing fully naked in front of Mr. Bowtie.

“Ò mo chreach. We simply must stop meeting like this, my boy,” he says, before I catch his eyes darting south of mine. “Er, young man.”

I cover myself with my hands as a feeling I can’t place courses through my veins. I’m embarrassed—humiliated even, but there’s something else. I want to impress this man as if he were my father. I remember when my father called me “my boy” when he was proud of me. But I also remember the way other men have called me their boy. I haven’t stopped thinking about Mr. Bowtie for the last five months, and the stars know it. Though what I initially understood as a desire for paternal affection might be something else entirely. I think I would feel differently if I were standing naked in front of my actual father.

Boldly, I let go with my hands, uncovering myself to cross my arms, allowing him full view. “May I remind you that you’re the one who keeps barging in unannounced?”

“May I remind you that this is my castle?”

“May I remind you that you’re a month early?”

“May I remind you to put some clothes on?”

“I was having a bath, forgive me.”

“So, things are clean?” He keeps his gaze on my eyes now.

“Um,” I say, looking down at myself. “Yes.”

“The castle, boy.”

“Oh, yes. That too. I’ve only got two or three items left on the list, sir.”

“Good,” he says, and I’m watching to see if his eyes wander again. “I won’t be needing you to do any more work, Archie.”

He knows my name. How does he know my name? “What? Why? How did you—”

“You’re the boy on the missing posters.”

The missing posters? “People are looking for me? Nobody cares about me.”

“How could you know? You’ve been locked up here for nearly three years.”

“If you knew why I left, you wouldn’t go back either.”

“Maybe,” he offers a short smile. “I’ve become fond of you, my boy.”

“I can’t see why.”

“I’m sure you can’t. But I do. I see you. Which is why I’m sorry to say that you can’t stay here any longer.”

“What? No! You can’t force me to go back to them! I love this place. Please let me stay! Or take me with you!” I begin to panic as tears flow down my face and along my still naked body. To my surprise, Mr. Bowtie engulfs me in a hug, and the smell of his deodorant and the sound of his heartbeat bring me back to a steady breath.

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” he says, still in embrace. “But the permits came early, and I’m ready to start the work.”

I burrow my face deeper into his chest as I prepare to be kicked out of another place I call home.

“Okay,” he sighs. “I’ll give you two options. You can stay with me and help with the renovations.”

I pull my head back to allow my glossy eyes to meet his. He wants me to stay. With him.

“Or, since you like being alone and, well—minimally clothed, I can send you to live on the island. Just you and the stars.”

You. I pick you. I pick staying here with you. Screw the stars. I kiss him.

“What in the world?” He pushes away from me.

“Oh, I thought—”

“Oh, my. Oh, my boy, that’s not—”

“But you—”

“It is settled. You will go to the island.”