The boy stands on the top floor of the old house. He lives in the attic. The old house is an inheritance, left to him by parents and grandparents who are gone and who yet live on in that old house. Sometimes he thinks they are still walking through its rooms on dark nights when he is upstairs huddled over a book reading and closing his ears to the sounds of the old house. Sometimes he thinks they have left their spirits in the old things that are there, that belong to him, if he could only figure out how to use them. Some of them are tools whose uses are lost in time. Some are old tools that he could still use—sextants, telescopes, globes, old weather stations, seismometers, velocipedes, exercise bikes, drills, probes, calipers, pliers, rasps, lathes, awls—if he know how or if he understood why these things have been left to him or only to him.
There is too much in the house. Too many memories, too many stories, too many old papers and letters and pressed flowers, too many traces of stories that flicker in the corner of the eye, as in fact when he is on the lower floors he sees spirits walking out of the corners of his eyes, or in the mirrors, hastening out of sight when he comes into the rooms or in the echoes of his footsteps which seem to reverberate for slightly too long when he walks through the long dark halls. Who are these portraits on the walls? What are these dark framed objects? What is in these brown folders and old composition books? What would happen to him if he gave himself to these things and their stories? He is afraid he would disappear into the house and never be seen again outside.
The only solution is to bring the house into the world again so that it is not a frightening land of forgetfulness. He must clean the windows, beat the rugs, dust the bookshelves, take down and oil the tools, open the doors so that air sweeps through the halls.
It is a monumental task. But today he will do one thing. He will take down one book perhaps—that one over there called Seven-League Boots—or he will clean one portrait—this one here perhaps of the fine gentleman with Dundreary whiskers and a high collar and frock coat—or he will oil one hinge—perhaps the door beyond this one, that leads into a dressing room and squeals forbiddingly when he opens it—or dust and clean one rug, or mop one floor—he will not for once be overwhelmed by the size of the task and he will face the work knowing that however slow it is it will never be finished if it is not begun.
