The next day was worse. I woke early, before the sun had risen, and the very darkness of the room and Stirling"s empty bed and the shadows in the corners made me suddenly wish that I could die rather than count the seconds until sunrise. I lay there and wished again and again that I had run faster, until I almost thought that I had, and then I remembered that I hadn"t and that was the reason for Stirling"s death. I cried for hours. I got up pale and sick, with swollen eyes and a heavy heart. I looked in the mirror and wondered dismally how I had ever thought myself handsome.
Grandmother asked me to go to the market. We were almost out of food. "How are you, Leo?" asked Mr. Pearson at the fruit and vegetable stall. "And how is your brother, little Stirling?" I couldn"t speak. "What is it?" he asked, seeing me struggling with the tears. "Are you unwell?" I waved my hand to dismiss the question, and hurried away before anyone saw the tears fall.
There was nothing to do in the house. In Stirling"s Bible, I found the pa.s.sage that I was supposed to read for the service, thinking to practice it. But I began to cry again, because in the front of the Bible was written, in my father"s own hand, To Stirling on your christening. May you grow up safe in the light of G.o.d"s law. With all our love, Mother and Father. To Stirling on your christening. May you grow up safe in the light of G.o.d"s law. With all our love, Mother and Father. I remembered him writing it, for one thing, when Stirling was still a baby; and for another thing, all of them-Mother and Father and little Stirling-were so far away. And it hurt to see his stupid wish, that his son could be kept safe, because no one could be kept safe by G.o.d"s law alone. Because G.o.d was in heaven, and we were on earth, and he could not reach out to us even if he wanted to. And G.o.d liked to test people, to see what it took to break them. And G.o.d"s law is not a light, I thought. It"s a burden that none of us can lift. If people try, it only crushes them. I remembered him writing it, for one thing, when Stirling was still a baby; and for another thing, all of them-Mother and Father and little Stirling-were so far away. And it hurt to see his stupid wish, that his son could be kept safe, because no one could be kept safe by G.o.d"s law alone. Because G.o.d was in heaven, and we were on earth, and he could not reach out to us even if he wanted to. And G.o.d liked to test people, to see what it took to break them. And G.o.d"s law is not a light, I thought. It"s a burden that none of us can lift. If people try, it only crushes them.
The worst thing was thinking of Father and Mother, in Alcyria or further away, who thought Stirling was still safe. They had left him when he was two years old. Father was a wanted man and they had to escape quickly; they were going to send word in a month or two, to tell us to follow. If they did, it never reached us. Grandmother thought they must have been caught crossing the border, and she would not let us set out after them. She was convinced that they were dead.
I hadn"t looked after Stirling for them as I should have done. Mother wouldn"t have let him catch silent fever. Father would have run all the way from the eastern hills, no matter how tired he was.
I read through the pa.s.sage that I was supposed to speak, and tried to imagine how I would read it. But I worried now that I would break down and cry, break down at the front of the church, and everyone would see me. So I shut the Bible and sat and stared out the window at the unchanging view, until Grandmother cooked dinner. I hardly ate anything. I felt guilty that I was nervous about reading at the service. But it was not just reading; it was the whole thing. Everyone would be staring at me, watching how I reacted, and it was our last chance to say goodbye to Stirling forever.
"Help me, Stirling," I said in my head that night, unable to get to sleep for worrying. "Help me. I can"t read. I just can"t. I won"t be able to speak." I tried to imagine Stirling"s answer, but it was no good. Stirling thought of kind things to say, and wise things, and I couldn"t think of those things myself. "I wish you were with me, Stirling," I said in my head. "I never realized how much I need you." I knew he couldn"t hear. I cried myself to sleep.
I dreamed that I was standing at the front of the church, but I was dumb. As if I had silent fever. No words came from my mouth, no matter how much I tried to talk. And then I dreamed that I was falling into Nothing, and woke up shivering and sweating.
But when I eventually drifted back into sleep, I had a completely different dream. I was sitting opposite Stirling at the table, and it was snowing outside, like it had in December, when the fire drove out the early shadows and I began to teach him to read. He handed me the Bible and pointed to a pa.s.sage, and I read it. " "And I saw a new heaven, and a new earth ..." "
"How did you learn to read so good, Leo?" he said when I finished, and I heard his voice so clearly that I thought he must really be speaking to me and woke with a start. I was smiling when I woke. And then I remembered. Perhaps it was stupid, but for a moment, although I knew he was dead, I didn"t feel as if he was gone.
At the front of the church, standing at the lectern in the colored light from the window, I spoke the last words: " "And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are pa.s.sed away." " There was a silence, and my footsteps echoed as I walked back to sit down. Maria, at the back of the church, began to cry. I sat down again in the front pew, beside Grandmother, and she took my hand. "You make me proud, Leo," she whispered.
When I read, I didn"t read as myself. I didn"t think of Stirling being dead or of what the words meant. I just read them. I thought of Nothing. And I managed to get through the reading that way. I managed to get through the whole thing that way. Which is why I barely remember anything about it now. I was so wrapped up in not crying that I hardly thought about anything else. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but at the time I could see no other way to endure that service.
When Father Dunstan began his sermon, I tried to concentrate, but I kept being distracted. I wondered if I had remembered to shut the door of the apartment. It was crazy, because I had gone back twice to check it, and I didn"t care if anyone broke in anyway, not anymore.
"When something like this happens," Father Dunstan was saying, "our life is irreversibly altered. We cannot explain something as terrible as Stirling"s death. We begin to question everything. Nothing makes sense to us anymore. In the words of the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes, "Everything is meaningless." In the face of such a tragedy, everything can become meaningless.
"The Teacher, the writer of Ecclesiastes, is weary of life. He has seen the unfairness and the inexplicability of it. He has searched for wisdom, but found only that everything is meaningless. At the beginning of the book, there seems little hope. But as it progresses, we see a new meaning in life. The meaning is G.o.d. The Teacher argues that everything is meaningless without G.o.d.
"So what is his conclusion? What does he come to, after his examination of life? At the end of the book, the conclusion is quite simple: "Fear G.o.d and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man." And that, I think, is what we must do. Fear G.o.d and keep his commandments.
"It would be difficult for any one of us to try to explain why Stirling died-what purpose his death served. But I feel sure that, when we reach heaven, it will become clear to us. G.o.d adds a new meaning to our earthly life, one which is beyond us now. But what we do know now is what we have to do.
"G.o.d wants us to continue with our life, even if we are not sure where we are going at times. He wants us to obey the words of the Teacher. Although we cannot explain why we carry it out sometimes, we know what our task is. "Fear G.o.d and keep his commandments." There is nothing in the scripture about understanding G.o.d, for that is beyond any of us. There is nothing that tells us that we must know exactly why we carry on, all the time. Only that we must do this: continue to live, in the way that G.o.d wishes us to, until the end of our days.
"Truly, everything has a meaning, and though we may not see it now, in time it will make sense to us. Although we are struck with the incomprehensibility of Stirling"s death, we can carry on as G.o.d, and Stirling, would want us to. We can carry on with our lives, by striving our utmost to fear G.o.d and keep his commandments."
Then I stopped listening. He talked for more than twenty minutes, and that is all I can remember.
"What did you think about Father Dunstan"s sermon?" Grandmother asked me after the service. I did not know what I thought. My mind was empty.
But I remembered his words. And now I think that maybe what he was trying to say was right.
On the way back from the service, someone came stumbling up behind us. We had been moving slowly, as if we were walking against a current, but we stopped now and turned. It was Maria, clutching the baby to her chest. She stopped in front of me and looked as if she was about to speak and then shook her head and stared at me in silence.
She was different somehow. Baby Anselm clenched his fist and stretched it again. I watched him and thought that even he had changed. I remembered that barely a week had pa.s.sed since we had fought over something inconsequential, me and this girl I used to know. I tried to remember what it was, but I couldn"t. She went on looking at me. "Leo, I don"t know what to say," she began eventually. "I wanted to talk to you, and then you left for the border. Leo, that this should have happened ..." She shook her head and fell silent. I watched her tears and my own landing in the dust of the road, like when the first rain begins. I watched them as you watch a stranger"s tears. Whenever I remember that day, I remember it as something that happened to a stranger. Not because of the years that have pa.s.sed; it was like that at the time.
Grandmother took Maria"s hand briefly, and then Maria took mine. I think I let her, but I can"t remember now.
And then I was thinking of that day when the truancy officer had called, when Maria and I had sat together in the apartment and later Grandmother had stood and rocked the baby. And now we four were standing in the road in mourning dress-tears lying in the creases in Grandmother"s face, Maria sobbing openly, the baby silent and expressionless as if he knew. Maria"s hair was covered and she had taken the jewels out of her ears. I started to remember then what I had said to her. Something about righteousness, or the baby. Could I have said that? I didn"t know anymore. The old Leo was still stranded somewhere beyond the shock and silence of the last few days, wondering faintly if he should apologize. "What I said to you ...," I began, tears running down my face. I coughed and started again. "Before, what I said to you ..."
Maria shook her head, almost angrily, and gripped my hand. "Leo, don"t," she said. "How could that matter now?"
The next day was strange and empty. I got up and dressed, but that took all my strength, so I lay back down on my bed and stared at the ceiling while the minutes pa.s.sed. Grandmother came in several times, but I did not move. "Get up, Leo," she said eventually. "Don"t lie there. Come with me to the market."
I sat up and looked at her. "We are going out," she said, more briskly. "Put your overcoat on."
I did not want to. She picked up the coat and tried to put it over my shoulders, roughly. I shook my head and covered my face with my hands. She gave up, looking as exhausted as I felt, and knelt on the floor and cried.
Something had fallen out of the pocket of the overcoat. It was that black book, the old book that I had read to Stirling. She picked it up, sniffling like a child. "Leo, what is this?" She leafed through the pages, then closed it and sobbed louder. "I will never understand you, Leo," she said. "You will not speak one word to me, and yet you have been writing all these stories."
I shook my head. I had not. But after she had gone trailing back to the living room, still crying, I picked it up and turned over the pages. And even just glancing at the words, I could see what the story was. It was the same as the dreams that had been haunting me these past days-Aldebaran, the prince, and Anna. And more, pages more, as though the writer thought I still cared about that.
I ripped the book in half, down the spine, so that the pages scattered on the dusty floorboards. It made me sick to see those words there as though things were normal. What did this fairy tale mean to me now, after all that had happened? I did not want stories anymore. I wanted to be left in peace.
But later, when it was growing dark, I gathered the pages again. I put them together between the two covers in the pocket of my overcoat, as I would have done before. That was the story I had read to Stirling. Whether or not I cared about it, he would have. He would have wanted to find out what happened next. He cared about them like real people, these three we read about in the desperate days when he was ill. And I could not throw away that book.
And I could not stop myself from dreaming. Perhaps I did not exactly want to. Because while I was lost in these strange dreams, my heart did not know that Stirling was gone.
It was growing dark in England, and the wind had risen, but Anna was out in the yard, dancing under the security light. And suddenly Ryan was there, at the edge of the darkness. She stopped. "What are you doing?" he said.
"Practicing. Monica thinks I am in bed. I have no time in the day, and in the evenings she doesn"t let me use the dining room in case I disturb the guests."
They looked at each other in silence. "I have not seen you for days," said Ryan then. "I am sorry. I promised to explain, and then my uncle-" He shrugged and sat down on the low wall. "I will tell you now what I was going to. Will you listen?"
"Yes."
A group of guests, dropping the last ends of their cigarettes, pa.s.sed them and went in at the hotel entrance. Ryan followed them with his eyes, then turned back to her. "Firstly, about Aldebaran ...," he said. "Arthur Field, as you know him. He is not in truth my great-uncle." He paused. "I am going against him to tell you this. I think maybe he is yours." Anna opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand and continued. "His brother, Harold Field, was here in England a long time ago. Do you know of that man?"
"Harold Field? He was my grandfather. I never met him, but I know that was his name."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I"m sure."
"Aldebaran thought so too."
She turned suddenly. "Where are you going?" said Ryan.
"Let me get Monica"s photograph of their father," she said.
She ran to the deserted kitchen and took the picture from the windowsill. Ryan was waiting at the door when she got back. "Here," she said, handing it to him. She stood in silence while he examined it. It was a faded photograph, taken by a pa.s.serby on Graysands Beach. Her Nan, in her late twenties, was standing beside Anna"s unknown grandfather, her hand on his arm. The man was looking straight into the camera with a charming grin. One hand held baby Monica casually on his shoulders; the other was in four-year-old Mich.e.l.le"s hand.
"I see," said Ryan quietly. "Do you see it? They are so alike. This could be a younger version of Aldebaran himself."
There was something about this man, her grandfather-that was what Anna had always thought-something about his easy, self-a.s.sured expression and the way he looked so directly at the camera, as if he was challenging it, that was different from other people. And that was the same, she realized now, as Arthur Field.
"He knew," she said. "That was why he hit his head on the car hood when I told him that Monica"s name was Devere."
Ryan nodded. "He knew that was the lady"s name. But he did not want to tell you about this."
"Why not?"
"He doesn"t want to be connected with anyone in this country. He wants to disappear without complications. But he does not understand that you may be involved whether or not he wishes you to be. Not just because you are related to him, but because of my history."
"What is your history?"
"It is difficult." He handed the picture back to her and turned to look out over the dark water of the lake. "It is difficult to tell you about these things, Anna. I will try to be honest. Can we walk along the road for a while? It will be easier to explain."
They started out toward Lakebank. "I told you that my parents are dead," said Ryan. "They were shot, ten years ago. My uncle was the one who arranged it. My real uncle, back in Malonia, where I come from. My mother"s elder brother."
Anna turned to him, but he went on walking steadily and kept his eyes lowered. "He had them murdered?" she said eventually. "Is he in prison now?"
Ryan shook his head. "It was political. My father was a very important man. My uncle wanted his place." He stopped in the dark road and looked at her. "Things are serious, Anna, if I go on. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I understand you."
"My father was the king, and his father before him. I am the last son in the line of Donahue. I am the heir to the throne. In Malonia I was a prince. Now I am an exile." He met her eyes again. "You may not believe me. But will you listen?"
She did not reply, but she went on watching him as they walked on into the dark. "My father came to the throne very young," said Ryan. "He had already ruled the country for five years when he was my age. About a year later he met my mother. She came from a n.o.ble family; they govern a state off the west coast of Malonia." He glanced at Anna as if to check that she was listening, then went on. "The n.o.ble family of Kalitz has always disputed with the family of Donahue. At the time when I was born, this enmity was very bad. My mother and father were young and they loved each other. They were married when they were fifteen and seventeen. They thought that they could overcome the hostility between their families. But my mother"s family used her marriage to get closer to the royal family and further their plot to overthrow the government and seize power."
Ryan fell silent. "So how does Arthur Field come into it?" said Anna eventually. "Who is he in this story?"
"He was a great man in my country. Second but one in the secret service, and he had great powers. His taken name is Aldebaran; that is how everyone knows him. He was exiled before me, and he took me in when I was sent here to England. So you could say that I owe him my life."
"What do you mean by powers?" said Anna.
Ryan tried to explain.
"You can"t really believe that!" she said. "That he can read minds, and prophesy. Ryan, seriously-" And then she remembered something. When they had met on the road that day, Arthur Field had known when the fog would lift before it started lifting. And that her real name was Ariana.
"Aldebaran wrote a prophecy concerning me," said Ryan. "That is part of it too. He wrote that I would not be killed but exiled, and that anyone who harmed me would be punished for it, blow for blow. So no one dared. My uncle had my parents killed; he took over the country; but he did not dare to harm me. He exiled me too. He sent me to England."
Ryan turned to her then. "But you come into the story, Anna. You are part of this. Because in the prophecy, Aldebaran connected me with the silver eagle, a valuable charm that is very famous in my country. Aldebaran got hold of this silver eagle, and brought it with him to England. It looks like an ordinary necklace, set with silver and blue jewels, the kind of talisman every n.o.ble family owns. But it has power locked in it-magic power."
"Magic power?" said Anna. "Ryan-"
"You have these things here in England," Ryan said. "Don"t try to tell me you do not. You understand these things as we do."
When Anna did not reply, he continued. "The silver eagle is part of the prophecy concerning me. Aldebaran took one jewel out of the necklace and kept it, and threw the rest into the sea."
"The sea?" said Anna. "Where? Near here?"
"Very near." Ryan watched her steadily.
"Why did he throw it away," said Anna, "if it was such a valuable necklace?"
"It would have been too dangerous to keep it with him. He believed that the jewel and the necklace would find their way back together. He foresaw that this silver eagle would be restored to us by someone dear to me-someone I loved, even. That was what he prophesied; he thought it would be a sign. But it has been ten years, and nothing. He was beginning to think that he had made a costly mistake and lost the necklace forever. And then-" Ryan stopped and turned to her. "And then you walked up to us in the fog, and I could tell there was something about you; straightaway I knew. And here you are, with a silver necklace, a charm in the shape of an eagle, with a missing stone. And I can"t help wondering, Anna."
She took her necklace out from her collar and examined it in the fading light. "What did he say when you told him all this?"
"I didn"t," said Ryan. "I told him nothing about your necklace. I wanted to speak to you first."
"That was why you wanted to know where I got it from?" He nodded. She hesitated for a moment, then spoke: "My Nan found this necklace on the beach." He did not answer, so she went on. "She used to walk there with Harold Field, my grandfather-on Gray-sands Beach. She kept going back there after he disappeared. There was one time she was certain she saw him, but it was so far away that she decided it was a mistake. And then she found the necklace, and she thought it was a sign; she thought so too. She took it to the police but no one claimed it, so they gave it back to her."
"It was Graysands Beach where Aldebaran threw the silver eagle into the sea," said Ryan. "I know it was. But how did the necklace come to you?"
"She gave it to me when I was born." She turned to him. "What happened to Mr. Field"s brother? What happened to my grandfather?"
"He pa.s.sed away," said Ryan. "I am sorry. In Malonia he was a soldier. He rejoined the army after he came back. He was killed in action a year later. He never returned to England."
"But what about the man my Nan saw on the beach?" said Anna. "That was years after my grandfather left."
"Perhaps he did come back," said Ryan. "When people die, they don"t just disappear; I"m sure of it. Perhaps they can move in time and s.p.a.ce, between the worlds. Like those with powers, the great ones, can."
"Between the worlds?" said Anna.
They were at the gates of the big house. The building was dark, except for one second-floor window. They did not go in but stood in the deserted road, the darkness almost complete now. "Have you ever heard of Malonia?" said Ryan. "Is the name familiar? Some people here in England think they have heard it somewhere."
She shook her head. "I thought my grandfather was Australian. I have never heard of that place."
"It is strange to hear you say that," said Ryan. "Sometimes when I wake up in this foreign country, I find it hard to believe that I have lived here ten years. Where I come from, there are rumors of England. Explorers claim to have been there. When people are reported missing and believed dead, legends spread that they may not have died at all-that they have pa.s.sed through into England by chance or accident. And the great ones, those with powers-they can move into other places. Stories like that are well-known. It is a fairy-tale land, and most of us pa.s.s our lives without thinking much about it. It is not part of the real world. When I was a little boy, I did not believe that it existed."
"How far away can your country be?" said Anna.
He opened the gate and she followed him. "I will try to explain."
But by the time they reached the house, she was not certain that she understood.
They went in at the side door. Ryan did not turn on the light until they were in the old library with the door closed. "My uncle will hear unless we speak quietly," he whispered.
Anna laid the picture of her grandfather on the table, and her necklace beside it. "Here," she said. "Look at it. Does this look like a valuable necklace to you? They are just gla.s.s, these jewels."
Ryan took a chain from around his own neck and laid it next to hers. His own had a single jewel on it-a blue jewel. And it was identical to the largest stone that was set in her necklace. It was the missing jewel, the bird"s right eye.
Anna turned to him but could not speak. Ryan raised his hand to his forehead, startled too. "They are the same," he said. "They might look like gla.s.s to you, but in my country these are valuable jewels."
"Ryan, stop it now," she said suddenly. The necklaces were drifting together on the table.
He raised his hands. "I am not touching them. I told you, Anna. There has been a link between them since before we were born. They have great power in them."