Read Closing Accounts Page 4

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  It was MidWinter’s Eve. The sun had set in a fiery glow and seemed larger than normal. Mother and the children were all in bed, but Letty stood under the night sky, beside the lapping sea.

  Father came out to her. “Letty, why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I’m watching the stars, Father. They’re falling tonight.”

  Father looked up and saw that one side of the sky was completely dark. “Looks to me like clouds moving in,” he said. “Why don’t you go to bed, Letty. Tomorrow is the MidWinter feast. You don’t want to be asleep on your feet.”

  “I must keep watch tonight, Father. There will be no tomorrow. Not like we’re used to.”

  “Letty! I’m surprised at you! You paint some strange things, but I never thought you’d be one of those doomsday sayers.”

  “I’m not, Father, but I know what I see. The world is changing tonight and I must keep watch.”

  “Keep watch? Humph. I don’t understand, but I’ll stay with you. I think I’ll light a fire.”

  There was a great show of shooting stars that night. Father sat huddled by the fire, but Letty stood facing the sea with her face raised to the last blinking stars. Other lights appeared around the cove and up and down the coast.

  “What are those lights, Letty?” Father said.

  “Watchfires burning. We are not alone.”

  The night deepened. Looking up, Father said, “Letty, what is that red smear in the sky?”

  “It’s the moon.”

  “Why does it look like that? Is it behind a red cloud?”

  Letty did not answer and Father shut his eyes against the strange sight.

  Hours later, as the red moon sank behind the distant hills, Father woke suddenly, though he could not remember falling asleep. Letty still stood on the shore. He could see her by the light of the fire.

  “This is a long night, Letty, but surely we will see the dawn soon.”

  “Time is almost over, Father.”

  “True. The night must be nearly over.” He fed the fire and looked back at the house. No one was stirring. Then he heard something.

  “Letty! What is that noise?” he cried, jumping up. “Is it tramping feet? Is it the sound of war?”

  “No, Father,” Letty said. “It’s the sound of beating wings.”

  A strong wind lifted their hair. “What is it, Letty? Is it a storm coming?”

  “No, Father. It’s the ruffling of feathers. Can’t you see them? Feathers like dark velvet all across the sky!”

  “I see nothing but darkness, Letty. But show me what you see, child. Paint it for me.”

  Letty turned to her Father and by the light of the watchfire he saw that her face burned with a fierce joy.

  “We won’t need painting anymore, or words.” She went to him and took his hand. “Can you see, Father? Can you see?”

  He could not see what she saw, but a sudden breeze brought to him a scent as from another world. It filled his heart with such longing he thought it would split.

  “What is happening?” he cried.

  His words seemed to echo across the cove as the door to the house burst open and many voices cried, “What’s happening?” Mother and the children came rushing to the shore, the oldest boy carrying his little sister who was on the point of death.

  “Have you been up all night?” Peter called to Letty. “Why didn’t you get me up? What is that smell? Is the bread lady come?”

  “Bread? That ain’t bread,” a child said, “it’s roast chicken and apple pie!”

  “No! It’s some kinda perfume!”

  `“And look at the sky!” said the littlest girl. “It’s covered up by a giant wing!”

  “I see it! I see it!” Peter cried.

  “A refuge under mighty wings,” Letty said quietly. “All this time.”

  As if at a sudden command, they all stopped talking at once. Into the silence of the velvety dark, the dying girl said, “Look!”

  High in the night, far across the sea, light came. Not the dawn, but light.

  “The night is over, Father.”

  “At last, Letty,” he said. “At last.”

  MICHAEL’S SKETCH

  On a lonely footpath above the sea, two men walked. The first man lurched and stumbled. The other caught him and held his arm.

  “I hate it when you’re drunk,” said the second man. “It means I have to be sober, and who wants to be sober in times like these?”

  The first man turned away, retching, and vomited in a ditch at the side of the road. “Not drunk,” he gasped.

  “No? Then I suppose it was the foulness of the beer you drank.” The second man continued to chatter. “You can’t trust a house brew these days. All the innkeepers use ditch water. I told you it smelled like swill.”

  The first man retched and vomited again. His companion slapped him on the back and said, “Yes, nowadays it’s only gallant soldiers like us who can afford to waste our lunch in a ditch.” He unslung his pack and took out a tall bottle. “Ahh,” he sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “wine’s the thing. Though whiskey’s better.” He offered the bottle to his companion who brushed it aside.

  The sick man lurched on for a short distance, then collapsed under a tree by the side of the road. “Got to rest,” he said, then retched again, but by this time his stomach was empty.

  “Well, it’s a nice day, Private Lennox,” the other man said, and flopped down on the green turf. “This is a shady spot you’ve picked. I could get drunk here.”

  Private Michael Lennox scowled at his companion, but felt too sick to talk. Instead, he unstrapped his pack and lay back on the grass. His stomach calmed and eventually he fell asleep.

  When he woke, the sun was low on the horizon and he saw that clouds were gathering overhead. His companion lay snoring, the empty wine bottle clutched in his hand. He’s drunk, Michael thought, which means we’re here for the night. Aloud he said, “I hope it doesn’t rain.” He hadn’t known his companion very well when they’d started their journey; he hadn’t known Kurt Cummings’s preference for drunkenness. “If only I had known,” Michael said quietly, looking down at his companion, “I would have come alone and left you back at barracks.”

  They were on a high point of the road; below them, under the cliffs, the sea pulsed on a sandy shore. Above them, short green turf swept up a steep slope. Looking eastward, along the way they had come, Michael saw the distant hills, hazy in the evening sun. It was there that his parents were buried, alongside his younger sister. He had gone back to visit them and found only their graves.

  Turning from the sight of those distant hills, Michael surveyed the bleak coastline before him. He had hoped to be in the next village by nightfall, but he had no idea how far it was. He had chosen this narrow path above the sea instead of the main road and now he was sorry for his choice. It would be a cold night on these open hills. He nudged Kurt with his foot, but Kurt only grunted and rolled onto his back. Michael sighed, wrapped his coat more tightly about him and stepped across the road to look over the edge of the short cliff, down to the beach below.

  It was then that he saw her. She stood just below the road, near the base of the cliff. Her fair hair streamed out behind her as she faced the strong wind off the water. She was painting on a large canvas with broad, sure strokes and must have been there some time because her canvas was filled with colour and light. She could not have been more than sixteen.

  “Hello!” he called down to her, hoping she wouldn’t be too frightened by the sight of a soldier.

  She looked up. “Hello,” she called back and waved. Then she turned back to her canvas.

  Odd, Michael thought, she must have passed by while I slept, yet Kurt must not have seen her. Sliding and stumbling down a steep path, he came to stand beside her. Up close, he decided she was about fifteen, the age of his younger sister when he’d last seen her. She nodded in his direction, without taking her eyes from the canvas, and continued painting.
Michael stood quietly, watching.

  It was a glorious painting of the sea and sky. He could almost see the wind roiling. In the foreground stood a bright-faced man with wings outstretched as if he would take flight. The man was so present in the picture that Michael looked up quickly, expecting to see him standing right there on the shore.

  Two more strokes and the girl began wrapping her brushes in a rag. “I’ll clean them at home,” she said to herself, then turned to Michael and fixed him with her blue glance, “I expect you’re a traveller who needs a place to stay?”

  “Y-yes,” Michael said, now unable to take his eyes from her face.

  She folded up her easel and handed it to him. “Do you mind giving me a hand up the path? I can manage once we’re on the road. By the way, you came down the hard way.” She led him a few steps beyond the path he’d slid down, to a place where the rocky cliff formed a natural stairway.

  Once up on the road, Michael recovered his senses enough to say, “my pack’s over by that tree, and a . . . a friend.”

  The girl followed him to the tree. Kurt was sprawled on the grass, snoring, his cloak twisted around him. He still clutched the empty wine bottle to his bosom. Michael would not have been surprised if this girl had turned away in disgust, but she only laughed.

  “I saw you both sleeping when I came down. Cold place for an afternoon nap,” she said, reaching for her easel. “Wait here if you like and I’ll get my father. We’ll come back with the cart.” Then, without another word, she turned and marched away, easel under one arm, canvas under the other. He thought he heard her singing.

  He sighed and sat down to wait. If she didn’t return, he’d sleep under the tree, then get up in the morning and go. Kurt would be sober by then. Half of him hoped she wouldn’t return. Something in her face bothered him. The other half of him—the stronger half—hoped she would. He felt he needed a warm hearth, or at the very least, a place to sleep out of the cold wind that lashed up from the sea and got between his buttonholes. Once again, he wished he had chosen to stay on the main road. Oh well, he thought, we still have four days of leave. That’s plenty of time to get back to the city on foot. He sat quietly beside the tree and watched the orange sun slide down behind the distant hills. Then he heard cart wheels on the road.

  She came wearing a thick coat, sitting beside her father on the cart. She was pointing straight at Michael, saying, “There he is, Father, and his friend on the ground there.” Michael winced. He’d never had such a friend as Kurt in his life and he wished he didn’t now. The cart stopped by the tree and Kurt chose that moment to belch in his sleep.

  The girl’s father said, “Hop down, Letty, and lower the tailgate.”

  Letty, Michael thought. Her name is Letty. That’s ordinary enough. Yet he remained speechless, standing by the tree watching her movements. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and the father said, “You must be frozen to the bone sitting here on the open hill, lad. We’ve fire and food and you and your mate can sleep in the barn.”

  Michael pulled his thoughts together and looked at the man. He was middle-aged with grizzled hair and beard. Together they got Kurt into the back of the cart where he sprawled on a pile of hay, murmuring in his sleep.

  Moments later, Michael was sitting beside Letty staring moodily at the horse’s rump as the cart jigged over the narrow track. Letty and her father reminded him of his people at home, as they had been before famine and war. I bet they have a farm, he thought, and a cow and a pig. I bet Letty feeds the pigs and scratches them between the ears. Somehow he found this an amusing thought and it cheered him a little.

  Letty and her father rode silently. It would have been nearly impossible to talk. The wind had picked up and it whined over the open hills; waves pounded the shore below the road; the cart rattled and creaked. Michael hunkered down in his coat and slipped into dark thoughts.

  Three graves and a family homestead inhabited by rats and squatters were all he had left in the world. On his return home, he’d chased the rats out and let the squatters stay. Kurt had laughed at this, but Michael ignored him and purchased what food he could for the woman and her children, asking her to take care of the house until he returned.

  “Squatters!” Kurt hooted. “You’re spending your hard-earned wages on squatters?”

  “Caretakers. They’re caretakers,” Michael said, stone-faced, willing Kurt to shut up.

  “Caretakers? Ha! She was afraid of the rats! Ah well. It’s your house. Though I doubt that lot lives long enough to destroy much of your property. They’ll starve to death before long. Your village is a ghost town. I should never have come.”

  Michael was inclined to agree, especially with Kurt’s last statement. He’d left the squatters gobbling raw onions that had cost him half a day’s wages. The woman had spoken of robbers and tax collectors in the same breath; there had been hordes of them by the sound of it, all foreclosing, evicting, stripping, accusing, and hanging nearly every man in town. Any woman who fought back or protested was killed. Michael could not imagine his opinionated mother and outspoken little sister meekly hiding in a shed. He’d left his pellet gun with his sister and shown her how to use it, just in case. He fervently hoped she’d inflicted some damage—maybe put out an eye—before she . . . his mind could go no further. He was suddenly filled with rage and shame that rose up thickly in his throat. Was he not a soldier now for the very same puppet government that sent the ruthless tax men from village to village?

  His father’s crops had failed for the second year, as had every other farmer’s. Famine stalked the land. Michael had been sure he could find work in the city and send money home to his family. But there was no work for a farm boy. After a week of disappointment and hunger, he he’d been thrown into jail for vagrancy and it was there that the jolly mayor found him and “recruited” him. There had been no choice: either sign the army contract, or expect to stay behind bars. Upon release, the Mayor had given him half an hour to post a message home: “I’ve found work,” he wrote briefly, “and will send money as soon as I can.” He knew he should have written more, but what news would he tell them? That the city smelled and the people didn’t have much more to eat than he’d had at home; that he’d been forced to join the army . . . Anyway, it didn’t matter what he’d written. His letter must have arrived after his family were already dead.

  The cart jolted over a pothole and Michael’s thoughts jumped to the sardonic face of their country’s ruler, the General, whose method of violent tax collection was spurred by the need for more and more money to build his army. Never mind that the army was an assortment of haggard farmers, cutthroats and criminals who had joined to avoid starvation. The General meant to arm a vast horde and throw them at the enemy like a fistful of shrapnel. I’m in a rattrap, Michael thought, like everyone else in the world these days. No wonder Kurt prefers to be drunk. The cart bumped over a rough patch and his mind came back to the present.

  It was early evening, before the moon’s rising, when the cart left the road. It had been a short journey. The wind had blown the clouds away, then subsided. Now the rattling and creaking of the cart quieted as they rolled over grassland and around a low hill. They were entering the narrow, nearly hidden valley called the Haunted Cove. Letty’s father drove over paths that wound, maze-like, through rock formations and strange barrow-like hills. As they followed the narrow track, the barrows and boulders seemed to rise up and close them into a dark tunnel. Some of the rock formations were of strange shapes, rising like ruined buildings against the starlight. Rounding the last hillock, Michael sensed, rather than saw, the valley open out to greet them; at the furthest edge lay a dark expanse that glittered with reflected starlight: the sea. A short distance away, a lighted window seemed to hang suspended in the dark. As they approached, Michael could discern the shape of a whitewashed house and barn.

  They went to the barn first. After unloading the snoring Kurt onto a bed of hay, Father unhitched the horse and led her to a stall. At first, s
he did not seem happy about her new barn-mate, snoring and talking in his sleep, but after a bag of oats and fresh hay, she settled in to ignore her unseemly guest.

  Letty led Michael into the house where her mother was stirring the fire and a young boy sat at the table gnawing a red apple.

  “Hooray! Letty’s brought a soldier from the city!” the young boy cried, waving his apple in the air. “What news, comrade?”

  The mother rose abruptly from the hearth with an anxious look. Letty led Michael to a seat at the table and began to load his plate with cheese and bread, butter and boiled potatoes. She filled a cup with milk and set it down before him. Then, she filled a plate for the boy and one for herself. “Come mother,” she said, “it’s past time for supper.”

  Mother looked hard at Letty as the young girl calmly poured another cup of milk. Then she shrugged slightly and said, “Welcome young man. If you’re a soldier, I expect you’ll turn us in on account of us having food, but you may as well eat your fill first.”

  Michael cringed. He knew it was the truth. By law, every farmer and fisherman was expected to send all food to the city where it would then be fairly distributed. Some had a special license to sell their goods in the city market, but most were required to turn everything over to the government collectors who stopped by weekly at every farm. The fair disbursement was a figment of the government’s rhetorical imagination. In truth, the farmers were starving along with those in the city. In these days, a farm table laden with food meant that someone was cheating the government and breaking the General’s law. It was the sworn duty of a soldier to turn such people in. Michael knew he could never do that, even if it meant execution. Anyone in their right mind knew it was the government who was cheating the people; though not many seemed to be in their right minds these days.

  He didn’t feel like eating, so he sat and watched Letty and the boy enjoy their supper. It wasn’t just the mother’s suspicions that kept him off his food; he felt sick with himself for becoming a soldier. He’d given in so easily. And, he knew now that it had been wrong to bring Kurt here. Kurt would take one look at the food and turn this family in so he could collect the reward.

  Father came in from the barn, greeted them all with a nod, and sat down at the table. He smiled at the boy who was helping himself to more bread. Then he glanced at his wife who sat stone still, staring at Michael. “Mother!” he said, “Your plate’s empty. Are you ill?” Then he noticed Michael’s untouched plate. “And is our guest ill too?”

  “He’s only sick at heart, and Mother is sick with fear,” Letty said.

  “He’s a soldier,” Mother said. “You brought a soldier home.”

  “Two soldiers. The other’s in the barn, dead drunk,” Letty said. “He doesn’t like to be sober.”

  “Well, times are tough,” Father said.

  Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I won’t turn you in. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So you say,” Mother began.

  “He won’t,” Letty said, “but his friend would.”

  “He’s not my friend,” Michael said quickly. “He . . . he wanted to travel with me, so I let him. And you’re right,” he continued, looking at Letty, “he doesn’t like to be sober though I don’t know how you knew.” The girl said nothing, but her eyes were bright. Is she laughing at me? Michael wondered. But no, it wasn’t that. He looked at the stone-faced mother and the father quietly eating potatoes with a knife. “I should go. We both should. If you’d be kind enough to take Kurt and I back to the road tonight, he’ll never know we’ve been here.”

  “The morning will do,” Father said. “Before first light.”

  “What if he wakes before then,” Mother said.

  “I don’t think he will,” Michael replied. “He drank a whole bottle of wine in one sitting.”

  “He’ll kill himself that way,” Father said.

  “He’ll be dead soon either way. So will I. The General has plans for us soldiers.”

  “So I gather,” Father said. “Did you volunteer?”

  “Not really. I went to the city to look for work.”

  “Like so many others. In the wrong place at the wrong time,” Father said sadly. “Do you have family?”

  “I did.” Michael looked down, unseeing, at his untouched plate.

  “Plague?” Father asked gently.

  “Tax men. Comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

  “So you went to the city and got caught on the Mayor’s doorstep, so to speak.”

  “Yes. I thought I’d send money and food home, but when I returned they were all dead. Nearly all the farmers in our valley are dead. That’s government efficiency for you. Kill the people who grow the food.” Michael heard the bitter edge in his voice. How long, he wondered, before I take up drinking like Kurt?

  “All dead?” the mother echoed, her face softened.

  But Michael didn’t want her pity. So instead of talking about his family, he told them about the squatters at the farmhouse, how he’d been able to buy them food, but how he knew it wouldn’t last long.

  “Those poor children!” Mother exclaimed. “Father, shouldn’t we do something?”

  “Where’s your village, son?” Father asked quietly.

  Michael told him.

  “A day and a half to the north,” Father mused. “I think we could add it to our rounds. What do you think, Letty?”

  “It’s half a day past Larkness on the Old Road. I don’t see why not.”

  Michael realized he must have looked confused because Letty suddenly laughed and said, “Don’t worry about your squatters, soldier. We’ll see they’re fed. Just don’t ask us how.”

  After a moment’s silence Michael said, “Am I allowed to ask why?”

  “No more talk now,” Mother said briskly. “You eat your supper. I’ll not see it go to waste.”

  The boy, Peter, was nearly asleep in his chair, his head nodding dangerously close to his plate. Even in a partial doze he was chewing. He was carried off to bed with a hunk of bread still clutched in his fist. Michael wondered if the boy was a foundling. He looked very unlike Letty and her parents.

  Letty and Mother began clearing the table as Michael ate quickly, more out of obligation than hunger. His stomach still felt fragile after the horrible lunch at the inn. But this was good food that put him in mind of childhood meals; it was the kind of food his mother had made before the bad times began. And she used to make bread like this, Michael thought. I wonder why she stopped? He tried to recall the last time he’d tasted bread.

  He finished his meal and offered to help with the dishes. Letty set him to drying, sending her mother to bed. Father had gone to the barn again and returned saying that Kurt and the horse were fast asleep. Though Letty pressed him, teasing, he would not say who snored loudest, man or beast. Father settled himself in an old chair beside the fire, with a pipe and a book, merely saying, “Don’t stay up too late, children.”

  Michael was about to reply that he was off to the barn, but Letty said to him, “Come. I want to show you something.” And he could not refuse. Those blue eyes pierced him like a lance. He put down the towel and followed her out the door.

  A quarter moon had risen and by its light Michael could see things he had missed on their arrival in the dark: a large garden, fishing nets draped over a low fence, a small wooden outbuilding to the left of the house. There was only the smell of the sea and the fishnets which made Michael realize that there were no pigs or goats or cows. But maybe there were chickens. Letty was leading him past the garden, toward the small outbuilding. Perhaps she was going to show him her pet hen. His sister had hated hens, but his father had always kept a few until they had all stopped laying.

  Funny. He had never thought of it before, but he suddenly realized that the hens had stopped laying the same year that the harvest on a quarter of their land had failed. It had been the same for many other farmers in their valley. With each successive year, less and less of the land would prod
uce anything but thistles. Even the cows seemed to give less milk and the pigs would not fatten as they used to. A startling image came to his mind of the earth and all its creatures giving one last gasp before expiring in silent darkness. He shuddered, then jumped at a slight noise beside him. They had reached the door to the shed and Letty paused to light a lantern. Michael listened for the rustle and cluck of roosting hens, but all was deadly still within. He noticed two large windows on either side of the door and flowered vines that trailed down from the thatched roof. Where was this strange girl leading him and why did she trust him?

  If he had been another kind of man—a man like Kurt—he would not have been looking at Letty and thinking of chickens.

  Letty opened the door on a room that was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Michael saw at once that the shed had been built into the rock as an extension to a deep cave. The front of the room near the windows was filled with paintings. Letty went round the room lighting candles.

  “Did you . . . paint all these?” Michael asked. There were dozens of paintings hanging on the walls and leaning in stacks against crates. The painting he had seen her finish that very afternoon stood on a rough easel. In the candlelight, the winged man’s face seemed to glow with its own radiance and Michael felt half afraid. “Who is that man?”

  “Yes,” Letty said, “I painted these, and that’s Joe.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why do you paint him with wings?”

  “That’s what he looks like.”

  She did not appear to be teasing him. He walked slowly around the room, looking at the paintings. As he looked, he nearly forgot about Letty, who sat at a small table, silently sketching.

  The paintings were beautiful, yet strange. The landscapes of the surrounding countryside were populated by fantastic beings: half-human sea creatures and small men carrying pots of gold, rabbits and foxes who looked as if they could speak, the forms of huge people standing in the kitchen garden. And the man with the wings appeared in many pictures, sometimes with more of his kind. In one painting, he appeared with an old woman at a market stall. The woman held a strangely carved staff in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. The table in front of her was piled high with bread and the winged man stood beside her laughing. Their faces shone. All around them, in the background, Letty had painted a dark market square surrounded by blackened, decaying buildings. Thin pale children approached the table from all directions while, above the pile of loaves, a face peeped: it was the boy, Peter.

  “You’ve been to the city?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. She looked up at him, then back to her drawing.

  “And did you paint this while you were there?”

  “No. I painted it a few months after I returned.”

  “So you didn’t actually see these people in the city.”

  “Yes. Of course I did. That’s where I met them.” She looked at Michael with a critical gaze, as if sizing him up, then looked down at her sketch and added several lines.

  “You met a man with wings. In the city.” Michael didn’t believe her, though she spoke so matter-of-factly. He looked at her, thinking that she was just a silly young girl, but something told him she was never that. She was something else, and this niggled at his mind. “Tell me about these people,” he said.

  Letty left her drawing and came to stand before the painting. “You’ve met the boy,” she said, pointing at the face peeping over the pile of loaves. “Peter came home with us that day. He’s never said what happened to his family. And this,” she pointed to the old woman, “is the bread lady. She has a stall in the market and gives her bread away. Haven’t you seen her?”

  “No,” Michael said, looking closely at the woman’s face. Was that a crown on her head? It looked prickly. “Did you say she gives her bread away?”

  “Yes.”

  Right, Michael thought. “And the man with wings?”

  “As I said, his name is Joe. He’s the same as in the picture I painted this afternoon. Although,” here she hesitated for the first time. “Some people don’t see the wings. They see a man in a black coat. I’ve seen him like that once myself.

  “Really,” Michael said.

  “When I shook his hand.” Letty’s brow was furrowed and her gaze turned inward, remembering. “I don’t know why that would be, but I don’t try to understand everything I see.” She smiled up at Michael who was once again shaken by her blue gaze. She must be mad—crazy as a loon—but some instinct told him this was not so. Yet how else could he explain her fantastic paintings that she said were true likenesses?

  She went to the table, took up her drawing and said, “I’m going out to watch the stars. Will you join me?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, for he couldn’t help himself.

  She smiled again, then held out the drawing to him. He took it and what he saw, he never forgot. Half his mind scoffed; the other half drank it in, like a parched man offered a cup of cold water.

  The drawing was a miniature copy of the painting they’d just been discussing, but with several differences. Peter still peeped over the pile of loaves, but Joe appeared in a dark coat, without his wings. In the background, under the ragged buildings, instead of thin children approaching the table, he saw his sister, his mother and his father. But how could Letty have known them? Letty herself stood on one side of the bread lady, holding out a loaf to . . . Michael. For he was there, standing between Joe and the bread lady, wearing his soldier’s uniform, laughing and tickling the top of Peter’s head.

  For a full five minutes, Michael gazed hungrily at the drawing as it etched itself in his mind, line by line. Finally he handed it back.

  “Keep it,” she said. “It’s for you.”

  Why is she giving me a gift? he thought. Aloud he said, “No. I’d like to, but I’ll be searched as soon as I return. I shouldn’t take anything from this place. But I won’t forget. Thank you.” His mind was shaken by questions about the drawing, but in that moment he knew they weren’t the right ones. He moved toward the door.

  Letty put out the candles and followed him from the room. She shut the door and led him along a grassy path under the moonlight. Soon the grass turned to sand and the sea lay before them, dark and wide. They came to the water’s edge and stood looking out at the undulating bay and the moonbeam’s path that stretched from their feet to some distant dark horizon. Michael saw, on either side of the expanse, dark landforms rising and realized that they stood in a small protected cove. A boat lay on the shore several yards away and behind them a light glowed in the cottage window. No doubt Father was still in his chair reading.

  Michael saw all this, but his mind was on Letty who stood with her face turned to the stars. The night was still; only the water lapped at their feet with a gentle slap-slap.

  Letty broke the stillness. “Did you know that once there were people who named the stars?”

  “My grandmother told me that,” Michael said. “She said the brightest are called planets, but she could only remember the name of one: Jupiter.”

  “Your grandmother must have gone to the old schools.”

  “Yes. Back in the day, before they closed them all down. Her family had books too.”

  “My father has a few books. I suppose you saw him reading.”

  “Yes. Yours is a very illegal family. Food, books . . . is painting pictures not yet outlawed?”

  “Not yet,” Letty chuckled,” or I would have been hung.”

  “Really? Then others have seen your paintings? Do you show them around the countryside?” He tried to keep his voice light, mocking, but he was suddenly concerned.

  Letty shrugged slightly, her face still turned to the night sky. “Sometimes I give paintings away, but only where they’re wanted. And last year I had to paint the Mayor’s portrait.”

  “The Mayor!” Michael cried. A fish or something flip-flopped in the water a few yards away. He lowered his voice. ?
??You had to paint the Mayor’s portrait?”

  “I didn’t think he would like what I painted, but . . .” she hesitated. “I guess he saw what he wanted to see.”

  They were silent a moment. Then Michael said, “Do you go to the city often?”

  “No. I’ve only been there once.”

  “And the one time you visit, you meet that devil of a Mayor,” Michael began.

  “And Joe. And the bread lady. And Peter,” Letty finished.

  “Oh. Right,” Michael said and fell silent. But something curious was happening in his mind; a light had begun to grow; it emanated from the memory of Letty’s drawing and was spreading slowly, like the tendrils of a vine.

  To his surprise, Letty took his hand. The light grew in intensity; he thought he could feel it shooting from her skin like sparks from a fire. It almost stung, but he did not push her away. Childhood memories crowded into the light: MidWinter feasts with music and dancing; his mother singing as she worked among the tall flowers of her garden; fishing on a sunlit pond in a small boat; stories his grandfather told of powerful creatures who moved beyond human understanding. All these things he had forgotten in the grey world he now walked as a soldier.

  The light intensified yet again, like white flames. The memory of a neighbour’s barn on fire flashed through his mind. The blaze had spread out of control as the fire brigade stood helplessly by, watching the fire consume the barn and all within it, flames leaping forty feet into the air, an inferno against the night sky. I shall be like that barn, Michael thought, with only a pile of ashes to mark where I stand now. But I don’t care. He tightened his hold on Letty’s hand.

  Night silence lay over the land; even the water lay still. Only the gentle slap-slap of small waves on the shore marked the passing seconds. Gradually, Michael felt the intensity of light subside until it was a single flame. He knew something was different now; something had been seared away. He tried to put a finger on it. A heaviness had fallen from him. Perhaps it was fear of the shadow of death, the shadow under which everyone in the world lived.

  Beside him Letty stirred and turned her face from the stars to the moonlit rocks that jutted out from the shore. Michael tried to follow her gaze. Had she seen something? Perhaps a seal on the rocks. He could discern nothing but moonlight—but wait; there was a brighter glimmer, a movement.

  And suddenly he saw them.

  Huge people, great lords and ladies, were walking on the rocks toward the sea. With long graceful strides they swept along the cove’s edge, scattering light from their flowing garments. Michael remembered Letty’s painting of tall beings like these standing in her kitchen garden, so he wasn’t surprised to see one of the great ladies turn and nod in their direction.

  A cloud crossed the moon. When its shadow passed, the gods were gone—at least Michael could no longer see them. He suspected Letty could by the way the rocks still held her gaze. When she finally turned to him, she released his hand and said, “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “Michael.”

  “Is it possible we met when we were children?” she said. “It seems like I’ve known you for some time.”

  “So you don’t normally go walking in the moonlight with strange soldiers,” he said lightly.

  She laughed and shook her head, then turned from the shore and struck a path that bent toward the barn. He followed. The light still shone in the cottage window. Above them, the quarter moon hung over the small bay and Michael was surprised to see it in the same position, as if so little time had passed standing at the water’s edge, holding Letty’s hand. For he had travelled far: across a borderland into some new country.

  At the barn door, Letty stopped and said, “I expect my father will take you and your friend most of the way to the city.”

  “He only needs to take us back to the road. Then Kurt will never know we were here.”

  “Yes, but what my father didn’t mention is that he plans to sell fish in the city tomorrow.”

  “Will you go with him?” He asked, but then he thought of Kurt and how he might treat Letty if he saw her. “Really though, it’s better to stay here.”

  “Yes,” Letty answered. “Goodnight.”

  Michael followed her with his eyes until the cottage door closed. Then he went into the barn, threw himself on the hay beside Kurt, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  An hour before dawn, Michael woke to the sound of Letty’s father feeding the horse by the light of a lantern. Kurt snored on, but Michael got up and helped Father harness the horse to the wagon. Even when they hoisted Kurt into the back of the cart, he showed no signs of coming fully awake. That was some bottle of wine, Michael thought, and then began to worry that Kurt would not wake up in time for their long walk back to the city.

  “Here lad, I need some help loading the fish for market,” Father said.

  So Letty had been right. Would her father offer them a ride all the way to the city?

  Michael followed father around the other side of the barn to a shed he had not noticed before. Piled in the shed were several bags of fish and vegetables; these they also packed into the cart along with a large wheel barrow.

  They were ready to go. Michael sat on the bench beside Father and pulled his coat tighter. The narrow valley, still wrapped in shadows, felt hidden, forgotten, a place fallen out of step with the great stirrings of the city. The world’s upheavals had not touched this place and Michael felt an intense desire to stay. He would take up fishing, plough the garden, help Father thatch the roof. Letty would teach him to draw and he would remember his grandfather’s stories and tell them at the fireside on winter nights. He would plant corn and teach the boy, Peter, to play football. And then, in a few years, he and Letty would….

  Kurt gave a tremendous snort and rolled over on the hay. The cottage door opened and Letty came out. Michael glanced back anxiously, but Kurt slept on. Letty handed a small canvas sack up to her father and he passed it to Michael and took up the reins. Michael could tell by the feel of the sack that it contained two loaves of bread and other small lumps that might be cheese or apples. Letty waved goodbye and then her mother stepped out the cottage door and waved. No one spoke. Father flicked the reins and they began to move out into the silent dawn. Before they turned out of the valley, Michael looked back. Letty stood in the shadowed yard, watching them. Behind her, the sun broke over the bare hills; standing on those hills, huge in the new morning light, he saw the tall gods with their arms upraised. Somehow he knew he would never be back.

  They wound through the high barrows and craggy rocks, back to the road. By the early light, Michael saw that many of the shapes he had taken for strange rock formations the night before were in fact ruined buildings now moss-covered and home to fern and vines. The cart rolled over what might have been narrow streets, now silenced by thick turf. Michael wanted to ask what it all was, or had been, but was afraid to break the silence in that place. It was Father who quietly said,

  You have made the city a heap of rubble,

  the fortified town a ruin

  the foreigners’ stronghold a city no more;

  it will never be rebuilt.

  He looked sideways at Michael and said, “Read that in an old book. Seems to fit this place. Some people call this the Haunted Cove, but I’ve been here all my life and never seen a single ghost.

  Michael nodded. They passed a decaying tower and the remnants of a wall whose glassless windows gaped like the hollow eyes of a dead giant.

  “My wife used to worry about Letty wandering through this place, but she’s never come to harm and she never gets lost. Some say she’s one of those who see beyond.”

  Beyond? “Beyond what?” Michael said, in spite of himself.

  “Beyond the end of their nose, I guess,” Father replied, chuckling.

  Crossing a shallow stream, they turned sharply around a projection of rock, and came to the road. The sun had climbed to the top of the eastern hills and shone over the high grasslands. Father fli
cked the reins and the horse turned to the west, toward a narrow range of hills. Michael knew that on the other side of those hills lay the main road to the city, a broad straight road that cut through the countryside. Father let the reins go slack and the horse, long familiar with the narrow side road, plodded on its way.

  Kurt came fully awake an hour later. He did not seem at all surprised to find himself on a strange road, in a rumbling cart, on a pleasant midsummer’s morning. He merely asked what day of the week it was, then lounged against the sacks of fish and talked heartily of his adventures among innkeeper’s daughters, never taking a moment’s interest in Letty’s father or how they’d come to be riding in the cart at all. He seemed bent on showing off more of his foul language than usual, and Michael earnestly wished he would go back to sleep.

  Just before midday, they came to a small woodland and Father turned the horse off the road into a clearing. He untethered the horse, tied it to a tree, then took out the wheelbarrow. Michael helped unload the sacks into the barrow while Kurt leaned against a tree and watched. When the cart was empty, Father pushed it into the bushes. Without a word, but a nod to Michael and Kurt, he pushed the heavy barrow out of the clearing and back to the road.

  At last Kurt said, “Just out of interest, where did you find this silent farmer and where is he taking us?”

  Before Michael could answer, the road narrowed to a single track, turned a sharp corner, and there they were, on the main road at the outskirts of the great city.

  “Well,” Kurt said, “here we are at last, back from fairyland. Thank you, comrade, for a queer adventure.”

  Queerer than you’ll ever know, Michael thought.

  “I hope you won’t mind,” Kurt continued, “when I say that I am glad to be back. Look! There’s civilization right over there,” and he pointed across the thoroughfare to a large and prosperous inn. As they looked, a cluster of beautiful women stepped out the inn door and stood on the ample porch, clearly hoping to be seen. They spied the two young soldiers and waved.

  “That looks like just the place to spend the last three days of our leave, does it not?” Kurt said.

  “It does not,” Michael replied. “Goodbye, Kurt. See you at the barracks” and he swung away to follow Letty’s father who was already labouring down the road.

  “Suit yourself then,” Kurt called after him, and stepped quickly toward the inn. When Michael looked back, he saw Kurt already on the porch with his arms full of as many women as he could hold.

  Michael sighed and moved to catch up with Letty’s father who was about thirty paces ahead. The crowd on the road was not yet thick, but two lean and rough looking men stepped up on either side of Father and began to speak to him. The taller of the two held something behind his back; Michael saw the glint of a knife.

  A quick sprint brought him up behind the men in time to hear one say, “I say that there barrow and everything in it belongs to us, right Tom?”

  “That’s right,” snivelled Tom, “you snatched it from our shed and that’s what we’ll tell the Mayor if he asks us.”

  Father said nothing, but continued walking. Tom said, “I think this old man’s deaf. Think you can make him hear us, Bart?”

  “I thinks I can,” Bart replied, but before he could bring his knife around, Michael stepped between, shouldered Bart aside and, in a deep stern voice, said, “old man, do you have a marketer’s license?”

  Father stopped, reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. Bart and Tom took one look at Michael’s uniform and scuttled away, scowling and swearing.

  “Thanks, lad,” Father said, and put the paper back in his pocket. “In all my years coming and going from this city, I’ve never had trouble like that.”

  “Surprising, really,” Michael said. “You do look different from the other travellers; your clothes are clean.”

  “So they are,” Father said, looking down at his shirt and vest. “What a fool I am. Guess I forgot in all the excitement of company; I’m more used to traveling alone.” As he said this, he dug around among the sacks in the wheelbarrow until he came up with a dirty old coat and hat which he put on. They smelled of fish.

  “A disguise,” Michael observed.

  “Always put it on back in the woods where I tether the horse,” Father said, “but other things just drove it clean from my head today. That other lad likes to talk, doesn’t he?”

  “Here,” Michael said, taking up the barrow, “let’s make it look like I’ve taken you and your goods into custody, in case Bart and Tom are watching.”

  “Alright,” Father said, “but do you mean to go this way?”

  “Yes. I’ve three days of leave still, but I want to try and find someone Letty told me about.” He laughed. “The city is so big and crowded. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “You’ll find him if you’re lookin’,” was all that Father said.

  And Michael did find the man called Joe--the next day--but not in the place he expected.

  He found the bread lady first. After helping Father set up in his market stall, Michael wandered about looking at all the goods for sale and watching the people. Rounding a quiet corner of the Market Square, he came upon her table piled with loaves of bread. She looked exactly like Letty’s sketch: an old woman holding a strangely carved staff. She was singing:

  Ho! Everyone that’s thirsty

  Come now to the water

  Though you have no money

  You can come and eat.

  Hearing the tremulous voice, Michael clearly remembered the voice of his great-grandmother. She had sung the same song and he must have heard it as a little child for she had been dead a long time now. His grandfather had sung it too.

  Why waste all your time and money

  On that which is not bread . . .

  Michael was singing now as he walked to the table. As his voice joined the woman’s she turned to him.

  . . . And your labour

  On that which satisfies not?

  “A loaf of bread, soldier?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “How much?”

  “There is no cost” she replied.

  He remembered Letty telling him that the lady gave her bread away, but still he said, “Someone must pay for it, surely. The cost of wheat is high these days.”

  “Yes,” she said, “it has been paid for. No need to fret over it; take one for your friend,” and she put two loaves into his hands.

  “How often do you come here?” he asked.

  “Every day. You will always find me here.”

  Before he could ask another question, a throng of pinched looking children pressed around the table, clamouring for bread. As Michael turned to go, he heard the woman begin her song again: “Ho! Everyone that’s thirsty, come now to the water, though you have no money, you can come and eat . . . “

  He found Letty’s father doing brisk business at his stall. Pulling up an old crate, Michael sat down beside him and soon realized that Father gave away more than he sold. As he watched, he tasted the loaf of bread. It was rich and dense, laced with veins of butter and honey, like nothing he’d ever eaten before.

  “Thought I might see you again,” Father said when he had a moment to spare. “Looks like you found Letty’s bread lady.”

  “Umph,” Michael said with his mouth full. Then he swallowed and, handing the second loaf to Father, said, “Take this before I eat it too.”

  At six o’clock, as if on a signal, every vendor in the Market Square began to pack up. They all seemed in a hurry to depart, even Father. The light was fading and the cliff-like buildings that loomed over the Square looked more than shabby; they began to look sinister. Michael wondered, not for the first time that day, where he would spend the night. He did not wish to return to barracks just yet. The freedom of his remaining leave seemed suddenly precious; if he returned now he would lose it. He knew the officers would not let him occupy his bunk without taking up his duties.

  ??
?Don’t know when I’ll see you again, lad,” Father was saying, “but I may be back in a month’s time. I’ve been glad of your company today, especially on the road this morning.”

  Michael did not know what to say.

  “Now listen, lad. If you won’t go back to barracks tonight, don’t try sleeping in a doorway. Not even your uniform will protect you from some that stray through this city at night. Try to find an inn, but not too close to this here Market Square. There’ll be many dark folk about in another half hour.” Then he picked up his barrow and hurried away.

  Michael stood and watched Father go, wishing he were free to go with him. But, shadowy figures began to slink into the Square so he made for the bread lady’s stall, hoping to catch her before she packed up. Walking quickly, he found her quiet corner.

  She was not packing up her wares. She was humming another tune. She put two loaves into his hands as he said, “I thought you might have gone home like the rest of the marketers.”

  “No,” she said, “you will always find me here.”

  “But there are evil folk about. I’ve seen them coming into the Square now the other marketers are gone.”

  “They have no power over me.”

  “Do they take your bread too?”

  “Hardly ever, but I wait here just the same.”

  Michael looked around at the deepening darkness. Shadowy figures on silent feet had stolen into the bread lady’s corner. They sat on the curb all around the table: some held out a hand, empty palm up; one or two waggled empty cups. As Michael turned to look at them, he heard their hissing whispers begin.

  “Up that street there,” said the bread lady pointing, “You’ll find an inn called The Tower. I am known to the owners. Go now. This is no place for you tonight.”

  Michael thanked the old woman, but as he stepped past the shadowed crowd, a hand reached out and grabbed the hem of his trousers. He would have been afraid if the bread lady had not been behind him. Instinctively, he offered a loaf to the grasping beggar, but it was slapped aside and he was released. Running up the street, he turned once to look back. There stood the bread lady among the gathering shadows, holding her strangely carved staff, singing: “Ho! Everyone that’s thirsty . . . .” Then night fell and swallowed her up. Michael ran for the inn.

  Michael took a room at The Tower Inn, joining the evening crowd as they sang and danced. The music put him in mind of childhood evenings at his grandmother’s fireside, but he couldn’t help letting his mind stray further: to his evening with Letty by the moonlit sea. It was her company he wished for.

  He visited the bread lady next morning for breakfast. It was an odd way for a soldier to spend his leave, but he didn’t care. He wandered the streets of the city looking, always looking, for Letty’s man with wings. At midday he found himself back at the bread lady’s table and again just before dusk. He had money to buy other kinds of food, but he never did. The old woman’s bread was all he wanted and she had given him a flask of cold water which she refilled from a jug under the table whenever he asked.

  That evening in the deepening gloom, as he left the old woman’s table, he took the wrong street. The light of the summer sun, which barely penetrated the city streets anyway, had set behind a cover of heavy clouds. The nip of an early autumn was in the air and night fell swiftly. There were few streetlights and it was difficult to tell one building from the next. In the murky darkness, Michael didn’t realize he had missed his way until he came to an unfamiliar crossing lit by a dim lamp post. The dingy circle of light revealed narrow passages to left and right. Straight ahead, a track descended steeply into the lower regions of the city. Belltown that region was named, but the locals called it Helltown and it yawned like a black pit at Michael’s feet. All around him, dark figures crouched in doorways. He was about to turn back to retrace his steps when a hissing murmur began. Out of the darkness, ragged men and women appeared, blocking his way. They shuffled toward him and the figures in the doorways stood up and stepped forward.

  They’ll chase me down the hill into Belltown, Michael thought wildly, and then they’ll do terrible things! Frightful rumours had floated up out of the city’s abyss: unspeakable tales of destitution and violence. Those who must live below the level of poverty, below the level of humanity, had seeped down into that miry cesspool of extremity. Michael had heard more than he wanted to know from Kurt and other soldiers like him who sometimes crept into Belltown for a little “hard fun.” The General and the Mayor left Belltown to itself; there were no resources they wanted to spare for its deliverance. If a census taker had agreed to go down into Belltown, he might have been surprised to find that the population was mostly children. Yet, this little-known fact had not surfaced in the higher regions where city councillors went to and fro.

  Michael tried offering his bread to the murmuring figures that pressed around him: they would have none of it. Could he fight them? He knew he was better fed and stronger. But no, there were too many. In desperation he took out a handful of coins and threw them on the ground, but even this did not seem to be enough. The ragged people snatched up the money and continued to press forward, pawing at his sleeves, pushing. Finally, seeing the flash of a knife, Michael turned and took two steps on the downward road. Then he stopped and looked hard into the dark descending street. Was that a light coming up the hill? Yes. Several lights bobbed in the darkness like lanterns on a ship. Michael felt a hand grasp his shoulder. Wrenching away, he took six more steps. The lights were closer now. He could hear the quick tread of heavy boots followed by the pitter-patter of lighter feet. He waited and this time no one pressed at his back. The lights drew closer, rising out of the blackness. The hissing murmur of the crowd behind hushed. Thump, thump, went the tread of heavy boots climbing; pitter-patter went the light feet; and over all, Michael swore he heard another sound: the beating of great wings. Caught between the grasping beggars and whatever was advancing up the hill, he waited.

  Behind him, the dull streetlight gave up its strength and went out. Michael looked up between the crowding buildings to a small patch of night sky, but the stars were never visible over the polluted city. He thought of Letty standing at the water’s edge, tracing patterns in the multitude of stars, perhaps thinking of new names for each one. He remembered his grandmother pointing out Jupiter. Jupiter, he thought irrelevantly as he looked down at the approaching lights, I wonder where that name came from?

  The lights were closer and Michael now saw what they were: faces. He immediately thought of the winged man in Letty’s paintings—what had she called him? Joe. Was it Joe and others like him coming up the hill? Who else could it be? He backed up into the crossroad, under the dead street lamp, never taking his eyes from the radiant faces. The press of ragged people had retreated, and though Michael sensed them lurking in doorways, he no longer felt threatened. The tingling fear that had frozen his blood moments before vanished and was replaced by another feeling for which he had no name. Whatever it was, it seemed to well up from deep within the earth, into his feet, shooting upward like a fountain into his brain, slowly filling all his limbs. He suddenly felt strong. Then, without warning, the streetlight flickered on over his head.

  “Hey! I thought we was goin’ to see a bread lady!” a high thin voice shouted out of the darkness. “Look! That ain’t no lady! It’s a bread man!”

  “You mean a bread soldier,” said another high voice. They were children’s voices. Another said, “I ain’t never seen a soldier carryin’ bread before.”

  The band of bright faces topped the rise and stepped into the crossroad. Michael thought he saw…were those wings? No. What he thought was a glimpse of wings turned to sharp elbows and thin little arms. Each bright being carried a child on its back and one or two also cradled an infant. Joe—looking just like Letty’s portraits, but without wings--stepped up and met Michael face to face.

  “Will that soldier hurt me?” said a small tired voice. It belonged to the young girl clinging to Joe’s back.
<
br />   “No,” Joe said. Under the dull light he looked like any other man.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Michael said before he could stop himself. “All day. Letty said I’d find you.”

  At the mention of Letty’s name, Joe grinned. “You gonna just stand there holdin’ that bread, lad? There’s some young ones here near starvin’.”

  Haggard and filthy, they were the thinnest children Michael had ever seen. He divided the loaves between them and they gulped it down quick, almost without chewing.

  “I know where to get more bread,” he said.

  “So do I,” said Joe. “But there’s one or two of these kids as needs to be carried. They climbed up with us from down below, but I don’t think their legs will go further. Lend a hand?”

  And that’s how Michael came to spend the night with Joe and the others, traveling back and forth from the underworld of Belltown to the bread lady’s table. That first night they made two more trips, carrying armloads of bread down and armloads of children up. Michael found out that Joe and his friends went down every night and brought out all those willing to come.

  “Too bad we can’t empty this place,” Michael said.

  “Yes. It would be good to empty it before the end,” Joe said. They were standing in a squalid Belltown street lit by fires in makeshift grates. Dark hovels lined the gutters. One of Joe’s companions, a woman, offered bread to the people passing by: young women and men, nearly children, arm in arm with old men and soldiers: stooping hooded figures who hovered round the fires offering strange substances to the children warming their hands. For there were children, so many children, thin and hard-faced: some hunting through the garbage piled along the street: some sitting in delirium, intoxicated by a filthy substance they clutched in their hands. Many snatched the bread and went on their way; many more laughed and said, “That old hag thinks we’ll eat mouldy bread? I’d rather eat shredded paper!”

  A few took the bread and, seeing the shining faces of the strangers, stayed close and asked for more. These were mostly young children who still looked lost and frightened. Michael wondered, not for the last time, how they had come to this hell hole. The bread and bright faces also attracted young mothers with sadly quiet babies and older boys carrying sick brothers and sisters. All these Joe and his friends fed and escorted up and out of the fetid air of Belltown.

  “What did you mean?” Michael asked Joe as they parted for the night, “What did you mean about emptying Belltown before the end? Has the General decided to destroy it?”

  “I doubt the General wants to destroy Belltown,” Joe replied. “He’s the one who built it. A pit like that is a convenient place to send political enemies.”

  “Children are political enemies?”

  “He doesn’t want to feed them, but if they’re seen starving on the city streets it makes him and the Mayor look bad.”

  “But where are the mothers and fathers?”

  “Gone to the wars, no doubt. You’re not the first wave of soldiers to go. And we all know conscription is a powerful antidote to hunger.”

  Michael looked away. “Yes, but I wish I’d found the bread lady first.”

  “Never you mind, lad. It’ll pan out alright in the end.”

  Michael wasn’t sure what Joe meant by that. How could things turn out alright? The world wasn’t set up for that anymore. Unless you joined the likes of the Mayor or the General and could stomach the stink of corruption, you were sure to end up dead by starvation or war. But I do know one thing, Michael thought, I won’t let it make me like Kurt. I won’t let my mind turn into a sewer.

  Dawn was three hours away. Michael left Joe and the children with the bread lady, then went to the inn where he fell into bed and slept until noon. He woke up in time to pay his bill and report back to his commanding officer.

  “Well, well. Private Lennox. Have a nice leave?” the commanding officer leered at him and Michael wondered if he was in for some trouble. “Your friend, Private Cummings, has not yet returned. Weren’t you traveling together?”’

  “Yes, sir. Until two days ago.”

  “Little spat?”

  “No, sir. He went to an inn and I came back to the city to visit a friend.”

  “Hmm. Well, since you’re here first, I’m going to do you a little favour. I’m putting you on night duty.”

  “Night duty, sir?” At first, Michael didn’t see how this could be a favour.

  “Yes. Most soldiers jump at the chance. I prefer night duty myself, but I’ve got my orders. You’ll join Sergeant Fiddle’s patrol. You can start this very night. Got to keep the streets in order after dark, don’t we soldier?” The officer said this with a smirk and a wink.

  At last Michael understood. He had heard about the exploits of Sergeant Fiddle’s famous night patrol. Under the guise of guarding the streets, this small band of watchmen spread out into every pub, nightclub, and party the city had to offer. Fiddle’s men were the toast of the town. Michael knew Kurt would have been a far better match for the night patrol, but he also knew what he himself wanted and grasped his opportunity.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you sir,” Michael said, saluting.

  “Good boy. Now run along to bed,” the officer sneered. “You’ll want to be fresh for your first night on duty.”

  Michael knew what the officer was thinking, but didn’t care.

  At dusk he reported to Sergeant Fiddle.

  “Lookee here, boys. A new recruit for the night watch,” Fiddle said.

  Michael looked around at the other watchmen slouched against the wall under the streetlamp: most looked bleary-eyed and their uniforms were soiled; two or three seemed only half-conscious, peering at Michael through yellowed, blood-shot eyes. Michael saluted and several soldiers snickered in reply.

  “Now boys, let’s not give Private What’s-His-Name here the wrong impression. Look lively,” Fiddle said.

  The soldiers sent up a derisive cheer. One of them slapped Michael on the shoulder and said, “I could take him under my wing tonight, Sarge. Show him the ropes.” This offer was followed by hoots of laughter and shouts of “that’s right! Lead the way Mighty Pint Blight!”

  “That’s kind, Private Blight, but maybe this young lad already knows where he’d like to keep watch. You see, laddie,” Fiddle said, addressing Michael in a fatherly tone, “I like to let my men choose their own beat. When they do, then I know they’ll act with a sense of ownership and responsibility.”

  Hoots and cheers rang out, along with outright laughter. “The safety of the citizens is our aim,” Fiddle continued, but was interrupted by a loud guffaw and the comment, “old Fiddle sure keeps Mother Hubble and her daughters safe. His own private beat!”

  “And don’t forget the Market Inn. There’s a pub wot’s safer than crown jewels, right Fiddle?” More cheers and laughter.

  “So laddie,” Fiddle continued, as if he hadn’t heard these remarks, “what part of town would you like for your beat?”

  “I’ll take Belltown, sir,” Michael said.

  Someone barked a mirthless laugh and a hissing titter arose.

  “Belltown?” Fiddle said, obviously surprised. “Are you sure lad?”

  “Ooooh. Didn’t take him for one of those, didja Fiddle?” a soldier sneered.

  “That’s a dangerous place, private. Been there before?” Fiddle asked, looking at Michael more carefully.

  “Yes, sir,” Michael replied. “Spent the last night of my leave there.” Whistles and cat-calls followed, and more laughter.

  “We lost Private Morgan down there last week. He’s the fella you’re replacing. Got word he was killed in a fight. Dangerous place.”

  Michael shrugged.

  “Well, it’s your life, private. Soldiers is a dime a dozen these days so you’re easily replaced if you get yourself killed. It’s not my lookout.” Fiddle turned to the rest of his troop and said, “Report here same time tomorrow gents. And try, try to spend at least two days a week in your own bed. The office
r who inspects the barracks has been complaining about your liberties.” This was met with shouts and jeers and mocking laughter. One of the soldiers cried out, “that’s rich, Fiddle, comin’ from you,” and another said, “do you even have a bed at barracks, Fiddle?”

  “Alright, boys,” Fiddle said, waving off their comments with a chuckle, “dismissed!” And with that, the night watchmen of the city sauntered off with shouts of “goodnight!” and “happy hunting!” Anyone seeing this night guard would have laughed, for not a single one carried a lantern to light his way.

  Michael stood for a moment and watched them go, then turned toward the Market Square and the table of the bread lady. As he hurried along, streetlights flickered on one by one and night fell like a sprung trap.

  So it was that Michael found the way cleared before him. Freed from day duty and left to his own devices as a night watchman, he gladly joined Joe’s crew. Tirelessly they moved between Belltown and the upper city, their faces bright with something Michael still couldn’t name. He imagined their expressions reflected the knowledge of whatever formed the foundations of the earth and filled the empty spaces between the stars; he could feel this unnamed actuality filling his bones, replacing the marrow, giving him strength and solidity. It was something like the bread from the old woman’s table that he munched all through his nightly travels. He found a small unclaimed rucksack in the barracks and took to filling it with loaves; often, the old woman packed it while he ate and drank, preparing for the long hours of walking. And so he had bread to eat and to give away all through the night.

  Weeks passed. Michael’s face took on light and Fiddle did not know what to make of him. The other watchmen gave him a wide berth. One or two tried to mock him: “Don’t Belltown suit our Private Lennox to a tee,” or “Musta found something good in that cesspool Lennox, anything you’d like to share?” There were darker taunts and hints, but Michael met them all with the good-natured reply, “come with me and find out.”

  Only one soldier took up that offer, but when they came to Michael’s first stop at the bread lady’s table, the soldier let out a string of curses and departed quickly. From then on, Michael was known in the night patrol as “that stinkin’ bread eater,” and Fiddle ignored him completely.

  Once, returning to barracks mid-morning, Michael met Kurt who was on some errand for his commanding officer. They had not seen each other since their leave when they’d parted on the road.

  “Well, well,” Kurt said, “if it isn’t Private Lennox, one of the young bloods of Fiddle’s night patrol.”

  Michael greeted Kurt and made to move on, but Kurt stopped him, saying, “all tired out after a night in Belltown, are we? Who would have thought it,” he sneered. “Not even I would sink so low as to go back there night after night. Tell me, which obsession have you taken up? Perhaps one night I’ll join you.”

  Something about Kurt’s tone of voice had always infuriated Michael from the day they’d met. He regretted having spent any time with him at all. What he wanted was to go to bed and sleep off the horrors he’d seen. If it weren’t for the presence of Joe and his friends, Michael knew he would never have the courage to enter Belltown. Just hours ago he had lifted a little girl out of a pile of refuse in the gutter. She was black and blue about the face and at first, he’d thought she was dead, but Joe had found a faint pulse. Michael carried her cradled in his arms, another child perched on his shoulders, up out of the fetid air. It had taken nearly all his strength and now he had to face Kurt who only wanted to hear of his addictions.

  “Well, Private Cummings, if you must know.” He opened his rucksack and pulled out half a loaf of bread. In the stink of the barracks, its fragrance smote his heart; but Kurt backed off, coughing and gagging.

  “Yech! You swine! How dare you bring that wretched schlep into the barracks! You’ll make us all sick!”

  Michael shrugged and tucked the bread into his sack. “To each his own.”

  “Yes. Well some things should not be allowed,” Kurt snapped, and went his way.

  Michael sat on his bed and finished the loaf, then rolled over on his side and waited. Ten minutes later he heard the footsteps he’d expected.

  “Private Lennox!” barked a familiar voice. It was the commanding officer.

  Michael rolled out of bed and stood at attention. “Sir,” he said, saluting.

  “I’ve been told by an anonymous source that you’ve been bringing tainted food from Belltown into these barracks. Empty your pack.”

  Michael opened his rucksack and turned it upside down. A few crumbs fell on the floor. The officer took the sack and sniffed inside. “Humph,” he muttered. Then he looked Michael up and down.

  “Humph. You don’t look like you eat tainted food. Healthiest soldier I’ve seen. He tossed the sack back to Michael and said, “You’re on night patrol in Belltown?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hell of a place.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ever eat anything down there or bring anything from there back to these barracks?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Humph. Well, we’ll chalk it up to professional jealousy,” he said, more to himself than to Michael. Then in a louder voice he said, “Private Lennox, never let me catch you bringing anything from Belltown into these quarters, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. I expect you’d like to get back to bed.” And the officer left.

  Michael learned that the children—and the occasional adult—they brought up from Belltown were taken to a safe house on the edge of the city, near the main road. From there, they were whisked off to homes and farms in the country, as yet untouched by war. Michael didn’t understand how so many homes could be found where there was still enough food, but he trusted Joe and anyway, what more could he do? Anyplace else would be better than Belltown.

  He rarely went to the safe house; there was not enough time. After the last of his rounds with Joe, he would leave the children with the bread lady, then speed off to the barracks at the opposite end of town. He dare not be late; Kurt, since their last meeting, seemed to be taking a particular interest in his activities. Though the other members of the night patrol were rarely in their bunks during the day, and were sometimes seen only at the mess hall, not a word was ever said about their liberties. Yet Michael knew that if he, even once, put a food wrong, Kurt would report him—anonymously, of course—and he was pretty sure he’d lose his assignment as a night watchman. Sergeant Fiddle certainly had no love for the presence of Private Lennox, and grew more irritated by the sight of his face with each passing week. Michael kept his head down and, finally, took to wearing a low brimmed hat to the patrol’s nightly rendezvous. It was not regulation army kit, but it covered his face and Fiddle seemed relieved.

  Weeks passed into months. Freezing weather clamped down like an iron fist. Joe’s crew made only one trip to Belltown each night and that was simply to bury the dead. Michael noticed that there were fewer children, but he knew better than to credit it to their nightly missions. The city was changing rapidly. Shops were boarded up and more and more houses stood empty. If the General’s plan was to have the entire city to himself, he was succeeding.

  “But where has everyone gone?” he asked Joe one night. They were climbing the long hill to the upper city after several hours of grisly work. Joe and his friends left no one’s body to sit like carrion in the frozen gutters and Michael joined in the work simply to be with them. The digging kept him warm. Now and then they were rewarded by finding a child, still alive, nearly starved and frozen, in some dark hovel. When they did, they dropped their other work and hustled the child up to the bread lady.

  “They’ve either took to the streets or gone to the wars,” Joe replied.

  “I expect I’ll be at the wars this time next year,” Michael said.

  “Yes. I expect so,” Joe said. Then seeing the look on Michael’s face, he added, “but not yet. Not until your work here is done. And
who knows? Maybe I’ll go with you.”

  Winter passed, but there was no spring. A cold grey settled on the land. Food was scarce; few marketers came to the city now. Purely by chance, Michael saw Letty’s father early one morning at the bread lady’s stall.

  “Well, well,” Father said, grinning, “glad to see you lad. I’ve often wondered how you fared, but you look like you’ve fallen on your feet and in with good company.”

  “How are you, sir, and how’s your family?” Michael asked. He couldn’t help grinning too. Father looked well, even beneath his dirty coat and hat disguise.

  “Everyone’s healthy enough. Seems to be plenty of fish still, but wheat’s scarce. I’ve come here for a bit of bread to take back with me.” A “bit of bread” turned out to be three large sacks. Joe and a couple of his friends were to help Father out of the city and back to his cart. Michael wished to go, but he had to get back to barracks.

  “By the way,” Father said, taking Michael aside, “your squatters are fine and I’ll be seein’ them again in a couple of days.” He jerked a thumb at the bulging sacks and winked. “Also, Letty seemed to think I might see you and sent this:” he pulled a roll of paper out of an inner pocket. Michael knew what it was: the drawing she had made for him. He opened it slowly. It was as he remembered with only one difference: she had, somehow, added something to the likeness of his own face; it now bore the same expression as that of Letty and Joe: a look he still could not put a name to. Was it more light she’d added? How could she do that with a pencil? And why?

  More time passed under the grey cold skies. Michael often wondered if the sun was shining out in the countryside; he wondered if there were flowers growing. It was nearing the end of summer, according to the calendar, but the only season the city had seen was the grey emptiness. Walking the dingy streets day after day, and night after night, it was easy to imagine the whole world exhausted, gasping for air in a silent universe, like a child drowning alone in a deep sea. But this loneliness was only a transient feeling; he had only to look at Letty’s drawing, revisit the bread stall, or meet up with Joe for the feeling to pass like a vapour. There was something behind the polluted sky, something under the filthy streets: some solid essence for which he had no name, but of which he grew more certain. Whatever it was, it lightened his heart. He imagined this something to be like glue or mortar, holding the tired old earth together despite evident human efforts to rip it apart. It was something good and he had the feeling that he was steadily walking toward it, whatever it was.

  The wars dragged on and rumour said battle was drawing closer. The General was happily fighting on two or three different fronts, not actually going out to battle himself, but cosily holed up in his offices, moving pins around on a map like a savage voodoo doctor. The Mayor was campaigning vigorously for his re-election which Michael thought was an exercise in futility. An opposing candidate did not appear to exist and the largest group of semi-cognizant voters remaining in the city was a barrack full of soldiers conscripted by the Mayor himself. The only practical good that came of it, in Michael’s opinion, was a forced march through the lobby of City Hall to view the Mayor’s portrait. He’d wanted to see Letty’s painting and had, in fact, heard much about it during the Mayor’s campaign speeches in the mess hall. Perhaps the Mayor thought the speeches would distract the men from the meagre amount of food rationed out each evening. At any rate, they had all heard about the wonderful portrait, but this did not prepare Michael for what he actually saw.

  “Wonderful likeness,” said the soldier beside Michael as they filed by the painting.

  “I suppose he does look jolly like that,” said another, grudgingly.

  Hells bells, Michael thought, she certainly captured the old devil’s likeness, but why wasn’t she hanged?

  The Mayor’s campaign furor ended with a grand inauguration in late autumn. Michael thought he must have slept through the actual polling day, but he was never sure. The newly re-elected Mayor paraded through the streets with his councillors; he wore the golden chain and the furred robes and that was the end of that.

  The cold grey skies grew even colder as winter reasserted itself. Early one evening, Michael and Joe were waiting at the bread lady’s stall with a small crowd of stray children when Letty’s father appeared.

  “How’s business?” Joe asked Father.

  “Bad. Doesn’t seem to be any food left in this town. Or money. Just gave away all the fish and vegetables I brought, but I’ve nothing to take home. Not the things Mother asked for, that’s for sure.”

  “Better take these children with you instead,” Joe said.

  “What?” Father said.

  “Take these children home. It won’t be long now, and their folks have disappeared.”

  So Michael and Joe led the children out of the city, following Father to his cart hidden in the woods. They carried those that couldn’t walk and Michael brought his rucksack full of bread.

  The next day Michael’s regiment received its orders and the day after that they marched out of town. He’d had only a moment to say goodbye to the bread lady and Joe’s crew.

  Few soldiers were left behind to defend the city. The General, in a calculated risk that involved all the pins on his map, decided to throw the whole of his remaining forces at the north coast where the enemy’s navy was expected to land. And so, after two days of marching, Michael found himself bivouacked little more than ten miles up the coast from Letty’s Haunted Cove. For weeks he dug trenches in the morning, slept in the afternoon, and took the night watch with members of his old patrol. There was little food and the winter cold sank its teeth in like a grey wolf.

  With the exception of Michael, Fiddle’s men were of little use on the night watch. Long accustomed to drinking and carousing, they spent their miserable hours on duty either dozing or complaining. The commanding officers did not seem concerned about the general lack of vigilance. As long as the men were quiet and the camp orderly enough, they left the night watchmen to themselves and took up their endless games of cards. Michael wondered why the officers gave so little thought to the approaching enemy. Perhaps, he thought, they know ours is a hopeless venture.

  Left to himself most nights, Michael sat at his post on the cliffs overlooking the shore and watched the stars. For here, just two day’s march from the polluted city, the air was clear. He could see far out over the ocean and he knew that, if he walked east along the shore far enough, he would come to the hidden valley where Letty was looking up at the same stars. This thought brought him comfort on nights when the cold winds gripped and his stomach felt hollow. In his mind’s eye he would see the bread lady’s table and imagine a loaf of bread sliced sideways, revealing thick veins of butter and honey. He could call to mind the faces of Joe and his crew, bobbing like bright lanterns in dark Belltown. It had only been a few weeks since he’d last seen them, but already it seemed an age ago—like a different life.

  Then one evening—MidWinter’s Eve, in fact—he was sitting at his post watching the sun go down in a spectacular fiery glow when he heard a noise behind him. A figure in a black coat was walking along the cliff. He stood and called out, “who goes there,” and the man looked up. It was Joe.

  “Thought you might like some company,” Joe said when he came near. He grinned at Michael’s mute astonishment and held out a canvas sack. “This’ll help us pass the time. It’s going to be a long night.” The bag held several loaves of bread.

  “How did you get here?” Michael finally said.

  “Walked. Same as you,” Joe replied. “You gonna eat? You look half starved.”

  The abnormally large sun finally disappeared behind the distant hills and a red moon rose in its wake.

  “Something’s wrong with the moon,” Michael said.

  “Well, somethin’s up,” Joe said. “Better light a watch fire tonight.”

  “I can’t do that,” Michael said. “It’d be as good as shouting ‘here we are’ to the enemy ships.”


  “That’s the least of the world’s worries tonight,” Joe said, and set about gathering sticks and dead branches from the pinewood behind the lookout post. He kindled a small fire that lit up the cliff top. Michael looked anxiously to the camp below, but there was no one stirring.

  Other lights appeared along the coast.

  “Those lights can’t be from our camp,” Michael said. “They’re too far away. Is it the enemy?”

  “Must be other watch fires. Evidently we’re not alone,” Joe said. He fed the fire then broke another loaf of bread between them.

  “It’s a clear night,” Michael observed.

  “Yes,” Joe said. “I expect we’ll see something.”

  They sat side by side with their backs to the fire, looking out over the ocean.

  “Look!” Michael cried. “Look at all the falling stars! I’ve never seen so many. And look over there! A black cloud grows. Do you think we’ll have rain?”

  Joe smiled grimly, but said nothing.

  The night deepened as the stars fell, hour by hour. Michael could not take his eyes off the sky. Joe fed the watch fire.

  “This is a long night,” Joe said at last.

  Michael looked down at the dark camp; it had been strangely still for hours. Then he heard something. “Joe! What’s that noise?” he cried and jumped to his feet. “I hear tramping feet! The enemy have landed and taken us by surprise!”

  “No,” said Joe. “It’s the sound of beating wings.”

  Suddenly, a great voice called from outside the camp, “Watchman, what is left of the night?”

  Michael spun around, looking wildly for the speaker, but before he could shout, “Who’s there! Show yourself!” Joe stood and said, in a loud voice: “Morning is coming, but also the night.”

  There was silence; even the sea grew still. A strong wind lifted their hair. It was a warm wind.

  “Is it a storm’s coming, Joe?” Michael said. His voice fell flat on the heavy air.

  “Not a storm, I don’t think.”

  The red moon had sunk beyond the western rim and without the white stars, the night was dark; but it was a soft darkness, without threat. Then a sudden breeze brought a fragrance that smote his heart. He was filled with a longing for something, he didn’t know what. Beside him, Joe closed his eyes and smiled.

  In the camp below, a wailing arose. Half-dressed soldiers sprang from their tents with terrified cries. Someone shouted, “Watchman! What is left of the night?” and Joe, in a loud voice, replied, “Morning is coming, but also the night.”

  As soon as he said this, men began to cry out: “Death has come upon us! The smell of death and the voice of doom!” Some threw themselves into the water; others slashed themselves with knives; still others, who saw the light of the watch fire, flung themselves down at the foot of the cliff and begged for mercy.

  Michael called over the din, “Joe, what is happening? Has madness come upon us all?”

  “Not all of us,” Joe said. He pointed to something far across the sea: a pinprick of light.

  As if at a sudden command, the wailing and screaming in the camp stopped. Into the silence Joe said, “Look.”

  The pinprick of light grew: first, like the shuttered light of a thief entering a dark house at night: then, like a flaming comet from a far flung galaxy.

  “The long night’s over,” Joe said.

  Michael stared; then, suddenly understanding what he saw, he whooped for joy.

  THE PAINTER’S EXPOSITION

  At the top of the hill, half a mile from the Market Square, behind the grey stone walls of the University, lived an old artist. He had long held apartments in the college though he had long ceased taking students. He was a famous artist and had been a great one, but did not paint now. The college kept him because of his past fame and because the Provost had forgotten he was there. He was an antique in a crowded antique shop. If truth be told, there weren’t many artists or scholars left in the world. He happened to be both. Anyway, it would have been difficult to dislodge him from his rooms. He never came out and few dared to approach.

  The only person who saw him daily was an old servant, a woman who’d worked in the college since she was a girl, as did her mother and grandmother before her. She was sour, with a sharp tongue and a withered face, and though she was loyal, she’d never said a kind word that anyone could remember. The other scholars and servants lived in fear of her.

  Early one morning, slamming into the old artist’s rooms with her buckets and brooms, she found him muttering to himself. He spent his days in his studio, sitting in a stuffed chair with the curtains drawn. He’d sat in silence for twenty years, brooding. This day however, he was muttering. She squinted into the dim room and listened.

  "Beneath, beside, before . . . no, no . . . before, beside, beneath. No, no. Damn. How does that go?”

  “Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore,” the old woman called out.

  The old artist looked up with a fierceness that would have withered anyone else and hissed, “What’s that, hag?”

  “Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. Get it right, old man.”

  “How dare you!” He rose from his seat and took a step toward her. “How dare you speak to me like that! Stupid hag!” He was a big man, tall and large boned, with a wild mane of white hair.

  She let fall her brooms and bucket and took five steps into the room. “Because you got it wrong as shouldn’t be got wrong. Call yourself a scholar. Pah! You’ve no more learning than a flighty hen.”

  “How dare you!” His large frame shook with fury.

  “Listen, you! If you want to know: Beneath. Above. Behind. Before. Within. Beside. To win. Restore. Beneath. Above. Behind. Before . . . .” Slowly, relentlessly, she chanted, over and over again, her voice gaining power and strength.

  The old man grew still; the fierceness left his face. He stared at the woman with wide eyes: she seemed to grow taller, straighter, and as she chanted the years fell from her face: her eyes blazed. Again and again she spoke the words until they broke upon his mind like a wave and he began to say them with her. He closed his eyes.

  “Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore!”

  Their voices stopped. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark and she had shrunk to her old withered self. She picked up her bucket and brooms and shuffled out. He heard her rattling around in the rooms beyond.

  There was a knock at the door. One of the scholars bravely stuck his head in and said, “Thaddaeus? Master Thaddaeus? Is everything alright?” Then catching sight of the old artist beyond the studio door, he said, “I heard loud voices. Is all well?”

  “Yes, yes.” Thaddaeus huffed. “I just had words with the cleaning woman.”

  “The cleaning woman? Not Grissle? She’ll take your head off!”

  “Not mine,” he growled.

  “Well if you’re alright, I’ll leave you.” The scholar quickly ducked back out the door.

  “Beneath, above, behind, before,” Thaddaeus muttered, “within, beside, to win, restore. At last I know the whole. At last.” He felt a warmth stir within his frigid depths and smiled for perhaps the first time in many years. “But what does it mean?” he said. The smile fell, and he said loudly into the dimness, “What does it mean?”

  “I wish I knew,” a hoarse voice said. Grissle stood in the room, a dust rag in her hand. “Grandmother never said.”

  Thaddaeus opened the curtains. The studio filled with grey light. He looked around, blinking, and saw Grissle watching him.

  “Why are you standing there, woman? Dust!”

  Dust indeed. It lay thickly over everything.

  Thaddaeus walked out of his studio and, for the first time in twenty years, went down to the dining hall for breakfast. The scholars had not received such a surprise since the boiler burst in the main lodge.

  After breakfast, Thaddaeus returned to his rooms, and found the studio scrubbed, purged
of neglect, the layers of dust removed. He sat down in his chair, exhausted by the morning’s efforts. The scholars—those who remembered him—had welcomed him to their table. The students had not known him and he’d heard the whispered conversations and explanations wafting up and down the great hall. He’d sat without speaking during the entire meal and, after a few polite inquiries, the other scholars left him alone. Except for one. As the dishes were cleared away, the oldest scholar, a white-haired man, leaned toward him and said, “You walk in darkness.”

  Thaddaeus nodded slightly.

  “You will hear a voice behind you saying, ‘this is the way; walk here’.”

  Then the scholar turned and left the hall. Thaddaeus squinted after him, but couldn’t remember his name. His words meant nothing.

  Now, he gazed around the studio. Grissle had been thorough in a relatively short time. Every surface gleamed. A fire burned in the grate. There was a pot of hot coffee on the table at his elbow. But what else was different? He’d been sitting here in shadows long enough; he knew every dim shape, every silhouette in the room. She had not moved anything away.

  Oh. She had.

  She had removed the tarp from the easel in the middle of the room.

  A canvas filled with dark colors lay exposed to the light. On a nearby table, the wooden board he’d used as a palette had been scraped and sanded. The brushes he’d thrown down in despair twenty years before had been cleaned and sat upright in a tall jar.

  Had it been twenty years? Or yesterday? He closed his eyes against the sight, but it was too late. The dark curtain he’d drawn across his mind so long ago had shifted; a line of bright light shone under the edge, brighter than the grey daylight of the old city. Words dropped into his head: beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. The dark curtain shifted again and the line of light grew just a little wider. He opened his eyes and the canvas was before him: he looked at a dark city that emerged out of an even darker background. He poured himself a cup of coffee and waited.

  The noon bell rang, jarring Thaddaeus out of dark thoughts and heralding the appearance of Grissle. She bore a tray food, but instead of leaving it in the entrance, she shuffled into the room and set it at the old man’s elbow. Apparently she was not going to leave him alone.

  “What’s this? You know I never eat at midday,” Thaddaeus said. Then something on the tray caught his attention. “What’s that?”

  “Bread.” Grissle stood looking at him, the sagging wrinkles of her face shrouding her expression. Then she said, “I brought this for you.” and pulled a paper out of her apron pocket. “This’ll teach you things,” she said.

  Thaddaeus unfolded the paper and stared. It was a drawing of the Market Square: buildings loomed like grey ragged cliffs over a mass of people, selling, haggling, and thieving. Head and shoulders above the crowd, a man’s bright face appeared: a man with wings. The artist was clearly gifted. The sketch was clear, yet intricate, the composition perfect. The man with wings, though fashioned in pencil, looked as though he might speak; the crowd in the market roiled and swelled. Thaddaeus’s mind was strangely stirred.

  “Who drew this?” he demanded.

  “Ah. Thought it might interest you,” Grissle said smugly.

  “Just tell me who made it.”

  The old woman grunted. “I can’t tell you for certain, but I expect it was the young girl who painted the Mayor’s portrait.”

  “A girl painted the Mayor’s portrait? What are you talking about, woman?”

  “Young slip of a thing too,” Grissle said, and related, in her own way, what she knew.

  She’d been to market one afternoon—just two days ago, in fact—when there was a great commotion in the centre of the square. She’d made her way to the front of the crowd, expecting to see a traveling clown, or maybe a fight. Instead, she’d seen the city councillors clearing an area in front of City Hall and setting out paints and a large canvas. Then the Mayor posed on a high stool and a young girl stepped up to the canvas and began to paint.

  “I tell you,” Grissle said, “it seemed like those brushes were part of her hand. On and on she painted, till nearly dusk. Then the queerest thing of all happened.”

  When the girl stepped back from her work, Grissle could see she was nervous, with good reason. The Mayor’s likeness was true, but she’d spared no hideous detail: she’d painted exactly what she’d seen, even capturing the sickened and decayed City Hall. Her painting was more than true: it was a revelation. And yet, very few had seen it that way, not even the Mayor. He had been filled with praise for his own portrait, and the councillors had congratulated him, saying it would seal his re-election.

  “Most in the crowd saw what the Mayor saw,” Grissle said. “Only a few saw the truth, and the truth was a horror.”

  “The girl,” Thaddaeus asked, “what happened to the girl.”

  “Don’t know,” Grissle replied. “I think she was from out in the country and came with one of the marketers. She’s not been seen again.”

  Thaddaeus got up and began to pace back and forth from his chair to the window. Grissle watched him and waited.

  “And this drawing here?” he asked.

  “Got it from a friend of a friend of a friend who picked it up off the ground during the painting. Said it fell out of the Mayor’s pocket.”

  “But this friend didn’t return it to the Mayor?”

  “Said it belonged to the girl. Said she saw the Mayor take it from her, but that’s all hearsay.”

  “But this drawing—is it the same hand that painted the portrait? There are ways to tell.”

  “I’m no judge.” Grissle’s face and voice were expressionless.

  “Where is the painting now?”

  “City Hall. Hung up for all to see.”

  Thaddaeus hesitated a moment, then said, “Grissle, might I borrow this drawing for an hour or two?”

  “Said I brought it for you, didn’t I? Keep it.”

  “Thank you, Grissle,” Thaddaeus said. He was already gathering his coat and hat. If he had looked back, he might have been surprised at Grissle’s expression. The three words he’d just spoken she had not heard him say for twenty years.

  Thaddaeus went down the stairs and across the courtyard for the second time that morning. If anyone showed surprise at his appearance, he didn’t stop to notice. Pale, white-haired, and wide-eyed after twenty years in near darkness, he looked something like those fish that live in the deepest part of the sea. But in his excitement, he felt the years fall away, like bonds loosed from all his limbs. He found himself walking in time to words in his head: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. Past the porter, past the college gates, and down the hill he strode, into the city; with each step the dark curtain in his mind shifted just a little and the light grew. The drawing was important. The mysterious girl painter was important. He didn’t know why, but he knew. The drawing of the man with wings shone in his mind’s eye.

  The city was not as he remembered. It was darker, sinister; the buildings loomed overhead, dirty and decayed. Many shops and houses were boarded up; figures huddled in corners and empty doorways; soldiers roamed the streets. Thaddaeus walked quickly, glad of the daylight: he sensed that these streets would be dangerous by night. He knew from his own brief study of history that this had been a beautiful city once; there had been a queen in those days who ruled with knowledge and justice. But that was long ago, before his great-grandmother’s time, in the days when people still knew the old stories. Now there was no history, only commerce, even at the University. As he crossed the Market Square and saw the pinched looking townsfolk alongside the corpulent rich, he reflected that the reigning King must have changed a great deal and might not be very popular anymore. He had served the King once: he had been employed as the royal painter. But he had failed, he had quit.

  The portrait of the Mayor was the first thing Thaddaeus saw when he stepped into City Hall. It hung in the lobby, larger than
life and illuminated by a skylight overhead and a row of footlights beneath. At first glance he saw a jolly man with a red beard, dressed in a colourful coat, a magnificent City Hall in the background. Then the image altered like a melting waxwork. An arrogant, greedy face leered down at him, its teeth bared like a dog’s. The corpulent figure was squeezed into a gorgeous ill-fitting coat that must have once belonged to another, and the building was a crumbling edifice whose blackened walls were slimed with nameless filth. Thaddaeus shuddered. Who had dared to paint such a portrait? Someone with searing vision: a young girl, according to Grissle. Was it true?

  Thaddaeus found a bench along the wall and sat down. He didn’t think he would be recognized; a different man had been mayor twenty years ago when he’d been painting for the King. It was obvious by the look of the place that a completely new government was in charge of the city now. But he still pulled his hat lower over his face and turned up his coat collar. Something about this place felt wrong and it wasn’t just the ugly portrait. He watched the people coming and going, and when he was sure no one was watching he pulled out the drawing.

  Yes. They were done by the same hand, he was sure; and as hideous as the Mayor’s face was, the winged man’s face was that much more beautiful.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Startled, Thaddaeus looked up into the face of a sullen city councillor.

  “Do you have business here, sir?” The councillor looked at him with evident distaste, somehow turning the word ‘sir’ into an insult.

  “I was admiring the new portrait,” Thaddaeus said.

  “Yes, well there’s no need to loiter.”

  “I’m a retired art professor from the University,” Thaddaeus countered. His instincts were telling him to go, but the man had nicked his pride. “Surely I might be allowed more than a passing look at such a magnificent work.”

  “What did you say your name is?”

  “I didn’t.”

  This seemed to confuse the man. “But you did say you’re from the University.”

  “Yes.”

  The councillor turned to the portrait. “Is it really a magnificent work? I can’t say I see anything so very grand about it.”

  “Do you know . . . who painted it?”

  “Oh yes. Slip of a girl. Fresh from the country and all agog over our fair city. And the Mayor of course. She seemed deeply impressed by his personality.” The councillor’s tone conveyed that he himself would never be so callow.

  “You’re sure the painter was a young girl?”

  “As I say, I saw her myself.”

  “Only, there isn’t any signature.”

  “What is that to me? The Mayor is happy with the portrait and I suppose that’s all that matters.” The councillor paused. “You’re from the University?”

  “Yes,” Thaddaeus replied absently. A small detail in the painting had just caught his eye.

  “I’ll tell the Mayor you stopped by. He’ll want to know,” the councillor said, and swept off down the hall.

  Left to himself again, Thaddaeus stepped close to the painting. Averting his eyes from the twisted face of the mayor, he bent close to examine a small figure in the lower right hand corner. From a short distance, the figure looked like a small tree on a far horizon beyond the City Hall; but up close, it became a bright-faced man with wings, the same man in the pencil drawing. Once he had seen him, he could no longer see the tree.

  “Ah. You’ve seen him too,” said an unpleasant voice at his elbow.

  Thaddaeus turned to see a young woman in a dull, ill-fitting uniform standing by his side.

  “Don’t know why she put him in. She’s got a savage mind, that one. I tell you.”

  “Who?”

  “That girl what made this here picture. Savage mind. Look there. A bee-oo-tiful picture of his lordship with his kind, jolly face and then she puts him in.”

  “Who?”

  “That little dirty man there. That beggar. What’s a worthless bit like him doing in this bee-oo-tiful picture? Oughta be painted over, that’s what I think.”

  “Nonsense,” said a woman bearing a brief case who suddenly appeared at his left. People in this place seemed to creep up beside him. “That beggar is a reference to the Mayor’s bleak and unhappy past. He’s someone who’s pulled himself up by his own boot straps. An example of industry and fortitude.” She glared at the younger woman with the mop and bucket. “He is an example to us all. That may look like a dirty beggar to you, but it’s a stroke of sheer brilliance.” And she marched off down a hallway.

  “Humph,” said mop and bucket to the receding briefcase. “Easy for you to say.”

  “Did you see the painter?” Thaddaeus asked.

  “Oh sure. I was standing there when she did it. Seen her drawin’ too. In a little book with a pencil. I was buying cabbages from her old man. Savage mind she’s got.”

  Thaddaeus took the paper from his pocket.

  “Hey! How did you get your mitts on that?”

  “Someone gave it to me.”

  “Gave it to you! Well it’s mine, see? I found it.”

  “Found it?”

  “It was on the ground after the paintin’ was through and everyone had cleared out. No one wanted it, so I took it. I only lent it to Hildy to show her mum.” She reached for the drawing, but Thaddaeus pulled it back.

  “Hey now!” she began in a louder voice, but Thaddaeus quickly said, “Will you sell it?”

  She lowered her arm. “Maybe. But I won’t be cheated out of it.”

  Thaddaeus suspected that money had already changed hands over the drawing, but he took out his wallet, trying to remember if there was something in it. There was.

  “Ah!” mop and bucket gasped as she took the wad of money, then looked up sharply. “Is that all? It’s by a famous painter, you know.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No.”

  “Then she’s not famous.” Thaddaeus pocketed his wallet and the drawing, and walked out the door, leaving the young woman to count her good fortune and gloat over ‘that sucker of an old man’.”

  Out in the street, Thaddaeus felt suddenly weary. The city had changed too much. He saw no one he knew. Turning his steps to the University, he plodded along, winding his way through the crowded Market Square. People jostled and glared at the old man who moved too slowly, like a great bear; but he didn’t notice them. His thoughts were taken up with the portrait and the drawing by the mysterious girl painter. How was it that he had seen one thing and those two women had seen another? It wasn’t just a difference in interpretation; it was a radical difference in vision.

  Halfway up the hill, he spotted The Tower Inn and went in to rest; it had been his favourite place in the old days and was still clean and well-kept. Indeed, it was the only building on this street that did not look shabby. He sat down at a table, weary to the bone. Almost he wished he had stayed at home; the day’s adventure, after twenty years of silence, was beginning to pall. He felt tarnished somehow, and wondered if it was the sight of the painting. Mop and bucket thought the painter had a savage mind. Perhaps she was right. After all, he had not met the Mayor and didn’t know anything about him. The woman with the briefcase thought the Mayor a great man; she admired the painting. Had the painting been created by a diseased mind or . . . and here Thaddaeus stopped and confronted the thing that gnawed at him: perhaps his own vision had so darkened that everything he saw now looked evil. He thought back to the day twenty years ago when he had given up painting and shut himself away.

  The King had commissioned a painting of the city. Thaddaeus had imagined a skyline filled with the light of dawn. Instead, he had painted a dark city enveloped by an even greater darkness. He’d started over, thinking to load his palette with the lightest colours, but the darkness emerged again. Then one day, in desperation, he had climbed out on the highest college roof and looked down at the city. It was daybreak and the sky was clear; the towers of the palace shone and Thaddaeus viewed
the magnificent architecture against the morning sunlight. He’d let the vision flood his mind and, filled with excitement, returned to his studio for the third attempt.

  Once again, he’d inexplicably laid down layer after layer of darkness. When he realized what he was doing, he’d flung down his brushes in anguish, thrown a tarp over the unfinished canvas, and sent a message to the King: he was finished painting and could not fulfill the commission. Then he’d closed the curtains and sat down to brood for the next twenty years. The King had sent many messengers, but he would not see them. Eventually, the messengers stopped coming.

  Obviously much had changed during his two decade absence from the world. His afternoon walk had showed him that: the dirty streets and the polluted air could not all be his imagination, he reasoned. And yet there was the Mayor’s portrait that had altered after his first glance.

  He ordered coffee, strong and black, then absently opened the newspaper that lay on the table beside him. The headline read: “DYING KING’S LAST WORDS. FOLLOW THE GENERAL.” Thaddaeus stared at the headline. His coffee came and, though it was scalding, he drank it down quickly and called for more.

  The proprietor came to the table. “Are you alright, mate? You look a bit peaky.”

  “Yes,” Thaddaeus said, thickly. He pointed at the headline. “When did the King die?”

  “Well now, let’s see,” he refilled Thaddaeus’s cup. “About ten year ago. Maybe eleven.”

  “Ten years!” Thaddaeus exclaimed, and then lowered his voice. “Ten years?”

  “Sure. Where you been hidin’ that you don’t know that?” the proprietor said, looking Thaddaeus over carefully. “It’s today’s paper, but the General likes to remind us every so often. When there’s an incident or the populace seems restless, he reminds us that the King chose him as our leader.”

  “But what about the young prince and princess?”

  The man looked hard at Thaddaeus. “They died of fever the same week the king died.”

  “Dead! I painted their portraits when they were babes!”

  The proprietor looked around, then leaned in close. “I wouldn’t spread that recollection around, mate. Nobody talks of the prince and princess, leastways nobody who wants to live long.” He straightened and glanced around the room again. It was nearly empty except for an old woman who sat in a far corner nodding over a bowl of soup. He leaned in close again and whispered, “it was the General who was with the King when he died: him and the Mayor. It’s best to take their word for past events in the palace. If they say the royal family all died of fever, then they did.”

  Thaddaeus nodded and the proprietor went off to help a group of men who came in the door calling for drinks.

  Numbly, he turned the page of the paper and saw, on a double page spread, the face of the Mayor; the man looked jolly and kind enough. But the portrait . . . Shuddering, he turned the page again and saw the face of the General, sleek, aquiline, and formidable. Thaddaeus had a dim memory of this man: something connected with a suspicious incident at a far flung military outpost years ago.

  So. The King is dead and this General is in charge. The world has changed. I have slept too long and not long enough, the old artist thought.

  He staggered to his feet and went out into the dying afternoon. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of poverty and decay. And where were the children? The late afternoon should be ringing with their shouts and games. It was as if his own painting of the city, the one he’d abandoned, had come true. He hurried up the hill, wanting only his chair in his old familiar rooms, but as he trudged along, words fell into his mind: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. He kept walking as the words began to beat about his head and images of the young girl’s painting and his own revolved before his mind’s eye. What did it all mean?

  He reached his rooms and there was supper and more coffee on a tray. A lamp was lit and a small fire blazed on the hearth. He threw off his coat and fell into his chair. He closed his eyes and there in his mind—where it had been all afternoon though he’d been distracted—there was the line of bright light shining from under the dark curtain. Yes, the curtain had risen more than halfway now. This light in his mind was warm and yellow, like a summer afternoon. It was not the white light of intellect: it didn’t blind; it beckoned. It beckoned with strange words as some unseen hand gently raised the curtain until the shadows in his mind disappeared altogether: Beneath, above, behind, before . . . he didn’t know what it meant, but suddenly he understood.

  He opened his eyes and there was his unfinished painting: the dark city under a feathery wing-like cloud. He rose, found his paints and filled his palette. He lit all the lamps, then took up his brushes. He knew how to finish it. A part of him had known twenty years ago, but his reason had rebelled. Now he obeyed his unspoken self. He painted far into the night.

  The next morning, Grissle found him slumped in his chair, sound asleep in the grey light. She shut off the lamps. Shaking her head and tsking quietly, she cleaned his brushes then stopped in front of the finished painting and gazed at it for several moments. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.” Then she built up the fire, set hot coffee and bread on the table, and went out.