by Lee Monroe
Soren stopped again, his whole face a grisly grey colour. He swallowed hard, looking straight ahead of him before he went on.
‘And stepping over his father’s body, he did the same to his mother. He didn’t know where he had the strength to do this, he just seemed to grow bigger and stronger … and more like an animal. He was an animal. He carried on until all four were dead, lying in their own blood on the floor of the family kitchen.’
I looked around me, to see everyone wide-eyed and shocked. When I came to look at Soren, I saw that his black eyes were shimmering. For the first time I recognised serious emotion in him. And I knew he wanted to finish this story and that he was telling it for my benefit alone.
Soren sighed. ‘And then, as this boy stood looking at what he had done, he heard the sound of footsteps, light and innocent, coming up to the door of the house, and he felt the pulse of his heart as though it would burst through his chest – and finally emotion. Not for his dead family, but for the owner of those footsteps. He dropped the axe and he moved quickly to greet her, hoping to get to her before she came in to the kitchen … but he was not quick enough and the little girl ran straight into the site of his murder, and she took in her bludgeoned parents and her lifeless siblings, and he saw a look cross her face that would haunt him ever after that. It was first a look of horror and disbelief … shock. Then when she turned to him it was a look of pain he hoped never to see again. And then she started to scream. She did not stop. And the boy, knowing that he would be discovered, and with some semblance of self-preservation left, ran from her and into the woods. He ran for days and nights and though all he saw was his sister’s face, so twisted in pain, he did not turn back.’
Soren looked up then and his eyes met with mine. So it was true, he had come back for Lila. Not because he wanted to marry her, but because he wanted to protect her … He was making up for what he did. I attempted a half-smile, still not quite sure what I felt about this. He was a good storyteller for sure, he made it sound lyrical, moving even … but he still did it. He still—
‘Is that story actually, like … true?’ asked a hippyish girl called something like Skylar, sitting at the front.
Soren gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, it’s pretty horrific …’ She turned back to see what the rest of us thought. ‘I mean … I’m not sure I want to draw a bunch of dead bodies.’
He smiled tightly. ‘Well … don’t then. Draw what appeals to you about it …’
I put my hand up. ‘That isn’t the end of the story, though, is it? What happened to the boy? And his sister?’
Soren’s eyes seemed to bore into me. Whether he was annoyed or not, I couldn’t tell. He looked perfectly composed as he answered.
‘You want to hear what happened?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if …’
‘You don’t know the end of the story?’ I held his gaze.
‘Of course I know …’ he said softly. ‘The boy never went back.’
‘What happened to the little kid?’ asked a boy two desks away from me.
‘She was found … and raised by another family, though she was so traumatised that she blocked it all out.’
‘What is this?’ the boy said. ‘Is this someone you know?’
The whole class looked questioningly at Soren.
‘In a way,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Someone I used to know. He started a new life for himself. And he tried to forget. He grew up, and he learned to survive without a family … But it changed him for ever.’
‘What about his real father – didn’t he try and find him?’ asked Skylar. ‘I mean he went to all the trouble of telling him and then he just abandoned him? It’s so sad.’
‘He saw his father again. Once. In fact his true father set the law on him.’
There was a collective gasp.
‘And he was caught … and imprisoned, and his real father pleaded leniency … if the boy promised to leave the country and never return.’ Soren’s shoulders seemed to slump a little. ‘That’s it. That’s the story. Make of it what you will.’
There was silence as the class got creative with whatever had captured their imaginations during Soren’s story. I veered away from the bloodshed, like pretty much everyone except a couple of metal-heads at the back of the class. I concentrated on what had come into my head. I drew the wood that Soren had run into. A mass of fierce green trees, dark marshy soil, stretching on for ever and, above the wood, a solid round moon, hanging in a starless sky.
It kind of symbolised my life. Just a thick, impenetrable wood that I couldn’t get through, no matter how many times I tried.
It was all so sad. And it seemed kind of hopeless. But Soren’s story got to me, not just because of the terrible thing he had done, but of what came after. Who was his real father? And why didn’t he help his son like any parent would?
I lifted my head and slowly focussed on Soren, standing at the front of the class, head bent, carefully packing books away in his leather bag. No sardonic jokes, no dry remarks, just contemplative silence. I knew he wouldn’t tell me what really happened.
And did I want to know?
Students filed out, handing their work over to him, and he stacked it neatly on his desk.
‘Thank you,’ he told one of the metal-heads, a guy called Rory, who was the last to give him his drawing. Glancing down, I saw Soren grimace, his face tightening a little before giving Rory a wry smile and putting his work on top of the others.
I took my time putting my stuff away, waiting until the last student had filed out before I spoke.
‘It sounded really … awful,’ I said quietly. ‘But not all the pieces are in place. And I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘I wish I could put all the pieces together for you … But I don’t think they would make much sense even then.’ He smiled at me.
‘What are you going to do? Are you going to resign?’
‘What?’
‘From here? You can’t stay on … I mean, what would be the point now?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ He rubbed at his temples. ‘But perhaps you’re right. There is no point.’ He directed a look of real sadness at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I just … can’t.’
‘I know.’ He picked his bag off the table with one hand and stretched the other out to me. Hesitating for a second I took it, feeling it warm and responsive in my hand. I realised I was going to miss him.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, as though reading my mind. Maybe he had? I flushed a little.
‘Me too.’ And my fingers squeezed his.
He shook his head, a familiar lazy smile crossing his face. ‘I want you to remember how important you are. Maybe years from now you will realise …’ He shut his eyes briefly. ‘I was going to say regret … But I can see that I would have been dragging you into a whole mess and danger—’
‘Danger?’ I said slowly. ‘What danger?’
He was silent.
‘Soren,’ I persisted, ‘what do you mean, “danger”?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about now,’ he said then, too casually.
‘Are you in danger? Is Luca in danger? What?’
‘What do you care? It is no longer any of your concern.’ He turned to pick his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘You are safe now.’
Safe. Why did that word sound so deadly all of a sudden. I had longed for safety. Back in the bad old days.
‘You’re good,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘So manipulative!’
His eyes widened. ‘Me?’ he said innocently. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
‘Not going to work. I have my life to get on with …’
‘My future to think about …’ he mimicked, his eyes teasing me.
‘Was any of that story even true?’ I asked, annoyance rising in me.
‘You are going to have to start trusting me, Jane,’ he said seriously.
‘Not any more I
don’t,’ I said, moving towards the door. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, just loud enough for me to hear as the door swung shut behind me.
Disgruntled, I went to find my bike. It was growing dark and I hurried through the main quadrant to the bike racks at the back of college. Glancing up at the sky I saw the moon, like a delicate rice cracker, waiting to take its night-time place, full in the sky. And I felt a tremor pass through me. A connection. I tried to shake it off. The moon was just the moon. There was no longer anything significant about it.
Yet as I unlocked my bike in the dimming light, I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere, on Nissilum, Luca was in tune with it too. Dangerous, in physical pain, struggling against his destiny.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘You’re very late,’ the old man said, getting to his feet, screwing the top back on his bottle and stuffing a bag containing his supper into his pocket. Clumsily he picked up his hat, putting it on as a mark of respect for his visitor.
‘I know.’ Raphael waved a hand at the old man. ‘Please, carry on with your meal … I can return tomorrow, I have simply come to … be with him.’
The old man grunted, the bunch of keys tied to his wrist jangled loudly. ‘Visitors usually come in the day, sir. She comes in the day … Better in the day.’
‘My great-mother?’ Raphael nodded, anxious to put the old man at ease. ‘Yes, I know. I simply wanted to …’ He trailed off, unable to find the words to explain.
The old man looked confused, though he seemed to understand the boy’s agitation, his need.
‘One minute, I will fetch a torch.’ Turning his back on Raphael, he shuffled over to the building behind him. Standing at the locked gates, Raphael shifted from foot to foot, half regretting coming out to the Celestial memorial grounds so late at night, putting the old man to such trouble. The old guy had been here as long as he could remember. Day in, day out, guarding over what few resting places there were here. Death was not part of life on Nissilum. Only a few exceptions had their tombs here. Old Quin had little to do each day and had slowly turned more eccentric and unsocialised in his old age. The son of a peasant angel, he had never married or had any children, his only companions were the ghosts of the unfortunate few left rotting in this place.
Raphael was about to call out, tell old Quin he had changed his mind, that he shouldn’t bother himself on such a cold night, but then the old man reappeared, grinning, half his teeth missing, a few tufts of blond hair fuzzy on his head.
‘Good one here … Bright enough.’ Quin waved the torch about, smiling. He shook the keys off his wrist, catching them in his palm, then deftly found the one to unlock the main gate.
‘Thank you,’ Raphael said, ‘I won’t be long.’
The old man shrugged good-naturedly, turning the key and unlocking the heavy gate. It creaked back, and Raphael was free to walk inside the grounds.
The old man beckoned to Raphael to follow him, through a narrow alleyway, either side of which stood the old tomb shelters. The boy suppressed a shudder as they walked, turning at the end, where an ornate stone arch heralded the resting place of the Celestial family.
Quin unlocked the heavy stone door in the middle of the arch, coughing and muttering under his breath as he did so. Raphael was increasingly regretting coming here. He had never been before;, had refused to admit that his father no longer existed. Standing out in the damp cold, about to enter a less inviting place, he rubbed his hands together.
As Quin held the door to the tombs open, he turned, grinning, as though he was almost excited at the prospect of a visitor at last. He handed Raphael the torch, nodding in a half-witted kind of way.
‘Perhaps you could accompany me …’ Raphael gestured inside at the pitch black. He hoped the old man would understand, that he wouldn’t have to explain.
To his relief, Quin nodded kindly. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said gruffly, gently pushing Raphael into the building.
‘There.’ The old man pointed directly in front of them.
Gabriel’s tomb was an open stone casket of sorts. As the two of them approached it, Raphael had the urge to bolt, to run for his life. But he stood his ground.
‘Do you come in here much … ?’ he asked Quin. The hand that was holding the torch trembled a little, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
Quin shook his head furiously. ‘Forbidden,’ he said. ‘Only your eyes, your mother’s, your great-mother’s eyes, shall see.’
‘Oh.’ Raphael was now even less inclined to see his father – or the bones that were all that was left of him.
Quin watched him, waiting.
Raphael stepped forward and, even in the cold, he felt a light sweat on his forehead. Swallowing, he forced himself to look down at Gabriel.
Who wasn’t there.
Raphael frowned, both relieved and disappointed at the same time. He flashed a look back at the keeper.
‘There’s nothing there,’ he said quietly. ‘My father is gone.’
Quin shook his head slowly. ‘Mistake,’ he said, ‘you have made a mistake.’
‘Look.’ Raphael drew Quin closer to the casket. ‘Nothing there.’
Quin peered inside, sticking his lip out, perturbed, then scratching his head.
‘You’ve never seen my father in here?’ Raphael stared hard at him. ‘Perhaps he never was?’
Quin looked dumbfounded. ‘Yes, yes. He was here.’ He looked helplessly at the boy. ‘Your great-mother … she saw to it all.’
An echoing silence passed between them. Raphael struggled with an inexplicable truth.
His great-mother had lied.
An owl hooted. Night-time rodents scuttled around at his feet, but Raphael barely noticed. He felt a mixture of anger, fear and extreme curiosity. As he drew nearer to the back of the palace, he glanced up at the vast bay window where the lights in Celeste’s sitting room burned cosily. Raphael let himself through the gate to the garden that lay in front of the servants’ entrance. It was quicker to come this way, where he could slip, no questions asked, down the long passage that led to the great hall.
‘Sir.’ One of the pretty maids bobbed, as he passed her. He smiled briefly, hardly seeing her, and continued on his way. He had a reputation for erratic behaviour, he was aware of that. He was certain that the girl would scurry into the kitchen and report one more incidence of it. Raphael didn’t care. He had long since stopped caring what others thought of him. All except for his great-mother, that is. It had always mattered to him what she thought, with her integrity and her kindness. Her lack of guile.
But he must have been wrong about that. Walking through the hall he stopped at the foot of the great staircase. Celeste too had it in her to deceive. Like his father.
Was his whole family steeped in hypocrisy? The door to her sitting room was ajar. As he pushed it further open he saw her seated on her favourite chair, head bent over her needlework. A cello concerto played at just the right volume on the ancient record player – she refused to upgrade to anything else.
She heard him, lifted her head, and a beatific smile lit up her face.
‘Raffy.’ She put down on her sewing. ‘What is the matter, boy?’
‘I went to see my father,’ he said without preamble. ‘I went to the Celestial tombs.’
Her face darkened, but she kept the smile on her face. ‘I see.’ She clasped her hands together – nervously, he saw.
‘I went to talk to him … to talk out everything on my mind.’ Raphael came to sit next to her. ‘And I suppose to get some kind of closure. Acceptance of his death—’
‘Raffy,’ she tried to interrupt, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.
‘Imagine my surprise when his tomb was empty! Old Quin was taken aback too … All very odd.’ He stopped talking and his head dropped. He waited for her to speak.
She shifted in her seat. ‘Raffy—’
‘Where is he’ – Raphael raised his head – ‘if he’s not in his to
mb?’
‘Darling … you know that death here is not as it is in the mortal world.’ Celeste rose, picking up her needlework and placing it in a white wicker basket at the side of the sofa. She seemed unable to look at him.
‘Yes.’ He stared at her back. ‘But we gather the bones when our people are gone … But my father’s are gone. I want to know where.’
Celeste sighed and her usual immaculate posture drooped. She turned and finally met Raphael’s eyes, moving cautiously towards him. Finally she sat herself next to him.
‘Raphael, I don’t know where your father is …’ She breathed out at last, as though letting go of some burden, all the time watching her great-son.
‘What?’ Raphael felt his heart skip a beat, or perhaps stop altogether, just for a second. ‘But, you said … I saw …’ He stopped; he remembered the last time he had seen Gabriel, half mad, gibbering, while Dorcas wrung her hands next to him. He had been so shrunken and pale, where he had been larger than life, full of vitality. He had just kept repeating the same word: ‘sorry’.
‘Your father was very weak,’ said Celeste. ‘And your mother – well, she couldn’t cope. She still can’t … But who knows—’
Raphael shook his head impatiently. ‘I don’t want to talk about my mother.’
‘I was his sole carer. I felt as though I was with him night and day, trying to comfort him, tell him that whatever he had done, it was not worth wasting away over. Your father’s valet, Milo, was devoted to him too as you know. Between us we tried to keep him from … disappearing. Then one night, Gabriel was in a particularly bad way. His skin was grey, and he shook all over. We knew that there was nothing physically wrong with him, we knew that it was his mind, destroying him. Milo went to the physician to fetch a sedative while I stayed with Gabriel, but he was gone for so long … and Cadmium – never the most patient of men – was eager for me to accompany him on a state visit on the other side of Nissilum. I felt torn, but the staff assured me they would watch over my son … And so I left.’