Ruin

by Harry Manners

  *

  Alexander waited in the gloom while the supplies were packed away. He paced back and forth until the job was done and the others stumbled away into the night.

  By then, Lucian was taking a last look around at the pavement for forgotten scraps. He then affixed the storeroom door with its enormous padlock and stowed the key in his pocket with great care. It wasn’t until he was on the verge of turning for home that Alexander stepped from the shadows.

  “Thought you'd gone home,” Lucian said, apparently unsurprised to see him materialise from the darkness.

  Alexander said nothing—Lucian had always had a sixth sense about being watched—and approached until they were no more than a few inches apart; close enough for Alex to smell the several days’ worth of perspiration that had accrued on Lucian's body. “Welcome, brother,” he said.

  They embraced, but for a moment only. Lucian stepped back and frowned at the proximity. “How are things?” he said slowly.

  “They’re fine,” Alex said.

  “Did something happen while we were away?”

  “No. It’s been quiet here.”

  Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I can’t give my brother a hug when he comes home?”

  “You haven’t given me so much as a handshake since I got old enough to piss without sitting down. And don’t call me ‘brother’.”

  Alex was quiet for a moment. Then he merely nodded, ignoring the unsettled lump in his throat, and held out his hand. “Here.”

  Lucian received the perfectly kept pigeon feather, a silver slick upon his palm in the artificial light.

  The two of them looked at it, frozen in place for a long time, uttering not a sound. So quiet had it become that the trickle of the Stour seemed deafening. Alex could almost see the cogs turning in Lucian’s mind as the atmosphere around him took the long road from bemused surprise to confusion, through disbelief and finally to a muted, distant fear.

  When Lucian spoke, his voice was cracked. “What's this?”

  Alex swallowed hard. “I found that on my doorstep this morning,” he said.

  Lucian’s stance remained unchanged by the news, and yet to Alex’s eyes his entire manner had shifted. His eyes were suddenly trailing the edge of their sockets, his lips parted and his breathing quickened. Alex knew to exactly what extent Lucian’s inner calm had been shattered, because the very same thing had happened to him that morning.

  “You’re sure that it isn’t a coincidence?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Lucian ran a hand through his hair and grumbled to himself. He turned in a wide circle and threw myriad glances out into the night. “This can’t happen,” he whispered. “It can’t.”

  Alex said nothing and watched him whirl on the spot, distantly pleased to see him react so well, and slightly ashamed that he himself hadn’t taken the news with quite as much grace.

  After only a minute, Lucian was standing still again and was looking down at the feather. “It’s not possible,” he said. “It’s ridiculous… It’s not poss—” He muttered to himself for a while longer. His whispering dissipated only after several emphatic grunts, and his voice began to come back to him. Soon after, his usual irritability returned.

  Still, Alexander said nothing, and watched while Lucian paced and ranted, waiting for the storm to quell itself.

  Eventually, Lucian stood still again, and they were staring into each other’s eyes.

  “What do we do?” Lucian said.

  Alex exhaled through his teeth and looked away, along the road, to where Norman had been not long before. “I don’t know,” he said.

  IV

   

  Donald Peyton kicked at the horse’s ribs, urging it on. As they accelerated, the icy rain bit at his skin without mercy, driving numb fingers closer to coming out in chilblains. Sheer panic kept him moving, but for the last mile he’d been on the brink of falling into a senseless stupor.

  When lightning flashed, the valley below was cast alight. Gnarled branches devoid of leaves loomed and clawed at the air above his head. The remains of a winding road cut across the land, stretching away into the unknown.

  Somewhere behind the roar of the storm, a distant rumble stirred on the brink of audibility. To Don’s ears, however, it was a deafening racket, dangerously close. Whenever it punctured the din of the tempest, he mercilessly beat at the horse’s sides. The road ahead straightened, allowing him to chance glancing over his shoulder.

  All he saw was the tarmac, shimmering behind a curtain of rain.

  He pushed on, navigating the winding road, allowing his instincts to guide him. The horse was reluctant and exhausted, but yielded under his beatings.

  After ten minutes he could see through the trees ahead, to where the Celtic Sea surged back and forth beneath wicked, black clouds. The beginnings of dawn were afoot, casting the water in an ugly grey hue. The waves slammed against the crumbled sea wall, spraying the remains of County Cork’s most south-western barony—the name of which had slipped from the world’s memory—with chunks of rusted detritus.

  Don raced parallel to the sea for what seemed like an age, but couldn’t have been more than a further five minutes. The sea wall was soon left behind and the land buckled into the shape of what had been the harbour. Innumerable yachts and motorboats had once been moored, but now in the churning water only the tattered remnants of as many masts bobbed in their place, bearing fabric torn and limp.

  Don peered into the maritime mausoleum and picked out his destination: a tiny rowboat bobbing along the jetty like a twig in a puddle—a violent, turbulent puddle. The rumble grew louder and niggled at the back of his head until he could no longer resist the unbearable urge to glance over his shoulder once more. Again, all he saw was rain-soaked tarmac.

  But in his mind’s eye he saw the assortment of orange lights that had hung between the trees like fireflies, before the storm had descended and limited his view. They had remained in pursuit for mile after mile, defying his efforts to escape them. He was sure that as soon as he stopped, they would regain the ground he’d won, but for now they were only ghosts of the mind and a rumble in the night.

  He left the trees behind and descended into the ruins of Schull, clad in shadow under the moonlight. The horse’s hooves clattered on uneven cobbled streets and Don was forced to grip the reins tighter to maintain control. He passed by abandoned houses and shops, sending fleeting glances into darkened alleyways.

  Then the cobbles gave way to the water’s edge, and he was riding out along the jetty, towards the rowboat. A single figure popped up from within and disrupted its black silhouette. The figure didn’t move an inch until he was directly beside it. He disengaged himself from the steaming mount and worked his arms until the faintest sliver of feeling returned to his frozen, claw-like hands. Grunting, he rubbed them against his chest until they prickled with the heat of fresh blood.

  The figure rose from the rowboat and stepped onto the jetty. In the midst of the harbour, the footsteps of the old man were audible in every crevice, cellar and attic, even over the crash of the storm. But, just as was so everywhere else, there was nobody left to hear them. He crept up to the shuddering steed and took the reins, pulling its head close and whispering calming words into its ear.

  Don fought the urge to let his knees buckle and gripped the stirrups for a time, watching the old man soothe the exhausted mount. Schull’s withered ruin sat quietly beneath the looming hulk of Mount Gabriel, but he kept it within his peripheral vision, wary of its many shadows.

  “You were gone a long time,” the old man said.

  Don tried to answer, but his lips had become an exotic form of rubber. He shuddered and stamped along the concrete until his feet were burning in his boots and he felt enough strength to answer. “I had trouble.”

  The old man didn't break the horse’s dull stare. “What kind of trouble?”

  “They came for our things. The house was raided by the tim
e I got back.”

  “What was left, we didn’t need.”

  “I know. I just told them what I wanted. But one of them already had the locket.”

  “And?”

  “He wouldn’t hear me.”

  “Did you tell them who you were?”

  “They weren’t interested. They knew we weren’t coming back. They must’ve been watching us pack up for days.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone alone. People never respect a man on his own.”

  “I had to. There wasn’t time.”

  “You should have said something. I had to wake up to find you gone. I had to look after Billy. What would I have done if you hadn’t come back?”

  Don fumed. “I had to get it,” he said. He touched the locket, now hanging from his neck, and his gaze fell to the ground. “It’s all I have left of Miranda’s.”

  The old man abandoned his testiness, and was quiet until Don raised his head once more. “I know,” he said. “You were saying?”

  “They were taking it all,” Don began. He made to say more, but hesitated.

  The old man caught his eye. “What happened?”

  “They thought I was there to do the same, so they got rough. I tried to make them see sense, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “And?”

  Don could meet his gaze no longer, and instead addressed the jetty as he said, “Dad, I killed one of them.”

  The old man’s mouth drew into a sharp line, but he continued to caress the horse’s mane. After a while he gave the tiniest of nods.

  Don knew he would get no more. “I grabbed for the locket, but he wouldn’t let go.” He paced, grunting. “Argh…we fell, and it was dark. I picked up the first thing I could lay my hands on and beat him over the head with it, and…it was your old claw hammer. I killed him,” he murmured, uttering the last words in a harsh voice unlike his own.

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “I killed a man.”

  The old man seized his arm. Don stared down into his sunken face and was subjected to the ravages of his frank, searching eyes. “Yes, you killed a man,” he said. “Smashed his head in, no doubt. And then what?”

  Don swallowed. “And then I ran. I took the locket and ran.”

  The old man nodded impatiently. “Yes, you ran. And then?”

  “They followed me across our fields and through the forest. But I think I lost them.”

  “You think.” Two words, only two, but more than enough to make Don’s heart skip a beat.

  The old man searched his face. Then he said, “Get in the boat. We can’t be seen in the harbour.”

  Don moved closer to him. “I lost them, I swear.”

  “Get in the boat.”

  Don glanced back at the village a final time—and then he saw them. The distant orange glow turned his chest to ice and sent his knees shaking. He made to alert the old man, but he’d already noticed, and was in the process of loosening the boat’s tether, his ancient hands a blur.

  “They followed me. I shouldn’t have come back!”

  “Be quiet now,” the old man hissed.

  The orange lights were in the lower parts of the port, bringing the dead buildings to life, shining ghostly light through long-weathered glass. The rain was thinning as dawn approached. The storm was moving up the coast, leaving the harbour in relative silence. The rumble that had plagued Don in the forest had once again become audible, and was growing louder by the second.

  Don sat in the boat and laid the oars over his lap, flexing his arms for a last time. He rubbed them until his tingling skin screamed in protest before taking hold of the oars again, preparing to push off from the jetty.

  And then he paused, eyes bulging from their sockets. The dull pain that had persisted in his chest for the last few weeks—which he’d forgotten all about during the night’s chaos—suddenly pulsed, sending daggers shooting along his throat.

  No, he thought. Not now. Please not now!

  But despite his efforts to stifle the ugly sensation, a guttural groan forced its way up from his lungs. He doubled over as a deafening cough flew from his mouth. The racket echoed across the harbour, followed by a rapid succession of gags and cries. He tried to stop the flow of spittle as it fell from his lips, tinged with darker shades of blood, but his lungs were doing their best to rid themselves of any residual air.

  “Be silent!” the old man said.

  Don tried to answer, but his body had no intention of allowing it. He dropped the oars, his vision blurred by tears as unbearable pain wracked his body.

  A shrill cry issued from the awning in the stern, young, feminine and frightened. “Daddy!” The flap jostled as its occupant shifted within.

  Don whirled, gagging, and flapped his hand at the old man.

  Billy couldn’t see him like this. She couldn’t see how close they were to oblivion.

  The old man rushed to the awning’s opening. “No, no, Billy! Stay there. Stay hidden. No matter what, you stay under there.”

  “Grandpa, I—”

  “You stay there!”

  A whimper filled the air, but the jostling ceased.

  The coughing subsided after half a minute. By then Don was on the floor beside the abandoned oars, taking great gasps of the fetid blanket of air surrounding the rowboat’s hull. The old man said nothing more. After a while Don had caught his breath and sat up. Rubbing his chest, he waited for his breathing to settle, and blinked tears from his eyes.

  The coughing fits had been getting worse, but that had been the worst yet. He suppressed a distant pang of fear and forced himself to focus.

  He struggled over to the stern and steadied the tarpaulin draped over it, checking the lashings and tightening the knots until he was certain it wouldn’t collapse in the high winds blowing in off the North Atlantic.

  “Daddy,” Billy whispered from within. Through a crack in the tarp, a pair of owlish eyes peered out at him, ocean-blue, watery, and afraid. “Daddy, what’s happening?”

  “Quiet,” he hissed. “We’re leaving. Stay hidden, now. Stay safe.”

  The old man whispered a few final words to the exhausted horse before leading it a small distance down the jetty and slapping its hindquarters. It gave a startled huff and shuffled away, towards the orange lights. It wasn’t long before it disappeared into the town, no doubt in search of food and rest. The old man’s shoulders slumped at its loss.

  The orange glow now permeated the village, and Don all but pulled the old man into the boat. He threw the loosened tether into the bow and thrust them from the jetty with a great heave, ignoring the pain that still wracked his lungs. Then they were rolling on the calm waters of the harbour, and he fixed the oars in place moments before giving his first, smooth stroke. It was hard going, and his muscles trembled against the drag, but the second was easier. By the third, they were moving.

  But he had set off before the old man could get into position. Without his aid, the rowboat wandered off course until it was dangerously close to the mast of a sunken yacht. Don winced, but then the old man sprang into action, displaying an agility that Don had thought lost to him for many years. Together, they steered around the ragged shadow of the wreck.

  The orange lights were a single street from the jetty. They would be upon the water within the minute, and the rowboat would be spotted immediately.

  They made slow progress through the water. Don and the old man divided their time between weaving between wrecks and casting terrified glances over their shoulders, still buffeted by the last of the rain and ice-cold gales.

  They reached clear waters just as the orange lights reached the jetty. Don rowed with such force that his shoulders shuddered under the strain, and the rowboat jumped to a greater pace—but they were still only twenty metres from the water’s edge.

  Dozens of figures on horseback rushed out along the jetty, lanterns held high, hollering and shouting. Hooves roared upon the rickety planks, which squealed under their combined bulk. Axes, kn
ives and hatchets filled the air above their heads, but Don was eternally relieved to see no guns. They kept up their galloping advance until they reached the very edge of the jetty, where they yanked on their reins and piled up, row upon row, until the mounts in front were in danger of being pushed into the freezing water.

  “Daddy, what’s happening? Who’s there?” Billy whimpered.

  “Stay down, Billy,” Don wheezed. There wasn’t a rifle to be seen, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have bows. “Get as low as you can, make yourself into a ball. Don’t move!”

  “O-Okay.” As her shuffling emanated from beneath the awning, Don’s heart skipped a beat. Images of an arrow soaring over his shoulder and plunging through the tarp leaped into his mind’s eye. He cursed, certain that at any moment the first volley would be fired.

  But no arrows came.

  He didn’t dare look back again, concentrating only on the next stroke. The raging hollers washed over the rowboat as they slipped away from the harbour, slowly fading, until the ruins had dimmed to a distant smattering of darkened shapes.

  Still, he didn’t look at the jetty. He was afraid of what he might see—afraid that instead of the mindless faces of a group of country bumpkins, he would see a band of grieving neighbours, robbed of a loved one by a foolish brawl.

  They passed the broken breakwater and left the harbour. The sun was still below the horizon, and in the shades of grey his tired eyes had trouble finding distinction between land and sea.

  Without the harbour’s protection, they were battered by monstrous waves. The stern climbed some four feet in a single moment, followed by the bow. Before Don could regain his balance, they were falling down the other side of the crest. He and the old man cried out as their stomachs fluttered. Under the awning, Billy screamed.

  Despite the fact that the storm had moved away, the waters had yet to settle in the slightest. Don tried not to look at the giant, froth-capped rollers colliding with the sea wall farther along the coast. Nevertheless, his imagination subjected him to flashes of their tiny boat slamming against concrete and being shredded in an instant.

  The wind was colder on the open water, but the salty air and proximity to the sea was somehow warming, robbing the gale of its icy bite. This distant warmth, however, could do nothing to ease the chill that had stiffened Don’s bones.

  The orange lights had become as indistinct as the shrinking hillside, and Don felt his stomach begin to settle.

  From then on they worked in shifts. Don rowed until his arms seized and he could move no more. The old man then pushed him into the bow and took his place. He himself rowed feebly, but kept them moving.

  The old man said that there would be more land elsewhere, even claimed that it lay just over the horizon, but Don couldn’t bring himself to trust such an ancient memory. Something in his gut shirked the possibility of so much more lying so close, just beyond sight. Despite laying eyes on so many maps and hearing stories from so many people, he still couldn’t quite believe that there was anything but water beyond the harbour.

  Yet there was no option now. The farm was lost. Every farm was lost. This was their only chance.

  As the first hour wound to a close, only a brief glance back to shore made it obvious that they had made little progress. Land was still very much in sight—the very same land from whence they had come, the only land he’d ever seen with his own eyes—a mere two miles distant. Their one saving grace was that the water had grown almost glassy-smooth. The rowing from then on was easy enough for Don to let the old man take a double shift, allowing him to recover his strength.

  Billy wept quietly under the awning, but Don kept her there for the time being. She couldn’t see him this weak. He needed to rest first.

  He sat in the bow, staring up at the lightening sky as his arms took on an agonising ache. He tried shaking them again to keep them from swelling, but that made his joints ache, and so he was forced to compromise with a pathetic shuddering.

  The ugly sensation in his lungs came again soon after, washing over him in an unstoppable wave, and the coughing returned. He doubled over the side and retched, spitting a bloody mixture into the water while his body was overcome by a spasm. The old man kept a watchful eye on him until the worst had passed, his brow furrowed and his eyes shimmering with stifled tears.

  Don collapsed back and tried to catch his breath. For a while each inhalation was accompanied by a high-pitched wheeze.

  “I loved that horse,” the old man said. He sounded conversational, if not sorrowful, but Don knew nonetheless that it was an attempt at distraction. “Raised that one from birth, you know.”

  Don nodded and spat over the side again. “I know, I was there,” he said.

  “He was beautiful.”

  Don nodded, grasping at the threadbare material over his chest, still gasping. After a while the pain lost its edge, and his breathing settled. The throbbing ebbed, ever more dim, until he felt it no more. He watched the clouds pass overhead and drank in slow, deep breaths of coastal air.

  Sometime later, a tentative clatter jarred him from a dazed stupor. It had come from the awning. He waited for it to come again before sitting up, composing himself.

  Billy muttered from the dark, mousy and tearful, “Daddy?”

  He smiled. “Come on out.”

  In the youthful morning light, a little girl of no more than eight years poked her head from the canvas flap and peered about the stern. She took stock of their swaying motion and the surrounding waves, and then looked into Don's eyes. There wasn’t yet enough light for anything colourful, but to Don she was cast in the deepest rouges and the softest pinks. She clambered underneath the working arms of her grandfather and settled herself amongst the folds of Don's mud-spattered coat. “Hi, Daddy,” she said.

  “Hi,” he said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry I kept you under there so long. It wasn’t safe.” He gave her a squeeze. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay.” She hesitated. “Why wasn’t it safe?” She indicated the sea. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to home.”

  He stroked her cheek and smiled. “I’m sorry, Billy. We had to leave in a hurry. Somebody was…upset. But you can still see home, over there. See?”

  He pointed towards the gap in the distant grey cliffs where the harbour lay. He shielded her eyes from the glittering water and turned her head until she followed the line of sight he’d drawn out for her.

  “It’s so far away,” she said, agape.

  “It looks farther than it is.”

  “How long have we been moving away?”

  “Not long.”

  Billy looked around at the sea. She leant over to inspect the gentle swell of the waves and then sat back, as though to take in its grandness. “Where are we going?” she said.

  Don sighed and slumped lower, feigning exasperation. In truth, he was bordering on breaking into a laughing fit, but he made sure to keep his face level. “Billy, we’ve been through this hundreds of times…”

  Her eyes glittered, every bit in on the play-talk as he. “I know, but I like to hear it. Where are we going, Daddy? Please, tell the story.”

  Don sat back, wrapped an arm around her, and recounted the tale he’d built up over endless twilight story times: they would travel to a new place, away from home, where there would be other people who spoke strangely; where there would be more boys and girls for her to be friends with, thousands of them, and they could start again; and there would be food there—all the food they could eat.

  “And we’re going now?”

  “Yes.”

  She purred, settling into his coat. “I like that story,” she said.

  Don frowned, but let it pass. It was all still a mere fiction to her. He decided to keep the truth close to the chest for a little while longer. At least there would be no disappointment in store for her if the tale turned out to be a fantasy after all.

  The old man rowed for a long time, his arms moving back and forth hypnot
ically. Father and daughter watched him from their heap in the bow as the land shrank upon the horizon. Meanwhile, darkness drained from the sky and the clouds blossomed from grey whiskers to enormous, fire-red streaks.

  Billy soon fell asleep. From then on, Don divided his time between watching her slumber and staring out at the far distance. It was another hour before he felt strong enough to sit beside the old man and take an oar again.

  In the back of his mind he knew how far they had still to go, and was equally disheartened each time he remembered it. Occasionally, the old man brought out a rusted compass and consulted their grubby map, and the two of them would correct their course.

  Hour after hour passed, during which time the two of them rowed, rested, ate and drank. By the time the cliffs disappeared, the sun had clawed a fair way into the sky, bathing the boat in soft light. The tiny, prickling warmth upon their skin provided just enough of a boost to keep them moving. Billy slept while they rowed well into the day. All the while the boat crawled along, heading into unknown waters, carrying them away from their homeland.

  SECOND INTERLUDE

   

  When Alex finally returned home, the fires had begun to extinguish themselves. The sound of the door slamming shut behind him was deafening. Before he’d even taken a single glance around, he was sure the house was as much a tomb as the world outside.

  The dog emerged from its bed under the stairs and nuzzled his hand, whining. His heart almost broke at the sight of her—a companion. He sat against the wall facing the living room and allowed her to lick his face, whimpering at the contact. The tears finally came then, and he cried there beside his mother’s wilted ficus tree, holding the mutt to his side. The hallway swam before him, but still his gaze was drawn to the kitchen, where he was sure his family had sat not an hour before.

  He didn’t bother to call out. They were gone.

  Once his shuddering cries had abated and his cheeks had dried, he struggled to the living room and fell into his father’s chair. He hesitated for a moment, keeping his gaze on the carpet until he felt strong enough to look at the brightly wrapped gifts waiting upon the mantelpiece.

  They had been presents, early gifts for exams not yet passed. His parents had surprised him that morning, promising that he’d be opening them later that day. His father had ignored his protests—Alex had repeatedly insisted that it was entirely possible that he’d fail—and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. Alex had looked into his kind eyes and let his father’s words crash over him: “Alex, some men have to put in the hours. They have to fight for everything they get. Men like me. But other men have something different, something else on their side. Some men have a destiny. And you got that, boy. You got that in spades.”

  Alex’s throat constricted at the recollection. He would never hear that voice again, nor his mother’s or sister’s. The truth was beginning to sink in: They were gone, gone, vanished into thin air along with everybody he had ever known. The entire world had been pulled out from under him.

  He continued to stare at the gifts, until the intricate spots and swirls of the wrapping paper were burned onto his retinas and he lost track of time. Despite the dog’s occasional attempts to rouse him, he didn’t move for what must have been many hours, for by the time he stood from the armchair, the sky had turned from a pale blue to a dull orange.

  Dusk was approaching. An entire day had passed.

  Alex hadn’t heard a single siren or passing aircraft. He was sure the phone would ring any minute. A game show host’s voice would come ringing out, telling him that he’d been a good sport while the walls of his living room slid away to reveal a studio, filled by an audience bellowing with laughter.

  But, inwardly, he knew that it was all real, and that it had struck far more than just Radden County. Maybe the entire world.

  Once the room’s shadows had started to grow longer, for reasons that he couldn’t fathom he moved to the mantelpiece, piled the gifts in his arms and returned to the chair. Slowly he began to unwrap them with great care, ignoring the throbbing pain in his burned hand. But before long, something stopped him. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to unveil their contents. After minutes of struggling he put them aside and instead opened the single envelope that sat atop the pile.

  It was a joint card from his parents, adorned by his mother’s long and flowing hand. Despite its beauty, what Alex enjoyed most was the manner in which his father had signed at the very bottom in an enormous, ugly scrawl. He kept the card in his hands, smiling through fresh tears until its charm waned. By then he had sunk to a new low.

  Sunset grew closer. Still he didn’t move from the chair. Without any real hope, he picked up the phone and dialled his mother’s number. He waited, unsure of what to expect, but there was no response at all; not a dial tone, not a recorded error message—not even static. Just silence.

  That was enough to rouse him. He set about the house, prodding computers, televisions, microwaves, radios and digital clocks. Each was dead to his touch.

  Only the lights still worked.

  Without thinking, he ascended the stairs to his bedroom, looking around at the carpet of detritus littering the floor. That morning he would have insisted that every piece was vital, that the clutter was an integral part of his identity. Now he felt as though looking upon it all from a great height. A profound sense of futility seemed to emanate from every surface.

  The crushing weight of what had happened was cleaving a cavity in his chest. It was no dream. He wished it to be with all his might, but at the same time knew it wasn’t. The look Paul had given him in his last moment had been something only reality could have conjured.

  He had to leave immediately.

  Grabbing the nearest serviceable bag, he set about packing. Scooping up clothes and underwear at random, he cast enormous volumes of his treasured belongings aside, never to be looked at again. Music, video games, textbooks and a great many novels parted in his wake. He continued his merciless assault until stopped by the sight of a single book, which lay in a tangled bed of ancient athletic gear. He dropped his bag and reached for it, sweeping away the heavy coating of dust upon it.

  The cover was dark green, plain and very old, marked only by a delicate title of gold leaf: his father’s copy of Alice in Wonderland. He took it in both hands, feeling the weight of it, taking note of the ancient stains and frayed binding.

  “There’s a story and a half about that book, let me tell you,” his father had said once.

  Alex had never asked to hear that story. Now he’d never know. As he stared down at it, his father’s voice echoed in his head once more: “Some men have a destiny. And you got that, boy. You got that in spades.”

  The book weighed heavy in his hands, heavier by the moment. He lowered it into his bag and forced his eyes away from it, swallowing to clear a solid lump in his throat. He finished packing the rest in just over a minute, and swept a long look around at the room, certain that it would be for the last time. Before nostalgia or hesitation could set in, he turned and descended the stairs. Returning to the living room, he then packed his still-wrapped gifts.

  The dog emerged from under the stairs, sensing that something was about to happen, whining at the sight of his bag. He stroked her head, but still she yipped, her shoulders hunched, sensing something at odds with the world as surely as he.

  Outside, the sky was beginning to darken as the day came to a close, and he became aware that he was set to sleep in the empty house for the night if he lingered any longer. There was no way he would be able to stand that.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  The two of them left the house within the minute and marched away down the street. Alex was determined not to look back, but couldn’t resist a final glance as they rounded the corner. The dog howled as it passed from sight. He, in turn, gritted his teeth against a fresh slab of heartache.

  Then it was gone, and he was heading into the vastness of an empty world.