Up until this point Tom Leyton’s responses had been brief and bare, as if they were spoken with his dying breath. Now Joseph had cornered him into an explanation, and he shifted uncomfortably on the bed. ‘You have to store them in the fridge. Keep them cold. In spring you take them out. They hatch two weeks after that.’
‘I was sure they were dead.’
Tom Leyton’s eyes narrowed slightly. His words rumbled towards Joseph like a boulder. ‘If you thought that, why did you bring the leaves?’
Joseph struggled with the uneasy feeling that he might have unknowingly done something wrong, or foolish. ‘I … I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘It’s just … you said they would hatch.’
The room fell quiet once more. Joseph felt Tom Leyton drifting away from him. He cast another desperate question into the sea of silence. ‘Are there silkworms on the mulberry tree?’
Tom Leyton’s eyes flicked back on Joseph. He seemed shaken by the question. He replied cautiously as if afraid of being tricked. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’d die.’
‘How come?’
‘They’ve been domesticated.’
Joseph looked back questioningly.
Slowly Tom Leyton added, ‘They’ve been bred inside for hundreds of years. In China. They can’t survive here, not outside … the climate … predators … They need to live in a box, otherwise they’d die.’
‘They never try to get out?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s all they know.’
Joseph had seen silkworms before, of course, and they had always been in boxes, but it had never really dawned on him that there was no alternative for them. When he finally gave voice to his thoughts he hardly realised that he had spoken aloud.
‘So they spend all their lives in a box?’
Joseph looked up to see the man staring intently at him.
‘What did you say?’ Tom Leyton’s voice was controlled, but it strained like a rope pulled taut.
Joseph felt his heart high in his chest as if he were plummeting rapidly. What had he said? Nervously he tried to put the words back together. ‘The silkworms … I just said that they spend all their lives in a box.’
Tom Leyton stared at Joseph’s face as if searching for some hidden meaning, but all he found was bewilderment. Gradually the deep furrows on his brow softened. ‘It’s from a poem,’ he said quietly.
The worry on Joseph’s face eased slightly to confusion.
‘What you said … it’s from a poem. That poem.’
Joseph followed the direction of Tom Leyton’s nod to the noticeboard and the old sheet of paper he had seen earlier. He rose hesitantly and moved closer. Part of the sheet was obscured by his sketch of Tom Leyton, but he could still make out a title, ‘The Silkworms’, and a verse or two. The typing was old and faded. ‘All their lives … in a box …’ He stopped reading and gave Tom Leyton a weak smile but received no response. He returned to the poem.
‘All their lives in a box! What generations,
What centuries of masters, not meaning to be cruel
But needing their labour, taught these creatures such patience
That now …’
Joseph leant forward straining to read the words, but the shadows in the corner of the room made the faint letters hard to distinguish. He carefully folded down the edge of Tom Leyton’s portrait in order to see the remainder of the verse, but before he could continue a voice rose in the room like a prayer.
‘That now though sunlight strikes on the eye’s dark jewel
Or moonlight breathes on the wing they do not stir
But like the ghosts of moths crouch silent there.’
Joseph looked back at Tom Leyton. He was gazing out the window. His pale face shone in the bright sunlight and his eyes narrowed as if focused on something only he could see. When he continued, it was from a sad, distant place.
‘Look it’s a child’s toy! There is no lid even,
They can climb, they can fly, and the whole world’s their tree;
But hush, they say in themselves, we are in prison.’
Tom Leyton lowered his head and his voice reverberated with emotion.
‘There is no word to tell them that they are free,
And they are not; ancestral voices bind them
In dream too deep for wind or word to find them.’
Joseph had been caught in the spell of Tom Leyton’s voice. It rolled and swelled throughout the room, breathing a life and warmth into words that Joseph hadn’t felt before.
‘Is there more?’
Tom Leyton nodded slightly without raising his head, but gave no sign of continuing with the poem. He sank back into silence like a man in quicksand who knows it is useless to struggle. Joseph watched helplessly as he began to slip away and then made one last effort to reach him. ‘Why do you stay inside so much?’
The question burst into the room like a beast escaping its cage. Tom Leyton became so still that even his breathing seemed to have ceased. He turned and studied Joseph’s face. A slight breeze moved the heavy curtains. Joseph was gripped by Tom Leyton’s stare. As he looked back into those bleak eyes, he caught a faint echo of life, like a fossil caught in stone.
Tom Leyton glanced quickly down at his hands and back up at Joseph. The muscles on the side of his jaw tensed and his eyes squeezed shut as if the effort to speak required all his concentration. He looked at Joseph once more and slowly drew in a breath. He placed his fingers lightly on his chin and his lips parted slowly.
‘Food at last! Hope you two boys are ready for a break.’
Joseph looked up at Caroline smiling broadly and holding out a plate layered with sweet-smelling pikelets.
When he turned back, Tom Leyton’s face was closed and silent like an ancient rock carving.
Caroline chatted with Joseph about the portrait while her brother sat in silence beside her. When they had finished eating, Joseph quickly offered to help with the dishes, and Caroline, sensing his eagerness to leave the room, accepted.
When he could delay it no longer Joseph returned to Tom Leyton’s room. He was at his desk peering into the silkworm boxes. Sensing Joseph’s presence, he tilted his head a little to one side without showing his face. ‘I’m tired,’ he said brusquely. ‘Could we leave the drawing for today?’
‘OK … No, that’s fine.’
Joseph had tried to sound casual, but he felt a strange emptiness inside as he watched Tom Leyton turn slowly back to the cardboard boxes. He stood still for a few seconds then gathered his equipment together and moved to the doorway, where he paused and looked back into the room. He thought about saying goodbye, but it seemed that, to the motionless figure at the desk, he had already left.
Joseph glanced briefly around the room. Something about the noticeboard caught his attention. A section of bare corkboard was now visible. His sketch was missing. It didn’t take long to find it. It was face-down on the desk, partly covered by Tom Leyton’s elbow. Joseph left the room and explained his sudden departure to Caroline. Her eyes filled with weary resignation, but she smiled warmly and waved Joseph off from the landing.
That night Joseph had trouble getting to sleep. In the back of his mind was the worry about exams and school work, but it was Tom Leyton who was at the centre of his uneasiness. He had never felt more distant from him. Even as just a shadowy form behind those dark curtains, he was somehow closer. Now Joseph feared that he had been pushed away, and a door closed and locked forever. Just like my father, Joseph thought bitterly.
But was that really so? Maybe Tom Leyton was just tired after all? Hadn’t they come closer than ever that day, working together with the silkworms? Then there was the question Joseph had asked. How he wished he could take it back – to have never said those words. What did it matter why Tom Leyton stayed in his room? And yet, it seemed as if he had been going to answer before Caroline interrupted. What would he have said?
; As Joseph sorted through the afternoon’s events, the one image that he was left with was the bare noticeboard and the sketch face-down on the desk. Why had Tom Leyton removed it? Why had he wanted him to leave so suddenly? The more he thought about it, the more convinced Joseph was that he had made his last drawings of Tom Leyton. He rolled over and reached down for the drawing pad on the floor beside his bed. Switching on the small reading light attached to the headrest, he settled back to look at the sketches he had made that day, but as he opened the pad a yellowed sheet of paper fell forward and floated to his chest. While he held the sheet to the light and read the words silently to himself, a rich, poignant voice echoed in his mind.
THE SILKWORMS
All their lives in a box! What generations,
What centuries of masters, not meaning to be cruel
But needing their labour, taught these creatures such patience
That now though sunlight strikes on the eye’s dark jewel
Or moonlight breathes on the wing they do not stir
But like the ghosts of moths crouch silent there.
Look it’s a child’s toy! There is no lid even,
They can climb, they can fly, and the whole world’s their tree;
But hush, they say in themselves, we are in prison.
There is no word to tell them that they are free,
And they are not; ancestral voices bind them
In dream too deep for wind or word to find them.
Even in the young, each like a little dragon
Ramping and green upon his mulberry leaf,
So full of life, it seems, the voice has spoken:
They hide where there is food, where they are safe,
And the voice whispers, “Spin the cocoon,
Sleep, sleep, you shall be wrapped in me soon.”
Now is their hour, when they wake from that long swoon;
Their pale curved wings are marked in a pattern of leaves,
Shadowy for trees, white for the dance of the moon;
And when on summer nights the buddleia gives
Its nectar like lilac wine for insects mating
They drink its fragrance and shiver, impatient with waiting,
They stir, they think they will go. Then they remember
It was forbidden, forbidden, ever to go out;
The Hands are on guard outside like claps of thunder,
The ancestral voice says Don’t, and they do not.
Still the night calls them to unimaginable bliss
But there is terror around them, the vast, the abyss,
And here is the tribe that they know, in their known place,
They are gentle and kind together, they are safe for ever,
And all shall be answered at last when they embrace.
White moth moves closer to moth, lover to lover.
There is that pang of joy on the edge of dying –
Their soft wings whirr, they dream that they are flying.
Douglas Stewart
When he had finished the poem, Joseph pulled himself up to the window sill and looked across to where a dull light still glowed behind the heavy curtains of Tom Leyton’s room. He understood now that there was no sinister motive behind the disappearance of his sketch from the noticeboard. Tom Leyton would have had to remove the drawing in order to take down the copy of the poem from behind it and place it secretly into the drawing pad. Joseph realised that he must have returned from the kitchen before Tom Leyton had the chance to put the sketch back. That’s why he didn’t want to sit any more and why he tried to hide the sketch under his arm – because he didn’t want the poem to be discovered until Joseph was at home.
Joseph lay back down and settled comfortably under the covers. He began to read the poem again, and even though some lines confused him a little, he liked the soft, calming sound of the words and the pictures they created in his imagination. It was the ending, however, that haunted him the most.
And all shall be answered at last when they embrace.
White moth moves closer to moth, lover to lover.
There is that pang of joy on the edge of dying –
Their soft wings whirr, they dream that they are flying.
When he had read through the poem several times he placed it on the bedside table, pulled his legs up and propped the drawing pad against his knees. He took a pencil from the spine of the pad and found his most recent sketch. He thought about the strange silent man that he had encountered. He thought of Tom Leyton the tender carer of silkworms, the reader of poems, the shy gift-giver.
Joseph began to flesh out and soften the stark outline of eyes, nose and mouth, and to smooth and shape the rough contours of jaw and forehead. All the time he worked silently, he was unaware that a half-smile had crept shyly on to his face, and stayed.
When at last he had to fight to keep his eyes open, Joseph put aside his drawing and switched off the bed lamp. He took one last look at the old rambling house next door and, for the first time in his life, fell asleep comforted by the dull glow that seeped through the curtains of Tom Leyton’s room.
II
IN DREAM TOO DEEP
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next week passed quickly. The end of the school term with its round of assignments and exams carried Joseph along in its swell and deposited him, tired and relieved, on the welcome shores of the spring holidays.
In spite of school work, thoughts of Tom Leyton were never far from Joseph’s mind. Often at night before he went to sleep, he would read again the silkworm poem and the words would weave their silken spell, drawing him gently into the timid creatures’ claustrophobic world, and, in some inexplicable way, into the world of Tom Leyton as well.
During the week Joseph had caught only a brief glimpse of his neighbour disappearing up the back stairs. It wasn’t until the Friday afternoon of the last day of term that they would meet again. School had broken up early that day and Joseph had decided to walk the few kilometres home rather than wait for the bus. By the time Joseph crossed the road in front of Cousins’ shop and entered Arthur Street, the warm spring sun had taken its toll. His hatband clung wet and sticky against his forehead and small beads of sweat formed and rolled down the hollow of his back. As he dawdled down the grass footpath besides Leytons’ long side fence, a familiar voice called to him.
‘Here’s someone who could do with a drink.’
Joseph looked up to see Caroline leaning on a rake beside the large fig tree. She pulled an old straw hat from her head and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve got some cold fruit juice if you’re interested. Nothing stronger, I’m afraid,’ she said and smiled. ‘And if you give me a hand raking up a few clippings, I might be able to find some chocolate biscuits to go with that. What do you say? Is it a deal?’
‘OK,’ Joseph nodded happily.
‘I’ve just spoken to your mother. She’s up getting a few things from the shop. She said you’d be home early and I mentioned that you might like to drop in and see how the silkworms are going. Interested?’
‘Sure.’
‘Right, get a drink of water from under the house to tide you over, and then I’m afraid it looks like you might have to really earn your keep,’ Caroline said as she inspected the yard. ‘I may have got a bit more carried away with the pruning than I thought.’
It wasn’t long before Joseph tipped the last wheelbarrow load on to the compost heap.
“There. Now it’s time for food and drink, and an audience with the silkworms.’
‘Will I get some fresh leaves for them?’
‘Good idea. You do that and I’ll put this stuff away.’
Caroline placed the rake and some clippers into the wheelbarrow and took them under the house. When she had returned she saw Joseph beside the mulberry tree. As she watched, he moved around the tree examining the leaves carefully, turning some over to inspect both sides and pulling down a few of the higher branches for a closer look.
‘I don’t thin
k they’re that fussy.’
The branch Joseph was holding lurched back into place as he turned quickly towards the direction of Caroline’s voice. He looked a little embarrassed, as if he had been caught reading someone else’s diary.
‘What …?’
‘The silkworms … I said I don’t think they’re that fussy.’
‘No … I was just,’ Joseph began, but quickly ran out of steam.
‘Come on,’ Caroline said with a ripple of laughter, ‘let’s get those hand-picked, individually selected, gourmet leaves to the crawling connoisseurs, shall we?’
Joseph smiled meekly, gathered up the small pile of leaves he had already collected and walked over to Caroline. She draped her arm across his shoulder as they strolled towards the house talking easily about school and holidays.
‘Have the silkworms grown much?’ Joseph asked as they began to climb the back stairs, but there was no answer. When he looked up to see if Caroline had heard she seemed distracted, and the relaxed easy manner of the last half an hour seemed to fade further with each step.
Once inside, Caroline went to the door of Tom Leyton’s room, leant closely to it and knocked lightly.
‘Tom? Tom, Joseph is here. He’s come to see the silkworms.’ She paused. ‘He’s brought some fresh leaves for you.’
Muffled sounds of movement came from inside before the door opened to reveal the tall form and expressionless face of Tom Leyton. He stepped back and allowed Joseph to enter.
‘Well, I’ll get that drink,’ Caroline said, and moved quickly to the kitchen.
The first thing Joseph noticed when he entered the room was that his sketch was back on the wall. He smiled to himself and went over to the silkworm boxes. Inside the silkworms had changed from barely visible black lines to grey-white grubs around two centimetres in length.
‘Gee, they’ve grown. They haven’t got much room. Will you need to make up more boxes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I help?’
‘If you want to,’ Tom Leyton said without emotion. He let a few more uncomfortable seconds pass before adding, ‘The boxes are downstairs.’
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