A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  “…and the camel simply would not move!” Daniel’s eyes grow wide and he gestures with his hands. A sense of pride for what he has seen and experienced in his time emanates from him as he speaks, but it is different from the pride Darius feels. Daniel, as far as I may venture to say, is still looking for something, while Darius has found his vocation long ago and is keen to share it. I can’t quite decide which I prefer. Hearing Daniel’s stories, I must confess to a distinct pinch of envy.

  My adventures until now have never truly gone beyond sneaking out of boarding school lodgings to go dancing in the village. I feel a bit silly exchanging these little stories for his fullfledged escapades, though Daniel never gives the impression of resenting this unbalanced bargain. He asks the right questions, laughs at the right parts, and is overall utterly charming. I must be careful not to fall in love the first night on the island! Yet despite his good humor, there is something underneath the friendly manner, the wit and intelligence. A certain shadow hidden beneath his surface, not fitting into this mold of laissez-faire adventurer he is letting me see. A secret? We all have our little mysteries, I concede in my mind, our little secrets. We all, too, have our battles with that little nagging bane, curiosity.

  Before I can allow my imagination to paint some mad picture over Daniel’s façade of charme, Jeffrey clangs his dessert-spoon against his glass, a sound I have always found cheering as it reminds me of weddings and other celebrations. Everyone looks up at our host.

  “Pardon my interruption, but after a few glasses of Attica’s finest, I am compelled to offer the obligatory toast, my friends." A few low laughs ensue, and Jeffrey goes on. “I am tonight very fortunate to be in the company of good friends, family, and with a belly full of this excellent food. To that I raise my glass!”

  “Cheers!” Everyone clinks glasses. I take a small sip of what remains in mine, tasting the pleasant coolness of the mildly sweet and fruity wine as it runs down my throat.

  “Now,” Jeffrey goes on, his brow slightly shiny and his nose slightly pink, “Perhaps you will join me on the veranda. We have a perfect cloudless night, and I have been forbidden by my lovely wife,” he smiles obligingly at the glowing face of Briony beside him, “to partake of my après-dîner cigar in the house.”

  Again laughs bubble up around me. There follow a few moments of mouths being dabbed and forks being set on plates, a caucophany of scraping of chairs and smoothing of crêpe de chine before our little group follows our hosts outside. As I leave the dining room, I catch a glimpse of Niobe, the pretty maid, speaking with Caspar in an alcove leading to another room, a look of petulance marring his handsome face. I have an impulse to approach Niobe and ask whether everything is all right, but decide against it, telling myself it is none of my concern.

  We step outside, onto the terracotta-tiled veranda, and I take a deep breath of the fresh, pleasantly warm air. Somewhere nearby, an owl is hooting, a strange, monotonous sound, vaguely ominous and soothing at once. Dry leaves rustle in the trees at the edges of the garden. Nature’s music my father called it. I remember the sounds would frighten me as a child, so he began telling me stories of the owl, singing out in owl-language, and the cicadas chatting about their day, and somehow it all became a story and not scary anymore.

  There is a cast-iron table with a set of six chairs as well as a beautiful carved wooden bench along one side of the terrace. I have no desire to sit down again, and the question takes care of itself when a few members of the party make themselves comfortable to smoke and chat. There is no space left anyway. I walk across the tiled expanse toward the periphery of the garden. It is fenced off, a wise precaution, I think, daring a glance over the edge. The drop would be a mighty, bone-shattering one and if Jeffrey and Briony throw many such parties where the wine is in generous supply, someone might take a nasty tumble.

  Carefully, I step back, dry grass tickling my feet as I gaze up to the sparkling, twinkling lights of countless stars in the blue-black sky. So many, more even than I have seen on my sojourns into the countryside, brilliant and steady. Standing here alone, I suddenly feel very small, a tiny speck in our constantly evolving universe. This is the same sky people on the other side of the world look up to, one true constant in a forever changing world, where nothing is ever quite safe, quite certain. The War provided gruesome evidence of that. We are so fragile, and still oddly resilient. Can we hope for lessons to have been learned? That people might treat one another with the care and respect we require to survive? I have my doubts. Almost without noticing I shake my head, willing the sad thoughts to tumble out, to leave me with the warm feeling of peace and welcome emanating from this very ground.

  A cool breeze envelopes me, bringing with it the soothing, earthy scent of camomile and mint. Closing my eyes for a moment, I feel the weight of my tired eyelids. I savor my newfound feeling of freedom, in spite of uncertainty and the newness of it all. A strong desire to lie down on the cool grass, staring up and counting the stars, trying to make out the constellations overwhelms me, but I remind myself that such a course of action might not make the best first impression and may embarass Briony. Another night.

  "Quite a view, isn’t it?" I turn startled by the voice intruding upon my fantasy, to find Daniel Harper only a few steps away. It takes me a moment to remember that he had gone to fetch us a drink and that the proffered glass containing a finger’s measure of clear liquid is for me.

  "Yes, it is. Beautiful." There is a moment of silence between us. "You know, I don’t believe back at home in London I ever simply stood outside to look at the sky. Probably wouldn’t have seen much in the old smoke." I shrug, running a finger along the rim of the glass. "I was thinking how I’d like to lie down here and stare at the sky. I have this idea," I pause, unsure of whether it is wise to explain, but I suppose the desire to say what I am thinking wins over, and I continue," I have this idea that Zeus and Hera and his Olymp are propped up on clouds somewhere up there, and having a jolly old time." I let out a nervous chuckle." My friends, if they could hear me go on like this, would think me a little mad."

  "A little madness can be a pleasant retreat sometimes." Daniel says, his voice carrying a trace of melancholy. As he lowers his face, the darkness creates shadows below his cheekbones and his eyes. His statement startles me, a mirror of the workings of his mind. I decide that the new Evelyn is a blunt sort of person and ask the question playing on my mind.

  "Did you serve?" A few simple words, but they are loaded with assumption and insinuation, probably unexpected coming from a young and proper English girl, who has been taught not to speak of unpleasant things, especially with men, and never with strangers. If he is shocked or annoyed, to his credit, he does not let it show. He inhales slowly, fresh air perhaps the sustenance his body needs for an unhappy disclosure. For a moment, I experience a flash of shame for my curiosity. I should not have asked, should not force a confession of a man I barely know. Before I can reprimand myself further, Daniel’s voice draws me out of my pensiveness.

  "Yes, I did," he says, staring straight ahead, a shadowy, unreadable expression on his face. "It was early in 1917. Too young to join earlier. The youngest of three sons." That is all he says. I know the rest of the wretched story. Youngest of three sons. The only one left, I am led to assume by his withdrawn expression and tone of voice. Mentally kicking myself for my carelessness, I cannot think what to say. His story is far from unique, which makes it all the more tragic. A subject of such magnitude can hardly be followed by silly party chatter. Daniel senses the thickening of the atmosphere around us and in a forced jovial tone goes on. "It’s all right, you know. One cannot change the past. Let us of think of happier times ahead." He plasters a slim smile across his lips, not fooling me. I resolve not to ask him anything further as I recognize, with a familiar emotion, the effort maintaining his composure requires of him. I will not add to anyone’s burden if it can be helped.

  Fortunately, at that moment we are joined by Caspar, who, if not outright dru
nk, is certainly headed down that path. Nevertheless, I am surprisingly glad to see him, his presence shattering the tension that has formed between Daniel and myself.

  "Oh, Danny Boy!" He sidles in between us, amber liquid slopping in his half-full glass in one hand, and a rank smelling cigar sending whisps of smoke into the sky in the other. With a loose-limbed gesture sending a spray of his brandy over the garden fence, he waves at the sky in an embarrassingly dramatic manner and grins at us. "What are the words … Oh, yes, ‘The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space, rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth, swung blind and blackening in the moonless air’ … can’t remember the rest, sorry.’" He beams gleefully and takes a slow drag on his cigar, admiring the thick white plume of smoke he exhales as it drifts into the black night.

  "Byron, if I’m not mistaken." An undeniably wry note enters my voice. "Too affected for my taste, I’m afraid." Actually, I like a bit of Byron when the occasion is fitting, but I have taken a slight dislike to Caspar, unfair judgement though it may be. Caspar throws his hands into the air in a gesture of wine-addled exaltation, and I take a tiny step away from him and toward the cliffs edge.

  "Affected, no my dear," he drawls, leering down at me from his six inch elevation. "You misunderstand the passion behind his words." Misunderstand the passion? Well, pardon me, please! I happen to have passion in spades! I can see the silver in the moon, the diamond in a dewdrop, Poseidon’s kiss in a sea breeze. I am tempted to roll my eyes, but restrain myself, not wanting to stir the fire of passion within his flaming bosom. As if on cue, he clutches a hand dramatically to his heart and shakes his head, tossing his pale curls. "Affected indeed. The master speaketh of the driving forces of nature."

  "He is, if I am not mistaken," I comment, knowing that I am not, "speaking of desolation and fear. He speaks of the end of days, the end of mankind." At this point I assume I have the upper hand, though I try to hide my smugness, having been taught it does not become a lady. He probably thinks he can impress with the few lines of an arbitrary poem he has memorized to fan the passion of the ladies he wishes to woo. Though, by now, I think, it is quite clear I am not a worthy object for his attentions. He is looking put out, while I continue. "It is rather unromantic, rare as such a poem may be for both Lord Byron, or I venture, for your good self." I say this with a smile, intended to lighten the mood. He has had a fair bit to drink and may be contrite and the sufferer of a thunderous headache by breakfast time. Oh dear, I am sounding like Aunt Agnes!

  "Is desolation not fueled by passion?" Caspar raises his eyebrows, not willing to concede. Tiny beads of sweat have formed above his lip, despite the cool breeze, and I wonder whether he might do well to sit down, or better yet, go to bed. Then again, I am no nurse, nor his mother so I will keep my council.

  "Perhaps," I shrug noncommitally, slightly taken aback how like Aunt Agnes I was thinking and not wanting to argue with him, especially not in front of Daniel. It has been a long day, and I am not in the best form myself. I ought not be too hard on him, I think, trying to make up for my harsh judgements.

  "All is in the eye of the beholder. At that I think we can leave it." Daniel interjects before his friend can add offense. He steadies Caspar, who is looking rather peaky and pale around the gills in the silver light of the moon. Gripping him by the elbow and making an unsuccessful grab for the glass, Daniel pulls Caspar further away from both me, and the fenced edge of the garden. Is this concern for Caspar a result of my sharp tongue, or the threat of sharp cliffs?

  "Yes, fine, fine. I shan’t argue with you, my friend." Caspar grins, manages to take another puff from his cigar and dawdles off making his slightly curved way towards Darius, who has been standing alone at the edge of the terrace, looking in the other direction at the shadowy hills. Perhaps he is imagining what might be hidden under all of that dry earth, what treasures of the past it may be concealing. I pull my attention away from him and back to the one standing before me, appearing apologetic and a little discomfited.

  “I am sorry about him. He’s had one or three too many tonight.” Daniel murmurs, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows by way of an excuse. He looks tired, perhaps it is simply a trick of the light, which has dimmed from one moment to the next as a cloud pushes itself across the nearly full moon.

  “Quite all right," I smile. "Besides you are hardly responsible for his behavior, are you?” Shaking his head, and without speaking, he takes a few steps to sit down on a small wrought iron bench, nearly concealed by the dipping branches of a knarled oak, the sole tree of substancial size in the garden. I sit down beside him, once again aware of his closeness, but not intimidated by it. In a strange way, he is more vulnerable at this moment than I.

  “You’re right," he says, picking up the line of conversation I thought had ended. "Nonetheless, we have been friends for many years, comrades, fellow travelers," he places both hands, palms down, on his thighs, "that establishes a certain sense of responsibility for one another.”

  “How did you meet?” I whisper, the way we are seated here, playing tricks on my mind. The question has escpaed my mouth before I had a chance to think. In this moment of stillness I worry the answer will inevitably lead back to memories of the trenches, to memories better left untouched. To my surprise, his reply comes with a smile, and I almost sigh in relief.

  "He lived on my family’s estate. You could say we grew up together. My two older brothers are …" he swallows before he goes on. "They were a bit older than me, so Caspar and I got along well. He is an only child, you see. His father manages parts of the estate for me still, and our families were constantly together." I watch Daniel as his eyes glaze over, lost in some other place, some other time, dipping into a pool of bittersweet memories. His obvious show of emotion is unusual to witness in someone I have met only hours ago. All the same, it does not feel unnatural. I try to join him in his reverie, imagining two rambunctious boys running across vast green fields, maybe escaping the consequences of some mischief.

  "You must have had a happy childhood." I say before thinking, immediately regretting it, for the moment is over and Daniel’s eyes regain their focus, snapping back into the present.

  "Yes," he swallows, "yes, I did."

  The leaves in the branches above are gently tussled by the wind, and a group of cicadas has begun their ritual humming. Behind our perch, I hear Caspar’s voice making a loud joke, and a few half-hearted laughs from his audience.

  For a moment, I forget that I have known Daniel just a few hours. We sit here both having escaped something from our past, unwilling to make it real by uttering the words. His friendly manner does little to disguise the discomfort of being trapped in his own skin. I am eager to ask questions, to know more, so my imagination fueled by unsatisfied curiosity will not paint a false picture.

  Fortunately, before my tongue betrays my remaining tact, Daniel asks, "Where did you grow up?" It is such an ordinary question, I am snapped out of my spell, feeling a little diappointed.

  "Mostly London. My parents liked to travel, though they only took me to France and a few jaunts to Scotland. And you?"

  "I lived in Kent growing up," a faint crinkle of a smile appears on the left side of his mouth, and I will it to spread to the right. Smiling faces tend to open up like unfolding maps, allowing an access one did not know existed before. He gives a tiny shake of his head and turns to face me. "You know what happened then." The smile expands, though it seems an odd point in his story for this to occur. "I am sorry, I must have been a terrible party guest tonight. What a miserable impression I am making!" He shakes his head again, letting out a short laugh, neither happy nor sad.

  "Not at all," I also smile. "Besides," I cross my legs at the ankles, "I am the one who should apologize, springing myself on you all. Briony sent an invite, though she didn’t mention she already had guests." I raise my eyebrows.

  "I am quite sure she would have chosen your company over ours. I have the im
pression," Daniel gestures vaguely behind him where a few of Briony’s other guests are mingling, "she quite enjoys a full house." I turn to look around at the veranda a few meters away where I see Rosie staring straight at me, at the same time seeming to see nothing at all, while Paul holds her hand and chats with Jeffrey. The woman unnerves me. Immediately as I allow this thought to pass a wave of shame washes over me, chastizing me for my quick judgement. I turn back to Daniel.

  "Yes, I believe you’re right. She has always liked being the hostess." A memory flits into my mind."I remember when we were girls she would play the mother at all our tea parties. I am less than three years younger than her, but she would convince me that I must obviously be the child."

  I sigh quietly, remembering us sitting in her mother’s conservatory, wearing our frilly pastel dresses, our short legs dangling as we sat in the wrought iron chairs, Briony presiding over the tray of pretend-tea and very real strawberry scones we had filched from the kitchen without being caught. While I tell him this little story, the air about him changes. He sinks deeper into the bench looking, if not relaxed, then at least slightly more at ease.

  "I can well imagine." The corners of his mouth curve decidedly upward. "You might understand my attachement to Caspar a bit better. We did not play tea-time, but we went fishing and hunting and learned how to ride our first ponies together. People change, but often we remain inextricably bound by happy memories and the people we shared them with."

  He is speaking more animatedly than he has all evening, and I am worried I will say the wrong thing and make him retreat back into his shell.

  "I understand," I say, meaning it.

  "I thought you would." The seconds of silence following are not filled with heavyness or sorrow and when I hear the sound of footsteps on dry grass, I am content to leave our conversation where it is, knowing that the first layer has been peeled back, and we are not strangers anymore.