“Is that you, Bert!” he called anxiously, and when there was no response, he called again. “Who’s there?”
The rain picked up, spattering off the splintered planks at his feet, blurring his view of the pines, seeming to measure the passage of seconds with the oscillating hiss of drops seething in the pine boughs.
“Hey!” Tyrell shouted. “Hey, who the hell are you?”
Again there was no response, and, unnerved, imagining the presence of a madman or worse, he was about to head back to the bunker when the figure moved out into the clearing and came toward him with a faltering step. A woman. Strands of whitish blond hair plastered to her forehead. In her late twenties, or maybe a bit younger. She had Nordic features, glacial blue eyes, a strong chin and mouth—a face that, while not beautiful, had a kind of imposing sensuality. She stopped a couple of feet away, fixing him with a look that seemed both hopeful and cautious, and made an incompleted gesture with her hand that caused him to think she had wanted to touch him. “You’re from the boat,” she said.
“How do you know that?” asked Tyrell, taken aback.
“I saw it burning last night.” She pushed some stray blond hairs back beneath the hood of the slicker; a raindrop slid down her cheek to her chin. “I tried to get down to the beach, but the storm was too fierce. I lost my way. This morning I went to the bunker. I knew if anyone had survived, they’d take shelter there.” She wiped rain from her face with the back of her hand. “Your friend’s still asleep.”
“Is he, now? Well, he had a hard night.” Tyrell blinked at a drop that had trickled into the corner of his right eye. “My name’s Jack Tyrell.”
“Astrid.” She pronounced the name tentatively, as if hesitant about identifying herself.
Entrusted with her name, he felt suddenly assured, masterful and in control, solicitous of the weaker sex.
“And just what are you doing here, Astrid?” he asked in an expansive tone.
“I was…studying. The spiders…the white ones. You must have seen them. I’m an entomologist.”
“Bugs, is it?”
“Yes, I…I was supposed to be picked up, but the storm…the boat couldn’t get out. My friends…they’ll be here once it lets up.”
Tyrell could understand her temerity—a woman alone in this godforsaken place; but he sensed that her hesitancy was the product of something more than a simple fear of assault, that she was in the grip of some profound uncertainty.
“Maybe,” he suggested, “we should go back to the bunker. Get out of the rain.”
“No,” she said, glancing behind her, to the side, then fixing Tyrell with a wide-eyed stare. “No, I’ve got a place. It’s…closer. And there’s food if you’re hungry.”
“God, yes! I’d be eternally grateful for anything you can spare.” He flashed her his most winning smile, but it didn’t brighten her; she kept darting glances in all directions as if to reassure herself that everything was as usual. He noticed the swell of her breasts beneath the slicker, the flare of her hips, and felt a pang of desire that—with a dose of Catholic guilt, chiding himself for such lustful thoughts—he put from mind. Besides, he told himself, her friends would be coming. Now if she wanted to get friendly…well, that was another story.
“There’s no reason to be frightened,” he said. “I won’t harm you. Now Bert…that’s my mate. He’s a different matter. Beats his wife, he does. And carries a knife.” He laughed. “And in spite of that, in spite of being ignorant as sin, the sod thinks he’s a bloody genius. Yeah, you best watch yourself with him about. He’s a menace even to himself. But I’ll keep him in line, never you worry.”
Her expression flowed between confusion and astonishment, and then those emotions resolved into a mournful laugh. “Oh, I’m not worried,” she said. “I know there’s nothing to fear.”
V
Cisneros slept on, slipping from dream to dream, dreams that would have amazed him with their bizarre materials under any other circumstance, but which he had come to recognize as part of an intricate and consequential process that was most natural in its incidence, the underpinnings of creation itself. All life, he understood, was a dream. This was something his mother had told him when he was a child, and he had accepted it as a child’s truth, the idea that one’s days were but a fleeting image upon the mirrored pool of God’s imagination; he doubted that his mother had seen it as other than a pleasant fairy tale. Now he realized that it was the ultimate truth. Life and dreams were, indeed, one and the same, and he had been fortunate enough by virtue of fatigue and terror to dive deeply enough beneath the surface of sleep so as to reach the source of dreams, the place from which life derived its impulse and meaning.
Millions upon millions of lives, of dreams, flowed to him along the golden skeins that held him fast, but with a connoisseur’s selectivity he chose to inhabit only those who had been involved in some way with the island: Indians, farmers, soldiers, civilian observers, and those who, like him, had come there by chance. He dreamed that he was a boy playing atop the cliff, dropping stones into the boil of water at its base, lying on his back with the grasses tickling his nose, watching clouds so big and white and fat, they might have been famous souls. Then a young woman came with a man from Gay Head to take him as her first lover—he lingered in that dream, deriving prurient delight from her tremulousness, her pain and pleasure. Then a mad submarine commander who had been stranded by his crew and thought his craft was gilded with baroque ornamentation like something out of Jules Verne, that it was armed with crystalline torpedoes containing drugs and music, and believed that he had sailed in secret waters wherein he and his crew visited lost continents and sported with sea-green women and were borne to ecstasies of sensibility by the verses of rhapsodes with beards of kelp and black pearls beneath their tongues.
These dreams were more complicated than the others in aspect and particularly in their use in playing the game of the world. Compared to the rest, they were like rooks and bishops in relation to pawns…for an instant he didn’t understand where he had gotten that image. He had never played chess, had no familiarity with the pieces or the moves. But then he realized that, informed by the dreams, he was becoming a new man. All the evil compulsions of his former life were falling away like an old skin; his petty lusts and avarice, all the intemperate qualities of his nature, were gradually being subsumed by a contemplative, sensitive character whose parameters were dictated by the contagious sweetness of more civilized souls, and he began to see that there was purpose to this change, that not by accident had he been led to Nomans Land. He was to provide a new turn in the affairs of God, to implement a new conceit. This knowledge dispelled the remnants of his fear, and he gave himself over utterly to the usages of the dreams, eager now to learn not only what deeds he must perform, but at whose agency he was to perform them. He felt that he was dwindling, growing insubstantial, becoming merely another dream, and rather than allowing this to unman him, he experienced an intoxicating joy in the act of surrender, in the sense of unity that pervaded him, in the understanding that despite all his human frailty and faults, his sense of destiny and special purpose was soon to be fulfilled, his sins had been forgiven, and he had been chosen to know the lineaments of his God.
VI
Set back from the ruins of the old farm, half-hidden in the grayish green shade of the pines, was a small shack with a tin roof…probably a toolshed that somehow had survived the years of rockets and foul weather. Its weathered boards were black with dampness, and the roof was half rust, but Astrid had done a good job in making a home of the place. A hot plate—battery-operated, with two burners—and a hurricane lamp were set on a rickety table, and beside them lay a litter of scientific equipment: microscope, test tubes, and so forth. The floor was covered with a carpet of dry grasses, and a supply of canned food was stacked along one wall; the gaps in the boards had been sealed with mud, and a sleeping bag was spread in the corner, with a couple of blankets folded atop it. After a few minutes, with th
e lamp giving off an unsteady orange glow and the hot plate heating the little space, warming cans of stew, the shack took on a cheery air; the sounds of the wind and rain seemed unimportant and faraway. Only the cobwebs spanning the rafters struck a contrary note, and when Tyrell, thinking they might be too high for Astrid to reach, asked if she wanted him to beat them down, she said in a dispirited voice that there wasn’t any point.
“They’ll just come back by morning.” She handed him a scorched can of stew, cautioning him to grip it with a rag because it was hot. “They’re all over…millions of them.”
“Yeah, some of ’em were busy making a nest out of ol’ Bert.” He sat down with his back to the wall, cradling the stew. Watched her sit opposite him. She had taken off the slicker, and proved to be wearing jeans and a heavy white wool sweater. A bit on the skinny side, he thought; but not bad. She caught him staring at her, and he tapped his spoon on the can. “This is good.”
She said nothing, continuing to stare, tension in her face.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.
She gave a start as if her mind had been elsewhere, shrugged and said, “No.”
“Must be something,” he said. “You look like a little noise would put you through the roof.”
She laughed nervously. “It must be the storm.”
“Sure, now,” he said in an arch tone. “That must be it.”
She ducked her eyes, stirred her stew.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, and had another bite.
“Not very.” She glanced up sharply, appeared about to say something else, but kept silent.
He spooned in more stew, chewed. “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
“Woods Hole,” she said listlessly.
“Never been there. I’m from New Bedford myself. And before that I was living in Belfast.”
He had expected her to make some response, but she just kept on picking at the stew.
“I had to get out of there,” he said. “Trouble with the Brits, y’know.”
Silence.
“I was with the IRA,” he added weakly, his mood hovering between anger at her disinterest and concern that she might not believe him. He decided on hostility. “Am I boring you?”
“In a way,” she said. “In other ways…no.”
“Oh, is that right?” He set down the can. “Then perhaps you should enlighten me as to how it is I’m boring you so I can avoid it in the future.”
“It’s not important,” she said.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ve got a notion you’re thinking badly of me.”
“What if I am?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t, that’s all. Is it you’re swallowing all the bloody Brit propaganda about the IRA? Because if that’s it…”
“Stop,” she said. “Just stop.”
“Because if that’s it,” he went on, “I’m here to tell you it’s nothing but a heap of lies.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Her voice shrilled. “Everything’s enough of a lie as it is without you adding to it!”
“Listen to me, now!”
“No,” she said. “You listen! You were born in Belfast, but you never had anything to do with the IRA. Three years ago you emigrated to work at your cousin’s restaurant in New Bedford, and you’ve done nothing more notable since than get a local girl pregnant.”
For a moment he sat stunned, unable to voice a denial. “How,” he said finally, “how could you know that? I’ve never seen you before.”
Her chin was trembling. “I’ve a gift,” she said, and gave a despairing laugh.
“You mean you’re psychic…something like that?”
She nodded.
He caught her wrist, angry, afraid that she knew all his secrets; but she wrenched free and stared at the place where he had held her as if expecting to see a bruise. She looked up at him, and he thought he detected a new fervor in her eyes; he took it for disgust with his lies, and wanted—for a reason he couldn’t quite fathom—to repair the damage.
“I’m sorry,” he said, deciding to confess everything, to explain that self-deception had sustained him against the guilt he felt on fleeing Belfast. “You see, I was…My uncle was in the IRA. I never felt right that I didn’t follow him. The family…he was all they ever talked about. My bloody Uncle Donald. Famous and in jail. But I couldn’t take after Donald. I was afraid…that was part of it. But mostly I just never understood how it was you lifted a gun and killed a man. I mean, God, I hated the Brits. But I never could understand how it was you killed. You know what I’m telling you?”
She said nothing, but he could feel the pressure of her cold blue eyes.
“Are you listening to me?” he said. “Goddamn it, I’m talking to you. Are you listening?”
“I am.”
“I’m a coward,” he said. “I’m not ashamed of it, really. I was worried what other people might think of me. Donald was so goddamn famous! I didn’t want to suffer by comparison, and that’s why I’ve lied. But I’m quite satisfied being a coward. There’s nothing wrong with it. If there were more of us cowards, maybe the world would be a better place.” He held her eyes, trying to read her opinion.
“We’re all of us frail.” She said this with such wistfulness, he had the idea that she was not likely to judge him, that nothing he had done for bad or good was of any consequence to her. And that made him uncomfortable. Without the armor of lies, the motivation and structures of guilt to direct his conversation, he could think of nothing to say. He picked at a shred of beef with his fork.
“Do you want some more?” she asked.
“Not just yet.”
Rain hissed against the shack, a gust of wind shuddered the boards, and thunder grumbled in the distance. “I should see about Bert,” he said glumly. “He’ll be hungry, too.”
Astrid put a hand on his arm. “Stay awhile longer,” she said. “Just a little while. I’ve been here alone for so long.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Seems like years,” she said distractedly.
Tyrell leaned back against the wall; despite his anxiety over having been caught in a lie, the warmth in his belly was making him feel relaxed and garrulous. “I suppose ol’ Bert can wait for a bit.” He gestured at the cobwebbed ceiling. “Why don’t you tell me about our tiny friends here?”
Her face froze.
“You said you were studying them, didn’t you?”
“That’s right,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“So…what’s their story?”
She said something he couldn’t hear.
“What’s that?”
“They’re poisonous,” she said.
“Poisonous?” He sat up straight, feeling the inflamed spots on his arms and legs. “Shit, I must have half a dozen bites! What should I do?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “The poison acts quickly. There’ll be some hallucinations, probably. But if you’ve been bitten and you’re still alive, then you’re immune.” She laughed palely. “Like me.”
He remembered Cisneros. “I’ve got to get Bert! They were all over him. I…” Something in her face stopped him, and a chill point materialized between his shoulder blades, expanded and fanned out across his back. “You were down at the bunker. You said he was sleeping.”
“You’d been through so much,” she said. “I didn’t want to…I don’t know. Maybe I should have told you. I was confused. I’ve been here so long with just the birds and spiders…” Her chin trembled, and her eyes glistened.
“What happened to him?”
“Your friend wasn’t immune.”
“What are you saying…he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.” Tyrell glanced up to the ceiling, to the star-shaped white spiders crawling along their webs. He remembered talking to Cisneros that morning, nudging him, and the man already half a corpse. Filled with loathing, he jumped to his feet, grabbed a stick from the tabletop, and
began swatting at the webs.
“Don’t…please!” Astrid caught him from behind, got a hand on the stick, and wrestled for control of it. She looked terrified, wide-eyed, a nerve twitching in her cheek, and more than her struggles, it was the sight of her face that made him quit.
“What’s the matter?” He pushed her away, swung the stick at the webs. “You like the little bastards, is that it?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s…”
He took her by the shoulders, gave her a shake. “Will you do me a favor? Tell me what it is with you? One second you act like I’m the last man in the world and you’ve a great inner need for my company. The next it’s like you’ve heard the beating of leathery wings and the howling of wolves.” He shook her again. “There’s something not right here. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”
“Damn it!” He slapped her. “Tell me!”
“Nothing! Nothing!”
He slapped her a second time.
“It’s the truth!” She began half to laugh, half to cry, building toward hysteria. “Absolutely nothing! I swear it!”
Ashamed of himself, he helped her to sit and put his arm around her, comforting her with muttered assurances. Maybe it was loneliness that had gotten to her…that and the morbid nature of her studies. She’d probably been stranded here a week or so, and knowing what he did now, he doubted he’d be able to take more than a week on Nomans Land without showing a few cracks. She sighed, collapsed against him, nestling beneath his arm, and he was astonished at how settled and solid that little show of trust made him feel. He couldn’t recall having felt this way for a very long time—perhaps he never had—and he wondered if it was the fact that he’d been forced into honesty, into confession, that had cleared away the rubble and granted him such an unimpeded view of himself and the world. It seemed that in giving up his defenses, his lies, he had also given up guilt and fear; and now, sitting here with his arm around a strange woman in a strange place, as vulnerable as he had ever been to the assaults of chance, he felt capable of making real choices, ones determined by logic and the heart’s desire, and not reactions to something dread, something he wished to forget. His fear, too, had fled, and he could see that fear for him had not been specific, not merely concern for his own life in the political moil of sad Belfast; he had been frightened of everything, of every choice and possibility. And he realized that not only had his fear been based upon falsity, but that everything he had loved as well—women, country, and all—had been emblems of that fear, objects upon which he could pin the flag of his lies and the affectation of morality. Staring at the grain of the weathered boards, as intricate and sharp as printed circuitry, he thought he could see the path ahead. How he would give up his illusory notions of heroism. Find a mild, strong life. Become an ordinary hero. Sacrificing for family, for friends. That was the best you could do. The world was too strong a spell for any single man or idea to break. No matter how passionate your outcry, how forceful your blood and intent, it went on and on in its wicked, convulsed web, spinning nightmares and tragedies. That was the lesson to be learned of Belfast, of all the wild boys and their warring heat. Surrender. Look within yourself for worlds to conquer and principles to overthrow.
The Ends of the Earth Page 19