by Chris Walley
“My pleasure,” came the response. “I’ll continue to pray. And promise—if you decide to fight, let me know. I’ll ask that you’ll have help.”
“Help?”
The look on the broken face became strangely intense. “If you please, you’ll need help against them.” He muttered to himself, “Knives and guns won’t do. Not for them.” Merral found something oddly dogmatic about his tone. “Not for them all anyway. Not the one in the chamber. And that’s the one that matters.”
“I see; the one in the chamber, the one that matters,” Merral said. “Can you tell me anything more?”
“No.” There was a stiff shake of the head. “Don’t know any more. Don’t really want to. Nasty. But Mister Merral, don’t be surprised at what you find there.” He wrinkled his face. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off.”
“A moment, Jorgio. Brenito was anxious that I kept an eye on you. Please don’t leave Ynysmant. If you have to travel, leave a message with Daoud.”
“Tut, me travel?” Jorgio smiled. “Hardly. But may the Lord’s blessings be with you, Mister Merral.”
Then he shook hands roughly with Merral and in his determined, tilted way set off walking toward the town.
Merral watched him go, then, full of bewilderment and foreboding, walked back down to his office.
That evening, Merral met Isabella at her house and, after some discussion, they decided to take a stroll along the town’s lake-edge walk. The walk was popular in summer when the nights were shorter and hotter, but this evening it was still too cool for many people to be about, and for much of the way, Merral and Isabella were on their own.
As they walked along, Merral sensed that Isabella was in a strange mood. There was a hint of a carefree, almost reckless frame of mind in the way she bounced down the steps and swung round lampposts. In contrast to her, Merral felt slow, leaden, and preoccupied.
“I was wondering whether you would make time to see me,” she said in a light but purposeful tone. “You seem to be so busy.” Merral caught a gleam of inquiry on her face.
“Yes,” he answered. “I’m sorry. I hardly seem to know whether I’m here or there. I went to Isterrane just for the day yesterday.”
“My! It must have been important,” Isabella said, peering intently at him. “I wish I could do that. I find Ynysmant just so limiting. So what was it? Intruder business, of course.”
Merral looked around, but there was no one who might overhear. “Possibly. But I’d rather not discuss it.”
Isabella gave a girlish pout. “A secret, eh? We all have secrets now. Well, I suppose we can live with them. In fact, I quite like the idea. Openness can get dull, can’t it?”
“Can it?” Merral countered, sensing that yet another area of difficulty was about to open up. “Well, I suppose a lot of worthwhile things can, in theory, get dull. But it was never something that worried me.”
“Well, it did me.” She grabbed his hand. “But I suppose I do feel uneasy at the way I am being pushed to the margins of your life. I mean, Vero and this Anya and Perena know everything. But I don’t.”
“I’ve told you lots. More than I should have.”
“But there are limits. And there’s lots I ought to know. I’m now heading up the new priorities team. Did I tell you?”
“No. That’s new. I thought it was someone else.”
“It was, but she didn’t realize how much work there was, and she has two children. So I had a chat with her and she has stepped down.”
“I see. So you now report directly to Warden Enatus?”
“Exactly. And I think we ought to be told about the intruders. I mean if they came south we’d be on the front line. Is that the term?”
“I think so; Vero would know. But you do make a point. I’ll have a chat with Vero—I’m seeing him again soon.”
“No doubt. But I’d appreciate it if you could raise the concern. I feel as if I am being cut out of your life. You seem to be so busy.” There was recrimination in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Merral answered, feeling her hurt and the validity of her argument. “Perhaps things will settle down. But what I’m doing is very important. As is what you do.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, but to Merral her response sounded very automatic.
Then they stopped and together leaned over a stone parapet, peering at the waters of the lake. Isabella was so close to Merral that he could feel her shoulder gently touching his. He was, he decided suddenly, really very fond of her.
“Merral,” she asked, “when are you leaving again? And for how long?”
She isn’t going to like this. He stared at the ink-dark waters of the lake. “Well, tomorrow evening. And I could be away maybe for a week or more.” Or forever, if I decide to lead an attack and pay the price.
“Oh—,” came the response, full of surprise and even hurt. “But there is a lot we have to discuss, you know.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, I just feel,” she said, her words soft and tentative as if she was expressing something for the very first time, “that, in the light of our understanding, our relationship needs to be bonded more closely. And with you so—well—distracted, it’s hard.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Merral said, choosing his words carefully. So, he thought with a pang of unhappiness, she has reminded me again that she sees our “understanding” as a private equivalent of a commitment. He wondered, for the hundredth time, how he could try and retreat from that position.
Suddenly there was a noise to his left and he looked up. A crowd of perhaps a dozen teenage boys, all in the same kind of light gray trousers and jackets, came by in an excited and chaotic circle. They were joking noisily, jostling each other and taking turns to run up and down the sloping wall with squeals and shouts. Have teenagers always been so rowdy? Merral wondered. And why are they trying to dress so much alike? Or am I now seeing shadows that are not there?
After they went past, he saw Isabella looking at him, her face strangely pale in the light of the streetlamps.
“Oh, Merral,” she said in her softest voice, “you know Helga Demaitre, works over in Communications? Lives in Lazent Street by the market?”
“I know her elder brother better. Why?”
“She’s just got engaged to some lad from the south side.”
“That’s nice,” he replied, feeling that it was hardly news.
“The thing that’s interesting,” she said with a quiet insistency, looking at him intensely with her oval eyes, “is that she told her parents after they had decided.”
“I see,” he heard himself say in what seemed a rather distant and feeble voice. Somehow, the night seemed to have grown chillier. “That’s . . . well, I’ve never heard of that. What did they say? The parents, I mean?”
“Well, after the initial shock, they agreed. Afterward they decided it was a good idea. Interesting, eh?”
“It is,” Merral said, realizing as the words came out that what he found interesting was not what Isabella did. The news troubled him. If we are to honor our parents at all, we must surely not present them with accomplished actions. Not in that area, at least.
“Let’s walk,” he said. “I’m feeling cold.” He started walking away.
Isabella followed him, putting her hand in his. “I admire her,” she said with determination.
Merral, aware that Isabella was scrutinizing his face, felt he should not show any emotion.
“You see,” she went on, “she took the initiative. Now that’s sometimes important.”
“Well, yes,” Merral replied, forced onto the defensive, “there are times when you have to make a stand. But it’s tricky to go against things that are—well—part of tradition.”
“Yes, that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” Isabella said with enthusiastic confidence. “Just tradition.”
“Well, sometimes . . . ,” Merral countered cautiously, “tradition is a good thing.” He had a certainty that, whatever he said, he
couldn’t win.
“And sometimes,” she said, her voice filled with something like defiance, “tradition needs to be challenged.”
Under the light, he saw Isabella look at him with an oddly hard expression. “You know, Merral, the Gate going may actually be a blessing in disguise.”
“It may?” he answered, barely able to keep the horror out of his voice.
“Yes. And it’s not just me who says it. There’s something of a feeling of release, freedom almost, in the air.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s subtly exciting. You can feel it with the youth especially. Like that group that just passed us.”
So, it wasn’t just me. Then the implications of what she was saying sank in, and something seemed to tighten around his heart. He was aware that she was staring at him, waiting for a response.
“As always, Isabella, you are stimulating,” he said, in as mild a tone as he could manage, desperately wanting to lower the intensity of the conversation.
She squeezed his hand gently. “Oh, Merral, I hope I’m more than just stimulating to you.” He saw her frown. “But I do think you, we, need to challenge our preconceptions. I think we are in danger of being trapped in a situation that no longer exists.” She paused, and when she spoke again her tone was lighter and happier, as if a light had broken into her mind. “The past is over. There is a new world to think about. The horizons are open. Don’t you agree?”
“Oh, I’m thinking about it. . . . Thinking very hard indeed. But I think there’s something to be said for waiting. At least for us.”
“You are so cautious, Merral. You really are.” There was now a note of irritation in her voice. “Oh, do loosen up!”
Merral was aware that she was smiling, but somehow it seemed to be a rather artificial expression. He was still wondering how to answer her when they turned a corner and came across a group of his old school friends on their way to a café. To his relief, they insisted that Merral and Isabella join them, and he was spared any more difficult conversations until much later, when he walked back with her through the deserted and echoing streets to her house.
“So what do you think we should do?” she said, holding his hand firmly.
It’s no good. I can’t prevaricate forever. “Isabella, now you ask me, my decision is this: I wish to do nothing for a couple of weeks. Then, if things have settled and I know better what I am doing, well, you and I will have a long talk.”
“And then?” came the rapid reply.
“Then, maybe, just maybe, I will approach my parents to reconsider things.”
“Not before?”
“No.”
“Oh, Merral,” she said, disappointment filling her voice, “I thought we had a commitment.”
Feeling peculiarly irritated that she saw their understanding as much more than he did, Merral replied sharply, “Well, Isabella, a starting point would be exactly what you think this wretched commitment means.”
As he heard his words, he regretted them. But it was too late.
She dropped his hand and stepped back, staring at him, her mouth half open.
“So it’s a wretched commitment now, is it, Merral D’Avanos?” she snapped.
“That’s not quite—”
“Oh, you! You don’t care at all!” Her eyes flashed in anger. “All you care about is your own wretched project with that outsider, Vero!”
Then she whirled round and clattered heavily up the stone steps to her house. A moment later there was the sound of a door slamming.
Merral was aware that he was shaking and that his stomach felt as if he was going to be sick. He slowly walked back to his house, his mind preoccupied with a single thought: he had had an argument with Isabella.
The next morning, as Merral landed in Herrandown, the matter still loomed over him. As the rotorcraft pilot lifted off and flew her machine eastward, Merral was met by his uncle and aunt who hugged him in turn.
“Good to see you, Nephew,” Barrand said. “You just passed through last time. When was it? Yes, over a month ago. Ho, too quick.”
“Yes, sorry about that. I’ve been so busy.”
“Not good for you,” Zennia said with a smile. “Come up and stay.”
“Perhaps one day,” Merral answered. “But today it’s just a brief visit too.”
He looked carefully at them, watching for anything untoward. Somehow, he felt reassured by the fact that they seemed healthy, if slightly weary.
“So how are things?” asked Merral, looking around the hamlet. Now, with the fresh vegetation, the new grass, and the blossom on the trees, Herrandown looked a tranquil and happy place.
“Better,” his aunt replied. “Thankfully. Look, I’ll go and put the coffee on. You men go and chat.”
As she left, his uncle patted Merral on the shoulder. “Oh, come over to the office.”
“So how do you find things, Uncle?” Merral asked.
“Hmm. Well, in some ways, Zennia is right,” Barrand said. “They’re better. The hounds aren’t so nervous, for example.” As if to make the point, one of the dogs came up and rubbed against Merral’s leg.
His uncle continued as they walked along, “So we don’t feel as physically threatened as we did. I mean, no one goes into the woods on their own. As you suggested . . . But, oh, I’m wondering if that was an overreaction.”
He picked up a stick and threw it for the dog to catch.
“No,” he repeated slowly, as if to himself, “not physically threatened.”
“What about other things. In other ways?”
“Well,” his uncle replied, “it’s hard to express. Sometimes I think it’s as if a dream has ended. I don’t know whether it’s the Gate going or something else. I only know that when I look back on how we lived before Nativity . . . it now seems it was almost a different world. I mean I used to really enjoy what I was doing here. But now . . .” He shook his head. “Now, it’s all changed.”
He fell silent as they walked into the office, which seemed to Merral to be more crowded and disorderly than he remembered it. Barrand pulled up a chair and lowered himself heavily onto it.
Merral lifted a stack of maps off another chair and sat down.
“I suppose it’s not surprising,” his uncle said after a minute’s silence. “You see, now that they are cutting back on the expansion program, the whole purpose of being here has changed. I mean, if they do build a new Herrandown now, it looks as though it will not be in my lifetime.” He tapped stout fingers thoughtfully on the chair arm. “I suppose you could say that we’ve really lost our purpose here. Maybe that’s the problem.”
How disturbing. His uncle and aunt had been carefully selected for this job and must have been assessed as having a resilient psychological makeup. Yet now it looked as though they were having trouble handling the changes that were happening to them.
Merral looked around the office, suddenly feeling that something was missing.
“Uncle, what’s happened to the painting you had? The Lymatov? A Last View of Hesperian.”
Merral remembered the conversation they had had about it and how Barrand had felt that it symbolized everything the Assembly stood for.
“Oh, that.”
His uncle stared in a rather abstracted manner at the pale outline on the wall where the painting had hung. “That. Yes. Well, I took it down. It’s safe in the house. I suppose it sort of irritated me in the end.”
“But I thought you liked it?”
“Well, I did. But, I suppose, what with the loss of the Gate . . .” Barrand seemed vaguely embarrassed about the matter, and Merral decided not to pursue it.
The conversation turned to the recent departure of the quarry team and then his uncle, suddenly apparently uncomfortable, rose to his feet and suggested that they go back to the house. “The coffee will be ready and the children may be back from school. It’s a half day, of course. When did you last see Elana?”
“Well, it would have been, what, a month ago? Then she was still under the weath
er.”
“Oh, she’s better now. But changed . . .”
Five minutes later, Merral was forced to agree that Elana had changed. It seemed that she had, at a stroke, crossed the boundary from an attractive girl to a rather pretty young lady. He tried to pin down how it was that she could have altered so much in such a short time. Physically, she seemed to have grown and could now, he thought, have passed for much older than her fourteen years. Perhaps it was the way she now wore her blonde hair, or dressed; certainly the tight blue woolen pullover left no doubt to her newly gained femininity. Yet he felt that it was more than just the physical changes. There was a look of mature self-awareness about her small face, and he felt that her manner and poise was now that of a woman.
When their eyes met, she smiled with a strangely warm, knowing, and oddly adult expression. But the smile disquieted him.
He looked away and concentrated on his aunt and uncle. He tried to distance himself and listen to what was being said and to watch the unspoken body language between his uncle, aunt, and Elana. In some ways, there now seemed to be no tensions just under the surface ready to snap. Yet in other ways, he was not reassured. Merral was disturbed to find that his uncle now played little music and that his aunt had unfinished canvases.
After finishing his coffee, his uncle ambled over to the window. There he rested his elbows on the sill, looking out. “You know,” he said in a regretful tone, “I’m no longer sure about the artistic side of me. It’s funny.” He turned and looked at Merral. “I always used to enjoy being a quarry master and being artistic; the two things worked together. Now, it’s one or the other.” He sighed. “It’s very strange. I think it’s the long winter. Or the Gate going, of course. That’s had repercussions.” Then, he turned back and stared out of the window again. Soon after, the rotorcraft pilot sent a message that she would be landing in an hour. Merral, unhappy about the atmosphere in the house, decided to take a walk outside. There was much he wanted to think over.
He strolled behind the house to look over the sunlit hamlet. The air was buzzing with insects, birds were calling from within the woods, and there was a taste of the longed-for summer everywhere. Merral found a smooth grassy bank, lay down on his back, and stared skyward, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face as he tried to relax.