The Other of One: Book Two
Page 70
“Goodbye…” he said, sadly.
Coming to fetch him, Icrick pardoned himself before asking, “You’ve finally figured it out, haven’t you?”
“Figured what out, Icrick?” asked William, his head down.
“That one important thing I was telling you of before.”
“You know,” William realised, watching her waning into the blue, “I think I have. It’s something simpler than love, but just as powerful.”
“Go on,” the intrigued Grogoch said.
“Worth,” replied the boy. “Just the tiniest grain o’ worth is all we need to survive in this world. Whether we find it in ourselves, our work, or somebody else. After that, everything else—love, health, purpose, happiness—it all slots perfectly into place. Find a little worth, then life makes sense all of a sudden. Am I right?”
“Spoken like a true scholar, William.” Icrick nodded. “Took Khrum the best part of a hundred and seventy-two years to figure that one out. He’s awfully self-involved, you know. Come. The crowd awaits.”
Back at the gateway, the congregation was of the many. They had all come to see the boy off. Their gratitude was too much for words, and his departure fell hard on them all. William, however, had since come to terms with what he needed to do, and was thereby a little bit more keen to get things moving.
“Well…looks like this is it,” he said, lingering at the portal’s edge, with everyone gathered around.
“Just a moment!” a voice hailed from the crowd, and Redmun emerged. “My apologies, lad. I had a few errands to see to. You didn’t think I was going to let you leave without saying goodbye though, did you?”
“I wasn’t sure,” the lad replied. “Just figured you weren’t really one for send-offs.”
“I would not miss this for the world, boy. Not after all you’ve done! You’ve left quite an impression here. And you have shown me things, lad, that I never could’ve imagined. You have done things that not even Mysun could accomplish. For this, you have my deepest respect.”
This reminded William to ask, “While we’re on the subject o’ Mysun, I was wondering, about that night in Lór…”
“What of it?”
“When Briggun was in his hydra form, I felt myself…changing. Changing into…something! What was it?”
Redmun, hesitating for a second, put it the best way he knew how, by saying, “Do not burden yourself with these details now. The Pooka, he is dead, and now your home awaits you. These other details, you shouldn’t concern yourself with. Now a handshake, I understand, is customary?”
Doing just that, the lad said, “You’re right, it’s over. I’ve been so long asking questions, I suppose it’s hard to stop. But on that note, what’ll you do now?” he smiled, for having asked another question.
“Well, as far as I know, a cavalry of Panther-Riders are making their way up north to hole-up in some abandoned strongholds. Ahueé again, would be my guess. There have been curious tidings from up that way, and something tells me they are up to no good. I shall make it a new objective of mine. But I may take my time with it, after all this.” He winked.
Wishing him the best of luck, William shook his hand, and made his way around the group to give them each a fine hug. Not counting Khrum, whom he patted on the back, because he was too small for a hug.
The leprechaun said to him, with no small degree of secrecy, “Hold your horses there, lad. Aren’t ya forgettin’ somethin’?”
“Forgetting something?” William asked, thinking back. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Ahem! A certain wish, perhaps?” whispered the leprechaun, from the side of his mouth.
“Wish? What wish?”
Pulling him to one side, Khrum explained, “In case ya didn’t know, I have the power ta grant ya one wish ‘n’ one wish only! But it has ta be somethin’ within reason! Us leprechauns are only shmall fellas, so we can only grant little miracles. So, what’s it gonna be?”
“You fairly kept that one a secret!” laughed William. “Could you not o’ told us about this when we were starving? And why didn’t anyone else tell me about this? “
“Ya have no idea how much I wanted ta tell ya!” sighed the leprechaun. “But, technically, I shouldn’t have said anythin’ at all! Those are our rules, ya see. You’re supposed ta catch a leprechaun ‘n’ demand your wish. Otherwise we keep our lips sealed ‘n’ say nothin’. Normally it’s three wishes, but only the older leprechauns have that skill. An’, ta be honesht, I can’t think o’ anyone who is more deserving o’ my one wish than yourself, my lad. As for the others, they thought I traded it for a glasseen o’ brandy one night, years ago.”
But William didn’t know about it. He never knew much about the leprechauns.
“What about your Grollo leprechaun whatchamacallit?” he asked him. “Aren’t you breaking their rules by doing this?”
“The G.L.A.?” asked Khrum, when lower still, he muttered, “Ara, let them feck-off with themselves. A bunch o’ dreary aul’ shites anyways!”
“Khrum!” an old Redbeard barked.
Thinking he’d been well and truly nabbed, Khrum straightened up, and said, “Klaomh! Is it yourself? Shtandin’ there long, are ya? Listenin’.”
“Ha? No, no,” the old Redbeard said, to Khrum’s relief, and was looking about like a chap who’d just misplaced his pocket watch, “jusht shwung by ta say well done on your mission there. Very brave o’ ya, it was. An’ I was told by the resht o’ the lads on the G.L.A ta pass on a message. Your seat has been reinshtated. Congratulations! Now, musht be on my way. Beer ta be had, n’ it won’t drink itself. Besht o’ fortunes, boy! Besht o’ fortunes!”
“Well I’ll be…” Khrum said, with a pleasant smile. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
“Well done, Khrum. You deserve it,” William said.
“Why cheers, lad,” said the leprechaun, still very surprised. “Now, back to business, shall we? One wish. Wish away!”
Glancing up at that summer sky, William uttered to himself, “…One wish?”
Staring high into where he’d last seen her, he already knew what he wanted, more than anything in the world. But he was also aware that some things were best left decided by time and not wizardry; whereas the selflessness of saviours was a lesson to which he’d become greatly accustomed.
In the middle of the crowd, next to Stell and Icrick, the Dullahan was tending to a little bundle in his arms. A solitary sadness filled his expression.
William needn’t have said anything. Khrum already knew what he was thinking.
Holding the boy in such high esteem, like he never failed to amaze him, he nodded, “Very well, lad. Very well.”
William then made for the tunnel entrance, and Crosco felt the bundle stirring in his arms. It squirmed like a waking babe. In his excitement, he unravelled the cloth to see two big brown Poppum eyes peering up at him. A sight he never thought he’d see again.
The creature was yawning and stretching out his little furry arms like he was none the wiser. None of them could believe it. Of course, later suspicions suggested that William might have had something to do with it. Khrum was equally as guilty, amongst his own crowd. But he’d always known that there were times during their quest that the daring Pew was far better off sedated, even if it was at the hands of the reaper. Such simple blooded creatures should never have to see such things.
Waving at everyone, William was halfway inside the portal when it started sealing shut.
“Travel safe, young William,” the Erethaoí said with a smile, as the crowd returned waves of their own.
After that, he was gone.
Only darkness was visible in the tunnel. But the more his eyes adjusted, the more he noticed a distant light. A faint glint of life, way off at the other end. He hoped to get a departing glimpse of his friends waving at him from the entrance, but it had already vanished, much like it had done when he first stepped foot inside the Grollo Halls, all those many months ago.
Our bold young
hero was, indeed, aware of how much he would miss Lythiann, and all who dwelt there; succumbing to the fact that, the sense of adventure which had become such a big part of his life, would be shortly at an end. He could learn to live with this loss. It was the girl who’d truly captivated his soul, his devotion, his love. He would’ve given it all up at the drop of a hat, his life back home, to spend the rest of his days with her. However, to see the curse lifted and feel his mother’s warmth again was also something he needed to have.
“Goodbye…” he spoke to the darkness, before indulging in the rose’s sweet aroma.
His eyes softened at the familiarity of it. Of her. How all the more it scarred him then, when a single petal wilted to his feet.
William, questioning nothing of his choices, made a start on his long walk homeward.
The time went by slowly, yet it fazed him little. For he knew that, by the time he finally reached home, the sooner it would be before the flower had completely withered. He therefore gripped it tightly to his heart for as long as he could.
Ahead in both time and distance, the far light was ever growing, brightening the way of William’s path before him. He strode upon a giant wooden beam with great ribs of oak curving up on either side. It resembled the belly of some vast galleon, only it ran on and on, until it disappeared into the tunnel’s glow. The petals were withering quicker by then, until there was but one left clinging to the stalk for precious life. A silent outer wind then came and, almost with a sense of loving care, gently lifted the petal from the stalk and carried it gracefully back to whence it came. In that moment, what started out as a small bulb of light up ahead, suddenly exploded aloud, enveloping William in absolute whiteness, the sort of brilliance you would need to duck from.
And when William opened his eyes again, he gasped, “I’m home!” And so he was.
Spanned out, under the moon and stars, was Ballycongraggon, in all its treasured beauty. The soft touch of Irish grass beneath his feet, along with the wonted winterish smell of turf fires, relit memories of a simpler time. A time of books and strolls; of slingshots and sweet buttermilk. It all seemed so perfect, until he remembered the rose. He opened his hand to see if anything was left. But his palm was empty. Not even the faintest smell remained. His last bit of Lythiann was finally gone, so he treaded on home to see the one person who could put a smile on his face. His mother.
The thrill of seeing her again was starting to take as he picked up his pace across those fields he knew so well.
As far as Deirdre was aware, her son was only gone for a few hours, if not minutes.
He spotted the lake rippling with stars, and his little white cottage bordering it just as he’d always remembered it. He thought it strange, to see no lights burning in the front room. For he was half-expecting his mother to be waiting for him, so she could give him a long lecture about being a little late, which he was greatly looking forward to.
Unlatching the gate like it was no less tender than a butterfly’s wing, he snuck up the garden path and carefully twisted the front doorknob. He opened it with a delicate pop and stuck his eye in for a discreet peek around the tiny, dark hall. Nobody was around. Probably in bed, thought he, practically sniggering in anticipation. Closing the door gingerly behind him with a closed eye, he tip-toed to her room—the second on the right—where, as gingerly as before, he opened the latch so he could have a little peep in for himself.
Indeed, a lantern was burning on her nightstand; alas, there was no sign of William’s mother, and her room had been completely overturned.
Belting the door open with such a kick that it hopped off its top hinge, he stood shaking in the threshold with torturous fright. Her bedclothes were in tatters and tossed about; stools were buckled and flung into the corners; paraphernalia was blowing around in the wind, because one of the windows had been smashed; and all of her paintings were dangling every which way bar normal.
Fuming, frightened, and flustered, he exclaimed, “What the hell is this?!”
He’d been slapped so hard by terror that he wasn’t sure what to do, only traipse around the room, babbling.
Sums were whizzing around in his mind, setting out calculations of time differences between Ireland and Lythiann. But he slid so rapidly into a downhill muddle that he found it taxing to so much as subtract six from eleven. All he could come up with first was that, perhaps, his timing had been a little miscalculated. Or an even more plausible explanation would be that the Glog had being lying about the times all along, and he was actually years gone. Glorgan was, after all, a deceitful old wretch. Even so, he couldn’t rely on guesswork.
Stressed beyond means, he snatched up an old orange crate which his mother had used for storing things, propped it up against her wardrobe, climbed up, and grabbed the wooden box. If one were to ask him why he brought those guns with him, chances are he couldn’t say, not in his state. Perhaps he was worried there may be trouble ahead, and therefore he might need them, God forbid. And his mettle had been too finely attuned to say he might not consider using them. Not after what he’d been through. After the amount he’d already slain.
Packing them safely into his old backpack, he sprinted so fast towards Mr. O’Connell’s farm that his legs felt like they were going to get all tangled up and send him tumbling. Fortunately, he was too worked up to falter so.
“Mr. O’Connell! Mr. O’Connell!” he shouted, banging his palms furiously upon his red wooden door.
There was no answer. From outside looking in, his cottage seemed just as empty as William’s. With a slipping start, the boy sped around back to try the other door, when he discovered that two of the living room windows had been completely smashed in, whilst inside was an utter mess. Wallpaper was ripped off walls; records were in a heap; couches were gutted; pots and pans, flung about; whilst newspapers were scuttling around in the tunnelling breeze. For some reason, William could not but blame himself, what with notions of curses, Ahueé, Pookas, and dragons trundling around his brain like a whirlwind of apocalyptic scale.
“The village!” he said, snapping into a sprint, and running up the big green hill.
His haste lessened then, when all he could see over the brim of the hill was a dim carmine halo made more apparent before the dark veil. Afraid of what it might be, he stopped, speculating unkindly ideas. His hands hanging by his sides, like his jaw was to his chest, William slouched towards the hill’s peak where he saw his home of Ballycongraggon in smoulders. Black as a million matches after the lick of a single spark. Whether it was Mattie’s old jarvey, or his great, grey-bricked school, every corner of the village was either charred through, or lost within the hellish pipes of bellowing smoke. Not a soul was heard nor seen.
White-orange sparks peppered the shadows thereabouts, as ruby embers trundled away from the winds which strove to extinguish them. Meanwhile, the stifling smell of roasted wood cast itself mockingly up into William’s face, as tiny white flakes of ash swooped up and drifted all around him. William, the poor, poor fellow, could not comprehend this tragedy before him. Was he not supposed to have anything?
What set forth as a sense of uncertainty, sluggishly evolved itself into a sense of being cheated. Like his side of the bargain was, somehow, a farce. Granted, he still couldn’t ensure if Lythiann had a part in this, or if it was just some horrifying coincidence. Or maybe he was, in some way, lucky? Lucky to have been spared this disaster, which could just as easily have been accidental as intentional. Something, however, kept on telling him that it was the latter and, moreover, that he had something to do with it; as if he could have stopped it somehow, had he been there. Or, grimmer still, that he was the cause of it.
“D-Did I cause this?!” said he, feeling sick to his stomach. “Was this b-because of me?”
His heart didn’t pound. It felt like it had stopped. Tears were too afraid to leave his eyes, and his face was of blank emotion. A sure calmness before a total breakdown. Down the hill, and into the wreckage, he languidly roamed.
Coming back full-circle to where the stone cross had stood in the town’s centre, he went unexpectedly still. Nothing of outside interest made him do this. It was simply him, vanishing inside himself. A snail slipping back inside its shell to die. Like some resurrected corpse, he hung vacantly in that same spot for some time, staring unblinkingly into nothing. All of a sudden, the dead quietness returned to haunt him, and he collapsed to the ground with a wail to make your stomach climb. Every aching tear he’d ever bottled up throughout his young life must’ve come gushing down his cheeks in that moment, painting his eyes blood-red.
After all he’d been through, this was his repayment? This? Dragging his limp body under the cross, he balled himself up into clutching arms, and wept until his throat felt raw. Hours this lasted, until eventually he withdrew into another blind stare, a loaded revolver in his hand.
Getting a feel for it, he pondered.
What was left for him? Lythiann? Why bother? The burning knots of grief had tightened themselves too stubbornly for him to see beyond his devastation, such that his ideas turned colder than even the steel that was in his hand. Solaces are often difficult to see when overshadowed by pain; by bereavement. Of blackened brick, a mental monument of pure shame had risen so tall above his conscience that nothing would ever eclipse it. It was a constant reminder of everybody he’d failed. Pain had won its final duel.