by Tim Bowler
Mom lingered for a moment. “Take a sandwich with you? ”
“No, thanks. I just want to — ”
“I know. It’s all right. ” Mom touched her on the arm. “But be careful, OK? ” And she went inside.
Jess stood there, feeling slightly guilty but still impatient to be gone. A desire had been growing in her mind ever since this morning, and she knew the time and mood were right for it now.
She ran down the clearing, packed up the painting things, and brought them one by one back to the cottage; then turned the other way and started briskly up the hill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Somewhere up there was the source of the river, Grandpa had said, and she felt a powerful desire to find it. She didn’t quite know why. Perhaps, she thought, given her anxiety about Grandpa and the unmentionable thing she was unable to come to terms with, she needed to contemplate the beginning of something rather than the end; to experience something more enduring than human life.
More enduring, even if not permanent. She knew that even these things around her would pass away someday: trees would wither, rocks would crumble, and even the gabbling stream would one day dry up, though she didn’t like to think of that.
Yet these things felt permanent; and that feeling gave her comfort now.
Grandpa, of course, would have no time for such musings. He would tell her to take one day at a time, one second at a time, not to think of the future or the past but to live now; to be a warrior of the spirit.
That was how she’d always thought of him: a warrior of the spirit, a man who had always seized life, run with it, invested his whole being in it. And now, at the ebbing of that life, she wondered whether at last he’d granted himself a moment of grace to look back and evaluate what he had done.
Probably not. Probably he would go on living the present right through to the end. And after that . . .
After that was something she didn’t like to think of.
After that would come soon enough.
She pressed on up the hill, telling herself as her legs grew heavy that the climb would be worth it for the view alone, even if she didn’t find the source. Fortunately there was a path, scraggy though it was, that hugged the stream as far up the slope as she could see; with any luck, it would take her all the way.
She stopped for a moment to gather breath, enjoying the melody of the water as it gurgled past her on its way down to the valley she had left behind her. Then, narrowing her eyes, she gazed up the hill again.
The high ground was studded with tall trees whose peaks seemed to claw the skyline as they swayed in the breeze, yet even from here she could see that the soil up there was rockier, the woodland sparser.
She pushed on, thinking of Grandpa again and how he must have come this way as a boy. Perhaps he’d come with Alfred, though, being the loner that he was and clearly as impatient with others then as he was now, she suspected he’d mostly have come on his own. Like her, he had no brothers or sisters and, like her, he enjoyed, indeed needed, his own company. No doubt he’d been the same as a boy.
Yet they all knew so little about his life then. He never talked about it, even to Dad, and if asked questions would only mutter the same old response: that there was nothing to tell, that the only reality was now, that the past and future were merely bandits who stole from the present and gave nothing back.
So she didn’t ask him about the past or the future or his art or the fire that took away his parents or Dad’s mother, who died when he was five and whom he scarcely remembered. She kept her mouth closed on all these things, though sometimes she yearned to talk about them.
And once in a while, in more cynical moments, she told herself the only reason he tolerated her more than he did anybody else was because he didn’t feel pestered by her, as he so clearly —and unreasonably —felt he was by others.
Yet such moments were rare and usually of short duration. There was something in Grandpa’s eyes, something he couldn’t disguise and that spoke to her in a way his words often didn’t; and her doubts would recede.
She tramped on up the slope, gauging the distance to the top.
It was still some way, and she wondered for a moment whether she should turn back and try for the source tomorrow. Mom and Dad would certainly worry if she stayed out too long.
But the urge to continue was too great. She hurried on, the river still running skittishly past her but the path thinning with every step. A hundred yards farther, it petered out altogether.
She stopped and gazed back down the slope. The cottage was far below her now and only just visible by the base of the valley. She glanced at her watch.
Three o’clock; she really should turn back. She stared up the hill again. The ground was much rockier now, yet there was still no sign of an end to the trees, even though she was much closer to the top. The river had narrowed over the last hundred yards but was still strong and fast and loud.
She walked on, unable to resist the pull of the source. The trees seemed to cluster more thickly here, and the air was darker, danker, more stifling. She hurried forward, anxious to leave this section behind her. Then, with unexpected suddenness, the trees fell away.
To her surprise she found herself facing a slender gorge with rock rising on either side and a long, upland lake stretching several hundred feet before her to an almost sheer face at the end about forty feet high. From the top, splashing down over blanched stones, was a waterfall.
She stared almost in disbelief at the splendor of the sight. This upland lake, she quickly saw, was simply a larger, more muscular limb of the river itself. From where she stood, close to the outlet channel, the ground dipped sharply over hard, impervious stones so that the water rushed thirstily away down the slope. The far end of the lake served as a plunge pool for the waterfall.
And the source must be somewhere above that.
She clambered around the side of the lake, trying to check her footing on the uneven ground yet unable to resist gazing at the water. It was clear all the way to the bottom, and quite deep, at least twelve feet around the middle and deeper still at the turbulent base of the fall itself. But toward the outlet of the pool, the floor of the lake rose sharply to a shallow, stony lip over which the water gushed on its way down through the trees.
She wandered closer to the plunge pool and saw eddies in the water beyond the torrent where the errant powers of the fall swirled before being drawn into the main thrust of the stream and sucked away down the valley.
She knew she shouldn’t linger here —she’d been out far too long already —yet it was hard for her to tear herself away from this place. There seemed to be a kind of spell over it, just as there was by the cottage; as though everything touched by the river held an enchantment. And her yearning to reach the source grew stronger than ever. It was then that the feeling came back to her.
Someone was near.
Someone was very near.
Once again she could not account for this feeling. She had seen no one, heard no one; yet she found herself turning about, scanning the pool, the rock, the trees. It made no sense: Alfred had said there was no one for miles around. But this only gave her more cause for concern: if there were somebody nearby, and that person turned out to have hostile intentions, she would not be able to expect help.
She clenched her fists and told herself not to be melodramatic. The chances were that anyone around here would be a rambler and no doubt perfectly harmless; and it was more than likely her instinct was wrong anyway: she was probably alone after all.
Then she saw him.
Standing at the top of the fall, framed against the sky, was the figure of a boy. At least, it looked like a boy, though he was quite tall and it was hard to make out his features against the glare of the sun. He seemed to be wearing nothing but black shorts, but that, too, was difficult to be sure of. She watched and waited, uncertain what to do, and whether she had been seen.
He didn’t move, didn’t appear to look down toward her,
and seemed almost locked there, as though he were part of the stream itself. Indeed, she suddenly realized with a shock that he must be standing not by the side of the stream but in the rushing water itself, at the very lip of the fall.
She stared, trying to see more, but her eyes were starting to water in the sun. She blinked and rubbed them, and stared back.
But he was gone.
She waited for several minutes, watching, listening, wondering. But he did not reappear.
Unsettled and unnerved, she turned and hurried back down to the cottage.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She needn’t have worried about Mom and Dad. They were closeted, together with Alfred, in the room where Grandpa lay, their attention on him alone.
But she was glad of that: glad for Grandpa because, however much he disliked it, he needed constant vigilance; and glad for herself, too.
She needed to think.
She said nothing about the river boy. Yes, she’d started calling him that, though the words sat uncomfortably in her mind alongside associations with Grandpa’s picture.
She didn’t stay with them in Grandpa’s room but came straight out and sat in the kitchen, eating the rolls Mom had left out for her and listening all the while to the racing stream and the drone of Alfred’s voice.
God, the man rambled; but what was really ominous was that he wasn’t being stopped. Grandpa must be truly exhausted or he would have cut him to bits by now. It was up to Mom and Dad to do something, but they had looked curiously inhibited when she’d put her head around the door. She’d sensed a tension in that room, as though there had been an argument.
If that were the case, she could guess one very likely reason: they’d probably been urging him to let them take him to the hospital for a checkup, or have a doctor called out.
She couldn’t blame them for that, whatever Grandpa said about finishing his picture; if he didn’t receive the medical care he needed, he might not even start the thing again, let alone finish it.
But he would have refused them, and no doubt rudely, and that might account for the strained atmosphere. On the other hand, it could simply be Alfred’s presence that was causing the tension. It was certainly making her edgy.
She heard Grandpa’s door open, then footsteps, and Mom and Dad appeared with Alfred just behind.
“I’ll look in again tomorrow morning, ” he was saying, “and give him a bit of company. Then you and your girl can have a bit of time to look around. ”
“That’s very kind of you, ” said Mom, “but we don’t want to put you out. ”
Jess caught her eye and smiled, knowing what she really meant.
Alfred blundered on obliviously. “Oh, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all. I’m happy to help out, and it gives him someone else to swear at, doesn’t it? ” Before Mom and Dad could answer, he turned to Jess. “And did you go somewhere nice? ”
She looked down, her mind still on Grandpa and the picture; but most of all, on the boy up at the fall. “Nowhere special, ” she said.
“Did you swim? ”
“No. ” She hesitated, then looked across at Dad. “Can I go in and see Grandpa? ”
“You haven’t eaten very much, ” he said. “Don’t you want to finish your rolls? ”
“I’m not very hungry. Sorry, I just want to see how Grandpa is. ”
“He might be nodding off. I think we tired him out a bit. ”
She thought of the state he was in after the attack, and her promise to him, and swallowed the remark she wanted to make. “I’ll come straight back if he’s sleeping, ” she said, and hurried out before they could call after her.
Grandpa was lying on his back, his eyes closed, but he heard her and opened them, and reached out his hand for her. She took it and knelt beside him.
“Help me, ” he murmured, “help me. ”
He said no more and didn’t need to. His face seemed depleted of everything except pain. He turned it from her and stared up at the ceiling.
She felt tears start, and quickly lowered her face in case he looked back and saw them. “I’ll help you, Grandpa. You know I will. ”
It was the picture that was hurting him. She reached out and stroked the top of his head, and he turned his face back toward her.
“It’ll be all right, Grandpa, ” she said softly.
His eyes misted, but he did not speak.
She found the kitchen empty but saw Alfred through the window, still lingering, only now outside the front door. Mom and Dad were with him, clearly struggling to get away. She wondered how they had contrived to get him out of the cottage in the first place.
Still, he did at least show encouraging signs of intending to leave, though each step away turned out to be a false start as some new item of information occurred to him that he evidently considered indispensable to them.
She watched, wishing her parents could be, just for once, a little less polite. But at last, it seemed, he really was going. He’d taken two good steps away from them, then a couple more. Mom and Dad needed no further encouragement. She noted with amusement the speed with which they hurried back into the house before Alfred could think of anything else to tell them.
They were not a moment too soon. They had scarcely closed the door when he turned to call back to them. She smiled to herself, hoping he couldn’t see her face at the window; but he turned away again and lumbered off down the lane.
Suddenly she remembered something. Something important. She ran toward the kitchen door and bumped into Mom and Dad coming in.
“Steady, Jess, ” said Dad. “What’s the hurry? ”
“I’ve got to ask Alfred something. ”
“Sure you’ve got time for the answer? ”
She laughed and they stepped aside; but Dad caught her arm as she passed. “Jess, I hate to say this, but — ”
“I know. Don’t bring him back here. ”
He smiled, a little shamefaced. “He’s very nice, but you know, a little goes a long way. ”
She dashed out of the house, across the clearing, and along the lane that twisted up the valley side away from the river. Alfred was only a short way ahead, his gait as slow and ponderous as his speech. But he heard her coming, stopped, and turned.
“Miss Jessica, ” he said, watching her gravely. Then he winked. “Thought you’d have had enough of me for one day. ”
She looked down, hoping his remark was based on luck rather than wisdom.
“I wanted to ask you something, ” she said.
“Ask away. I’m always happy to answer questions if I can. ” He chuckled to himself. “And . . . er . . . sometimes even if I can’t. ” He took a deep breath to elaborate on the subject but she saw what was coming and quickly cut him off.
“You said there aren’t many people around here. ”
“That’s right. And no fleshpots for the likes of you. ”
“No what? ”
“Fleshpots. It’s all right, I’m only joking. No young people anyway. Different in Braymouth. There’s quite a few young people in Braymouth. There’s — ”
“But there must be some people around here. My age, I mean. ”
“Lonely already? And you’ve only been here a day. I always said this was no place to bring teenagers. Not unless you’ve got brothers and sisters, I suppose, or friends. Kids your age don’t want to spend their time looking at birds and flowers. ”
“You must have. And Grandpa. When he lived here. ”
He stroked his chin. “I suppose you’re right there, though I never thought of that before. But I only really liked it here as a boy when I had company. ”
Company meaning Grandpa, she supposed. No wonder the sparks had flown at times; one boy yearning for company, the other solitude. But she was getting distracted from what she had come to find out. “So there’s nobody my age at all around here? ”
“Not for miles. Braymouth, like I say —now, they’ve got a youth club there, and a discotheque, or whatever they call it, and ther
e’s a fast-food place in the town center where they all hang out and make a lot of noise. But not around here. Too quiet. Nothing happening. ”
She looked hard at him, needing it fully confirmed. “No boys, then. ”
“Boys? No, no boys, like I told you earlier. ”
She looked away. She should go now. He had told her all he could and he was probably already jumping to the wrong conclusions about her.
She looked at him again, unsure whether to question him further. “Do you . . . get lots of ramblers here? ” she said eventually.
“Ramblers? No, not many. Around Braymouth there’re plenty. They go along the coastal path, see. My sister used to be president of the Braymouth Backpackers Association before she got too old for it. I never used to go. I’m not one for rambling, myself. ”
She stifled a giggle that threatened to escape her at this unintended irony, and pressed him further.
“But there must be some people who come walking this way? ”
“Not many. We’re too remote. We’re not on the way to anywhere, and there’s no village or anything, no pub. That’s one thing I’ve always regretted. No pub. I couldn’t have stood this place if I’d been on my own. But my mom and dad only died a few years back, and I had my own wife until last year, and my children, and we all lived here together and worked the farm. And then my daughter Megan and her husband came to live with me because they wanted to start setting up these vacation cottages. So you see, I can’t complain about left on my own. ” He gave her another wink. “But I do complain, mind you. Naughty, aren’t I? ”
She glanced toward the cottage. “I’d better get back. ”
He looked at her and smiled. “All right, Miss Jessica. If you have to. ”
She felt a pang of guilt at being so impatient to get away. There was no unkindness in this man. Perhaps she’d been a little hard on him.
But she didn’t wait for him to start talking again.
Over supper she tried to think things through.