The Book of Air

by Joe Treasure

  ‘Listen, Agnes. I have to go soon, or be caught here with you. I can’t let you out, because they’d lock you away forever and send me to the forest to fight with wolves and scroungers.’ He was looking at me now and his eyes were full of fire. ‘I can tell Megan I don’t love her. That I thought I did but it was a mistake. I’d take a beating from her father and suffer all their dark looks if I knew you wanted me and only me. If I knew you’d be good and let them let you go.’

  His eyes were too fierce. I pulled my hair over my face to shut them out, and to cover my tears. But I couldn’t hide my sobbing. I wanted to say what he wanted me to say, but I didn’t know if it was true. Or if it was truly Brendan I wanted. Or if I wanted neither of them, but only to be myself.

  And how could I promise to be good when I couldn’t even promise to bleed when it was already past my time to bleed. Long before I’d stopped my noise he’d gone, locking the door again.

  The cherry stones were on the floor beside me. He’d forgotten them in talking of the murk. Or in asking things of me I couldn’t give. I picked them up because Roland didn’t want them found, but thinking: who minds what moulders in this room? I took them to the window to push them through the broken pane, but kept hold of them because Roland had brought them. It was a kind thing he did to bring me cherries. So I hid them under the bed.

  I looked in the mirror to see who this Agnes was that Roland had come to visit, to ask her what she had done with the Agnes everybody wanted her to be. If I turned my head I could see my eyes in one piece of the glass, my mouth in another, the dirt around it streaked with tears, such an ugly unwashed face for Roland to look at. It made me angry that any other villager could go to the river and I must stay uselessly here. I would ask the Reeds for water. I would hammer at the door and shout and no one should rest until I had water enough to wash in. Then I was sad again that mother was dead and Roland to marry Megan and there was no one to care about my face or any other part of me.

  Down in the yard I heard the hollow sound of a dry log pulled from the pile, and another, and the horses whinnying. I felt the warmth of the sun on me and watched the stain on my mouth turn to blood. I thought I was hurt in some new way. Then I understood. Not dirt, and not blood either, but cherry juice. And I had wasted it. If I had kept the cherries, if I had waited for Roland to go, I might have squashed them between my legs, letting the juice run on my skin and stain my skirt. I would have shown the Reeds when they came for my pot.

  But now I have nothing to show, and must hide even what I have, rubbing at my face with spit.

  Jason

  There’s a noise of knocking and creaking and I think I’m listening to the rocking chair. But the rocking chair is down in the TV room – the snug, you called it, a better name for it now the TV is dead. It’s the bedroom door I can hear. The draught from the window has set it off. It would be an easy job to fix the catch, but it’s low on my list.

  I think I was dreaming of the rocking chair – because of the door creaking, probably, and maybe because of what happened with Simon earlier this evening.

  I was in the kitchen and heard a racket from the snug. When I went in, the monkey was clinging to the side of the rocking chair, throwing himself one way and then the other and making those high humming notes that sound like laughter. Simon was sitting on the floor in front of the chair, watching the TV screen solemnly, absorbed by its blankness.

  ‘All right, Si?’ I said.

  He didn’t look at me. He just said, ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘Too much telly.’

  When he raised his eyes to meet mine, I thought at first he was annoyed at my stupid joke. Then I saw his puzzlement.

  ‘Uncle Jason.’

  ‘Yes, Si.’

  ‘Where are all the…’ He sniffed and hummed and his neck tightened, so I squatted to his level and waited for the word to pop out. ‘… people?’

  ‘They died, Simon, remember. They caught the virus and died.’

  ‘No they didn’t.’

  ‘It’s sad, I know.’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘I’d bring them back if I could.’

  ‘No, I mean on TV. Where are they all?’

  ‘Oh. They were just people too.’

  Aleksy came into the room. ‘Come, Rasputin. I’ve a treat for you.’

  The monkey clambered from the rocking chair to his shoulder.

  ‘Not the cartoons,’ Simon said. ‘They weren’t people. Sponge Bob, Dora the Ex… plorer.’

  ‘No they weren’t people. But people had to draw them and do their voices. People had to send them whizzing through space to our TV and make the electricity so you could switch it on.’

  He thought about that for a bit. Then he said, ‘My head hurts a lot.’

  Aleksy stopped in the doorway. ‘You have headache? I get you aspirin. How about that?’

  Simon looked up at him with a blank expression.

  ‘Didn’t no one ever give you aspirin?’

  Simon shrugged.

  ‘A pill to make your headache better?’

  Simon thought about this, and said, ‘Baby cetamol.’

  ‘Baby seat moll?’

  ‘Zackly.’

  ‘I get you this, then. Baby seat moll. I mix it in water.’

  ‘And Urs’la…’ He paused. It wasn’t the sound he was struggling with but the memory. ‘Urs’la gave me rescue remedy.’

  ‘How many drops?’

  Simon held up three fingers.

  ‘So one baby seat moll mixed up in water with three drops Urs’la’s special remedy.’

  I followed Aleksy into the passage. ‘Aleksy, what are doing? We haven’t got any of that stuff.’

  ‘You know, Jason,’ he said, ‘you are not always so clever.’

  Simon was saying my name, so I went back into the den and sat in the rocking chair.

  ‘When someone died, Urs’la mmm-planted a tree.’

  ‘That was nice of her.’

  ‘Can we, then?’

  ‘Can we what?’

  ‘Mmm-plant trees.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Count up how many.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Si, no one can do that.’

  ‘Count up.’ He was glaring at me now. ‘On your fingers. One for each person.’

  ‘Christ, Si, there aren’t enough fingers.’

  Django came in. ‘What’s happening, Simon? Aleksy says you’re in pain.’

  ‘Calm down, Django. It’s just a headache.’

  ‘Don’t speak for him. He has his own voice.’

  Aleksy reappeared, holding a glass with an inch of cloudy water in it. ‘Here you are, Simon. Drink up like good boy.’

  Django put a hand between them. ‘What’s that you’re giving him?’

  ‘Nothing. Something for his head.’

  ‘So is it nothing, or is it something?’ Django gave an ambiguous smile. ‘You see, Simon, how they’d pull you along with cords of deceit.’

  ‘Take it, Simon,’ Aleksy said. ‘Will make you feel better.’

  ‘Cords of deceit like cart ropes. But you’re not a horse, are you Simon. You’re not an ox.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Django,’ I said, ‘let him drink it or not drink it, what difference does it make?’

  Abigail stood in the doorway, drawn by our raised voices. I was conscious of how she must see us, confronting each other, ready to fight for control of Simon’s headache.

  ‘Simon,’ she said, ‘go and fetch some logs for the stove. Fill two baskets. Then you should go to bed.’

  When Simon was gone, Aleksy raised his arms in a gesture of surrender, drank the cloudy water, and followed Simon to the door, swinging the empty glass. Django relaxed, as though the sight of this placebo had really unnerved him. He flashed me a smile that expressed either conciliation or triumph – I couldn’t tell which – and went out into the yard.

  I was alone with Abigail. She hesitated then asked m
e what the argument was about.

  ‘Django’s got this obsession with controlling Simon, what he eats and drinks even. And Simon seems to think he’s got to go along with it. It really gets to me.’

  She put a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t let it, though, Jason. I want you not to be angry.’

  ‘It’s not just about food. He’s filling him with weird ideas.’

  ‘We can cope with all that. But we have to be the grownups, you and me. That’s what we have to do now.’

  I was conscious then, being close to her, that I’d sweated all day and hadn’t been to the spring yet to wash. She didn’t seem to mind and I was glad of that. I had a mad impulse to kiss her, but I didn’t. I’m glad of that too. Her stillness calmed me, as it always does.

  After a moment she said, ‘I should help Maud with the milking,’ and I was alone with the rocking chair and the television.

  The wind’s getting stronger, and the sound of the door comes louder and more frequent. I get out of bed and look around for something the right thickness to wedge under it. There are your old books, Caroline, in the alcoves on either side of the chimney breast, novels mainly. Even after you started reading on a tablet and declared yourself corrupted, you hung on to them. I hesitate to use anything you once loved.

  It occurs to me that I should teach Simon to read. And I should teach him to count and do sums. We should get the TV out of the snug and put the room to better use. Except there’s nothing useful to be learnt now by sitting in a classroom.

  On the top shelf, there’s an old computer manual, impenetrably useless even when computers still worked. I reach it down. I’m on my knees with the door shut and I hesitate, thinking of Simon and his headache. Remember how he used to climb into our bed, Caro, when he first came to live with us. After you’d gone we always slept together until we left London. One of these nights, I reckon he’ll need me again, and I don’t want my door shut against him. So I open the door as wide as its hinges will allow and jam the manual between its lower edge and the floorboards.

  For a while I stand at the window. There’s a clear sky full of stars and the sound of the wind pushing through the trees and the house breathing.

  Agnes

  I have done what I could. For part of the night I smelt the air in the woods. But they tricked me and things are worse than ever. I have heard words harder than any text in the Book of Air.

  I knew if I cut my arm on the glass they would see where the blood came from. If I called them to see the blood while it was fresh, the wound in my wrist would show and they would bind it up and slap me for my insolence. But with the cherries eaten only blood would do. I had the pen and nothing else and must use it somewhere they wouldn’t see.

  I was afraid to at first and sat with the pen, not sure how to begin. Then the Reeds came with food and left, and came again having emptied my pot, and I knew I must wait another day to be set free. At dusk I made myself do it, sitting in the narrow space where the walls are tiled in stone. There was more blood than I meant. I cried out, but no one came.

  Even if they hear me, they know not to come.

  After a time I reached up and took my white feather from the shelf and soaked its tip. I crawled on my knees to the door and pushed the feather under it. Then I crouched low to the floor with my mouth to the crack and blew, watching with one eye while the feather lifted, scurried and settled. I slept then, just I where I lay.

  Footsteps woke me and the creaking of boards on the landing. Then silence. Then the scrape of the key – not turned but pulled from the lock – and the sound of breathing, with a faint roughness in the throat that told me who this was that looked for me through the keyhole. The room was full of greenish moonlight. If I had lain in the bed, Brendan would have seen me there. If I had been asleep how long would he have watched?

  I got to my knees, steadying myself on the door, and whispered that I was ready, that it was time. My eye searched for his and saw movement, then light, then darkness as the key slid in.

  ‘You see the blood,’ I said. ‘It’s time. You can let me out.’

  I heard his tread on the staircase and shouted, ‘Tell them it’s time.’

  I thought I might wait until morning, but it was still dark when the Reeds came. They led me down the backstairs, through the stables, and out into the High Wood, careless of my weakness and my bare feet. I asked them were they taking me home, told them this wasn’t the way, asked if the Mistress had seen my blood. They said nothing, but I felt the hardness of their hands.

  There was a fire burning in the clearing among the birches and a pot steaming over the flames. I was dizzy with hunger and the summer air and the smell of the broth. They knelt me on the ground and let me sink back on my heels. One of the women took a ladle and filled a cup. I raised my hands to take it, but they kept hold, pouring faster than I could swallow and I coughed some of it back. Sweet and sharp it was with a taste of earth. They poured more and my mouth was all peat water and fungus. They threw a blanket round me and for a while I watched the flames rise and weave and spit sparks as big as fireflies.

  Then I was pulled up again and led stumbling in among the trees to another clearing, where ancient oaks towered above me. They sat me on a chair facing a dark figure, thickly veiled, and behind her, like blossom on a bush, a blaze of candles to blind me. She made a movement with her hand and we were alone. Everything moved oddly. I saw all the blades of grass where the light caught them, the different ways they curled and twisted, and the caterpillars climbing.

  Her eyes were covered but I felt her looking.

  I asked her, ‘Why have you brought me here? What is this place?’

  Her answer was no more than a whisper. ‘The dialogue box.’

  ‘What is the dialogue box?’

  ‘My domain.’

  ‘What happens here?’

  ‘A window opens.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Your home is the red room.’

  ‘I was to stay until I bled. The Mistress promised.’ I felt the tears coming, I felt so sorry for myself. ‘I am Agnes daughter of Janet. Agnes daughter of Walt who died when I had seen only eight summers. My home is Walt’s cottage – my cottage. I want my own bed.’

  ‘You are a cry from the red room, a knocking on floorboards, a scrape at the door.’

  ‘I am Agnes.’

  She leant towards me and murmured at my ear, ‘Pass a word and use a name.’

  ‘Agnes, daughter of Janet. I work at the Hall, chopping wood, lighting fires, sweeping staircases and passageways, studying the Book of Air.’

  ‘Figuring the task bar.’

  ‘I feel strange. Am I dreaming you?’

  ‘They’ve put you in a sleep state.’

  ‘Where is Brendan?’

  ‘Lost in the Book of Windows.’

  ‘Where is my mother?’

  ‘Your mother is dead. Why did you speak like that at her burial?’

  ‘She lived all those years. She wasn’t nothing. If Jane why not Janet? Where is Janet’s book?’

  ‘There are four books. Everybody knows this.’

  ‘Cooking and scrubbing, sweeping the ash from the fire grate, feeding the pig.’

  ‘Four books with the Book of Death.’

  ‘Food for the pig is all she is now. No more talking in her sleep. No more pain. No more sighing. No more stinking of piss.’

  ‘Can you be trusted with a secret, Agnes?’

  ‘Yes, anything.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You spoke at your mother’s burial about the Reader.’

  ‘Where is he? Where is Brendan? It was wrong of him to let them take me.’

  There was a sound then and a movement of the head and I knew who this was. Not a Reed at all, not a woman even, but Brendan himself. I would have known him at once if they hadn’t fed me mushrooms.

  ‘Can you be trusted to be good,’ he said, ‘if the Mistress lets you out? Will you stop your mouth at burials? Will you keep these wild though
ts to yourself?’

  ‘Will she let me out?’

  ‘If she does.’

  ‘This is blood on my skirt, look. You can tell her. And tell her I’m sick. My throat is sore. It’s too cruel to lock me up. My feet are bruised from pacing.’

  ‘Show me, Agnes.’

  I raised one foot towards him and he took it on his lap. So soothing it was to be held, to feel his hands on my ankle and on the aching sinews of my calf. He reached for the other foot. There was such steadiness in his touch, and so firmly he held and stroked me, drawing my skirt above my knee and pulling me towards him, that I felt my whole body grow slack and the tears come freely to wet my face.

  Then such sorrow and compassion in his sighing. ‘And this will be our secret, Agnes?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘our secret.’ And I was so lost to myself that there was only pleasure as the hands strayed higher, opening me to the cool night air, so content I was to know nothing and to think nothing and to let my body become servant to another’s will. I had no sense of danger, until I remembered my book held tight against my back by the belt at my waist.

  I moved suddenly to straighten myself and to hold his hands from reaching around and underneath me.

  I said, ‘I have a bigger secret, anyway, bigger than this. Bigger than riding to see the scroungers.’

  He stopped and looked at me, ‘What secret?’

  I wouldn’t have said these things. I would have kept everything hidden. But the broth the women fed me had moved me sideways from myself.

  ‘What secret, Agnes?’

  ‘I have a baby.’

  ‘But you bled.’ He made no more effort to soften his voice.

  So I cried to him directly in his own person. ‘Why have you done this to me, sir? Locked me away to hear voices and go mad?’

  ‘Not me. The Mistress. The women.’

  ‘Why did you let them?’

  ‘It’s been cruel for me too, to lie so close to you, night after night, and think I only had to unlock your door and have you. I’ve fought myself to leave you alone. And all the time thinking it wouldn’t be so long. You’d bleed and they’d let you out.’