“ Come!”
The creature, poised to destroy, hesitated.
And in hesitating was found.
As Charlie called the creature to himself it seemed to him that they fell. Locked together, they fluttered in a void. All the follies and self-centeredness, all the treacheries, all the petty betrayals and acts of cowardice in his own life came before him. Between him and the creature lay only the question of degree. Both had betrayed. Betraying in particular they had betrayed the universe. Betraying the universe they had betrayed each other. They were lost.
It seemed that after a thousand years they sank to the final pit of negation. There was nothing. And would be nothing.
Suddenly in that moment they were held—by the One who had created them and who now forgave, assuming their debt and its cost from before the foundation of the world.
See, see, where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament. One drop would save my soul. Half a drop, ah, my Christ!
In accepting forgiveness of the One, Charlie accepted forgiveness of creation, forgiveness of the creature. And in knowing that he was forgiven, forgave.
Silence.
The creature had vanished. Yet in the instant before the silence it seemed to the others that they heard—what? A single
siding stAr 375 chord, the restoration of an ancient harmony. For one moment they saw the creature transformed and restored: an angel of the Lord of Hosts. And they might have been tempted to worship, were it not for a voice in the harmony that sang, “I also am a servant. Worship God!” Their spirits soared. The silver wolf bounced and played, and leapt for joy, first around Charlie, then around them all.
Michael could never remember just when he had set out the paten, the chalice, and the book: but now they lay before him and he knew that it was time.
He began the liturgy. It was such a liturgy as surpassed all memories. Never could they speak precisely of what happened—not because it was confused but because its order was too perfect, not because they were lost but because they were found.
They heard a voice: Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
Then another voice that spoke with infinite understanding of the world’s sorrow:
For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples,
And another that replied:
But the Lord will rise upon you, and his glory will be seen,
And then a symphonic crash and they themselves were part of an impassioned cry:
Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising!
Now Michael’s voice, quiet but clear:
And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory.
The Peace was a dance and an exchange of laughter, while the wolf romped in their midst. Someone in a strange cap seemed momentarily to dance among them. Then they and the dance were swept to the altar, in a declaration of the first real- ity. There was ritual salutation, the demand and acknowledgement of joy, recital of the acts of creation and redemption—and the universe sang in uncounted tongues:
Holy, holy, holy,
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus,
Hagios, hagios, hagios,
Kadosh, kadosh, kadosh,
Santo, santo, santo!
Then the voice of Michael again:
… Who in the same night that he was betrayed, took bread and gave you thanks…
They ate and drank bread and wine that were the body and blood of their redemption, and gave thanks. Then the priest dismissed them. With his dismissal he blessed them, and as he spoke it seemed that the ground leapt, the solid earth danced, and the walls tumbled to their foundations. The roof was gone so that great bars of golden light shone through the dust. They were swept through the opening like music and caught into light. For one moment it seemed they glimpsed the outskirts of the glory.
They saw and did not see.
eighty-seven
Saturday morning, February 7.
Cecilia’s cheek was resting on vinyl, cool and sticky. She opened her eyes slowly.
She saw chrome and more vinyl.
Finally she sat up, focused properly, and looked around.
They were back in Papa’s car, parked as they had left it. It was still dark, and the road was illuminated mainly by the yellow sodium glare of streetlights. She was behind the steering wheel. Michael was asleep beside her. Behind them were Mama and Papa, and beside them Charlie, all still asleep. They were where they’d been when they arrived at Cranston College. She looked at her watch. 5:45. Had they fallen asleep when they arrived? Had she dreamed the whole thing? Was she dreaming now?
As she looked at Michael, his eyes opened and met hers. He gave her a sleepy smile. Then he too looked puzzled. She saw memory flowing back and the same questions entering his mind as hers.
“Did you see?” she said at last. “Was I dreaming?”
“That place? The wolf? Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t dreaming,” he said. “Or else I was having the same dream. I saw it too.”
“And something else. Something dark.” She shuddered and
then smiled. “But it was all right—it was glorious—in the end.
You said mass.”
“Yes, it was. I did.”
Cecilia began to remember other things.
“I fussed about blocking that door open. That didn’t make
much difference to anything—just wasted everyone’s time.” “Oh, but it might have been important.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. After all, it was a secret door.”
“That’s true.”
“And with secret doors one just can’t be too careful. Everyone
knows that.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s very comforting, Michael. Thank you.” “Don’t mention it.”
What a kind, lovely man he was. She had a sudden impulse
to lean over and kiss him. Not the kind of kiss she normally
gave to Mama’s and Papa’s friends, but a proper kiss. Whether she would have yielded to this curious impulse
cannot be known, for at that moment, Papa stirred. And seconds later, Mama. They sat up and stretched, blinking at her
and each other. Both looked sleepy. And both remembered the
same things Cecilia and Michael did.
But Charlie didn’t wake up. He looked peaceful, he looked
happy. But his breathing was shallow.
“Let’s get him back to your house,” Cecilia said. “If he’s not
awake by then, we’d better get a doctor.”
As she drove away, Mama looked back, then cried out,
“Look! Look! Behind us!”
Cecilia stopped the car and turned, as did Michael and Papa.
It was an amazing sight. From the center of the college rose a
cloud—a heavy pall she at first took for smoke, billowing and
monstrous, illuminated from below by the streetlights. Hang
Siding Star 379 on—that wasn’t smoke. It was dust. It seemed the archaeologist’s fears had been realized. The excavations at Hadrian’s Grave had collapsed.
“Oh dear,” Papa said, and sighed again.
Cecilia and Mama exchanged a glance.
“Never mind, caro,” Rosina said after a moment, “perhaps in
a little while they can begin excavation again, under someone responsible.”
“Perhaps they can.” Papa looked at Charlie. “Let’s get him home.” Their eyes had been fixed on the cloud, so perhaps it was not surprising that none of them noticed two young men who seemed to have appeared from nowhere and now stood by the college gates. They looked at each other in evident surprise for a few seconds, then set off eastward.
At six o’clock on a Saturday morning the streets of Hackney are quiet. It did not take long to g
et Charlie to the vicarage and onto a bed. Michael telephoned the doctor, then joined the others by the bed.
Figaro and Tocco and Pu all licked Charlie’s hands. He did not stir.
The doctor, who was a friend of Michael’s, came within minutes but could do nothing. Mere human physique could not endure the encounter that Charlie had endured and survive.
At 7:20, as the first morning light was streaking the sky, Michael put on his stole, made the sign of the cross, and began the Commendation, Depart, O Christian soul.
eighty-eight
Siding Springs Observatory. The same day. 5:51 UT.
T
haddeus Quinn looked hard at the photograph in his hand, then at the previous one. He shook his head. Looked again. Impossible. But there is was. “Zaziwe,” he said, “come and look at this, will you?” She came and peered at the two images.
“That’s impossible,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “But there it is.”
The earlier plate showed Siding Star in all its sinister glory.
The second showed the normal constellations. It was as if Siding Star were simply no longer there. Which of course was impossible.
“There’s got to be something wrong with the equipment,” she said.
Tom Daniels joined them. Looked at the images. Agreed with their conclusion.
But there was nothing wrong with the equipment, and every new photograph they now took showed the same thing. Siding Star had vanished, as suddenly as it had appeared. They quickly learned that the Europeans and the Americans had the same story to tell. They communicated with their governments and with the United Nations. The media soon had the story,
382
Christopher Bryan and in no time the news was around the world. Siding Star had vanished. Nobody knew why or how. No doubt its explanation would join the disappearance of the dinosaurs and the emergence of the speech gene as a suitable subject for PhD theses. In the meantime, the important thing was that it had gone. And, for those who had known or speculated enough about its significance to panic, the panic was over. Life could return to normal, or whatever passed for normal.
eighty-nine
New York. Monday morning, February 9.
They brought the special delivery package to Natalie while she was sitting in her office wondering whether it would be a good time to call Charlie. She’d tried twice over the weekend and only been able to leave messages. She had good news— her mother’s medication and oxygen supply had been sorted out and the doctor saw no reason why Natalie shouldn’t go to England on holiday for a couple of weeks. So she reckoned perhaps she could fly out on Wednesday.
As she was about to open the package the telephone rang. It was a man’s voice, with a British accent. He introduced himself as Michael Aarons, a priest from London and a friend of Charlie’s. She was, he said, soon to receive a special delivery package. It had just that moment arrived? Then they’d been quicker with it than he expected. Anyway, he was telephoning because he did not want her to receive it without also hearing a voice, without some personal contact.
The priest was, she sensed, a good man, a kind man, even a wise man: but he could not tell her other than what he had to tell her. So she listened, she thanked him, she acknowledged his suggestion that if at any time she wished to talk to him again he would be available, and she replaced the receiver.
384
ChristoPher BryAn For several minutes she sat staring at the telephone. Then she reached for the package and opened it. It contained, as the priest had said, two letters, one from Charlie, the other from himself.
After reading them she sat for while longer.
“Oh Charlie,” she whispered at last. “I love you so much.” Suddenly she didn’t want to look at the letters or the telephone any more. She didn’t want to look at anything. So she put her arms on the desk and buried her head in them.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked up. Boris was bending over her, his gentle face full of concern.
She tried to speak but something seemed to be wrong with her voice, so she pointed to the letters. He picked them up and read them.
When he finished he put them down and took her into his arms.
“Oh baby, baby,” he whispered, and rocked her softly.
ninety
Buenos Aires. February 15.
“S
eñora Rodriquez! Señora Rodriquez!” The plump cassocked figure had just emerged from the west door of the Church of the Annunciation and was scampering after a tall, handsome woman who was already half way down the steps. She turned and waited for him.
“Yes, Padre?”
“When you stepped in and organized the entire food distribution last week because Señor Ramirez was ill… You did such an excellent job, Senora Rodriguez.”
The woman smiled and shook her head.
“You’ve already thanked me, Padre.”
“Señora Rodriguez, I’m embarrassed to ask you. But… the Catholic Aid office, it’s in chaos. The sisters do what they can but they have no idea how to organize anything. Last week the telephone was cut off because no one had paid the bill—and for once we actually had the money to pay it!”
The woman nodded.
“I’ll come in tomorrow morning and see what I can do.”
“Ah, Señora Rodriquez, we shall be forever in your debt.”
She laughed. “Oh, I doubt that.”
“Well, then, certainly you shall have our blessings and our prayers!”
“Thank you, Padre. That will please me very much.”
ninety-one
I
n early April, Natalie Lawrence came to England. She went to see Thaddaeus Quinn and Zaziwe L’Ouverture, who told her their experience of a brilliant and wise but quiet and thoughtful teacher they’d come to love. She went to Michael Aarons, who told her what he could of his times with Charlie and their conversations, then suggested she go to Exeter to see “my friend, Detective Inspector Cavaliere” who had also played a part in the last hours of her lover’s life.
So, on a sunny morning, Natalie Lawrence and Cecilia Cavaliere met in Cecilia’s office. Michael’s instinct had been good—they liked each other on sight. Cecilia, to tell the truth, was instantly reminded of Verity Jones.
She told Natalie what she could—as much as she understood, which she was aware was by no means all—about the last hours of Charlie’s life and the significance of his death. Yet it was not until Natalie was about to leave that she was emboldened to articulate something that had been lurking at the back of her thoughts from the beginning.
“May I say one thing more about what happened—something rather personal?”
“Please,” Natalie said.
“It’s this. In the few hours I knew him I think I learned two things about Charlie. One was that he loved you very much. The other—well, it’s this: just before we left Michael’s house, Charlie quoted something you’d told him—a story about John Wesley.”
Natalie nodded. “I remember telling him that story.”
“Well, he remembered it too. It inspired him. You inspired him. And your lover was a man of honor, real honor. What I’m trying to say is that some men, just a few, are actually worth breaking your heart over. I think you picked one of them.”
Natalie was silent. Then she nodded and smiled, although there were now tears in her eyes.
“I think I did. I truly believe Charlie was the best man I’ve ever known. I just need to learn to live without him. It might take a while.”
Natalie Lawrence returned to New York the following day. She went on to lead a full and interesting life marked by dis
tinguished service to the republic and the international community. Following retirement, she lived for her last nineteen
years in a small apartment in Paris near the Comédie-Française,
overlooking the Palais-Royal, with a dog and two cats.
ePilogue
t seemed to Charlie that as the mass ended there was ahead of him a light, cool, gracious, and welcoming.
He was still aware of his new friends round him. Of their
good will and concern. He felt the dogs licking his hand. He sensed the doctor, competent and caring. He heard the voice of Michael Aarons, “Depart, O Christian soul…”
By all these good people and creatures he felt himself at once supported and released.
He was being released toward the light.
He heard a voice. “Come, Charlie!”
He drew nearer, and as he did so the light brightened and became glorious, and suddenly before his eyes there was spread the universe that he had loved and, in his own way, served. There was the earth, a tiny blue and silver planet with a single moon. There was the solar system. There the Milky Way, a blazing spiral disc with, at its center, something disordered, a sound misplaced, a light quenched before its time.
Then as he watched and listened there came from the blue and silver planet a voice, a breath. The sound was taken into harmony, the light reborn.
He understood. The blue and silver planet had played its part, and he had shared in that. And order was restored.
Still the vision grew. Other galaxies. And others. The Magellanic Cloud. M31 in Andromeda. M81 in Ursa Major. And others. And others. The cosmos itself, a single beloved jewel, beloved dust, a precious adornment in the dance before the throne.
And he heard.
He heard the music of the dance, the festival of all things, a music beyond music and the origin of all music. He knew that in a way he had always heard it, always known it, and always longed for it: but now he heard clearly, and tingled with joy.
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