Boy on the Edge
Page 17
“We’re back, Henry,” she whispered in his ear. “And everything will be all right now.”
Henry wiped his face and looked at her, not believing.
Standing beside her, smiling brightly, was his little brother.
“I’m here,” Ollie said.
Henry’s Last Letter
Dear Ollie,
This will be a short letter and my last one too, and that’s a promise.
I think I’ve written everything I wanted to tell you about, and I’m also getting real tired of writing. It’s very hard work. But there was much that I’d always wanted to tell you. And now I have.
Now I just look forward to riding my horse down the valley, all the way to the beach. Do you remember the golden sand? That’s my favorite route, riding along the beach, with the surf on my left and the green fields on my right.
I still remember our first morning here at the new farm. You were so tired that you slept like a log. But I couldn’t wait to go out and look at the green mountains and the broad river, winding its way through the fields toward the ocean at the mouth of the valley. Everything was so different from the old place. And so much better.
I like to imagine that John and Mark made it to Spain, but I doubt it. Their parents sued the reverend, and he got a long sentence. The papers called him a murderer, because neither the boat nor the boys were ever found again. I felt bad for a very long time. After all, it was me who showed them the boat in the first place. And it was me who pushed the boat into the water. But I was just a kid.
I almost went with them that night, you know. And maybe that would have been the end of my story. Then I never would have known happiness. Imagine that. One simple decision is all you need to change your life forever. Like deciding to stay or to go; to say yes or no, turn right or left.
If you hadn’t arrived at the reverend’s little farm in hell, with your books and your mouth full of words, I could have been lost at sea with John and Mark. You and your funny poems, especially the one about the sun, somehow made me change my mind that night. I can’t describe how or why. I don’t know the words for that. But I did, and so I didn’t perish. Instead I moved to this place with you and Emily, a place pretty close to heaven, if you ask me.
We have fifty sheep now, and as you know they’re Emily’s joy, especially in the lambing season. I’ve got twelve cows, a brand-new milking machine, and a fine strong bull. Last year I bought another horse, so now there’s one for you when you come back.
When will you come back to visit?
Last Christmas you were in Scotland, and the year before somewhere in France. I know you’re busy and all, but your home is here.
Ever since you left I’ve set the table for three on all your birthdays, and filled your glass with milk. All those years you’ve been away I’ve also finished your slice of birthday cake. And every Christmas I’ve put your plate on the living-room table where you used to sit at dinner. Maybe it sounds funny, but this makes me feel that you are back home with us. Like you never really left.
I’ve read your books about the great kings of old times. It’s really strange, but those are the only books I read that make me fall asleep almost instantly. I guess you could say I’m not that interested in history. But that’s not the reason; when I read your words I can hear your voice reading to me.
And then you’re not so far away anymore.
Maybe you’re imagining that I miss you terribly, Ollie, and perhaps you’re feeling really bad about that. But you shouldn’t. You must believe me when I say I don’t miss you at all. It’s true. The reason is that, instead of missing you, I just really look forward to the day you’ll come back.
I hope you haven’t forgotten how the farm looks or where to get off the bus. Just so you won’t get lost, I can tell you that the walking distance from the main road up to the farm is exactly three verses from the “Poem of the Sun.”
Your brother, Henry
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by Fridrik Erlings
Published by arrangement with Meadowside Children’s Books
Cover photographs: copyright © 2014 by Simon Stock/Gallery Stock (cliff); copyright © 2014 by Galyna Andrushko/Veer (boy); copyright © 2014 by Rhombur/Veer (lava)
Published with the support of Bókmenntasjóður / Icelandic Literature Fund
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First U.S. electronic edition 2014
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2013943072
ISBN 978-0-7636-6680-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-7037-5 (electronic)
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