The Ecliptic

by Benjamin Wood

  He did not show up for dinner on his first evening, and I found myself worrying about him more than I had reason to. What if he had caught the flu, I wondered, or pneumonia? I could not bear the thought of him alone and suffering in his room, having had a bladder infection myself during the summer: there were few things quite as lonely as a summertime fever, with the sunshine spearing in through the shutters as you lay waiting for the provost’s medicine to take hold. I believed a winter illness might be the only thing worse. And so the four of us agreed—not entirely unanimously—that we should pass by his lodging after dinner, just to make sure he was in decent health.

  Pettifer was curious to see the boy’s studio and find out what he was working on. ‘He’s surely too young to be a painter,’ he had suggested at dinner. ‘I’ve known a few good illustrators under twenty, but still—seventeen. Awfully young to have any sort of authoritative voice or style. Unless he’s one of those ghastly pop artists. He doesn’t look the type to me. But then, why would they have given him a studio when there are plenty of free rooms upstairs?’

  Fullerton had been allocated the remotest lodging on the grounds, set fifty yards back from my own, in a closet of pomegranate trees and dwarf oaks, and so many varieties of oleander in the spring. The refuge comprised ten buildings, spread over what was said to be nine acres but which felt more like fifteen. An imperious fin-de-siècle mansion with spindly wrought-iron cornices loomed at the dead centre; its timber panelling was so weather-struck that its entire bulk had taken on a dreary, elephantine colour. The provost lived on the top floor. He had decided against repainting as the building’s very drabness was its most effective disguise. In certain places, below the guttering and such, we could make out the remnants of the original aquamarine gloss and could imagine the house as it once was, the majestic thing it was made to be.

  At full capacity, the other twelve bedrooms in the mansion were occupied by artists whose projects demanded little by way of space or apparatus: the playwrights, the novelists, the poets, the children’s book writers were all sheltered here in humble rooms, along with Ender and his staff of two: a youngish woman, Gülcan, who cooked, cleaned, and laundered, and an ungainly fellow called Ardak who saw to the garden and generally fixed things about the place that did not work (if only he could have fixed us too). The day room was on the ground floor, the kitchen and mess hall on the level above. Orbiting the mansion were eight basic cinderblock huts with flat shingle rooftops that guests would often sit upon when the weather allowed, watching the trawl of the sea, examining the stars. These were the studio lodgings for the painters, the architects, the performance makers: any artist who required a broader plot to work in, or who had materials and equipment to store. (Only one sculptor had been admitted in our time, and she had made such a commotion throughout the workday with her chisels and hammers that there had been great relief when she finally left—no others had been invited since.)

  The studio huts had all the grandeur of shoeboxes, but they were spacious enough to feel untrammelled, and had large windows that vented cool air and natural light. Mine served its function as well as any workspace I had ever owned. I had everything I needed: a bed to sleep on, a coke-burning stove to warm my fingers by, regular meals up at the mansion, a place for ablutions and calls of nature, and, above all, a glorious peace I could count on not to be broken.

  As we approached Fullerton’s lodging, we found his door hanging open. The lamps were on and a stream of yellow light was angling out onto the trodden snow outside. ‘I’m quite sure he said to leave him alone,’ Quickman warned us. ‘He might actually be getting work done in there.’

  ‘Shsshh,’ I said. ‘Can you hear that?’

  There was an odd din emanating from behind the studio. It was not a musical sound as such, though it had a bouncing sort of cadence. ‘See, I told you—he’s perfectly all right,’ Pettifer said. ‘We’ve done our duty. Let’s go.’

  MacKinney pulled on my elbow.

  ‘I’ll fetch the board then, shall I?’ Quickman said. ‘Pretty sure I had it last.’

  ‘Knell—are you coming?’

  ‘You three go. I won’t be long.’ I could not settle until I saw the boy again. Quickman’s backgammon games sometimes ran late, depending on how well Pettifer fared against him, and I planned to stay up afterwards, working until dawn—I would probably miss breakfast. It seemed cruel to leave Fullerton unchecked for all that time. ‘I’m just going to look in the window.’

  The others started backpedalling through the snow. Then they paused, waiting in the moon-blue space between the dwarf oaks. They made hurry-up gestures with their hands: ‘Go on then!’ ‘Get on with it!’ ‘Don’t take all night!’

  I walked up to the bare front window of Fullerton’s lodging. The shutters were folded back and the inner blind was not yet closed. Nobody was inside. His canvas bag lay open on the floor with most of his clothes spilling out. There was a classical guitar leaned against the bedframe. He did not quite have the look of a composer to me, or the swagger of a rock’n’roll singer, but I thought perhaps he could have written music for the theatre or the folk scene.

  It was then that he emerged from around the side of the hut, dragging an oil drum behind him. I had no time to move away. When he saw me, he stood still, but he did not flinch or seem surprised. He carried on hauling the empty drum through the snow, towards a patch of level ground, where he shoved down hard on its edges to stabilise it. ‘Knell with a K,’ he said, sounding less angry than I expected. ‘Are you lost?’

  ‘I just wanted to see how you were feeling.’ This came out rather meekly. ‘You missed dinner.’

  ‘Wasn’t hungry,’ he said. ‘Mystery solved.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  He gazed at the ground. A fat bird cawed and streaked the dark above us. Fullerton jerked his head up. ‘The crows are all grey here. I can’t get used to it.’

  ‘You should see the herons when they come in the spring. They make nests all round the island. It’s wonderful.’

  The boy gave an uninterested murmur. Then he turned for his lodging and walked straight inside, leaving the door wide open. I was not sure if he was coming back. I waited, hearing the scuff of his footsteps on the floorboards. After a moment, he came out with a stack of what seemed to be pamphlets or magazines, bearing them in his arms like offerings. He did not look at me, just tipped the entire set into the rusty drum, rumbling it. The glossy covers glinted as they dropped into the can. He dusted off his fingers and headed for the door again, stopping only to squint into the trees. ‘Your friends are waiting,’ he said.

  ‘Will we see you at breakfast?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  I could not understand his hostility, so I did what felt most natural to me: I turned the problem inward, assumed that I had spoken out of turn. ‘I’m not usually one for small talk,’ I said.

  He sighed. ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘Well, I’m trying to make a special effort.’

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t need it. The whole point of coming here was to be alone. I really don’t get on with people much.’ And he threw up his hands and carried on into his studio.

  ‘You’re much too young to talk that way,’ I said, when he came back. Now he was holding a set of ratty papers, banded with a thick elastic. A burgundy passport was on top of the pile, under his thumb.

  ‘I’m old enough to know my limitations.’ He dumped everything into the drum. ‘Why did you come here? For company?’

  There was a lot I could have told him then, but I sensed he would not be glad to hear it. ‘There’s a difference between privacy and solitude, you know.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it.’ He padded the pockets of his cagoule. Underneath, he had on a coarse wool sweater that could not have been his own, as the round-neck collar was so loose it revealed his bare clavicle. It must have been one of Ender’s, or taken from lost property. He was wearing sturdy boots now, too
, which gave him extra height. ‘Shit,’ he said, frisking his torso. ‘D’you have any matches?’

  ‘There should be some by your stove.’

  He cleared his nose and spat. ‘There aren’t.’

  ‘Well, I’ve a full box in my studio. I can fetch it if you like.’

  ‘Nah, don’t bother. I’ll have to do it the hard way.’ With this, the boy dropped to his haunches and began to burrow into the snow and mulch and pine cones. Soon enough, he was bringing up clods of rust-red soil. He tossed an armload into the drum and it rained fatly on the metal.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He did not answer, just kept on digging with his hands and plunking the loose earth inside the can.

  ‘What are you burying?’

  It did not seem to bother him that I was watching—there was something tunnel-eyed and frantic about him as he quarried the ground, like a fox hunting rabbits. After a while, the drum was about a quarter full, and he stopped, sitting on the snow with his back against the metal. Strands of his fringe were stuck upon his forehead. He looked so young and afraid.

  ‘Fullerton,’ I said—it was a difficult name to speak tenderly. ‘Is everything all right?’

  He sat there, panting, gazing at nothing.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less what you do,’ he said.

  The others were still waiting. I saw their huddled shadows and felt glad of them. But Fullerton called after me as I walked away: ‘Wait a sec. Hold on.’ There was a note of contrition in his voice.

  I turned.

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ he said. ‘It’s just—look, I haven’t sussed this place out yet. There are loads more rules than I thought there’d be.’

  It bothered me that he had been admitted without understanding everything. My own sponsor had spent two full days readying me for the prospect of Portmantle, explaining everything that lay ahead. So I went back to the boy and said, ‘If you have any questions, just ask.’

  He spat again. ‘I was told no drinking, no drugs, no phone calls and whatever. But your mate Quickson said there was other stuff, too. I don’t know if he meant the ferry tokens, but I bought two of them like they told me—there’s one in my bag somewhere. You think that’s what he was talking about?’

  ‘It’s Quickman.’ I smiled. ‘And, yes, that’s part of it.’

  ‘Do you still have yours?’

  ‘I do, but not on me. Somewhere safe. That’s more a superstition than a rule.’

  ‘Oh.’ He gave another sigh. ‘Well, that old bloke went through my bag before. I thought that’s what he was after.’

  ‘Ender, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, he patted me down. It was weird.’

  ‘Ender’s OK—just doing his job. If there weren’t any rules, this place would fall apart.’

  ‘So everyone gets frisked?’

  ‘Only once. You’re no different from the rest of us.’

  ‘It just took me by surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Your sponsor should’ve warned you.’

  Fullerton got up from the snow. He studied my face, as though gauging every pore of it for weaknesses. ‘Well, I don’t plan on staying here that long anyway. I just need to clear my head and then I’m going back to finish what I started.’

  ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t set myself too many restrictions. It’ll take as long as it takes.’ I wanted to tell him that I had believed the same thing when I came to Portmantle. That I would find my clarity in a matter of days. That I would not need the provost’s intervention: the visa documents specially acquired and signed on my behalf. But there was no point in daunting the boy any further. ‘You know,’ I said instead, ‘when I came here, I was lucky. I had someone to help me through the early part, the hard part. You remember MacKinney?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She and I were admitted on the same afternoon. We took the same ferry from Kabataş and didn’t even know it. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have made it this far.’

  ‘Look, I’m glad it all worked out for you,’ said Fullerton. ‘But that doesn’t mean we’re the same. I’m not like that. I can’t count on anyone but myself.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should try.’ I held my smile this time, until I was sure he had received it. ‘We’re all loners here. With the right people, you can be alone and together—that’s something you learn how to do when you get older.’

  ‘I don’t see it happening. No offence.’

  ‘It’ll happen all on its own.’ It was easy to feel sympathy for the boy. Not just because he was sweat-shined and muddied, but because I could remember what it was like to be his age, so wearied by my own guardedness, letting nobody in, too frightened of getting hurt. ‘And, in the meantime, Tif and Q can probably help you with—whatever it is you’re trying to dispose of there.’

  The boy eyed the can and kicked it. ‘I can sort it. And besides—’ He nodded to the space behind me. ‘They’ve already gone.’

  But they were not quite beyond sight. I could still make out their shapes between the trees, heading for my lodging. ‘Can you whistle?’ I asked. The boy thought about it, then put his grubby fingers behind his teeth and made the cleanest steam-kettle sound. It took a moment for the others to realise we were calling them.

  Pettifer was the first to arrive, covering his ears. ‘I think they heard you in the Serengeti. What’s the big emergency?’ He leaned an arm on my shoulder.

  ‘Fullerton needs your advice.’

  ‘Does he now. You hear that, Q?—I’m being asked for advice.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Quickman, appearing behind him. ‘Whatever next?’

  The two of them laughed.

  MacKinney noticed the boy’s condition. His cheeks were striped with the dull red soil. ‘Everything OK here?’ she asked.

  ‘Trying to get rid of a few things, that’s all.’

  He went about explaining his intentions for the oil drum, which caused Pettifer to push out his bottom lip and shake his head. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t recommend a drumfire unless you have kerosene. You need to build up a little pyre of timber in the centre to direct the flames. Otherwise, things don’t burn right, and it can all get out of hand rather quickly.’

  The boy stood back. ‘Just as well I don’t have any matches then.’

  ‘I tried to barbecue a manuscript at my editor’s house once,’ Quickman said. ‘Made a glorious mess of his lawn. There was a lot more ash than I expected. Dangerous thing to do, really.’

  Pettifer hummed in agreement. ‘Even a small fire can creep up on you if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘How d’you know so much about it?’ Fullerton asked.

  ‘My father was a scout master.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  ‘He certainly thought so.’

  ‘Mine wouldn’t even take me camping,’ the boy said. ‘I still went, though.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘Did he let you have a jack-knife?’

  ‘No. But he kept one for himself.’

  MacKinney looked back towards the attic lights of the mansion, yawning. The only lines that did not smooth out of her skin were the furrows round her eyes, which seemed to have the deep-set quality of woodgrain. ‘I suppose we should start getting used to all this macho conversation, Knell. They’ll be duelling with pistols before we know it.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ Quickman said.

  ‘Well, I’m turning in before it gets to that.’

  ‘What about our game?’ Tif said.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood. But I hope my money’s still good.’ She leaned into my ear and mumbled: ‘A scoop of French roast on Quickman. Double down if it’s two-two.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll hold on to your winnings.’

  She kissed my cheek. ‘Night, all.’

  ‘Night, Mac.’

  I watched her traipsing off into the dark. It was not unusual for her to retire to bed this early, citing
some excuse about the need to work. But she made no mention of her play at all that night, and I assumed that she was suffering again with her insomnia. (MacKinney often joked that she would overcome these bouts of restlessness by reading back through early drafts: ‘Even in broad daylight, I can bore myself to sleep.’)

  ‘What were you trying to burn, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Quickman said to the boy. ‘Hope it wasn’t anything I could smoke.’

  ‘Just a few things I’m not meant to have brought with me. I thought it’d be OK, but the old man said I needed to get rid of them.’

  ‘Ah. Been there,’ said Quickman.

  ‘Been there twice now,’ said Pettifer.

  Fullerton grinned, and his face seemed unaccustomed to the strain of it. ‘It’s not a competition.’

  ‘Funny you should mention that,’ Quickman said. ‘We were about to start some backgammon. Ever played?’

  The boy looked away. ‘Once, I think. At school. I’m more interested in poker now.’

  ‘Poker! That’s a bit too Hollywood for us, but Tif and I have a regular dice game every Sunday, best of five, and to be frank—’ Quickman screened his mouth to stage-whisper. ‘He’s hopeless. I wouldn’t mind having someone else to beat.’

  ‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  Pettifer coughed. ‘A bit high-stakes for beginners, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said, cutting in. It was quite irregular for Quickman to extend an invitation and I wanted to give the boy every chance to accept.

  Fullerton looked interested. ‘You lot play for money?’

  ‘No. Just trinkets,’ I said. ‘We don’t have much to gamble with.’

  ‘I nearly won that pipe of his once,’ said Pettifer. ‘Another six and it would’ve been mine. Imagine the power I could’ve wielded!’

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘They’ve played a few epics. No one can beat Q, though.’

  ‘OK, count me in,’ said the boy. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Super! We’ll make it a triangular.’ Quickman clasped his palms and rubbed them. ‘Go and fetch the board, Tif. It’s up in my room.’ His voice was sunnier than I had heard it in a while. ‘Knell, can we set up at yours again? We’ll need a bigger table.’