by H. S. Valley
‘Nikau’s nana also had a ring she never took off,’ I say. ‘She had to be buried in it. His mum tried to remove it after her tangi and she experienced The Despair. So on the upside, they have a built-in anti-theft feature,’ I pull my jumper off, just to be able to hide for a second. ‘But on the downside, we might be stuck together until after we’re dead. Sorry.’
‘Obviously not your fault.’
I smile, but it hurts – even though he’s not blaming me, there’s still an implication that something is wrong with us being together, and I’m tired and I miss him and my feelings are all over the place. I can’t even trust my voice to work so I change into my pyjamas instead, and he goes back to his book. I catch him peeking and I wish I didn’t like it, but I’m still human, even if I’m an idiot. I climb over onto the wall side and pull my hoodie back on – it’s cold in here, and I have something else to tell him. The jumper feels a little like emotional armour.
‘They also read about one way to undo a different kind of bond that might work. Manaia doesn’t think so, but I guess it’s worth a try.’
Elliott scrubs a hand over his face and drops his book to the floor. ‘Interesting that that’s not what you chose to lead with.’ He wriggles ’til he’s sitting up in bed. ‘What do we do, then?’
‘Apparently, we just swap back.’
He huffs out a resigned sort of laugh. ‘It’s embarrassing that we didn’t actually try that already.’
‘Yeah, well, it involved taking them off, which is painful, and I didn’t want to.’ I turn to face him properly. ‘But we should obviously see if it works.’
He looks like he wants to object, and I want to have the courage to do it myself, but for different reasons. He nods, though, and slides Dad’s ring off his finger. I pull off the silver one, and it’s like tiny knives, same as before.
We align ourselves, fingers to rings, and simultaneously slide them home. Back to where they were before all of this went to shit. It feels like goodbye.
Elliott flinches as he takes his fingers off Dad’s ring. My stomach turns. This doesn’t feel better. There’s no sense of satisfaction of having solved it – no rush of freedom, nothing. If anything, I feel worse.
I look up at Elliott and he doesn’t look good at all. He’s biting his lip and his eyes are wet, and when I let go of his ring he crumbles, tears streaming down his cheeks. I’m so busy hoping it’s because he’s sad he’ll miss me that I don’t notice it creeping up on me, too: bone-deep despair, cold and dark, a sharp, inhuman sadness. In a matter of seconds I understand his haunted expression and reach out for him, my hand on his knee, and it only helps a little. Even when I grab his hand, skin on skin, the darkness just ebbs for a second.
‘I don’t like it,’ he says, his voice small and broken.
I take off Dad’s ring and my hands are shaking, but I grab him again and shove the ring back on his finger. He gasps with what I hope is relief and I reclaim the silver ring with the black stone and bring it back to where it belongs. On me, apparently.
For a while, we just breathe, the shadows slowly backing away.
‘That was horrible,’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
We sit, hands clasped between us, waiting for our hearts to slow, waiting for the dark to pass.
‘Do you think the rings are sentient?’ he asks.
‘Let’s say they aren’t so I can sleep tonight.’
He fumbles around with his words for a bit, then says, ‘We could – Can we … maybe just hug for a bit?’ He blushes. ‘I feel kind of hollow right now and touching you always makes me feel better.’
‘We have to be careful …’
‘We will be,’ he says, and lies back in the bed, pulling me down on top of the covers.
He rolls to face me, nose to nose and toe to toe. He’s so close he’s just a blur and then he kisses me and I don’t know what to do. We still don’t know what constitutes consummation, but I don’t want to be at fault if it’s this, or whatever he’s hoping for tonight. I break away, and his fingers tighten in my shirt like he’s afraid to let go of me.
‘I’m not going anywhere, I just –’
‘Tim, please.’
He’s terrible. He’s beautiful and terrible and I’m hopeless and we’re ruined. I send up a tiny prayer to whatever magical entity might be watching over us: that the winter-weight duvet trapped between us is enough to insulate ourselves from the awful truth of my intentions, and the fact I want him, now and always. Sooner or later my desire to not be at fault is going to be crushed by my desire for other things. We might not have consummated this bond, but I want to, and it’s dangerous to even be near him.
And yet … I let him kiss me.
Life Skills is first on Monday morning, and a bit of a mess. While Van Mill never announced that the egg assignment is a competition, it obviously is one among us, and the couples still in the game are even managing to write baby journal entries competitively. There’s pride on the line. I wish I could commit to it fully, but my mind is elsewhere. Elliott seems to be sitting even closer than usual, our legs pressed together from knee to ankle, and I lose count of all his casual touches. Anytime he could elbow me for my attention, he uses an open hand instead, and usually it’s right on my thigh, which is … distracting.
Practical Magic is less noticeably different than usual because we’re up and moving around. Elliott’s still helping me with atmospheric charms and it’s difficult magic, so most of our attention is on the work instead of on our other, bigger, problem.
Food Tech is all theory, though, and he’s a permanent fixture against my leg again. When he leans in to comment on Graham’s atrocious spelling, his fingers slide across the top of my quad and curl over my inner thigh, stroking a faint line there, so sensitive I barely hear what he’s saying. By the end of the day I’m ready to throw him up against something solid and kiss him until he bleeds.
Except I can’t, so I take the baby and visit my mother instead.
She asks questions about Meggan’s sleeping patterns, and how my clouds are coming along, and how Elliott and I are going. I tell her we’re doing well in the assignment, and I think I made rain, and that Elliott and I actually get on quite well now. I repeat what I told her last night – that he’s a smart, sensible, caring person, and definitely isn’t trying to get me into nefarious magic. She gives me a look, like I might’ve gone a bit far with it and everything I think I’m keeping secret is written on my face.
I want to exist in a world where I can ask her directly to help us, but she’s too invested in my success to take it lightly. I don’t need her reaction making me reflect on the severity of what we’ve done any more than I already am. I wouldn’t have to evade the truth so much with Dad. He’d at least see the humour in it – that I’d got drunk and done something stupid. Also, having taught Magical History for so long, he might even know how to fix it.
So I ask Mum for help in the only way I can. ‘Do you have any books about intercultural bonding for History? The textbook is super vague and I’d like to get a good mark in this one.’
She stacks up a few books to take and keeps me occupied until dinner, teaching me to use air as a mea – to grasp it with purpose, then hold it in my palm and feel it. I manage to focus after a few tries, but it’s far from easy. We sit on opposite ends of the couch, with Meggan wedged between us, and play catch, floating a scrunched-up ball of paper back and forth. I can’t say I’m good at it, but I get a bit better and she promises, hilariously, to throw more rubbish at me later.
We walk to dinner a little early and the servery is just opening. Carol appears from the depths of the kitchen to say hello, and I panic. I’m still assuming Mum hasn’t heard any marriage rumours, because she definitely would’ve mentioned it, but if anyone is going to accidentally start one, it’ll be Carol.
We almost make it.
‘I expect you’re pleased with your new son-in-law,’ she says to Mum, and winks at me. ‘A nice handsome boy like tha
t?’
I die, twice. Once because Mum is looking far too interested in what she means, and the second time because old ladies mentioning how handsome Elliott is only makes me feel dirty for agreeing with them. I cut my losses and forfeit grabbing garlic bread for the obvious benefit of walking away as fast as possible. Mum doesn’t follow, but I catch her looking over at my table throughout dinner, a smug grin blossoming on her face when Elliott sits down beside me. Then he leans in, patting Meggan on the head while simultaneously draping himself over my shoulder. I wish he’d stop forgetting I’m not furniture. I also wish Mum would stop laughing at me from the staff tables.
None of my wishes come true.
CHAPTER 29
SEE WHAT LOVE CAN DO
We all linger at the table long after dessert, waiting ’til most people have left so we can plan our evening. Matt, Ana and Manaia have extracurriculars, but Nikau and Hana offer to go to the library and read through some of the older texts, since both of them can read te reo. Despite Dad being fluent, we spoke English at home most of the time since Mum knew approximately five Māori words when they met and most of them were food-related.
That leaves Sam, Silvia, Elliott and I back at Dad’s until sometime before curfew. Elliott takes Meggan, I carry Mum’s pile of books, and we make our way to the cardboard box library of Henry Te Maro. Hopefully, somewhere in there is a scrap of information about what counts as consummation and whether or not two stupidly drunk, queer teenagers are capable of achieving it.
Silvia makes us each a new pile, and it’s immediately obvious there’s something different about these books compared to the ones on the shelf. Several of them are falling apart, one is in literal pieces, and there are a few that look like back-alley, hand-bound, blacklisted texts from last century. Sam is in his element. Elliott is in my lap. Again. But it’s Silvia who finds the first piece of information.
‘Ooh!’ she exclaims from her spot on the floor. ‘Gay stuff! This mentions “unnatural urges”. They’re talking about how gay sex doesn’t count because –’ She cuts herself off mid-sentence but her eyes zip back and forth, reading further down the page. ‘Oh my giddy aunt. These people are … Apparently consummation can only occur when there is “bona fide love, as witnessed by a man of the church”, and “since the homosexual has no soul, he cannot experience love at all”.’ She looks up at us. ‘What the actual fuck?’
‘When was that book printed?’ Elliott asks.
‘Might also be worth asking where it was printed,’ Sam says.
‘Let’s assume Hell, and throw it back in the fire,’ she says, and tosses it aside. ‘Next up, Love in Other Languages. Tim, where did your dad get these?’
‘I have literally no idea.’
It’s quiet again until Elliott gets up to make tea and Sam announces he’s found something to counter Silvia’s anti-love propaganda:
‘“As in ancient times, the love between men has been well documented in the modern day, and within the magical community is no different. While societal attitudes have degraded in some regards over the centuries, the local community at Mount Hringur maintains its roots. The resort offers exclusive LGBT wedding packages, complete with marital suites and an optional consummation audience and refreshments, as was once popular amongst royalty in the north of Europe.”’
‘What on Earth are you reading?’ Silvia asks.
‘Open Planet: Europe 1980. I think it’s a magic version of a Lonely Planet guide. That section was from a holiday resort in Iceland claiming to celebrate “the best of Europe’s gayest bits in history”. The fact it mentions consummation suggests it’s possible for same-sex couples to be maritally bonded, and consummate.’
‘I don’t know how much I’d read into that.’ Silvia looks exceptionally dubious and I can’t help agreeing with her.
Beside me, Elliott’s phone rings and he picks it up with a low-key, ‘What’s up?’ and goes quiet for a moment while whoever’s on the other end talks. ‘OK, I’ll meet you in five minutes. Try not to break anything.’
He stands up. ‘That was Manaia. I need to go. See you at home?’ he looks down at me and I want to know more but I don’t want to pry.
‘Sure. We’ll be another hour or so, though, if you want to come back?’
He smirks, running his hand over my cheek. ‘Oh, poor darling. Don’t miss me too much.’
Smug bastard. I purposely don’t offer to escort him out of the staff wing, and I pretend it’s because he mocked me, but I worry it’s actually because my mind is making up stories about him running off to Manaia for reasons other than being a good friend.
I don’t quite settle after he goes. Sam gets up to make more tea after a while and Silvia comes to sit next to me with a very old fortune-telling book that looks a bit like a grimoire and apparently has a section for predicting things about your married life. I’m not sure I trust it.
‘Can I see your ring?’ she asks.
‘It’s not technically mine,’ I say, but I shuffle closer and hold out my hand.
She takes it in her own, examining the silver band and the black stone, turning my hand over. ‘I’m going to try something,’ she says, moving the book so she can lay her hand flat on the page.
‘Fine,’ I say, before remembering the ring’s prickly tendencies. ‘It won’t hurt, will it?’
‘Only if you’re secretly in love with him,’ she says, and lays a finger over the ring.
I react on pure instinct, and I hate how naked it makes me feel as she looks up at me, her hand suddenly hovering between us and mine clutched to my stomach like it needs protecting.
‘Tim,’ she says, and a hot flush of pure dread burns my ears. ‘I was kidding.’
‘Please don’t make a big deal out of this,’ I beg, making it a thousand times worse.
‘It’s already a big deal.’ She looks at me like I’m a bit simple. ‘Sam, get over here.’ She flaps her hand at him to come. When he doesn’t appear, she turns and tries to get his attention. ‘Earth to Sam. Are you reading or making tea? Come here.’
‘Reading,’ he says, but he doesn’t look up. ‘Guys … I think I found something.’ And then he just stands there, staring at the little book.
‘Well, are you going to tell us?’ Silvia asks. ‘Sam? What’s wrong? You’re miles away.’
‘Hmm? I’m one hundred and twenty years ago, actually,’ he says, and leaves our cups and the steaming kettle and comes over to the couch. ‘Tim, one of the books from your mum is a woman’s journal. An old one. Listen to this: “The things I had seen in the ceremony at dawn – the private one, before the church service – almost made me believe it was magic. But lying with my husband for the first time was even more incredible than that. At the final moment, it was like the light broke through the clouds and our bedroom glowed gold like God was blessing us personally. My husband says it was the magic of our love, binding us together. He called it the midnight sun.”’
Shit.
I try to act normal, when my life is anything but and my heart is racing.
‘Do you remember anything like that, Tim? A golden glow? Seems like it’d be evidence as to whether whatever you did counted as consummation.’
‘Tim?’ Silvia says when I don’t answer straight away. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah,’ is about all I can manage before I feel the need to curl into a ball and hide my face in my hands. I do it. It helps a bit.
‘I’m guessing that’s a yes, then, on the golden glow.’
‘I’ll finish making the tea,’ Sam says, and I hear him walk away.
He comes back after a minute and Silvia tugs at my wrist ’til I uncurl. She puts a cup in my hand. It’s comforting.
‘So. You love him, and you’ve consummated the marriage,’ she says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Tim, I hate to say it,’ Sam says. ‘But there’s not a lot of point in us continuing to research if we know you’ve solidified the bond. You’re going to need proper help. We could’ve managed
something like an annulment, but even if we find a divorce spell, we won’t be strong enough to make it work. If one even exists. I’ve seen no evidence so far and it’s been two days.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Silvia asks, and I feel my composure crack.
‘Not really. How –’ I don’t know if I can say it. ‘How can what we did count as consummation? It was barely anything at all, we still had all our clothes on.’
‘But you love him.’ Silvia points out.
‘So?’
‘Well. I guess it means more,’ she says. ‘Your feelings are more important than the specifics of what you physically did. If you think of it in vaguer terms, less science and more poetry, would you call him your lover?’
‘Well, I’m not a poet, so no. Almost definitely not.’
‘Keep in mind,’ Sam says, ‘the only reason we consider consummation to be “of the marital bed” is because of Christianity’s influence. In some other cultures, simply living together is enough to consummate the marriage. And you are living together. And you are sleeping together, so even if you didn’t do it that night, the general idea is the same.’
‘We aren’t in some other culture, though. We’re in ours.’
‘But you don’t know who did this to you – bound you together. Or did this for you, I guess, if you wanted it to happen at the time. That person could’ve been from anywhere. Any sub-branch of magical evolution on the whole planet. The chance of their exact magical heritage responding to just one particular type of consummation was pretty slim.’
‘You could’ve mentioned that earlier.’
‘I did.’ Sam says, and gives me a tight smile. ‘In the library, I said you’d probably consummated. It was Elliott who said there was a chance you hadn’t.’