As he departed his mind he felt the decision carrying on without him, tilting in favour of discarding the water. The tipping point was reached and Tristan was aware of his hand reaching down to the cup. In an instant he seized control, dropping to his knees and pouring the water down his throat before a drop could be spilt. He fell to the floor as a madman might, clutching the empty cup to his heart and laughing out loud at the strangeness of his new power.
There was no telling how long the road would be between the first step and mastery. Subsequent attempts showed that timing was everything. Move too soon and the decision would evaporate before Tristan could be sure he had identi-fied it. Leave it too late and awareness came on only after the act itself was completed. The window was small, if it existed at all. In his weaker moments he began to believe he had invented his first victory. Even then, though, there was one thing that could console him, a small indulgence he allowed himself before falling asleep.
Each night as his thoughts turned lazy she would return to him, painted in the unworldly colours of an oncoming dream. The voices of the choir became more heavenly with each replaying, and her face became more beautiful. He whispered to her, feverish words of desire, and she whispered back her delight, warming him to slumber. He remembered and he imagined, letting his mind roam where it would, but with his fists clenched by his side. All was will. All was training.
Tristan had reached the point where he might speak his heart.
‘There was never a time I did not think of you. There was never a time I stopped loving you.’
‘Not me,’ Grace countered. ‘Your idea of me.’
‘It’s all we ever have,’ Tristan replied, thinking of how much he would have once given to lie this close to her.
‘You hadn’t even spoken to me.’
‘I am speaking to you now.’
‘Is it a disappointment?’
‘The circumstance,’ Tristan conceded, ‘but not the sensation.’
So weakened was he by his confession that he almost broke his promise to himself. He almost told her. But not yet. Too many events sat between that place and this.
‘I saw you again, you know,’ Tristan said. ‘I watched you.’
‘So you beat the rector?’
‘No one beats the rector.’
‘But you got out,’ Grace said.
‘I got lucky.’
‘I thought you had a plan.’
‘Yes,’ Tristan said. ‘But my plan was flawed.’
‘Can I guess at it?’ she asked.
Tristan was surprised by her enthusiasm. She had been so quiet during his story that he feared he had bored her with his philosophy, or worse. Now he could hear her fighting to master her breathing, the heavy aspiration easily mistaken for excitement.
‘If you intended to do the opposite of whatever your brain decided, and the rector did find a way of anticipating your decisions, it would be a small adjustment for him to adapt to your strategy.’
Tristan was embarrassed by how easily she had exposed his naïveté.
‘I thought, when there was more than one alternative, I could lose him. But instead I lost myself. Each decision required another, and there was no way of ending the regress.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I gave up.’
And in giving up, Tristan discovered the art of looking away. It was a sort of abdication of responsibility, a blind blundering into the path of a decision. When it happened, the oddest events followed. He would come to his senses to find himself sitting on the floor scratching at a toe that wasn’t itching, or balancing a knife on the end of his nose, or fashioning his bed sheet into a ridiculous robe. Not once could he explain to himself how the decision had been arrived at, and this, he was sure, would become his trump. If he did not know why he did these things, if they occurred without reason or motivation, then the rector could never predict them. Tristan would defeat him.
When finally he was summoned to the rector again, he approached his teacher with confidence.
In two years Tristan had changed considerably. They’d allowed him a mirror and he knew he had taken on the look of a young man. He had grown tall and his shoulders had broadened. Each morning now he made use of the shaving equipment provided. The rector must have noticed all these things but he gave no sign of it. The white room was as it always had been, and the rector too, standing in the middle of it, appeared exempt from the chiselling of time. He held his ground with unnatural stillness, his eyes watching the young man without so much as a flicker.
Beside the rector was a pile of wooden puzzle pieces, cut with various notches so that they could be locked together to form a larger shape. Tristan was familiar with such sets from St Augustine’s, where they had been used in logic classes. These ones differed in scale: the shortest of the twenty parts was as long as his arm. According to a diagram affixed to the far wall the pieces would form the shape of a crucifix, one that, by Tristan’s calculations, would be roughly full size.
‘Welcome, Tristan.’
Tristan looked deep into the rector’s eyes while in his head he ran backwards through the alphabet, so that any nervousness might be distracted out of existence. The rector returned his gaze, and their eyes remained locked. When the rector blinked first Tristan felt a thrill buzz through him.
‘Are you ready to be defeated?’ Tristan challenged.
‘That is something I will never be ready for, Tristan,’ the rector answered. ‘Are you?’
‘I haven’t even contemplated it.’
‘I am told the testing has gone very well, Tristan; you have been a most willing subject. Thank you.’ The rector spoke with his usual measured clarity. Tristan scanned the room for signs of danger. He would not be lured into complacency.
‘Now we are ready to move to the next stage in the experiment. As I told you two years ago, the simple tricks of our early trial are not sufficient to convince the doubters of the will’s constraints. Nor should they be. In those cases you were limited to binary choices; however, the world in which we move is far more chaotic. It is my intention to establish, to the satisfaction of those who would attack me, that in the interactions between independently motivated players a trajectory can still be mapped in advance. This is the end of your time with us, and how you act today will see my purpose either realised or thwarted. In a moment I will introduce you to your two competitors.’
Tristan gave an involuntary start. The rector pretended not to have noticed. Competitors? Tristan breathed deeply and repeated to himself his mantra. Leave the scene. Let the future unfold without you.
‘Behind the far wall,’ the rector continued, ‘there are three members of the Holy Council. They have come to observe the experiment. You cannot see them.’
Immediately Tristan’s mind returned to his room, its walls an identical sheen. Had he been watched all this time? How close had they stood, he wondered, while he lay sleeping? Had they watched his meditations? Of course they had. A shiver ran through him and again he attempted to shrug it off. Leave the scene. Let the future unfold without you…
‘Each of our observers holds a description of the game that is about to be played, the decisions you’ll make and the outcome. I have anticipated the way you will play, the decisions you will make. An identical description can be found in this envelope, which I would ask you to put in the pouch of your robe. At the conclusion of the game you may also read this description. I want you to know what has happened to you.’ He passed the envelope to Tristan.
An idea rose unbidden. Look inside the envelope. Do it now and you have won. So simple, so tempting.
‘I can do whatever I want to subvert the game?’ Tristan asked.
‘It is what I have asked of you.’
It was too simple.
‘But be careful, Tristan. All has been anticipated.’
Either the note said You will look inside the envelope or it didn’t. There was only one way of losing this game, and there were a thousand ways
of winning. Looking would reduce those odds to a binary choice. It would be a foolish move. And yet they knew that.
Do not think of the envelope. He wants you to think of the envelope. He wants it to distract you. Ignore the envelope.
Tristan folded the envelope once and slipped it into the pouch. The rector smiled without effort, confident, certain. Tristan’s determination to destroy that calm burned brighter than it ever had.
‘Excellent.’ The rector nodded, as if in agreement with some unspoken point. ‘In a moment two boys will enter the room. Each, as you will see, is about your age and size. They are children of the night, soulless ones who have endured a life of struggle. Today they play for the ultimate prize, for the winner of the game will be offered the freedom of the City, an unprecedented opportunity to be baptised and live within our walls. So you see they will not lack motivation. To them this is a matter of life and death. The task is a simple one: the three of you will work together to solve the puzzle, and whichever of you slots the last piece into place will be declared the winner. There is no second place.’
‘Then I have nothing to play for,’ Tristan noted. ‘I am already baptised.’
‘Yes,’ the rector agreed. ‘Your prize is different. If you win today, Tristan, we will take you to Grace.’
Tristan’s head was reeling. He hadn’t mentioned her again: not in the interviews, the tests, not even alone in his room. Yet they knew.
Leave the scene. Leave the scene.
But the scene was boundless. It followed him; it lived inside his head.
Leave the scene.
‘I see you remember her. Good. Insert the final piece and we will take you to the girl. You will have all the money you need to make a new life, papers, and a new name to wear.’
It was perfect, the trap they had set for him. He saw it instantly. Everything he had done to prepare had been based on a single premise: that nothing was more important to him that defeating the rector. And now he saw it wasn’t true. It had never been true. There had always been her.
‘What are the rules of this game?’ Tristan managed to ask.
‘There are no rules,’ the rector answered. ‘But don’t worry; they won’t kill you.’
‘You can’t know that,’ Tristan countered.
‘It is written in the envelope, Tristan.’ The rector stepped slowly backwards. ‘It is written in the envelope.’
When the rector reached the wall a hidden door slid open. In the darkened room beyond, Tristan caught a shadowed glimpse of the observers from the Holy Council. Then came a sound from behind, the sort of snuffling you might expect from a large animal sniffing at the air.
Tristan turned to see two boys standing one on either side of the door. They studied him. The one on the left was short and thickset, his head a mass of red curls. His feet were widely planted as if he were expecting some great storm to break over him. He looked from Tristan to the puzzle pieces then back again. Tristan turned to his other opponent: a taller boy, slender, bouncing on his feet like an athlete at the starting line. The second boy grinned. ‘You ready for this?’ he asked. ‘I’m Louis; this is Harry.’
‘I’m not Harry,’ the redhead growled.
‘Well you look like a Harry,’ Louis replied. He turned back to Tristan. ‘What shall we call you?’
‘Tristan.’ The stranger’s friendliness undid him, and Tristan relaxed when he should have been watching. The shorter boy moved quickly, his shoulder finding Tristan’s stomach and dropping him winded to the floor. His opponent dispatched, the redhead scrambled at the pieces, attempting to secure a pile for himself. Tristan rolled on the floor to find Louis standing above him, still grinning as if this was nothing more than a game in the schoolyard. Louis offered a bony hand and pulled Tristan to his feet. Tristan winced at the pain in his gut and bent double to recover his breath.
‘No rules,’ Louis reminded him. ‘You’ll need to be quicker than that. Come on. Do you know how to solve the puzzle?’
Harry was already jamming pieces together, experimenting with random combinations. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. The movement, the urgency, the danger: they crowded in, pinning Tristan to his thoughts. He tried to pull free, but Louis stood close, impossible to ignore.
‘I have seen puzzles like it,’ Tristan said.
‘All right, well then, there is hope for all of us. Oi, Harry, you oaf, you can’t keep all the pieces!’
Louis strolled confidently towards the pile. Harry sprang at him, snarling as he grabbed the taller boy’s throat, but Louis remained perfectly calm, simply flicking his long foot at Harry’s groin. Harry fell to the ground, howling. Louis retrieved the pieces and returned them to the central pile. He circled, studying them closely.
Tristan watched the two boys, one moving with easy charm, the other still snorting as he regained his feet. He tried to stand back, to observe from a greater distance, but his mind would not let go of the room. The rector would have chosen the two boys carefully, anticipating the nature of their clash. He would have known how easily Tristan would solve the puzzle, and how poorly the attendant violence would suit him… What then was written in the envelope Tristan carried in his pouch? But no, there was no envelope, there was no room.
Leave the scene. Let the future unfold without you.
But she was there now, expanding inside his head, squeezing him back into the room.
While Tristan stood aside the others paid him no attention. He breathed deeply and focussed on the point of nothingness he had created behind his forehead. He imagined it as a light, pulsing with perfect regularity. He listened to the murmuring of his competing thoughts. Possibilities were swarming, seeking a foothold, each working to lodge its claim. A faint vibration, something like the rasping of metal on wood, resolved into a call to inaction. Sit the game out, the pattern urged. Do nothing; confound them. The possibility rose then fell away. A deeper, thicker drive hummed beneath the clamour, marshalling its forces. Win her, it ordered. Whatever it takes, win her. From there a new thought grew, high-pitched and insistent. They cannot solve this thing without you, it counselled, but they don’t know it yet. Sit tight. Let them battle. Let them tire themselves out. As this last thought grew louder the other swirling candidates meekly disassembled, lending weight so quickly to the emerging winner that the naïve mind might have believed it had willed it.
As the decision threatened to settle, Tristan forced himself to look away. With no mind to attach itself to, the impulse fragmented, each connection fizzing and spluttering back to unbeing. Tristan smiled. He did not care if the observers saw him do it. He surged with new power.
‘Keep Harry at bay,’ Tristan called to Louis, ‘and I will complete the puzzle for you. You can have the final piece. Victory is yours if you can subdue him.’
Louis looked up, immediately suspicious.
‘Why should I trust you?’ Louis asked. Tristan kept a wary eye on Harry, who had begun circling them both on all fours, as comfortable in the gait as any animal.
‘Take this.’ Tristan offered him a piece of the puzzle. ‘I cannot complete the puzzle without it. And use it as a weapon if I attempt to cross you.’
Louis hesitated, tempted. ‘If you are lying to me I will kill you.’
‘It is what I expect,’ Tristan replied. Louis nodded and took the piece. He stood guard while Tristan set to work on the puzzle. Tristan allowed himself a smile as he imagined the rector slumped in defeat behind the glass while the members of the Holy Council checked their scripts and demanded an explanation.
The puzzle was not difficult and within minutes Tristan was making progress. In the background the children of the night stalked each other, Louis always between Harry and the puzzle.
Harry however was no fool. He seemed to know his best chance lay in unsettling his opponents. He began running around the outside of the room at startling velocity, his jaw flapping as he howled like a wolf. Louis swivelled, attempting to track Harry’s crazed traject
ory. Tristan tried to ignore the noise and concentrate on the puzzle. He was close to finishing, but the terrible sound panicked him and the heavy pieces began to jam. He felt his arms tiring. The howling grew louder and Louis began to shout over it. ‘Back! Back! Back!’ he screamed, as if warding off a wild animal. And then, suddenly, ‘Tristan, watch out!’
Harry charged. Tristan sprang clear just in time and his adversary crashed into the almost completed crucifix, propelling it into the wall. Harry pounced on a loose piece of wood, all he needed to remain in the game. Tristan was closer than Louis and instinct propelled him forward. He threw himself on top of the boy and clung to his back for dear life, panicked blood surging through his veins. There was nothing now— no room, no competition, no rector, no Grace—only this moment, and the desperate desire to survive into the next.
Tristan had not lived his life in the wastelands and could not conceive of their brutality. Louis ran forward swinging his puzzle piece as a club, aiming it at the side of Harry’s head. The force took Harry sideways and knocked Tristan from his back. Tristan could not tell if the blow had killed him or only knocked him cold. Blood pooled beneath Harry’s face, set now in pained bewilderment.
‘No rules,’ Louis panted. The tall boy’s fingers trembled at his side, not with regret, Tristan guessed, but with the afterwash of adrenalin.
Louis looked at Tristan, as if expecting the game to change now. He nodded for Tristan to continue with the puzzle, but Tristan didn’t move. In the settling silence a new doubt was taking hold of him. He had followed his own rules, subverted his instincts, but, now the path was clear to him, it felt predictable. Wouldn’t the rector have known Tristan’s sheltered life had not prepared him for the brutality of the children of the night? What then was more foreseeable than Tristan putting physical safety ahead of the game, as he now intended to do? Hadn’t the rector had him followed to the church that night? They must have seen that he had been too frightened to speak. Faced with love he had yielded to fear. Wasn’t it obvious he would do so again?
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