Norman pulled a string of dried willow into the light, grimacing. “You don’t look dead to me,” he said.
The lights flickered overhead, momentarily casting Charlie’s face in dull shadow. He looked to Norman. “I’m going to die, and you’re making jokes?” he said, his voice quivering.
Norman looked over his shoulder, checking that they were alone. All was quiet, save for the distant footsteps emanating from Heather’s office. “Who says that you’re going to die?”
He watched Charlie's face grow pained and sorrowful. “Nobody has to say it,” he said. “I’m not an idiot. I know a murderer when I see one.”
“You’re talking about Lucian?”
“Who else?”
Norman shook his head and popped the string of pulp into his mouth. He tried to shift it to the back of his mouth as quickly as possible, but still the sour taste made him cringe. “We promised that we wouldn’t hurt you, and you’ve been just fine so far,” he said. “Your leg looks better already.”
“Don’t do that,” Charlie cried. “Don’t pretend that you’re all not just waiting for him to come in here and strangle me.”
“He’s not going to kill you.”
“Oh yeah?” Charlie said. “How could you know that?”
Norman picked up a nearby bedpan and spat a milky slick of saliva into it. “I just know,” he muttered. In truth, he wasn’t so sure at all. The look in Lucian’s eyes had been unlike him—consumed, almost feral. Just like the night of Ray’s murder. It had looked almost as though Charlie had wronged him personally, or reminded him of someone who had.
Norman hadn’t seen him since setting out for the fields.
Charlie snorted, turning away. He remained silent for a long time.
Norman was halfway to his feet when Charlie surprised him by speaking again. His voice filled the room, muffled by his missing teeth, but was clear enough. “He came to me. Your man: Lucian. He told me that you chased a bunch of folks into the woods, that they must have been the same folks that took me. That you hunted them down like animals. Is that true?”
Norman swallowed, hoping that he was far away enough from the lights for the shadows to be hiding his face. “They murdered one of ours.”
“So you killed them?” Charlie’s lip quivered. “You killed my dad?”
Norman scratched his head. Suddenly, the willow’s taste didn’t seem so bad at all. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”
Charlie didn’t respond. He sat from then on, staring ahead, while tears burst forth onto his cheeks and fell to the sheets below.
IX
Lucian caught Norman on his front doorstep, fumbling with his keys. The cane made everything difficult, awkward.
“Norman,” he said, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he approached.
Norman tried not to turn his body too much. The willow dulled the pain, but not as much as he’d have liked. “What?”
Lucian was still looking about himself as he crossed the drive, his face set. He didn’t speak until he was only inches away. For the first time in Norman’s memory, he looked afraid.
“Can we talk?”
Norman felt his eyes widening as shock bounced around inside his head. He frowned, but after several moments could only nod. “Of course,” he said, opening the front door and gesturing inside.
Lucian stepped into the hallway, moving past the piles of books that lay within.
Norman stared in after him. He thought that he’d never want to come back here again. He’d expected that he’d have to move. But by the time Robert had sent him away from the fields, he’d known that he was coming back.
The attack had come and gone. Something told him that he was in no danger of a repeat event. The damage had been done, and the message delivered.
After a moment, he followed. The base of his cane thudded against the floor every second step. He ambled, winced, cursed. It was humiliating to rely on the stick, but he couldn’t get around without it. Heather said he’d need it for a few weeks, even with the white willow numbing him up.
He pushed the door shut with his elbow, sending a red-hot bolt into his abdomen. It almost brought tears to his eyes, but he barely noticed, so focused was he on Lucian’s hunched shoulders. Once he’d regained his breath, he made for the living room.
Lucian was already seated, his head bent low and his hands clutched together between his knees.
Norman ambled over to his chair and sat over a period of several seconds, easing himself down. His lamp stand was still askew where he’d fallen over it. He blinked until flashes of the neckerchief man standing at the window had passed.
“How’s the pain?” Lucian said. He looked miserable. His voice was flat, hollow.
Norman shrugged. “I’ll live.”
Lucian looked up. His face had become a mask, his features drooping, a grotesque caricature of his usual firm expression. He seemed locked in a fierce internal struggle. His eyes darted in their sockets, focused on nothing in particular. A line of sweat rested on his upper lip. It was clear that he meant to speak, but he seemed reluctant to utter another syllable.
Norman opted to wait, lest he push him away through unnecessary coaxing.
Lucian was rocking slightly, though he seemed unaware of it. His breathing was heavy. “Do you trust me, Norman?” he said.
Norman straightened in surprise. “Of course.”
“Still? After how I’ve behaved?”
Norman sighed. “You had every right to be angry about what they did to us. Nobody blames you for being…out of the ordinary.”
“When I saw that boy’s face out on that hill, I felt myself break.” Lucian spoke slowly, as though only to himself. “It felt like I’d left my body, and I was just watching my fist beat his face. I could see it happening, but I couldn’t stop.” He paused. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
Norman’s subconscious proffered up an image from his dream: the storm above the city, the younger faces of Lucian and Alex yelling down at him, the pain in the side of his head, the leering figure that didn’t belong. Just like the memory of the neckerchief man, it flashed before his eyes for only a moment, and then it was gone. He shook his head, clearing his throat.
Which of them was really in danger of losing their mind?
It might have been the drugs, but he didn’t think so.
“People who are crazy don’t know it,” he said, clearing his throat to cover his slow response.
“Of course they do. They just don’t think about it. They’re too busy being crazy.”
Norman smiled, banging his cane softly against the floor. “Since I can remember, I’ve seen you rushing off to save the day. Nobody thinks you’re losing your mind. You’re just doing what you’ve always done: taking care of us.”
Lucian looked annoyed. “Every time I think about…that kid…my blood boils.”
Norman frowned. “You have to remember,” he said. “Charlie hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s my point,” Lucian shouted, leaping to his feet. “He’s just a boy, and all I can think about is ripping him limb from limb.”
“Why?”
Lucian stiffened and began pacing. That single word appeared to have a resounding effect on him. “Our past isn’t all roses, Norman,” he said.
“Well, I can’t remember most of it.”
“I know.”
Norman frowned. “Since Ray was killed, you’ve been after blood. Something’s got you riled. So if these people are really as bad as you think they are, why don’t you tell me? Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
Lucian shook his head and sighed. He faced resolutely away. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “What’s done is done.”
Norman pointed the tip of his cane in his direction. He was doing that more often. The stick was already becoming a part of him. He hid a grimace and pressed on, “Fine, but you need to stay away from Charlie if you feel that way. We may still need him.”
Norman shook his head. “Everybody needs you. You’re a strong face. You just need to get some help. Talk to somebody.”
Lucian looked stricken. He waved his hand. “No,” he cried. “No, nobody else can know. I can’t have people thinking that I can’t take a walk without a gun in my hands.”
Norman stared. His chest ached from the strain of sitting, and his head was throbbing from all the white willow. The volume of Lucian’s voice was doing his building migraine no favours.
He took a deep breath. “I’m tired. And I need to get some sleep.”
Lucian’s eyes grew wide. “You’re kicking me out?”
“No,” Norman said, standing. “You can stay if you want.” He pointed with his cane—Already a part of you, a voice jeered in his head—to a stack of paperbacks on a nearby table. “I took those from Sarah a few days ago. You should have a look at them for me. It’ll keep you busy.”
Lucian sighed. “What should I do?”
Norman moved towards the hallway. “I don’t know,” he called as he ascended the stairs.
He had to wait for some time before he heard Lucian leave. He spent a quarter of an hour lying in bed, wishing that sleep would come. But his efforts proved fruitless. A sea of thoughts waged an unending war behind his eyes. If he didn’t do something, Lucian was apt to snap.
Whatever that meant for Charlie, it wasn’t good.
He needed help.
X
Alexander’s house was within direct sight of the cathedral. It was no simple abode. Spread upon a street corner, it rose some forty feet from the ground, tapering to an ornate carved roof. Atop it, angelic figures and gargoyles were set within glistening white stone, glowing in the afternoon light.
To have called it a home would have been wrong, almost as wrong as it would’ve been to have called Alexander its owner. It was a museum—or mausoleum, some said—of the Old World, and he was its custodian. Within, the spirit of mankind had been captured in miniature. Thousands of years of history, culture and memories lay nested within its walls.
Upon it, their entire way of life had been based. The principles by which the city’s hundreds of citizens—as well as the many thousands in the wilds who had heard its legend—now lived had been laid down here.
After the End, the holy sanctity of places like the cathedral meant little to most. This was their temple. This was hallowed ground. This place was never unprotected. Guards had patrolled the neighbouring rooftops in twos and threes since long before the first attack on the city.
The garden spoke volumes of the dedication it had been shown. A tiny stream ran through its centre, spanned by an arched bridge, the wood ancient and hard as diamond, having been trod upon by a million soles. The grass was cut short and neat. Stripes of exuberant flowers ran in a grand hexagonal pattern, bright purples and pinks, blues and reds; the only flourishing plants for many miles.
Before the famine, some had even made pilgrimage to this spot, to look upon the house, hoping for a glimpse of the living legend within.
Norman walked the garden path, taking his time. The pleasant glow of the midafternoon sun eased his aching chest, but his head still throbbed. In time he arrived at the front door, which towered over him, all brass and rich mahogany. Two fifteen-foot totem poles stood on either side of the door, resembling creatures Norman had never seen beyond the pages of books, eerily stretched beyond accurate proportion: the snarling head of a wolf, the serene stare of an owl, and the powerful bulge of a brown bear’s maw.
He took the heavy knocker in his hand, slammed it once against the brass plate, and waited. From afar he heard calls of people returning from the fields after a hard day's work. Alexander’s return from self-exile had inspired new hope, enough for most to have almost forgotten their problems. Amongst the voices was a hum of merriment—even contented laughter.
The door went unanswered. He knocked once more and waited for over a minute further, hearing nothing but the distant trickle of the stream and the continued ruckus from the fields. After a moment of hesitation he grabbed the handle. With a clunk, the heavy latch released and the door opened. He was surprised to find it unlocked, but proceeded nonetheless.
Once he was over the threshold, he peered around at the atrium. Polished wooden floors ran underfoot, and a wide staircase led up to the second floor, out of sight.
High ceilings. Freshly dusted walls. But no host.
“Hello?” Norman called.
His voice penetrated deep into the belly of the house, echoing in dark corners and forgotten crannies. Once, dozens of visiting emissaries had provided a steady hubbub here, exchanging ideas and gathering knowledge to be relayed to lands afar, part of a network Alexander had painstakingly built up since the End. Now it all sat gathering dust.
The atrium gave way to a long corridor. Of all the mahogany doors lining either side—of which there were at least two dozen—only one lay open. He left the staircase behind, his mind turning back to years past.
He’d been raised in this house, schooled by Alexander himself, trained to be the one he said they all needed. The saviour of mankind. How many would have given anything for that chance?
Countless.
And how many times, sitting at his desk in Alexander’s study, had he wished to be somewhere else—anywhere else?
Again: countless.
He passed into that same study now, and shivered as a flood of memories leapt forward from the back of his mind. It occupied more than two thirds of the ground floor. He paused in the doorway and stared inside. He’d seen it every day in his youth, year after year. But he’d never grown used to it. It always sent a lump forming in his throat.
Destiny aside, this place took his breath away.
Nearest to him was a forest of spindly stands, their polished steel frames glittering. Upon them were more musical instruments than he could have possibly named. Each shone with fresh polish, set with loving care upon handcrafted bespoke cradles.
Beyond them stood an enormous bookcase, easily fifty feet long and fifteen high. It was stuffed several layers deep with books that teetered on the shelves, the collective wisdom of the ages: from Shakespeare to Steinbeck; Calculus to Haematology; Ancient Egyptian mythology to Lycanthropy.
On the opposite wall, every inch had been filled by the frames of a hundred painted canvases, great sunsets, harbours, hills, mountains, and figures walking the streets of forgotten Old World cities.
Here and there were glass trestle tables, covered with trinkets and souvenirs from all over the country. A pitted brass Sextant, a tall golden globe, the ceramic body of a white rabbit, the long ears broken and the paint long faded. Others were covered with writings and figures, tiny statues of Greek and Egyptian gods, pieces of jewellery, Chinese and Arabic scrolls, pendants and pocket watches.
Yet this was only the cap of a mile-high peak. Beneath the manor—amidst a vast web of catacombs that had once been wine cellars, pumping stations, sewers and air-raid bunkers—were miles of Old World treasures.
Only Alexander and Sarah had the keys to that place. Even Norman had only glimpsed its innards a few times. In fact, most of the city folk didn’t even know it existed.
Within, libraries that dwarfed even the mountains in Sarah’s warehouse were filled to capacity with leather-bound first editions, ancient manuscripts rescued from hallowed shelves, pocket paperbacks, and picture books. All meticulously treated, seal-wrapped, tagged and logged. Great stores of vinyl records, CDs, cassette tapes and DVDs diverged from a kilometre-long hall of canvas masterpieces, drawn from all the land’s galleries.
Alexander and his ilk had been collecting mankind’s discarded trinkets for a long time.
The farthest depths of the study were dotted with leather furniture, arranged in a parabola around a central fireplace. The grate was aglow, with the aid of disp
arate gas lamps casting the room in a rich, warm light.
Finally, upon the fireplace, was an arrangement of packages. Despite being rotted and old, they retained their bright colouration: oranges and purples, covered with cheery patterns. Some were wrapped in bright bows, and had cards taped to their sides.
All was still, waiting for the absent master to return. Uncertain, Norman idled near the trestle tables and looked around at the rescued remnants of endless dead. As hard as he might have tried to in some way emulate this temple, he would never know what he was trying to reproduce. He had never seen the Old World, never heard its din. These relics, while breathtaking, could never truly overcome that kind of estrangement.
In some ways, the Old World was truly dead, and would forever remain so.
“You look terrible,” said Alexander’s disembodied voice, echoing off the walls.
Norman started, and turned to the door. “I feel terrible,” he agreed.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed as he advanced into the room. He looked grizzled, his face peaky and drawn, his robes tussled and creased. He clearly hadn’t slept for some time. Yet still he smiled, and gestured to the leather chairs by the grate. “You should have Heather take another look at you. Make sure you’re really all there.” He tapped a finger to his temple.
Norman shrugged, easing himself into the seat opposite him. They both took a moment to lounge, staring into the crackling fire before Alexander continued, “Surely you won’t begrudge me for worrying. You’re too important to go unchecked.”
“I hate that.” Norman looked down at his hands. “I’m no more important than anyone else.”
“You’re the only one who can carry on our work after we’re gone, Norman. It’s your—”
“Destiny. Yeah, I know.”
He’d heard those words a million times, but never before had they seemed so absurd, so irrelevant. Never before had he felt so lost.
Alexander’s brow twitched. “You should rest up—where Heather can keep an eye on you.”
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