James cleared his throat and tapped his fingers against his trousers awkwardly.
“If I thought about it hard enough, I could make the past swim away.” She ran her gray tongue over her cracked lower lip. “I could pretend, like an actress in a play. Pretend I was just some old rag whose husband had run off. A childless—” She stopped, and her hands clenched the arms of the chair with sudden white-knuckled force. After a long moment, she relaxed, and lit another cigarette. “Well, I’m not pretending, then, am I?” She gave a mirthless little chuckle. “I am an old rag with no husband and no...” She sighed out smoke, and turned to him. “Well, now, the play’s over, and the costume’s off, isn’t it? The lights have gone down. Curtain’s pulled.”
“But you said it felt light. To have spoken of it.”
“It does.” She nodded. “I didn’t think it would, but it does.”
“Does that mean,” he coughed a moment as her smoke swirled around him, “does that mean you’d like to go to a place like St. John’s?”
She lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Are you going to write to Silas?”
“Yes. I think that he’s what I really need. Someone to talk to who knows.” She made a gesture with her hand which, to James, meant, “everything.”
They shared a silence, which Mrs. Wylit broke as the windows filled with orange sunset. “Do you think we’ll see him in Portree?”
James woke from his uneasy reverie. “Who? Matthew? Well, we all certainly hope so. Though what we’re going to say to him, I don’t know. Of course, we’ll have to tell him that Mr. Marlin passed away, and Mr. Blanchard as well. I’d assume he knows about his mother — Mr. Marlin must have written back in ‘42. But perhaps Mr. Marlin felt it was truly important for him to see Nim’s grave and know how much she missed him. He must need our help in some way, otherwise we’d never have been sent on this wild goose chase.”
“It’s only a wild goose chase if we don’t find our prize.” Mrs. Wylit rolled the ash into a point in the tray, then raised her cigarette to her lips and flared the cherry. “Besides, I wasn’t talking about Matthew Barlow.”
“Then who— oh.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees to bury his head in his hands.
“The man in the brown coat,” Mrs. Wylit mused unnecessarily.
“Yes, I know who you mean.”
“Touchy. I was only asking.”
James exhaled a violent sigh and sat up. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about that now, Vi.”
She blew a smoke ring. “Suit yourself.”
They had supper in the dining car, and retired to the cabins. They’d be at Inverness station by morning to make their way to the bus that would bear them through the moors and across the lochs to the Isle of Skye.
“Mercy, please.” Lance pulled his handkerchief from his trousers pocket and waved it as a white flag. “Damn your luck, Arthur.”
Arthur grinned as he gathered up the cards from the floor. With James on the top bunk and Lance sitting on the lower one, Arthur could wedge himself against the door and sit for a card game.
Lance stood up and took the pack of cards to secure in his shirt pocket. Arthur squeezed partially onto the bottom bunk so that Lance could open the door. “Well, gents.” Lance saluted them in farewell. “Goodnight. Tomorrow we’ll be in Scotland, land of windswept cliffs and foaming seas, moors and heather, and, if we’re lucky, perhaps a fine supper of haggis. The perfect place for an adventure, eh?”
“Haven’t had enough adventure?” Arthur leaned over to sock Lance on the knee. Lance moved aside deftly to dodge it. “You want to try haggis?”
“Try it? I’ve had it. I love it.” Lance rubbed his belly longingly.
James made gagging sounds from his perch on the top bunk with his unread book. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. It’s going to happen. And you two are going to have some with me.”
“Beat me tomorrow at whist, and I’ll eat it,” Arthur said. “Swear on my mother’s good name.”
“You’re on. And you have to hold James down and make him try some.” They laughed again, James a trifle uneasily. “Good night, then.” Lance disappeared and the door closed, off to bed down above Mrs. Wylit. James supposed Lance would be up again late tonight, but vowed not to find out, even if he himself was unable to sleep. Besides, the gentle rocking of the train and the repetitious sounds of the track passing beneath them were soothing. Perhaps he’d be able to sleep well. If the thing gnawing in his guts would let him.
Arthur took down the pathetic pillow from the lower bunk and added it to his bundled jacket. He curled up on the floor. There was no way he would fit in the train bed without his legs hanging over the side, which would inevitably lead to pins and needles.
“Are you ready for lights out?” James put his finger on the switch.
Arthur nodded, and James flipped off the bulb.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, James.”
Pause. Whisper. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
James closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the guilt in him still sat, a hot stone in his stomach, so deep it nearly touched his spine. At last, he couldn’t contain it; he could harbor it no longer. He rolled to the edge of the bunk, and whispered over the side, “Arthur?”
Nothing, but there was no snoring, either. “Arthur,” James tried again. “Arthur. Wake up. Are you asleep? Arthur, I have... I have something I need to tell you.”
A long silence, and then the ruffling snort of a snore.
James lay back and closed his eyes, hands pressed into his midsection as if he could will the stone out of himself.
Chapter 25
As he gazed on the Scottish countryside in summer, it was astonishing to James that feasting the eyes on natural beauty — so beautiful it was unnatural, really — was enough to wash away one’s strife, however temporarily. As he watched the rivers snake their way through the green and dun-colored terra, the constant prickle of guilt and anxiety in his stomach receded until it was no more bothersome than a particularly lazy fly buzzing about in search of a place to land.
James had a feeling of wellbeing, bordering on being giddy. Somehow, in some way, it would be all right. All of it. It had to be all right, his feverish brain reasoned, as his eyes drank in the glistening shadow of the sea ahead. They were going to find the long lost Matthew Barlow, son of their beloved Nim, and they were going to find some way to help him. That was what Mr. Marlin wanted them to do, may he rest. It gave James a golden, comforting sense of purpose.
He glanced over at Mrs. Wylit on seat next to him. Lance and Arthur claimed benches of their own on the opposite side. Both were asleep, heads lolled back on their shoulders. It had been a long, long bus ride.
Mrs. Wylit was awake, though, and gazed out the window with beaming affection on her face. James could see the landscape reflected in her eyes. “My husband always wanted to take a holiday to some place like this,” she said. “I refused. Thought it was a waste of money. If one’s miserable in life, why would a change of scenery do anything to solve it?” She sighed, and a strange expression — a soft, genuine, closed-mouth little smile — crossed her pale face. “He was an arsehole, but he might have been right.”
Lodging was troublesome. Summer holidays had the hotels and guest houses full. The only place with an opening was an inn right on the scenic harbor, and the only reason the suite was free was because it was so outrageously expensive. They all pooled what they had, and came up with enough for two nights. That didn’t leave much to eat, but they had no choice.
“This is the last stop,” Lance mused as they hauled their luggage into the admittedly spacious room that, while plainly furnished, had a double bed and two singles — enough for everyone for once.
Famished, they wandered the quaint streets until they found a man selling fish and chips from a cart. They ate like animals, seated on the curb. Eve
n Mrs. Wylit managed most of hers, though when she’d finished, James thought she looked a bit green. It stayed put, however, and they were refreshed, though still weary in their bones from the overnight journey.
Mrs. Wylit wandered into a shop for cigarettes, and James stood up to follow. Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. It was gentle, but the sheer weight of it was enough to keep James in his seat. “I’ll go.” Arthur climbed to his full, towering height to follow.
Lance and James watched them disappear into the shop in silence. The quiet continued in the mellow afternoon, the sounds of children laughing in boats on the harbor and the cry of the gulls weaving a symphony for them. After a time, Mrs. Wylit emerged with a cigarette between her lips. Arthur took a matchbook, dwarfed by his fingers, and lit it for her.
Lance smiled and used his shoulder to bump James'. “He’s a good lad, isn’t he?”
James nodded, though something icy and made of wire clenched at his heart. “Yes. Of course he is.”
“The best.” Lance trapped James in his pools of blue for a long but subtle moment. His expression was good-humored, but his smile twisted at the sides in a way that seemed longing or sad. “The very best, James.”
James swallowed. “I-I know that,” he stuttered as they stood.
“I’m sure you do.” Lance turned and gave a comical little bow as Arthur and Mrs. Wylit approached. “Now that we have provisions of the tobacco variety, my liege, where are we headed next?”
“Shopkeeper suggested we talk to the postmaster,” Arthur said as they neared. He herded Mrs. Wylit along as she gazed distractedly out over the port and the gaily colored shops and guesthouses surrounding it. “He might know where the cottage is.”
***
The small post office was one of many storefronts in a white row building, and the inside was cramped with all of them in it. The pipe-smoking postmaster nudged his flat woolen hat and greeted them. Arthur stepped forward to explain their plight and handed him the deed to the cottage.
The postmaster squinted at the small print before lifting the glasses hanging around his neck to his face. “Can’t be sure, but that looks like the wee place out quite a jaunt past the Cuillin Hills hotel.”
“Do you know who lives there?”
The postmaster thought a minute. “I only took this job a fortnight ago,” he admitted, “so I canna say fer sure. I know that old Campbell used to pay one o’ his grandsons to deliver the post there. I’ve heard the children talk about a hermit, but I’ve never met him. Such is the nature o’ hermits.” He held out his callused hands apologetically.
“Would the boy be able to show us there?” Arthur asked.
“Aye, I’d think so.” He nodded, and tapped his lower lip. “Might I ask... do you know the man who lives there?”
James and Lance shared a wide-eyed glance, but Arthur did not waver for even a particle of a second. “We knew his mother.”
“I see.” The postmaster opened his mouth and closed it, trapping his lips in a firm line that seemed to say, “Quiet, it’s none of your business.”
“Weel,” the postmaster said after a swollen pause. “Let me ring the boy’s father en see if he cain make yon trip.” He disappeared behind the counter past the honeycomb of sorting bins and post boxes, and picked up the pea-green telephone. He dropped his voice and talked for several minutes, no doubt eager to gossip about the strangers who showed up to see the local hermit. He returned at last, and said, “Randy’s spending the day and night at his Nan’s. Sunday last he nicked from the collection plate – money for sweets, I’d wager. So he’s over there working it off, painting fences and all. Won’t be back ‘till morn.” He scratched under his chin with one yellow thumbnail. “Take ye mesel’, but I’m on duty. Best to wait for the lad — he knows the way better’n I do. Have a bunk, do ye?”
Arthur confirmed this as Lance rolled his eyes and set his jaw in frustration. They agreed to meet the boy at the post office in the morning if it could be arranged. This was agreed upon.
With little money and nothing to do, they went back to the room at the inn to rest. This didn’t last long, as anticipation seemed to gnaw at each of them. After a bit, they rose again, did some sink laundry, and went out to the harbor.
They sat on the stone edge of the harbor and watched in anxious, but somehow companionable silence as Mrs. Wylit flirted with the man who rented small boats to tourists. After a time of working her magic, she called out to Arthur, who sprang up with remarkable grace for someone his size. They got into a rowboat together, and Arthur’s powerful arms soon had them bobbing out amongst the sailboats in the bonny sunshine. After a time, Arthur pulled the oars in and they sat in the boat together, talking, about what, James had no way of knowing.
Lance tossed pebbles into the water with lazy little flicks of his hand. There was a sort of dejected turn to his mouth, so James said, “I really think we’re close. All we have to do is get out to that cottage, and we’ll have fulfilled your granddad’s wish.”
Lance smiled at him, teeth brilliant white in the harbor sun, which streamed on them now though clouds loomed in the west. “I think you’re right. Though I’ll admit that in the past few days I’ve hardly thought of Granddad.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Selfish of me, I suppose.” He paused, and set the handful of pebbles down on the cobblestones next to him. “That’s not the only selfish thing I’ve done on this trip, though, I’m afraid.”
Arthur and Mrs. Wylit were black silhouettes surrounded by the golden flashes of sun off of the waves. Still they talked, passionately it seemed, both of them animated; Mrs. Wylit punched home her points into the air with the tip of her lit cigarette. They didn’t seem to be arguing, but it still brought James wonderment — Mrs. Wylit hadn’t spoken so much or at such length in his history of knowing her. James squinted, and tried to force his eyes to adjust as the boat bobbed in the wake of a larger craft. “Selfish?” he said to Lance, though his voice was airy and distracted.
“Yes, selfish.” Lance flicked one of his stones into the water. “What I did in the church in Lincoln was selfish. James. James.” He said the name twice until his companion tore his eyes off of the water and looked at him. “I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have.”
James opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t say it’s all right,” Lance interrupted before he could get a syllable out. James thought he saw tears mounting in those Hollywood-blue eyes. “Don’t say it. I know you will say you forgive me for what I did, but you shouldn’t. I knew full well in that moment what... well, I mean, for God’s sake, me n’ Arthur are mates, aren’t we?”
“And so are you and I.” James paused. “Right?”
Lance nodded, and looked away. It might have been the sun, but James could see his face pinken.
“But I didn’t treat either of you like friends. Would a real friend have done that? I mean, think about it, think about the story you told me about the two of you back at Willowind House. Your story is legendary. It’s a legend. Who was I to come in and muck it up?”
“Lance, legends aren’t real people.” James pulled up his legs to sit crosswise on the edge of the harbor walk. “Mythical people, heroes, gods, what-have-you, they exist in worlds of black and white, good and evil. They have destinies to fulfill. Our lives are a lot more complicated than that.”
“I don’t see it.” Lance leant back to skip a rock over the gentle waves. “Think about it. King Arthur was a Christian ruler, yet his guide and mentor was a wizard. Many of the Knights of the Round Table possessed magical powers. The sorcery of the Old Religion mixed directly into that of the new order somehow. Tell me that isn’t complicated, some shade of gray.”
“But this is real life,” James shot back.
“When are you going to realize what you have?” Lance wondered, chin in his hand and his elbow on his bent knee. “Y’know, I was content to keep my secret forever, even from myself. But because I saw how happy the two of you are together, how meant for one anothe
r you are — fated, even though apparently you aren’t fond of that term — I couldn’t keep it inside any longer.” He punched one hand into the other. “If you asked me why I kissed you that night, I couldn’t tell you. I knew it was wrong. But I think what I wanted was... to be a part of it all, somehow. To be legendary, too. To feel, even for a second, the way Arthur must feel, the way you...” He dropped his hands in a sigh. “Selfish. That’s what it was.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it,” James hugged his arms protectively over his midsection, eyes fixed on his shoes as they floated over the water, “but I do forgive you. I’m the one who ruined everything. I didn’t say no. I didn’t say anything. And now—” He swallowed, and spoke no more.
Arthur and Mrs. Wylit had ceased their conversation. She watched him, blank-faced, grim almost, as he brought the boat back. Lance whistled “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.”
“Does he know?” James whispered, voice nearly obliterated by the chatter of gulls.
Lance smiled a sad little half-curve and went down to meet the boat.
James thought about that expression on his friend’s face long into the night, after everyone else had managed to fall asleep on their growling bellies.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would find Matthew, and put an end to this quest. He tried to focus on this mantra, but every few seconds that expression on Lance’s face would burn over the insides of his eyelids. With each flash, heat radiated through James' body and brought forth a cold sweat that stank of fear. The fear of losing everything, of the narrative spiraling out of control.
Your story is legendary.
A quiet sigh hissed through his teeth. James moved in increments in an attempt not to disturb Arthur as he climbed free of the inn’s comfortable bed. A quick glance to his right showed Lance to be fast asleep in his own bed against the other wall. As he moved toward the washroom, two glistening eyes popped out at him through the dark, shining wetly in the moonlight that filtered in through the gauzy curtains. James gasped inaudibly and a shudder wracked his body before he realized that it was Mrs. Wylit, lying awake in her bed. She stared at him with silent eeriness.
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