Max rode back to the town centre and left his bike by the library. Inside, he found an old glass counter displaying the library’s opening hours and other public notices, including the monthly programme for the only cinema in the region and a map of the town. Max concentrated on the map, studying it carefully. The layout looked very similar to the way he’d imagined it.
It was a detailed outline showing the port, the town centre, the north beach where the Carvers’ house was situated, the bay to the south with the Orpheus and the lighthouse, the sports grounds near the railway station, and the cemetery. A thought flashed through Max’s mind. The local cemetery. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He looked at his watch and saw that it was already ten past two. Grabbing his bicycle, he rode off up the main street, heading for the road that led away from the shore towards the small graveyard where he hoped to find the tomb of Jacob Fleischmann.
*
The cemetery was a large rectangular enclosure, reached via a long path that wound its way uphill between tall cypress trees. There was nothing particularly original about it, he supposed. The stone walls seemed quite old, though not ancient, and from the outside it looked like a typical small-town graveyard, where except for a couple of days a year – excluding local funerals – visitors were few and far between. The gates were open and a metal sign, covered in rust, announced that the opening hours were from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. in the summer, and from 8 to 4 in winter. If there was anyone guarding the place, Max couldn’t see them.
On his way there, he had prepared himself for a sombre, sinister landscape, but the bright early-summer sunshine made it look more like a cloister, quiet and only vaguely sad.
Max left his bicycle leaning against the outer wall and walked into the cemetery. It was dotted with modest tombs that probably belonged to some of the more established local families. Here and there he saw walls containing recesses for burial urns that appeared to be more recent.
Although it had crossed his mind that the Fleischmanns might have preferred to bury their little Jacob far from this place, something told Max that the remains of Dr Fleischmann’s heir would be resting in the town in which he was born. It took him almost half an hour to find the grave, at the far end of the cemetery, under the shade of two old cypress trees. It was a mausoleum to which time and rain had lent an air of abandon and neglect. The structure resembled a narrow marble hut, and it was blackened and dirty. Its wrought-iron gate was flanked by statues of two angels that looked towards heaven with imploring eyes. Jammed between the rusty bars of the gate was a bunch of dry flowers that must have been there since time immemorial.
An aura of sadness seemed to surround the tomb, and although it was obvious that it hadn’t been visited for some time, the echoes of pain and tragedy still felt recent. He followed the flagstone path leading up to the tomb and stopped at the entrance. The gate was half open and a strong smell of musty air came from within. All around there was complete silence. Max glanced one last time at the stone angels guarding Jacob Fleischmann’s tomb and entered, aware that, if he waited one more minute, he’d be tempted to run away from the place as fast as his legs could carry him.
The inside of the mausoleum was engulfed in darkness. Max was able to make out a trail of dead flowers on the floor leading to the foot of a tombstone on which Jacob Fleischmann’s name had been carved. But there was something else. Under Jacob’s name, presiding over the stone that held his remains, was the symbol of a six-pointed star within a circle.
Max felt an unpleasant tingling down his spine and for the first time he wondered why he’d come to the cemetery on his own. Behind him, the daylight seemed to be growing fainter. He pulled out his watch and looked at the time, thinking that perhaps he’d spent longer in this place than he’d intended and that some guard had locked the gates, leaving him trapped inside. The hands on his watch showed it was two minutes past three. Max took a deep breath and tried to calm down.
He had a last look around, and after making sure there was nothing else here that could shed new light on the story of Dr Cain, he got ready to leave. It was then that he realised he was not alone inside the tomb. He could hear the sound behind him. A sound like nails clicking over stone. He slowly turned round. Something was moving in the gloom, a dark figure creeping along the ceiling, advancing slowly, like an insect. Max broke out in a cold sweat and he could feel his watch slipping from his hands. He took a few steps back and looked up. At first he could only make out the eyes, which were trained on him. One of the stone angels he’d seen at the entrance was walking upside down on the ceiling. The figure stopped and, staring at Max, gave a canine smile then pointed an accusing finger at him. Gradually, the angel’s features melted until they were transformed into the familiar face of the clown, Dr Cain. Max could see burning anger and hatred in those eyes. He knew he had to run to the door but his legs wouldn’t respond. Terrified, he could only close his eyes and stand, rooted to the spot, shaking, waiting for those stone claws to caress his face. Moments later he felt a fetid, icy breath on his face. He opened his eyes, resolved to face death head on, but there was nothing there. The apparition had dissolved into the shadows. Max still stood, paralysed. Perhaps the creature was just behind his back, closing in.
This time he didn’t hang about. He ran to the exit as fast as he could and didn’t stop to look behind him until he was back on his bicycle and had put at least a hundred metres between himself and the cemetery gates. Pedalling furiously helped him to regain control of his nerves. He told himself it had just been a trick of the light, a macabre manipulation of his own fears. That was all. Maybe there was still time for him to go back to the beach and join his sister and Roland for a swim. He was about to check his watch when he realised it wasn’t there. He’d dropped the precious present his father had given him for his birthday inside the tomb.
‘You idiot,’ he muttered to himself.
He contemplated his options. The idea of returning to that place to recover his watch was unthinkable. Defeated, Max rode back towards the bay. But this time he wasn’t looking for Roland and his sister; he wanted to see the old lighthouse keeper. There were a number of questions he wanted to ask the old man.
*
The lighthouse keeper listened attentively to Max’s account of what had happened in the cemetery. When the story was over, he nodded gravely and gestured to Max to sit down next to him.
‘Can I be honest with you, Mr Kray?’ Max asked.
‘I hope you will be, young man,’ Victor Kray replied. ‘When you get to my age you realise lying is a waste of time.’
‘But you lied to us, sir,’ Max prompted, instantly regretting his bluntness.
Victor Kray regarded him with piercing eyes.
‘What makes you think I did, Max?’
Max tried to choose his words more carefully this time. He had not meant to offend the lighthouse keeper and was convinced that if the old man had not told them the whole truth it was probably for a reason.
‘I have a feeling that yesterday you didn’t tell us everything you know. Don’t ask me why – it’s just a hunch,’ said Max.
‘A hunch,’ echoed Victor Kray.
‘My father says a hunch is your brain’s way of taking a short cut to the truth,’ replied Max.
‘He’s a wise man, your father. What else does he say?’
‘That the more you try to hide from the truth, the quicker it finds you.’
The lighthouse keeper smiled.
‘And what do you think the truth is, Max?’
‘I don’t know … I think that Dr Cain, or whoever he is, is about to make a move. Soon,’ Max said. ‘And I think that all the things that have been happening over the last few days are just a sign of what is to come.’
‘What is to come,’ the lighthouse keeper repeated. ‘That’s an interesting way of putting it, Max.’
‘Look, Mr Kray,’ Max interjected. ‘I’ve had the fright of my life. Very strange things have been happening to me, and I’m s
ure my family, you, Roland and I are in danger. The last thing I need right now is another mystery.’
The old man smiled again, nodding.
‘That’s what I like. Direct and forceful.’ Victor Kray laughed without conviction. ‘You see, Max, if I told you the story about Dr Cain yesterday, it wasn’t to entertain you or to reminisce about old times. I told you so that you would all know what is happening and you’d be vigilant. The last few days have been tough for you; I’ve been in this lighthouse for twenty-five years with one sole objective: to keep an eye on that beast. That’s my only purpose in life. I’ll be honest too, Max. I’m not going to throw away twenty-five years because some kid decides to play detective. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you anything. Perhaps it would be best if you forgot everything I’ve said and kept away from those statues and my grandson.’
Max tried to protest, but the lighthouse keeper raised his hand and silenced him.
‘I’ve already told you more than you need to know,’ Victor Kray pronounced. ‘Don’t push it too far, Max. Forget Jacob Fleischmann and burn those films immediately. Today. That’s the best advice I can give you. And now, young man, get out of here.’
*
Victor Kray watched Max cycle away. He knew he had been harsh and unfair to the boy, but in his heart he believed it was the wisest thing to do. He also knew that the lad was intelligent and he couldn’t fool him. Max suspected that he was hiding something, but even so he hadn’t been able to grasp the magnitude of Victor’s secret. Events were gathering pace, and now, after a quarter of a century, as his life was nearing an end, Victor felt weaker and more alone than ever, his fear and anguish about the reappearance of Dr Cain threatening to overwhelm him.
Victor Kray tried to banish the bitter memory of a whole existence entwined with that sinister character, from the dirty suburbs of his childhood to his imprisonment in the lighthouse. The Prince of Mist had robbed him of his best friend and of the only woman he had ever loved; he’d stolen every minute of his long adult life, turning him into his shadow. Victor Kray had spent countless nights in the lighthouse trying to imagine what his life might have been like if fate had not decided that the powerful magician would cross his path. Now he knew that any memories he might cherish during the last years of his life would be only fictions from a biography he’d never lived.
His last remaining hope lay in Roland and in the promise he’d made himself that the boy would have a future far away from that nightmare. There was little time left and Victor’s strength was nothing like the force that had once sustained him. In barely two days’ time it would be exactly twenty-five years since the sinking of the Orpheus, and Victor Kray could sense that Cain was gathering power with every passing minute.
The old man went over to the window and gazed at the dark hulk of the Orpheus submerged beneath the blue waters of the bay. There were still a few hours of sunlight left before the darkness crept in and night fell – perhaps his last night of vigil in the lighthouse.
*
When Max walked into the house by the beach, Alicia’s note lay on the dining-room table, which meant that his sister had not yet returned and was still with Roland. The empty house only intensified the loneliness Max felt at that moment. The old man’s words echoed in his mind. Although he’d been hurt by the lighthouse keeper’s tone, Max was not angry with him. He realised the old man was trying to protect them all from something that scared even him. Yet, Max couldn’t help shuddering, for what could be worse than what they already knew?
He went up to his room and lay on the bed, thinking that the entire story was beyond him and that, although he kept staring at the pieces of the puzzle, he couldn’t find the right way to put them all together.
Perhaps he should follow Victor Kray’s advice and forget the whole thing, even if it was only for a few hours. He looked at his bedside table and saw the neglected book on Copernicus still lying there, like an antidote to all the mysteries that surrounded him. He opened the book at the point where he’d left off and tried to concentrate on the rational arguments regarding the orbit of the planets. Maybe Copernicus would have been able to help him unravel the mystery, but the astronomer had clearly chosen the wrong time to alight in this world. In an infinite universe, there were too many things that escaped human understanding.
13
HOURS LATER, WHEN MAX HAD EATEN SOME food and was only ten pages away from the end of his book, he heard the sound of bicycles entering the front garden. Then came the soft hush of Roland and Alicia’s voices, as they whispered for almost an hour on the porch. Around midnight, Max returned his book to the bedside table and turned off the lamp. Finally, he heard Roland’s bike setting off down the road and Alicia tiptoeing up the stairs. His sister’s footsteps paused for a moment outside his door, then continued along the short distance to her own bedroom. Max heard Alicia dropping her shoes on the wooden floor then a creak as she lay down on the bed. He recalled the image of Roland kissing her that morning on the beach and he smiled in the dark. For once, he was certain that his sister would take much longer getting to sleep than he would.
*
The following morning, Max decided to rise before the sun and by dawn he was already cycling towards the bakery. He wanted to get something delicious for breakfast and prevent Alicia from preparing her speciality – leftovers of bread, jam and milk. In the early hours, the town nestled in a calm that reminded him of Sunday mornings in the city. Only a few people out for a quiet walk broke the sleepy mood of the streets, in which even the houses, their shutters closed, seemed to be dozing.
In the distance, beyond the harbour wall, the few fishing boats that made up the local fleet were gliding out to sea and would not return until sunset. Max was greeted by the baker and his daughter, a shy young girl with rosy cheeks who stared at him as if he were some kind of prize. While they served him from a mouthwatering tray of sweet cinnamon buns just out of the oven, the baker asked after Irina. Clearly the news had spread: the local doctor obviously did more than take his patient’s temperature when he made home visits. As his father liked to say, in small towns news travelled at the speed of boredom.
Max managed to get back to the beach house with the breakfast buns still irresistibly warm. Without his watch he wasn’t sure what the time was, although he imagined it must be close to eight o’clock. The thought of having to wait for Alicia to wake up so he could have breakfast was not tempting, so he came up with a clever plan. With the excuse of giving her a hot breakfast, he prepared a tray with his booty from the bakery, milk and a couple of napkins and went up to Alicia’s bedroom. He rapped on the door with his knuckles until his sister’s sleepy voice gave an unintelligible mumble.
‘Room service,’ said Max. ‘Can I come in?’
He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Alicia had buried her head under a pillow. Max looked around at the clothes hanging over chairs and her huge collection of random possessions. A girl’s room was always a bewildering place, thought Max, a complete mystery.
‘I’ll count to ten,’ he said, ‘then I’ll start eating.’
His sister’s face peeped out from under the pillow, scenting the sweet aroma in the air.
*
Roland was waiting for them by the edge of the beach, wearing just a pair of old trousers cut off at the knees. Next to him was a small boat that couldn’t have been more than three metres long and looked as if it had spent at least thirty years bleaching in the sun; the wood had acquired a greyish hue, visible under the few remaining smudges of blue paint. Despite all that, Roland seemed to be admiring his boat as if it were a luxury yacht. As Max and his sister walked down towards the shore, negotiating the stones on the beach, Max noticed that Roland had inscribed the vessel’s name on the prow with fresh paint, probably that very morning: Orpheus II.
‘Since when did you have a boat?’ Alicia asked, pointing at the ramshackle tub into which Roland had already loaded the diving gear and a couple of baskets with mystifying
contents.
‘Since three hours ago. One of the local fishermen was about to break her up for firewood, but I convinced him to give her to me in exchange for a favour.’
‘A favour?’ asked Max. ‘I think you’re the one who’s done him a favour.’
‘You’re welcome to remain onshore if you’d prefer to have first-class accommodation, sire,’ retorted Roland. ‘Come on, all aboard.’
Max decided to keep his mouth shut and not wrestle with Roland’s pride. As far as he was concerned, the expression ‘aboard’ seemed inappropriate for the vessel in question. However, once they’d covered the first fifteen metres and he could see they were still afloat, Max thought better of it and opted not to judge the boat by its hopeless appearance.
‘Well, what do you think, my lord?’ joked Roland.
‘Fit for a prince, cabin boy.’
In fact, the boat moved swiftly in response to Roland’s energetic rowing and clearly had a lot more life in it than Max had originally imagined.
‘I’ve brought along a small contraption that may surprise you,’ said Roland.
Max looked at one of the covered baskets and lifted the lid a centimetre or two.
‘What’s in here?’ he murmured.
‘An underwater window,’ Roland explained. ‘Really it’s just a box with some glass at one end. If you place it on the surface of the water, you can see to the bottom without diving in. That’s why it’s like a window.’
Max pointed at his sister Alicia.
‘This way, at least you’ll be able to see something too,’ he said, teasing her.
The Prince of Mist Page 10
