He checked the brightness of the growing moon without thinking about it. Satisfied, he started wandering down the paved road with a wistful sigh, tapping the stone with each step. Puddles were forming on the grey slabs. He knew where he wanted to go. His heart ached to get there, to stand alone once more.
The town was quiet at night, no carts tripping through the deserted streets. Bramble sniffed at the ground as she skipped along next to him. Asa paused and held her collar, forcing her into a calmer walk. Still she sprang along next to him as though she was a taut bow ready to be fired. Asa’s feet led him along his usual route, past the shuttered shops and into the cleared market place. Skirting along the edges, Asa squinted to see the piece of newish art that had replaced the old fountain. Eyesight failing him, he walked towards it with a wistful tug in his heart.
Asa reached the centre of the square eventually, seating himself by the statue of a young boy holding a sword. It was made of a polished rock, smooth enough for him to run his delicate hands over without feeling so much as a hint of a snag. The frozen stone eyes gazed out across the empty market, dew still collected on the ridges of its eyelids. Its hair was wild and matted, clothes crumpled. Asa smiled as he stroked the embossed image of a badger on their chest.
“Of course they’d get the age wrong.” He shook his head, breath fogging on the lonely figure.
His mouth tightened as he saw the plaque again, a simple brass plate on the front of the pedestal. He cleared away some of the moss from it with a careless hand and frowned at the words engraved in clear letters, even after all these months of rain.
In eternal gratitude to
Asa Hounslow.
Through his deeds we live on.
Asa withdrew the knife from his pocket as carefully as his trembling fingers could. He laughed. He had spent two weeks being frozen, two being desiccated, and yet a simple cold night could reduce him to shivers now. He placed it on the metal, praying that no one would hear him in the still night. The screech that the metal made from its abuse was deafening to his ears, but he continued to work away at it, adding his own line to the plaque. Avery’s name, scarred into the tarnished metal.
“There,” he breathed, barely moving his lips. The dog started to whimper, and Asa looked at it with a sense of curiosity. Bramble backed away, sat herself at the other side of the courtyard, and began to howl. Asa flinched at the loud noise and covered his sensitive ears until the dog quieted and lay down.
Eventually, he straightened up, sure that the night was getting to his weakened state. He finished the amendment to the plaque in a matter of moments, but a tremor flickered through his body, making his hands twitch. Asa’s first instinct was to protect his work, reflexes kicking in as he shielded the straight letters that he had carved. The knife bit a tiny cut into his index finger.
Asa hummed in irritation as blood beaded on the small wound. However, he just licked it, retrieving his knife from the wet ground. Scattered moonlight glinted on the sharp blade. He slipped it back into his pocket. He looked up at the sky, tracing the stars that Avery had taught him. He didn’t know them all yet, but he would, one day. He swore it.
A pensive smile on his face, Asa stroked the face of the youthful soldier, so unlike either of the pair. He pressed a chaste kiss to the stone locks and his brown eyes softened. Maybe he could see a similarity or two. If only those curls were blond.
“I know that you’d want to be with me today,” he whispered. “I know that I want to be with you.”
Asa shook his head, determined not to think those thoughts. He looked into the open face of the boy who had been his best friend. He had moved here to be closer to him, and it had worked for the most part.
“In their looks,” he muttered, “and in their mannerisms, all I see is you, Avery. I can’t force myself to stay here any longer. I have to move on.”
The air grew colder and somehow thicker as he strode towards that side of town. Asa leant on his cane, limping with each step. It was barely noticeable, a dragging of the toes of his left foot. He licked his dry lips with a parched tongue, feeling them stick for a moment. His dog licked at the hand clutching the cane in a plaintive fashion, whining. Asa wondered why she was being so attentive to him all of a sudden. She had quite discarded the soft aloofness that she usually treated him with. Not unwelcome to her affection, he caressed her soft ears, directing himself towards the grown-over slagheap that lay next to the mines, an immense artificial hill.
As he began to climb the short distance, weight pushing the point of his stick into the mud, Asa thought back over his adventure. His one adventure. It was not enough; he wasn’t sure that it ever would have been. If only he had had more time. Bramble rubbed encouragingly against the backs of his legs, forcing him to struggle up the steep incline. After a while of hauling his body weight up the slagheap, Asa at last stood on top of it, staring at the flat countryside which surrounded him. To the northeast he could see the clear peaks of the Moving Mountains.
He sat himself on the grass more carefully than maybe he once would, feeling his joints crack and ache as he bent down. A lush garden of flowers and mosses was growing here, over the mounds of waste stone and rubbish that had been thrown away. Asa picked a white blossom and stuck it into his lapel pin, as if it was a lover’s corsage. The dog gave a light huff and flopped down next to him, head lying in Asa’s lap. She gazed up at him, dewy eyes filled with an ancient, primal loyalty. Asa ran his aged fingers over her soft coat. The sky seemed in that instant to be closer than he had ever seen it, a canvas painted only just above his head. He was overcome with a sudden urge to sleep.
Asa laid back, eyes half-shut, watching the movement of the skies above him. Time seemed to slow with the skies as he fell into a state of deep relaxation, warmth spreading throughout his body despite the chill of the wind coming over the mountains. He sighed, a barely audible sound, breath visible as clouds against the dark sky. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would never again climb those peaks. The age of that sort of adventure was passing, along with him.
He lifted a weary hand to his eyes, half expecting to see it young and smooth once again, the hand of a youthful aristocrat. Asa did not feel surprised at the sight of such weathered digits, bringing his fingers to his mouth in a grim mockery of a kiss. Chapped lips against his creased skin. He chuckled, the sound not leaving his mouth. He was half aware of what was happening but his mind was dashing between the present and the past, blurring the lines between the two. For the first time in over half a century, Asa could feel the burning of hazel eyes on the back of his neck. He rolled over, sensing his companion.
“Avery,” he breathed. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
His desperate voice was silent in the quiet night, but another one came to him, not with the wind but within his own head. And although its tone was his own, the accent his own, the words were not.
I couldn’t leave you, Asa.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Whilst I would love to claim full responsibility for every aspect of this work, it is a simple fact that no book is published by just one person—especially not a sixteen year old.
I would firstly like to say a big thank you to the wonderful people at Koehler Books: to Dean Robertson for initially believing in my idea; to John Koehler for actually making my pipe dream a reality; to Joe Coccaro and Esther Keane for their hard work in editing my book; and to many others who have also worked to give me such a pleasant publishing experience. An additional wave of gratitude must also go to Shari Stauch, without whose guidance with the publicity I would be completely lost.
Closer to home, I would like to thank my mother and father, even though they said that I would never get published. After all, they taught me to read and write, and together with my brother, Edmund, have supported me in all of my current endeavours. Thank you also to Amy Grant-Moreland, Catherine and Gemma King, Alice Norrington, Lucy Kean, Nessa Blackmore, and Vasu Prasad for being patient with my non-existent social life.
One day, I will have time to spend with you all.
Finally, I must thank all of my teachers through my GCSE and A-level years for not murdering me over the sheer amount of homework that I have never handed in.
It was for a good cause, I promise.
His Frozen Fingertips Page 23
