by S. L. Duncan
He lathered some soap in his palm and onto his face. The fragrant foam and warm liquid helped. Another handful of water rinsed the remaining lather from his skin, and the rest he ran through his hair, slicking it back. Leaning against the sink, he watched water spiral down the drain, swirling away. He then looked into the mirror, half expecting to see some ancient scene play out.
“What’s happening to me?” Gabe asked his reflection. A day ago, his biggest worry in the world had been waiting on NYU to send an acceptance letter. Those concerns felt like years ago—worries from a former life.
He studied the lines in his face and took stock of his life. Why us? We’re nobody special. It had been unusual growing up, moving from town to town to follow his father’s career. Admittedly, there was resentment, and over time he’d given his father more grief than was deserved.
His dad always made certain to choose interesting cities and towns for relocation, promising never to drag them to some backwater outpost in the middle of nowhere. But really, none of these places had ever felt like home. The only constant in his life was his father, and now that also seemed to be changing.
A memory came to him. He must have been eleven or twelve years old. On his way out of their church to play soccer with some friends at a neighborhood field, he overheard a conversation.
His father sat in his office, talking on the phone. Gabe couldn’t recall ever seeing his father so emotional.
Gabe hid behind the door and listened.
“Because of Gabriel?” he asked into the phone. “Or because you didn’t have the courage to leave your home? I realize you have responsibilities there. Of course, I’m sure the repurposing of the Nicene Project is very important . . .”
He paused, listening to the response, shaking his head.
“No, Aseneth, it was my choice. Regardless of what family duty I had, Gabriel’s adoption was my choice. I chose to accept the charge.” He paced around his office. “That’s not true. I did . . . I do love you. But he is my son now. His place in this world is my responsibility. Above all others.”
A silence hung in the air like a storm cloud.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see how it would ever be possible for me to return to Iznik.”
Whatever response his dad heard caused him to slouch, his shoulders dropping in defeat.
“Then I suppose it is. He sounds like a good man. You have to let me go now. Marry him and enjoy your life. Good-bye.” With that he hung up the phone and fell into his office chair.
Gabe eventually spoke with his father about the woman on the telephone and hearing the story of his adoption. As far back as he could remember, he seemed to have always known about it but never knew his dad had given up a woman for him.
The light in the bathroom became nauseating. The memory reminded Gabe of how much his father always did for him, which made the fact that they were miles above the Atlantic, flying to another country, all without a hint or an explanation why, so unbelievably frustrating. Still, at the same time, it was also reassuring. Regardless of the man’s refusal to explain anything, Gabe knew he would not take such extreme measures unless absolutely convinced it was for the best.
Gabe wished for the best had meant someplace warm and tropical. Someplace far away from the insanity of New York.
He had a feeling England would be neither.
Gabe returned to his seat, sat back, and pulled the flimsy airline blanket over his legs.
A light clicked on above his father. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“No. I keep thinking about . . . I need to know what’s going on, Dad.”
“I promise I will tell you everything once we get to England, but now is not the time.”
Gabe sighed, exasperated by his father’s cryptic response, and switched on the light above his seat. He turned his back on his father and found escape flipping through one of the several magazines provided by the airline, pictures of patchwork fields and English villages passing by.
“It’s been eighteen years since I was home. Can’t believe it’s been so long.”
“So, where are we going? London?”
“Durham. About three hours from London by train. It’s a university town just south of Newcastle in the northeastern borderlands. Not a big town, really, but it’s quiet and a bit off the beaten path. You’ll love the cathedral and castle. They’re marvelous.”
Gabe turned to see a smile form at the corners of his dad’s mouth as he became lost in the thought. “I think you miss it more than you know.”
“Maybe I do.” He nodded to the magazine. “Those rural pictures remind me a lot of where I grew up. Little farmhouses that look as though they sprouted right out of the land itself, quaint villages, grand cathedrals, and local pubs. I guess you can take the man out of the country but not the country out of the man.”
“Could you at least tell me what’s in Durham that’s so important?”
His father paused, as if considering how to respond. “Well, the short answer is history. The history of the region is very important. There is a wall north of Durham called Hadrian’s Wall, built when these lands were part of the dying Roman Empire.”
“We’re traveling all this way for a wall?” Gabe asked.
“Of course not. But our reasons are connected. The Roman Empire placed great value in the lands around Durham as a stronghold to defend their occupied lands from the constant invasion of the northern hordes. It is that reason—that effort to hold that land—that takes us there today. I’ll introduce you to someone who is very knowledgeable about this history.
“But none of this is a conversation for now,” he continued. “You should try and get some rest. You’re going to need it. There is much to see and even more to hear. Try counting sheep,” he said with a nod to a picture of a white-speckled field in the magazine.
With that, the light above his father clicked off, and Gabe was alone again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The clattering of pots and pans somewhere in the house woke Gabe from a dreamless sleep to a darkened room.
He felt his wrist for the light button on his digital watch but then remembered, Missing since The Study Habit. A scene of the emergency medical technicians cutting it off his arm in the ambulance and shouting, “Stat!” at each other played out in his imagination. He wondered what sort of disruption he’d caused at the café. Coren had screamed. That meant she cared, he supposed. At least enough to be concerned. Did she run to his side and try to comfort him?
The embarrassment struck him again, as the memory strayed. He pictured himself spazzing out on the floor like frying bacon while Coren looked on.
Hell with it, he thought. Probably never see her again, anyway.
Silly concerns over his dignity soon quieted in the comfort of the bed. He didn’t want to do anything but stay in the warmth of the covers.
The previous night existed in his memory like snapshots from someone else’s photo album. Various scenes from airports, train rides, and cabs all fit together enough to reassure him that he’d actually experienced them.
The rest was a little hazy. He remembered arriving in Durham. His father had woken him when the train’s interior lights came on. Gabe stumbled off into the snowy night, lumbering like a zombie toward a black cab. A man sitting inside had introduced himself to Gabe, but right now he couldn’t remember his face, let alone a name. What did leave an impression was his impressive physique and thick Scottish brogue. He was an older man but looked as though he could start as linebacker for any NFL team.
The ride took them through a maze of streets that curved, inclined, and sloped down so much that Gabe might have gotten carsick had he not been so sleepy. Everything after the taxi was a total blank.
A cord on a lamp beside the bed, barely visible, begged to be pulled. Escape from this comfy trap had to start somewhere. He stretched on his stomach and turned it on.
Once his eyes adjusted, he saw the details of the room. Despite its compact size, the room ha
d been decorated like a giant scrapbook. Artifacts and keepsakes of a well-traveled life were everywhere. A brass tea set, with its tiny cups surrounded by an army of hand-carved figurines, was arranged on the nightstand. Pictures and newspaper articles clung to the walls. A Star of David hung over the doorway. Just below it, a cross had been nailed on the door. Gabe noticed a red flag with a white crescent and star draped over a chest of drawers. Turkish, he thought. In the corner of the room was a pile of folded clothes on a small chair, apparently intended for him.
He pushed up on the mattress and immediately smashed his head into the low, sloped ceiling. Stars flashed in his eyes. He crashed back down onto the bed, his grunting cry muffled by the pillow. For an instant Gabe lay still, terrified another migraine had taken hold until a sharp, throbbing pain set in on the crown of his head.
Somewhere in the innards of the house, he thought he heard laughter.
Gabe rolled out of bed and pulled the sweater over his sore head, thankful for fresh-smelling clothes. While he dressed, he scanned the headlines of some of the framed newspaper clippings that adorned the walls. They were all stories of relief efforts from disasters around the globe. Articles about earthquakes, war, and famine seemed odd for wall decor.
One of the photographs on the wall caught his eye, this one of his father. He looked much younger. Beside him stood a tall woman with long, black hair and green eyes accentuated by heavy eyeliner. Her face was soft and inviting, with full cheeks and dark eyebrows. Her features gave the impression that she might be caring, gentle . . . motherly. Her expression, however, was a contradiction. Angry, with her full lips pursed and eyebrows arched.
Was this Aseneth? He knew so little about her. His dad had always been reluctant to talk when Gabe mentioned her in conversations about women or dating. To this day, he’d never even seen a picture of her.
His father had his arm around her, but they both looked rigid, uncomfortable.
They didn’t match, either, with his dad tidy and neat in a well-starched collar, much like the shirts he wore today. The woman’s outfit looked more like the clothes of a free spirit. A long, billowy dress in a cultural print flowed down to open-toed sandals.
He made a mental note to ask his father about her next time he got the chance.
In the hallway outside his room, Gabe discovered scents of tobacco and greasy food. The smell would have made him sick on any other occasion, but the rumble in his gut said, Too hungry to get picky. If someone served fried tobacco sandwiches, he’d be up for giving them a try.
Carpeted stairs led down through the foyer and to the adjoining kitchen. His father sat at the breakfast table, and a man Gabe recognized as the giant from last night’s cab ride tended to the stove. He was even bigger than Gabe remembered with muscled arms the size of a man’s leg. A white yarmulke adorned his balding head, and remnants of a recent meal peppered a matching scholarly goatee. The hulk had a weathered appearance, with lines in his face that gave him the scouring look of a man never content. As he cooked, he smoked a pipe that filled the whole bottom floor with a light haze.
“Good afternoon,” his dad said.
“What time is it?” Gabe asked.
“Nearly half three. How’s your head?” He smiled like he’d been waiting to ask.
Gabe rubbed the newly formed knot. “Super. Thanks for the warning.”
The large man approached. “Welcome to my home, Gabriel.” He rolled his r so hard, Gabe hardly recognized his own name.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Professor Carlyle is an old friend of mine from Ellon, up near Aberdeen. He teaches history and religion here at Durham University, and he’s the man who’s been helping you with your admission to NYU.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
The professor laughed. “Bin the formality, eh? Call me Carlyle. Friends do. Unlucky that, about New York University. Turns out, you got in.”
Gabe slumped and wondered how his life could possibly get any worse.
“Anyway, you must be hungry. How about a nice fried breakfast?”
“But it’s three thirty in the afternoon.”
“Every day should start with breakfast, no matter when that day begins,” Carlyle growled. “Now, sit. What have you been teaching him, Joseph?”
“You’ll find he’s of his own mind on most subjects.”
Carlyle removed several pieces of bacon from its packaging and put them onto a large iron skillet. They sizzled in the hot grease.
Gabe glanced at the meat and then the yarmulke on Carlyle’s head. The giant noticed.
“An old rule for another time meant simply to discourage spread of disease in a ravaged land.” Carlyle flipped the bacon, no longer looking at Gabe. “How’s the jet lag?”
“I feel like hell.”
Carlyle snorted while tending to the bacon. The slightest indication of a smile shined through his facial hair. “Feel like hell? Now, there’s a notion coming from you.”
Gabe thought for a second that he had offended Carlyle by his language.
The awkward moment passed, and Carlyle said, “You’ll adjust. Your father tells me that you don’t exactly follow in his path with regards to religion.”
By Carlyle’s tone, Gabe couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. He looked at his father, wondering how in the world such a conversation mattered at a time like this. “Isn’t that kind of a private matter?”
“Not anymore,” said Carlyle.
“No offense but I think it is.” Gabe knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t help himself. The frustration over the past twenty-four hours boiled to the surface. “Besides, what does my religious preference, if any, have to do with why somebody tried to kill us in New York, or why the only place to find safety was several thousands of miles away on another continent? Isn’t that what you two should be talking about?”
He stared at his father. “You’re acting like we’re the ones who committed a crime with all this running and hiding. Does somebody want to let me in on what the hell is going on here? Our lives, our world has been destroyed back home, and you find it necessary to enter into a theological debate over my religious beliefs?”
Carlyle laughed as he tossed a tomato half into the skillet. “Your world has been destroyed, you say? Funny you should mention that.” The smile vanished and he became still. “Because being wanted by the authorities for burning a church would be a considerably better situation than the one you’re currently in. Considerably.”
Gabe rolled his eyes.
In a flash, Carlyle leapt away from the stove, coming halfway over the kitchen table, his face as red as the tomato. “And believe me, sonny jim, you’ll know firsthand if and when your world is destroyed. You’ll likely have a front-row seat. There are things that you’re about to learn regarding this world in which you live in, and more importantly, your part to play in it. You’ll need to open yourself up to the possibility that you are, despite appearances, more than some anti-authoritative American muppet of a student and realize that perhaps there is some substance and purpose hidden away under that unkempt exterior of yours.”
Gabe had retreated as far into his chair as it would allow.
As the stove regained Carlyle’s attention, his intensity switched off like a light, and a broad smile showed through the goatee. He flopped down a plate in front of Gabe and practically threw a fork at him. “Now, eat your breakfast. We’ll go up to the castle and have a bit of an orientation to what exactly I do at the university. After that, we can find you a new wardrobe and relocate you to more suitable accommodations. By the way, welcome to Durham, Gabriel.”
My God, he’s totally crazy, Gabe thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gabe stumbled through the thick snow on the ground, following his father and Carlyle around the city center. Several narrow streets wound through the buildings, crisscrossing the River Wear, which coiled around the little city like a snake, constricting all the shops into a dense commercial area
that bulged out to form a hill.
Near a pub called The Swan & Three Cygnets, they crossed the Elvet Bridge spanning the river gorge and then climbed North Bailey Street toward the castle and cathedral grounds. Gabe noticed a table full of girls about his age behind the window of a coffee shop.
Students. Attractive ones. The silver lining, he thought.
Up the hill they passed another tavern, The Shakespeare, which Carlyle affectionately pointed out as his “local.” He said it was over nine hundred years old and built before construction work began on the castle. Gabe appreciated how the town founders’ priorities fell into order.
The Durham Cathedral dwarfed the one in New York by twice its size at least. The hill on which it stood formed a peninsula surrounded by a deep, forested gorge and the river below. They walked by a snow-covered lawn opposite the cathedral and through the arched entrance of the castle gatehouse, a towering structure adorned with crosses, windows, and ornate crests.
The castle itself wasn’t what Gabe expected. He had envisioned the theme park version, with flagged towers surrounding a singular, tall building, fit for kings and knights. Instead, it was a series of structures, none of them taller than a few stories, like a military base enclosed by a very large stone wall.
Carlyle led them on a cobblestone path surrounding a grass courtyard embraced by a crescent of buildings. He mentioned that many of the university’s classes met in these buildings. The Great Hall looked most impressive with its stone brickwork façade. Directly across from it was the keep sitting atop a stepped hill supported by a large earth-retaining stone wall. The imposing octagonal structure above provided a bookend to the grounds.
“This is Castle College, or University College if you prefer its formal name. Oldest college at Durham University, by the way.” Carlyle pointed to a door marked Lowe Library. “Below the Great Hall and down the stairs is the Undercroft. Over there—”
