The Black Snow: A Novel
Page 23
The burning moon turned a cold bone. What light it cast fell weakly into the room, laid a shellacked shawl upon the dresser, glanced off the mirror onto the wall. And then the room became dark as the moon was fought back by clouds and it lay so until hours later. His hands so cold now, could not feel his feet, adrift into an oozy darkness, drifting and then slipping deeper into those dreams. Their faces. The pair of their faces before him. Dreamed the coming sound of a car.
He awakes to a room without moon, a void of pure dark and he hears an echo in his chest where his heart is. What lies behind his eyes is a pulsing hurt that drifts like the tidal sea, a soothing and crash, and he spreads himself starfish, drifts further down, drifts into the deepening sea, can feel himself letting go down into a benthic deep. Just his breathing now, so delicate a thing like an animal sensing the air before the rush of being born. So cold. So cold. And he lies there drifting down until something stirs in the room and his mind comes up out of that dark. Someone else. He senses in the room a person. A small stone of heat begins to burn in a place he has thought burned out and he pulls his hands free of the blankets, slowly sits up, blinks to see. Sees his own starlight first and then out of that sparkling dark at the far side of the room he sees a lamp’s low glimmer. The yellow flame casts the silhouette of a figure in the chair and the stone inside him burns brighter now for he knows in his heart she has come. Love. The purest light. He climbs slowly out of bed, stands unsteady, begins to walk towards the shape of her and as he nears then he sees that the other person is not Eskra at all.
He sees before him Matthew Peoples.
The old man with his eyes upon Barnabas, so tired a face he has looking up at him, and then he rests his hands on his lap and stands up. He leaves the lamp upon the floor and tightens his blue rope-belt and lifts it up again, takes a look at Barnabas, shakes his head sadly for him. He turns and begins towards the door and Barnabas begins to follow, out of the room, slowly down the stairs he follows the lamplight of Matthew Peoples, shadows melting on the walls. In the hall he sees the moon is gone and he follows him into the kitchen, peace in his mind, peace in his heart, and Matthew Peoples pulls out a chair and sits down at the table. Barnabas sits beside him and they survey each other for a moment, and he can see now in Matthew Peoples the man’s eyes so clearly, the pure look of them. The look of a man’s sadness. And then Matthew Peoples stands and leaves the lamp upon the table, begins towards the back door, the room pooled to dark, and Barnabas stands slowly and starts to follow, so cold, so very cold now, and as he follows the night is without sound so still, his feet cold on the chill floor, and he can see the outline of Matthew Peoples open the back door, and then he is beside him and he stands looking at Matthew Peoples’ face, old man face of wind and rain and rivers, and then Barnabas speaks, his voice a bare whisper.
I didn’t know how to do it any better.
His voice falls away and there is silence and Matthew Peoples reaches towards Barnabas and he lays a hand to his cheek, smiles at him, and then he turns, the bulk shape of him moving out the door, the night that is starless.
In the field the horse stood and nickered softly, turned from the wobbled reflection of herself in the trough, began west towards the wooden fence. The day bright as crystal and the hills stood everlast in that wind that blew soft, soft through that land invisible like the harrying hand of time itself. It tipped the wilding grass in the fields that lay barren, shook dust over the hush of the farm house, shook dust from the byre’s bare stones, the building as it lay roofless to the elements. A grand silence but for the hum of the world that came to the horse the same ever in all its sounding.
Epilogue
It were Stephen’s Day morning and I’m trying to eat me porridge and the auld doll was over by the stove telling me about something to do with when she was a wee girl la la la and I’m watching through the window and I see the strangest thing, Cyclop standing in the front yard with his tail swung up and he’s trying to snatch at a magpie. No chance though because them birds are too smart and there’s two of them and they take up either side of him and one of them comes in at him daringly close and Cyclop turns around for him but as soon as he does that bird skips back and then the other jigs forward behind him and bites at his tail. It was like they were tryin to confuse and torment him and this went on with the birds snappin at his rear and the dog getting more frustrated. Me laughin me head off, come here Ma and look at this, and when the auld doll didn’t turn I shouted at her, what, she says, and I motion towards the window, and then she comes to the window and watches, and at this point the dog is chasing his own tail in circles and she starts laughing too and outside Cyclop starts woofing and then the auld boy is coming down the stairs and he starts shouting, what is all the fuss about, and the auld doll points him to the window to watch, and he stands there between us with his arms resting upon each of our shoulders, the weight of him, and then the big sound of him, filling the room with his laughter.
About the Author
Paul Lynch was born in 1977 and lives in Dublin with his wife. Formerly a journalist and film critic, he is now a full-time novelist. This is his second novel.
http://www.paullynchwriter.com/
Books by Paul Lynch
Red Sky in Morning
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Epigraph
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Paul Lynch
Newsletters
Copyright
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2014 by Paul Lynch
Cover design by Keith Hayes
Author photograph by Ulf Andersen
Cover copyright © 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First North American Edition: May 2015
Originally published in the United Kingdom by Quercus Editions Ltd., March 2014
First ebook edition: May 2015
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ISBN 978-0-316-37644-0
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