She laughed. “What?”
I spread my arms wide and lifted my face to the sun and yelled, “Everything!”
“Stop it, Leo. You’re scaring me.”
“Sorry. I mean, I believe in God and all.”
“Oh … good …,” she said hesitantly. “I mean … is it? Why are you telling me this? You have been going to church all your life.”
“But now I believe in God. I really do. I did not used to, but I was wrong. There is a God.”
“I always thought so,” she said mildly.
“Everything makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. Nothing makes sense at all, Leo. But that does not have to stop you from believing in God.”
“How do you mean?”
“Everything doesn’t make sense. If you think that everything makes sense, you will only be disappointed when it does not.”
“How do you know everything doesn’t make sense?”
“Just look around you.” I looked around at the street. “I meant metaphorically.”
“Everything does make sense,” I insisted. “I am beginning to see it.”
“One day, Leo, you will see that is wrong. It doesn’t make sense now. It will, when we reach another dimension, but it doesn’t now. You’ll see it one day. You watch out.” She was laughing.
“I do not think so. There is an order to everything, if we could only see it.”
“All right, preacher. Are you going to become a priest now?”
“Calm down! Not too much in one day. I went to church already.” We turned down the alleyway to the side door and both got out our keys. “It would get me out of joining the army, though,” I remarked, unlocking the door.
“Leo!”
“It was a joke. Don’t worry.”
A faint wailing ghosted down the stairwell, a mournful sound that could not help but stop our laughter. The smile slid from my face before I could catch it. “Anselm is not happy,” I said to Maria.
“That isn’t Anselm,” she said.
“Oh? That’s strange.” We started up the stairs. “It must be one of the kids from the first-floor apartment. I hope it is nothing serious.”
When I opened the door of our apartment, the crying broke into the corridor like a wave. And with a sudden jolt to the stomach, I realized for sure that it was Stirling. How had I not known? Only it sounded so unlike him. “What’s wrong?” I exclaimed in fright, running to the bedroom doorway.
There was Stirling, clutching his head and wailing. Grandmother was trying to comfort him. His whole head was red and blotchy, even through his stubbly hair. His eyes were squeezed shut and tears burst out of them and ran into the wet edge of the sheet that he clutched up to his face. He was crying so hard that spit spilled from his mouth and soaked the sheet too. I ran to him. “What happened?”
“He suddenly got a lot worse again,” Grandmother said. “He isn’t responding to a thing I say. Go and fetch Father Dunstan. Go, Leo! Run!” I tried to catch Stirling’s eyes, but all I saw reflected was pain and fear. He did not even seem to recognize me. He continued his strange wailing; it was unself-conscious, as if he could not help but let it pour wildly from his mouth.
“What is it?” I asked her. “A headache or what?”
“Go! Quickly!” I hurried out the door. “Run!” she called after me.
We had done this before. All of this we had done before. We could not go back again. I didn’t have the strength. But I ran anyway, because I had no choice.
“Stirling!” said Father Dunstan sharply, through the wailing. “Stirling, can you hear me?” He put his hand to the side of Stirling’s face. Stirling looked at him for a moment. Then he scrabbled backward into the pillows, hitting his head on the bedstead. He did not seem to notice.
“No!” he cried. “Do not harm me! Help! Help me!” It didn’t sound like his own voice at all. Wild screams ripped from his throat, and I felt myself flinching.
“Stirling, it’s all right. It’s me, Father Dunstan.”
Stirling went on crying and struggling backward on his pillows. “Stirling, you are safe,” Father Dunstan said clearly. “You are safe.” He put his hands on Stirling’s shoulders to hold him still. “Tell me—can you see?”
“Can I … can I …,” Stirling groaned feverishly, over and over, thrashing his head from side to side.
“Can you see me?”
“Please, take them away! They’re trying to get me!”
“Who?” said Father Dunstan.
“There—look—there!” Stirling gave a sudden harsh shriek.
“Oh God!” I exclaimed, my voice sounding like someone else’s, far, far away, and as if I was praying rather than blaspheming. “Is he possessed?” No one heeded me.
“Can you see me, Stirling?” Father Dunstan asked again. Stirling was mumbling something about ghosts, and he did not seem to hear. “He is hallucinating,” said Father Dunstan. “He does not know what he is saying. Fetch me a cold cloth; I will try to bring down the fever.”
“Look!” squealed Stirling suddenly, his breath snagging in his throat. He sat straight up and stared wildly into the corner of the room. “Oh, look! Why is she here?”
“Who?” asked Father Dunstan.
“That lady—don’t you see? She is reaching out? There!” He screamed again and twisted his bedcovers onto the floor with his snatching arms. Father Dunstan held him down, to keep him from throwing himself onto the floor too. Stirling jerked upward, trying to break free, his shallow breaths themselves almost screams.
“Stirling! Stirling, calm yourself,” Father Dunstan told him.
Maria, shaking, put a cloth into the priest’s hand. He pressed it to Stirling’s head, though Stirling tried to struggle free again. “Save me! She is reaching out at me! To get me—stop her!”
“You are safe, Stirling.”
He stared into the corner of the room without moving. “Who is the lady?” Father Dunstan asked.
Feeble wails came from his mouth as he gaped at nothing. “She says … she says … she says …”
“What does she say?”
“She says she is my mother—a ghost! Please, save me!” He screamed again. The noise shattered up into the back of my skull.
“Stirling,” said Father Dunstan. “Your mother is not a ghost, and she will come back to you one day. Stirling. Stirling.”
Stirling turned to him then, suddenly still. There was a silence, in which not one of us breathed.
“Father Dunstan?” he asked weakly after a moment, gasping as if his lungs had been pierced.
“Stirling, can you see me?”
“Yes.” Then we all breathed out together.
“Were you imagining things? Pretend things.”
“Was it a dream?” said Stirling.
“Aye, you are quite safe. But you are ill.”
“Who was the lady?” he said after a moment.
“That was a dream.”
“It was real. She was talking to me. She said she would take me with her, and I didn’t want to go.”
“Perhaps it seemed very real,” said Father Dunstan, the only one of us who was still quite calm. “But you are safe. Lie still for a while. Tell me, how do you feel?”
“My head aches, and my throat—here.” He gestured feebly to his neck. “And I feel sick. I’m too hot. My head hurts.”
“All right.” Father Dunstan put his hand to Stirling’s forehead. “You have a fever.”
“Am I going to die?” asked Stirling.
“No …,” said Father Dunstan. “Not right now.” He said it jokingly, as if to reassure Stirling, but Stirling did not understand.
“Not right now?” he asked. “But maybe soon?”
“We cannot tell what God’s will is, Stirling, nor can we change it.” I almost hit him then, but instead, I sat down hard on my bed to stop myself from passing out. But Stirling seemed comforted by his words.
Grandmother did not want to leave Stirling even for a moment, though Maria was with him. So Father Dunstan had to tell us quickly. “I fear it is more serious than I had thought,” he whispered, shutting the door. “Hallucinations are a sign of the advanced stages of the illness.” He paused then, as if he expected us to respond, and raised his hand to his forehead. “He may recover well, but he relapsed very suddenly, and that is usually a bad sign. I cannot tell exactly how serious it is. He will deteriorate rapidly now; be prepared for that. I will visit as often as I can. If you know of any medical experts, by all means call them in—anyone at all. They will not do as much harm as they may do good.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Grandmother eventually. “Will you stay for a while?”
“Of course I will,” said the priest. “I am sorry for my mistake—I truly thought that I had got it wrong when I told you it was silent fever. He seemed so much better. But do not despair. There is still much cause for hope.”
We all sat around Stirling’s bed. I don’t know why, only we did. He lay so still and so quiet that we could not tell if he knew what was going on around him. Dull conversations staggered into nothing until we gave up and sat silent. It was as if we were already keeping vigil about his coffin. When that thought struck me, I could not sit there any longer. I stood up and left the room. The circle and the intense atmosphere were broken, and Maria and Father Dunstan got up to leave.
The echo of conversation was still fading from the bedroom, as if it was the end of a party. “All right, Stirling?” asked Grandmother. He nodded. “Sorry we were all in your room,” she said. “Everyone wanted to be with you.”
“It’s all right …,” Stirling said, with effort. He looked as if he would like to say more, but he did not. Grandmother went to the kitchen to get together some food. “I liked it … with everyone here …,” said Stirling eventually.
“Good,” I said.
“I would like … my First Communion … the party … to be …”
“ To be like that?”
“Yes … with everyone here.”
“Everyone will be.” He gave a weak smile. “Do you find it difficult to speak, Stirling?” I asked him.
“No … just to think.”
I pulled the chair up beside his bed. “Will you … will you … read … to me?” he muttered a moment later.
“Read to you? What do you want me to read?” He did not reply. “You don’t mind? The Bible?” He nodded.
Perhaps it was the lingering of Father Dunstan’s presence that made me suggest that. Or perhaps the lingering of my brief religious mania. Only I thought that Stirling would like me to read from the Bible. That was why I suggested it. “Thank you, Leo,” he said. “I know … you do not … like to read it….”
I smiled at him, got the Bible out of the cupboard by his bed and opened it at random. “The book of Eccles—Ecclesi—” I faltered.
“Ecclesiastes?”
“Yes.” I sat down and began to read. “ ‘The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem: “Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” ’
“How true,” I said bitterly. “How very true.”
When Grandmother came into the room, I carried on reading. “‘There is something else meaningless that occurs on earth: righteous men who get what the wicked deserve, and wicked men who get what the righteous deserve. This too, I say, is meaningless.’”
“What are you reading, Leo?” she asked. I held the Bible up to show her. “Why do you not read Stirling a nice story? Read from one of the gospels.”
“No …,” said Stirling. “Leo … reads well.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that he reads well; it is what he is reading.”
“The book of Eccles …,” I attempted again.
“Ecclesiastes?” she said. “At least you are reading the Bible. I hope you are getting some morals from it, Leo.” She was still trying desperately to be jovial.
“Everything is meaningless?” I said.
“You have not got to the end of the book. No wonder, then, that it is not very cheering. Stirling, you should be going to sleep soon. I have made you some soup. Will you eat some?”
Stirling shook his head.
“You must,” said Grandmother. “You need to keep your strength up.”
“I will be sick …,” he said wearily. “I’m starting to feel sick.”
“Well, eat some anyway,” said Grandmother.
“It’s a bad idea,” I said.
“I didn’t ask you, Leo,” she told me.
Stirling was violently sick after he ate that soup. Grandmother had anticipated it with a bucket. “Leo, take this down to the yard to wash out,” she said, handing it to me. Stirling was still gray-faced. “Bring the other bucket from the cupboard in the kitchen,” she called after me. “Before you go down.”
“I knew it was a bad idea to give him the soup,” I said, quite good-naturedly, when she handed me the other bucket on my return from the yard.
“That is not helpful!” she told me shortly.
“How long is this going to go on for?” I said, with slightly less goodwill, the fourth time I had trailed upstairs again.
“Sorry,” Stirling croaked, which made me feel guilty.
“I was joking,” I said. “I do not mind.”
“Why the hell can we not have bloody running water?” I demanded, about the tenth time. I stood there and told her what I thought of our apartment, banging the bucket down on the floor.
“Leo!” exclaimed Grandmother. “Stop swearing like that.”
“And why do I have to keep rinsing them out only for him to throw up in them again? It barely takes up any space in the damn bucket. Can’t he throw up twice in one, and then I’ll take it down? Or can’t he come downstairs to the bathroom?”
“Leo!” shouted Grandmother. “Do you not understand what is wrong? It’s silent fever! No, he can’t come downstairs! Heaven and earth—I despair of you, Leo!”
“I … could … try …,” said Stirling, attempting to get up.
“Stay where you are,” said Grandmother. “Leo, go downstairs and wash this out.” I went, muttering curses and slamming the door. I was suddenly exhausted, and I had no energy left for kindness.
Maria came out into the yard as I was swilling out the bucket into the drain. “Leo,” she said. I nodded to her. “What are you doing?”
“Pouring vomit down the drain,” I said heavily after a moment. She smiled. “It’s not bloody funny,” I told her.
“Sorry.” Her face was serious again. “It was just the way you said it. Sorry. Do you need any help with anything?”
“Like what?”
“Just … anything. It must be hard work for you and your grandmother to look after Stirling, and I would like to be of help to you.”
“It has only been one day,” I told her.
“True. You look tired, though.”
I sighed. “Do you know how many times I’ve washed this thing out?” I demanded, punctuating the sentence with several curses.
“A lot, I’m guessing. I don’t know.” She refused to let me draw her into an argument. I wished she wouldn’t. I needed someone to shout at.
“Neither do I. I’ve lost count.” I went to the tap, poured more water into the bucket, and trailed back over to the drain to pour it out again.
“I could have helped with that.”
“Why the hell would you want to wash vomit down the drain? For your own amusement, or what?”
“You have hardly slept all the time that Stirling has been ill, Leo,” she said, still standing there. “Even when we thought he was getting better, you were sitting up with him. I worry about you.”
“Well, you are the only one who does.”
“Tell your grandmother that I will come and help with anything. Any time, day or night. If you cannot ask your friends for help, Leo, who can you ask?” I gave in at last and tried to smile at her
, by way of an apology, though without much success. She came over and took the bucket from me. It was reasonably clean, except for a tidemark of yellow scum near the bottom. She put her hand to my face and pushed my hair back from my forehead.
“Try to get some rest,” she said, looking at me with concern. I hardly even noticed how pretty she was anymore.
I was woken at four the next morning by Stirling’s screaming. I was sleeping on the sofa in the living room so that Grandmother could be near Stirling. She had only just persuaded me to go to bed. “Help!” Stirling was crying again. “Help me!”
“Stirling,” Grandmother was saying. “Stirling. Stirling.” The way that Father Dunstan had, except her voice was not calm. I got up.
“What is it?” I asked sleepily. Stirling was thrashing about wildly, as if a demon was in him.
“Stop him, Leo,” pleaded Grandmother. “He will make himself worse. Hold him still.” She sounded so childlike it frightened me to hear her. I crossed to the bed and kneeled down beside it, catching hold of Stirling’s arms.
He cried out again. “Help!”
“Stirling. It is me, Leo. I will not harm you. You are safe.” He lay still. “Shh,” I told him. “It’s all right.”
Suddenly his arm burst upward out of my grasp, his fingernail catching my eyeball. I swore, clasping at it, and let go his arms. He struck out at the air as if there was something just out of his reach in front of him. “Help me!” he wailed. “Oh, help me! Help! Help!” The words were drawn out and distorted as if he was crying out in a different language.
“He is hallucinating again,” said Grandmother.
“No!” cried Stirling. “No! Help me, Leo!” He looked straight at me then, and the look was so eerie that I drew back from him. He reached out to me. “Leo! Can’t you hear?” And he began to wail again.
“I am here. What is it? What is wrong?”
“My head! Help me! My head!” He wailed, clutching at it.
“It’s a headache?” I said. “Tell me, Stirling.”
“My head’s going to break! My head! Oh!” A tear burst from his eye and landed halfway down his cheek. “Help me, Leo! Grandmother!” She took his hand and he clung to her, crying.
The Eyes of a King Page 17
