I did not stop running. Even as the hills grew steeper, I kept up the same pace, pounding on uphill and downhill, toward the horizon. I ran straight through a stream, and water soaked my boots. I raced from valley to valley, trying to find some clue that would tell me where to look. But there was nothing, and in desperation I searched everywhere.
My eyes began to ache with hunting for a flash of red petals that was not there. I looked more and more meticulously. I ended up circling about the same patch over and over, snatching impatiently at the grass stalks. I stopped still and realized there was nothing there at all. And suddenly I was sick of this place; I wanted to get out. I ran up the nearest hill.
I could see a long way from there. I turned and looked back; I had come several miles. My bones were aching, and my head was throbbing from too little sleep. I collapsed where I was and stared upward.
The sun was overhead and the sky was artificial blue, like dye, thick and dazzling with color. It hurt my head to look at it, and I shut my eyes, putting my hand up to my face to shield it from the brightness. My forehead was running with sweat, though I had not realized it.
I did not have the energy to get up again. And suddenly I did not want to either. Everything was in control while I lay still. If I did not move, nothing else would. I lay there, irritated with the heat and the grass stalks pressing against the backs of my arms, until I began to drift away.
I opened my eyes, and I did not know whether I had slept or not. A bird was singing close by. Looking upward, I found it, a dark shape against the sky. It flew ever higher, until it was no larger than a dust speck, and then it was gone. Had it gone right out of the atmosphere? Or were my eyes too weak to see it? It could have gone right into heaven, for all I could tell.
That made me think of an old story that Grandmother used to tell us, about the little children who died. Their souls became birds so that they could fly up to heaven. I remembered her telling us, “They flew up and up, and the earth grew smaller and smaller, until they could see it no longer. They flew through the clouds, and they were free. They forgot the earth and all their troubles there, because they were going home.” That was Stirling’s favorite part of the story. “Imagine not being able to see the earth,” he used to say. “Imagine that, Leo.” He had never been afraid of death. Never. I was the one who was afraid.
My eyes were watering from the bright light. I stood up, but the tears went on falling. They were rolling down my cheeks and soaking the collar of my shirt. I tried to wipe them away, but more fell, and I sunk to my knees and found that I was pressing my hands to my face and rocking and wailing like a baby. I wasn’t going to find the Bloodflower; it had been stupid to think I would. Stirling was going to lie unconscious, and then worsen and then die—and I would be left behind and there was nothing I could do about it. I took a shuddering breath. What the hell was wrong with me? But I kept on crying. I could not stop myself.
I stopped only when all the tears in my head had fallen. I opened my eyes, coughing miserably. The grass was gleaming wet in front of me. My stomach was watery and heavy from crying so long. I began, wearily, to get up. It was no good staying out here any longer.
Then I stopped. Because I saw something. There, in the wet grass, as if it had sprung up from my tears, was a plant.
I stopped breathing and stared at it. It had blood-red star-shaped flowers with yellow centers; the leaves, veined with red, were a deep green. It was the same as the pictures I had seen. It was the same as the descriptions I had heard. It was, as far as I could see, the Bloodflower.
I sat and stared at it. Then I reached out and touched it. The teardrops on the flower centers trembled, but it did not disappear. It was really there in front of me; it had been there all the time.
My heart was beating so fast that I could hear it in my head. I began scraping at the soil around the plant, terrified of damaging it. I was glancing around all the time, in case someone else had seen, but the hills were deserted. I worked faster. The ground was dusty and the plant came out soon enough, roots and all.
My hands were shaking. I took off my jacket and laid the plant in it, covering it carefully so that I would lose none of the petals. Because the petals were the part that cured silent fever. With that thought, I got up and ran.
Our building looked different when I staggered up to it. It was because I was different. Tired and dusty as I was, I felt suddenly like an immortalized hero, greater even than the lord Aldebaran. I had found the flower to save Stirling’s life. I unwrapped my jacket and checked that it had not vanished, that it was still the same flower it had been out in the hills. The leaves were already limp and thin; the stem had wilted; but the petals were intact. I stood still for a moment at the door, because nothing would be the same now and it made me dizzy. Then I clutched the plant to my chest and went in.
I was running again. I had thought I was tired, but it was not true. I clattered up the stairs two at a time. “I’m home!” I shouted. “Grandmother! Stirling! I’m back!” I tumbled through the door, shouting like an excited kid. “See! See what I have found!”
THE END
I close the book and for a moment I can feel myself smiling when I remember that day. It is growing quieter on the balcony. The lights of the city extinguish one by one. The music has faded now that they have shut the doors against the rising breeze. I get up and walk across the moonlit stone, the book still in my hand.
Now that I read this again, I remember the day I wrote that part of the story. I was sitting at the window, and I could tell someone was behind me even before I turned. I laid down the pen and turned and smiled. “Remember that, Stirling?”
But whatever I wrote then, it was not the end.
I stumbled through the bedroom door. Grandmother and Father Dunstan were both in the room, facing Stirling, so that their backs were to me. “Grandmother!” I called. “Father Dunstan! Stirling! See what I have found.”
“Shh, Leo,” said Grandmother, without turning. I ran into the room and opened my hand and held out the plant.
“Stirling,” I said, more quietly, but he did not answer. “Stirling?”
I didn’t know why I was trying. He never would answer, no matter how loud I called. But my brain had stopped ordering what I did. “Stirling?” I shouted. “Stirling!”
“Leo, stop shouting,” Grandmother told me. And when she said it, she began crying, and she turned to me, and she didn’t look like herself anymore. And Father Dunstan didn’t look like himself anymore. And I wasn’t myself anymore. The only one of us who still looked the same was Stirling. And he was gone.
And that was why I wrote “the end.” Because that was the end of everything.
I stood and stared at Stirling, and I fell down on my knees and went on trying to wake him, because my brain still did not realize it. But my heart did, and my stomach, and my lungs; they had all stopped working. I felt as if they were dissolving.
Stirling’s hands were still warm. As if he might open his eyes and grin at me, with his uneven teeth and his freckles and his crew cut that was lighter than his skin. “He looks very calm,” said Father Dunstan, crying too. “He was not in any pain; he slipped away peacefully.”
I pressed my head down into the quilt and placed my hands on Stirling’s. Eventually I said, “Why didn’t you—?” And then I could not finish. I tried again. “Why didn’t you send for me?”
“He passed away just a minute ago,” said Father Dunstan. “He asked for you earlier, when he woke for a short while. We sent Maria to your school, but you were not there.”
“Just …,” I began.
“Just a couple of minutes ago.”
I dropped the bundle in my arms. The flower fell to the ground and lay there silently; that was all. So I ran into the living room, picked up a chair, and threw it at the window. The glass shattered, and I heard shouts from outside when it fell. “Leo!” Grandmother was exclaiming in a frightened voice. “Leo, what is wrong with you?” Father Dunstan got up.
I tried to overturn the table, but he ran in and caught my wrist before I could. He held on to me while I struggled. “Calm down, Leo,” he said. “It’s all right to feel this way—to feel like destroying everything. It is perfectly normal.”
But I did not want to react in a normal way. Because this was not a normal thing; it did not happen to everyone else. That was why I punched Father Dunstan.
I had not meant to hit him hard. But he fell back onto the table, sending the newspapers flying from it like a cascade of leaves in the wind. One of the legs broke and it crashed onto the floor beneath him. “Leo!” cried Grandmother. “Leo!”
The priest got to his feet, one hand over the side of his face. “It’s all right,” he said. “I am all right.” He had let my wrist go. Then I was back in the bedroom, and Stirling was lying so still, like he was sleeping, and the flower was there on the floorboards. I crushed it under my foot.
And suddenly I didn’t know what to do. I had been following my anger like an actor’s part; I did not know what else to do. I turned around once, my hands over my face. And then I was punching and kicking the wall, while all the time my heart was cold and stunned. “Leo, don’t!” Grandmother was gasping through her sobs. “Oh, Leo, Leo, don’t.” She tried to pull me round to face her. I shouted back but I don’t know what I said.
“Calm down,” Father Dunstan said. “Just calm down, Leo.”
Grandmother sunk to the floor beside the crushed flower. “Leo … was this …? Leo …?”
And suddenly I could not reply.
“It was the Bloodflower?” said Grandmother. “It was the Bloodflower.” Her face collapsed with tears. “Leo!” she wailed. “Oh, Leo! Leo! Why did you not run faster? Oh, if only you had run faster.”
“Mrs. North,” said Father Dunstan gently. “Margaret. It was not anyone’s fault. No one is to blame for this.” Grandmother clutched to him, her back bent, and sobbed. “No one is to blame. No one can change what God intends.” And then he was talking about the flower, how it would have had to be prepared, how this might not be the Bloodflower anyway and it looked to him like the wrong color, how when you were in difficult circumstances it was easy to mistake what you saw.
I wanted to shout and scream at him as loud as I could, but as loud as I could would not be loud enough. And I felt as if there were so few words. So I stopped talking.
I looked at Stirling, and I wished it was only him and me here, without Grandmother’s hysterical crying or Father Dunstan’s misguided wisdom. There were too many people. I could not think. I needed silence. I wanted to tell them to leave us alone. But I didn’t speak. Eventually Father Dunstan helped Grandmother up and they went out and shut the door.
I fell down beside Stirling and touched his face. His skin was cooling. “Oh … no … no …,” I whispered. “Stirling, wait.” I pulled the covers up around his face desperately, trying to keep him warm, trying to stop his spirit from drifting away. But it was already gone. I caught my arms around his neck and sobbed. “Please, Stirling. You can’t leave me. I’ll die, Stirling, I’ll die.”
And then I did a strange thing. I hugged him so tightly that my heart was beating against his silent chest. I closed my eyes and imagined that my heartbeat was bringing him back. I concentrated so hard that everything slid away, and the only thing was the one heartbeat, going on and on, in a circle. I wasn’t breathing, but I wasn’t holding my breath either. The only thing that was left in the whole earth was the heartbeat. And then I saw myself beside the bed, with Stirling in my arms, and I was drifting away. I was dying. And he was coming back.
Then I thought my head had exploded. My whole body was shaking, and my teeth were rattling uncontrollably, and I landed on the floor. My brain throbbed against my skull, and I reached out for Stirling, but I was too far away.
And there was nothing that I could do. My powers were not enough to save him.
I couldn’t move. My brain had come disconnected from my body. I dragged myself a couple of inches across the floor and caught Stirling’s hand and lay there, gripping it, while it grew as hard and cold as marble. And then I passed out.
I dreamed that everything that had ever existed was dissolving into Nothing. Nothing is not darkness. Nothing is further than darkness. There was no earth; no sun or moon, no stars, no magic; no heaven, no hell; no demons, no angels—there was no God—only Nothing.
Then Grandmother’s crying woke me, and it was worse than the dream, because it was real. I came back and felt the floorboards under me. I was still here beside Stirling’s bed in the cold daylight, the flower crushed and Stirling gone. “What happened?” she was saying, shaking me by the shoulders. “ We only left you for a few minutes. Leo, what is it?” But I would not answer her.
I did not speak again. That night Stirling was laid out in an open coffin and carried to the church so that we could keep the vigil there. There was nothing between him and the stars as we processed across the quiet square. At the church, we all stood about him in silence. Almost the whole congregation was there. Maria cried all evening—I could see her at the other side of the room—and I hated her for it, because I couldn’t cry. I just stood and looked at Stirling and did not speak and thought of nothing.
I had to look at Stirling. Otherwise, it didn’t seem real. I felt as if there was someone missing, and he would come running in and reach up to catch my arm and grin at me. But how could he while he lay there so still in the coffin?
For a moment, when I looked at Stirling’s face, I saw myself lying there. I thought I was losing my mind. But it was only that he looked like me. A part of him was the same as me. A part of me was dead. But it didn’t feel like part. It felt like the whole of me. What did I have without Stirling?
At dawn we returned to the house to put on our clothes for the burial. He had to be buried between five o’clock and sunrise. I thought we should refuse and give him a proper morning burial, but I did not speak. “Stirling’s soul is already in heaven,” said Father Dunstan. “He is at God’s right hand whether we bury him before dawn or after; I am certain of it.”
“Wear your army uniform,” said Grandmother to me. She was still crying, and her nose was running like a baby’s. I almost spoke then; I almost shouted that Stirling would hate it if I wore my army uniform, but I clamped my mouth shut and went and put on ordinary black clothes. “Please, Leo,” she said. “Stirling would have liked to see you looking smart—not like that. Anyone who sees you will think you do not care.” I dug my fingernails into my hands until they bled, and remained silent. “Please speak to me, Leo,” she said. “Why so quiet? I’m so alone, Leo. I feel so alone, and my heart is breaking.” I turned away; it was time to leave, anyway.
When I had tried to bring Stirling back, everything had slipped away from me, and it was still distant. My brain wasn’t working well enough to tell me to feel anything at all. I felt dull, like I wasn’t real. Like nothing was real. I wanted to cry so badly, but I couldn’t. Outside in the alley I crashed my head against the wall. For a second I was aware of nothing but the pain in my head and the darkness that veiled my eyes.
“Leo, what are you doing?” Grandmother exclaimed, trying to stop me. I had not seen her come out the door. “Leo! Stop!” I put my hand up to my head and fell back against the wall. “You will harm yourself.” She tried to look into my eyes. “Don’t do that.” I shut them.
She held my hand as we walked to the church. I wished that she wouldn’t. It held me down in reality. But still I didn’t cry. The longer you go without crying, the harder it is to do.
I felt as if maybe this was a joke. Or a dream. Or maybe we’d all made a mistake, and he was still breathing. Or maybe I was only imagining that he was dead, and he’d run along the street and put his hand in mine, and we’d walk to Mass together—me, Grandmother, and Stirling. But he didn’t. And every second that he didn’t, I felt as if something important was out of its place, and I could not rest until I had brought it back. Stirling wasn’t where he belonged. He
was alone in a coffin, in the darkness of the church, not here with Grandmother and me.
We stood at the side of the coffin when it was closed for the last time. When the coffin bearers picked up the lid to put it on again, I raised my hand and they held it. I had not had time to say goodbye to him forever. I went on looking at his face, desperately, but Father Dunstan gestured to them and they put the lid down anyway. “You will not forget him, Leo,” he said. But already I was.
We processed to the graveyard as the gray light of dawn diffused into the indigo sky in front of us. Father Dunstan went first; then the servers from the church, in procession; then the deadpan coffin bearers with Stirling; then Grandmother and me—which was all the family party. There should have been relatives, but there were only us two. Mother and Father were far away, maybe dead, Aldebaran dead, Grandmother’s parents dead; Great-uncle Harold dead; and if Great-uncle Harold had any relatives, they were in England, if it really existed. Or dead.
There was silence in the procession, except for our hushed footfalls, and Grandmother’s soft crying like rain, and the rhythmic clink as the burning incense swung from side to side on its chain. It rose in claws about us. Its strong perfume was sharp in the back of my throat, and in my eyes and my nostrils. The two flames of the acolytes’ candles blushed feebly through the mist and the darkness ahead of us. Occasionally someone coughed or let out a breath tentatively, and the silence would fall all the more oppressively after that.
I was angry with myself for being so slow to realize what had happened. Stirling’s dead, I kept repeating, over and over in my head. Stirling’s dead. Stirling’s dead. But I repeated it like a rhyme and forgot its meaning. And I kept looking for him in the procession. Maybe he’d just marched ahead, humming to himself. Maybe we’d catch him up.
The Eyes of a King Page 20
