Desolation

by Tim Lebbon

  “Pure Sight is no talent,” Cain said.

  “Whatever the fuck you call it!” the shadow spat. “Shut up and listen. You remember those times?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your father would exclude all sound from your world for weeks on end, making you exist in utter silence. No talking, no laughing, no crying, no conversation. You had to cover your ears when he slid your food tray in, just in case it made a bump and you heard it. You used to enjoy eating so much because you could hear your jaws clicking, the food being mashed between your teeth, and you thought of that as a small victory.”

  Cain nodded, though he could not recall the shadow being there, not then. And if it had been there, how could it have known what he was thinking each time he chewed, drank, swallowed?

  “Whose fault was it when the siren shattered your mind?”

  “My father’s.”

  “No, it was yours.”

  Cain shook his head. “Magenta already told me that. She was wrong, too.”

  “No she wasn’t, she was right. If what George did was your fault, then the siren was your fault as well. You alone are to blame for what it did to you.”

  Cain frowned, glared sidelong at the shadow that stood beside him. “What are you?” he asked for the very first time.

  The shadow only chuckled and moved away. “Think about it,” it said. “Think about guilt, and cause and effect. What you did tonight was to stop George, not steer him. He picked his own path, and the Way was his guide.”

  “They’re all fucked up,” Cain said. “George, Whistler, Magenta, even the nun. So much potential put to waste! There’s so much they could do with what they have! Think of all the good they could do! It must drive them bad. Evil. They’re evil.”

  “That’s not what they’d say,” the shadow muttered. “But I suppose that’s something for you to decide.”

  Cain started walking toward the park gates, eager to leave and get back onto the streets. He had no idea of where to go, but simply moving felt better than sitting and musing on things. His original intention had to been to follow them all, see what Pure Sight made of them, and then reject it totally and utterly. Witnessing them would convince him of his decision. It would strengthen his conviction.

  What George had done this evening was more than enough to do that on its own.

  But there was something else: the shadow. Cain had no idea what it was, although he knew it had kept him company when he was younger, hidden away in his father’s basement and enduring the old man’s misdirected experiments. It had come from Cain himself, he was sure, emerging to protect his sanity during those long, awful years when he should have been meeting friends, going to school, discovering girls, playing football, having a life of his own. The shadow had been his only friend. And now that it was back, Cain found himself relying on it once again.

  The question that nagged at him was Why was it back? It had been locked safely away for so long that he had stopped thinking of it as real. The chest had become a symbol, that was all, an indication that he was attempting to put the past behind him and move on to whatever he could make of his future.

  But now that the chest was ruptured and open, and the shadow was out, he realized that it had not been his past contained therein at all. It was something much, much closer to him.

  “What are you?” he asked of the dark, and the shadow spoke back.

  “I’m your help, and your Way.”

  Cain walked on. He did not understand, but he found himself comforted immeasurably.

  Cain had often searched the house for signs of his mother. When his father was locked away in his study, or working in the kitchen or workshop, Cain would wander from room to room. He never found anything: no pictures, no letters, no clothes. He took to imagining where she may have stood, how she could have walked, what she would have looked like gliding down the staircase in a long summer dress. But try as he might, he could never see her face. She could have been anyone.

  Chapter Ten

  Music

  Beyond the park the streets were deserted. Pools of light huddled beneath lampposts, small and nervous against the night. An occasional house light was on, but curtains were always drawn. The night was its own. Cain wandered the streets, the shadow at his side, and tried to decide what to do next.

  He should go to the police . . . but somehow that seemed so pointless. The bodies would be found, a reverted George would be discovered with their blood and skin beneath his fingernails, the case would be closed. A terrible murder. Monstrous. George was at the end of his road. Besides, there was nothing that Cain could tell them that would make any sense.

  The night felt full and incomplete. Cain kept expecting to find the shadow gone, but it remained with him, dashing off now and then only to reappear minutes later from a different direction. Like a caged animal set free for the first time, it seemed keen to explore yet loath to leave the side of its owner for too long. He wished it could tell him more, but it had already said enough. It had been silent since leaving the park. Whatever happened next was completely down to Cain.

  As if on request, the tune waited until Cain had made the decision to return to his flat before making itself known.

  “That music . . .” he said, looking for the shadow because it was humming again. But this time there came complete understanding. Cain knew this tune, where it had come from and why, and he experienced an instance of such ecstasy that he sank to his knees on the pavement. He stared up at the stars as the tune played itself out, and it was the theme of his life. The stars twinkled and danced in synchronicity. A shadow obscured his vision, wavering frantically before him, and cool hands grabbed his shoulders and shook. But though the shadow fought hard, Cain could only smile at its concern. It was not humming the tune, he realized, not this time. And that only made it more wonderful.

  The tune was so new and immediate. Though created now for the first time, Cain knew every note, every twist and turn of the melody, because he had heard it many times before. The shadow had hummed it to calm him down.

  Whistler stepped from the shadows beneath a tree, his pipes playing softly, his lips working the tune from their hollowness, turning air into a vibrant depiction of time and all that it promised.

  “This one is for you,” Whistler said, “the theme of your life.” Even though he paused to speak, the music continued.

  Cain smiled. “I know my song.”

  Whistler frowned for a moment, but then continued playing and smiled again. Cain hummed along for the first time and the tune was new in his throat, a taste of great beauty that he had never known. Any other night it would have sounded different; warmer air, higher pressure, a different light quality would have made it so. But tonight it was exactly as he imagined.

  Whistler led the way.

  There was no sense of being coerced or forced to follow. Cain walked a few paces behind the tall man, studying him properly for the first time. His ponytail was long—almost down to the bottom of his back—and it was held together in several places by metal rings. They shone with reflected starlight and seemed to dance in the night as his hair swayed with every step he took.

  Cain saw something streak across the road from his left, the shadow, tangling itself in Whistler’s feet in an attempt to trip him. The tall man glanced down but walked on, seemingly unconcerned. It was as if he had walked through nothing more than a cloud of smoke. He dropped a note, but it matched Cain’s knowledge of the tune perfectly, and his own hummed imitation dropped the same note.

  The shadow came back at Cain and hit him head-on, but though it held weight, it carried no import.

  “Cain!” it seemed to shout, but the voice barely registered. He smiled. The shadow had been here for him, and now Whistler was here for him in its place. Cain was following his own path, discovering his own Way, and that was only right. It was his life to lead, after all.

  (Whistler led him on.)

  His life to lead and follow, take himself wherever he w
anted to go, and as the Voice and Face had impressed upon him so much—

  (Whistler turned left; Cain followed.)

  —the route he took was entirely his own choice. No longer was he controlled by his sick father. He was his own man. He did not need that shadow anymore, that strange childhood friend that had helped him when he was young and which hung around still. It had always made him feel like the weak one, mocking him, pouring scorn on his fears and ideas.

  The shadow hit him again, striking between the eyes, but it was barely the tickle of a fly.

  “Got something to show you,” Whistler sang, and the tune from his pipes never faltered. “Something sweet and dear. If you’ll spare me a moment, this thing is pretty near.”

  “I’ll spare a moment,” Cain muttered, smiling, and starlight kissed his lips with all the power and depth of its implied history.

  Whistler walked slowly along the dark street. The lamps here were not lit; it was a minor side road, and perhaps they were turned off after midnight. Cain followed the glint of moonlight on Whistler’s metallic hair bands. But he followed the music as well. It steered him exactly the way he would choose, should the imperative be put in his hands. Here I would go right, and Whistler turned right. Here I would continue on until reaching that timber gate, and Whistler did just that. Cain was comfortable with the idea that he was taking his own direction, not following Whistler’s. The pipe player was simply acting as a guide in the dark, finding Cain’s preordained route.

  “What are you going to show me?” Cain asked.

  Whistler turned, and Cain saw the glint of teeth in his smile. “Something sweet and dear,” he said. The pipe music continued, ever familiar, echoing from the dark and moving on.

  The shadow made itself known to Cain once again, clouding his vision. He closed his eyes and followed the tune, and even sightless he was no less confident in keeping to the right path. His head and neck felt cold, as if touched by frost. He shook his head and the shadow relinquished its hold, flowing to the ground and up the back of Whistler’s legs. Cain opened his eyes again and saw it there, like a water stain on the tall man’s clothes. And though it thrashed and twisted and spun, its touch was ineffectual.

  Whistler’s music went on, and Cain hummed the way.

  “Cain!” the shadow shouted, floating at his shoulder. Its voice came from very far away, and the more it shouted the more Cain was sure it was simply another unpleasant memory of his bizarre childhood. He shook his head, and the memory receded. He concentrated on Whistler’s back, and the shadow faded away. By the time they reached a junction between two streets, it had vanished altogether.

  The music filled the night. A row of houses to the left reflected moonlight cast through a thin layer of cloud, and the clouds’ slight movements gave the impression that the houses swayed slowly on their foundations. Their occupants would be dreaming sweet dreams. Perhaps in the morning they would not remember, but that did not matter. Memories were just as important unremembered as they were in the light of total recollection.

  “Not far now,” Whistler said, glancing back over his shoulder. Starlight gave life to his eyes. The pipes remained at his lips, spilling the beautiful music that insinuated itself deeper into Cain’s body, his guts, his bones vibrating with each note. It was as if he were slowly becoming an instrument to Whistler’s cause, a human tuning fork for his ambition. It thrilled through Cain’s body and made him smile.

  They came to a street lined with houses on one side and a park on the other. Trees stood sentinel at the park’s perimeter. The moon sat behind them, low in the sky, casting their shadows across the road to stroke the houses’ facades. Cain and Whistler passed through these shadows, and as they touched each one the corresponding tree shivered, leaves rustling, branches creaking. Cain thought they may be shaking with joy at the music Whistler was giving to the night. It filled the air and made it safe. It touched the trees and the park beyond, and to the left it passed through windows and into the houses, the glass doing little to alter its effect. Front gardens seemed open and welcoming, and he would not have been surprised if the houses’ doors swung inward to invite musicslicked moonlight inside. But they remained closed, and Cain thought that it was only because Whistler desired it so.

  With music like this, Whistler could do anything. If he wished streetlamps to strobe in time with the tune, they would do so. Should he desire animals to join in their slow march, then neighborhood cats and hedgehogs and foxes would be there for him. If he wanted the dark to give way to an early dawn, perhaps even the sun would oblige. But for now his tune was solely for Cain, and that made Cain feel special.

  Cain thought of George, but those events seemed decades ago. Filtered through time, they seemed to lose their importance. A twinge of guilt came, only to be washed away by another reprise of the tune. Whistler had started again, and it was in no way identical to the first time he had played this melody. Yet Cain hummed along, following every note exactly.

  Whistler looked back at him, smiled behind his pan pipes, and nodded across the road. “We’re here.”

  There was a house. It stood by itself at the edge of the park, and Cain was sure it should not be there. A moment of doubt confused his thoughts. He frowned, stepped back, and for a second the shadow was before him again, solid and so there that Cain could not see through it. It shouted at him, Cain!, and Whistler approached quickly from the left. The tall man struck out with another frantic series of notes, and the shadow slipped away. Cain’s doubts melted to nothing

  The house . . . it looked like the most perfect place he had ever seen.

  “Your new life,” Whistler said. “It’s daylight.” And it was. “You’ve long forgotten this place.” Cain smiled. “You’re happy. You’ve found your Way in life.”

  And he had.

  This was the life he had come here to find. The reason he had left Afresh and all the security it offered. The reason that the Face and Voice were sad, but also eager to see him go. Here, in this house, was the future that had eluded him for so long. Its wonder occluded visions of his past, clouding them out like the troublesome things they were. Standing before the house, he tried to think back to the time in his father’s basement, but he could conjure only a general feeling of disquiet—no specific times, no individual images. There was a threat implicit behind that feeling—a promise of unbelievable pain, should he do wrong—but he was not afraid, because his future was bright and assured. Whatever agonies he had been through, he had come out the other side to find himself here.

  He stood before the house and examined his future life. It was a detached cottage, maybe two hundred years old. The garden went all the way around, with a small driveway for the new sports car that sat there, roof down, inviting him to take it for a spin. He had never learned how to drive, but that would be no problem here. This was his future, and it was perfect.

  Rosebushes climbed the sides of the house, bursting out in gorgeous red and yellow blooms that filled the air with their subtle perfume. Windows reflected clear blue sky, fluffy white clouds drifting slowly across the sun. The garden buzzed with bees and birds. The roof was covered with old slates, some of them cracked and dipped, all of them adding to the character of the place. And yet this intensely hackneyed image of a perfect country retreat was also personalized in ways that took Cain some time to notice. He had no idea how long he was standing there—the tune flowed through his head, echoed in the natural music of the birds and insects—before he spotted the old garden swing. Its arches were rusted red, the timber seat polished smooth with use, the ropes old and frayed and dappled black with moss.

  And it was his swing, from the time when he and his parents had lived in a house similar to this, their lives uncomplicated and filled with pleasure. Summer days they would spend in the garden, young Cain swinging back and forth while his mother puttered about the planting beds, and his father built a new fence or painted the shed tucked away in the corner. At that moment he saw the shed, hidden away beh
ind an explosion of clematis. He knew the door, the window with the diagonal crack that he had put there with a football. He knew the color—dark green—that was rich and full, but which needed recoating every year. Cain often helped his father with the painting, and each year he commanded control of a larger brush, marking his passage through childhood with the amount of painting he was allowed to do. Every year would provoke complaints from a Cain who wanted to do more, but he realized now that his father had known what he was doing.

  This is wrong.

  The tune came in again. Cain looked for Whistler, but he must have been around the other side of the house. Bees buzzed circles of eight above flowers rich in pollen, and their wings beat in time with the music. Birds sat throughout the garden—blue tits, sparrows, siskins, coal tits, a wren, goldfinches, and a greater spotted woodpecker high in one tree in the corner—singing their pleasure at its diverse nature. He heard humming from somewhere, and he walked through the front gate and into the garden to investigate. It was only as he moved that he realized the humming was coming from him. He smiled, and continued following that tune.

  Here was his future, and yet his past as well, a past he must have forgotten. Dark memories were beaten back by the sun. He saw a tricycle that his father had spent hours pushing him on every day. In his parents’ vegetable patch there was a corner set aside for Cain, where he was growing purple sprouting, onions, and garlic. And here, was the future as well, because he would become selfsufficient, growing much of his own food and reveling in the knowledge that he was following what his parents—

  This is wrong!

  There was a basement door set into the side of the house, down a few worn steps. It was made of rotting timber and corrugated iron, adorned with heavy iron hinges and a rusted handle that belonged in a castle, not here. There were heavy timber boards fixed right across the door, bolted into the frame and almost fused there by time. Weeds grew around the foot of the door. The magnificent rosebushes grew across it, all but obscuring it from view. Cain had a brief, terrible moment when he thought that the door would swing open nonetheless, but then he heard the music again and he turned back to the garden.