She came with Ollie every morning to help milk the cows. Somehow that had become the new arrangement, without anyone asking Henry his opinion.
Emily gave Ollie the job of carrying the washing bucket and udder fat from her to Henry as they milked. In between, the boy stroked the cows, patted them on the chin, and said things like, “You poor thing, bless you,” in the sympathetic tone of an old man.
Ollie was extremely fond of the cows, scratching them behind their ears, talking to them. Henry closed his ears to Ollie’s endless chatting and averted his gaze whenever their eyes met. The cows, on the other hand, were happy with the attention they were getting from this little calf. They shot their tongues eagerly into each nostril, their big eyes beaming with affection as they purred.
Then Ollie would fetch a book from the windowsill. He would climb the fence around Noah’s stall, sit on the top board, and lock his toes between the pickets with the book on his knees. Then he would read, haltingly, moving his finger slowly from letter to letter. He read for Emily, the cows, and Henry, and his challenge was to finish a certain number of pages during the milking. But sometimes he had to stop, if the words were too long or he didn’t understand their meaning.
“How do you say this?” he would ask, holding up the book and pointing at the word with his finger.
That was the worst part. Henry tried very hard not to come close to him in case he suddenly asked him a question, but, of course, Ollie couldn’t always be avoided.
“What’s that?” he once asked, pointing out a page to Henry.
Henry was unable to move away without being too obvious. He was right beside Noah’s fence, where Ollie was sitting and leaning forward, holding the book up to Henry’s face.
Henry saw only a whirlwind of letters, and that old troll of anxiety clenched its fist and punched his stomach. He stood on the edge of the dung canal with the shovel in his hands. He couldn’t run away; the book was right in his face, blocking his path. His only other option was to jump across the canal. He rarely did that because he had slipped on his clubfoot more than once and hit the floor.
He clenched his fingers around the handle of the shovel. His forehead was dripping with sweat and his mouth immediately dried up. Henry was certain he would start to stutter as soon as he opened his mouth. He turned abruptly, pushing his shoulder against the book, and growled: “Ask Emily.”
“But I’m asking you,” the boy demanded.
So the cowshed was no longer Henry’s private place; now it belonged to Ollie, who had taken over with his silly cheerfulness, chatting, and nauseating reading sessions. Why couldn’t the worm just read in the house? Why the hell did he have to bring books into the cowshed? Henry sometimes glanced at the stack of books on the windowsill and wondered if he should wash them all to the floor with a powerful spout from the hose, just like he did when there were flies on the glass, before the books had appeared.
Emily even held Ollie’s hand when they crossed the yard, and it was not as though Ollie needed the support, for he didn’t limp. She patted him like a puppy. It was unbearable to watch. And when Ollie didn’t join her in the cowshed she was distracted and in a hurry, as if she just wanted to finish the milking as soon as possible.
Henry could just imagine Ollie sitting on the chair by the stove, Emily making some more cocoa for him as he held the cup in both hands to warm his tiny fingers. Ollie hadn’t just taken over the cowshed; now Henry’s favorite seat had become Ollie’s too.
The darkness grew greater and deeper from one day to the next, the light shorter and thinner, the sun more distant and colder. It sank into the western ocean and bright green streaks of light appeared. As darkness overarched the land, the northern lights danced, changing color all the time, from green to purple, moving in graceful waves like silent surf in the ocean of stars.
Henry wondered what they were, these ghostly bands of light shimmering in the dark silence. Perhaps they were the spirits of the damned, cursed to wander for eternity in the emptiness between heaven and Earth. Yes, the spirits of the damned. And one day he would join them.
He sat under the Gallows in the freezing cold, staring up into the heavenly vault.
The God of Summer had given him the false hope of friendship, only to snatch it away and leave him here, naked and lost in the realm of winter. The God of Winter didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he really was, indifferent in the vast realm of space. He was a God of Truth, who poured his darkness over the world and didn’t care what mortal men said or thought. And for all he cared, a fallen angel could lie where he had fallen.
It was late afternoon and the truck had arrived to collect the milk containers. Henry lifted the containers up to the platform, where the driver stood and stacked them inside the cooler.
When the truck drove off, Henry noticed Mark, standing by the Cairn of Christ. Neither John nor Mark had spoken to him for a long time. Although the rules at breakfast, lunch, and dinner weren’t as strict as before, nobody talked much, except Ollie of course. The boy just couldn’t keep quiet. Reverend Oswald didn’t seem to mind it, and John was rather fond of the little boy. But Mark never said a word. And neither did Henry.
John had changed since he first arrived. Gone was the arrogance, the haughty attitude, his cool way of being. Ever since he’d been locked up in the attic, John had become a fervent believer. It looked like the reverend’s prayer sessions had turned him inside out. Now he sometimes asked the reverend to be allowed to say grace at dinner. His green eyes had become dull and somehow reminded Henry of broken pieces of glass. John seemed to spend much of his spare time in the smithy, carving out small figurines. He had told Ollie that they were chess pieces: Christ, Mary, the apostles, and angels in white, the devil with his host of demons and monsters in black. He had been explaining this to Ollie at dinner, showing him his latest figure, Peter the apostle.
“But if black is the devil, what happens when black wins?” Ollie had asked.
John had become silent for a moment, but then he whispered, “That would be very sad.”
Henry hadn’t really been listening to their talk, but the tone of John’s voice had made him look up. And then he had met Mark’s burning eyes, looking straight at Henry as if he was about to scream at him.
And now Mark stood there by the cairn, looking at him across the yard, as if he wanted something. Revenge, perhaps, for turning the bottle over to Emily. Henry felt a sudden chill. Henry had decided to walk to the Gallows; now he wondered if that was such a good idea. Perhaps Mark had evil intentions and would follow him. Then Henry remembered he had beaten up the Brute; he would have no trouble handling Mark. He couldn’t help but grin as he glanced back at the boy standing by the cairn.
The sun was distant and cold, almost touching the horizon, and the stars were beginning to appear. He made his way through the thick snowdrifts behind the barn, so he wouldn’t be seen from the house, and followed Spine Break Path into the lava field, treading in his footsteps from the day before. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw that Mark was now at the corner of the barn. Mark was obviously coming after him. Henry’s face suddenly felt warm; they would fight and he would give Mark a beating he’d never forget.
Henry was panting heavily when he reached the two boulders. He sat down in the snow with his back to the cold rock. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mark walking slowly down the path.
The sky was red where the sun had disappeared and the dark grew deeper. Soon the only light would be from the stars and the moon, reflecting on the pure white snow.
But there were lights in the distance, moving ever so slowly on the black ocean: three yellow lights on a freighter.
Henry heard the crunching sound of Mark’s footsteps coming closer. He sat by the boulders, staring straight ahead, getting ready to jump up and punch Mark in the face, when a distant tone from a foghorn echoed through the frozen air. It was a sad sound of regret, the long drawn wailing sound of a broken heart, saying good-bye f
or the last time. When the foghorn fell silent at last, Henry noticed that the crunching sound had stopped as well. He turned to look and saw Mark standing still in the dusk, staring at the horizon with searching eyes. The long black body of the freighter could barely be seen; one more blow of the foghorn and it would disappear into darkness.
“Did you hear that?” Mark whispered in a trembling voice.
He moved closer and sat down by Henry’s side, shivering from the cold.
“Wait; they’ll blow it again in a minute,” he said, and lit a cigarette.
They sat in silence for a long moment, side by side, gazing over the ocean.
The freighter was dissolving in the mist. Henry tried to focus on the body of the ship. Then the last tone from the foghorn sounded, so far away they could barely hear it.
“Do you know where it’s going?” Mark asked.
Henry shook his head.
“To the Continent,” Mark said. “To Germany or Holland, maybe to Spain. Imagine.” He sighed, leaning his head back. “In a few days’ time the crew will have reached a warm, sunny beach. And you can do anything you want there. Jesus, I want to go to Spain. They’ve got sun and summer all year round. One day,” he said, “one day I’ll go there and I’ll never come back. If only I could get on that ship.”
He blew into his fists to warm them up and rested his eyes on the faraway horizon.
“Spain, man,” Mark sighed. “Guys like us could have a good time there,” he said, and chuckled. “We could find a good job over there and earn some money. And when we had enough we could go someplace else, or do whatever we wanted.” He flashed a smile.
Henry felt strange. Suddenly it was as if they had always been friends, not enemies. Henry was relaxed sitting here beside Mark, listening to him talk. Perhaps Mark wasn’t so bad after all; perhaps he only wanted to be Henry’s friend.
Henry wanted him to go on talking; he barely felt the cold anymore. But Mark was silent now, gazing toward the horizon. Henry cleared his throat and tried to speak clearly as he timidly asked, “How can you get on board?”
“Well, the plan was to sneak off to the city, go to the harbor, and hide on board one of the freighters,” Mark said. “But it’s impossible. There’s no way we could make it to the city before we’re found out.”
They sat for a long time, looking at the stars sparkling overhead, each sunk in his own thoughts. Henry suddenly realized that Mark had actually let him in on a secret: Mark was planning an escape for himself and John.
“You know, I really hated you for telling on us,” Mark suddenly said. “But when I thought about it, I guess I couldn’t blame you.” He paused and lit another cigarette. “I’m really sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk not inviting you. I thought the girls would be frightened of you and leave.”
Henry couldn’t reply. There was a sudden lump in his throat.
“It was all lies, you know,” Mark continued. “What they said to their parents and the police. We didn’t touch them. Neither of us. I guess they just needed to blame someone when they got home so late.”
He was silent for a while. Henry felt strangely relieved, listening to Mark. And to his surprise he felt secure somehow, with him by his side. Maybe this was how it felt to have a real friend.
“I’ll tell you something,” Mark continued. “When I was locked up this summer, Reverend Oswald came in every other day to make me say prayers. He was going to rinse the devil out of me, or something. The only thing I could do was to pretend to be listening and babble those prayers; you have to play along if you don’t want to lose your mind,” he added, looking inquisitively at Henry.
“And then I sometimes thought about you,” he said, squinting his eyes. “I thought: either this guy’s an idiot or he’s playing that game too.”
Henry felt a little uneasy, but Mark put a hand on his arm.
“It’s OK, Henry. I know you’re not an idiot. I’m just saying, I wish I hadn’t treated you like one.”
It was as if their mutual hatred in the past made honesty possible now, for hatred is also a sure sign of respect. And now that John was saved and barely spoke with him anymore, Mark had no one else to turn to. Both of them had relied on John’s friendship; Henry had lost John to Mark, and now Mark had lost John to Jesus.
Mark stared out at the dark ocean, frowning.
“The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of escape,” he whispered. “If I only knew how to get on board a freighter, I’d leave right away and take John with me. Have you seen how he’s become? A shadow of himself, that’s what he is. If I could just get him out of here, away from this damn country, away from this damn cold,” he said, and shivered.
Mark hadn’t called him a friend, but he had talked to him like a friend, like someone he trusted. And he had told him a secret. Henry could so easily tell Emily everything, that Mark was planning an escape. Mark knew this; after all, Henry had told on him and John before. Despite that, Mark trusted him now, like a real friend. Henry felt a strange tingling in his stomach, for he suddenly realized that he had something to give his new friend, something that would be of immense value to Mark.
“Th-there’s a b-boat,” Henry whispered into the frozen silence.
Mark turned his head with a questioning look.
“What?”
“In the s-smithy,” Henry said. “A real boat.”
Henry moved the wooden barrels that stood by the gable wall. Behind them was the boat, covered with green sailcloth. He rolled one barrel to the side and pulled at the sailcloth. And the boat was revealed, as if by magic.
“Jesus Christ,” Mark said with a gasp.
He stood still for a long time, examining the boat with flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes, as if he had witnessed a heavenly revelation.
Henry stood behind him, smiling to himself.
He might have lost Emily to the new boy, but he had made a friend of his worst enemy. And that was no small achievement.
Suddenly the days had acquired a new meaning, a new purpose. Each morning Henry woke up excited, constantly thinking about where and when they would meet again to talk about the big secret.
He was impatient to finish the milking so he could get rid of Ollie and Emily from the cowshed, in case Mark came to talk. He couldn’t help becoming irritated by Ollie when he lingered in the cowshed after milking. Henry would take the hose, turn on the water, and start to wash the floor and the dung canal so the water sprayed in every direction. That usually did the trick, and the boy left with a sour face.
They never arranged any of their meetings, but when the weather was fine and there was still some daylight they met at the Gallows. They’d sit there, side by side, refining the escape plan.
It was usually Mark who did most of the talking, but sometimes they barely exchanged any words at all. Occasionally Henry was the first to say something, and he felt compelled to reply if Mark asked him something, but speaking wasn’t as hard as he had imagined. Sometimes he even managed to come out with a complete sentence without stuttering, because Mark didn’t press him, but waited patiently and listened.
And, day by day, the perfect escape plan began to take form. The freighters always sailed the same route, just like buses. They followed signals from the shore until they reached the international sea routes. That’s how it had to be.
The problem was: how do you jump on a bus in the middle of the ocean?
Henry had no answer to that.
“You sail in front of it,” Mark explained, “and let the boat glide by its side. Then you fasten the hook on the ladder.”
“What ladder?” Henry asked.
“There’s an iron ladder down its side. It’s soldered on,” Mark said.
“They sail too fast,” Henry said skeptically.
“Too fast?” Mark cried. “They sail at twenty knots!”
Henry gave him a questioning look.
“That’s slow,” Mark said. “It’s a piece of cake,” he added, squi
nting at the horizon.
The only real problem that troubled Mark was how to move the little boat from the smithy into the water. There was no beach, only tall cliffs in both directions. Mark thought it was, in fact, ridiculous to have a boat here in the first place, because there was no way to put it to sea.
But Henry told him the story of the farmer, whom the neighbors had nicknamed the Miracle Man. Then he explained the wheel he had found in the smithy, and the iron bar that was drilled into the cliff. The wheel and the iron bar were obviously a part of the mechanism that the Miracle Man had used to lower the boat down the cliffs onto the sandbank when the tide was low.
But they couldn’t try this out until they had moved the boat to the cliffs. And for the time being that was impossible, because they needed a third man. Mark would have to convince John, somehow, to help them, and hopefully to join them.
Mark obviously considered Henry to be on the team. After all, he had found the boat. And Spain awaited them, with its sunny beaches, right on the other side of the horizon. Henry felt proud to be a member of the mission and imagined it wouldn’t be that hard to hook the ladder on the side of the ship.
“We’ll only get one shot at it though,” Mark said.
Henry nodded with a pensive air. He could see that it would be difficult, of course, but he felt he was up to the task.
“I’ll keep the boat steady while you do it,” Mark said. “If we only had a motor on the boat, it would make things a lot easier.”
“No,” Henry said with a professional air. “They’d hear the noise.”
“You’re right,” Mark said.
Of course, the ingenious part of the plan, Mark thought, was to be on a rowboat and to float up to the side of the freighter without a sound. They rehearsed this in their minds over and over again, pondering any problems and imagining their actions from every conceivable angle.
“A freighter like that is pretty steady on the water,” Mark said. “It might even work to our advantage if there were some waves. But, of course, the risk is less if the ocean is still.”
Boy on the Edge Page 12
