by Jeff Noon
Doctor Higgs taught him the basics of the sign language, moving his hands as she moved hers, getting him to follow the patterns. She taught him Hello and Goodbye. And Please and Thank you. His fingers were stiff and not used to the shapes, which seemed strange and ill-suited to human digits. And when he tried to sign the phrase My name is John he felt he was speaking to himself in a foreign language. He asked via the notepad:
Is this the same as sign language for the deaf?
Higgs shook her head.
Not really, although there are some common shapes. But most of them are unique to the village of Hoxley, and have been passed down from one generation to the next by word of mouth, and of course by word of hand.
She smiled at her own turn of phrase, and he did the same, and his hands practiced the movements over and over until gradually they settled into a more comfortable rhythm. He made the sign for Thank you, and she answered with what he took to be the gesture for You’re welcome, and she urged him to keep the pad and pen for his own use during the day.
He wrote a message on the back of the photograph of his father and then set off once more, leaving the good doctor to attend to her duties.
The village had a different feel now. He was growing accustomed to its ways, peculiar as they were, and he walked down the high street with renewed vigor. Prescription pad in hand, he was ready. He would still ask his questions, and still pursue his father – ghost or otherwise. The first person he talked to was the postman, who had finished his round and was making his way back to his van. What better person was there to ask? Nyquist was nervous as he made the welcoming hand signal, his fingers catching on each other, but the postman smiled and nodded and made the same gesture back at him. All was well. Nyquist showed him the back of the photograph with its handwritten message: Could you help me please. I’m trying to find this man. Do you know where he is? Then he turned the photo over, bringing his father’s face uppermost. The postman stared at it and then took it from Nyquist’s grip. His eyes opened a little wider, enough to give hope. But then the postman shook his head, handed back the image, and made a series of highly complex hand movements.
Nyquist was blind and deaf to their meaning. But he could see the negative in every twist of every finger. He stumbled through Thank you, Goodbye and moved on. He showed the photograph to everyone he met, and he let them read the message, and got the same result every time. He didn’t knock on any doors, not yet, but he walked along each of the side streets in turn, looking out for people to ask. He passed Yew Tree Cottage and imagined the occupants at their play: Mr Bainbridge sitting as silent as Mrs Bainbridge, both for once joined in their afflictions. He looked at the window, where an icon sat on the inside ledge, gazing back at him: Saint Meade, with her bridled mouth and her long black hair. It made him think of the threads sewn into the photograph, sealing his father’s mouth. Was Nyquist being warned off? Keep your mouth shut, don’t ask questions.
He walked far from the village center and saw that it was a larger place than he’d first suspected. There was a community hall advertizing a lecture and slide show that evening: “Old Hoxley, Pastimes and Customs”, but the door was locked for now. He climbed a road that sloped upwards, following the curve of the valley, asking his silent questions to every one he saw, receiving silent answers in return: no, no and no. There were newer houses up here, evidence of expansion, and places of work, small workshops and garages in the main. He noted a much larger building, a factory, marked with the Sutton’s Bakery sign. The air smelled temptingly sweet around the open doors. And then on: more cottages, garden sheds, allotments, a rubbish dump. Soon he came to the upper slopes of the hill and the village’s furthest limit. Beyond were only fields and more hills and the lonely, lonely sky. He sat on a bench and looked down into the valley, taking in the irregular sprawl of houses, the streets that petered out into open fields, the church spire, the bridge over the river, the Hale itself as it wound through the built-up area, vanishing for a while and then reappearing on the other side of Hoxley, flowing on. A line of electric pylons. A few remote cottages or farmhouses. Otherwise, the fields around were empty of human habitation. The hills stretched away into the distance, veiled at their summits with snow. It really was a sight to behold. Within this isolated world, the village of Hoxley looked peaceful, sleepy even, a realm of calm and repose. And yet already he had found a strange growth in a teacup, had his name stolen by a raven, danced with youthful apparitions around the maypole, and had his property damaged – and on top of all that, he’d broken the rules of not one but two saints!
He looked down at the photograph in his hands. It could almost be himself, twenty or so years from now, the future that awaited him. There was a deep sense of loss in his father’s eyes: life still beat there amid the wrinkles and the thinning hair, but only just.
It was a painful mirror.
With trembling fingers, Nyquist unpicked the cotton threads, releasing his father’s lips from their bindings.
A light dusting of snow started to fall, ash on the daylight.
A hare moved close by, its silvered fur shining, and its nose low to the ground as it snuffled through a patch of dry weeds. Nyquist shifted on the bench, enough to make the hare look up at him. Then it took off at speed, climbing further up the hill. Nyquist turned to follow its progress. He felt a sudden desire to follow the creature, to rise up into the clouds at the summit where sunlight washed the sky clean. He imagined himself disappearing into the haze to never be seen again, not even by himself. It was a comforting thought.
But he turned back to face the valley and he sat there a moment longer and watched as a lone figure trudged up the hill towards him. It was a man, getting on a bit, walking with the aid of a stick. Nyquist sat forward, expectant. He almost looked down at the photographic image to remind himself what his father now looked like, but that was a ridiculous thing to do: he would know, he would just know! They both would. And so he waited until the figure came close enough for his face to come into focus through the snow and the cold air.
It was just an old man. A stranger. He sat down on the bench, keeping a good distance between himself and Nyquist. For a while the two men sat there, until the snow had finished. Nyquist wiped the photograph on the sleeve of his overcoat, to brush away the melting flakes. The old man took a cigarette from a packet and set it aflame, his silver lighter trembling in reddened fingers. He smoked contentedly, staring ahead. Nyquist fought down the urge to speak. The old man took exactly six drags of the cigarette and then carefully stubbed it out on the bench and replaced it back in the packet. A poor man then, or frugal. Ex-soldier, probably. But then his hands started to talk, moving quickly for one so old, his fingerless mittens dancing up and down and then circling back on themselves. Nyquist felt he was being told a story, and a good one at that, a tale from yesteryear; yet every word was unknown to him.
The hands came to rest. The old man took the photograph from Nyquist’s hand and he gazed at it intently. Then he made a signal, of writing in space. Nyquist gave him his pen. The old man wrote on the back of the image. Satisfied, he placed it on the bench, stood up, and started off down the hill, back to whichever cottage he came from, to whatever family he might have left in this world.
Nyquist picked up the photograph and read the message.
A name, an occupation, an address.
Thomas Dunne, photographer.
At last: a clue.
OLD OAK
Nyquist took a shortcut across the village green and stopped at the pond. It was half frozen over and yet goldfish were seen beneath the frosting of ice, swimming around slowly. Life going on. He was fixated on the flashes of color and so it took him a moment to realize that he was hearing voices, human voices. He was surprised by this and he looked over see a group of young people standing around the oak tree, three of them, and they were speaking to each other. He moved close and listened as they chatted of this and that, mostly of personal tales of family life gone wrong, and the lat
est singing sensations. They were entirely bound up in their conversation, so Nyquist could watch them easily. Two women and a man, late teens, early twenties, their fashionable outfits constructed from whatever they could find: second-hand clothes and hand-me-downs. The man was especially peacockish, with a velvet jacket over a purple shirt, and a bootlace tie. He was dressed for his own pleasure rather than the weather, and every so often a shiver ran through his body and his hands dug into his trouser pockets for warmth. And then one of the teens noticed Nyquist standing there and she turned to stare at him. The others followed suit. He took a step closer and dared to speak. The young man raised his hand to his mouth in the traditional sign for be quiet, but he did this in a studied, almost ironic manner. He was an expert at ironic or cynical sign language. Now the two girls raised their hands in the same manner to cover their mouths, and they looked at him with mischief in their eyes; he imagined that every hand hid a smile. But he had to know: how could they speak, when everyone else was silent? He took another step, trying out a few of the gestures the doctor had taught him. But he felt helpless, a castaway seeking a kind word from a native. The teenage girl who had first spotted him lowered her hand from her face and started to talk to him in a rapid display of signs. Her hands were a blur. She must have seen the helpless look on his face, because she came forward and took his hand in hers and pulled him gently towards the oak. She pressed his hand against the rough bark and held her own hand there as well, a few inches from his. And then she spoke aloud.
“Blade of Moon allows your presence.”
Nyquist didn’t have a clue what she meant.
“Blade of Moon is the root of the village, planted as a seed when Hoxley itself was born, as a ford across the river Hale.”
The teenager looked at him with wide open eyes, as though expecting a response. He made none.
“You may speak,” she said. “As long as your hand is held to the bark, Blade of Moon allows you words.”
He spoke. Or tried to. Nothing would come easily. He was nervous.
The girl smiled. “Only by this touch may we speak on the day of Saint Meade.”
Nyquist took a breath and pressed his hand more firmly against the bark of the tree. He tried again to speak. The girl helped him along. “My name is Becca. I’m helping out at the school. I don’t know, maybe I’ll be a teacher one day.”
She had a milder accent than the older people he had met. Her hair was protected from the wind by a colorful headscarf tied in a knot under her chin, and her coat was lilac in color, with a dash of yellow at the collar and cuffs. Her lipstick glowed bright and pink. It would be easy to imagine her posing on the cover of a long-playing record: Rock Around the Mulberry Bush. Something like that.
He told her his name, a single word. “Nyquist.”
Becca drew with a finger the shape of a letter N on the bark, saying sweetly, “Oh yes, we’ve heard all about you. Watch.”
She moved her hand off the tree trunk and used it as part of a series of gestures.
“What does that mean?” Nyquist asked.
Becca reconnected with the bark. “Your name,” she said. “John Nyquist in shapes, such and such.” She made the hand movement a second time, at a much faster speed. “It was invented this morning by Miss Godley. She’s one of the teachers at the school. By now everyone knows it.”
He shook his head. Somewhere in the movement she had shown him, his own name existed, a tangled web.
Becca’s two friends were standing to the side, sharing a cigarette. Neither of them spoke, but they were both listening to him, evidently fascinated by this newcomer. An older couple were walking by and they glanced sideways at the group around the tree and made sly, dismissive gestures with their hands.
Becca waved at them. She leaned into Nyquist and said in a low voice, “Not everyone likes us talking out loud, they think it defiles the memory of Saint Meade and the sacrifices she made for the good of the parish.”
She smiled at the madness of her own words.
“But this tree is where she lost her voice, poor thing. Or rather, where she had it stolen from her by a vision of the Lord. Or the devil. Whichever story you like to hear. Anyway…” She brightened once more. “Welcome, good sir, to Hoxley-on-the-Hale. It’s a bit of a dead end, I’m afraid. A blot upon this fair isle.”
“Blade of Moon is the oak tree?” Nyquist asked. “You’ve given it a name?”
“Sylvia gave it the name. Sylvia Keepsake. She lives in a hut in Morden Wood.”
Nyquist nodded. “I think I met her on my way to the village.”
“Did she name you?” It was said with a smile, but Nyquist could sense the seriousness behind her question.
“She did. She wrote it on a card, but a raven swooped down and stole it from me.”
The young man laughed at this. Becca looked at him, a certain look that held meaning between them, and he shut his mouth instantly and went back to staring across the green.
She turned back to Nyquist.
“You didn’t see it, your new name? You don’t know what it is, then?”
Nyquist shook his head. “Is it important?”
“Sylvia doesn’t name many people. Usually, she sticks to trees and stones and birds and the like, not people.”
“What does it mean, having a new name?”
Any answer was interrupted by the other girl, who stepped up to the tree and reached to it, placing her hand close to Nyquist’s. “Becca, pet,” she said. “I’m frozen. Come on, let’s eat at my house. I’ll play you the new June Holler single.” She pushed in front of her friend and stared at Nyquist with a mocking look on her face. “This one’s a bit too humdrum for my liking. Too square by half. And that’s half a square too far, see, and it doesn’t add up, nowhere near. Sorry, my love, no offence.”
Nyquist kept his silence.
“Aye, alright then, Val,” Becca said. “I’ll catch you up.”
She watched as her two friends walked away across the grass. And then her looks changed, darkened, and Nyquist saw the traces of fear hidden there. She spoke softly: “I’m worried about Teddy.”
“The young man?”
“He’s my brother.” She looked down at the roots of the tree. “There’s not much to do round here, and it’s easy to get caught up in your own head.”
Nyquist read between the lines. “What happened to him?”
“Sylvia named him.”
“You mean she gave Teddy a new name?”
A quick nod. “Baptized him. The silly bugger asked her to do it. I think he must’ve been crazy or something, angry at life. He gets that way. Anyway, I’ve warned him about saying the name out loud.”
“What would happen if he did?”
Her breath curled away in the cold air, and her eyes were glittery.
“Now listen to me, kind sir, no one knows about this. Not even Valerie. I think she kind of loves him, or fancies him at least, but she’s a bit of a flighty girl, see, and I’m sure she’d be off like a lark in the morning, if she knew the truth.”
“It’s a secret?”
“Aye, that it is. And I’m only telling you because you’re a stranger, and I reckon you’ll be gone soon.”
“I will. You’ll never see me again.”
“Good, good…” Her voice trailed off and her hand rose from the bark of the tree.
Nyquist thought she might be done, that their conversation was over. But he needed to know more.
“Becca, tell me. What’s so bad about getting a new name?”
A single index finger touched the bark. “Whatever Sylvia Keepsake names you, that’s what you become. That’s the rule.”
“So if she calls you a poet?’
“You become a poet. You start rhyming.”
Nyquist couldn’t help smiling.
“Laugh away, mister. But what if she names you a murderer, what then?”
“I’ll fight the impulse.”
Becca nodded. “I wish you luck.” And she adde
d, “Now listen here, I didn’t believe any of this myself, not until the story of Gladys Coombes was told.”
“A relative of the landlord?”
“Yes, Nigel’s wife. She was a darling, she really was, but she went a bit doolally. You know, the cuckoos came calling? Anyway, Gladys received a new name from Sylvia and ever afterwards she went gadding about the village, telling everyone she met, insisting that she be known by this new name, and that her old name was never to be used, not ever, not by her husband, not even by her daughter.”
“What was the name?”
“Lady of the Lake. But the trouble was, everyone kept forgetting this new moniker, and using her old name, her proper name, or else they did it on purpose, you know, just to save her, because after all, Gladys was the name given her by the Lord, when the vicar dabbed her little forehead with holy water.”
“What happened to her?”
“I really think she would’ve ended up being taken away, you know, to the mental home? But she beat them to it.” Becca breathed in heavily. “Her body was found at the edge of the pond. The poor dear. Earlier this year, this was. A death in springtime.”
“She drowned?”
“Not quite. She cut her wrists… and then… and then she lowered her hands into the water.” Becca shivered, visited by a ghost. “She held them there for minutes on end, her blood flowing away into the pond.”
Nyquist remembered the gravestone he had seen in the churchyard. Now he understood the sadness in the air of the public house. Beyond that, he didn’t know what to say.
They both stood in silence.
Becca looked at him, her expression suddenly tense. “I swear, I’ll go loopy myself, if anything should happen to Teddy.” Her voice lowered, a secret being told: “He’s hurt himself before.” Before Nyquist could respond she looked away, over to where her friends were waving from the edge of the green. “Look, I have to go, right? Just… Just be careful. Don’t let the Tolly Man catch you.”
“I won’t. Whatever it means.”
