by Davyne DeSye
Erik listened through another cycle of rumbling and whistling, loathing to wake his friend, feeling that he might slide down the wall to the floor and sleep himself. Without any sound or any indication of movement in the near perfect darkness, suddenly one large oak-like hand closed around Erik’s throat and his head slammed against the wooden wall behind him.
“Oy, friend, you’ve got the wrong cabin.” Mattis’ voice rumbled as though in a ragged continuation of his snore.
“Mattis,” Erik whispered over the constriction in his throat. “It’s Lucky.” He hoped his words would be understood, and soon.
The pressure on his throat eased on the instant. “Lucky! You crazy loon!” came the immediate response. Erik bent forward from the waist and coughed through his ruined throat. He brought his hand to the back of his head to determine if his wound had begun bleeding again. Erik examined his hand as a lantern light flared across the tiny room. He did not see fresh blood.
“You nearly ran out of luck, old friend,” Mattis admonished as he brought the lantern toward Erik. Then, as he raised the lantern to look at Erik: “Gracious, friend! Looks as though you already have!” In the lamplight, the sailor’s incredulous face became uncharacteristically somber and creased with worry. Erik laughed weakly, then clutched again at his ribs.
“Sit, sit, friend,” Mattis said, and put a great arm around Erik to help him to the bunk. Mattis settled the lantern near the bunk and sat in the solitary chair.
“Christine?” asked Mattis, painful dread reflected in his features.
“They’ve taken her,” Erik growled, the violent rage that had been cutting at him over the last hours slicing through him again like pain.
“Tell me what you need. Whose neck you need broken,” Mattis answered. He clapped his massive hands together and squeezed until his knuckles grew white. Having just experienced those enormous hands about his own throat, Erik did not doubt that Mattis could do the job – although he had never known the man to be in the leastwise violent.
Erik choked back the angry oaths that threatened to join Mattis’ own. When Erik did not answer, Mattis spoke again, his tone laced with worry, his eyes moving over Erik’s ruined and bloody clothes.
“Do you need a doctor?” he asked.
“I need sleep. Do you have food? I am too tired and angry to think,” Erik answered.
Mattis rose without another word and left the room. Erik longed to lie back and rest, but refused even in his exhaustion to take his friend’s bunk from him.
Erik awoke from a half-sleep still sitting upright on the edge of the bunk when Mattis re-entered the room.
“Dried fish and hardtack,” Mattis answered. “Thought it best not to make a ruckus.”
Erik ate as if asleep, not tasting the meager rations. When he awoke, stretched out in Mattis’ bunk, he could not remember finishing his meal. He stood with a groan, each of his aches awakening with his movement, but he felt well-rested and stronger.
Before Erik could straighten his tattered clothing, the door opened and Mattis backed into the room, and then turned bearing a washbasin and steaming pitcher of water.
“Ah, good. You’re awake. Slept the sleep of the near-dead, I’d say.” Mattis was again full of good cheer, and he laughed as he put the washbasin on the small table. “Need help?” he asked as he handed Erik a pile of clean white bandages and a wash linen.
“Thank you, no,” Erik answered as he took the linen and began to pour hot water into the basin.
“What can I do?” Mattis asked, sitting on the edge of the abandoned bunk.
“I need to go to London,” Erik answered. Mattis raised his eyebrows. “I am too old and injured to do this alone,” he paused and grimaced as he passed the warm cloth over his battered face. “I am going for the one man I can trust to be of assistance.”
“Petter,” said Mattis.
“Mm,” Erik answered, nodding. “I will find it hard to explain… Petter does not know all I have done and been in my life.”
“No son knows his father – thank the Heavens,” Mattis said, with another laugh. “But Petter is a good son. He will never believe that you are anything but a virtuous man.”
“Virtuous,” Erik repeated, with a snort and a wry smile. “Oh, Mattis. In my youth…” Erik’s mind filled again with ancient bitter memories made clear again by the Sultana’s reappearance.
“Follies of the youth are best left there. We each have our own. I know the man you are now, Lucky, and he is a good man, a good friend.” Mattis coughed into his hand as if embarrassed at his own effusiveness. He said, “Friend, what can I do?”
“I will not involve you in these dangerous matters, Mattis.” The man struggled between curiosity and acceptance. “But I do need supplies and a way to Stockholm.”
“As good as done,” Mattis said, and grinning, he shook Erik’s hand.
After Mattis left with a list of supplies and two letters of instruction, Erik removed his clothing and bathed and bandaged the remainder of his wounds. He paid special attention to the knife wound in his thigh and the bone-deep gash in his shin. Mattis returned with two bowls of the fish stew they both favored, and some of his own over-sized but clean clothing for Erik to don as they waited for the arrival of Erik’s requested supplies. By the following morning, the boat was sailing for Stockholm.
Despite Erik’s unbearable need for speed in his journey, he relished the time spent with his friend. The pleasure was bittersweet, as Erik knew what he had failed to explain to his friend – that whether he lived or died in his attempt to rescue Christine – he could never return to Sweden again. He could not. And so he cherished each of Mattis’ loud laughs, each painful clap on the back, each joke, with the appreciation of a man on his deathbed clutching at his last moments with loved ones. The pain in his heart surpassed the pain of his wounds and he spent every minute he could basking in the warmth of his dear, dear friend’s companionship.
Erik was in a black mood as he prepared to debark in Stockholm. Mattis stood at his side at the railing, one heavy arm slung about Erik’s shoulders, his eyes combing the docks and the part of the city visible from his vantage on deck.
“Mattis,” Erik started, and had to stop to swallow past the lump in his throat. He began again. “Mattis, my friend, I…”
“I’ll see you again, friend,” he said, and he clapped Erik on the back, face still turned to the teeming docks. He bent and raised a duffle to Erik’s hand and turned to Erik, eyes boring into Erik’s own. Erik tried to smile at his friend, but could not. Mattis repeated, “I’ll see you again.” The statement had the sound of a command rather than a wishful statement.
Erik hesitated, and then nodded. The two men embraced without shame, the strength and length of Mattis’ embrace belying his belief in his hopeful statement.
Erik limped down the gangplank, the sad knot again in his throat. He refused to turn back for a last sight of his friend.
***
Erik checked into a hotel in London with the surreal feeling of having traveled through time. Many of the buildings and roadways in London were as he remembered them from over twenty years ago, but the trams and motorized buses that moved through the streets among the horse drawn carriages were out of place in his memories. Despite the lowering weather, he felt invigorated by the bustle and business surrounding him, and smiled as he thought of how Christine would react were she beside him. The smiled was short-lived.
I will find you, my love. Nothing will keep me from you.
He did not consider how the Sultana might be entertaining herself with Christine, focusing on the hot hope that the Sultana would not go so far as to kill his beloved. She could not expect to obtain the service she had asked of Erik if she went so far.
Once ensconced in his suite, Erik indulged his mischievous sense of humor, and sent a messenger to Petter, giving a false name and asking the boy to come for an interview regarding a possible commission. He received an immediate answer indicating that Petter woul
d be available within the hour. He removed his hooded cloak. As he donned a mask he had not worn since leaving London twenty years ago – a mask Petter had never seen, as Petter had never seen any of his masks – he looked forward to seeing his son once more, and to his son’s presentation.
“A pleasure to meet you, my boy,” he said to the empty room, as he gazed into a mirror, and straightened his coat. “A pleasure to meet you, my boy.” He was satisfied that his English and its accent were correct. Gripping the cane he used to support his injured leg, he walked to the door when the knock sounded.
“Petter Nilsson, sir, at your request,” Petter said, presenting his card, and bowing.
“A pleasure to meet you, my boy,” Erik answered, stepping back and gesturing into the room. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” He took the card Petter presented, and introduced himself, using the name he had used when last in London. “I am Lord Bastion.”
“At your service, my Lord,” Petter answered.
“Please,” Erik said, after shaking Petter’s hand. He gestured to a low table, and seated himself on the facing couch.
“Right away, my Lord,” Petter answered.
As Petter presented his architectural drawings and photographs of several magnificent carvings, Erik was torn between watching his son and looking through the presented materials. He was proud to see that Petter’s presentation was smoothly delivered, and that his plans and carvings had only improved during the months since he had left Sweden. He did not feel the need to suppress his smile.
As the presentation concluded, Petter arranged several of his most admirable drawings on the table, and placed small photographs of his carvings strategically – artistically, Erik thought – among them, and stepped back.
“Very impressive, young man,” Erik said.
“I am so pleased you like them,” Petter answered. Cocking his head to one side and smiling, he said, speaking in Swedish, “So, Father, when shall this charade end, as I am certain you are not here to hire me.”
Erik paused, surprised, before he threw back his head and laughed. He rose, and closing the distance between them, embraced his son.
“How?” he asked, matching Petter’s Swedish and smiling at his son.
“Your perfect teeth – unlike an Englishman’s. Unmistakable, really.” Petter leaned in to peer at Erik’s eyes. “And your English is too proper,” he finished, and laughed. He reached a finger up to pluck at the fleshy cheek of the mask. “Why are you covering your face?” he asked.
“Ah, a habit of old,” Erik said, awash in memories, both pleasant and otherwise.
“The cane? Another part of your disguise?” Petter asked with a laugh.
“I am afraid not. I have injured my leg,” Erik answered.
“Where is Mother?” Petter asked, glancing around the room.
“I… I hope we will be joining her soon,” Erik answered.
“Joining her?” Petter asked.
“Would you be willing to make a quick jaunt to Paris with me, Petter?” Erik asked. He knew he must tell the boy of his mother’s predicament, but he hoped to be on his way before divulging the full extent of the problem.
“Paris! When?” Petter asked.
“How soon can you leave?” Erik asked, smiling, allowing the taunt in his question to twist his smile.
“I… Father, I have work, and I have…,” Petter answered, leaving the statement hanging.
“A woman friend?” Erik asked, reading the flush rising to Petter’s cheeks.
“A magnificent woman friend!” Petter finished in an enthusiastic burst.
“I should love to meet her,” Erik said, and winked. Then: “But can you not leave your work? Even to see your mother?”
“I…,” Petter paused. “Yes, I am certain that I can. Mr. Evans – my employer – is gracious, and would grant me a leave of absence, I am sure.” He glanced sidelong at his father, and said, “This is important?”
“Fairly,” said Erik, aware that Petter was reading his own suppressed anxiousness.
“I will go now to speak with Mr. Evans,” Petter said, and began gathering his presentation materials. “Did you like them?” he asked, nodding toward the pages.
“I could not be more proud,” Erik answered. “And I would meet your Mr. Evans, if it would not be inconvenient.”
“Certainly,” answered Petter, now smiling again. “Shall I present you as,” and here Petter lowered his voice and drew the syllables out, and with a strong English accent, said, “Lord Bastion.”
Erik laughed. “No, I shall be proud to be your father.”
“And your mask?” Petter asked, flicking a finger toward it as though he thought it a silly affectation.
“It is for the best, son,” Erik answered. Petter shrugged.
***
Erik took an instant liking to the gregarious Mr. Evans, who reminded him of his friend Mattis in size and good humor, despite the incongruously high-toned pitch of the former’s voice, the shining, hairless pate, the humorous mustache. Or perhaps he saw the similarity out of a wistful longing for the friend he had just left.
After confessing to being a master stonemason himself, he allowed himself to be shown around the shop, and to be introduced to several of the working journeymen. He declined a tour of the Bush Exhibition site, despite being quite interested in seeing the place – he rather hoped to be leaving with Petter too soon to have the time, although he did not say so aloud.
Finally, and at Petter’s insistence, Erik was introduced to a rather unassuming and plainly dressed young woman standing near a drafting table.
“My daughter, Phoebe,” Evans said.
“My dear friend,” Petter said. “Phoebe, this is my father.”
The girl curtseyed, and turned her smiling face toward Petter again. It was quite obvious to Erik that the girl was enamored with his son.
“She’s quite a good architect,” Petter said, gesturing to the drafting table beside which she stood. “She’s helped me with several improvements to my own plans.”
“May I?” Erik asked, as he stepped toward the table.
“Oh, Mr. Nilsson, my plans are nothing as good as Petter’s,” she said, but she stepped aside to let him look, blushing. Erik bent over the top drawing and examined it.
“Hmm,” he said after a moment. “You have quite a good eye.” He raised his head, and with a small groan, straightened his back, gazing at her. “And quite beautiful eyes, if you don’t mind an old man saying so.”
Again, Phoebe blushed, but her eyes remained on his as she curtseyed again, and said, “Thank you, sir. I don’t mind in the least.”
Erik followed her gaze as it moved to Petter. His son rolled his eyes.
“My father always speaks his mind,” Petter said with a smile and patted Phoebe’s hand where it rested on the table. In that instant, Erik knew that this charming and talented girl was not his son’s love interest.
Petter left Erik to talk with the girl as he took Mr. Evans into the office and obtained the necessary leave of absence. When they left the shop, Erik was even more impressed with the girl, as she spoke quite knowledgeably about not only architecture, but also of masonry, world history, music, and any other subject Erik had cared to introduce.
“I am to dine with Constance this evening,” Petter said, as they walked to Petter’s flat, again reverting to Swedish. Erik heard the fervent infatuation and excitement in his son’s voice. “I would be proud to have you make her acquaintance.”
“I would be pleased to meet the inestimable Constance,” he answered, quite eager to meet the woman who could surpass Phoebe in wit and charm.
“Yes, quite!” answered Petter.
At Erik’s insistence, Petter agreed to bring Constance to Erik’s hotel dining room for dinner, and Erik retired to his suite to “freshen up.” In truth, he wanted an hour out of the retched mask he was so unaccustomed to wearing.
Constance proved a disappointment to Erik, but he made certain n
ot to show it. She was a pretty girl – prettier than Phoebe – but her prettiness was just that. Not beauty, and not backed with the same kindness and intellect he had seen in Phoebe. Constance was charismatic in a charming and haughty way, and Erik laughed several times through the meal – although not always for the same reasons as Constance and Petter. She obviously had Petter’s heart in her clutches.
The meal concluded, and the three stood. Constance took Petter’s arm, and said, “My goodness, Petter! You never told me your father was so… charming.” Her eyes took in the remnants of their rather lavish meal, and then Erik’s tailored suit. Erik nearly flinched at the calculating avarice that shone in her eyes in that telling moment.
“Expense account,” Erik said, with a tilt to his head that he hoped conveyed a mild embarrassment. “But I am pleased to have been able to use my employer’s money in the company of such a lady as yourself.”
Petter’s omnipresent smile faltered as he looked to his father, confusion plain on his face, but he said nothing. Constance fluttered her eyes at Erik in disingenuous coyness before she turned to Petter.
“I shall see Constance home,” Petter said, smiling again, eyes locked with Constance’s.
“Of course,” Erik answered. He stood at the table as couple left, hoping for his son’s sake that Petter did not expect to find happiness through a liaison with this girl. He sighed as he left the dining hall, knowing from painful experience that matters of the heart were ungovernable.
Constance came to the dock to see them off when they left. Petter waved like a madman from the rail. Erik had to admit that the girl, standing under a parasol and waving a small lace handkerchief, made rather a pretty picture. But again, it seemed to Erik that that was all the girl was: a pretty picture, painted over a small soul.
