Antagonist - Childe Cycle 11 (112 page)

"What
you
intend,"
Bleys
said,
"is
your
own
destruction—very much
like
Dahno.
Are
you
aware
the
struggle
in
which
you've
chosen
to
involve
yourself
is
all
over
but
the
shouting?
Your
cause
isn't only
lost;
it's
already
on
its
way
to
being
forgotten."

"And
you
want
to
save
me?"

"I
can
afford
what
I
want,"
Bleys
said.
"But
in
this
case,
it's
not
a matter
of
my
saving
you,
but
of
you
choosing
to
save
yourself.
In
a
few standard
years
an
avalanche
will
have
swallowed
up
all
you
now
think you
want
to
fight
for.
So,
what
difference
will
it
make
if
you
stop
fighting
now?"

"You
seem
to
assume,"
said
Hal,
"that
I'm
going
to
stop
eventually."

"Either
stop,
or—forgive
me—be
stopped,"
said
Bleys.
"The outcome
of
this
battle
you
want
to
throw
yourself
into
was
determined
before
you
were
born."

"No,"
said
Hal,
slowly,
"I
don't
think
it
was."

The
ember
of
anger
in
Bleys
continued
to
grow,
fanned
by
Hal's stubborn
refusal
to
see
the
obvious.
He
was
just
like
his
tutors, Bleys
thought—particularly
the
Exotic,
the
one
who
had
been
reading
poetry.

"I
understand
you
originally
had
an
interest
in
being
a
poet,"
he said.
The
memory
of
that
poetry-loving
tutor
reminded
him
again of
his
search
of
the
boy's
house—the
search
in
which
Bleys
had come
upon
the
boy's
handwritten
poetry.

"I
had
inclinations
to
art,
too,
once,"
Bleys
said.
"Before
I
found it
wasn't
for
me.
But
poetry
can
be
a
personally
rewarding
lifework. Be
a
poet,
then.
Put
this
other
aside.
Let
what's
going
to
happen, happen;
without
wasting
yourself
trying
to
change
it."

Hal
only
shook
his
head,
at
first;
but
then
gave
a
longer
answer:

"I
was
committed
to
this,
only
this,
long
before
you
know,"
he
said.

Bleys
was
disappointed
that
this
man,
of
whom
he
had
come
to expect
so
much,
should
indulge
in
childish
melodrama,
repeating lines
straight
out
of
old
novels.

Or,
was
he?
Maybe
that
answer
was
deeper
than
it
appeared. Bleys
reminded
himself
of
the
need
not
to
underestimate
this
man. Give
him
the
benefit
of
the
doubt,
and
try
another
key
in
the
lock that
led
to
his
motivations.

"I'm
entirely
serious
in
what
I
say,"
Bleys
said.
He
was
sure
Hal would
not
be
persuaded,
but
possibly
he
could
be
brought
to
explain
himself
a
little
more,
giving
Bleys
something
to
read
meaning into.

"Stop
and
think,"
he
continued,
trying
to
put
into
the
words
all of
his
persuasiveness.
If
there
was
any
doubt
inside
this
man
at
all, any
desire
to
avoid
what
he
must
surely
recognize
would
be
a
disastrous
war,
he
must
be
brought
around
to
seeing
the
certainty
within Bleys—must
be
made
to
feel
unsure,
hesitant.
..
enough
that
he might
want
to
be
freed
of
that
burden.

"What
good
is
it
going
to
do
to
throw
yourself
away?
Wouldn't
it be
better,
for
yourself
and
all
the
worlds
of
men
and
women,
that you
should
live
a
long
time
and
do
whatever
you
want
to
do— whether
it's
poetry
or
anything
else?
It
could
even
be
something
as immaterial
as
saying
what
you
think
to
your
fellow
humans;
so
that something
of
yourself
will
have
gone
into
the
race
and
be
carried
on to
enrich
it
after
you're
gone.
Isn't
that
a
far
better
thing
than
committing
suicide
because
you
can't
have
matters
just
as
you
want them?"

"I
think,"
said
Hal,
"we're
at
cross-purposes.
What
you
see
as
inevitable,
I
don't
see
so
at
all.
What
you
refuse
to
accept
can
happen, I
know
can
happen."

Bleys
shook
his
head,
the
disappointment
rising
up
once
more. Gould
the
man
really
be
so
blind?

"You're
in
love
with
a
sort
of
poetic
illusion
about
life,"
Bleys said.
"And
it
is
an
illusion,
even
in
a
poetic
sense;
because
even poets—good
poets—come
to
understand
the
hard
limits
of
reality. Don't
take
my
word
for
that.
What
does
Shakespeare
have
Hamlet say
at
one
point
...
'How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world'?"

Hal
was
smiling,
and
for
a
brief
moment
Bleys
felt
a
small
fear. He
quelled
the
sudden
memory,
of
how
his
attempt
to
quote
poetry to
Hal's
tutor
had
blown
up
in
his
face.

"Do
you
know
Lowell?"
Hal
asked.

"Lowell?
I
don't
believe
so."
The
name
sounded
like
something out
of
North
America,
Bleys
thought.
Where
could
Hal
be
going with
this?

"James
Russell
Lowell,"
Hal
explained.
"Nineteenth-century American
poet."
And
he
seemed
to
rise
a
little
in
his
chair
as
he spoke
a
few
lines:

"When I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,
But I had Aladdin s lamp "

Bleys
felt
as
if
he
had
been
hit
in
the
pit
of
his
stomach.
Hal
only sat
there
watching
him,
as
within
himself
Bleys
struggled
to
control the
sudden
welter
of
emotions
the
words
had
evoked.

"You've
been
researching
my
childhood,
I
see,"
Bleys
said.
It seemed
to
him
as
if
it
had
taken
a
long
time
to
get
himself
under enough
control
to
say
the
words
without
unwelcome
emphasis. Somehow,
he
thought,
this
man
knew
him—knew
his
past,
knew the
virtual
captivity
of
the
years
with
his
mother
.
..
but
that
could not
be:
Dahno
had
long
ago
altered
the
historical
records—and even
if
some
correct
record
remained
somewhere,
how
could
it tell
the
sort
of
life
that
had
been
imposed
on
a
young
boy
twenty years
ago?

Could
Hal
Mayne
somehow
see
so
deeply
into
Bleys,
as
to
be able
to
pick
up
that
hidden
hurt?

Or—the
idea
sprang
suddenly
into
his
mind—had
Hal
been
talking
with
Dahno?
Had
they
come
to
some
agreement?
Was
that
why Hal
had
mentioned
Dahno,
earlier?

Instinctively,
Bleys
rejected
that
idea;
but
he
recognized
it
had shaken
him.

It
was
time
to
leave.

He
got
to
his
feet,
seeing
Hal
stand
at
the
same
time.

"You're
better
at
quoting
poetry
than
I
am,"
Bleys
said.
He
regretted
the
words
instantly,
but
could
think
of
no
way
to
recall them.

"I
think,"
he
said
finally,
"that
those
events
that
took
place
at your
estate
keep
you
from
listening
to
me
now.
So
I
believe
I'll
have to
accept
the
fact
I
can't
save
you.
So
I'll
go.
What
is
it
you've
found here
at
the
Encyclopedia—if
anything—if
I
may
ask?"