Fly Up into the Night Air (16 page)

* * *

The Walford's Crossing Town Hall was located directly across Market Square from Walford House. The lower level of dark stone had been shipped up the Bug by barge from quarries in the Coastals at the time of construction. Four round-arched niches, each with a round window tucked up under the arch, were spaced on either side of a grand staircase that swept from the street to the second level, where the entrance was located. The original plans had called for a statue in each niche, but the construction funds had run out before the statues could be commissioned, so the niches now contained ornamental shrubberies--gardeners being cheaper than stone masons, albeit a longer term commitment. The council chamber, and courtroom of Walford's Crossing were located on first floor, up a broad staircase from the entrance. The second level, where the clerk of court's office was located, was made of brick baked from clay dredged from the Bug, the obtaining of which had allowed the town fathers to kill two birds with one stone: the dredging had contributed to a necessary deepening of the shipping channel in the center of the river. The windows on the second level were each topped by a decorative frieze of holly leaves. The third level had a sharply angled roof of slate, into which were set small dormer windows. At each corner of the building was a square stone tower topped by a pyramid-shaped roof. Stone gargoyles drooled or vomited at the corners of the towers, when it rained. To Harte's mind, the building was hideous, never mind that it had been designed his great grandfather, Garret Walford.

Harte ran up the front steps, and was about to breech the Clerk's Office when he heard his name called from behind.

"Harte!"

He sighed. "Father, you are here early today."

"I am surprised to see you here at all. You are a rare sight in this hall of your forebears. What is the occasion?"

Harte spoke rapidly, his words flying out like bats from a cave, their meaning lost in the echoing rush. "I have business with the clerk."

His father was not distracted. "The clerk of court."

"Yes, Father."

"Then you are proceeding with this ill-conceived project?"

"It is my duty," said Harte.

"That is certainly debatable, Son. Are you aware that I am scheduled to hear tomorrow?"

Harte brought his attention back to his father. "No. That is ill-timed. You must recuse yourself, of course, if the clerk should schedule the Greer matter tomorrow."

"Why? Our laws do not speak to the circumstance."

"But it could be seen as a conflict of interest, if I were to present a case and you to hear it."

"This is a small community, Son. We have never concerned ourselves such niceties before."

"Perhaps it is time we started," Harte spat.

"Do you believe that I wouldn't give you a fair hearing?"

"That is not the point," said Harte.

"Perhaps you believe I have prejudged the matter," said Councilman Walford.

"You have made your feelings clear, but no, my concern is for the integrity of the process."

Harte's father batted impatiently at his magistrate's robe. "My concern is for your career. I think the case unlikely to produce a conviction."

"I must live my own life, Father. That includes making my own mistakes."

"Why are you so determined to fail?"

Harte looked around the ornate hall. Lining its walls were portraits of past councilmen. "I am determined to do my best to secure a conviction for a violent crime. Should I fail, I will have tried. I can live with that."

Councilman Walford sighed. "Can it really seem that simple to you? This is not perhaps the best place to speak of this. Will you grant your father a boon and converse with him in his chamber before you proceed?" He pointed to the door leading to the magistrate's chambers.

Harte threw a loose salute. "Yes, sir." He followed his father into his chamber. As he did, he wondered at his father's decision to maintain his office among the magistrate's chambers instead of the larger, more ornate chambers of the council. Councilman Walford's room was the largest of the magistrate's chambers, and it did have their comforts: imported rugs, comfortable leather furniture, and a small fireplace, as well as a grand view of Market Square, but it did not hold a candle to the larger council chambers.

Seated in his armchair by the fire, Councilman Walford seemed to shed some of his stiffness. "Harte. I respect you. If I seem unsupportive, it's simply because I do not want to see you hurt. Can you not believe that?" Harte had no answer. "Could you live with losing your position as presenter advocate for Walford's Crossing? Councilman Greer cannot act until the case is concluded, but he will not wait a day, when it's over. I may not be able to save you."

Harte looked out the window at the snow-covered square. "Father, can you not see that I am a song bird in winter here?"

"Perhaps, but I hope the season might change. I hope you might, in time, with my help, build the relationships and support necessary to make the kinds of changes for which you have argued. But you are in such a hurry!"

"I do not know what to say." Harte turned back to face his father. "I do not think I have the patience to orchestrate a long campaign. It is a failing, I know. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I must get to the clerk of court. Will I see you at dinner?"

"I expect so." Councilman Walford rose and snapped the drapes closed, blocking Harte's view of the quiet square, and returned to his armchair, where Harte left him.

* * *

Dear Stilian,

You must come to Blue House. Hugh has been injured. His students found him unconscious in the library, and he will not wake. The doctors believe he hit his head. I fear--I will not lend the thought strength by writing it. I need you!

In distress,

Thalia

Stilian knew he must go. If Hugh were to die when he wasn't there--the thought was unbearable. When Stilian showed Harte the note, Harte's anxiety was a storm cloud hiding his beacon. Stilian spoke before Harte's mobile face could settle on an expression.

"Harte, I must go. He's my father in all but blood. His bonded, Thalia, has been mother to me. They are my family."

"But we go to court! I thought you might--that there might be a way to--I need you." Harte grabbed Stilian's arm.

"I'm torn, but I believe that you can succeed in court without my intervention," said Stilian. Harte's grip on Stilian's arm was becoming painful.

"Why is it that you undo me so?" said Harte.

While he had seen it building, Stilian was taken aback at the strength of Harte's reaction. "I'm sorry. I will return as soon as I may."

Harte finally let go of his arm. "Write sooner. Write every day."

"Harte, you are behaving like a child. I will return to you when I may. Win your case."

"Easy for you to say! You make your own evidence. Harte mimicked Stilian's measured tones. 'Pardon me, sir, but you are lying. You may as well confess.' I have to work for it."

The words were bitter Stilian's mouth. "You go too far, Harte."

* * *

Harte lay in bed and wrestled with his unruly feelings. How could he have said such a thing to Stilian? The man had hardly spoken another word before leaving. Harte had followed him to the stables and watched as Stilian had loaded his saddle bags and kit with the help of the stable boy. Stilian must have known of Harte's remorse over the stupid comment, but he had said nothing at all.
I am so stupid.
How could he have dared to dream of a future with this strange man? Stilian's kind almost never formed relationships with normal people. He would return to his people and stay there, and Harte would be alone, as he had always been alone, a peacock strutting among the pigeons.

Harte's thoughts were a jumble as he drifted towards sleep. Tomorrow he must sing a fine song in at the hearing. His father wouldn't be the only one listening. Sister Grace had her own set of expectations. Even Griff needed to justify the investment he had made in Harte's folly. And there was Peli ...

* * *

He was in the center of the courtroom, surrounded by steep rows of spectators. The council box was packed with laughing friends and family. His mother sat in the first row, next to a large picnic hamper, from which she pulled meat pies for the other spectators. Peli and Sister Grace sat together, devouring pies and throwing crusts to the floor. Griff tossed dice with Raf in the second row.

Harte stepped to greet his mother, when someone boomed from behind, "Proceed, Mr. Walford!" Harte turned to see the magistrate, but the man's face was hidden under a hood. There was the sound of a heavy door creaking open. Spinning around, he saw the shape of giant bear in the darkness. Soloni winked slowly from his seat in the council box. Harte looked for something he could use as a weapon. Somehow, he was naked. The spectators jeered as the bear shuffled forward, swinging its great head from side to side, sniffing.

"Wake up, Master Harte! Your breakfast tray is ready."

"The bear--"

"Do you need something, Master Harte? You requested an early tray last night."

Harte opened his eyes and tried to control his breathing. "No. I'm fine. Thank you, Theo."

* * *

Harte stomped the snow off his boots and pulled open the heavy wooden door of the hospital. "Sister Marta, are you well? I have come to see Sister Grace and Peli."

"I am well, Mr. Walford. Thank you. Go on in. She is in her office. I'll get Peli."

Harte knocked on the door to Sister Grace's office and entered.

"Sister Grace. May I come in?"

"You have already done so." She smiled, tiredly. "How are you, Mr. Walford?"

"Well enough." He pulled out one of the chairs from the table. "I have come as requested, to speak to Peli. I must prepare him for trial. You understand that he must testify?"

"Yes. We have spoken of it. I thought that might be what was bothering him. But if it was, I cannot see that it helped him to talk about it."

"He is still disturbed?"

"Yes, he continues to cry out at night. Worse, he has asked to leave the hospital. I would not allow it. I fear he will defy me and put himself into danger."

"Is he bothered by the patients? Their condition could disturb a kind-hearted boy."

"I have watched him with the patients. He is empathetic, but does not seem overly disturbed. I believe there is something else, but he won't speak of it."

Harte rested his chin in one hand. "What would you have me say to him?"

"If I knew what to say, I would say it myself. You must find your own way with him."

"I suppose that you have great faith in my success." Harte had not thought to voice his sarcasm and was startled to receive a reply.

"I would not ask, had I not faith in you."

Sister Marta arrived with Peli in tow. "Here he is. Good day, Mr. Walford." She left Peli standing inside the door.

"Peli, good to see you. How fare you in the land of immaculate women?"

"Fine, Mr. Walford."

"Sister Grace, I thought it might be pleasant to take Peli out for the afternoon. There is ice skating on the river by the commons. What do you think, Peli? Do you skate?"

"My father took me once, when I was small. I wasn't very good."

Harte was surprised at Peli's mention of his father. "Yes. Well ... I am not your father, but I would be happy to take you, if you'd like to go."

"Sure, I guess." Peli looked at Sister Grace.

"I think it a splendid idea," said Sister Grace. Peli grinned. "Go get your cloak and meet Mr. Walford at the front door. I want to speak with him for a moment." Peli ran out.

"Mr. Walford, how goes the case against Mr. Greer?"

"I present to a magistrate tomorrow. If I am convincing, he will schedule the case for trial. If I am not ... well, then we are finished."

"I will pray for you."

"Do you believe that God responds to prayer? God must have more important things to do than monitor our petty squabbles."

"Who can know? I believe prayer is good for the soul. It makes us humble."

"I see. You may as well proceed. I am to ice skate with a young ruffian. Perhaps you might make note of my bravery, when you mention me."

"I believe we are transparent to God."

"How frightening. I have had enough of transparency."

"Your wit escapes me, Mr. Walford."

"I try for gravity, Sister, but it escapes too." Harte waived and left to find his young charge.

* * *

Harte and Peli chatted as they made their way down towards the river. Eventually, he brought the conversation to Sister Grace's concern.

"How do you like living in the hospital, Peli? Sister Grace tells me you are a great help to her."

"The sisters are all right, I guess."

"Are you getting enough to eat? You are still a bean pole."

"I eat. I can't help it if I only grow in one direction."

"Hmm. Perhaps you
are
a little taller than when I first met you. We should mark you on one of these trees, to see the change. My father used the oak in our stable yard for me. You mentioned your father, back there. I can't remember you mentioning your family before. Where are they?"

"I won't go back there!" Peli scooped up some snow a made a ball. "They don't want me." He threw the ball at a noisy crow that croaked at them from his perch in a barren chestnut tree.

"Nobody wants you to go anywhere. In fact, I want you here right now. Sister Grace told me you spoke about the trial? I will need you to testify, if I'm going to convict Brin Greer of beating Raf."

"I know. I'll do it. He doesn't scare me."

Harte was a little surprised to find himself thinking this was not entirely bravado. "But something has you crying out at night."

"Who says? I wish that lady would stop sticking her nose where it doesn't belong."

"She is concerned about you," said Harte.

"It's none of her business." Peli kicked the snow into a miniature tempest.

"Nor is it mine, but if you want to talk about it, I will listen."

Peli gathered snow for another snowball. "It's nothing. I dream a lot."

Harte waited.

Peli threw his snowball before continuing, "Weird dreams. My mother used to have them too. She said she could tell whenever anyone was sick in the village. She'd dream they were feeling bad."

"So you have a mother, too."

"Of course I do. I wasn't born of a mare!"

"No?" Harte peered at Peli, suspiciously. "You do have a coltish quality."

"My mother is a good woman!"

"I mean no disrespect, Peli. You were saying that your mother knows when people are sick."

"She knows lots of things."

"Do you think maybe you merely empathize with the patients?"

"What-a-size?"

Harte rephrased. "Perhaps you feel sympathy for the patients in the hospital, so you dream about them."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

They reached the line of willows that lined the commons and continued on the winding path through the reed beds.

"What are those trees with the droopy branches, Mr. Walford?"

"Please, Peli. Call me Harte. Leave Mr. Walford in court. Those are weeping willows."

"Sister Grace calls you Mr. Walford."

True enough.
"Sister Grace is formidable."

"What is formidable?"

"That means she can call me anything she likes."

"I guess she can call me anything she likes, too."

"Is she too formidable to talk to about your dreams?"

"No. She's a sister!"

But not entirely typical of her sisterhood
. Harte waited.

"I can't tell her about--" Peli gestured. "--body things."

"Oh. Are you dreaming about sex, Peli? That's perfectly normal you know. I do it all the time."

"No. Yes. Well, sometimes. But that's not what--I said I didn't want to talk about this. Do you really dream about sex all the time?"

"Well, not
all
the time." Harte smiled. "Sorry, I forgot you don't want to talk about this."

"Do you dream that you're somebody else? When you're doing it? Or just doing anything?"

"No, I can't say that I usually dream that I'm somebody else, exactly. So you do? That's very interesting. How does it feel?"

"It hurts."

Harte sucked air through his teeth. "When you're ..."

"No, not then. That's usually all right. Well, except when I'm the wrong sex. That's just embarrassing."

"So let me get this straight. You dream that you are a woman having sex?"

"No, I'm not always having sex. Sometimes I'm a woman. Sometimes I'm a man. Mostly I'm just sick, or hurting. Sometimes I feel horny. But once, I was a woman, and she was with a man who was--you know--in her. I didn't like it."

"I see why you didn't want to talk to Sister Grace about this." Harte thought for a moment. "Do you ever feel like this when you're awake?"

"No, then I'd
know
what's going on. I'd be canny, like Judge Cast."

"Well, maybe this is a special kind of canny."

"Do you think we could ask Judge Cast about it?"

"I think we could, except that Stilian--Judge Cast--has gone to Bugport for a while to visit someone who's sick."
And he may never come back.
Harte thrust the thought aside.

"What'd he have to go to Bugport for?" Peli was kicking up snow again. "We've got lots of sick people here."

They had arrived at the river while they were talking. The Bug was wide along this stretch and curved gently around a low hill that faced them from the other side. All but the deepest part of the channel, which hugged the far hillside, was frozen. A large section of ice had been brushed clear of snow. A couple of score of men, women, and children were circling vigorously around the open space. Harte heard shouts, laughter, and squeals from the children floating on the still air.

On the river bank, a small three-sided shelter had been set up. Inside, a pot-bellied man in a fur coat was sitting on a stool, next to a fire. Suspended above the fire was a large covered cauldron, which occasionally let out contented burps of apple and cinnamon. Set out in front of the man were the skates: small, wooden, foot-sized ovals with a metal blade fixed to the bottom and slots through the edges for leather straps.

"How d'you do gentlemen? Can I interest you in a skate or a mug of spiced cider?"

Harte paid the man for two sets of skates and sat down on the bank to strap a pair to his boots. Peli stood watching the people glide past, arms hanging loose by his sides. "I don't really know how to skate."

Harte placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll show you. Come on. Sit down and stick out your foot. I'll have you flying in no time."