In the Time of Kings (4 page)

It doesn’t dawn on me until I eat the last spoonful of cereal that my dog Ivanhoe hadn’t been asleep beside my bed last night or followed me downstairs. I lower the bowl, peek under the table, and give a low whistle. Silence.

I check the laundry room, the basement, the garage. If Ivanhoe annoys my dad by scratching at fleas or getting underfoot, he’s been known to lock the dog up in any of those places and completely forget about him.

There’s one more place to look. The moment I step into the backyard, I see Ivanhoe stretched out in the long morning shade of the boxelder. Mom must have let him out in the yard earlier, as she sometimes does. I call his name, but Ivanhoe doesn’t stir.

“Geesh, you are getting old, boy. Can’t hear a thing, can you?” I jog across the yard, dew soaking my feet. “Come on, boy. Maybe Claire will want to go to the pond with us and you can chase the ducks like you always —”

I reach out to shake him, then jerk my hand back. Ivanhoe’s orange-freckled legs are rigid, his swollen tongue protruding from between a jumble of yellowed teeth.

“No,” I whisper as I shake my head. “No, no, no.” Twining my fingers in the tassels of hair that cover his floppy spaniel ears, I sink to my knees and bend forward until my forehead touches his furry topskull. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but a fountain of grief bursts from deep in my belly and I begin to sob. Great, heaving sobs that rack my whole body and rise in a long, pitiful wail.

“Ross!” my dad bellows from the kitchen window. “What the hell are you doing? I don’t need the cops showing up here because you were raising a ruckus at 7:30 in the Goddamn morning.”

“It’s Ivanhoe,” I blubber.

“What?”

I drag a forearm across tear-soaked eyes. “He’s dead. Ivanhoe’s dead.”

He scoffs. “It’s a dog, Ross. They don’t live forever.”

With that, he slams the window closed.

“But he’s my friend,” I whisper, my hand now resting on Ivanhoe’s back. “I love him.”

For a long time, I stroke and stroke and stroke, as if I can somehow revive him. But he remains still, his body losing warmth, his legs growing stiffer by the minute.

My dog, my buddy, had been alive longer than I had. He had always been there throughout all of my twelve years. I think of all the days we’d spent together — his short legs spinning over gravel roads as he trailed after me when I rode my bike out toward the hidden pond. There, beyond the railroad yard, I battled imaginary dragons with a trash can lid as my shield and a rusty piece of rebar as my sword. Ivanhoe was my faithful squire, ready to alert me to danger with an excited bark if a stray cat wandered near or lick my face clean if I stumbled while clambering up the sand hill. Before we returned to the house, I would always pick the burrs from his hair. As he got older, I’d walk my bike home while he lagged behind, his steps unsteady, his breaths coming heavily. Eventually, I had to put him in my Radio Flyer wagon, the bottom lined with an old blanket, and pull him behind me.

“Ross?”

It’s Claire. She comes through the gate and squats beside me.

“I’m sorry. Really sorry. I’ll miss him, too.” She bends down and kisses his muzzle. “He was the best dog ever. Nobody could ever take his place.”

For a long while we sit with him, neither of us saying a word as the neighborhood stirs to life on that lazy summer morning. A car with a noisy muffler rumbles by. The Bradford twins from across the street squeal with glee as they roller skate down the sidewalk. Somewhere, the deep ‘woof, woof’ of a German Shepherd guarding his territory booms.

“We should bury him,” I say.

“How about here — under the tree? You could come out and talk to him whenever you wanted that way.”

I contemplate it. Mom won’t care. But Dad ...

“By the pond,” I say. “He’d like it there.”

Even though I’ve made the decision, I remain where I am. Any minute, I’m sure he’ll wake up, yawn, and gaze at me with those cloudy eyes. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Certainly not forever.

I meet Claire’s eyes. She understands.

“Here.” She lays both hands across Ivanhoe’s ribs. “Do like this. We’ll help him pass over. Do you want me to say the blessing?”

I nod and she closes her eyes, so I do the same. She says a bunch of words I don’t understand, sometimes pausing as she struggles with how to say them.

When she’s done, I fetch the wagon and she helps me put him in it.

“What language was that?” I say.

“Latin,” she answers. “I’m not sure if anyone speaks it anymore, but the priest at my church is the only one I know who uses it. I think it was the right thing to say.”

Claire’s family is Catholic. My dad says if her parents were good Catholics, they’d have more kids than just her and her brother. I never really understood that and always meant to ask him if we weren’t good Lutherans then, because there was only me.

“I know this won’t make it hurt less,” she goes on, “but when my grandpa died I asked my grandma if she was sad. She said what made it easier was knowing she’d see him again someday. She didn’t know when or where, but she was sure of it.”

“In heaven, you mean?”

“In her next life.” She wrinkles her nose. “Crazy, I know.”

Maybe, but I’d like to believe it’s true.

HERE AND NOW

Orkney Islands, Scotland — 2013

T
he ferry ride across the tranquil, steely waters of Pertland Firth is both soothing and eerie. A thick mist had drifted around us soon after our departure at sunrise from John O’ Groats at the northernmost tip of Caithness — although ‘sunrise’ in this case is a figurative term, since the sun has yet to make an appearance. We’d had to get up at, as Claire liked to call it, O-dark-hundred just to catch the bus from Inverness for our day trip to the Orkneys. The steady churning of the water behind the boat, the chug of its engine and the pea soup fog give a very surreal feel to our adventure, as if we’re slipping into some long ago time.

Claire is asleep, her head resting against my arm, pressing on a nerve there. The numbness is spreading downward from my shoulder, so I shift, but the guy next to me is dozing soundly, too, and I don’t want to be responsible for waking both of them up. So I suffer, trapped between them, until I can’t feel my fingers anymore.

Occasionally, gulls cut through the veil of drizzle to buzz our intrepid little craft, but upon discovering it’s not a fishing boat and there’s no lunch to be had, they flap away into the sea’s breath, squawking their complaints. Soon, the low hum of the engine and monotonous slapping of the waves against the hull lull me, too, to sleep.

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A
bell clangs to my left, startling me awake. Our meager crew springs to life, tramping over the deck and unraveling ropes as thick as their arms. The ferry drifts on black water toward the dock, the fog parting to reveal a canopied welcoming area. Beyond it, I can see a small, touristy village, its main street lined with the requisite eating establishments, a post office, and a chemist. The side roads are lined with stone houses with white-paned windows. Even in the glum light of a cloud-laden day, their black slate roofs glisten with dampness.

After rousing Claire, who immediately exclaims her hunger, we chow down at the pub closest to the dock and then dash through the shops. Soon, we’re on our way again, the little ferry boat putt-putting along, the skies finally beginning to clear at noon. To the east, dark waters stretch endlessly beneath a blue dome of sky. Our path begins to curve westward, where the isle they call Mainland rises. Colonies of terns dot the shoreline. Seals with their mottled pale brown coats are sunning themselves on the rocks. They stretch their whiskered noses and bellow at our passing. Every time a clump of seals appears, Claire rushes to snap pictures. There will be hundreds to sort through when this trip is over.

After disembarking at Kirkwall, we’re directed to a gathering tour group. As the guide circulates through the crowd to collect her fee, I pull out my wallet.

Claire flaps a map at me. “Let’s go off on our own, okay?”

I finger the brightly colored bills. “Hmm, I don’t know, honey. I’d hate to get lost and end up missing the boat back to the mainland. Our luggage is still in Inverness.”

Sighing, she turns pleading eyes on me. “Ross, we’ve been surrounded by people since we got on the first train. I’ve been forced to converse with more retired Floridians than I ever met at home in the States. I just want to be alone with you for awhile.” Her lower lip juts out. “Pleeease?”

The tour guide halts in front of us, wiggling her fingers. “Coming along?”

“Not today, thanks.” I stuff the bills away and slip my wallet into my back pocket before offering Claire my elbow. “You lead the way.”

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E
xhaust fumes spew from the tailpipe of a sputtering green tour bus parked on a side road. We squeeze between it and a low stone wall topped with wrought iron, but are waylaid by a stream of tall, fair-haired women chattering excitedly in either Swedish or Norwegian. They congregate next to a gate, where an English-speaking guide with a thick Scottish accent welcomes them and waves them through.

I start to follow, but Claire clamps a hand on my forearm and shakes her head.

“Can we at least go around the corner?” I say. “The fumes are making me sick. I don’t think you want me to hurl right here next to a church in front of all these nice people.”

We slip past the last of the tourist group and swing around the corner. Her finger glued to the map, Claire stops dead, then glances up at the front of the church.

“This is it? St. Magnus Cathedral? I’m ...” — her nose twitches — “underwhelmed.”

I pluck the map from her hands and flip it over to the brochure side. “Says here that construction was begun in 1137 A.D. How can you be underwhelmed? Nearly nine hundred years old and it’s still standing.”

“I just meant that it’s so plain for a cathedral. I guess I was expecting something more like Notre-Dame.”

“Believe it or not, they were begun at roughly the same time, but Notre-Dame was designed with higher, thinner walls, which completely changes the look. The flaw in that was that its architectural limits were stretched and cracks developed, so they added the flying buttresses later out of necessity. When you consider that, St. Magnus here was actually the more practical structure and —”

Her extended sigh tells me I’m overloading her with information. Yet how can she not find details like that fascinating? When we were kids, I was the one rushing home to my encyclopedia set to identify the water beetles we’d seen skimming across the pond; she was the one who’d lie back in the grass, stare at the clouds as they whisked overhead and tell me to stop worrying about whether they were stratus or cumulus, to just enjoy the fact that it wasn’t raining. Even as different as we are, we complement each other perfectly.

Still, I can’t help but marvel at the sight before me. It’s a wonder they had the means to build structures like this in a time before there were power tools and heavy equipment.

Rough sandstone blocks reflect sunlight in bands of pink and amber. Although a fairly large structure, it’s true what she said — there isn’t much fancy about it. No spindly buttresses, intricate spires or armies of perched gargoyles adorning its exterior.

I grab her hand and pull her up the stone steps. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

One of the massive doors is propped open, letting the faint sea breeze waft in. We stand at the threshold, dazzled by the sunshine streaming through high windows. Light spills across the tiled floor in alternating stripes of gold and shadow. Two long rows of tall, thick columns flank a central aisle where row upon row of wooden chairs face the far away altar. There, a stained glass window soars, its uppermost panes forming a rosette. The lower section of the great window is a quartet of pointed arches, each containing various stone-carved religious figures in their robes and short tunics.

From a hidden recess comes the brogue of the Scandinavian group’s tour guide, followed by gentle murmurs and the ringing of many feet padding across the tiles. I try to listen to the guide, but her words are too muffled to make them out.

“You see, this is when I wish we’d gone on the tour, Claire. I could’ve asked who those statues —” Suddenly, I realize I’m talking to myself. I’ve spent so long gazing at the towering arches and bulging columns and marveling at the rainbow of colors emanating from the stained glass that I didn’t notice Claire drifting down the aisle. Halfway to the altar I catch up with her. Her steps quicken.

Abruptly, she stops in front of the altar to gaze at the trio of carved wooden statues behind it and then up at the angels and saints etched on the glass. After several minutes of her standing there in a dazed stupor, I tap her on the arm.

Flinching, she whips her head sideways and looks at me for a second as if she doesn’t recognize me.

“What is it?” I say.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just a weird feeling. Like I’ve been here before.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to be here for a long time if we don’t scoot. We have less than ten minutes to get back to the ferry.”

Her gaze drifts upward again to take in the vaulted ceiling and pointed arches between the columns. I hook a hand around her elbow and tug her toward the door, as I remind her that if we don’t make it back in time for the ferry’s departure, our whole schedule will be blown to smithereens.

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T
o my amazement, Claire stays awake the entire rest of the day. Our whirlwind tour takes us to the Standing Stones o’ Stenness, where massive upright slabs ring a wind-scoured patch of grass, and to the ruins of Skara Brae, where primitive people once dwelt in earthen mounds whose interior walls are lined with stone slabs. I loiter to inspect the tiny alpine flowers along the footpath and the golden and sage-colored lichens encrusting the scattered stones. Even on the monotonous bus ride back to Inverness, Claire remains atypically silent, gazing out the window to where the sea batters the shore, just as it has for millions of years.

Whatever is on her mind, she isn’t going to share voluntarily. I’ll have to drag it out of her.