The Eyes of a King (18 page)

I
t was almost dark by the time I stumbled into the apartment that evening. Grandmother marched through the bedroom doorway, hands on hips, eyes shadowed by her frown. “Leo, where have you been?” she demanded. “You have had nothing to eat all day. I expected you back after church, and now it is nine-thirty. Where have you been?”

“Just … out.” I shrugged and sat down heavily on the sofa. “Places …”

She went on firing questions at me. I was too tired to answer. I took off my boots and dropped them on the floor, and the thuds fell heavy in the silence, one after the other.

“Leo, where have you been?” she shouted suddenly. “I am not in the mood for this! Stirling is very sick, I didn’t sleep at all last night, and I do not need you to add to my worries with your stupid, childish behavior!”

“I said, I went out.”

“Leo!” she exclaimed through her teeth. From the other room, Stirling groaned. “See what you have done?” Grandmother said. “He was asleep, and now you have woken him. You will drive him into the grave with your stupidity, and me too if you can manage it!” She marched into the other room.

“Well, I am not in the mood for this lecturing!” I said. “You always think I’m so stupid and childish, but you don’t know anything about me. You don’t know where I went today—”

“No!” she interrupted. “Of course I don’t know, because you will not tell me!” Then, to Stirling, “What’s wrong, my angel?”

“All right,” I went on, marching across the living room after her. “I was in the hills looking for the Bloodflower herb to save Stirling’s life! What the hell is stupid and childish about that? While you sit here doing nothing, I’m trying to—”

“That’s childish, Leo. I’ll tell you why: because you will never, ever find it. That’s typical of the way you act—always thinking—”

“Stop!” As I rounded the corner, I saw that Stirling was sitting up in bed, breathing heavily with the effort of shouting. “Please, stop!” He fell back onto his pillows, his face gray. “Please, don’t fight.”

“Sorry, Stirling,” said Grandmother, her voice breaking with tears. She sighed and turned to me. “Leo, I was just worried about you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, with effort. “I should have told you where I was going.”

“That’s better,” said Stirling, like a parent sorting out two rowing children.

I went over to join Grandmother at the side of his bed. My anger was burned out, leaving only tiredness. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Better,” he said. “Oh, much better. I think I will be well again quite soon.”

“Good. I’m glad.” I took off my jacket and laid it on my bed.

“Why did you go to the hills?” he asked.

I told him about the Bloodflower herb. “I think I will get well again without needing it,” he told me. I nodded. “What was it like there?” he said. “What were the hills like?”

“Oh … green … big …” I rubbed my aching head.

“Tell me about them,” said Stirling. “Sit here.” I sat down on the side of his bed. Grandmother stole out of the room.

I was exhausted, and I could barely speak, let alone entertain him. “You don’t have to,” Stirling said then.

“I know what,” I said. “I found a place for the picnic. There’s a little stream—a rocky stream—that runs between two hills. The valley is shaded, and there’s a meadow of wildflowers. All different colors—like a picture. You would like it, for certain. It is not too far from the city either.”

“It sounds pretty,” Stirling said. “When I am well, we can go there, with Maria. As soon as I am well.”

“Yes. You would like that place.”

“Tell me some more about it.”

I told him about the valley, how the flowers were taller than he was and how there were butterflies glittering everywhere, how green the grass was, and how blue the sky. Perhaps I elaborated it slightly. “I can really imagine it,” said Stirling when I had finished telling him. And then he said suddenly, “I missed you, Leo. Don’t go to the hills again.”

“But what if I was to find the herb?” I said.

“I don’t think you will find it. Anyway, I’m almost sure that I will get well without it. Perhaps I have the illness only mildly. I don’t feel so bad today.”

“Maybe it is so.”

“I think it is. Father Dunstan said it was difficult to tell, anyway, even whether it was silent fever or not.”

Later that evening, Stirling suddenly lost his sight.

H
e did not shout or cry out; he just remarked, “I can’t see,” almost calmly, and we went to his side. But a couple of hours after, when it grew quite silent in the room, he called out in fright, “Grandmother!”

“I am here,” she said. She had not left him.

“Leo?” he asked.

“I’m here too,” I told him.

He held out his hands to us. “I couldn’t hear you. I thought you’d left me.”

“No,” Grandmother said as we took his hands, one each. “We will not leave you.” The one I took was his right one, the bandaged one, and I could feel the heat radiating from its still-raw palm.

His hand grasped mine tightly, as if the bond between them was the only thing that anchored him to this earth. His fingers were hot and dry, and I could feel the quick pulse in his wrist beating against mine, so tightly were they pressed together, until it seemed that the veins beat as one and it was my heartbeat that was keeping him alive.

Later, when he slipped into a fretful sleep, Grandmother said, “Why do you not get some rest, Leo? It’s well past midnight, and you must get up early for school tomorrow.”

“I won’t be able to sleep,” I told her.

“Leo, you must. This illness may draw out for months. You will have to sleep in that time.”

“You need it more than me; you have been working harder. Go and get a few hours’ rest; I will stay here with Stirling.”

“Leo, go on. I can rest during the day tomorrow.”

My previous sleepless night was beginning to catch up with me; my eyes were dry and prickly and my head ached sharply. I started to separate my hand from Stirling’s, which was still clenched around it tightly. But I was suddenly so afraid that if I did, he would slip away forever, as if the cord that held him in life would be severed and his heartbeat would slow into silence, that I could not do it. It was silly, but I sometimes imagined things so vividly that I made myself believe them. So I stayed where I was.

And then I must have fallen asleep, because I dreamed.

“C
ome and talk to me, Field,” said Raymond.

“Very good, sir,” said the butler, crossing the room to stand beside the old man’s chair.

“Come and sit here.” Raymond gestured to the armchair opposite him, and Field sat down. “I’m frightfully tired, and I can’t think why. I’m getting old. I’ll be dead soon.”

“You shouldn’t keep saying that, sir; it is bad luck.”

“Bad luck?” said Raymond. “I’ve never heard that before.”

“In my country—” The butler stopped then and glanced away. “In Australia, where I spent so many years, they have a saying …”

When he looked back, the old man was regarding him with a faint smile. “What is it?” said the butler.

“I never understand you, Field. You’re mysterious, aren’t you?”

“I would hardly say mysterious, sir.”

“You dropped your guard for a minute. You are always on your guard. I don’t think I know you at all.”

“Perhaps you don’t.”

There was a silence. Then the butler shook his head. “I am sorry if I appear distracted. I was thinking about—” He paused. He was thinking about the message from Talitha that had appeared the day before. But he did not mention that. “I was thinking of other things,” he said. “Shall I leave you in peace for a while, sir?”

He got up to leave. “Stay with me,” Raymond said suddenly. “Won’t you stay and talk to me and keep me company?”

The butler turned back to him, surprised. “Of course, sir, if you wish me to.” He sat down again and leaned back in the chair, gazing out over the darkening lake.

“Field?” said Raymond after a while. “Will you tell me about what you did before you came here? You never have.”

“Never?” said the butler. “Surely I must have told you.”

“All I know is that you were in the army. If that’s true.” Raymond watched the butler steadily. “And I wouldn’t mind too much if it was not,” he continued. “I’m not so fixated on the army anymore, Field, you know.”

“I had noticed.”

“Can’t you tell me something about yourself?” Raymond went on. “For instance, how did you come to be in England? You are not English by birth.”

The butler hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not English.”

“Why did you decide to come to this country?” Raymond persisted, certain that Field would deflect his questions as usual. “And why did you decide to apply for the job here? You have not always been a butler. Tell me about yourself, Field; I could do with some entertainment.”

The butler laughed, showing his teeth in the way that he always did. He never smiled at all, and in fact his laugh was more sinister than his darkest frown, because it made him look, to Raymond, just for a second each time he saw it, like a skull. “I’ll tell you,” he said then. “It would do no harm to tell you.”

Raymond had not expected that. The butler was still gazing out the window, watching the shadow of the tank lengthen on the grass. “I have not always been a butler, true,” he said. “I was a very famous man in my country. Highest but one in the secret service. And I did not
decide
to come to this country. I am only here because things went wrong.” He turned to Raymond, who was watching him in startled silence. “I could tell you how I came to be in England. It would pass the time to tell you that story. But one thing, sir?”

“What is it?”

“You will not pass this on.”

It was not a question; Arthur Field knew that the old man would not pass anything on after that night. But Raymond shook his head. “Of course not, Field.”

W
hen I woke, slumped against Stirling’s bed, his hand had drifted away from mine and lay loose by his side, and he was breathing peacefully. I had been dreaming; at the moment I woke someone was about to tell me a story. I was forgetting it now. I got to my feet. All my muscles ached, and my whole head and face hurt with tiredness, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. I couldn’t continue like this for much longer.

I was irritated with myself for being so weak, scarcely able to endure two sleepless nights for the sake of my own brother. I could continue like this, I resolved, and I would.

There was a rap on the door when I had only just come back upstairs from the bathroom. Grandmother went to open it, shutting the bedroom door behind her so that Stirling would not wake. It was Maria; I could hear baby Anselm crying. I was still putting on my uniform, but I stepped nearer the closed door. From the low rise and fall of their voices, I made out a few of Maria’s words. “I don’t want to bother you when Stirling is so sick,” she was saying, “but I could come and sit with Stirling if you need to get things done, or fetch your shopping for you.” Then more low murmuring.

“You are very kind to offer,” Grandmother was saying.

“It is nothing.” She said it sincerely, not in the way that
people ordinarily say it, when custom has made them forget its meaning. When Maria spoke, she meant what she said.