The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (11 page)

He went out, looking for release in the watery sun and the fresh wind. Taking the staff, he limped down to where the burn became brackish and sat at the edge of the rust-coloured water, swigging his hip flask defiantly.

He stared absently at a huddle of boulders across the burn, tracing with his eyes the patterns of the lichen, the pale shades of drier rock, the dark recesses where moss clung. The whisky warmed him, made his head swim. His empty stomach began to glow and he rubbed his knees thoughtfully. The gulls had left their noisy argument and had gone swooping around the sea cliffs in figures of eight.

He stared again at the rocks. The patterns had changed; they shifted even as he watched. He squinted, making shapes and silhouettes. Now a horse, then a tower, a crown, a face... A thin, dark, pointed brown face with black eyes as bright as beads, and a sharp beard split by a grin.

‘Jesus Christ!’

He jumped up, the flask falling aside with a hollow thud. His swaying eyes shrilled out on to the rock—but there was only lichen there, and goosepimpled granite. He knuckled his eye sockets.

Shouldn’t drink in the afternoon.

That evening he sat before a high fire and cleaned the rifle. He took more time than usual about the task, both because the weapon had not been cleaned for a time, and because it was comforting to feel its wooden smoothness in his hands, to sight on imaginary targets along the beach in the dusk. He had always liked guns, liked dismantling and cleaning them; except when cleaning them became a drudge, as it often had in the army. It was an arcane skill, concrete and satisfying.

He worked the bolt back and forth until he was sure it was free of rust and carbon, and then loaded the rifle methodically. He still could not readily admit to himself that what he had seen that afternoon had been only imagination...

Night came. He dozed, lulled by the fire and the sea. The rifle lay by his side on the floor, the oil on it glistening in the firelight. He had not switched on the electric lighting, and the flames threw his lean, bearded face into sharp relief, accentuating the scars on the forehead, the lines that marked the eyes and mouth even in sleep.

The warmth soothed the long ache of his legs and the sound of the waves soothed his habitual frown. He breathed deeply. A turf in the fire collapsed with a tinselly rustle and the rafters creaked in a wind off the sea.

His eyes slitted at a small sound.

There was someone else sitting at his hearth, gazing into the fire.

His breathing stopped. The chair cracked under him. Pent-up air became a quiet thunder in his temples. He dared open his eyes a little farther, forcing himself to take an unhurried breath into his lungs. His heartbeat rose to drown the quiet sea wind, and leap like a fish in his throat.

One hand reached out to bask in the heat, the fingers wriggling with pleasure. There was what sounded like a sigh, and the shape on the hearth—half shadow and half firelight—moved closer to the warmth. Riven saw a dark-eyed face framed by raven hair; and then the tears gathered in his eyes and spilled over, sparkling in the firelight, and he knew he must be dreaming.

The face looked up at him suddenly, and he saw its beggar-thinness, the dirt on the cheekbones, the tangle of the hair; and at the same time, he smelled the musky body smell which faded almost as soon as it was identified. But the eyes—the eyes. They looked at him from across an abyss of loss and nightmare, stared out at him from a hundred photographs and a thousand memories. They met his own from under brows that met above them, and he almost gagged in disbelief.

For a second or a century, they looked at each other, as once upon a time they had been wont to do here, on clear nights when the fire was high and the wind had soughed down the glen beyond. She had sat by the hearthstone so that her face had lifted up to his with a laugh in the eyes. And then the hearthstone had gone cold, and her place was empty.

There was nothing in the eyes... Almost nothing. He could see no recognition there. It was as though she were a husk, a beautiful filigree empty of life.

But it was her. Here, in his dream.

‘Jenny—’ he croaked—and she bolted, ran across the room with a spatter of bare feet, clashed the latch, and was off into the night.

He was after her, lurching and cursing. The night met him like a black wall and threw rain at him as he went through the door. ‘Come back! Come back, damn it!’

But the beach was empty, the waves tumbled undisturbed on the shingle, and the wind caressed his beard.

Come back.

Away over the bay the dead seal lolled. He thought he saw another splashing into the shallows, but he could not be sure. The sky was huge and starlit, the air cold as sea water and his limbs as weak as a pup’s. He leaned on the doorframe and closed his eyes.

T
HE STARS WHEELED,
the Plough revolving about the Pole; and midnight crept round.

He sat in the chair with a dying fire at his side and the rifle propped by the hearth. He wanted to go home, but knew there was no longer anywhere named home for him. He was a misfit wherever he went.

But his mind was sound. He had seen her; he had heard her fingers panic at the latch. The door had been open when he had followed her through it, but he had not opened it. She was real. He had not been dreaming.

A gipsy, perhaps? A wanderer, a vagabond? A child abandoned?

In these mountains?

He tried to remember her again; her face, what she wore. A vague impression of a dark slip. Bare feet—at this time of year! But the eyes, looking at him. Jenny, staring out at him. Eyes to catch his soul.

Impossible.

Perhaps someone from the hotel at the other end of the glen—lost, maybe. He shook his head tiredly. Where had she run to? And he slept, at last, with his chin sunk on his chest, one hand trailing floorwards.

C
RIPPLING STIFFNESS TOOK
him the next morning and he hissed and grimaced to stand up, cursing the cold of the bothy and the pallor of the fireplace. He was sick of sickness, sick of being alone, and yet the thought of people made him sick.

Another grey day.

Drizzle, and a massed bank of storm cloud. The mountains were about to don their veil again.

Sick of rain, too.

He wondered if it would snow. It felt cold enough for snow, though it rarely lay around the sea-level bothy. Perhaps the mountains would receive an icing. Perhaps then the cloud would lift, and he would see some sky.

A tap at the window spun him round, and staring in at him was the bearded face, smiling. The mouth made words, but he could not hear them. He bent and seized the rifle and threw back the door.

A momentary glimpse of surprise on the face; awkwardness so swift in passing it was scarcely noticeable.

‘I’m sorry. Did I startle you?’

He followed the other’s eyes down to the rifle barrel, and lowered it, embarrassed; and suddenly ashamed. Hospitality was a tradition in this island.

‘Sorry, you made me jump.’ There was a small silence as invisible speculations filled the air between them, but it dissolved in a loud rattle of thunder that split the air above them and wrecked on through the glen. Riven flinched.

‘It’s going to be a rough day. I’ve watched the storm come in this morning,’ the stranger said. ‘I think it’ll be a big one.’ His voice was level, low, but the accent was unfamiliar, though Riven was momentarily sure he had heard it before. ‘Could I come in for a moment?’

And Riven retreated. ‘Yes, sure,’ just as the first rain pocked the ground outside.

‘My thanks.’ The latch clicked shut behind him. He wore a rucksack, hiking clothes. ‘I’ve been walking and climbing for the past few weeks. This is my second visit here.’ The rucksack descended to the floor. ‘But it was deserted last time, so I slept in the shed at the back with the machine in it. I thought it might be a summer place for someone. I never expected to find anyone here. You live here?’

‘I live here,’ Riven replied. ‘I’ve... been away.’

‘Ah. That explains it.’ The rain drumming down outside now. ‘Yes.’ A peer out of the window. ‘The storm caught up with me, all right.’ A peer at his feet. ‘New boots. They’ve crippled my feet. I’ve got blisters like sea pebbles.’ He looked up. ‘Oh, I am sorry—’ A hand, proffered. ‘I’m Bickling Warbutt.’ A dry, firm handshake, the grip stronger than the slender fingers suggested.

‘Bickling?’

A laugh, clear as a sleigh bell. ‘Yes, my parents had an old ancestor they named me after. Most of the time I’m called Bicker.’

‘I’m Riven, Michael Riven.’ Had he heard the name before?

There was something familiar here, like an unremembered dream.

‘Pleased to meet you—and grateful you’ve let me in. Would you be minding it much if I stayed in here until the rain eases off?’ The grin again.

Get a grip, Riven.

‘No, of course not.’ He roused himself. The host role. ‘Take your boots off, if you like.’ More thunder, louder this time. ‘I’ll just get the fire going.’ As the stranger, Bicker, fell to his boots, Riven occupied himself at the hearth, but stole glances at his visitor as he did so.

He had about him a neatness which was more an air than a physical fact. Perhaps that beard and those eyes would always look dapper irrespective of any muck. His hands were the right size, his feet small, his entire frame sturdy as an otter’s, with no limb at a loss as to where to put itself. He was well-dressed for winter, but seemed to have escaped its effects. He did not look as if he could ever have suffered from blisters, tiredness, or anything else. He exuded health like a steel spring, and his ready grin was unconquerable. Riven disliked him for no rational reason, and felt ashamed in doing so, for it was like a sick man distrusting health. But there was something more here that worried him, intangible as peat smoke. If he could only remember!

The flames leapt up in the hearth, warming him and lending a kindlier glow to the room.

Too much was happening. Too many things. He did not want company—not now.

‘Ah, that’s better.’ Bicker was wriggling his bare toes. Thunder rumbled again, and the rain became a steady rattle at the windows. Riven stared at the glowing peat in the fireplace, lost for a moment.

‘I must say, it’s nice of you to invite a perfect stranger over your home’s threshold.’ The dark man stood up, his boots dangling by the laces from one hand. ‘Is there anywhere I should leave these?’

‘By the door is fine.’ He poked the fire without looking at his guest, watching the sparks sailing up into the blackness of the chimney.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’re from across the sea, aren’t you?’

Riven blinked. ‘Northern Irish.’

‘Ah, I see. Came over here to forget about the Troubles, I suppose. Don’t blame you. Tragic place.’

Riven poked the fire savagely. ‘You’ll be hungry, I expect. I’ll fix something.’ He stood, then frowned and remained with his back to the fire and his hands splayed to the heat. Bicker was rummaging in his rucksack.

‘Were you on the slopes leading down to the burn yesterday?’

The other man looked up. ‘Why yes, I was. Did you see me?’

‘I think you saw me. You grinned at me.’

That grin.

‘I may have been smiling, my friend, but I don’t remember smiling at you. Mind you, I never look about me much when I’m climbing—tend to be a bit absorbed, don’t you know?’ And Riven, seeing the dark man’s darting gaze, knew he was lying.

‘Nice little weapon you’ve got there,’ Bicker went on, nodding to the rifle as he restrapped the rucksack. ‘For hunting, you use it?’

Riven nodded, and sucked his teeth. ‘You didn’t see a dark girl wandering about the glen, did you?’

Bicker seemed almost startled, then he appeared to consider the matter. ‘No, can’t say I did. Does she live here?’

‘No. I don’t know... where she lives.’ He was uneasy. He felt as though the storm was in the room, breathing on his neck. He wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers.

Must have got used to being alone.

He went into the scullery and set about reheating some of the broth to which the local wildlife had contributed. He heard his guest moving about in the main room, and fought a desire to peek round the doorway at him.

Thunder growled overhead, and a barely noticeable flicker of lightning winked at the window.

‘Is it always like this at this time of year?’

‘Not always. It’s usually pretty stormy, though.’

‘You take the rough with the smooth up here, I suppose,’ Bicker responded.

Riven stopped what he was doing for a second, forehead gnarled, then began stirring the broth again.

The storm became more violent as the evening drew in. There was less rain, but the wind grew and whistled like a train around the sea cliffs and the headlands. Riven occupied himself with some aimless typing—anything so he would not have to make conversation with his guest. Nursery rhymes, poems, anything. One rang in his head with infuriating insistence, and he could not get it out:

How many miles to Babylon?