Joe Treasure - The Book of Air

‘What things?’

‘The Reader…’

‘What about the Reader? He sends for me and I go. We talk. That’s all. Could I refuse him?’

‘Refuse to talk? No.’

‘What then?’

She hesitated. ‘You know why the man must be led blindfolded to the woman in marriage.’

‘Because Rochester was blinded in the fire but Jane married him anyway.’

‘Yes, and why else? What did Jane mean by telling us that?’

‘That men are made to look about for danger and to see what time is best for planting and for gathering the crops, but in matters of love…’ I stopped, not wanting to talk about love.

‘In matters of love, Agnes, their eyes will mislead them.’

‘But Brendan….’

‘…is a man like other men.’

‘He asks me questions. We talk about the books.’

‘Well then. No harm can come of that.’ I could tell she didn’t mean it. She looked again at the dancers, squinting her eyes against the sun. Then she said, ‘Except that while you talk with Brendan your friends are forgotten.’

‘I’m here now though, aren’t I? And where’s Roland?’

‘Yes, where?’

‘With Megan, not wanting to be found. And I must see to the geese and shut the hens up or the fox will get them.’

‘But first you must find your friends.’

They were the first hard words that had ever passed between us, and I felt very sorry for myself as I walked away from the spring.

I heard Megan laughing as I came close to the stables, not like someone opening her mouth to laugh at a joke, but with a noise in her throat like bubbles rising. I pushed the door open and walked in across the straw, shocked by the sudden darkness and the warm stink of horses. There was a murmur of voices and a rustling of straw or clothing. A horse stirred and snorted. I said Megan’s name because it was her voice I’d heard.

There was a sigh and she rose up from one of the stalls. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I saw she was tying her scarf behind her head, and I saw Roland stand up beside her.

‘Megan, Sarah wants you,’ I said.

‘I bet she doesn’t, though.’

‘She sent me to fetch you. She was drinking at the spring.’

Megan peered at my face to see if I was lying, or to show she didn’t care whether I was lying or not. Then she walked past me, brushing straw from her skirt, and out into the yard.

Roland said, ‘Did you miss me at the dancing?’

I didn’t answer but turned to stroke the horse that had put its head towards me. It was Gideon, who is strong but always gentle.

Roland came close and patted Gideon’s neck. He said, ‘Do you think it was a scrounger was to blame for Annie’s baby, like they say?’

‘Is that what they say? How horrible.’

‘Horrible that they say it, or that she did it?’

‘Do you think it’s true then?’

‘I think the scroungers must be worked off their feet doing all the wicked things they’re blamed for.’

‘So you think it was a villager and she wouldn’t say?’

‘I wonder sometimes if the scroungers even exist.’ I thought he was joking, though he sounded solemn when he said it, but he had rested his head against Gideon’s mane so I couldn’t tell. Then he burst out laughing to see me so confused, and walked away into the yard.

I felt that Brendan was there in the stable before I saw him. He was standing behind me, in the low doorway from the house. He asked if we had all enjoyed ourselves. I thought he must have heard Megan giggling with Roland, or Roland laughing about the scroungers, but saw that it was Annie’s wedding day he meant.

‘Not much,’ I said.

He watched me with his good eye and asked if I was angry.

I shrugged. I might have said no, but found I had enough anger to choke me.

‘Have I offended you, Agnes?’

‘You watched,’ I said.

‘Shouldn’t I watch?’

‘You watched Annie’s flogging from your window.’

‘You watched too,’ he said, ‘and you were closer. I saw you there with the others.’

I couldn’t explain my anger. Why was my watching different from his? So I shut my mouth and scraped at the straw with my foot.

‘Come tomorrow night,’ he said.

‘Come where?’

‘To the Hall. I mean you no harm. Come after dark.’

‘I don’t come to the Hall after dark.’

He looked at me, his weak eye flickering, and I could tell he was thinking of the time I waited under Roland’s window. I had never been punished for spying and he was thinking of that too perhaps. He meant me no harm, but he could do me harm if he wanted. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It would be safer to meet away from the Hall and the village. Meet me in the ruin. Tell no one.’

‘I must tell my mother.’

‘Tell Janet there is work for you at the Hall and you will sleep here for two nights. Dress for a long ride. She knows to say nothing.’

And it was just as Brendan had promised. Janet heard my story and maybe she believed it and maybe she knew it was a lie. She kept her mouth shut anyway, though her face clouded over, and she turned away to stir the soup.

I must go now to the ruin. It’s time. But I am afraid to go. The ruin is a place of danger. Even in daylight I would be afraid. It stands on the margin of the village and the forest. It belongs neither to us nor to the scroungers. People say it was once as grand as the Hall and more beautiful, with windows as colourful as a summer meadow and huge bells that rang all across the valley. The bells are still there, they say, half buried in the ground and overgrown with brambles. This was where the Monk lived.

Everyone knows the story of Maud and the Monk but I don’t know if it’s true.

At the full moon, the Monk would ring the bells and Maud would slip from the Hall at night to meet him and they would dance. But one night she was seen running across the lawn, and next time the bells rang she was locked in the red room. For three nights the bells rang, but Maud didn’t come. And on the fourth night the Monk tore out his own heart and ran away into the forest. Over the years he withered and grew a tail like a rat. And he lives still in the forest, swinging by his tail through the shadows. And they say that if you stand in the ruin when the moon is full, you’ll hear the jangle of the bells.

I’m afraid I’ll go to the ruin and Brendan won’t be there. More than ever I feel in need of my father. My heart cries out to him, but he is beyond hearing.

Someone’s calling my name. I wake up and don’t know where I am. Then the grey shapes settle around me and I’m in my bed in the turret.

I dreamt I had a child. I’d lost her and she was crying to me, crying from across the sea. I was on a ship trying to reach her. The deck tipped up and I was hanging above the water.

‘Jason, are you awake?’

There’s someone standing in the doorway. It’s Deirdre. The others are in other rooms, asleep or doing whatever they do at night. Outside the wind howls and the rain is driven against the glass. Everything else is gone and this is what’s left.

Deirdre carries a lighted candle in one hand, two wine glasses in the other. There’s something insubstantial about her, some softening at the edges that makes me think she isn’t really there. But it’s the candle flame dipping and straightening that sets everything in motion, and a draught rippling the fabric of her dressing gown.

She says, ‘I wanted to thank you for helping me earlier.’

‘We didn’t find the wallet.’

‘But you made me feel better about losing it.’

She steps into the room, shutting the door behind her with her naked foot. So light you’d think the air would lift her. She’s got a bottle under her arm. ‘I’ve always hated losing things.’ She leaves the thought hanging and walks unsteadily to the window. ‘You sleep with the curtains open?’