Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

The boat was nine heaves out of the bay and getting smaller. From the escarpment, we could just make out Ender straining at the oars, his back hunched like a dune against the drizzle, the grey sea swaying all around him. With each stroke, the bow seemed to move only a fraction. If we had been near enough, we might have heard the old man complain about his aching bones to Ardak in the stern. The two of them had spent all afternoon preparing the boy’s body: wrapping it, weighting it, hauling it down the forest slope on their shoulders. But whatever thoughts were shared between them in that boat, whatever they felt about performing this dire duty on our behalf, nobody could tell from so far away. We could only gauge it from the respectful indolence of the old man’s rowing motions, and the straightforwardness with which Ardak went about the job of lowering the boy into the water.

It happened like this:

Twenty more heaves and Ender let the boat drift, pulling the oars in from the rowlocks. Ardak came forwards, his feet straddling the thwarts. He took one end of the body and the old man took the other. The boat teetered and swung. They seemed to give themselves a count of three, and then they hove the body sideways, scraping it along the boards and resting it a moment on the gunwale. The body was wedged against the frame of the boat — a limp shape bundled in black plastic and a cheap Turkish rug, all strung up like a boxing glove. Ardak had to lean his weight backwards to prevent them from capsizing. They had a short consultation, hands on hips, and then they tried again, pushing the body overboard. It was so loaded with cinderblocks that it sunk fast, and the boat wobbled suddenly underneath them, causing the old man to stumble; Ardak grabbed his sleeve to keep him from lurching into the water. They steadied themselves and sat down on the thwarts again. For a moment, they just waited there, drifting on the Marmara for no reason.

Then the provost began to eulogise. ‘I have no words of inspiration for you today,’ he called out over the breeze. ‘I had hoped that I could compose a few lines that might capture the significance of the life that we have lost, but I have failed to do so, and I feel some shame about that. Yesterday, we had a great young talent in our midst, and today we’ve buried him. Nothing I say can match the depth of our sorrow. That such a tragedy should happen on my watch as provost is a regret I will take to my own grave.’ He paused here, rucking the ground with his cane.

Every last guest at Portmantle was standing on the south-eastern bluff with their eyes towards the sea. The provost had angled himself to address the whole crowd, but we knew his speech was meant only for the four of us. There was a reverential distance in his tone, a suggestion of apology. ‘Nothing good can be salvaged from a day as dark as this,’ he went on, ‘but there is — it only strikes me now, in fact — there is a lesson to be taken from it.’

He was sermonising from a mound of shingly soil and wore a long black overcoat that shimmied in the wind. The short-termers were huddled in a crescent alongside him, but we stood further back: MacKinney with her arm around me, Quickman squatting to ruffle the fur on Nazar’s chest, and Pettifer hovering over them with an umbrella like some awkward hand-servant. My toes skimmed the frill of weeds on the escarpment’s edge, and I focused on the sea washing below, until it became so metronomic I could sense each breaking wave without having to listen.

‘Because, at times like these, it is artists like you whom we consult for solace—’ Wash . ‘The poets and writers in our libraries—’ Wash . ‘The paintings on our walls, the music.’ Wash. ‘Death is something only art can qualify. And that is all—’ Wash. ‘—the encouragement I can take from this unhappy mess.’ Wash. ‘Because surely all great art is made for people left behind. For those—’ Wash . ‘—who suffer death and cannot fathom it. And so what else is there to say, except—’ Wash. ‘To Fullerton! May he rest in peace and live on through his work.’

‘To Fullerton!’ everyone called.

‘To the boy,’ I said.

Wash.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to jump, to fall, to be devoured by the sea. It did not give me much relief to think of it, or bring me any deeper sense of understanding.

MacKinney tugged at my shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s move back from the edge, eh? The wind’s picking up.’ I was tucked inside her wing. We were flanked by pines and scrub, but still a fair breeze swirled about our ankles, moving tiny pebbles underfoot. I stepped back. ‘That’s better. That’s it.’

The short-termers were dispersing and heading for the trees. Out on the water, Ender had already turned the boat for home. He rowed with the same tired action as before, yet he seemed to glide much faster. ‘What are we supposed to do now?’ I said.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Gülcan’s made a special supper,’ said Pettifer. ‘Everyone’s going back up to the house.’

‘I don’t see what’s so special about any of this,’ Quickman said.

‘It’s out of the ordinary, that’s all I meant.’

‘I’ll say.’

‘They’re holding a wake,’ Mac cut in. ‘The provost’s idea.’

Quickman scruffed the dog’s head. ‘What the hell’s the point of that?’

‘Well, they’ve got to do something for the lad, haven’t they?’

‘They didn’t do anything for him before. No reason to start now.’ Quickman seemed to say this to the dog. She had not left his heels all afternoon, and, in turn, he had been patting and cajoling her when she made the slightest plea. ‘They didn’t even know him. What are they going to do, stand around making up anecdotes?’

‘Knell knew him better than anyone. And if she wants to go—’

‘I don’t. Q’s right,’ I said. ‘It’s a sham. The provost couldn’t care less.’

I could still feel the boy’s wet body in my arms, a phantom ache. The day had passed with agonising slowness and I just wanted to see it out. I had spent most of the morning by the fire in the day room, watching the fight of the flames, hoping that if I stared for long enough into the blurry heat it might tranquillise me, blank my memory. But I could not stop myself from thinking of the duct tape on the boy’s mouth — the very stuff that I had given him — or the leather belt around his neck, the simple weave of it. He had won it from Tif in their backgammon game. Such small details plagued me. They lured me into a trail of senseless speculations on what might have been: if the four of us had only done x , if I had just said y to the boy, if the provost had done z. I was searching for logic where none existed.

At the provost’s instruction, the boy had been carried out of his lodging on a hammock made of bedsheets, Ender and Ardak providing the muscle. Quickman had stayed with me in the day room, surveying every movement from the window, until they had taken the body too deep into the woods for us to see. Q had gone to the couch, where the dog was lying, and towelled her belly until her hind legs kicked. There was a homely dampness in the air. ‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ he had said. ‘In a few days, we’re going to feel better.’ After a while, Gülcan had brought in cups of hot salep and pastries left over from breakfast; I had drunk two cups and eaten as much as I could stomach, but Quickman had fed his own share to the dog.

I had told him, ‘Someone’s got to let his family know. I don’t care what the provost says.’