Benjamin Wood: The Ecliptic

‘I don’t see it happening. No offence.’

‘It’ll happen all on its own.’ It was easy to feel sympathy for the boy. Not just because he was sweat-shined and muddied, but because I could remember what it was like to be his age, so wearied by my own guardedness, letting nobody in, too frightened of getting hurt. ‘And, in the meantime, Tif and Q can probably help you with — whatever it is you’re trying to dispose of there.’

The boy eyed the can and kicked it. ‘I can sort it. And besides—’ He nodded to the space behind me. ‘They’ve already gone.’

But they were not quite beyond sight. I could still make out their shapes between the trees, heading for my lodging. ‘Can you whistle?’ I asked. The boy thought about it, then put his grubby fingers behind his teeth and made the cleanest steam-kettle sound. It took a moment for the others to realise we were calling them.

Pettifer was the first to arrive, covering his ears. ‘I think they heard you in the Serengeti. What’s the big emergency?’ He leaned an arm on my shoulder.

‘Fullerton needs your advice.’

‘Does he now. You hear that, Q? — I’m being asked for advice .’

‘Goodness,’ said Quickman, appearing behind him. ‘Whatever next?’

The two of them laughed.

MacKinney noticed the boy’s condition. His cheeks were striped with the dull red soil. ‘Everything OK here?’ she asked.

‘Trying to get rid of a few things, that’s all.’

He went about explaining his intentions for the oil drum, which caused Pettifer to push out his bottom lip and shake his head. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t recommend a drumfire unless you have kerosene. You need to build up a little pyre of timber in the centre to direct the flames. Otherwise, things don’t burn right, and it can all get out of hand rather quickly.’

The boy stood back. ‘Just as well I don’t have any matches then.’

‘I tried to barbecue a manuscript at my editor’s house once,’ Quickman said. ‘Made a glorious mess of his lawn. There was a lot more ash than I expected. Dangerous thing to do, really.’

Pettifer hummed in agreement. ‘Even a small fire can creep up on you if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘How d’you know so much about it?’ Fullerton asked.

‘My father was a scout master.’

‘That’s cool.’

‘He certainly thought so.’

‘Mine wouldn’t even take me camping,’ the boy said. ‘I still went, though.’

‘I don’t blame you.’

‘Did he let you have a jack-knife?’

‘No. But he kept one for himself.’

MacKinney looked back towards the attic lights of the mansion, yawning. The only lines that did not smooth out of her skin were the furrows round her eyes, which seemed to have the deep-set quality of woodgrain. ‘I suppose we should start getting used to all this macho conversation, Knell. They’ll be duelling with pistols before we know it.’

‘That’s an idea,’ Quickman said.

‘Well, I’m turning in before it gets to that.’

‘What about our game?’ Tif said.

‘I’m not really in the mood. But I hope my money’s still good.’ She leaned into my ear and mumbled: ‘A scoop of French roast on Quickman. Double down if it’s two-two.’

I nodded. ‘I’ll hold on to your winnings.’

She kissed my cheek. ‘Night, all.’

‘Night, Mac.’

I watched her traipsing off into the dark. It was not unusual for her to retire to bed this early, citing some excuse about the need to work. But she made no mention of her play at all that night, and I assumed that she was suffering again with her insomnia. (MacKinney often joked that she would overcome these bouts of restlessness by reading back through early drafts: ‘Even in broad daylight, I can bore myself to sleep.’)

‘What were you trying to burn, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Quickman said to the boy. ‘Hope it wasn’t anything I could smoke.’

‘Just a few things I’m not meant to have brought with me. I thought it’d be OK, but the old man said I needed to get rid of them.’

‘Ah. Been there,’ said Quickman.

‘Been there twice now,’ said Pettifer.

Fullerton grinned, and his face seemed unaccustomed to the strain of it. ‘It’s not a competition.’

‘Funny you should mention that,’ Quickman said. ‘We were about to start some backgammon. Ever played?’

The boy looked away. ‘Once, I think. At school. I’m more interested in poker now.’

‘Poker! That’s a bit too Hollywood for us, but Tif and I have a regular dice game every Sunday, best of five, and to be frank—’ Quickman screened his mouth to stage-whisper. ‘He’s hopeless. I wouldn’t mind having someone else to beat.’

‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

Pettifer coughed. ‘A bit high-stakes for beginners, isn’t it?’

‘Hardly,’ I said, cutting in. It was quite irregular for Quickman to extend an invitation and I wanted to give the boy every chance to accept.

Fullerton looked interested. ‘You lot play for money?’

‘No. Just trinkets,’ I said. ‘We don’t have much to gamble with.’

‘I nearly won that pipe of his once,’ said Pettifer. ‘Another six and it would’ve been mine. Imagine the power I could’ve wielded!’

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘They’ve played a few epics. No one can beat Q, though.’

‘OK, count me in,’ said the boy. ‘Why not?’

‘Super! We’ll make it a triangular.’ Quickman clasped his palms and rubbed them. ‘Go and fetch the board, Tif. It’s up in my room.’ His voice was sunnier than I had heard it in a while. ‘Knell, can we set up at yours again? We’ll need a bigger table.’

I saw an eagerness about the boy’s eyes then, too, and I realised that it was happening just like I said it would — all on its own.

Even though the world Fullerton had left was different from the one we knew, altered by a history that had taken place without us, his way into Portmantle was the same as ours. The procedure for admission never changed. First, your sponsor had to seek the authorisation of the provost — no specifics could be shared without this prior consent. It was an inherited knowledge, paid forward by residents of the past to the residents of the present, and if your sponsor could not adequately relay directions, you might never reach the place at all.

Any guest who checked out of the refuge with a clean record — that is to say, without having wilfully contravened any of its rules — was afforded one endorsement to pass on. This could be bestowed upon any artist whom it was felt could benefit from the sanctuary of Portmantle. It was stressed by the provost that endorsements should only be offered to artists in the direst need. The cost of a new resident’s tenure had to be covered by their sponsor; a fairly meagre sum, paid seasonally, but it could last for an indefinite period — such was the case for MacKinney, Quickman, Pettifer, and me. Sponsors, therefore, had to be sure that the artists they were recommending were truly worth helping, as they could remain beholden to that financial outlay for a permanent duration. The responsibility could not be relinquished or transferred to someone else. Because of this, we stalwarts of the place were looked upon with respect — it was assumed that our sponsors’ long-term commitment reflected their valuation of our talents. But there were some who viewed us with a dim-eyed pity, as though we were just shadows of ourselves, washed up and doomed to failure.

Only when the provost had accepted your sponsor’s recommendation would you be told where Portmantle was located. Only then could your sponsor offer you precise instructions, and you would be required to commit these details to memory fast, because they could not be spoken again or written down. Only when you had made it to the Gare de Lyon in Paris were you allowed to open your sponsor’s envelope with the provost’s passphrase. Only then could you take the night train to Lausanne, following the Simplon Orient Express line with a second-class ticket your sponsor had paid for under his own name, his real name, through Milan and Belgrade, to the Turkish-Bulgarian border, showing your passport when you arrived at the terminus in Istanbul. Only then could you pay your fee for the entry visa and find the cheap hotel room your sponsor had booked, and burn that passport in the bathtub, dousing it with the shower-hose before it set off the sprinklers (you had to set fire to it early, to stop yourself from turning back later). Only then could you go out into the bright spring sun of the wide-open city and walk along the main road, past the swell of traffic, the taxis with their rolled-down windows and their music blaring, the clattering trams, the towering mosques, until you reached the ferry port at Kabataş.