Peter Dickinson - Tears of the Salamander

ALFREDO WOKE EARLY, DRESSED AND SAT IN THE window, breathing the soft dawn air and letting the early sunlight stream over him. It was all the same as yesterday, the same sun, the same air, the same marvelous view. But everything had changed, himself included. He felt as if he had somehow grown two or three years older during the night. He was no longer a child, letting everything be decided for him by someone else. From now on he was a person who must think and decide and act for himself. From now on he was going to cope for himself with the responsibilities before him, to his dead parents and poor Giorgio, to Annetta and Toni, to himself. Only Uncle Giorgio must go on thinking he was a child, unquestioning and obedient. But he would be wrong.

The week inched by. Alfredo teased obsessively away at the sheet of notes about the salamanders. A few of the more carefully written bits began to make sense: They have great knowledge, but little power. …Of all things concerning fire, though far from the island, they know through the fires within the earth . …(Ah, so they could after all have known what had happened in the bakehouse.) …not things to come…cannot see into the minds of men…not like the Angels of Fire, both Lesser and Greater. These have many powers…One with the Knowledge can command the Lesser Angels, but neither the Greater, nor the salamanders. …

When he had unraveled all he could he started to read his way slowly on through Livius’s history. At other times he studied old musical scores and tried to learn some of the easier pieces on the recorder, so that he could teach them to Toni. Or he walked the mountainside, until he could join Toni in the rose garden each afternoon, when for an hour or more they improvised duets together and he could forget about his hopes and his fears. He didn’t run away from these. Indeed he tried to face them, mostly when he was sitting in the kitchen before supper while Toni ate and Annetta worked at the stove.

It was easier when they were there, because they reminded him of what sort of man Uncle Giorgio must be to have used them so, as if they existed entirely for his own purposes, and nothing else mattered. A man like that might well have used and destroyed his own brother with his family, and the crew of the Bonaventura, without a thought, simply because it suited him. It didn’t prove he had—it just made it more likely—and more likely too that he was planning to use Alfredo in the same kind of way. It was going to happen next Monday as part of the Second Great Work.

How could he avoid taking part in that work? Run away? Where? Who would dare help him hide from the Master of the Mountain? How could he be sure his uncle didn’t have the power to find him, wherever he hid? And then he would have betrayed part of his own secret knowledge—and his one hope lay in his uncle’s not suspecting how much he knew. Kill himself, then? If the worst came to the worst, perhaps, but how? If he could find a cliff somewhere to throw himself over…

No. There must be a better way, if only he could think of it.

On the Tuesday morning Annetta came to his room early and laid out his church clothes for him. After breakfast he sang the chant again for Uncle Giorgio, who this time muttered a few words almost as soon as he’d begun. There were no interruptions from the Angels. Then they rode down the hill to the town. Uncle Giorgio stopped at a large, newish house opposite the church, where they were evidently expected, for a groom from the inn was waiting for them and led the mules away. Uncle Giorgio was raising his cane to rap on the door when it was opened by a wheezing old man in black, wearing a tatty wig, who showed them through a musty hallway, opened a door and announced, or rather muttered, “Signor Giorgio di Sala with the young gentleman, sir,” then stood aside for them and slipped away.

Just as they went into the room Uncle Giorgio gripped Alfredo’s shoulder and leaned heavily on it. He tottered forward.

A man rose from behind a table and started to greet them, but checked himself, stared for a moment and rushed round, pulled out a chair and helped Uncle Giorgio to settle into it, then went back to his place. He was younger than Alfredo would have expected, but stout and with heavy, dark features. His manner, like the priest’s last Sunday, was both fawning and wary.

“Signor di Sala,” he said. “I am much honored. You are …you are not well?”

“I have been stronger,” said Uncle Giorgio dismissively. “You received my note?”

“Indeed, indeed. And this is the young gentleman who is now to be your heir?”

“My nephew, Alfredo,” said Uncle Giorgio. “His parents died tragically a month ago, and he is now in my care. The last, for the moment, of our line. Alfredo, this is my friend Signor Pozzarelli, who looks after the legal side of our affairs. You will have much to do with him in time to come.”

“Indeed, indeed. I am gratified to meet you, Signor Alfredo,” said Signor Pozzarelli as they shook hands. “But let us hope it will be many years before that is the case.”

“We are in God’s hands, Signor Pozzarelli,” said Uncle Giorgio. “And as you see I have not been well. The journey to fetch my nephew taxed my strength, and I was near to death by the time I returned. I am not yet fully recovered, and the malady could strike again at any time. We must put my earthly affairs in order without delay.”

“Your earthly…?” Signor Pozzarelli began, and stopped himself. “Er…hum…a little wine in honor of the occasion? Now, let me see, let me see…”

He rang a silver handbell, then fussed with papers on his table, recovering his composure. Uncle Giorgio watched him, smiling thinly. Alfredo was puzzled. He had a feeling Uncle Giorgio was teasing the attorney, but why was he pretending to be ill and mouthing these pious phrases about his own death if in a few day’s time he was going to start living forever? And what had Signor Pozzarelli been going to say when he stopped himself?

A servant woman came in with a tray—glasses, a wine flask and a jug. Signor Pozzarelli poured two glasses of wine and glanced at Uncle Giorgio.

“A little for my nephew—as you say, in honor of the occasion,” said Uncle Giorgio, still with that teasing note, so the attorney poured a few sips for Alfredo and filled the larger glasses from the jug with what turned out to be lime water, cool and fresh. The wine was dark and sweet—the best in the attorney’s cellar, Alfredo guessed.

Signor Pozzarelli drew a chair to the table for Alfredo, picked up a double sheet of parchment and cleared his throat.

“The terms, as you suggested, are the same as for the last will—nineteen years ago, I see—save of course for the beneficiary. The list of your properties has been kept up to date, as you know, and can simply be transferred to the new will. And there is the matter of a guardian still to be settled. Last time my father had the honor…”

“Your respected father is now almost as old as I am, and we must look to the future. I suggest that this time it should be yourself, if you will be so kind as to take up the burden of my nephew’s earthly affairs. All else of course is in eternal hands, those hands which finally take care of all things, both earthly and beyond.”

“Of course, of course,” agreed Signor Pozzarelli hastily. “I shall be much honored by the task.”