Peter Dickinson - Tears of the Salamander

What mattered now was that this was how Alfredo was going to carry the salamander back. Not at once, though. When the time was right. First, though, there was the problem of getting through this coming Monday without confronting whatever destiny it was that Uncle Giorgio had chosen for him. He got no farther with this before it was time to return to the house for luncheon.

SURREPTITIOUSLY ALFREDO STUDIED UNCLE Giorgio while they ate. He was reading a book, but not in his usual steady, absorbed fashion. Instead he seemed to be flipping impatiently to and fro, reading a page or two, and then skipping to somewhere else. Alfredo realized that his uncle must be just as much on edge about the next few days as he was himself. Then, abruptly, he closed the book and pushed it aside.

“I hope you spent a pleasant morning,” he said.

Alfredo was taken by surprise. He had in fact been thinking about how he was going to manage both mules on the mountain path. Toni was very good with the mules, and could take the lead one, but it would have to be arranged so that Uncle Giorgio didn’t find out that he’d done so, and again, what could he say to Annetta to persuade her to let him? He stammered for a moment, then said the obvious thing.

“You told me to rest, so I went up to my room and read for a bit. Then I went out and just wandered about. I’m not used to having so much time. At the cathedral we mostly did lessons when we weren’t singing. And you said I mustn’t sing at all while I’m here.”

“Soon you shall sing all you wish. As for lessons, there is no suitable school in the town, but I will make inquiries for a tutor for you. You have something else on your mind, I think.”

He’d noticed! He’d guessed. Thoroughly rattled now, Alfredo again stammered the first thing that came into his mind.

“I, er—I know it’s none of my business, but what’s going to happen to Toni? I mean…”

“You need not trouble yourself about Toni. Such cases do not survive much into manhood. The idiot is not long for this world.”

His own son! Alfredo was appalled and shocked by the casual tone.

“That’s sad,” he managed to say.

“Nonsense! It is much better so! Much better!”

This time the tone was far from casual. The words were spoken with spitting venom. Uncle Giorgio snatched up his book and started to read, leaving Alfredo stiff and chilly with understanding. Nineteen years ago Uncle Giorgio had made his previous will, naming somebody as his single heir—Toni, of course, new born, and before anyone had realized what he was. But they must have known soon after that, and from then on Uncle Giorgio had begun to detest the mere existence of the son who had failed to be what he wanted, and he longed to see him dead.

In that case why hadn’t he done away with him years ago? He was perfectly capable of it. Because…because Toni had been all there was, until Alfredo came. But now, especially after next Monday…Once again he remembered the risks Uncle Giorgio had taken to get him here, not for family love or duty or anything like that, but because for his own purposes he truly needed to have him. He remembered the strange, intense look with which his uncle had stared at him on the mountain. Even then Alfredo had guessed at the need. On this coming Monday the need would be fulfilled. And after that he would no longer have any possible use for Toni. So Toni was not long for this world.

Alfredo munched his way through the rest of the meal, barely tasting a mouthful. When at last it was over he went up to his room to rest out the first heat of the afternoon. He tried to read, but his mind wouldn’t apply itself to anything but his problems, where it skittered uselessly to and fro between them. I must talk to Annetta again, he decided. I must tell her everything. Then she can make up her own mind what to do .

Long before the heat was any less he crept downstairs, took the recorder from its case and went out to the rose garden. Toni was already there, sitting on the bench playing softly—not anything Alfredo had taught him but a strange little tune that he seemed to be making up as he went along, because every now and then he would stop, go back to an earlier phrase and alter what he’d done before, fiddling with it several times until he was satisfied.

Alfredo leaned on the balustrade, watching and listening. After a while Toni seemed to be happy with what he’d invented and started again from the beginning. Alfredo took out his recorder and joined in. Toni looked up, but didn’t stop playing. The tune was trickier than Alfredo had realized, with unexpected time-changes. It was the sort of music that makes you want to dance, but you’d need to be a clever dancer not to make a fool of yourself. Alfredo made a lot of mistakes, but Toni held the tune firm all the way through. The last notes died into the breathless air and they laughed together.

Alfredo went down the steps and sat beside Toni on the bench.

“You made that up yourself,” he said, pointing at Toni as he asked the question.

Toni nodded and tapped his chest. Obviously he’d understood, but from the way Annetta talked to him and about him he’d always understood a few simple things. He was probably still like that. The Angel of Fire hadn’t cured him, hadn’t disentangled whatever was wrong with his mind, but it had done something else, even more important. It had set him free, freed his spirit, his soul, freed them from his terror of the world and his shame of what he was. It had given him a life worth living.

Alfredo thought about this as they continued to play—bits of church music, sailor songs, fairground dances, with Toni continuously decorating the music, as soon as he’d picked it up, in ways Alfredo himself would never have thought of. And he liked some things better than others, not necessarily because they were simpler; in fact rather the opposite. It depended on whether he found them interesting. So obviously there was nothing wrong with the music part of his mind. There must be some kind of kink, some blockage, somewhere else. If only…

“The tears of the salamander. Sovereign against all ills of body and mind.”

No, he couldn’t ask—in fact it would be a disaster. Uncle Giorgio hated his son. He wanted him dead. But…No, not yet. Wait until after Friday, when Uncle Giorgio was going to carry out some kind of test for the Second Great Work. Perhaps he’d know more then. There’d still be two days before Monday.

For the rest of the day every hour seemed to go slower than the one before. Alfredo took his History of Rome and the Latin dictionary down to supper, but could only pretend to read. Uncle Giorgio read in silence. Only as he rose at the end of the meal did he speak.

“Tomorrow, when we have breakfasted, you will sing the chant again to me. After that I will have preparations to make, so the rest of the day will be yours.”

The chant went smoothly. Uncle Giorgio muttered briefly before they began and the Angels of Fire did not appear, though Alfredo could sense the faint prickling of their nearness. The words still meant nothing to him, but he now seemed to feel them all as separate things, each of them full of its own dark import. Neither they nor the music were strangers in his mouth.

“Well done,” said Uncle Giorgio. “Now, as I told you, I have much to do. How will you spend your day?”

Alfredo had thought of going down to the town, hoping to find some friend to talk to, or at least a priest to whom he might confess his suspicions and terrors. But he guessed Uncle Giorgio wouldn’t have allowed it, and besides, who would dare lift a finger against the Master of the Mountain?