Around three o'clock in the afternoon, the sky grew overcast. From the viewpoint Tristram Pendergast could clearly see the thick, slate gray clouds gathering several valleys away. Not a good sign at all. He knew he now was supposed to walk back to the sanatorium but it was so nice outside. It was the first real hot summer's day and it was as if the Swiss nature had decided that today would be the day to engulf him in all of its beauty. The flowers were in full bloom and showed their beautiful colors. Bees and butterflies were flying among their lovely scents. The murmeltiere have finally awakened from their hibernation and every now and then, he could hear one of them calling. Short, high-pitched noises. Celebrating that, at last, the cold was gone. The animals did not show themselves, shy as they were, but if he were lucky he might just be able to spot one. No, he didn't feel like going back yet. The storm was still far away and there would be enough time to walk to the stream.
The stream; even from a great distance he could hear it whispering from between the trees. And as he got closer, the whispers would gradually grow louder until they were a continuous roar. The meltwater coming down from higher ground had transformed the stream into a fast-flowing river. There was no bridge and Tristram would have to jump from stone to stone in order to continue his hike. The stones were big enough to ensure a good foothold, but decades upon decades of sedimentation had polished them until their surfaces were smooth and slippery. Crossing was not without danger so today, Tristram decided, he would start on his way back when he reached the water.
Some birds flew over as he stepped onto the sun-dappled forest path. If he were honest, he hated having to stay in the sanatorium. There was little to do except for drawing and painting. And studying of course. He had no real friends to spend time with, for everybody he met at École Mère-Église was much younger than he. Only when hiking, surrounded by the snowy mountaintops, he was closest to actually being happy. There, he finally felt truly free. Yet, every day he wondered what life would be like with his father in New York. From his apartment he had seen an enormous green park amidst the buildings. It was so big it even had a lake. Maybe he and his father could go for walks in that park. He hoped his father would be able to find the time for it, because he was always busy.
When he reached the stream Tristram froze. Over there, underneath a clump of alders on the banks of the stream he saw his brother Alban. But that was impossible. The last time he had seen his brother was back in Brazil, when the entire town of Nova Godoi had disappeared into the volcano it was built upon. Yet, the person sitting on the rock was unmistakably Alban. He could tell it from the way he sat there; casually, relaxed. As if the whole valley belonged to him. But what happened to his face? From afar, it was difficult to tell. Yet, it was clear something was not right. Fear rose in his chest and he tightened his grip on his walking stick. Although he knew the piece of wood would be useless as a weapon, it felt good be holding something. Alban spread his arms. "No need to worry, Bruder. I'm unarmed," he announced. Unarmed. That meant nothing. Tristram knew all too well what Alban was capable of. Weapons or no weapons; it didn't matter to him. "What do you want from me?" Tristram asked, trying hard to hide the fear in his voice. "Sit down," his brother commanded. Tristram didn't move. "Sit down," repeated Alban, while indicating he was talking about the empty spot next to him. "Please?"
That word. 'Please'. Tristram has never heard his brother use that word before. Not in a non-sarcastic way, at least. Reluctantly, he sat down next to Alban, the stick still firmly in his hand. Now that he got closer, he got a clear look on Alban's face. Something had horribly wounded him and, while somebody had done their utmost best to restore all of it, they had not been able to prevent a pattern of deep red scars from disfiguring his aristocratic features. One corner of his mouth sagged and his left eyebrow was gone.
"What happened?" Tristram wanted to ask but he kept his mouth shut. It was better to speak only when being asked something. "What happened does not matter. I would like you to listen." Was that doubt in his voice? Nerves? Alban being nervous. Impossible. And yet, the way he kept plucking at small pieces of grit on the stone's surface betrayed his discomfort. Tristram put his stick down on the mossy forest floor. "Okay," he said. "I'll listen."
For the first time ever, Alban directly looked him in the eye. Just for the shortest of moments; then he averted his gaze again. Tristram was shocked by what he saw. He had expected to see mockery in those eyes. Disdain, even hate. Everything that would indicate he had made a big mistake by sitting down next to his brother. What else but murder could have driven Alban all the way to Switzerland? But what he saw in that short time was nothing of that all. Before he could give it any more thought, Alban spoke. So soft his voice almost drowned in the roaring of the river.
"Brother- Tristram, he said. "Forgive me." It took Tristram a while to process what he'd just heard. Alban asking him for forgiveness? Was this one of his nasty games? But Alban did not look like he was playing games. He had buried his head in his hands and wept. He cried so hard that it shook his body. Suddenly, he did not seem so much older and wiser anymore. Not so intimidating, so dangerous. Sitting there, overcome with grief, he looked broken. Not only his face was scarred, his whole being was. Something had happened. Something that, Tristram realized, was much bigger than a sudden guilt that came to haunt. He felt for his brother. Whatever he has done in the past did not matter at this moment. Alban was obviously in great pain. "I forgive you," Tristram said. He spoke loudly, so that his brother would be able to hear him over his sobbing. Alban did not look up; he didn't seem to have heard. Carefully, very carefully, Tristram put his hand on Alban's shoulder. Only then he raised his head, his face wet with tears. He was trembling. "I forgive you," Tristram repeated. "Can you hear me? I forgive you."
"Are you sure? Are you really sure about that?" asked Alban with a broken voice. Tristram nodded. "Yes, I am."
"Danke," Alban said softly. "Thank you. I know you find this hard to believe. After all that... after all that I've done. All the pain I've caused. People lost their loved ones because of me-" Alban paused. He seemed to be fighting his tears. "I'm not a bad person," he finally managed. Tristram was not really sure what he was supposed to say to this. So he just said "It's going to be all right, brother. I don't know what happened to you, but I know it is going to be all right." Abruptly, Alban got up. A look of pain came over his face. For a moment, Tristram thought he might cry again. "No!" Alban said. "No. You don't understand. It will never be all right again. Never." He sounded ferocious. And desperate.
In another valley, thunder echoed against the mountainsides. It started softly, and then swelled to a menacing roar. Alban glanced around. "I must go," he announced. He stood next to Tristram and leaned over to pick up the wooden stick. Fast as lightning, he pressed it against his brother's chest, near his diaphragm, using the stick as if it were a sword. The point was surprisingly sharp and it bit his skin.
"Please be so kind as not to tell our father of our little rendezvous, dear brother. You'd disappoint me if you did." Tristram only dared to nod. "Swear it," his brother hissed. A shadow of his old self had returned. Again, Tristram merely nodded. "Good." Alban lowered his weapon. "Goodbye, Tristram." With those words, he turned to leave.
By the time Tristram found his voice to reply, Alban had disappeared between the trees. Again, the sound of thunder ripped through the sky; alarmingly close this time. To Tristram it sounded strangely sorrowful. As if the clouds were in mourning. For a long time sat there, unmoving, thinking. Only when he felt the first thick raindrops fall on his arms, he got up. Better to return to the sanatorium before the storm got to him.