Hershel is 12, Desmond is 17.
I'm unable to visit Raymond as much as I would like when school begins. Stansbury's doctor's surgery is meagre, but Raymond is on the mend, his leg wrapped in a cast. Whenever I inquire about his injuries or Targent or Ness, he just advises me to focus on my studies, namely science. (I believe he hopes that I'll become a doctor.)
Raymond's impairment has made me realize that he can't always be there to protect us. He taught me a thing or two about disabling an attacker, but I must hone my skills. It wouldn't hurt for Hershel to have some training either, in case something was to happen to me.
On my way out of St Vernon's theatre (I wasn't performing– my mechanics knowledge was simply required to fix the stage lighting!), I spot a poster for a fencing club on the gymnasium door. I go to grab Hershel from the library, where he spends most of his time, and show him the poster. "What do you think?"
My brother's brow furrows. "Fencing. Really, Desmond? Is this one of your terrible jokes?"
"My jokes happen to be terribly witty," I retort, pushing my glasses up my nose. "Seriously, though, I think this could be a brilliant opportunity—" Suddenly, I'm interrupted by somebody whining:
"...Come on! You need to teach me! What if I got stuck in a swordfight during a perilous adventure? I could be up against pirates. Pirates!"
"For the last time, this isn't a childish game. I am not going to train you!"
"Oh, no..." Hershel mutters. He sends a wary glance over his shoulder. Surging towards us is a tall girl with cornrows, followed by a pining ginger-haired boy who appears to be Hershel's age.
I hiss, "What's wrong?"
"That's Randall Ascot, a boy in my class who I've been trying to avoid. I answered one question on archaeology and now he won't stop pestering me. He's obsessed with the subject..!" (I'm starting to understand why Hershel was hiding in the library.) Hershel looks like he wants to flee, but Randall recognises him and waves.
"Hi, Hershel!"
"Hello, Randall..." Hershel barely suppresses a sigh.
The older girl asks him flatly, "Is he bothering you, too?"
Randall isn't deterred. He turns to me. "Who's the guy with the cool glasses?" I shoot Hershel a warning look. Don't you dare give this imbecile my name or our address...!
"This is my brother, Desmond." Betrayed by my own flesh and blood.
"Nice to meet you, Desmond!" Randall notices me noticing the poster. "Hey, are you guys interested in fencing?" Before I can deny this, Randall throws his arms over our shoulders, grinning triumphantly at the girl. "There you go! Three new members for you to train. Now the fencing club can stay open even when you're gone."
She argues, "You can't just sign people up on the spot. Fencing is dangerous business. I'll decide who joins after the tryouts."
There is no arrogance in her tone, only matter-of-fact bluntness. Does she doubt that I can handle a little swordplay? My irritation immediately switches from Randall to this girl. "And what authority do you possess?"
Randall informs us in a stage whisper, "Behold, her highness, Mira Sharpace, reigning champion of the fencing team." He smirks. "But not for long, if I have anything to do with it."
"We'll see about that." Mira marches into the gym. "If any of you are serious about joining, be here tomorrow morning at eight."
"But tomorrow's Saturday!" Randall protests. His only response is Mira slamming the door.
Myself, Hershel and, yes, even Randall are deemed worthy of joining the fencing club. We're the only ones who show up for the tryouts, so it's not like Mira has much of a choice...
But that doesn't matter right now.
At the Memory Knoll, I stand beside Raymond, discharged from the doctor's only yesterday. The burbling river, the birdcall and the breeze create a soft symphony fit for a church choir. Beneath the oak tree, tree of treasured memories, stands a grave without a name or a body. It isn't fancy— just a slab of light grey stone from the riverbank engraved with the words: "In Loving Memory."
"She would have liked it out here," Raymond mumbles, "with all the open fields. Probably would have kept the whole village up with her barking."
I hum in agreement. On the subject of what-would-have-been, I can't help imagining the quiet life Raymond would have had if he hadn't aided my brother and I. Or the life the Bronev family would have had if they hadn't gotten involved with Targent... But then we never would have gotten to know Raymond or the Laytons. Our lives intertwine like spider webs, impossible to unravel.
Raymond adjusts his hold on his crutches, looking around. "Wasn't Hershel coming...?"
I told Hershel that Ness died defending Raymond from 'burglars'. (Raymond hasn't even told me the whole story yet.) He deserves to say goodbye to her, too. So, where is he? He's never late...
The answer becomes clear when Hershel rushes up the slope, accompanied by Randall Ascot and a petite blonde-haired girl. Hershel has been consorting with Ascot since we joined the fencing club. I glare at them– questioning and furious— but manage to repress my temper for now.
Hershel explains softly, "They wanted to attend."
Ascot looks like he might regret this tag along decision, but the girl steps forward earnestly, clutching a blue flower. "Hello, my name is Angela Redoll. I'm sorry for your loss."
Raymond nods and Angela places the flower on the grave. She returns to Ascot's side, squeezing his hand.
"Hersh... told us a bit about Ness," he adds awkwardly. "It sounds like she was a true friend." (I'm almost impressed by the dignity he shows.)
"She was—" However, Raymond is cut off yet again when someone else troops up the hill.
"Dalston?" Randall stares at the stocky red-faced boy. "What are you doing here?"
"Heard there was a funeral for a dog." Dalston shrugs, hands jammed in his pockets.
We wait in silence until its evident there will be no more interruptions. Then, Raymond clears his throat. "A wise man once said, we forge our own destiny. Ness was testament to this. She was trained for violence, yet she proved to be a loving companion and a loyal protector..."
As we honour Ness, a vision of my mother fills my mind. I bid her farwell, hoping she is in a happier place. Still, I am unable to lay her memory to rest completely.
[[Sycamore tree seeds ripen in September- October, so I figured Desmond's birthday could be some time in the autumn.