Redeemed From Time
By: Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes
Part Three
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And as your fantasies are broken in two
Did you really think this bloody road would pave the way for you?
You'd better turn around and blow a kiss hello to life eternal.
- Jeff Buckley
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The next few weeks were busy ones for him, as the end of term
approached, and as the
work piled up there was little time for him to think on the
information he had gathered thus
far. He worked some more on his Buckinghamshire history book,
though he stuck to earlier
chapters and avoided the Victorian era altogether. He marked
papers, held tutorials, wrote
letters of recommendation, worked on the odd book review for a
mediaeval history journal.
He kept busy.
During the last weeks of the term, he opened his post and came
across a letter from a fellow,
an American, whom he had met briefly at an academic conference
two summers before.
The man was the primary administrator of a foreign exchange
programme at the University
of Milan, and his letter invited Will to participate in a series
of lectures on ecclesiastical
history given by visiting professors from Europe and America.
The letter included a number of names of other professors who
had agreed to participate.
All were well respected in their specific fields, but to Will the
entire letter read more like a
laundry list. With a slight sigh he folded it and returned it to
its envelope, but just as he was
about to set it aside to reply to later, he paused.
This, said a little voice in the back of its mind, is an opportunity presenting itself to you.
He read over the letter again, more carefully this time. The
lecture dates in Milan were
set for the last weekend of July. The dates reminded him of
another conference that he
had heard mentioned in the Senior Combination Room earlier in the
week, one that was
supposed to take place at the University of Berne in Switzerland.
The conference in
Switzerland was on the socio-political affairs of the Holy Roman
Empire - not Will's
area of interest, but that wasn't important.
What was important was the fact that the date for the Berne
conference was the second to
last weekend in July.
Berne and Milan were not far apart by train or by car. In
fact, if he attended both, he would
be left with an entire week free for sightseeing. And that meant
-
Quickly, he pocketed the letter from the American and went
into his study. He took the
Scrapbook down from the shelf and opened it to the two articles
about Merriman. He
scanned the second article, the one from the student newsletter,
until he came to the part
about Merriman and the yeti.
This time, he didn't smile. He was thinking about Sherlock
Holmes and Professor Moriarty
at the Reichenbach Falls.
Which, he knew, was in the canton of Berne.
Opportunity. The little voice was not quite so little anymore.
'Opportunity.' This time, he said it aloud.
Will walked to the grate and stood in front of it. As he had
done once a very long time ago
on a forgotten road called Oldway Lane, he said quietly,
The fire leapt into existence like an acquaintance waving in greeting.
I don't know when I'll get another chance like
this, said Will. He began to pace. It
would be stupid not to take this opportunity. My only concern is
that it doesn't leave very
much time to plan everything out. People don't just disappear
these days.
The fire crackled. He paused in his pacing.
All right, fine. They do. Will resumed wearing a
hole in the rug. It's reappearing that's
going to be the problem. People need documents and credentials
these days, not to mention
identification cards. This is going to mean I'm going to appear
somewhere as a thirty-five-
year-old with no education or training in anything but being a
scholar. And - a scholar.
There's not another job in which credentials are more necessary
if you want credibility.
That, and I've left a paper trail eighteen miles wide.
Sparks flew up unsympathetically.
Will sat on the ottoman, staring at the flames. I don't
know what to do. I know there are
people who can forge papers and things, but - how would I begin
to know who they are
and where to find them? And somehow, that's just not right.
It's
The fire was silent.
That will have to be a last resort, Will said.
Which would make more sense - planning
how I'm going to get out of Switzerland first, or deciding where
I'm going to go and what
I'm going to do?
Flames dipped forward briefly.
It would be a good idea to know where I'm going first, I
think. But - no, then it would be
easier to find me, and I can't be found.
He stood again and, digging under a pile of books, pulled out
the folder where he kept all
his information about Merriman. Will examined all the papers,
then tossed the folder aside
and faced the fire, voice rising in intensity and desperation.
I know what he became.
I know where he was. I just don't know how he got there. I don't
know how he did it,
and that's what I need to know, and it's not like I can just ring
him and say, 'Oh, hello,
Merriman, and how are things outside Time? Lovely. Just lovely.
Listen - I need to leave
my entire life behind and I have no idea how to do it, and I
found you in a few places in
history to see how you did it, but you didn't do me a damn bit
of good.'
A log cracked in two and dispersed into bright coals.
A tight knot had formed in Will's stomach, and another was
starting to twist its way into his
chest. He sat down, but within seconds he was up and pacing
again, striding back and forth
and all the while feeling the knots tighten and pulse, tighten
and pulse.
'All the time in the world, literally, and now I'm left
with maybe a week, two at the most,
to set all this up. I have to send confirmations, book plane
tickets and train fares and hotel
rooms and set up a whole bloody travelling itinerary, not to
mention the fact that I'll have
to write up an actual lecture to give, because this has to be
authentic.' His pace quickened
still further. 'The whole thing has to be authentic. It can't
have the faintest hint of anything
suspicious about it, because I'll be damned if my article in the Times
says anything about
my being a possible suici-'
He would have kept going, but in mid-turn his foot slid on the
rug and he skidded --
and there was a sharp thunk as his right leg ran smack
into the ottoman.
Will bent over, cursing under his breath. He shot a glance at
the fire, and saw that the
flames had risen higher and thinner.
'You're not helping,' he snapped, rubbing his bruised shin.
There was an ironic-sounding crackle, almost like a very dry cough, from the coals.
Grumbling, he limped over to the chair and sank into it, folding his arms across his chest.
'All right, I know it's do-able,' he said sullenly. 'But it's
the details that are going to be the
difficulty. I mean, I can't just show up thirty years from now
with a list of credentials that
go back well over a century, and somehow expect to make everyone
believe that I -'
He stopped again, and this time the sudden intake of breath wasn't due to pain.
He could make everyone believe. And it would be just that simple.
The fire flickered, silently consuming the logs.
'So that's it, then.' All of the sullenness and anger had gone
from Will's voice, leaving it
subdued, almost breathless. 'I'll have to...fade out. And
then...fade back in again, I suppose,
when the time is right. And in between....'
He glanced around the room, and his eye fell on the stack of
notes he had made for the
Buckinghamshire history book. The book that would never be
finished, though he would
still have to bring it with him on the -- journey.
Staring moodily at his pile of notes, a small thought crept
into his mind. In Helen
Marchmont's day, a young man of good family and breeding who had
run across
misfortune -- an unsuitable romance, a bad habit of overspending
-- would often be
shipped off to some far-away place, Ceylon or Burma or Manitoba
or New South
Wales, to make good. And even though the Colonies were no longer
coloured red
on the maps of the world, they hadn't exactly dropped off those
maps, either.
'So what do you think?' Will said thoughtfully, addressing the
fire. 'A sheep farmer in
South Australia? A schoolteacher in the Yukon? A rogue
anthropologist, studying the
lost tribes of Papua New Guinea? Or something else entirely?'
The fire shivered slightly, then gave a merry crackle.
Will sighed. 'Thanks. You know how I value your opinion on these things.'
Perhaps it would be better to be away from people for a while.
One could tell things to
sheep without the worry that they would try to pack you off to a
mental institution.
He shook his head. One thing at a time. It was
most important to set up his disappearance
first. Then he could worry about what would come next.
They'll check my computer to see where I went,
Will said to the fire. So no making
plans for after the conference from home. That will have to be
done elsewhere.
The flames crackled their agreement.
But I can make travel plans from here. Set it all up
from here. An interesting thought
occurred to him, and he grinned. I might even need a Swiss
bank account.
Sparks flew up into the chimney.
Oh, don't be like that. Let me have some fun with this.
The fire was silent.
Will extinguished it and went to his computer.
* * *
He sent letters of confirmation to Berne and Milan. He
arranged travel plans. He
researched sheep farming in Australia, teaching in the Yukon, and
dangerous places
to hike alone in the Alps that were also not very far from points
of civilisation -- being
very careful to use a public computer, of course. The evenings
were spent putting together
a lecture.
And every night before he fell into bed, exhausted, he stared
at the carved wooden box that
he'd had for years, the one with the dragon on it, the one filled
with letters from Stephen
and other special things he'd kept, and he wondered how he was
just going to leave it
all behind. He couldn't leave the box behind, of course - the
letters from Stephen were
evidence. That would have to go with him, as would the Scrapbook.
Will sat up in bed suddenly. The Scrapbook was incomplete. If
he had the opportunity...he
might look for that last obituary.
Just to make things complete, he said softly to himself. It's got to be rounded out.
He settled again, drew the blanket close around him, and sent
himself to sleep before he
could think about it much more.
The morning found Will somewhat excited. His very last
tutorial was to take place shortly,
and it was admittedly with a vague feeling of alacrity that he
sat in his office, waiting for
Carpenter to arrive. Shortly, there would be no more
undergraduates for him to deal with.
Ever.
Will grinned as he went over a printed draft of his lecture in
a rather slapdash fashion.
Despite all the trouble it had been to set everything up in such
a short space of time, the
thought of no more bad essays to read pleased him greatly.
He glanced up briefly at the knock on the inner door, then
checked his watch. Five minutes
late, as usual. He returned to looking over the lecture. 'Enter.'
The door opened and Carpenter stepped into the room.
'I'm terribly sorry to be so late, professor,' he said, in a
voice that was meant to sound
apologetic. 'You know how it is, getting here from halfway across
town.'
'Quite all right, Mr Carpenter,' Will said calmly, without
looking up. 'It's only a tutorial.
Wouldn't want to disrupt you in the middle of a smoke, after
all.'
Carpenter let out a strangled little cough, and though Will
hadn't yet looked up from his
lecture he was certain that the young man had paled considerably.
'Sit down, sit down.' He set the paper to one side and leaned
back in his chair as Carpenter
set his bookbag next to one of the two chairs opposite. 'A word
of advice, though--in
future, the next time you're late for an appointment, you might
do well to ensure that you
don't have your preliminary cigarette in a doorway that can be
seen from the room in
which your appointment is being held.'
Carpenter's eyes flickered to the window of Will's office, and
he swallowed nervously.
'Er...yes. Thank you, professor. Sorry.' He sat, perched on the
edge of the chair.
Will nodded absently, shuffling through the papers on his
desk. 'Well, then. Last tutorial
of the year, and I believe you were going to tell me your plans
for summer study? You
mentioned that you'd signed on for an eight-week language
immersion programme in
Paris.' He leaned back again, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt.
'Is that still on?'
Carpenter blinked, visibly relaxing at the prospect of being
on safe ground once more.
'Yes, yes, it is,' he said. 'It's a little scary, but everyone I
know who's done it says that it's
a really great programme. And I've always wanted to learn
French--real French, you know,
not the stuff you get in school.'
'You've done all right with the Latin you had in school,' Will
pointed out. 'Well enough
for unseen translation, at any rate.'
'But French is a lot more useful,' said Carpenter flatly,
running a hand through his artfully
messy fair hair. 'People still speak French.'
'De mortuis nihil nisi bonum,' Will murmured. 'Speak
kindly of the dead languages, Mr
Carpenter. Though you're right in the sense that French will be
useful to you next term.'
'It's going to be a lot of fun,' Carpenter said, undaunted.
'The info packet that came a few
days ago talks about how the programme takes care of
everything--meals, dorms, even
trips outside Paris. And we're not allowed to speak a word of
English or whatever our
original language is. My best friend went on the programme last
summer, and he met kids
from all over the place. Even from America.'
Will fought back the urge to ask innocently 'And what
language do they speak over there?',
and merely smiled. 'Well, I'm certain you'll enjoy it. Better
than spending eight weeks in a
classroom with a grammar book and a tape player, I'm sure.'
'I'll say.' Carpenter beamed. 'Oh, I meant to ask you--how's
your research coming? I told
my granddad the other day that you were working on a book about
Bucks, and he wants to
know when it'll be out. He grew up there.'
'Well enough,' Will said, setting the question aside as neatly
as he had set aside the paper
with his lecture on it. 'Speaking of research, I believe you have
the redraft of that last essay
for me? I hope you were able to find those articles on the Borgia
family.'
I managed to find them. Carpenter withdrew a few
stray papers from his bookbag,
straightened them, and then handed them to Will. He also
wanted to know if you found
anything interesting about the village of Huntercombe. That's
where he lived when he was
a kid.
His hand shook; he dropped Carpenter's essay on his desk in an
attempt to cover it up.
A few things, yes. Will spread out the pages of
Carpenter's essay on his desk and
picked up his pen. Let's see what you've done here.
He settled into his routine, forcing himself to read closely,
to ask the sharp, pointed
questions at the appropriate times, to belabour the points that
needed belabouring.
The essay had improved, and Will told Carpenter so - in a very
backhanded fashion,
admittedly, but Will did not feel like being overly generous with
compliments. Just to
get through this very last tutorial - that would be enough.
Eventually, Will sat back in his chair. All things, Mr
Carpenter, whether good or
bad, must come to an end. He did not choose to add that the
session, in his mind, rather
leaned toward the latter.
Carpenter nodded, and took his essay from Will, looking somewhat exhausted.
My best wishes for you in Paris. Will watched as
the boy rose, picked up his bookbag,
and headed for the door.
Thanks, professor. Carpenter moved to close the
door behind him, but then paused and
stuck his head back in. Oh - I almost forgot - Granddad
told me to ask you if you'd found
anything about a family named Stanton.
Will raised an eyebrow.
Carpenter said slowly, Hey - that's funny. Maybe we're related, professor.
Anything is possible, Mr Carpenter -
Unless it's clearly impossible, I know, I know.
Carpenter grinned at him. Will kept his
face blank. His name is Mark Stanton - grew up in the
village. His dad was in the Navy
for years - married a woman from Manchester. And then after his
dad died - I think it was
a hit-and-run in London or something - they left Bucks and went
back up to Manchester.
A bit of a difference, that must have been. From all that
countryside to - well, Manchester.
Carpenter assumed a look that was no doubt supposed to convey
distaste. Any of this
sounding familiar, professor?
said Will to Stephen's great-grandson, his
voice trembling slightly. Stephen, who
had died when Will was twenty-nine. Stephen, whose wife and
thirteen-year-old son had
been so pale and quiet at his funeral. Will said
again, his voice stronger.
Carpenter peered at him. You do rather look like a
picture of Granddad when he was
your age. He was an only child, though.
As was I. Will said the words quickly, before he
could think about the betrayal he was
making.
If you don't mind my asking, sir, what were your parents' names?
There was a flash of horrible blind panic, as ghastly and
grating as the squeal of brakes
on a skidding car.
'Simon and Jane.' They were the first two names that had come
into Will's head, and
though he wasn't entirely conscious of what he had said, he kept
going. 'I'm afraid that
I don't carry my birth records with me, but then again I don't
recall that you've ever shown
an interest in detailed primary source research.'
The cold vehemence of his own remark took his breath away, and
suddenly he realised that
he was now standing with both hands planted firmly on his desk,
and the young man in the
doorway was staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide.
'I...I didn't m-mean to....' Carpenter stammered, and he
likely would have continued to
stammer out an excuse or apology of some kind had Will had not
held up a hand to cut him
off mid-sentence.
'No, don't apologise. That remark was uncalled for on my part,
and I hope you will pardon
me for it.' Taking a calming breath, he added, 'Even professors
start to feel the pressure,
come exam time. The students aren't the only ones who look
forward to the long vacation.'
It was a poor excuse, and he knew it, but he also knew that it
was the only excuse the young
man would understand.
'I-It's all right,' Carpenter said with a little laugh, a
nervous ghost of a smile on his
face. 'To tell you the truth, I can't wait to go home myself.
It's...this place gets to you,
sometimes.'
Will was certain that it was mostly the nervousness talking,
but the young man's remark
interested him. 'How so?'
'Just....' Carpenter's bookbag slipped off his shoulder and
hung, dangling awkwardly,
from the crook of his arm. He tugged it back into place. 'All
this,' he said, glancing
around Will's office. 'I like history, I do, but-it's just too much
sometimes.'
'Daunting, you mean.'
Carpenter nodded. 'Sort of.'
'Ah. Well, you've the makings of a historian, so far as I can
see. And I'll tell you this much,
Mr Carpenter.' He stepped out from behind his desk, and wandered
over to one of his
bookshelves. 'History will always be daunting, even when you've
studied it for as long as
I have. You'll think you've learnt about as much as you can on a
certain subject, and then
there will come a day when you will turn around and realise that
you haven't even touched
the surface of it.'
He ran a hand across a few titles, and finally selected a slim
white hardbound book from
the upper part of a nearby shelf. 'I had this book when I first
started learning French,
sometime back in the Dark Ages.' He forced a smile. 'It's a
children's story, yes, but
those are often the best kinds of books to start with when you're
learning a foreign
language.'
He held the book out to Carpenter, who took it from his hands and turned it over.
'Le Petit Prince?' A pleased sort of realisation slowly
dawned on his face. 'Oh, is this
The Little Prince? Neat - my mum used to read that to me
when I was little. In English,
though.'
Will regarded him for a long moment, and then said:
'Take it with you.'
Carpenter had been flipping through the pages with a
nostalgic, almost loving fondness,
but at Will's words his head snapped up. 'Oh, no...I couldn't
take this.' He held out the
book, trying to give it back to Will. 'Look at it - it's so old!
It's practically an antique!
I couldn't take it, Professor.'
Will huffed inwardly. Practically an antique, indeed - that
book had been almost new
when he'd received it. 'You'll have more need of it than I will,
this summer. Besides,
it'll give you something to read when things get boring.'
'If you're sure....' At Will's nod, the young man gazed down
at the book, then clutched it
to his chest as if he was afraid that Will would change his mind.
'Thank you, professor.'
You're welcome, Mr Carpenter. Have a good time - and do
see that you learn something.
Will allowed himself a quiet smile, which Carpenter returned.
Have a good holiday, the young man said, and then
he was gone. The door shut behind
him with a loud, final click.
Will braced himself on his desk, head down. When the rubbery
feeling left his legs, he
made it to his chair and sat, lost.
It's fitting, he said tremulously, after ten
minutes. It was the only thing he could think
to say. Stephen had given him the book, after all - a birthday
present. Stephen had never
combined birthday and Christmas again, after Will's eleventh
birthday.
If he'd only known who Carpenter was before -
If I'd known, said Will acidly, then I'd
have treated him differently. And that would
have been suspicious. He calmed. It would have been
suspicious. A pause. It's better
this way.
Will sat for a few minutes, letting the words sink in. Softly,
he repeated, It's better this
way, and he finally believed it.
There wasn't time to think like a regular person any more. He
knew he could let go of the
thought of what might have been - mostly because he knew he
didn't have time to savour it.
All the same -
A few brief words flickered through his mind - 'without my
dreams, I should have gone
mad long ago' - who had said that?
He did not have time to lose himself in dreams.
Perhaps once I'm off with the sheep, Will said to
himself, and organised his briefcase.
He would enter his office again once or twice before he left for
the last time, and then he
would go through and decide what he could take without it looking
suspicious.
Will cast a half-appraising eye around his office, turned out the light, and left.
* * *
A few necessary stops and final purchases were made - a new
suitcase, hiking boots, a
stout staff. When James Leonard asked him what his plans were for
the summer, he made
sure that there were several people around when he answered.
I've got a conference one
weekend, and I'm lecturing in Milan the next - thought I'd do a
bit of hiking in the Alps in
between.
Leonard said mildly, topping off his cup of coffee, Are
you going to have someone with
you?
Oh, I don't think so, Will said, cultivating a
suitably dry tone. More of a 'destiny
traveller' sort of thing. Ambling around, communing with nature.
Being at one with my
surroundings.
Leonard laughed, and then said, I'd consider finding
someone to go with you, though, just
in case you run into some trouble up there.
Will shook his head. It'll be fine. I've done lots of
distance hiking. And you've got to tell
people where you're going - there are several lodges around to
spend the night, and you
leave your name and destination with the first one, and then they
check up on you the rest
of the way.
Certainly sounds like you know what you're doing,
Leonard said cheerfully, and took
a sip of coffee. Good lord! What do they put in this
stuff? Petrol?
Will said nothing.
All told, he was quite satisfied with the way everything was
shaping up. He had written a
very sharp letter to his bank - and left the drafts lying round
his rooms, naturally - making
up some reason for withdrawing his money. He'd keep it on him
until he reached Berne, at
which point he'd open an account with Union Bank of Switzerland.
Then it would be on to
the conference, which he thoroughly intended to enjoy, and
then
The wild world awaits, he said softly to himself
two nights before his departure, sitting in
front of the fire.
One of the smaller logs broke, letting out a soft hiss.
'It'll be a nice change,' he added lightly, picking up his
teacup. 'No credit cards. No
telephone messages. No worrying about where the grant money is
coming from, or what
to say on a recommendation letter. None of that for a good long
while.' He sipped at the
tea, setting the cup back on the saucer. 'I am going to miss this
place, though.'
The fire was silent, slowly licking its way around an untouched bit of wood.
Will placed his cup and saucer down on the table at his side,
and turned to pick up the
carved wooden box that held his few treasures. He opened it,
reverently, and began to
lift out the objects inside it and set them in his lap.
First, Stephen's letters, all in their original envelopes,
bound neatly with a thin white
ribbon. The edges had yellowed slightly and the lettering had
begun to fade, but they were
still as legible as when the postman had delivered them. There
were other letters as well,
from other family members - one or two from his uncle Bill, a few
from his parents, the
odd letter from his brothers and sisters. There were several
sealed envelopes that held
important papers, birth certificates and Will's diplomas, any
official document with a
possibly incriminating date on it. Another worn envelope held a
number of family photos,
names and dates printed on the back in his mother's careful
handwriting. Gingerly, he
picked up a delicate gold locket, and swallowed the lump that
rose in his throat when he
opened it and saw his mother and father smiling bright, youthful
smiles up at him.
'They look so happy,' he murmured, running his fingertips over
the scrollwork engraving
on the back of the locket. 'They always looked happy, but
this....' He fell silent, not
knowing what else to say.
After a long moment, there was a rough crackle from the fire,
and Will took that as a
sign that it was time to close the locket and return it to the
box.
Not all of his treasures were letters or photographs. There
was the hunting horn from
Greythorne Manor, of course, though he didn't keep that in the
box with the other treasures.
(Keeping a thing of the Old Ones in the same box as family
snapshots and Stephen's letters
felt vaguely wrong in a way that he couldn't quite
define.) There was the perfectly flat
black rock that he had found on a school outing to the seaside, a
skipping stone that was far
too good to skip. There was a small velvety bag half-filled with
seashells. There was a
slightly dulled silver sixpence, long out of circulation, and two
shillings and a half-crown
that had been minted in the year he was born. There was the cork
from the first bottle of
wine he had bought, and a champagne cork from a long-past New
Year's Eve celebration.
And then came the best treasure of all.
The gold had not darkened with the passage of time. It caught
the firelight and sparkled as
Will held it up, turning it this way and that. A salt cellar, not
very big, cast in the shape of a
sturdy-looking castle.
When his father had died and Max had come into the jewellery
shop, Will had followed
his older brother to the shop one day and offered to buy it. Max
had given him an odd look,
then unlocked the glass-fronted cabinet and removed the
salt-cellar - and handed it to Will.
'He told me I was daft, asking to buy it off of him,' Will
said to the fire. 'He said that if
I'd asked Dad for it, Dad would have given it to me without a
second thought.'
The fire popped once, then twice, and curled round the edges of the larger log.
Will carefully replaced all the things in the box and closed
it. Placing his hand flat on the
lid, he whispered the words of a protection spell, sealing the
box's contents away from the
world.
'There,' he said when the last whispering echoes of magic had
faded. He would have to
undo the magic before the box could be opened again.
It was nearly done. In less than a few weeks' time, he would
turn out the lights, close
and lock the door, and walk away from his old life. It would be
safe in the box that would
always be with him, something to be turned over and looked at,
something to be cherished
for always.
As he stood, still holding the box, his eye fell on the
Scrapbook. Like the pariah it was,
it sat a ways apart from the other books and papers on his desk.
Will looked at the Scrapbook, and then put down his life-box
and moved to his desk. This
was one way, perhaps, in which Merriman could offer him guidance
without knowing it.
Merriman had made the same mistake over and over throughout the
ages - growing too
close to mortals. He was an Old One. They were Old Ones. They
were fundamentally
different from mortals; for them, it was the job to be done,
without recognition or thanks.
Looking at the Scrapbook now, Will could see very clearly in
his mind's eye Merriman
standing before him, looking cross. Of course Merriman would be
cross. To keep reminders
of those mortals he had known, reminders of history, was not a
thing that any Old One
should do. He was a tool. He was not supposed to have feelings,
or sensibilities to be
mollified, or any of the other things which constituted the core
of humanity. It hurt to
open the book and look at its contents, running his fingers over
each and every clipping
as though his actions could somehow bring it all back to life. It
was an indulgence. It was
a weakness.
More than that, thought Will, it's evidence. Something else
that would have to be dealt
with. He couldn't leave it here - it would raise questions. He
would have to take it with
him.
The same little voice which had shown him his opportunity
spoke up again, saying,
No. No, you don't.
The Scrapbook would be equally inexplicable wherever he was
going, should someone run
across it and decide to have a look. He could protect it in much
the same way as the box,
but what would be the point? The box was more than history. The
Scrapbook was a mere
tying-up of loose ends.
Except for one, whispered the voice. In the grate behind him, a log snapped in two.
It was a silly, childish hope - like that of a scared child
who hopes that by covering his eyes,
what he cannot see will not see him - but some silly, childish
part of Will had to believe in
it. For all his power and knowledge and plain common sense, there
was a part of him that
would not let go of the belief that Bran was out there somewhere,
unchanged by all the years.
As long as he did not have the scrap of newsprint that was the
physical evidence of Bran's
death, Bran Davies would never be dead.
A pretty piece of self-deception, Old One. He could
hear Merriman's voice as clearly as if
the man were standing next to him.
So what?' He gripped the book tightly,
protectively. That's the worst part about all the
funerals, looking down into the open casket and you'll never
be able to remember that
person the same way ever again, there'll always be that image,
that cold, dead image, and
it'll go back and colour every memory you ever had of them
in life. You look at them one
last time and you don't even stop to think that that
last time will be the last time, the last
memory you'll ever have of them - the memory of death.'
He tipped his head back, as if staring up at the blankness of
the ceiling could keep the
burning in his eyes from spilling over. I don't want
him to live forever...but does he have
to die in my memory, too?'
The fire was silent.
The little voice in his mind was silent.
Most mercifully, Merriman's voice in his mind was silent.
Slowly, Will let out a long breath. He relaxed his grip on the
Scrapbook, and ruefully ran
his thumb along the edges where his gripping fingers had made
indentations in the rather
flimsy cover.
He couldn't keep it, any more than the Ancient Mariner
could have kept the body of the
albatross once it had been cut from around his neck. But he
couldn't simply throw it out,
either, and unbodying it with his magic would have had that same
indefinable feeling of
wrong - somewhere to the left of inappropriate',
approaching sacrilegious'.
His gaze travelled over the top of the blank cover of the book, and lighted on the fire.
The flames gave an expectant crackle, like an audible question mark.
Will you?' he asked in the Old Speech. A small matter of formality, but a necessary one.
The fire leapt in a riot of dancing oranges and bright golds,
long tongues of flame reaching
high like a child's uplifted, welcoming arms.
Will walked forward until his toes touched the raised brick of
the hearth. He ran a hand
over the worn cover, a final lingering brush of fingertips, and
then he let the Scrapbook
slide through his fingers and into the grate.
The flames caught the book as it fell, wrapping around it when
it landed atop the coals. The
edges blackened quickly, and within seconds the old, dry
newspaper clippings within were
alight. Will watched, silently, as the fire consumed the last
remnants of his old life. By the
time the flames had died down and returned to normal, there was
nothing left of the book
except a good handful of feathery ashes blanketing the coals and
a faint odour of burnt
paper.
Rather anti-climactic,' Will said, after a moment.
The fire let out a sharp hiss and a spray of sparks.
He took his eyes from the fire and looked at the room,
blinking. The flames had left their
tangled imprint on his vision, and he had to clear it before he
could look back.
He took in the sights: the bookshelves, the desk, his chair
with the blanket thrown over the
arm, the table with the cup and saucer resting on it, the window
looking out on his world.
He saw it all, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Then he turned back to the fire, knelt, and stared into orange and gold.
Thank you, Will said.
The fire let out a soft crackle, and the flames bowed to him as they had done once, long ago.
Will allowed himself the very ghost of a loving smile, and then whispered, Go out, fire."
The room was dark.
He rose unsteadily. The day's light was
waning, and he could just barely make out the
delicate curves of cup and saucer on his table.
Will picked them up and went into the kitchen.
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Back to Part II
Forward to Epilogue
