The Stone Gryphon, Part 1: Oxfordshire 1942

Chapter 9
Cross-pollination Part 1
In which Richard and Peter discuss tawdry affairs, mighty deeds, and (eventually) foul-tempered hummingbirds.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing: -"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade.
Rudyard Kipling, "The Glory of the Garden"

Peter was waiting for him at the Botanical Garden. Asim had insisted on accompanying him there and Richard's temper was wearing very, very thin by the time they made it to the walled garden's entrance.

"For the last time, Asim, NO!" Richard erupted, jerking himself free from the solicitous arm that had been supporting him. "I know that Mary put you up to this, but I'm here, I'm fine, Peter is here, we'll be fine, and now get the Hell out!"

He saw Peter discreetly take a step or two away, and pretend not to hear the argument.

Asim, of course, had weathered tempers far worse than his own. He merely stood, implacable and unmoving as a rock. "You realize, Richard, that your wife will berate me worse than you are now," he responded, annoyingly patient. "You are the lesser evil."

"Don't test me on that. All you'll do is make me even angrier, and won't Mary be furious, then?"

It was to be a very important day. It was so perfect, Richard had rather egotistically assumed that it was no less than God's own Will that had seen to such a lovely, clear afternoon. He'd been planning it, taking notes, and knew that his own anticipation had worked him into a right proper state. He looked rotten, actually felt a quite a bit better than rotten, but at this point, it was all just varying lesser or greater degrees of rotten. There would be no better, and it could be much worse.

"Peter?" Asim called. "A word with you please?"

Nursemaids. His friend and his wife had become nursemaids. He wasn't that bad, yet. Why were they so eager to hurry the process?

Peter stepped back into the conversation he'd never really left. "Yes?"

"Richard is not to exert himself. No taking plant or soil samples, no capturing of dragonflies and bees, no climbing trees to look in bird nests or looking under rocks for newts. Richard, of course, may direct you to do those things, and on that, I have no opinion."

The boy smiled, looking nothing but pleased at the prospect of lifting rocks and climbing trees. "I can abide by those requests of course, but it is Richard whose word you need, not mine."

Traitor. I'll get back at you for this, Peter. Oh yes, I will.

"Consider this. You will both be accountable to Mary. Richard, will you give your word that you won't undertake anything that would alarm your dear, loving, beautiful, utterly devoted, and extremely over protective wife?"

"That's very dishonorable of you, Asim."

"Yes, it is," the soldier agreed.

"I give you my word that I will not attempt any of those things you mentioned, or otherwise intentionally do something that would alarm Mary."

It was so good, and so rare, when Asim was absolutely gobsmacked. Then, true to form, he turned immediately wary. He knew a quid pro quo was lurking somewhere. "And in exchange?"

"You leave the garden, go at least one quarter mile away, and give me your word that you will not eavesdrop."

Peter looked rather more interested at this point. As well he should.

"I'm hurt that you would suggest such a thing."

"Be hurt all you want." In fact, this had been the one point on which Richard was determined to prevail. He did not want Asim around and would gladly agree to any other condition to obtain that one.

"Why do you wish me gone?" Asim asked, all insinuating and suspicious, with deliberately narrow and cunning glances in Peter's direction.

"Because Peter and I are conducting a scandalous and tawdry affair," Richard retorted, smiling in spite of himself as Peter choked on a guffaw. "You'd tell Mary, and then she'd want to join us, and the whole thing would be…"

"Enough!" Asim interrupted, purpling up a bit himself as he laughed. "I would have preferred to go my whole life and into the next not burdened with that particular horror." He took a breath, and spoke more gently, and with all the guile he could muster, "Richard, please, it would ease my mind if you could tell me something remotely credible."

It was, he had to admit, fair. "Because I'm going to be administering an oral exam to Peter and he's not going to answer as well if you are here. He'll be worried you might report back to Mary, which she, in turn might be report back to Digory, and which he, in turn, might feel obligated to report back to Peter's parents."

Peter looked well and truly alarmed by this, perfectly underscoring Richard's argument for being left alone.

Asim closely inspected Peter, who indeed had now turned ghostly white with apprehension. Peter added a nicely ambiguous, and very heartfelt, "You wouldn't! Would you?" His voice even cracked a bit. Splendid.

"I'm afraid he would, Peter," Asim replied with great sympathy. He was quite familiar with Richard's truly fearsome reputation with students. "Very well," he acceded. To Peter, he said, "I'll be across the Magdalen Bridge if you need anything. I'll be back in two hours."

Peter looked so deflated, Richard couldn't help but add, "Three hours. It's going to be a long exam."

Struck by a true inspiration, Richard hit upon an alternative far superior to listening in where he wasn't wanted. "Better yet, Asim, rather than waiting for us, why don't you go find Mary in the library and glower at Copeland's assistants while she orders them about. That should be fun for you. Be sure to finger your knives."

This would not be a difficult dilemma for Asim. The soldier's smile was thin and grim. He curtly nodded to them both, turned, and left the Garden, walking rapidly. Richard held his hand to quiet Peter's question. They watched Asim's retreating back as he turned onto High Street and disappeared.

With some relief, Richard thought it might just work. Asim was far too curious about Peter and had definitely shared his suspicions with Mary. Granted, as far as he knew, he and Asim were intrigued by different things. Hopefully, the prospect of entertainment and Richard's very firm, logical request would keep him away for a while. Having someone else around would send this all to Hell.

"Don't look so glum, Peter. It won't be that bad."

Peter added skeptical to the very worried look. "Does there have to be an exam?" The desperate plea was practically a whine.

Richard silently shook his head, no, still not entirely trusting that Asim was out of earshot.

"Oh," Peter responded miserably, at odds with the relieved grin. "Couldn't we make it a bit shorter?"

Richard allowed himself a smile. "Perhaps just a bit. Come on. There's only the one entrance. If we go into the middle of the garden, we'll be able to see anyone approach, and be far enough away from the walls that he can't overhear us."

"Would Asim really eavesdrop as you say?

"Of course he would. He tries to blame Mary, but he is a spy. He can't help himself. The only thing that might get him out of here would be that he really does not want to listen to you drone on about raptor eyesight, and me berating your incomplete answers. Compared to the prospect of terrorizing the trils, it's simply no contest. He'll rant and swear at them in Turkish, German, Italian and Arabic and pick his teeth and nails with long knives. He'll be in a truly terrifying state and can keep it up for hours."

Richard walked toward the benches that lined the center path. There were songbird feeders, a pond, and lots of painful rose bushes.

"Is that how Mary got Dr. Copeland to lend his assistants to her?"

"Oh, that was a threat of a different sort," Richard called over his shoulder. "She told him that she was in the queue to jury his next paper."

"Isn't that process supposed to be anonymous?"

Richard snorted. "Really, Peter. Don't be naïve. There aren't that many of us in England who do this sort of thing and even if there were a hundred, Mary could spot someone else's work with no effort at all. The possibility of Mary Anning Russell taking a truly critical eye to one's work is enough to make even the most obstinate scientist cooperative."

He'd found a bench with the privacy and view he wanted; Peter hadn't kept pace, though. Turning about, he saw Peter a few feet back, crouched by a thicket of flowering shrubs.

Well, it had to happen. They'd been watching a nest of finches there for the last week or so and there'd been no way the smallest fledgling was going to survive, out competed and harassed by its larger nestmates.

Peter pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and Richard could see him gently move the tiny body further under the bush. The first time Richard had seen Peter near a dead animal, it had been a mole pup. He'd at first taken the boy's rather out of proportion reaction as squeamishness, which even then had seemed thoroughly out of character. Later, observing more closely how Peter related to birds and mammals, both living and dead, Richard had come to a far different conclusion. Profound reverence motivated Peter's actions; not distaste or fear. Peter regarded each of these small garden creatures as dearly as any child or friend.

For all that Peter did not understand the theology of the Franciscans he had been researching for Digory, he lived it more fully than even his tutor. For Peter, animals and the world they occupied were as sacred to God as humans, Brothers and Sisters all.

They had had a rather spirited argument when Richard tried to keep him from burying the mole. Richard had finally prevailed by reasoning that other of God's creatures might need the mole's remains and one way or another, it would be returned to the Earth. That had become their compromise. As they had rambled through the university, the gardens, greens, and streams, when they found some dead bird or animal, Peter would always pause. He would reverently place the body in a secluded place and say some barely audible prayer. Only then would Peter return to whatever they had been exploring or discussing.

"Seen it safely off into God's hands?" Richard asked when Peter joined him at the bench.

"And why must they be hands?" Peter responded, as he carefully folded the handkerchief and returned it to his jacket. It had become an amusing discussion for them, albeit one that Richard had noticed Peter did take quite seriously.

"You know I won't ascribe any such physical limitation to the Divine. If He or She desires hooves, paws, or wings, He or She is omnipotent, and may merely wish them into being."

Peter settled himself on the grass, with a view of the pond and the feeders. "So, no examination, then?"

"No, but I did want Asim well away. You and I are overdue for a long talk and that wasn't going to happen with him hanging about."

The boy turned back to look him more squarely in the eye, but not unduly concerned. Peter was not wary as he had been when they'd first started the summer. Richard had given him no reason to be; he hadn't pushed where Peter not been willing to go and hadn't demanded explanations that he wasn't willing to give. Richard hoped the friendship they had developed would last the next few minutes.

"You've said that at the end of the summer, you'll go back to that ghastly school, Blackwater?"

"Blackpool."

"Blackpool, with your brother Edward." He knew as soon as he said it, that he had the name wrong. But that was the nature of the disease. Peter didn't correct him.

"And you'll, what, study more? Take your exams, and apply to university, correct?"

"It does sound exciting, doesn't it!"

Peter was really too serious and honest to manage sarcasm especially well.

"To study what? Latin, logic, theology, and philosophy like your father? Like Digory?"

They'd been over this before, but never so bluntly. He saw Peter's face tighten into what presaged his drawing inward on himself. It looked remarkably like a turtle pulling everything into its impervious shell and the effect was rather the same. This time, though, Richard wasn't going to let it go. "You'll read the classics curriculum even though you don't like it?"

Richard waited, but didn't really expect Peter to answer. He prodded further. "You're going to devote years of study to subjects you don't really understand and aren't terribly good at it? To what end?"

"And do what instead?" Peter shot back, justifiably testy. "Follow you into zoology? Become one of 'Copeland's trils'? Because you know…"

"We'll get to the alternatives in a moment," Richard interrupted. "But, they don't matter a damn if you aren't even willing to consider them. All roads do not lead to Rome, Peter."

"You don't…"

"Shut up. Of course I understand. You're the eldest son surrounded by brilliant people. Your sense of responsibility is so wide, it veers perilously close to guilt."

"It's what we've always wanted and expected, it's always been what I would do." In saying it, Peter repeated his mantra and slid from irritable to childishly sullen.

"Don't be so adolescent about it, Peter, because I know you aren't."

The curt acknowledgement of what had thus far been unspoken between them pierced Peter's weary fatalism and the juvenile angst that accompanied it. With it came what Richard had seen even that first day during tea – a sudden, profound shift in Peter's demeanor. The problem was, that Peter, wherever he came from, while a damn bit more interesting to talk to, was even more duty-bound than the adolescent one.

Peter sat a little straighter, pulled his arms around his knees, and spoke with that peculiar formal courtesy. "Richard, I do appreciate your concern and everything you've done for me this summer. But, it's been a holiday. The real work begins soon, and it won't have anything to do with tromping about fields and looking for owl pellets."

Oh he could be so dense. "I told you, I'm not talking about the alternatives. My point is only that God gave you extraordinary talents, but they don't belong here, in a place like Oxford."

It was a low and unfair, to argue the omnipotent point of view. It wasn't really one that could be argued against; not a logician's argument at all. But, Peter was no logician.

"I don't know what God wants." Richard heard the frustration, edging perilously close to bitterness. Like sarcasm, it wasn't something Richard had seen much of in this boy-who-wasn't. He had seen irritation, impatience, occasionally shirty behavior and sometimes a bit of arrogance. Yet, overall, Peter's astonishing self-control simply did not permit him the luxury of any indulgent or negative behavior.

So harsh, it hurt to hear it, Peter bit out, "I don't know what talents you see, because the ones I see don't have much applicability here at all."

It was the closest Peter had ever come to admitting the Differentness. Richard felt himself go very still, knowing how carefully he had to tread to here. There was a sweet bird call, and Peter tilted his head toward it listening, visibly struggling to master his anger. To say the wrong thing here would be irreparable. Peter would retreat into his shell and no amount of poking would bring him out again.

Richard waited, letting Peter regain that admirable balance.

Into the quiet that eventually came, he was able to say gently, "There are many Gifts, Peter."

He heard a snort of contemptuous disgust. "I know that Letter to the Corinthians very well, Richard. To the one who is given wisdom or knowledge, or faith or the gift of healing, it's all pretty clear. But mighty deeds? That one is a lot harder when you aren't old enough to enlist."

Richard burst out laughing, then laughed even harder at Peter's livid expression. "You'd not make it two months before you'd be up on insubordination for refusing to follow some stupid officer's ridiculous order."

There was a flash of rage, quickly suppressed, and the moment passed. Peter sagged. Bowing his head, he pulled his hands through his hair, and muttered, "I know. You're right about that, of course."

Leaning forward Richard clapped the thoroughly deflated boy on the shoulder. "War's not a growth industry. You can do better than that. If killing things, planning to kill things, and thinking of more novel ways to kill things were the sole measure of mighty deeds, we'd be a sorry place indeed."

Peter's head shot up, a shocked expression on his face, looking far more dumbstruck then he should have been upon hearing that platitude. Good Lord, could Peter really be so blinkered as to think that classics and the military were his only callings? Richard restrained the urge to berate him further. He'd heard enough of the criticism; Peter was labouring under impossibly high expectations that deep within, and for undoubtedly the first time in his life, he knew he probably couldn't meet. He needed the hope that success in something important to him was achievable. Failing that, a blunt cudgel applied to his skull might be effective, too. For not the first time, Richard wondered if that was normally the younger brother's role, and that part of Peter's intractability lay in the absence of his brother's moderating influence.

"You aren't a destroyer, Peter. Nor, getting back to my original point, are you a scholar. You are a doer, a leader, and a builder. When this blasted war ends, England is going to need people like you, Mr. Patel, and my gardener more than the boys with firsts in classics from Oxford, soldiers, and even, although it is to my everlasting sorrow, natural scientists."

Richard faintly heard the finches clamoring for food. The harried female flitted by a moment later, with something in her beak. Peter also tracked her with his eyes, watching as she darted into the shrubs.

"I had wondered about zoology, or something like it," Peter admitted softly. "But, I'm not sure I'm suited to it."

Leaning forward, Richard rested his elbows on his knees, exhaling with a sigh. "I've thought about that a lot given the depth of your understanding of the natural world." Seeing another stunned expression at the praise, Richard couldn't quite quell his mounting annoyance at the boy's obtuseness. "Don't be so thick, Peter. You have profound talents in the area, but there are some problems. You have a singularly un-inquisitive mind and don't have the innate motivation to question even the obvious; you take it on faith. With training, and the right collaborator, you might overcome that obstacle."

"Really?" Richard couldn't tell if Peter was genuinely interested, or merely flattered, but with no real intention of changing his mind. He suspected the latter.

"Yes, but this leads to the second problem and you are the best of judge of just how much of an issue it is. I'm not sure you could ever study animals in a remotely objective way. I saw it again as you knelt over that finch. You almost vomited when I suggested dissection that one time."

"But it was a fox!"

"Exactly my point. Even the thought of it makes you go pale again. I don't know if you could ever look at animals as research subjects, rather than comrades."

Peter looked rather more thoughtful, glancing back at the bush where he had prayed over a fledgling's broken body. "I'd not quite seen it that way, but you may be right."

Making another attempt, Richard added, "If you went into something like veterinary medicine, agriculture, or wildlife management, that sort of empathy would be useful.

"Those aren't in the classics curriculum, Richard." Peter spoke with such finality and authority, Richard knew that was the end of the discussion. To push further would be to no purpose and would only strain their friendship to a break that would be very hard to mend.

With that, Richard felt bitterness of his own creep in. What a waste. He'd hoped for a different outcome.

"Which brings me to the second thing I wanted to discuss." Carefully, he removed the precious field book from his pocket.

"So, you are done berating me over my poor and inexplicable decisions?"

"I'm pretty sure that throttling you would fall under the category of exertions that would alarm Mary."

Peter had the good graces to look apologetic. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I appreciate the advice, I do. However, this is where I've been headed for a long time, my father and the Professor have put a lot of effort into my education, and I cannot disappoint them. There's nothing more to be said or done about it that will change my mind."

"Just listening to me would be an improvement." Richard sighed, deeply and heavily, the regret almost overwhelming him. "At least try to remember what I've said. You may not be ready to listen now, but in a few years, maybe you will. When that time comes, try to see it as an opportunity to find your calling, and not a failure of the past. Can you promise me that?"

"I don't think that will happen, but I'll try to remember what you've said."

With that, Peter mentally moved on, returning to look at the pond and the finches with a clarity of vision so unique and an appreciation of God's creation so profound, Richard had never observed it in any other person, and knew he would never again. So many things he could do well, and out of misplaced duty, Peter was going to pursue one of the few things he couldn't.

He had tried to discuss it privately with Digory, but that too had been to no avail. Digory's regard for Peter was so impossibly high, it was inconceivable to him to imagine Peter not capable of anything to which he set himself to accomplish. It was, in the scholar's view, a matter only of will and effort, not innate ability. Maybe it was the fault of a too-brilliant mind who had never encountered a proof that could not be unraveled. Maybe the peculiar deference the much older man afforded to Peter prevented him from questioning Peter's limitations without feeling disloyal. Maybe it was just the blindness that love and respect could induce, that inability to sometimes see things as they are, rather than as you wish and believe them to be.

Richard had to look quickly away, not able to bear the vision coming so clearly into focus. Talented men and women who persisted in denying their own potential were not easy for him; more so when he could see the frustration and disappointment the years ahead would hold. Peter would be miserable trying to meet the expectations of those he loved – expectations that he simply would never be able to satisfy if he persisted on the path long set before him.

"I am sorry I won't be able to help you through it all when the time comes," Richard finally managed to say through a tightening throat. "I would have tried to take you as a student, Peter. Maybe we could have worked through the challenges, or at least found something that suits you better. But I can't. Do you understand why?"

Peter turned slowly back to face him, going very still. "I guess I thought it was just an illness," he replied quietly.

Just an illness. Were the young always so naïve? Peter sounded so like Mary in that. Always another doctor to visit, another regimen to try, another procedure to undergo. We've become so very skilled at killing; regrettably, learning more of how to save lives, like so many other things, had rather lagged as the War dragged on.

"I have advancing dementia, coupled with palsy, which is a particular conjoining of Hells even my father and grandfather didn't have. Both will get worse, not better."

He opened the journal in his lap. He'd kept one since before he could write, and still had every one of them at home. "Within a year or two, I won't remember who you are, and will be thinking that Mary and Asim are conspiring to kill me. I won't be able to write, but will still pretend to read. Within three or four years, I'll be wearing nappies, will think my wife is my dead mother, and assuming I can still walk, will have to be restrained to keep from breaking my back on a flight of stairs or wandering into a pond and drowning. If I'm not dead in five years, it will only be because Mary is providing constant nursing care, thereby extending everyone's misery even longer."

It was so still, the reeds in the pond seemed loud. "Are you sure?" Peter whispered.

"How many times have you not corrected me for getting your brother's name wrong? You won't say, because you don't lie if you can help it, but you couldn't help noticing, and that it's gotten worse." Richard held out his hand, watching it with the objectivity of a scientist. It shook, the pencil clutched clumsily in his fingers; a child's hand. "Do you honestly believe this will improve?" He set his disembodied hand back down in his lap.

Peter would not lie, so he would, as was his wont, simply not answer the question.

"I'm so sorry, Richard. Is there anything I can do?"

And so, we come to it. Richard sent up a tiny prayer. As You love me, as I love You.

"Actually, yes. You see, Peter, I'm relying upon that mile wide responsibility veering into guilt streak that you have, and have revealed the true state of my health in order to manipulate you into giving me what I want."

Peter tilted his head and laughed, wiping away the tears that had leaked in his eyes. Excellent. This just might work.

"If it's about that tawdry affair, the answer's no."

Richard laughed too, although he did wonder just how intrigued Mary might be. Her views, while as liberal as his, also were a bit more exotic. That was just one of many unpleasant discussions the two of them were going to have to endure before his illness progressed too far; it would all be very ugly because she simply wasn't going to want to hear it.

"The truth, Peter. I want the truth."

Cross-Pollination, Part 2 to follow.
Rude hummingbirds, promiscuous songbirds, formidable bloodhounds, cunning corvids, obnoxious otters, and observer bias.

It's not really meant to be a cliff-hanger.

Thank you all for the kind reviews. Part 2 of Cross-Pollination ties in with elements in the last chapter of By Royal Decree, so there is some overlap and I'll be working on both at the same time.