The Eyes Of A King Part 21

"No-I'll not leave him."

"Father Dunstan prays for Stirling at every service," I said.

"I know, but ... please, Leo ... please go ..." She took my arm.

"Every service," I said. "Morning and evening."

"I want one of us to be there."

I was too tired to go, but I was too tired to argue. So I went.

I did not hear a word of the service. It seemed as if there was a wall of gla.s.s round about me that filtered every normal sensation and made it strange and distant and dreamlike. After the service had finished, I remained where I sat. Gradually, everyone else left.

"Ah, Leonard," said Father Dunstan when he emerged from the vestry. "I was meaning to come and see how Stirling is getting on. Shall I see you back at your house?" I nodded without focusing my eyes on him, and it was five minutes after he'd gone before I realized what he had said.

I walked to the back of the church slowly and stood looking at the rack of candles burning there. Through my tired, watering eyes, the lights made diagonal crosses, which stretched in the breeze from the open door. A storm was blowing up outside. The wind was snarling in the narrow streets and snapping newspapers against the empty fountain in the square. The door rattled open and shut again, banging against the frame.

The wind lulled for a moment. I took a candle, lit it, and put it in the rack, for Stirling, apart from the rest so that I could tell which one it was. I knelt down beside the candles, judged the distance wrong and crashed my knee against the floor, and had to bite back a curse. I bowed my head in guilt.

"Please, G.o.d, please let Stirling live," I whispered, so quietly that I could not tell whether I had really whispered it or just thought it. "Please. I know that I am evil, but should he be punished for it? I promise that if you let him live, I will never swear again. I will come to church every day. I will read the Bible morning and night. I will give anything. I would have my arms and legs cut off, if that was the only way Stirling could live." For a moment I was uneasy, as if this bargain was final and it might actually happen. And then, kneeling there, I was paralyzed with guilt that I valued my arms and legs over my own brother.

"Please-I will do anything," I went on whispering. "Let me catch silent fever and die if someone must, only spare him. He is the good one. He is too good to die-do you not see?" I was speaking out loud now: "Do you not see?" But there was silence. G.o.d was too far away to hear. "Only do not let him die to punish me."

The door swung and crashed against the wall in a sudden gust of wind. The candle flames bowed low and rose again in unison. Except for one. Stirling's candle, the youngest and the tallest, separate from the others and closest to the door, went out. A narrow thread of smoke coiled upward, and then the wind s.n.a.t.c.hed it away. I stared at the s.p.a.ce where the flame should have been, then stood up and ran out the door. I believed in bad omens. Truly, I did, and there was no point in pretending not to.

Hitting my elbow on the front door frame in my haste, I slammed the door shut and clattered into the bedroom. Grandmother and Father Dunstan turned to look at me. Stirling lay still.

"He is unconscious," said Grandmother.

I stood there and looked at him, panting and clutching absently at my numb elbow. "Come and sit down, Leonard," said Father Dunstan. "Do not be alarmed. This is a normal stage of the illness."

I had thought that Stirling was dead, just for a second. But I knelt beside the bed, put my hand in front of his mouth, and felt the breath there. "How long?" I said.

"This will probably not be over quickly," said Father Dunstan. "All we can do is wait."

We sat there in silence, watching Stirling. Stirling's body, that is-for wherever his spirit was, it was not there. There was a strange calm about him that made me think that he was dreaming. Whenever he moved the slightest amount, Grandmother would leap up with a cry, only to sit down again when he fell back into stillness.

For some reason I was not worried. The calm of Stirling's breathing made my breathing slow also, and I could hear Father Dunstan's watch ticking and my own heart beating, but nothing else. My mind wandered to other things. I began to wish Maria was here. But she had brought some shopping earlier; she would not call round again that day. She would not want to see me, anyway. Why had I said that to her? Why? How could I have said that? I screwed up my eyes and pressed my fists into them at the thought of it. How could I have said that?

When I opened my eyes, I saw that Father Dunstan was looking at me. I stopped grimacing. He smiled kindly. "All right, Leonard."

I felt so guilty then that I made myself imagine that Stirling was dead. Gone forever. I would walk to school on my own. Grandmother and I would go to church on our own. If someone asked me if I had a brother, I would have to say no. His bed would be empty, and his place at the table, and his desk at school taken by someone else.

I imagined myself looking out the cla.s.sroom window one day, seeing Second Year Platoon A training in the yard. I would see that one whose front teeth had been missing for a year, and the colonel's nephew with the orange freckles, and the one who was smaller than the rest and always started fights-as usual, I would see them all-but I would not see Stirling, no matter how long I looked, because Stirling would not be there. Stirling would never be there; he would not even exist, except as a memory.

My heart was rattling against my ribs. I looked quickly to see that he was still breathing. Slowly but regularly, he was. I pressed my hand to my heart, and after that I did not take my eyes off him.

Father Dunstan stood up to take Stirling's pulse at midnight. We were sitting in the dark, and it had been dark for two hours, but it was only then that I noticed. No one made a move to light a lamp. "How is he?" asked Grandmother.

"It is hard to tell," said Father Dunstan. "It is very hard to tell." And he sat down again, and we went on staring silently at Stirling.

After about half an hour, my eyes grew heavy. It hurt to keep them open. I pushed fiercely against the heavy blinks. Could I not even stay awake one night for the sake of my own brother? What if he died while I slept?

But it was no good. I was falling asleep, and no one made a sound to stop me; the stillness in the room was lulling me into sleep, and Stirling's slow breathing, and the darkness, and I just could not keep my eyes open.

I woke up and saw Stirling lying there, and started to my feet. "Grandmother, why didn't you wake me?" I demanded. "How is Stirling? Worse?" woke up and saw Stirling lying there, and started to my feet. "Grandmother, why didn't you wake me?" I demanded. "How is Stirling? Worse?"

"The same," she said. He was lying still, just as he had been before. Her chair was drawn up close to his bedside, and she was pressing a cold cloth to his forehead.

While I had been asleep, I had forgotten that Stirling was ill, and my heart was beating fast again now. "Where is Father Dunstan?" I asked.

"He went to take the eight o'clock Ma.s.s," said Grandmother. "He thinks that Stirling may lie like this for a couple more days without changing."

"And then what?" I said.

"I don't know," she said. "For now, we have to be patient. Sit quietly, Leo."

But I couldn't sit quietly. I had gone to sleep resigned to waiting and watching in silence. I had woken up and could not wait anymore. Overnight I had lost whatever calm I'd had. I began pacing about the room. I tripped over my boots on the floor, and Stirling's forehead furrowed for a second. "Leo, why don't you go to school?" said Grandmother.

"School? How can I go to school?"

"I think it would be good for you. Or else go down the road and buy some bread; we are out of food, and neither of us have eaten since yesterday lunchtime."

"What if Stirling gets worse while I am gone?"

"I will send Maria to fetch you. She will do that; she has said she will. Why don't you get ready to leave at least, then you can decide?"

I was already in my uniform; I had fallen asleep in it the night before. I splashed some water on my face and hurried back into the bedroom. "Maybe he is worse," I said, looking at Stirling. His face was flushed with fever, but then, it had been like that before. "Father Dunstan is coming after the service," said Grandmother. "He will be able to judge whether Stirling is worse or not."

"Grandmother, I don't know why, only I'm worried. You know I have powers. If I am worried, there may be a reason."

"But Father Dunstan said-"

"Does Father Dunstan have powers?" I demanded.

"Leo, what use are your magical powers to Stirling? What use is anything that you can do? What can you possibly do to make Stirling well? He may lie like this for days before he wakes up, and all we can do is wait. Sit down or go out for a while, but will you please try to be calm and sensible?"

It made me suddenly almost cry with anger that she could be so unreasonable. "Grandmother, why are you trying to pretend everything is normal?" I began. "Do you seriously think-"

"There's nothing you can do, Leo," she repeated.

But there was. There was something I could do. I could not sit here waiting, but I could do something. So I left.

I ran. That was all I did, just ran-out of the city and through the graveyard. There were no soldiers at the gate to stop me. I went on. Something was driving me out into the hills to search for the Bloodflower again. If you have powers, you cannot ignore them. ran. That was all I did, just ran-out of the city and through the graveyard. There were no soldiers at the gate to stop me. I went on. Something was driving me out into the hills to search for the Bloodflower again. If you have powers, you cannot ignore them.

I did not stop running. Even as the hills grew steeper, I kept up the same pace, pounding on uphill and downhill, toward the horizon. I ran straight through a stream, and water soaked my boots. I raced from valley to valley, trying to find some clue that would tell me where to look. But there was nothing, and in desperation I searched everywhere.

My eyes began to ache with hunting for a flash of red petals that was not there. I looked more and more meticulously. I ended up circling about the same patch over and over, s.n.a.t.c.hing impatiently at the gra.s.s stalks. I stopped still and realized there was nothing there at all. And suddenly I was sick of this place; I wanted to get out. I ran up the nearest hill.

I could see a long way from there. I turned and looked back; I had come several miles. My bones were aching, and my head was throbbing from too little sleep. I collapsed where I was and stared upward.

The sun was overhead and the sky was artificial blue, like dye, thick and dazzling with color. It hurt my head to look at it, and I shut my eyes, putting my hand up to my face to s.h.i.+eld it from the brightness. My forehead was running with sweat, though I had not realized it.

I did not have the energy to get up again. And suddenly I did not want to either. Everything was in control while I lay still. If I did not move, nothing else would. I lay there, irritated with the heat and the gra.s.s stalks pressing against the backs of my arms, until I began to drift away.

I opened my eyes, and I did not know whether I had slept or not. A bird was singing close by. Looking upward, I found it, a dark shape against the sky. It flew ever higher, until it was no larger than a dust speck, and then it was gone. Had it gone right out of the atmosphere? Or were my eyes too weak to see it? It could have gone right into heaven, for all I could tell.

That made me think of an old story that Grandmother used to tell us, about the little children who died. Their souls became birds so that they could fly up to heaven. I remembered her telling us, "They flew up and up, and the earth grew smaller and smaller, until they could see it no longer. They flew through the clouds, and they were free. They forgot the earth and all their troubles there, because they were going home." That was Stirling's favorite part of the story. "Imagine not being able to see the earth," he used to say. "Imagine that, Leo." He had never been afraid of death. Never. I was the one who was afraid.

My eyes were watering from the bright light. I stood up, but the tears went on falling. They were rolling down my cheeks and soaking the collar of my s.h.i.+rt. I tried to wipe them away, but more fell, and I sunk to my knees and found that I was pressing my hands to my face and rocking and wailing like a baby. I wasn't going to find the Bloodflower; it had been stupid to think I would. Stirling was going to lie unconscious, and then worsen and then die-and I would be left behind and there was nothing I could do about it. I took a shuddering breath. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with me? But I kept on crying. I could not stop myself.

I stopped only when all the tears in my head had fallen. I opened my eyes, coughing miserably. The gra.s.s was gleaming wet in front of me. My stomach was watery and heavy from crying so long. I began, wearily, to get up. It was no good staying out here any longer.

Then I stopped. Because I saw something. There, in the wet gra.s.s, as if it had sprung up from my tears, was a plant.

I stopped breathing and stared at it. It had blood-red star-shaped flowers with yellow centers; the leaves, veined with red, were a deep green. It was the same as the pictures I had seen. It was the same as the descriptions I had heard. It was, as far as I could see, the Bloodflower.

I sat and stared at it. Then I reached out and touched it. The teardrops on the flower centers trembled, but it did not disappear. It was really there in front of me; it had been there all the time.

My heart was beating so fast that I could hear it in my head. I began sc.r.a.ping at the soil around the plant, terrified of damaging it. I was glancing around all the time, in case someone else had seen, but the hills were deserted. I worked faster. The ground was dusty and the plant came out soon enough, roots and all.

My hands were shaking. I took off my jacket and laid the plant in it, covering it carefully so that I would lose none of the petals. Because the petals were the part that cured silent fever. With that thought, I got up and ran.

Our building looked different when I staggered up to it. It was because I was different. Tired and dusty as I was, I felt suddenly like an immortalized hero, greater even than the lord Aldebaran. I had found the flower to save Stirling's life. I unwrapped my jacket and checked that it had not vanished, that it was still the same flower it had been out in the hills. The leaves were already limp and thin; the stem had wilted; but the petals were intact. I stood still for a moment at the door, because nothing would be the same now and it made me dizzy. Then I clutched the plant to my chest and went in.

I was running again. I had thought I was tired, but it was not true. I clattered up the stairs two at a time. "I'm home!" I shouted. "Grandmother! Stirling! I'm back!" I tumbled through the door, shouting like an excited kid. "See! See what I have found!"

THE END

I close the book and for a moment I can feel myself smiling when I remember that day. It is growing quieter on the balcony. The lights of the city extinguish one by one. The music has faded now that they have shut the doors against the rising breeze. I get up and walk across the moonlit stone, the book still in my hand. close the book and for a moment I can feel myself smiling when I remember that day. It is growing quieter on the balcony. The lights of the city extinguish one by one. The music has faded now that they have shut the doors against the rising breeze. I get up and walk across the moonlit stone, the book still in my hand.

Now that I read this again, I remember the day I wrote that part of the story. I was sitting at the window, and I could tell someone was behind me even before I turned. I laid down the pen and turned and smiled. "Remember that, Stirling?"

But whatever I wrote then, it was not the end.

I stumbled through the bedroom door. Grandmother and Father Dunstan were both in the room, facing Stirling, so that their backs were to me. "Grandmother!" I called. "Father Dunstan! Stirling! See what I have found." stumbled through the bedroom door. Grandmother and Father Dunstan were both in the room, facing Stirling, so that their backs were to me. "Grandmother!" I called. "Father Dunstan! Stirling! See what I have found."

"Shh, Leo," said Grandmother, without turning. I ran into the room and opened my hand and held out the plant.

"Stirling," I said, more quietly, but he did not answer. "Stirling?"

I didn't know why I was trying. He never would answer, no matter how loud I called. But my brain had stopped ordering what I did. "Stirling?" I shouted. "Stirling!"

"Leo, stop shouting," Grandmother told me. And when she said it, she began crying, and she turned to me, and she didn't look like herself anymore. And Father Dunstan didn't look like himself anymore. And I wasn't myself anymore. The only one of us who still looked the same was Stirling. And he was gone.

And that was why I wrote "the end." Because that was the end of everything.

I stood and stared at Stirling, and I fell down on my knees and went on trying to wake him, because my brain still did not realize it. But my heart did, and my stomach, and my lungs; they had all stopped working. I felt as if they were dissolving.

Stirling's hands were still warm. As if he might open his eyes and grin at me, with his uneven teeth and his freckles and his crew cut that was lighter than his skin. "He looks very calm," said Father Dunstan, crying too. "He was not in any pain; he slipped away peacefully."

I pressed my head down into the quilt and placed my hands on Stirling's. Eventually I said, "Why didn't you-?" And then I could not finish. I tried again. "Why didn't you send for me?"

"He pa.s.sed away just a minute ago," said Father Dunstan. "He asked for you earlier, when he woke for a short while. We sent Maria to your school, but you were not there."

"Just ...," I began.

"Just a couple of minutes ago."

I dropped the bundle in my arms. The flower fell to the ground and lay there silently; that was all. So I ran into the living room, picked up a chair, and threw it at the window. The gla.s.s shattered, and I heard shouts from outside when it fell. "Leo!" Grandmother was exclaiming in a frightened voice. "Leo, what is wrong with you?" Father Dunstan got up. I tried to overturn the table, but he ran in and caught my wrist before I could. He held on to me while I struggled. "Calm down, Leo," he said. "It's all right to feel this way-to feel like destroying everything. It is perfectly normal."

But I did not want to react in a normal way. Because this was not a normal thing; it did not happen to everyone else. That was why I punched Father Dunstan.

I had not meant to hit him hard. But he fell back onto the table, sending the newspapers flying from it like a cascade of leaves in the wind. One of the legs broke and it crashed onto the floor beneath him. "Leo!" cried Grandmother. "Leo!"

The priest got to his feet, one hand over the side of his face. "It's all right," he said. "I am all right." He had let my wrist go. Then I was back in the bedroom, and Stirling was lying so still, like he was sleeping, and the flower was there on the floorboards. I crushed it under my foot.

And suddenly I didn't know what to do. I had been following my anger like an actor's part; I did not know what else to do. I turned around once, my hands over my face. And then I was punching and kicking the wall, while all the time my heart was cold and stunned. "Leo, don't!" Grandmother was gasping through her sobs. "Oh, Leo, Leo, don't." She tried to pull me round to face her. I shouted back but I don't know what I said.

"Calm down," Father Dunstan said. "Just calm down, Leo."

Grandmother sunk to the floor beside the crushed flower. "Leo ... was this ...? Leo ...?"

And suddenly I could not reply.

"It was the Bloodflower?" said Grandmother. "It was the Bloodflower." Her face collapsed with tears. "Leo!" she wailed. "Oh, Leo! Leo! Why did you not run faster? Oh, if only you had run faster."

"Mrs. North," said Father Dunstan gently. "Margaret. It was not anyone's fault. No one is to blame for this." Grandmother clutched to him, her back bent, and sobbed. "No one is to blame. No one can change what G.o.d intends." And then he was talking about the flower, how it would have had to be prepared, how this might not be the Bloodflower anyway and it looked to him like the wrong color, how when you were in difficult circ.u.mstances it was easy to mistake what you saw.

I wanted to shout and scream at him as loud as I could, but as loud as I could would not be loud enough. And I felt as if there were so few words. So I stopped talking.

I looked at Stirling, and I wished it was only him and me here, without Grandmother's hysterical crying or Father Dunstan's misguided wisdom. There were too many people. I could not think. I needed silence. I wanted to tell them to leave us alone. But I didn't speak. Eventually Father Dunstan helped Grandmother up and they went out and shut the door.

I fell down beside Stirling and touched his face. His skin was cooling. "Oh ... no ... no ...," I whispered. "Stirling, wait." I pulled the covers up around his face desperately, trying to keep him warm, trying to stop his spirit from drifting away. But it was already gone. I caught my arms around his neck and sobbed. "Please, Stirling. You can't leave me. I'll die, Stirling, I'll die."