Boy on the Edge (18 page)

Henry had now become used to having Ollie in the cowshed. He didn’t mind if Ollie was reading; actually it was quite nice to listen to his voice while milking. His presence had ceased to be a threat, especially now that Henry and Mark had become friends. Sometimes Henry went to the smithy after milking and helped John and Mark with the pallets. Mark had decided that the time still wasn’t right to reveal the boat to John. Perhaps Mark hadn’t made up his mind about rescuing John, Henry thought. Perhaps Mark was worried about whether John could be trusted, now that he was saved and all that. Maybe he would go straight to the reverend and then all would be for nothing. The only thing John seemed interested in was his carving. He spent long hours sitting at a table in the smithy with his chess pieces and a sharp knife.

One day in the cowshed, Ollie was watching the dung flies on the windowpane. When the light fell on the glass, they gathered on the same spot, cramming on top of one another, following the sunbeam right up to the corner of the window until it faded and disappeared.

“Look, Henry,” he said. “See how the flies follow the sunbeam on the glass. I wonder why they do that?”

Henry had no idea and didn’t reply. He thought that as the flies were gathered in a bunch, the boy could exterminate them once and for all.

“Maybe they live on the sun,” Ollie said, “and are trying to get back home. What do you think of that, Henry? Maybe they’re old sunbeams that have shed their light. That’s why they have to get back home to the sun, don’t you see? To become bright and glowing again and to fly all over and shine again!” he said, watching the flies with affection.

Henry had tried hard to exterminate the flies in the cowshed, but now that Ollie thought he’d discovered their purpose — that they were in fact burned-out sunbeams on their way home to regain their light — Henry felt a sudden longing to help them fulfill their destiny.

Another evening, when the northern lights twirled in the starry sky, Ollie stopped in the doorway of the cowshed, awestruck, looking up at the magnificent spectacle in the dark sky.

“Look,” he whispered. “The Lord of Winter charges on with his chariot.” He pointed his tiny finger at the northern lights.

Henry didn’t reply, but Ollie smiled mysteriously, as if he was telling him a secret not many people knew.

“He has twelve ice-horses that pull his chariot across the sky,” Ollie said.

Henry snorted and shook his head.

“The northern lights,” Ollie explained, “are the hoof dust of the ice-horses, pulling the Lord of Winter’s chariot.”

Henry glanced at the northern lights.

“Hoof dust? What’s that?”

“It’s the magical dust from the horses’ hooves,” Ollie said in a mysterious whisper. “It’s the dust that all beautiful dreams are made from.”

When Ollie had left, Henry stood for a long time, watching the heavenly journey of the Lord of Winter on his chariot. The mysterious hoof dust from the ice-horses clearly showed how fast the Lord of Winter traveled. Henry remembered having decided that the lights were the souls of the damned, but not anymore. It was strange how Ollie’s thoughts and words could change everything into magic and wonder.

Ollie talked a lot about his grandparents. They had taught him hundreds of old rhymes and poetry of all sorts. Sometimes Henry had a hard time holding back his laughter when the boy recited a poem at the dinner table, putting on a serious frown like an old man; even his voice sounded old.

Ollie had a special way of measuring distances; he measured them in poems and rhymes, like his grandfather had taught him. For instance, there was one poem that could circle the Cairn of Christ three times, he told Henry with a triumphant smile. Another poem stretched all the way around the barn. Then there was one that covered the exact distance between the house and the garage door. Sometimes Henry saw him stopping abruptly in the middle of the yard, tilting his head and looking very thoughtful. Ollie explained to Henry that he was unable to move any farther because the poem had ended in the middle of the yard and he had to search his mind for another one to be able to continue his walk.

Emily followed him everywhere with sweaters and woolen socks, but he couldn’t stand wearing warm clothes and always pulled them off, either in the cowshed or in the yard, and then forgot where he’d left them. Warm clothes simply got in his way, especially coats or scarfs. And there was no way Emily could get him to wear warm boots and socks; he complained his feet were suffocating. The most he would wear were his old moccasins with no socks.

One evening Ollie didn’t show up for dinner. It was freezing outside and pitch-dark. The reverend was away, so Henry and Mark went out with Emily searching for him. Emily had become frightened and called loudly, her voice echoing in the yard. Finally they heard a tiny voice out in the lava field. They found Ollie standing by the church, where he said he couldn’t move from. He hadn’t been able to remember the next verse of the “Poem of the Sun.” It was the one that reached all the way back to the house, but he was stuck where he was, racking his brain, for it would have been cheating to repeat the same verse to get back.

“You must never do that again,” Emily demanded sternly.

But Ollie gave her a strange look and said, “I have to measure everything with poems. It’s very important.”

“Why is it important?” Emily said, throwing her hands in the air.

“Because then, everything will be all right. Then, nothing bad can happen,” he said in a thin voice, and lowered his head. “And the ‘Poem of the Sun’ is the best poem there is,” he added. “You’ll never get lost if you know the ‘Poem of the Sun.’”

After that he caught a cold and had to stay in bed, so Emily turned up for milking on her own, looking worried, irritated and impatient. And she often left before it was finished.

When Henry was scraping the dung canal or the roof beams creaked from the wind, he thought for a moment he heard Ollie’s bright and cheerful voice ringing through. He glanced at the fence around Noah’s stall, where Ollie had sat so often with the books on his lap, and felt a surprising pang of regret that he wasn’t there.

Henry remembered some of the silly things Ollie had said, and he laughed out loud. It surprised him how hard he could laugh once he’d started. It was peculiar to hear one’s own laughter in the cowshed.

“When I grow up I want to be a grandfather,” Ollie once said.

“You’ll have to become a father first,” Emily replied.

“Why?”

“It’s the law of life.”

“Then I’ll break the law and do what I want.”

The giggle burst out of Henry without warning. It was a nice feeling, this tickling deep inside, triggered by the little worm’s silly words and strange thoughts.

Henry entered the kitchen with the milk container and heard Emily’s voice from upstairs. She was reading to Ollie because he couldn’t fall asleep without having a story read to him.

After two visits from the doctor, Ollie was back on his feet again. He came to the cowshed, climbed up on Noah’s fence, and watched them milk the cows. He had a book on his knees. But he couldn’t read for long, because he said his eyes were tired. He was also too tired to pat the cows or comb them, so he watched Henry do it instead when Emily was gone.

“Will you read for me?” Ollie said with a sigh.

The blizzard outside was so wet and heavy that you could barely see your hands in front of your face. The beams creaked loudly as the storm pounded the roof.

“Henry? Will you read for me?” he begged.

Henry continued brushing Old Red and acted as if he hadn’t heard him. But Ollie wasn’t going to give up. He climbed down from the fence, placed himself on the other side of Old Red, and put the open book on her back, right in front of Henry.

“Someone has to read for me,” he said almost as an order, wrinkling his brows.

“Why?” Henry said.

“I must have a story today. If I don’t I might as well die,” was the honest reply.

“Ask Emily.”

“She hasn’t the time today.”

“Neither have I,” Henry growled, turning away.

He threw the comb away and tried to think of something to do to show Ollie how busy he was. Emily hadn’t washed the milk buckets, so he grabbed the yellow hose, turned the water on, and began to clean them. He made sure that the water sprayed all around him and in Ollie’s direction. The buckets rang loudly as he split the jet of water with his thumb.

He hoped, prayed even, that Ollie would lose his patience and leave. But he stood still with a stubborn look on his face and waited so that he could continue to plead.

He couldn’t wash the buckets forever so he pointed the jet at the dung canal, pretending he needed to clean it more thoroughly. Ollie retreated two steps from the water. It was a kind of game, Henry thought. Now was the moment to see which of them had the most stamina.

“You are my brother, and older brothers are supposed to be kind,” Ollie said.

Henry bent the hose and choked the stream.

“Huh? I’m not your brother.”

“But you’ve got to read for me,” the boy said, and his voice was breaking.

“I do?”

“Yes. I read for you when you were sick,” he said, holding the book out to him. “And now my eyes are too tired, so you must do it for me. Please.”

Henry turned off the water, faced the wall, and started to wind up the hose in slow motion while he tried to think up an answer. He was panicking now.

“Well, I wasn’t listening,” he finally snapped.

The door slammed behind him.

On a nail by the door hung Ollie’s coat and scarf. The stormy wind howled overhead and the roof creaked more loudly. Henry wiped the mist off the windowpane and looked out.

Ollie was standing out there in the blizzard, squeezing his book against his chest, looking around him, as if he had lost his way and didn’t know the direction to the house. He was like a tiny bird that had lost its flock and didn’t know where to find them. Ollie took a step into the whiteness and disappeared. Henry flung the door open, but the blizzard struck him so hard in the face he had to turn away to catch his breath.

Serves him right, Henry thought, slamming the door. Serves him right, not wearing a coat in a blizzard like this. It would only be fair if he caught a cold or pneumonia or something. Yeah, serves him right for talking like that, Henry decided, like Henry had done him some injustice or something.

Still Henry waited by the window to see if Ollie appeared again. After a while he took the coat and the scarf and pushed himself out into the blizzard, heading for the house. He thought at least if he took the clothes with him, Emily wouldn’t have a reason to scold Ollie for leaving them.

When he entered the kitchen he saw Ollie’s book lying on the table. And from upstairs he heard Emily’s soothing voice through Ollie’s sobbing. Henry felt bad for having hurt him. But how could he explain to the boy that his dearest passion was also Henry’s greatest fear?

Christmas approached with pitch-black darkness and a snowstorm. Everyone participated in the preparations under Emily’s command. Mark and Henry wrestled against the tempest, trying to fasten lights on the mountain ash outside the living-room window. Ollie and John had fun cutting out figures in the cinnamon dough, while Reverend Oswald sat by the stove and watched, sipping coffee. From the radio in the living room the Christmas carols found their way around the house; Emily seemed to know all the songs by heart.

Every night Ollie put a moccasin in the window. Each morning he sat up in bed and examined the snow outside. There were no footprints. And yet there were sweets from Santa in the shoe. He asked everyone how Santa had managed to put the sweets there, for the house had no chimney. Did he have a key to every house? Or could he, perhaps, walk through walls? If so, was Santa a ghost? Or did he have magic? If he had magic, then why didn’t he just make the candy appear in every house, instead of walking across the country each and every night till Christmas with a sack full of sweets?

There were no easy answers to all his questions.

On Christmas Eve Emily set the dining-room table while John and Mark played cards in the living room, and Henry and Ollie watched cartoons on the television.

Reverend Oswald sat down with the boys, trying to find something to talk about. But they were a little shy. It was only Ollie who spoke and wanted to know if the reverend had met Santa. Oswald just smiled and gave no clear answers.

Emily laid the food on the table, and everyone sat down. Oswald said a long prayer, and then they all said the Lord’s Prayer together. Ollie’s voice chimed brightly as always, John recited it devoutly, with a serious look on his face, and even Mark and Henry mumbled along, for it was Christmas after all.

After dinner the reverend cleared the table while Emily played the piano. Ollie stood by her side and sang “Silent Night” in his clear, bright voice.

Each of the boys got a soft parcel from the couple: woolen mittens, a sweater, and a scarf.

John got a present from his parents: a wood-carving set in a hardwood box with razor-sharp knives and tiny chisels, well-made steel instruments. It looked expensive. Henry noticed that a tear ran down John’s cheek, and he wiped it away quickly so no one would notice. But Henry did and wondered why this strange present had made him so sad. After all, he was a skilled carver, so he should be happy to get a professional carving set. Maybe it had been a happy tear?