Boy on the Edge (22 page)

He stood there for a long time, like a troll turned to stone, on the edge of the cliff with his clubfoot between the rocks. He peered into the fog that had swallowed the boat, tilted his head, and listened. But all he heard was the gush of the breeze and the slapping surf far below; the air wove between his fingers, a salty spray gently stroked his face. For a moment he thought he heard the faint sound of a harmonica playing a joyful tune, but maybe it was just his imagination.

It had been a desperate plan from the beginning, an insane idea, but who knew; perhaps God would look after them. Perhaps he would work a miracle on their behalf. Maybe Henry didn’t have to worry about them anymore; they would be safe now, one way or the other, in that unknown place where dreams came true.

Day was breaking on the eastern sky; the fog dissolved and the birds tumbled off the cliffs and glided over the endless ocean that spread out as far as the eye could see. The bank of dark clouds on the horizon had moved closer; most likely the tempest would reach land tonight.

Henry did as the reverend had asked before leaving yesterday; he moved the chairs from the garage to the new church and arranged them in rows on each side. Then he carried the small organ and placed it beside the altar. Henry had spent the morning alone, getting everything ready for the mass.

He heard the yellow Volvo drive into the yard and saw the reverend disappear into the house. Henry sat down in the church, waiting, but the reverend didn’t come.

The crucifix from the garage hung on the wall above the altar. Below it was an electric heater. The cord came in through an open window and stretched all the way across the lava field, right up to the house and into the hall, where it had been connected to a socket.

When Henry heard the cars coming down the road and into the yard, he stood up and walked toward the Cairn of Christ. The Brute was the first one to arrive, in his red pickup. He didn’t greet Henry, but Henry didn’t mind. He remembered how his fists had crunched the Brute’s face, right before someone had hit him on the head, saving the Brute from a messy death.

More cars drove into the yard and a joyful peal rang out from the proud belfry, reverberating in the crisp air. The people from the countryside followed the crooked path toward the church on the knoll.

The Brute was ringing the bell, bidding everyone welcome, saying the reverend would be there in a minute. A handful of men from the city, dressed in smart suits, stepped out of a small bus, looked around with curious smiles, and headed toward the church. Some of them gave Henry a polite nod.

The farmers strode past him, freshly shaven, with tightly knotted ties pressing against their throats, and their wives were all dressed up as well. But none of them greeted him. Henry heard some of them making jokes about the reverend and his wife, their cattle, the boys. They probably felt pretty fancy in their Sunday clothes, but Henry thought they looked stupid and awkward. They were mean-looking people with mockery in their eyes, malicious grins on their ugly faces, the women giggling like hens.

So these were the people on whose behalf Reverend Oswald had sacrificed the sheep, made the little ones toil, and murdered Noah? He had done all that to raise money for a church for them? These were the people the reverend wanted to impress, the people he wanted to save so they could go to heaven? Who would want to go to heaven if these people were there?

Henry spat on the ground as a group passed by.

The breeze blew gently against his cheeks and the sky was clear.

The many voices of spring could be heard from the lava field, mixed with the low rumble of the surf. Soon the grass would turn green by the roadside and the bushes would sprout leaves in the lava. It wouldn’t be long until he untied Old Red and let her lead the group to pasture. And there was no doubt he would be allowed to drive the tractor this summer.

Now all the guests had entered the church and taken their seats, but Reverend Oswald was nowhere to be seen. Henry sat still by the cairn and waited.

A sudden chirp caught his attention; the little gray bird with the long black tail had arrived. It sat upon the white cross on top of the cairn, chirping sweetly, as if bidding Henry good morning. Then it vanished into the sky.

After a long while, the church door opened. The Brute stepped out and looked around him. He strode up to the house, banged the door with his fist, and peered through the windows. But no one came. He looked back toward the church, shrugged, and shook his head. A moment later the guests came out of the church and walked toward their cars, fuming with anger, some of them cursing.

They glanced angrily at Henry for a second, but no one spoke to him. The freshly shaven farmers didn’t look so happy anymore and their dolled-up wives didn’t either. The men in the suits stepped into their bus with angry frowns and drove away. Gravel shot out from under the wheels as the cars sped out of the yard, one after the other.

The breeze blew the dust gently toward the empty church on the knoll that stood proudly on its solid foundation. There were three white windows on each side and a white cross on the belfry; the corrugated iron roof was glowing like silver. The reverend’s dream had finally come true. But there was no one rejoicing.

Reverend Oswald was in the Boiler Room.

He was lying on the bed, fully clothed, but sleeping. On the floor were a suitcase and three pairs of shoes in a plastic bag. Henry poked his shoulder several times before the reverend opened his eyes and turned around.

“Are they gone?” he whispered.

Henry nodded. The reverend sat up in bed and asked Henry to take a seat on a chair. Henry sat down and waited while the reverend rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat several times. Then he put on his glasses, but he didn’t look at Henry while he talked, he gazed through the open door, into the empty hall.

“I couldn’t go through with it, not after what has happened,” he said with a heavy sigh. “What should I be preaching, anyway?” he said, and lowered his head.

Henry had no answer to that. He only wanted to know about Ollie, and if Emily was coming back.

“He’s still unconscious,” the reverend said, as if he had read Henry’s thoughts. “And if he should die, Emily is not coming back.”

“Never?” Henry said.

“Not to live with me, anyway,” the reverend replied dryly, rubbing his forehead. “That’s why I’m packing; that’s why I’m leaving.”

He sighed and glanced at Henry for a while, maybe wondering if he could open his heart to him, perhaps wondering if Henry could understand anything at all. Maybe Oswald just needed a friend, Henry thought.

“She always wanted a child of her own, you know,” the reverend said. “But I had this idea about a home for troubled boys on a farm in the countryside.” He grinned and continued, “It was my project, something that mattered to me, and she loved the idea, and the countryside as well. But somehow it all failed. Why did it fail, Henry? Where did I go wrong?”

Henry clasped his hands in his lap and knew that the reverend wasn’t really asking him a question. He was just thinking out loud, like people did, sitting with a trusted friend. And at this moment Henry seemed to be the only one left for the reverend.

“One night I walked up the stairs. I saw her sleeping in our bed, and the little boy was sleeping beside her. She had her arm around him, as if to protect him, her slow breath gently stirring his blond hair.

“Then I realized that I had failed her, for she didn’t need me anymore. One is never so lonely as when one’s kindness is no longer needed.”

The reverend took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his fingers. Then he continued.

“I was a young boy once, you know, with nightmares of my own. All I ever wanted was to protect others from their nightmares. I had a stepfather, you see. He was the monster of my nightmares. He tried to make me a man by telling me over and over again that I was worthless. He said that to toughen me up, you see,” the reverend said in a dull voice. Then he drew his breath deeply and let out a tired sigh.

“But I was slow to learn. And I was never tough, so it was difficult not to cry.

“When the humiliation hurt too much, I made myself disappear into another world, where I alone was in control. A world where all my dreams came true, a world full of miracles, happiness, and harmony.”

He turned to Henry with a weak smile on his lips.

“And that is my biggest failure, I guess. Believing that absolute control would make everything all right.”

He fell silent for a while, hunched forward as if he was about to fall on the floor. Then he put his glasses back on and cleared his throat. He sat up straight and clasped his hands.

“I’m sorry I sold the bull for slaughter, Henry. I’m really sorry for what I made you go through. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, son.”

Then he stood up and grabbed the plastic bag with his shoes from the floor. Henry stood up as well and without thinking he grabbed the handle of the suitcase. The reverend looked at him and smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Henry.”

Henry stood by the Cairn of Christ as the yellow Volvo disappeared up the road. The dark-purple mass of clouds was looming overhead. Soon it would be raining hard. He watched the clouds roll across the sky, blocking out the sun, heading toward the land. When the first drops fell on the gravel around him, Henry stood up and limped over to the cowshed. He still had to milk the cows, but he wondered what he should do with the milk, now that there was no Ollie to drink it and no Emily to make butter. After milking, he poured the milk into the container as usual and listened to the wind slashing the rain on the corrugated iron roof. He thought about John and Mark in the small boat somewhere out on the vast ocean, hoping they were safe. But they were in the hands of God now. One way or the other they’d be all right. There was nothing Henry could do about that now.

The wind squeezed through a crack in the window, stirring the paperback cover on Ollie’s book, as if it wanted to leaf through the pages. Somewhere in some hospital Ollie lay under a duvet. Henry wondered if there were people who had time to read for little children in hospitals.

He limped across the lava field, in the soaking rain, with Ollie’s book in one hand, his other hand clenched into a tight fist. The rain hammered the corrugated iron on the small church and poured like a waterfall off the edge of the roof.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

The noise was almost deafening in there and seemed to come from every direction; like a thousand whispering voices one moment, and a thousand screaming voices the next, making him jump. On the floor, the heads of the nails were like silver coins thrust into the floorboards. Raindrops fell from the ceiling, here and there, hitting the floor with a loud snapping sound, like when a thin twig is broken in two.

Henry sat down at the altar, wiped the water off his face with both hands, and stared straight ahead. The storm shook the church and the rain beat the iron like a hundred hammers. Suddenly someone shouted his name. He gave a start, but it was just the storm, pounding the roof. His heart was racing, for he was terrified, not because of the noise and the weather, but because he had made up his mind.

He grabbed the book, put it on his knees, and wiped the raindrops off the cover with his sleeve. Then he opened it to page one and stared at the letters for a long time. At first they were all one big jumble before his eyes, and he felt a pain in his stomach. But then he began to read in a low, hesitant voice that sounded rusty and coarse. It wasn’t a long story, but it took him a long time to stutter through it all. He didn’t give up, he forced himself, clenching his fists now and then, ripping the words off the page, one by one, and releasing them through his mouth. When he had finally mumbled through the whole book, all the way to the end, he looked up, breathing heavily, red in the face. The howling storm continued to pound the roof, and the rain had turned to hail. Even if he shouted at the top of his voice, there was no chance of anyone hearing him.

He leafed back to page one and started again.

As he wrestled with the words and sentences, he forgot himself and fell silent while he examined the illustrations before continuing to the very end. Then he went back to the beginning and started again. Little by little, he began to recognize the words and remember them. His reading became less hesitant and he almost completely lost his stutter.

It was a story about a little prince, a pilot, a rose, and a sheep. And the prince meets a fox who tells him the secret of friendship: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

Henry no longer felt his body and had stopped hearing the weather. All his emotions were being channeled through his voice and the words that streamed out of him. He was reading for Ollie.

The church trembled and the hail hammered the roof, but his words glided in the air, joyful and bright like the birds at the cliffs. They floated freely around one another without colliding and the wind carried them high up into heaven.

He woke up in the middle of the night, fully dressed in his bed.