Boy on the Edge (23 page)

The rain had stopped, a light breeze whispered on the roof, and the cows sighed in their stalls. Suddenly he felt strange and uncomfortable in there, surrounded by the gray walls, the smell from the barn, the breathing of the cows. His chest felt heavy, so he stood up and limped outside.

The air was cool and clean, and the moss looked like silver in the light of the moon. Two black clouds hung quite still in the purple sky, like shreds of old cloth.

When he reached the cliffs, he sat down on the edge. He could hardly hear the gentle waves caressing the rocks far below. Silk ribbons of moonlight moved side by side on the still ocean.

Henry knew that crying didn’t change anything; his mother had taught him that. And he hadn’t cried in a long time. He had just been angry, balling his fists up tightly. But now his fists lay open in his lap, and the silk ribbons of the ocean untangled before his eyes and turned into a misty haze. Warm teardrops fell into his palms. He didn’t make a sound except for the occasional gasp for air. It came so easily. He knew that crying wouldn’t change anything, so what harm could it do now? It wouldn’t bring back what he had lost, but it couldn’t take anything more away from him either.

Henry could do nothing but wait, so he went to the house to find something to eat.

Somehow the house had no soul anymore. It was abandoned and silent. The kitchen was a mess: dirty plates in the sink, a pot of cold porridge on the stove, a bottle half full of milk turned sour. In the living room a stack of books on the floor; beside it a cup of cold coffee and a plate with a stale sandwich. Henry wondered if he should turn on the television and find something to watch. But he didn’t want to disturb the silence in the house.

He sat for a long time on the chair by the cold stove, feeling hungry.

Finally he found a leg of lamb in the fridge and decided to cook it. He put it in the oven and took some time to figure out how to turn up the heat. He found some potatoes and carrots in a cupboard and put them in a pot on the stove.

Then he moved the chair and sat in front of the oven, watching the leg of lamb cook. He cried a little and felt sorry for himself. It was a relief; it actually felt good.

When the meat was thoroughly cooked he put it on a large plate along with the potatoes and the carrots. Then he ate his fill and cried a little more, feeling very miserable and lonely. But after a while he didn’t feel that bad anymore.

He went to bed early, hoping that the morning would bring him some news of Emily. But nobody came and nothing happened.

There was little else he could do but carry on with his routine and wait for someone to arrive. Occasionally he heard the distant foghorn of a freighter echo across the vast ocean. Then he thought about Mark and John and imagined them sitting on some beach in Spain, enjoying the sun. Maybe everything had worked out according to plan; hopefully they had found freedom, one way or the other.

In the evening he read Ollie’s book again, over and over, until he fell asleep. He read it out loud and in silence too. He even included the page numbers, not missing a thing. He knew the story by heart now, every single page, every single word. And each time he began reading, he imagined that Ollie was by his side, listening. Why hadn’t he had the courage to read for Ollie when he’d had the chance?

Three days went by.

He had cooked two legs of lamb, boiled some fish he’d found in the freezer, and finished the coffee and the porridge. He spent a whole evening cleaning the kitchen, washing the plates and the forks and the knives, the pots and the pans, and finished by scrubbing the floor, the way Emily had always done.

During the day, Henry sat by the Cairn of Christ, watching for some movement up on the road.

The moss and heather gave off a thick spicy scent, and the sweet warmth of the bright sun caressed his cheeks. He heard the deep rumbling of the surf down by the cliffs. It was the kind of morning where the birds would hurl themselves into the void and rise high in the air, carried on the back of the strong breeze.

The tiny gray bird leaped around on the cairn, waving its long black tail, holding a thin straw in its tiny beak. It had found a safe home for its little ones in between the rocks of the Cairn of Christ. Henry couldn’t help but smile. At least someone would raise their children in the shelter of the Savior. Boy and bird pondered each other for a moment. Then the bird flew up and disappeared.

Henry heard the rumble of an engine. He rose to his feet as he saw the bus turn toward the farm. There was a cloud of brown dust as the bus stopped with a heavy sigh.

Henry felt his throat tighten as he watched Emily step out. His heart was beating fast and everything he had felt rushed through him in an instant. It didn’t help to clench his jaw now or his fists. This time, he just had to let go. He covered his face with his large hands, pressing his thick fingers into his forehead, trembling from grief, crying hard.

He stood like that, utterly helpless, until he felt her gentle arms embrace him tightly. She held him for a long time, giving him all the time he needed to empty his heart of all his loneliness and fear, shivering like a lost child having so unexpectedly found the loving embrace of his mother again.

“We’re back, Henry,” she whispered in his ear. “And everything will be all right now.”

Henry wiped his face and looked at her, not believing.

Standing beside her, smiling brightly, was his little brother.

“I’m here,” Ollie said.

Henry’s Last Letter

Dear Ollie,

This will be a short letter and my last one too, and that’s a promise.

I think I’ve written everything I wanted to tell you about, and I’m also getting real tired of writing. It’s very hard work. But there was much that I’d always wanted to tell you. And now I have.

Now I just look forward to riding my horse down the valley, all the way to the beach. Do you remember the golden sand? That’s my favorite route, riding along the beach, with the surf on my left and the green fields on my right.

I still remember our first morning here at the new farm. You were so tired that you slept like a log. But I couldn’t wait to go out and look at the green mountains and the broad river, winding its way through the fields toward the ocean at the mouth of the valley. Everything was so different from the old place. And so much better.

I like to imagine that John and Mark made it to Spain, but I doubt it. Their parents sued the reverend, and he got a long sentence. The papers called him a murderer, because neither the boat nor the boys were ever found again. I felt bad for a very long time. After all, it was me who showed them the boat in the first place. And it was me who pushed the boat into the water. But I was just a kid.

I almost went with them that night, you know. And maybe that would have been the end of my story. Then I never would have known happiness. Imagine that. One simple decision is all you need to change your life forever. Like deciding to stay or to go; to say yes or no, turn right or left.

If you hadn’t arrived at the reverend’s little farm in hell, with your books and your mouth full of words, I could have been lost at sea with John and Mark. You and your funny poems, especially the one about the sun, somehow made me change my mind that night. I can’t describe how or why. I don’t know the words for that. But I did, and so I didn’t perish. Instead I moved to this place with you and Emily, a place pretty close to heaven, if you ask me.

We have fifty sheep now, and as you know they’re Emily’s joy, especially in the lambing season. I’ve got twelve cows, a brand-new milking machine, and a fine strong bull. Last year I bought another horse, so now there’s one for you when you come back.

When will you come back to visit?

Last Christmas you were in Scotland, and the year before somewhere in France. I know you’re busy and all, but your home is here.

Ever since you left I’ve set the table for three on all your birthdays, and filled your glass with milk. All those years you’ve been away I’ve also finished your slice of birthday cake. And every Christmas I’ve put your plate on the living-room table where you used to sit at dinner. Maybe it sounds funny, but this makes me feel that you are back home with us. Like you never really left.

I’ve read your books about the great kings of old times. It’s really strange, but those are the only books I read that make me fall asleep almost instantly. I guess you could say I’m not that interested in history. But that’s not the reason; when I read your words I can hear your voice reading to me.

And then you’re not so far away anymore.

Maybe you’re imagining that I miss you terribly, Ollie, and perhaps you’re feeling really bad about that. But you shouldn’t. You must believe me when I say I don’t miss you at all. It’s true. The reason is that, instead of missing you, I just really look forward to the day you’ll come back.

I hope you haven’t forgotten how the farm looks or where to get off the bus. Just so you won’t get lost, I can tell you that the walking distance from the main road up to the farm is exactly three verses from the “Poem of the Sun.”

Your brother, Henry

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