Moon Song (12 page)

She thought back. It had begun with the sparrow, when Mark had rescued it, astounding her with his affinity with birds and animals.

Gideon was smiling when she looked at him. ‘That’s what you have to do,’ he said. ‘Find the song. Tristan didn’t get to writing it before he died. It has to be written and recorded; you must enable Tristan to record it.’

Isoldé felt the cold creep over her. She sat perfectly still.

‘That’s impossible …’ she said.

Mark sat up in bed nursing a cup of tea. He’d got up as soon as he heard Isoldé go out, but not until. Last night had been intense, passionate everything he’d ever hoped for but he could understand, appreciate, that Isoldé might want some time out now. He did himself. They had said “I love you” in the same breath as he carried her up the stairs, before they slowly and carefully undressed each other. The clothes were still there in a heap at the end of the bed, tumbled together as their bodies had been. Out of the corner of his eye he’d watched her climbing into jeans and a sweater just before dawn. She’d been very quiet so as not to wake him, not realising or – he revised the thought – not wanting to show him she knew he was awake.

The clock now said seven. He’d asked Mrs Protheroe not to come today. She wouldn’t, even though she would be dying to know more of Isoldé, only too keen that he was in a relationship. Like a mother, she was always looking for, hoping for, the right girl for him. And hoping against it too. He knew she didn’t want to lose her boy, that any woman would have to be superwoman and she still wouldn’t satisfy Mrs P’s desires. A wry grin played over his mouth. He was inordinately fond of Mrs P, she had taken care of him since Tristan had adopted him when his parents died. But he’d always kept a slight distance, even as a child when he hadn’t known what he was doing she had always been Mrs P, never Gwennan although he knew her given name. Now it was more natural, as a well-adjusted former child will do with a parent, an attitude which continually reminded them both that he was an adult now. It was a way of ensuring mutual respect.

Never one to have committed affairs, Mark had been a disappointment to Mrs P on the marriage front. Now he could sense her hunting instincts rising again. She would hunt and chase Isoldé if she could, to make her into the perfect wife for Mark. Mark didn’t want that and neither did Isoldé, he was sure. Oh, he
wanted her, did not want to lose her, wanted to live with her, share his life with her – and all that after such a short time of knowing her, but Mrs P’s ambitions were not theirs.

Tristan had never fathered him. His vibrant, restless, exciting energy was that of an older brother. When that had gone, when Tristan had died, it had left a great void in his life. Isoldé was filling that void and he realised now that it was a much older emptiness than just of Tristan’s death. It had been with him all his life.

‘I knew as soon as I saw her with the sparrow,’ he reminded himself. So he had. But all that had nothing to do with what Mrs P understood of marriage.

How long would it take Isoldé to reach the kieve, he wondered. Not too long. The muscles he had caressed last night were long and strong, she was fit like a dancer, she would achieve the cliff. Would Gideon be there? Like in Mark’s dream? Should he be jealous of the woodman? Mark laughed at himself. A fat lot of good that would do any of them. It wouldn’t touch Gideon, he would do as he pleased.

No, Mark thought, no need for jealousy and petty stuff like that. After the letter it seemed strange things were afoot. How could Tristan have written to Isoldé? He was dead. But the ink on the paper had been wet when she picked it up, so Isoldé had told him.

He heard Tristan about the house sometimes, playing the piano, whistling, singing. Sometimes he smelled the scent of him, as if Tristan had just left the room before Mark entered it. It was all too like it had been before, when Tristan was alive, except he never saw him. And there were the songs. For some reason Mark had never been able to find the last collection so he could get them off to the publisher. Something always happened to stop him. He’d promised Tristan he’d get them published, out there, being heard and sung. And there was the final song to write. And to record.

Isoldé was the key, or so the letter indicated. Why? How? What if he’d never met her, what would have happened then?

A chuckle sounded in the room. Mark started out of his reverie spilling cold tea down himself. ‘Damn you!’ he cursed at the room generally.

Caergollo was full of the faer. Tristan had encouraged them, Mark had grown up with them, it was normal, didn’t everyone? He learned very fast when he went away to the choir school in Exeter that they didn’t. He’d also learned to zip up his mouth and keep his head down.

How would Isoldé get on with the faer? How was she getting on with them now? He grinned to himself, he knew she was with Gideon, he’d seen it in his dream just before waking, seen them both sat on the rock bridge over the fall. Well, he thought, that answers my question, she must be doing fine.

That settled it. He put the cup back on the tray and swung his legs out of bed, getting up. Two minutes in the shower, then he was pulling on jeans, T-shirt and a sweater. Tristan’s ancient denim jacket topped the ensemble as the mornings were still nippy. Sat at the bottom of the stairs, lacing up his boots, he saw Tristan’s staff sticking out of the old brass shell-case they used as a repository for sticks and brollies. He took it.

Twenty-five years of walking it meant his body knew the path up to the kieve intimately, knew where to place his feet, where the natural steps were. He arrived at the plank bridge before he knew it. Just as he made to put his foot on the bridge the owl hooted. He stopped still. She was late this morning, usually she was asleep by the time the sun was this high. He watched for her among the branches of the ash tree. There! She was looking at him.

Soundlessly, she floated across the stream to land on the post at the end of the bridge, nearly at eye level with him. She ruffled her feathers and preened around her neck, making up her mind. ‘Kee-wick,’ she said softly, holding Mark’s eyes.

The owl had turned on his inner sight, he could see Isoldé and
Gideon deep in talk. They were still at the kieve. Gideon had shifted, his feet were hooves but the rest of him still looked more or less like a man. Mark wished he could hear what they were saying but the owl stopped him, fluttering her wings gently, bringing him back.

‘Wait!’ He heard in his mind.

Mark reached out a finger and the owl allowed him to caress the soft feathers under her chin. She took the finger in her beak, holding it for a moment then letting it go. Mark nodded to her then went down the bank to an old log right by the stream. It had been there ever since he could remember, the remains of an ancient oak tree whose children congregated at the top of the bank casting deep shadows at midsummer. They were just pinking up now, the leaf-buds swelling, further forward than the ash tree on the opposite bank.

‘Comes the oak before the ash, then we only get a splash,’ he quoted the old rhyme.

‘But comes the ash before the oak, then we get a goodly soak,’ Tristan’s voice completed the couplet.

‘Where are you?’ Mark sat up abruptly, almost dislodging the owl which had come to perch on his knee.

There was no answer. There never was. He would hear Tristan but never see him, never be able to converse with him. It left an ache in his heart.

The letter bothered him. Addressed to Isoldé, it had been intimate, a lover’s letter. How? Why? Isoldé was certain she’d only met him the once, impersonally, at the master-class, apart from seeing him whenever he was at the Troubadour. Would that be enough to trigger memories across the grave? Isoldé had been as startled as himself to find the letter, to read its contents. How had Tristan been able to do that, to actually pick up a pen and write? Mark had asked Mrs Protheroe if there had been any letters on the desk earlier, or pens out of the holder. She had denied it.

Mrs Protheroe was as neat as a new pin. She would have noticed if anything had been out of place. Years ago, when both she and Mark were new to living and working with Tristan, she had had to be forcibly persuaded to leave Tristan’s library alone apart from basic hoovering and dusting.

He smiled as the memory of that day, of Tristan remonstrating with her, floated up before his eyes. It had been the first summer after his parents died. Living at Caergollo still felt a weird mix of strange and completely at home. And he was still somewhat in awe of Tristan.

Tristan had been composing all morning in the library, the piano strewn with manuscript, more music on the floor, dirty mugs beside. Tristan just shot into the kitchen, dumped a tea bag in a mug, splashed boiling water over it and shot back to the library again. He could never stand other people near when the composing fit was on him, would flap his arms at you, like as not splashing you with hot tea because he forgot the mug was in his hand, and shout ‘Go away!’ One kept clear of him at such times. Then the fit would break, the song basically written, and Tristan would shout for Mark to come down, they would be going for a walk.

So it happened that day. Up over the cliffs to the steps of Lady’s Window where they sat watching the smooth lapiscoloured sea and the bank of low cloud just perched on the western horizon. Then Tristan had bounded up again, leaping over the last of the Stitches and down into Caer Bottreaux with Mark, running and tumbling and laughing in pursuit. They’d raced along the harbour where Tristan had let him win, fetching up at the fish-n-chip shop.

‘OK,’ Tristan had laughed, ‘You win. The old man can’t keep up. So I’m buying, what’ll it be?’

They’d had cod and chips, squeezing tomato sauce over them along with extra salt and vinegar, then gone to sit on the bridge
over the Valency river, legs dangling, joking, laughing, throwing chips to the gulls who swooped down to catch them in mid-air. After, they’d staggered back up and down the hill to Caergollo. Mrs Protheroe was just hanging up her apron, about to leave. She was much younger then, had only recently come to work for Tristan when Mark arrived, to look after him as well as the house when Tristan could not. She was as new to Tristan as he was.

Tristan went into the library. He erupted out of it. ‘What have you done, woman?’ he exploded. ‘My papers! My manuscripts! Where have you put them?’

Mrs Protheroe quailed. Mark stood stock still, not breathing.

‘Where are they …?’ Tristan demanded.

‘H-here …’ Mrs Protheroe showed him the pile, neat and tidy, on the desk in the library.

‘And the others? The scrap? You haven’t thrown them away?’

Mrs Protheroe was shaking. She nodded and led Tristan to the waste bin in the scullery. Tristan turned it upside down. Paper, peelings, old tea-bags, everything compostable fell out all over the floor.

‘Then you’d better find them,’ he said. He sat on a box straightening and collating the papers as Mrs Protheroe and Mark disgorged them from the smelly mess. Fortunately, everything was there and not ruined by contact with the vegetable matter. Mark had been amazed that Tristan had known, recalled, every single sheet. He made a pile of them while Mark and Mrs Protheroe got all the waste back into the bin.

‘Now, come and wash while I make some tea,’ Tristan said, leading the way back to the kitchen.

‘Thank you, Mrs P,’ he said, pouring a cup for her, making her sit down while he waited on her. ‘But don’t you ever, ever, touch my things again. I’ll clear up after myself but every scrap is important and nothing gets thrown away. That’s what’s in all the box-files in the studio. Mountains of paper, bits of songs that haven’t so far come to fruition, but they may, Mrs P, they may.
That’s why I never throw anything away.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Mrs Protheroe began, ‘I didn’t know …’

‘No, I should have told you but I didn’t think. I’m not used to having somebody in every day. It was different when you came twice a week, I was always ready for you. Now I’m not, I’m living as I always have, as I always will. Can we manage, Mrs P? Can we cope?’

His slightly wild-eyed appearance and sweet smile caught hold of Mrs Protheroe. ‘Of course we can, sir,’ she began again.

‘And for the gods’ sake stop calling me “sir”!’ Tristan half exploded again, laughing this time. ‘I’m Tristan. Or if you’re very cross with me call me “Mr Talorc”. Then I’ll know I’ve upset you.’ He tentatively put one hand over hers. She squeezed his fingers.

‘All right, sir …Mr Talorc …Tristan …’ she tried them all out, smiling back at him.

‘We’ve got that settled then,’ he replied. ‘Now, are you late? Shall I call Mr P and say you’re on your way?’

‘That’s all right.’ Mrs Protheroe got up to re-hang her apron on the hook behind the door and pull on her coat again. ‘He’ll be at the Nap. There’s a darts match tonight.’

‘And he’ll be setting everything up and getting in a bit of practice,’ Tristan was teasing.

‘Now. Si …Tristan!’ Mrs Protheroe protested.

‘No, I know. The darts champion of North Cornwall doesn’t need practice.’

He escorted Mrs Protheroe to her car.

Mark had known Tristan better after that episode than he had in all the months he’d lived there. It had brought them all to a new order of intimacy. And nobody ever cleared up after Tristan again.

Come to think of it, Mark remembered back to last night, Mrs P had left the letter on the desk after Isoldé had found it. She hadn’t even put the top back on the pen.

Somehow Isoldé’s return journey was much quicker and easier than the going had been, probably because her mind was fully occupied with what Gideon had shown her. She’d just assumed things had got too much for Tristan with the HIV, and he’d walked off the cliff to end it all. It was understandable. But now it seemed he’d gone too early, before his work was finished. A bummer all round, for him and for Otherworld who needed the job done.

‘I’m talking like Uncle Brian,’ she told the tree she had stopped under. ‘He would know all this stuff like the back of his hand. I don’t. I suppose Darshan would understand it too. I wonder if Mark does?’ She continued down the track.