XVI

The summer had been wet, the rainfall so heavy at the beginning of August that it had stripped and flattened much of the crop, threshing it before its time. Now, a week from September, the fields were still waterlogged, and the hay that had survived the deluge was rotting where it stood.

“It’s all right for the likes of you,” Ken Middleton, who owned the largest acreage of harvestable land in the valley, had remarked to Hugo in the pub. “You don’t have to think about these things like us workin’ men.”

“Thinkers are working men, Kenneth,” Hugo had countered. “We just don’t sweat doing it.”

“It’s not just the rain,” Matthew Sauls had chimed in. “It’s every bloody thing.” Sauls was Middleton’s drinking comrade, a dour pairing at the best of times. “Even me ol’ da says things is just coming apart.”

Hugo had been harangued by Matthew’s ol’ da, Geoffrey, on this very subject earlier in the year when, much against his better judgment, he’d agreed to accompany Adele to the Summer Fayre, where she’d entered her onion pickle in the annual competition. Geoffrey’s wife had also entered, and while the two women chatted (with the natural reserve of competitors), Hugo had been left to endure Old Man Sauls. Without the least provocation, the man had launched into a monologue on the subject of murder, the recent killing of a child by another child in Newcastle the particular upon which he hung his grim talk. It’s a different world, these days he said over and over. What had once been unthinkable was now commonplace. It’s a different world.

“You know what your ol’ da’s problem is, Matthew?” Hugo said.

“He’s as crazy as a coot,” Middleton put in.

“Well, that’s undoubtedly true,” Hugo replied. “But that’s not what I had in mind.” He emptied his brandy glass and set it down on the bar. “He’s old; and old men like to think everything’s coming to an end. It makes it a littler easier to let go.” Matthew didn’t reply. He simply stared into his beer. But Middleton said, “Talking from experience, are you?” Hugo smiled. “I think I’ve got a few more years in me yet,” he said. “Well, gentleman. That was my last for the night. See you, tomorrow, maybe.”

It was a lie, of course; he didn’t need a few more years to understand ol’ da’s point of view. He felt it taking shape in himself.

There was a certain grim; satisfaction to be had in bad news.

What man in his right mind, knowing he was not long for the world, would wish it to burgeon and brighten in his absence?

Perhaps he would have read the entrails differently if he’d had grandchildren, found reason for optimism in the midst of murder and deluge. But Nathaniel, who would surely have given him fine grandsons and granddaughters, was thirty years dead, and Will an invert. Why should he hope the best for a world that would have nobody he loved in it once he’d gone?

There was pleasure to be taken in playing the prophet of doom, no doubt of that. As he walked home tonight (he always walked even in the dead of winter; he liked his brandy too much to trust himself behind the wheel) there was a spring in his step that would not have been there had the night’s debate been more optimistic. Swinging his stick, which he carried more for effect than support, he strode out of the light of the village into the lampless mile of road that took him to his gate. He felt no anxiety, walking in the dark. There were no thugs here; no thieves out to prey on an inebriated gentleman walking alone. It was very seldom he met anyone at all.

Tonight was an exception, however. About a third of a mile outside the bounds of the village he caught sight of two people, a man and a woman, strolling toward him. Though there was no moon, the starlight was bright, and from twenty yards’ distance he was able to tell that he didn’t know them. Were they tourists perhaps, out enjoying the night air? Fugitives from the city, for whom the spectacle of dark hills and starscape was enrapturing?

The closer he got to them, however, the stronger the impulse became to turn around and head back the way he’d come. He told himself to stop being a silly old fool. All he had to do was wish them a pleasant good evening as they walked past and that would be an end to it. He picked up his pace a little and was about to speak when the man—a striking fellow in the silvery light—said, “Hugo? Is it you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Hugo said. “Do I—”

“We went to the house,” the woman said, “looking for you, but you weren’t there—”

“So we came looking for you,” the man went on.

“Do we know one another?” Hugo asked.

“It’s been a long time,” the man said. He looked perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three, but there was something about his poise that made Hugo think this was a trick of the light.

“You weren’t a student of mine, were you?”

“No,” the man said. “Not remotely.”

“Well, then I really can’t recall,” Hugo said, faintly uncomfortable now.

“We know your son,” the woman said. “We know Will.”

“Ah,” said Hugo. “Well then good luck to you,” he said dryly. “Have a good night, won’t you?” And with that he started on his way.

“Where is he?” the woman inquired as Hugo passed by.

“I don’t know,” Hugo replied, not glancing back at her. “He could be anywhere. He flits around, you know. If you’re friends of his, you’ll know what a flitter he is.”

“Wait up!” the man said, leaving his lady friend’s side to follow Hugo. There was nothing aggressive about his manner, but Hugo took a firmer grip of his stick, just in case he needed to wield it. “If you could just give me a little help here—”

“Help?” Hugo turned to face the man, preferring to stand his ground and send the fellow on his way than have him following.

“To find Will,” the man said, his manner all conviviality. It was an abomination, Hugo thought, the buttonholing manner people had these days. An American import, no doubt. Thirty seconds of conversation and you were bosom buddies.

Altogether loathsome. “If you want to get a message to him,” Hugo said, “may I suggest his publishers?”

“You’re his father—”

“That’s my burden,” Hugo snapped. “But if you’re admirers of his—”

“We are,” the woman said.

“Then I must warn you he’s a terrible disappointment in the flesh.”

“We know what he’s like,” the man said. “We all know what he’s like, Hugo. You and I particularly.” The inference of kinship here was too much for Hugo. He brandished his stick in front of his face. “We have absolutely nothing to say to one another,” he said. “Now leave me alone.” He started to back away from the man, half expecting him to give chase. But he simply stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Hugo retreat.

“What are you afraid of?” he said.

“Absolutely nothing,” Hugo replied.

“That I don’t believe,” the man said. “You’re a philosopher. You know better than that.”

“I am not a philosopher,” Hugo said, resisting the flattery.

“I am a third-rate teacher of third-rate pupils who have no interest whatsoever in anything I impart to them. That is my lot in life and to the extent that I might have done worse, I’m proud of it. My wife lives in Paris with a man half my age, my best beloved son has been dead and buried thirty years, and the other is a self-promoting queer with an opinion of himself out of all proportion to his achievements. There! Are you satisfied? Does that put it plainly enough for you? In short, may I go?”

“Oh,” said the woman softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

“You lost a child,” she said. “We’ve lost several, Jacob and I. You never get over it.”

“Jacob?” Hugo murmured, and in that instant knew to whom he was speaking. A wave of feeling passed over him that he could not quite identify.

“Yes, it’s us,” the man said softly, sensing that they’d been recognized.

Relief, Hugo thought. That’s what I’m feeling, I’m feeling relief. The waiting’s over. The mystery is here, or at least a means of access to it.

“This is Rosa, of course,” Steep said. Rosa made a comical little curtsy. “Now, shall we all be friends, Hugo?”

“I . . . don’t . . . know.”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about Delbert Donnelly. She was responsible for that and I’m not going to mislead you on the matter. She can be cruel sometimes, dangerous even, when she’s roused. But we’ve paid the penalty for that. We’ve had thirty years in the wilderness, not knowing where we were going to lay our heads from one night to the next.”

“So why did you choose to come back here?” Hugo said.

“We have our reasons,” Jacob said.

“Tell him,” Rosa prompted. “We came back for Will.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, we know,” Jacob said, “you don’t speak to him and you don’t care to.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, let’s hope he cares more for you than you do for him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s hope he comes running when he hears you’re in trouble.”

“I hope that’s not a threat,” Hugo said, “because if it is—” He didn’t see the blow coming. There was no flicker in Steep’s eye, no indication, however slight, that his civil chat was now over. One moment he was smiling, all courtesy, the next he struck Hugo such a blow it threw the man five yards.

“Don’t do that,” said Rosa.

“Shut up,” Jacob said, and, going to where Hugo lay sprawled, picked up the stick that the old man had brandished two minutes before. While Hugo moaned at his feet, he examined the stick, moving his hands up and down its length to get its heft.

Then he raised it above his head and brought it down on Hugo’s body, once, twice, three times. The first blow won a yell of agony.

The second a moan. The third, silence.

“You haven’t killed him, have you?” Rosa said, coming to Jacob’s side.

“No, of course, I haven’t killed him,” Jacob replied, tossing the stick down beside its owner. “I want him to hang on for a while.” He went down on his haunches beside the wounded man. With a solicitousness that would have shamed a doctor, he reached down and lay the back of his fingers against Hugo’s cheek. “Are you with me, my friend?” he said. He rubbed his fingers back and forth a little. “Hugo? Can you hear me?” Hugo moaned pitifully. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Jacob said.

Again, the man moaned. “So here’s the plan,” Jacob said. “We will be leaving very soon, and if we don’t call somebody to come and find you, there’s a better than average chance that you’ll be dead before dawn. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Nod if you understand.” Hugo made a barely perceptible nod. “Good enough. So. It rests with you. Do you want to die here under the stars? Nobody’s going to be coming by here tonight, I suspect, so you’ll have the place to yourself.” Hugo tried to speak. “I didn’t understand that, I’m sorry. What did you say?” Hugo made a tiny sob. “Oh now, you’re crying. Rosa, he’s crying.”

“He doesn’t want to be left alone,” Rosa said. “That’s a big thing with you men,” she complained. “You’re like kiddies half the time.”

Jacob returned his attention to Hugo. “Did you hear that?” he said. “She thinks we’re kids. She doesn’t know the half of it, does she? She doesn’t know what we go through. But I’m assuming she’s right. You don’t want to be left alone. You want us to find a telephone and have somebody come and find you. Is that right?” Hugo nodded. “That I will do, my friend,” he said. “But here’s your side of the bargain. I don’t want you saying a word to Will. Do you understand me? If he comes to see you and you tell him anything about us, what you’re feeling right now—the pain, the panic, the loneliness—will be as nothing beside what we will do to you. Do you hear me? As nothing. Nod if you understand.” Hugo nodded. “That’s good. You needn’t agonize about this. He’s—what did you call him?—a self-promoting queer? You’re not his number one fan, obviously. Whereas I, I am devoted to him, in my way. Isn’t that strange? I haven’t seen him in thirty years, of course, so I may not feel the same . . .” His voice trailed away. He sighed, and stood up.

“Lie very still,” Rosa advised him. “If you’ve broken your ribs, you don’t want to puncture a lung.” Then, to Jacob, “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” He looked straight down at Hugo’s face. “Enjoy the stars,” he said.