19

Soon afterwards, a silent, subdued Michael bade his brother goodnight and shut himself up in his room. Overcome with a weariness greater than any he could recall he went straight to bed, put out the light and lay on his back, staring up towards the ceiling. His whole body stiff with tension, he lay invisible in the darkness, too tired to move. Gradually, imperceptibly, over what seemed an endless time, his eyes closed, and he slept . . .

. . . long, deep, and deeply – but with a wakeful eye that never quite shuts out the light from far off places. It is dark all about, the darkness of great depth, but the thick earth to him is just like folds of glass or diamond. He pierces it with his sight and knows what lies beyond it; knows the rapid movements of clouds, the quivers of small green things rising and falling with the breath-quick seasons, the endless scutterings of the occupants of that airy place, as they wear their lives out and return to ground.

A slow breath in—

A thousand lives, each one a scintillating jewel, move on the surface, their movement catching light, refracting it in a thousand different colours.

A slow breath out—

They die; the jewels wink out. The dross returns to earth, sinks slowly to him though the glassy sediment, its value gone.

He stirs, restlessly, underground, and in the bed, Michael flings his arm across his face.

Dimly now, he perceives a paradox: the watcher cannot possess the beauty of the souls, though it sees them; the owners cannot see the beauty, though it is their own.

No one can bridge this gulf between possession and desire. Except, perhaps, the gifted few.

Michael, in his sleep, feels his new strength well up inside him – with a rush of pleasure which makes his head reel. Then a voice comes, calling him by name. He hides his pleasure – jealously, guiltily. On the bed, his cheeks flush red.

"Michael. The sight is not the only gift." The voice is high, close; it speaks of a secret long concealed.

In response, his eyes burn with an eager fire; but he does not answer yet.

"There are four gifts, Michael, of which the sight is just the first." The voice is nearer, it soothes him with a sweet desire.

In response, his heart beats faster; his legs stir on the bed, but he does not answer yet.

"It will take you years to learn the other gifts, Michael, if you struggle on your own. But you do not have to struggle. We can teach you secrets now, if you wish to learn them."

The voice is poised. On the bed, fingers twitch.

"Do you want to learn them, Michael?"

In response, his head moves, his eyes open; sightlessly they dart back and forth, here and there, across the room and the inner space, searching. His mouth opens wide: his voice is dry, but he croaks an answer.

"Yes."

Now the voice is very close. He feels a breath in his ear, smells a tint of metal, of some strong chemical . . . an acrid odour . . . Far away he feels a heat in the earth.

"Michael. There is something that you should know. Your brother is foolish. He has the power, but not the will – he will struggle to use it. But you can make it easy for him. You were there first. Lead by example. Then he will follow, and admire you for it too, as is your right. But do not tell him yet; power rests with those who keep a secret. He might try to take your leadership from you."

Michael's lips twitch in his sleep. This is only too likely. But he knows now. He will be careful.

"Michael. Come to me. Let me touch you. Then you will know the four gifts and what you might do with them."

Michael struggles upright, flings the covers from the bed. His eyes are sightless. Although the room is cold, he is perspiring with a distant heat. Midway between sleep and waking, he turns his head.

There is a figure there.

He rises; his feet feel stone beneath the carpet.

He walks towards the figure and the revelation.