Two

Eric Seven does not believe in love at first sight.

He corrects himself.

Even in that moment, the moment that it happens, he feels his journalist’s brain make a correction, rubbing out a long-held belief, writing a new one in its place.

He did not believe in love at first sight. He thinks he might do so now.

“I’m Merle,” she says. Her light hair falls across one eye as she shakes his hand; she flicks it aside. And smiles.

“Of course you are,” he says. Inside, he makes a note to punish himself later for such a lame reply, and yet, he had not said it with arrogance, or even an attempt at being funny. He said it as if someone else was saying it for him.

He was standing on the quayside, his single large backpack by his feet. Behind him, the steamboat pulled away, heading back to the mainland. The few other passengers have already disappeared, vanishing into the narrow lanes of the island.

Everything is quiet.

The young woman called Merle half turns and gestures, and now Eric notices a small group of people with her.

They smile at him, too.

One of them, an old man, steps forward.

“I’m Tor,” he says, and holds out his hand.

Eric shakes it, feeling a little uneasy again.

“How did you know I was coming?” he asks.

“Well, we didn’t,” Tor says. “But we don’t get many visitors. Word of your arrival reached us, and we have come to meet you, Mr.… Seven?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. Eric Seven.”

Tor raises a whiskery eyebrow. His face is long and so weather-beaten it is hard to guess how old he is, and Eric notices that there is something wrong with one of his eyes. It’s milky, and doesn’t seem to focus. Maybe he’s even blind in that eye. Eric tries not to stare.

“Well, so it is,” he says under his breath.

“Seven?” asks Tor. “One of the True Modern Church?”

Eric shakes his head.

“My parents were. They were first generation converts, back in the twenty-twenties.

“I…” He stops, wonders what to say. “I disappointed them. It means nothing to me.”

“So why keep the name?” Tor smiles. “If I may ask.”

Eric pauses.

“Many reasons, I suppose. Respect, perhaps. And even though I’m not religious, I do like the idea that the renaming represents.”

Merle, who’s been watching this exchange, tilts her head just a fraction more. Her hair falls across her eyes again. Eric notices it, and feels himself fall even faster for her. He feels ridiculous. He’s wondering what to say, what to do, but she’s asking him something.

“What’s that?” she asks. “The idea behind it?”

“The founders of the True Modern Church had many strongly held principles and beliefs, but much of their teaching is more practical, to do with how people relate to one another, to society, and so on. They believed that names were shackles, and badges, and that they were full of meaning, and history, and were therefore weapons of prejudice and of snobbery. Anyone who joins the Church is invited to select a new name, one without meaning, without history, without prejudice. Numbers are common in the Church; they seemed neutral. Devoid of meaning.”

Merle tilts her head some more. Eric wants to shout with joy, and pictures himself throwing his arms around her. He does neither, but wonders what it would feel like to touch her.

“But Mr. Seven,” Tor says, “all words have meaning. Especially names. Even new ones. And as for numbers…”

Eric shrugs again.

“What was your parents’ name before they joined the Church?”

Eric is thrown, as he realizes that he doesn’t want to talk about his parents. He changes the subject. He looks at Tor and Merle, and the two women and another man who are with them. They are all smiling at him.

“So, are you always this friendly to visitors?”

“We don’t get many visitors,” Tor repeats.

Eric notices that his question has not been answered directly, but lets it drop.

“And why have you come to Blessed Island?” Tor continues.

He smiles, and just as Eric is about to tell him, something makes him stop short. But it’s best not to lie, and in these circumstances he usually falls back on the simple method of giving just enough of the truth.

“I’m a journalist,” he explains. “My editor wants a feature about your island. She’s heard it’s a beautiful place. A special place.”

Eric can already see that this much is true.

Behind the welcoming party, a little lane splits into two, one path running off around the shoreline, the other up over a gentle rise. He can see modest, beautifully designed wooden houses, most painted in rich colors: deep reds, light blues, earthy yellows. They have small rose bushes and tall birches. Bees hum in the air.

Behind him the blue sea slaps at the stones of the quay and gulls cry overhead.

“And will you be staying long?” asks Tor, looking at Eric’s single bag.

“I don’t know yet,” Eric says.

He looks at Merle. She smiles.