In Enigmate, Chapter II

Prologue / Chapter I

~ * ~

Susan blinked, and the crimson in the snow vanished. She blinked again; it was still gone. She turned and looked down the road; half a metre from the tyre tracks, the man in the blue jacket stood behind Jenny, gripping her by the shoulder.

Sweat ran down Susan’s neck, and she leaned against the hillside, almost too dizzy to stand. Don’t think about it, she thought fiercely to herself. It didn’t happen. You were just imagining it. Don’t think about it.

Glancing from side to side, Jenny crossed the road with the man in the blue jacket just behind her. He easily unwound the scarf, beyond her reach, and returned it to her; then they crossed back and walked up the road to Susan. ‘Where did you get your coat of many colours?’ he was asking Jenny. He was young and lean, with black-rimmed glasses.

Jenny looked proudly at the rainbow of patchwork. ‘First it was Will’s, then it was Susan’s, then Molly mended it for me,’ she said. ‘Molly is—’

‘Your grandmother.’

‘Right. We call her Molly—’

‘Because it’s the way Will said “grandmother” when he was little.’

‘Right again.’ Jenny giggled. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘I have a sister named Xi’an, and two little brothers.’ He put out a hand to Susan. ‘You’re Susan? I’m Qian Ang. I used to know your brother Will.’

A cold knot hit Susan’s gut. ‘I—yes, I’m Susan a Mhuirnín.’ She took his hand, trying to still her trembling fingers in his firm grip.

‘You both look so much like Will. Where is he now? I haven’t seen him in six months.’

‘Where is anyone nowadays?’ Susan said, rather more cynically than she meant it. She pressed her face against her arm, coughing violently.

‘We don’t know,’ Jenny explained. ‘We haven’t seen him either.’

‘Shall I get you some water?’ Qian Ang asked.

Susan shook her head. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, still coughing.

‘No, you sound awful.—How long has she been ill?’ he asked Jenny.

‘One—two—three days,’ Jenny said. ‘She has a fever, too.’

‘You shouldn’t be out in the cold. Where do you live?’

‘I know!’ Jenny said, before Susan could give a vague answer. ‘Go three more kilometres on this road, and then turn left and go one kilometre, and then turn right and go two kilometres. It has some pine trees and a little grey shed.’

Qian Ang nodded. ‘Six kilometres? I’d better come with you.’

Susan’s face warmed. ‘I’m used to walking farther than that.’ She wished that he would let them go before she started to cry.

‘But not this way. Susan—’

‘It’s nothing,’ Susan said with measured coldness. ‘Thank you for your concern, but we really should go now.’ She took her sister’s hand and started up the road again.

‘Why can’t he come with us, Su?’ Jenny asked, too loudly.

‘Quiet. You’ll understand when you’re older.’

‘But he knew Will.’

‘He said that he knew Will,’ Susan corrected. ‘And anyone may have met Will.’

‘But he—’

‘Jenny, that’s enough. I don’t have the strength to argue.’

‘Which only proves my point,’ Qian Ang said behind her.

‘Touché.’ Susan did not turn. ‘Why are you following us?’

‘You’re not thinking. You have a bad cough, and a fever—’ He set a hand on her neck, catching her by the arm before she could pull away. ‘I’d guess close to forty degrees. You’ll never make it that far in the snow, and if something happens to you, Jenny will be alone. She was almost flattened by a lorry five minutes ago.’

She shook her arm free. ‘Please don’t touch me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, more quietly; the wind caught his words and threw them behind him. ‘I know that you don’t want me to follow you, but I can’t let you go alone. I owe everything to Will, and I—’

‘Please don’t talk about my brother,’ she said in a strained voice. She was trembling now, and tears pressed her eyes; at least, she thought, he was still behind her and could not see her face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and then for a moment he was quiet. The blue jacket settled on her shoulders and wrapped around her like great, soft wings. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’

She took a deep breath, collecting herself. ‘No,’ she said dully.

‘Why not?’

‘I do,’ Jenny said, bouncing.

‘I know you do,’ he said with a short laugh. ‘But Susan—?’

‘Why should I?’

‘No reason, really, except that you’ve no reasonable alternative.’

She had neither the humility to accept his help nor the heart or strength to refuse it. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said quietly. ‘If we stand here much longer, we’ll have to walk in the dark.’ He did not answer, and she started to walk again.

‘C-H-E-L-S-E-A-F-C,’ Jenny spelt aloud, apparently looking at the back of the jacket. ‘What does that say?’

‘Chelsea Football Club,’ Qian Ang said, and Susan knew that he still followed them. She did not know what she thought of it.

‘Do you play football?’ Jenny asked.

‘Sometimes, but just with friends, for fun. Not for Chelsea.’

Jenny laughed. They went on talking; Susan was too tired to pay much heed. Again, stepping through ice and snow, soundless, sightless, mindless, endless.

Qian Ang shook her a little. ‘Still awake?’

‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Let’s rest for a little while,’ he said. ‘We’re halfway there.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, sinking down in the snow near his feet.

Jenny was lying in the snow: making an angel, Susan saw as she focused her eyes. Odd, she thought; when she lay still, she looked so nearly dead that Susan could almost forget Qian Ang’s arm holding her back and the lorry flying past them. When Molly heard, she would say that the angels had protected her.

‘It’d take more than a snow angel to survive a week in Anguo,’ Qian Ang said dryly, as if he knew her thoughts.

Susan glanced up at him suspiciously, but he was watching Jenny with half a smile. She noticed then that the wind had stilled; she did not remember when. Behind them was the main road and the hollow tree at the corner. She flexed her feet, aching from the cold water that seeped through her cracked sneakers.

‘Have we been walking too quickly?’ Qian Ang asked.

Susan shook her head.

‘We can rest as long as you need to.’

‘I’m fine. We can go now,’ she said stubbornly, getting herself to her feet before he could offer her a hand.

He nodded. ‘Jenny, let’s go,’ he called, and the little girl jumped up from the snow.

‘My name isn’t really Jenny,’ she said; ‘it’s Genevieve, but everyone calls me Jenny.’

‘Genevieve,’ Qian Ang repeated. ‘It sounds queenly. Shall I call you Genevieve or Jenny?’

‘Just Jenny.’

‘That’s a good name, too.’

They stopped again after the next kilometre, and a third time after the next. By that time, it was nearly dark, and Susan’s head throbbed so that she could scarcely see. She lay in the snow with eyes closed, watching tiny candles flash alight and then die out.

‘Look, I know that you don’t want help,’ Qian Ang’s voice sounded from high above her, ‘but you’re only making it worse for yourself. If you don’t let me give you a hand now, I’ll have to carry you later.’

Susan lay quietly, trying to make his words fit together into sentences, but by the time she had made sense of the last phrase, she had nearly forgotten what came before it. Something about making something worse.

‘Susan?’ The voice was much nearer now.

‘Sorry. I’m—thinking.’

‘Do you want me to carry you?’

‘No. Really, I’ll be fine in a minute.’

‘We both know you won’t.’

She half-opened one eye; Qian Ang sat cross-legged with arms folded, like an ascetic and militant buddha. Behind him, Jenny was trying to make a small family from balls of snow. Suddenly, she was angry with him for seeing her breaking, for sitting there and watching her like a hawk. ‘Stop that,’ she said crossly.

‘What am I doing?’

‘I don’t know. I just want you to leave us alone.’

‘You still don’t trust me? I swear on my honour, I only—’

‘Since when has a soldier of Anguo had any honour?’

‘Since Will was drafted?’ he asked mildly, and she was silent, surprised by the simplicity of his answer. ‘Susan. Don’t let’s quarrel. You’re not in any state to think. Come on; let’s get you home.’ He took her hand, wrapping his fingers firmly around her wrist, and pulled her to her feet. ‘You all right?’ Susan nodded. She was shaking a little, and he put an arm over her shoulders. ‘Let’s go, Jenny.’

‘Susan.’

Someone was talking to her. She shook herself awake; it was now fully dark, moonless, with clouds over the stars. ‘Yes?’

‘Awake?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mind the steps.’

From below, Jenny called, ‘Molly went to get rice today. I guess she’s not home yet, because it’s dark in the house.’

‘Do you have a key?’ Qian Ang asked.

‘No, but we don’t lock the door,’ Jenny said. ‘No one comes here.’

‘So you live in a basement without a house?’ he asked as he helped Susan down the stairway underground. ‘It must be quite safe. From missiles, I mean.’

‘And it’s not cold or windy,’ Jenny said. She opened the door to a small concrete room and turned on the torch that hung nearby. A weak pool of light spread to the facing wall and glinted from the stretch of steel countertop over the cupboards. ‘I guess the fire’s dead, too,’ she said, pointing the torch at the stove on the right. ‘We don’t have any little wood left, though. Su was going to chop it, but she was too tired.’

‘Where’s the wood?’ Qian Ang asked.

‘Upstairs, on the roof.’ Jenny giggled. ‘There’s a little bitty shed, and the axe is in there. It’s too heavy for me, though.’

‘Right. I’ll split some, and you can help Susan change into some dry clothes before she chills.’ He set Susan’s hand against the wall and went back outside.

Susan walked slowly to the rocking-chair beside the stove and sat down, stretching out her swollen ankles. ‘That’s better,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful. She took the match-box from the counter and, with shaking fingers, slid it open. A few matches fell on the countertop. She took one between her fingernails and struck it; it scratched weakly, without flame.

‘I can do it,’ Jenny offered.

‘You can, but Molly won’t let you.’ Susan tried again and missed the box by a centimetre.

‘Su, please, can I try?’

‘May I.’ Susan held out the match.

Biting her lip to concentrate, Jenny struck the match and it flared up brightly. With a cry of surprise, she let it fall to the concrete floor. ‘Sorry,’ she said ruefully. She stood and watched it eat itself up until the flame was gone; then she struck another and held this one tightly to light the tall lantern. More confidently, she lit the smaller lantern and skipped into the bedroom swinging it and singing, ‘Bring a torch, Jeanette-Isabella.’

Susan slipped out of the wet, blue jacket and unwound her shawl from her head and shoulders. She let her heavy braid fall past her waist and unravel into a silky bronzen cloak. ‘My green tunic is clean,’ she said. It landed on her head, and from the bedroom, Jenny laughed. A sarong followed it but fell at her feet; when she bent down, throbbing pain surged into her head. ‘Jenny, don’t throw things,’ she scolded.

‘Sorry. What shall I do now?’

‘Untie my sneakers. Please,’ Susan added quickly. She leaned back, and Jenny picked out the knots in the laces and peeled off her stockings.

‘Your feet are cold,’ Jenny said and shivered.

Hastily, with Jenny’s help, Susan took off her wet clothes and slipped into the soft, dry tunic and sarong. Her fingers were not steady enough to pleat and fold the sarong; she gathered the extra cloth and tied it in a loose knot at her waist. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.

‘Is that better?’ Jenny asked. ‘Will you be all right now?’

‘Yes, it’s much better.’ Susan forced a smile, though she felt so dizzy that she was almost sick. ‘Hurry, you’d best change, too. You’re wetter than I am.’

‘I was making angels,’ Jenny said matter-of-factly. ‘I made one for you, and one for Papa, and one for Molly, and one for Will, and one for Qian Ang. I was going to make one for Mama, but she has lots of her own now, doesn’t she?’

‘Hundreds.’ Susan drew her knees up to her chest and sat still and quiet, half-heeding, while Jenny dressed and hung their wet clothes over the edge of the laundry basket. Somewhere, a woman was singing: ‘I wish I were on yonder hill: ’tis there I’d sit and cry my fill, ’til every tear would turn a mill, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.’ That’s not the right line, she thought, and woke with a start as Jenny opened the door for Qian Ang. He set an armful of split wood beside the door and went out again, to return with more.

‘How are you now?’ he asked.

‘All right,’ Susan said quietly.

Qian Ang groaned. ‘I should have known. You’re always all right. Honestly, though,’ he said more quietly, coming nearer, ‘your breathing doesn’t sound good.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’ She started to get up; the chair rocked forward, and the room seemed to be tipping with it, like a little boat in stormy winds. Her will snapped, and she began to weep like a lunatic.

Qian Ang caught her by the shoulder. ‘Sh, sh, it’s all right, Susan,’ he said quietly. ‘At the moment, what you need most is sleep.’ Though she hated him for it, she let him lift her in her arms and carry her to the bedroom. He set her on her father’s full bed and drew the quilts over her small, shaking body.

‘Sh,’ he said again. ‘Try to sleep now. And don’t worry about Jenny.’

Susan closed her eyes. Thanks, she was going to say, but the word choked her and became a weak whimper. She did not want to be indebted to him; she wanted him to leave.

‘I’ll stay until your grandmother comes,’ he said.

~ * ~

Marie-Claire shut the great front door behind them and hung her coat on the coat-tree. ‘My room is upstairs,’ she said, kicking off her wet boots. At the first landing, she paused and turned; Abigail was still working at the icy lacing of a sneaker. ‘Do you want some help with that?’

Abigail shook her head and jerked the shoe off. Still wearing her brown sweater, she followed Marie-Claire to her room.

Marie-Claire opened the old book-case in her closet and ran her eyes over her father’s old books, too archaic for her bright, dustless shelves. Her own memories of the prince of Denmark had come from the crisp, white pages of an anthology, broken up by colour photographs and glosses. She took down a little blue volume and, half intrigued, flipped through the pages, yellowish, brown-edged, marked with stars and braces.

A line caught her eye: …that the Everlasting had not fix’d his canon ’gainst self-slaughter. The Everlasting. It was an odd phrase, one that seemed unfamiliar, though surely, she thought, she had seen it before. The Everlasting. As if it were a solid thing, a being, this eternity: like a tide, a charybdid whirlpool, that would finally suck all life into itself. Cold twisted in her neck, and she snapped the book shut; she was letting her imagination run wild again.

Abigail stood near the piece of stained glass that hung in the window: Sunset tinted blue and red and green ran over her black hair, and a bit of mirror reflected her eyes, deepened in solemn laughter.

Marie-Claire hesitated and then, feeling much like an elephant blundering into an oil-painter’s studio, asked, ‘Why are you laughing?’

Abigail ran a finger over the leaden edge of the stained glass. Red and sky-like mirror framed a slender young woman who drew her blue cloak slightly black from the skirt of her blue robe and bent her head toward the rippled green glass about her feet. ‘I like it,’ Abigail said at last. ‘It catches the light.’ She held up a pale hand to let the colours play over it and gazed into the shining glass as if nothing else existed.

‘Daddy gave it to me,’ Marie-Claire said. ‘I don’t know where he got it.’ She paused; Abigail had not been listening. ‘Here’s Hamlet,’ she said more forcefully, and with a sigh, Abigail turned away from the glass. She took the book from Marie-Claire’s outstretched hand, but did not open it.

‘I ought to go now,’ she said, and her face was again cold and closed; like the turtles of the garden, she had drawn herself back into her impenetrable armour.

Marie-Claire shut the bookcase and closet and followed her down the stairs; she stood waiting awkwardly while Abigail sat on the last step and forced her feet into her sneakers. There was a long crack along one sole. ‘What size shoe do you wear?’ she asked.

‘Thirty-six.’

‘So do I!’ Marie-Claire smiled. ‘I have some sneakers that I never wear—I didn’t like the colour—but they’re still perfectly good, and I think that they’d fit you. If you—’

‘No,’ Abigail said, so decisively that Marie-Claire blushed. She rose and tucked the book beneath her sweater.

‘Ill see you Monday,’ Marie-Claire said warmly as she opened the door.

Abigail nodded. ‘Thanks for the book.’

‘It’s nothing.’ She stood at the window until Abigail faded into the gathering shadows down the street. Altogether the lamps kindled, small, pallid globes like children of the moon, and she returned to the kitchen where the spice of curry rose from a simmering pot.

‘Who was that, miss?’ Jane asked and, without waiting for an answer, she added, ‘Taste the curry, please.’

‘That was Abigail.’ Marie-Claire licked at the spoonful of fiery sauce. ‘It’s perfect, but Mum won’t like it.

‘She wanted to read Hamlet,’ she went on, ‘—Abigail, I mean—but she couldn’t find a copy, so I was letting her borrow mine.’

Jane poured a pot of boiling cabbage into a colander in the sink. Steam billowed around her head. ‘Find the butter and salt, if you will, miss.’

‘Jane, her shoes are breaking.’

‘I saw that, miss.’ Jane cut a piece of butter into the pot and stirred it with a fork.

‘Don’t you think that she’d want new ones?’

‘Of course, miss, if she could get them. Likely she has a scholarship for St. George’s.’

‘A scholarship?’ Marie-Claire vaguely recalled hearing the other girls speak of the scholarship students in neatly patronising tones.

‘The school lets her attend for free because of her intellectual potential. If I know anything, she’s as poor as a churchmouse.’

‘What’s a churchmouse?’

‘It’s a mouse that lives in a church, miss.’

‘And what’s a church?’

Jane set down the fork with a clang. ‘Mercy, the child doesn’t even know what a church is.’

‘But no one has ever told me.’ She felt small and foolish, as when Dr Mac had asked her to conjugate dono for the class and she had forgotten whether it was first or third conjugation. ‘Won’t you tell me?’ she pleaded.

Jane clicked her tongue and poured the cabbage back into the pot. ‘Go tell Dr Overman that dinner is ready, miss.’

Next Instalment