The Guardians (20 page)

“There's all manner of things happen,” Mother Ryan said, holding me close, “over on the mainland. We know little about them, nor need to. They've nought to do with the Western Isles. There's no cause to fear Demons here. You know that, Ben, you know it well.”

She must have stayed with me till I fell asleep. Wide awake in daylight, I writhed at the thought. If the noise I'd made had been loud enough to rouse her, Paddy might have heard it too. And Antonia. I visualized the little twist that lifted a corner of Antonia's mouth when she was hiding a smile—or pretending to.

Paddy and Antonia were Mother Ryan's daughters—no kin to me but, since I had lived with them all my life, almost like sisters. Elder sisters: Paddy by eighteen months, Antonia more than four years. Antonia was tall and thin, with fair hair that until recently had been kept tied back in
a bun but was now let down, falling to the middle of her back. She had sharp gray eyes, quick and impatient movements. When she was angry it was in a held-back way more alarming than Mother Ryan's hot bursts of temper.

I doubt if anyone would have taken her and Paddy for sisters. Paddy was more sturdily built and ruddier; she had blue eyes, thick black hair cut short, and a much greater inclination to talk and laughter. We fought quite a lot because she had a bossy streak, but we did nearly everything together. I could not imagine life without her, though for that matter it was impossible to imagine life without any of the people among whom I had grown up—Mother Ryan, Antonia, Andy, and Joe, even the remote forbidding figure of the Master.

•  •  •

That morning, after we had our own breakfast, Paddy and I went down to the little paddock to give Jiminy his. Jiminy was a horse, swaybacked and nearly blind, who had been put out to grass. We took him his favorite snack—a sandwich with jam from last summer's plums—and he performed
his usual trick of whinnying when he saw us coming, then backing away and circling before returning to the fence, yellow teeth bared in a greedy grin.

We went through the routine of feeding him and stroking his still velvety muzzle, but it wasn't the same. There had been an awkwardness over breakfast, and it persisted. Eventually I moved away toward Lookout, the highest point on the island, with Paddy following. Apart from a bank of cloud far off in the east and a few small clouds on the western horizon, the sky was blue, the air warm and carrying scents of spring.

From Lookout one could see all the other islands. Sheriff's, the only one with more than two score inhabitants, lay southeast across the central bay. John's and Stony were to our left; to our right, Sheep Isle and West Rock and January completed the ragged arc. Some of the names were self-explanatory: Stony was stony indeed, the green turf of Sheep was studded with white shapes, and it was from Sheriff's that Sheriff Wilson governed all the isles except the one on which we stood. This was Old Isle—I didn't know
why except that it had a ruin much older than those on Sheriff's, which we knew were left over from the Madness. It was built with stones that bore the marks of hundreds, perhaps thousands of years of weathering.

We had explored all the islands, summer by summer. At one time we had been obliged to rely on Joe to take us, but since the previous spring we'd had the use of a small dinghy and could, with Mother Ryan's permission, roam freely. We had planned to camp a night on John's during the coming weekend.

Paddy chattered while we looked out—about when Liza, the tortoiseshell cat, might have her kittens; about Bob Merriton, who had come over from January to court Antonia but been quickly mocked into a shamefaced retreat; about the school of seals Joe said had come into the bay on the far side of Stony. But her chatter had an uncertain note, and as is likely to happen with people who are using words to fill an awkwardness, in the end she ran out of them. The silence that followed was heavy. She broke it with a yawn.

“I don't
know why I feel tired. I slept like a log last night.”

The yawn was too obvious, but I would have known she was lying anyway—and why. I said curtly, “Better go back to bed, in that case.”

I walked away, but she came after me. “I'm sorry, Ben.”

“What about?”

She was silent again but continued to follow as I walked down the hill. At last she said, “I get frightened, when I think about them. I know there aren't any here, but that's not to say they might not come one day. There's no telling how far they can fly.”

I swung round to face her. “So you did hear me yelling, in the night!” She made a movement of her head that could have been a shake or a nod. “It was a nightmare, that's all. Anyone can have a nightmare.”

It was definitely a nod this time. “I know.”

“When I'm awake I'm not scared of them.”

“Well, I am. I'm glad we live where there aren't any.”

I knew she was trying to make things right, and while I still nourished resentment, I was happier. However much we fought, I could be sure of Paddy being basically on my side. And there was some relief in having it in the open.

I said, “I wonder
why
they don't come here. Perhaps they can't fly over water.”

“Mother said they had them in Ireland, and that's across water from the rest of the mainland. Maybe they don't think there's anything in the Isles that needs punishing.” She thought about that. “Or perhaps we're too far off, too unimportant.”

“Or they're scared of the Master.”

Paddy laughed, but it wasn't entirely a joke. It was hard to imagine even Demons taking on the Master. We had come to the ruins, and a couple of early butterflies—clouded yellows—waltzed overhead, spiraling up past a pillar of crumbling gray stone.

“Do you want to talk about it,” Paddy asked, “the nightmare?”

“No.”

I was certain of that. Discussing Demons in an
abstract way was one thing. I couldn't begin to talk about the howling and my impotent panic. Awkwardness started to come back.

Paddy said, “I was thinking . . .”

“What?”

“Liza's kittens—she had her last litter in the old pigsty. I wonder if she's gone back there?”

I said more cheerfully, “She might have. We could go and look.”

•  •  •

Later that day Andy brought me disturbing news: I was to accompany the Master on his customary afternoon ride around the island.

On my previous birthday, the Master had surprised me by giving me a present, in the shape of a pony. He had not previously marked such occasions for any of us. There always was a present which was supposed to be from the Master, but we knew Mother Ryan had made it or got it from Sheriff's and wrapped it up before putting the Master's seal on it.

And a pony was something special. Joe had brought it across secretly the night before, but the
Master himself summoned me to the paddock and handed me the reins. He didn't say much, only, “So you're fourteen, boy. On the mainland, they would call you a man.” Then, without waiting for thanks to emerge from stammering confusion, he turned and walked away.

Antonia had just been scornful; for two or three days afterwards she greeted me by dropping her voice and saying, “On the mainland, they would call you a man.” I don't think she minded my being given the horse; she was not fond of animals and shooed the cats away if they ventured into the parlor.

Paddy, though, had been resentful at first, pointing out that all she'd had for becoming fourteen was a new hat. But she got over it quickly, principally by treating the pony as if it were a present for the pair of us. It was she who provided him with a name, Black Prince, and when Andy taught us to ride him she learned faster. She was older, of course.

The Master's own horse was a big gray gelding named Sea King. Andy called him willful, but he
seemed docile with the Master's hands on the reins. I had only looked on from a respectful distance and found it hard to take in Andy's instruction that I was to join him.

“Join him, how? Walk alongside?”

“On Black Prince, fool.” Andy pushed up the forelock which disguised a bald patch on the top of his head. “And mind you don't discredit me by riding like a sack of seaweed.” He grinned unpleasantly. “Else I might send the Demons after you again.”

The direction was for meeting at North Point. As I came up to him, I said, “Good day, Master,” and put a hand to my forelock. He nodded silently and clicked his tongue for Sea King to walk on.

For several hundred yards the path lay inland, before emerging to where the sea lay directly beneath us. He halted there. The western cloud had thickened, but the day was mild still.

The Master spoke abruptly. “That was a fine caterwauling you treated us to last night.”

I was thrown once more into confusion. The Master's quarters were at the far end of the house,
and it had not occurred to me he too might have been wakened.

“I'm sorry, sir . . .”

He stared down at me. He was more than six feet tall, his horse better than seventeen hands to Black Prince's thirteen and a half. Letting go the reins, he rubbed his hands together slowly.

“You have put on some height in the past year. How much?”

I had no trouble answering that. At the foot of the back stairs, pencil lines on the plaster marked where Paddy and I measured one another, regularly on birthdays and quite often in between.

“Three inches, sir. Well, above two.”

He nodded. “Are you happy here?”

His voice was deep, and his manner of speaking strange. As Mother Ryan's was, but in her case we knew the reason—she was proud of being born and raised in Ireland. The Master's accent did not resemble either hers or the local one, which was also my own. It took me a moment to grasp the question, and “here” perplexed me. Where else should I be?

I said quickly, “Yes indeed, sir.”

“It's a small place for a growing boy. You have wanted education.”

Again I was puzzled. This was the spring holiday, but normally Paddy and I were taken daily to school on Sheriff's in Joe's fishing dinghy.

I said, “I was second to top in my reading class. And Roger Burton who came top is six months older.”

He smiled, but it was bleak. “And what do you read, in that class you speak of?”

“All sorts of things.
Duties and Obediences, The Torments of Hell, The Infidels of the North . . .”

“Would you say you learn matters of value from these books?”

An honest answer would have been very little if anything, but I knew better than to be strictly honest to a questioning adult, particularly to the Master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am told you dreamed of Demons last night. Do the books tell you of them?”

I nodded. “Yes, they do.”

“What do they say?”

He sounded as though he really wanted to know, which in itself surprised me. I had taken it for granted that, with a large room lined ceiling to floor with books, he must be the wisest person I knew—far wiser than our teachers, or Mr. Hawkins the Summoner, or Sheriff Wilson. But he had put the question, and I had better answer it.

“They tell us Demons are the minions of the Dark One. They come to warn men against transgression of the laws, and to punish those who persist in wickedness.”

He looked at me until I felt uncomfortable. At last, he said, “I have served you ill.”

That puzzled me even more. How could the Master serve me, or want to? I kept silent, and he went on, “It may not be too late. We will talk again, perhaps of Demons. Now it is time for your tea.”

I followed him back on Black Prince, disturbed but intrigued. Would the talk be in his library? I had ventured there once while he was away on Sheriff's, and the close-packed volumes had fascinated me. There was even a set of wooden steps,
spiraling around a pole, to get at those too high to reach. Mother Ryan had caught me peering and pulled me away by the ear. It was, she scolded with a sharp tweak, a spot forbidden to any but the Master.

•  •  •

All this took place on Tuesday. The new term started on Friday, which meant just one day before the weekend break. I had fingers crossed for our camping trip: The weather had broken, and Mother Ryan fastened our oilskins on a rain-smeared morning. Joe greeted us at the jetty.

“You're late. That's a bad beginning to the term.”

“No more than five minutes,” Paddy said. “Liza had her kittens in the night. Joe, she's got
five,
and we saw the last one born! Two black-and-white, two tortoiseshell, and one a funny gray color. We're calling it Smoky.”

That had been my suggestion. It was usually Paddy who thought of names, always Paddy who decided what the name was going to be.

Joe said, “Never mind cats and kittens. Cast off, Ben. I've done a day's
work before you were stirring, and another's waiting.”

The dinghy smelled of the catch he had landed earlier, a tang of fish mixed with salt and sweat and tobacco. Joe was almost as tall as the Master, and broader, with a battered face and a big nose and thick black beard. He set sail to catch the stiff northwesterly, and we heaved our way across the bay with gusts of rain stinging our faces. I glanced surreptitiously at Paddy. I had got over being seasick, but she still suffered occasionally. She seemed all right this morning.

I looked back toward the house, where smoke rose from two small chimneys at the north end and a larger one at the south. The Master would be sitting by his study fire, drinking the coffee Mother Ryan took him about this time. I'd never tasted coffee—it was not for the likes of us, Mother Ryan said—but loved the smell. Perhaps he would be reading one of his thousands of books. I wondered when the summons for the talk might come.

This being the first day of school, Sheriff Wilson addressed us. He reminded us of our duty:
to obey our parents and those in authority, all adults, in word and deed and thought. We were to work hard and to learn—learn especially those things through which we might escape the wrath of the Dark One, in this life and the life to come. Work hard, and learn well!