A Dusk of Demons (3 page)

“There's more, Ben. From you.”

“More?”

“The duty of a son.” She looked flustered, and all their eyes were on me. “Kiss your father.”

“What?” I stepped back from the coffin. “That is
the Master.”

Mother Ryan came forward but stopped before she reached me. She stood with folded hands, as I had seen her stand in the Master's presence.

“He was but is no longer. Kiss your father, Ben.”

•  •  •

That night the weather was wild, waking me to a rattle of windows, but it was a spring storm which pummeled the islands and moved quickly on. The Sheriff had sent word the funeral was not to be delayed, and late in the morning the sun shone as Andy and Joe bore the coffin to the grave, with raindrops still scattering from the branches of trees under which they passed. Sheriff Wilson wore a black cloak instead of the crimson one which was his normal badge of office. The gaunt face of Mr. Hawkins, the Summoner, looked even thinner and more miserable under a black pointed hat.

Seabirds wheeled and shrieked overhead as the Summoner sought mercy from the Dark One for the Master's soul, and adjured all Demons that might hinder its passage to keep their distance. Paddy twisted a button of her dress, and Antonia stared at the rawly gashed earth as though hoping it might swallow her up too. She was not crying, but she never did. At her side, Mother Ryan wept enough for both.

After I had cast the first clod we trudged back
to the house, leaving Andy and Joe to fill the grave. Mother Ryan was quiet now, though red-eyed. She and the girls had been up since dawn preparing the funeral meal, and there was hot punch laced with brandy for the men. Sheriff Wilson raised no objection when she poured an extra measure of spirits into his cup. Pushing up his spectacles, he looked searchingly at me but spoke to her.

“You are sure the boy inherits? His parentage is certain?”

“I am sure.”

“Yet nothing was ever said of this. The Master did not speak of it to me.”

“It was his wish it should not be spoken of, even to the boy. Those of us who came here with him knew of it.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “There should be documents.”

“As indeed there are, Your Honor.”

She fetched a blue-and-white vase from the sideboard and shook out papers, which she handed to the Sheriff.

“He bade me take care of them. There are
marriage lines, and his will. I witnessed that myself.”

“Yet the boy knew nothing?”

He looked at me fiercely. I thought again of the good reports that were made of him, and believed them even less. I would not care to be at his mercy. His voice was incredulous too, but I could scarcely blame him for that. Since the previous evening I had thought of little else, but still could scarcely believe what I had been told. He examined the papers closely.

“The marriage took place in Ireland?”

“It did, and I was present at it.”

He said, very reluctantly, “They seem to be in order.”

“All things concerning the Master were in order.”

He put the papers down and turned to me. Now he was smiling, but I didn't trust the smile.

“So, Ben. This is a considerable inheritance, especially for a boy still at school. You will need guidance.”

I said, “Yes, sir,” obediently, without meaning it. Though hard to credit, the knowledge that
Old Isle belonged to me was something to hug close. And while I would not have wished him dead to gain it, the Master had done little to make me mourn him. Receiving none, I had felt neither love nor even affection for him. Respect, yes, but that induced no sense of loss. As for my undreamed-of inheritance, I had not yet had time to think what to do with it but was determined it would be in my own way. For the present, for some years even, I might have to defer to the Sheriff, but wishes were horses now. I would school mine privately.

•  •  •

“How did he come to die—” I hesitated before uttering the word “—my father?”

The Sheriff's party had gone back, after the Sheriff had firmly told us it would be school as usual on Monday, and Andy and Joe had returned to their everyday business. Antonia, once the clearing was done, had retired to her room; I didn't know where Paddy was. I sat on the shiny black horsehair sofa in Mother Ryan's parlor, beneath the ponderously ticking wall clock, watching her darn socks. She had finished mending the heel of one of
mine and picked up another, only to drop it. It had been the Master's, woven not of wool but soft silk. Would I wear such, I wondered?

“It began with a pain in his head.” She found another sock and held it to the light. “He spoke of it when I took him his morning tea. I knew it could be no trivial matter, for he was not a man to complain of aches. I said he should get Joe to take him to the physician on Sheriff's, but he would have none of it. After you'd gone to school, it worsened. Soon he knew he was going, and spoke of you and what needed to be done. He died just on noon.”

“What else did he say?”

“Things I mostly didn't understand . . . of people and places that signified nothing to me. The misery in his head likely made him ramble.” She paused. “And he spoke of your mother.”

“What of her?”

“Only such as would have no meaning to you—to anyone living but me.”

I sensed reluctance and pressed her. “Tell me about her.”

She hesitated. “You'll not understand the way it
was. She and I were girls together, as close as two could be till I was married. And still close after that. Then the Master came to our village, a tiny place with no town nearer than ten miles. We knew nought of him, except he was old and had money. He bought the castle that stood above the village, and the both of us went in service to him there.

“He was a man on his own—and lonely. That was the reason for him marrying your mother: being alone and in need of a wife. She knew the way it was. Her father was keen on her marrying this rich old foreigner, and she did as she was bid. It was out of duty, not fondness.

“The fondness did not come till after, with both of them, but ah, it was strong! Even more on his side than hers—he lived for the sight and sound of her. She could never fathom the reason—she being a country girl and him a grandee from no one knew where—but it was not to be doubted. And then she loved him back with all her heart, especially after you were born.”

It was troubling to listen to such a story and know it was a part of my own. Mother Ryan fell silent. I asked, “How did she die?”

“It's all over and done with, long since.” The reluctance was plain again. “It's enough having the day's sorrows to endure, without calling back yesterday's.”

“I want to know.”

“It can do no good.”

“I'm entitled to know.” I was almost angry with her. “Tell me.”

She shook her head but said, “It was a sad, bad business. At the Summonings, things were said: that the castle was an unholy place, the Master himself a cause of offense to the Dark One. He laughed when he was told of it, saying he had no fear of Demons—mocking them.

“Even for him, it was folly. At the next Summoning, a curse was put on him. That night the Demons danced, and people came up from the village, and there was shouting at the castle gate. He had no fear still but went out to them, defying them and Demons both, and they durstn't assail him to his face. But while he was rebuking their insolence, some sneaked round the back with faggots and put a torch to the building.

“The castle was an old place, mostly wood, and that was a dry summer. It flared in minutes, and the sky was lit with the flames. Your mother died that night, and so did the father of Antonia and Paddy, trying to save her. The Master managed to get to you in your cot and bring you out. It took three men to hold him from going back into the fire for her, though the flames were leaping higher than the tower.”

My initial questioning had been provoked by the death of a man I had feared and respected but never known, and had produced a predictable answer—that he had died in a way old men might reckon to die. My mother had never been more than a shadowy figure, arousing no curiosity: In every way that mattered Mother Ryan had been my mother. Now, shockingly, my natural mother had gained identity, an identity lit by romance but shadowed with horror. To die in such a way . . .

“After it, he could not abide staying there,” Mother Ryan said. “And I was left with two small children and no man. The Master brought us all here, to the islands. For above two years he did not
look at you, and afterwards was distant, bidding me keep you as my own.” She shook her head, smiling. “That was no hard thing. But it was not through want of love, you understand—had he not carried you out of the fire, with burning timbers falling around him? Maybe it was through too much. He saw her again in you, and scarce could bear it.”

I realized she was trying to soften things for me, but it did not help. Yet it was I who had insisted on an answer, and no one's fault if I had been given more than I bargained for. The clock ticked heavily, the kettle whistled softly on the hob, and in my mind flames roared. I stood up.

“The kettle's on the boil,” Mother Ryan said. “I'll brew us some tea.”

I shook my head; even the grate's tame fire repelled me. “I'm going out.”

“Before you do . . . there's a thing he had. I don't know what it is, or where it came from, but he wore it next to his skin. I took it from him when I laid him out.”

She went to a drawer in the sideboard which housed her treasures: old letters tied with faded
green ribbon, a drawing of a young man smiling, a tortoiseshell comb. She returned carrying a gold chain which bore a medallion. I wondered, as I took it from her, if it might be a locket with a picture of my mother.

But if it was a locket, I could see no way of opening it. The medallion was a disk of smooth gray material, with a silvery design worked into the surface. It was plainly very hard, the design complex and meaningless, full of curves and squiggles. I did not think it had anything to do with my mother; more likely it was something left over from the Master's unknown life before he met her. Unknown, and now forever unknowable.

I felt I had had enough of mysteries, and questions. I was tempted to hand it back to her, but that would have been ungracious. Her eyes were on me, pleased with having saved it for me.

So I slipped the chain over my neck. The medallion felt strange against my chest, cool at first but soon warm. This was the way the Master had worn it, but it did not make me feel like a Master.

•  •  •

John's was no more than nine hundred square feet, and uninhabited. It lacked a spring, so we took water in a can. That was for drinking and cooking—we had an ocean to wash in.

After my talk with Mother Ryan I had not much wanted to go on the expedition. In any case, with Saturday lost, we could not stay overnight. But when Paddy woke me early, and I expressed some doubt, her voice turned waspish.

“I suppose you'd rather sit and make a list of your possessions—count your gold pieces, maybe. Don't worry. I'll get Joe to take me over.”

She was halfway down the stairs by the time I could get out of bed, but she relented enough to agree to wait while I washed and dressed. She remained stiff and distant for a time after that, but by the time we had wrestled our gear onto the dinghy she was her usual self. We had left a house silent in the sharp light of dawn, with no smoke yet rising from the kitchen chimney. I wondered about the chimney at the far end—whether Mother Ryan would still light a fire in the Master's quarters. In my quarters, I thought, and shot a
guilty look at Paddy in case she read my mind.

The sea was quiet as the morning while we rowed the few hundred yards to John's. Gulls bobbed on the water, and I saw a cormorant leisurely paddling, too lazy or too sated to dive for fish. The island's single beach was on the far side, looking across waters empty to the western horizon. The tide was nearly full, but we still dragged the dinghy higher after beaching it. Then we set about building a fire and cooking breakfast.

We had brought porridge which had been all night on the stove and only needed reheating, but there were bacon and sausages to grill and eggs to fry. Paddy automatically resumed her role of bossing me—telling me the bacon was not crisp enough, chiding me for breaking the yolk of her egg. But she ate as greedily as I: Food tasted better cooked over a fire we had made ourselves, on an island whose sole occupants we were. Behind us the sun was obscured by the rise of land, but the sea in front was already brightly lit.

Lying back on the sand, face hidden as she laced
her hands behind her neck, Paddy spoke of my new status.

“Was it
really
a surprise? Did Mother never give you a hint of it—nor the Master, either?”

“None at all.”

“I knew nothing, but Antonia must have. There were things she said which make sense now. I think she remembers quite a bit from the time before we came here.”

Paddy started talking about things that could be done on Old Isle. Sheriff Wilson's house had a pool, which was connected to the sea and held water at low tide. We might make one like it. He kept fish for the table in his. We could swim in ours when the sea was rough.

I pointed out it would mean digging a very long channel, since the Master's house was at least twice as far from the shore. It would be asking a lot of Andy and Joe.

“We can bring men over from Sheriff's. And they could build a summerhouse, up by the pines.”

My latest acquisition seemed destined to go the same way as the previous one: to be shared between
us, but with Paddy in charge. I wondered if she would want to ride Sea King. Probably not; his size would be likely to daunt even her. Anyway, for the last couple of days he had been suffering an attack of laminitis and was confined to the stables.