Maggie Bright (22 page)

He pulled out the handball and examined it. Put it back in his pocket. “Where’s the docs?”

“Give them time,” William said. He took out a pack of cigarettes. Luckies. They were supposed to curb his anger. He crushed the pack in his fist, and returned it to his pocket. He realized his knee had started to bounce up and down, and discreetly laid his hand on it. He glared at Murray. “Will you stop fidgeting?”

The door to Clare’s room opened, and William shot up.

One of the doctors came out. His face was too grave.

The doctor left them and went to prepare for surgery.

“Mr. Percy?” said a nurse at Clare’s door. “She’s asking for you.”

“See? What’d I tell you?” said Murray quietly, all fidget gone out. “Asks for you, and I’m her brother
 
—how’d ya like them apples?” He had an arm about the capable and weeping Mrs. Shrewsbury.

William stood looking at the door to the room. All had gone tinny and hollow and distant, and the nurse spoke again. William took his hat.

“Say, bobby.” Murray looked up. “You tell her her brother says hi.”

She was no longer agitated. She was serene. Her face was lovely in fever, cheeks rosy, eyes bright if red, and the fear that the doctors had raised, as if flushing out a great swell of black carrion, came home to roost in his gut. Infection, infection . . .

William took the chair next to the bed. “Are you going to talk to me about epiphanies?”

“I’m going to talk to you about Murray and Arthur Vance.”

“Then you’d better stick to your point,” he said lightly. “They’ve given you something to make you sleep.”

“I’ve not gotten used to the idea of being a sister. It’s too wonderful. I can’t let it close yet. I was deeply happy once, when I was eleven. I fear happiness.”

He crossed his legs. He picked up a book on the bedside table, looked it over. “It’s something I’ve been recently aware of myself.” It was a Bible. He turned it over in his hands, put it back on the table.

“It would mean everything to me if you kept an eye on Murray.”

He recrossed his legs. He checked the Bible again, it had a leaflet in it. A weekly radio program with a few circled time slots. A few
emphatic notes were in the margin, surely Clare’s. It seemed he’d known her far too long to not know her handwriting.

“When Waldemar Klein was in my boat,
intimately
there, in a place evil should not have gone, I could only think of Arthur Vance. I can’t help but call him Arthur, I’m not used to the idea of . . .” She trailed off. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes. “Where was I?”

“Arthur Vance.”

“Stupid spleen,” she said crossly. “Did I ever dream at tea and toast for breakfast, that later in the day I’d combine those two words? Or ‘internal bleeding’? Such unfortunate pairings.”

“It isn’t the internal bleeding they’re worried most about.” He folded his arms. He flicked at a spot on his trousers. He suddenly found it harder to breathe.

“Yes, yes, either the infection will do me in or the operation to clean it up. Well at least they’ll give it a try. Right? I do feel a bit stupid. Apparently one is supposed to let the doctors know about things, and not be so . . .”

Abruptly he rose and went to the window.

“I’m so sorry, William,” she whispered.

He felt in his pocket for the package of crushed Luckies.

He’d lost Waldemar Klein. But he’d rather lose Klein a thousand times over than . . .

He realized she was talking.

“. . . that Maggie must go. The Small Vessels Pool came, and we had a chat. They’ve just left. Did you see them?” She paused. “No
 
—no, that was weeks ago. I
am
damaging my credibility. But I know for certain that Maggie must go.”

The nurse warned that she was confused. It was a symptom of internal bleeding. That and faintness
 
—
why
hadn’t he seen it? She had wavered when she stood to take the crutches, and he put it off to
 
—

“He stood over me with the gun, and I wondered if this was what Arthur Vance knew
 
—such dipping, plunging fear. And then
suddenly . . . it’s gone. Perhaps he felt the same, that moment to look Waldemar Klein in the eyes, that moment to see the one behind him, the one who comes for us, the one this is all about. I saw his master, his shatterer, the one who would kill Cecy . . .”

A chill prickled the back of his neck. He stopped breathing.

“. . . and I knew a surety I’d never known. I knew I’d choose good if it meant my life. I wish everyone had that dreadful chance. I’d not let him have those papers, and did not know until I saw his face. Everyone should have a chance to look evil straight on. Yet we put off the one thing that could change the world. Change ourselves.” She paused. “Have you heard of Popsicles?”

And just like that, the spellbinding tone became that of a fevered young woman once more. William felt released, and took a long discreet breath.

“Such a whimsical little word.
Popsicles.
Murray spoke of them. I’m sure he meant ice lollies. Where was I? Oh yes. Do you know
 
—” her tone went musing
 
—“belief does something marvelous to courage. Courage is something to be
drummed up
without it, but if you have belief,
it
does the drumming. Am I making sense? I hope you don’t think it’s the fever talking.”

He turned to her. “Oh, it’s Clare talking. Every word.”

And she smiled, most brilliantly.

“You literally knocked me off my feet. I wonder how many can say that.” She touched the chair. “Come. They’ll run off with me soon.”

He came slowly back to the bed. He picked a daisy out of the vase along the way. He sat in the chair, and twirled the daisy by the stem, watching the petals go round. “If you see . . . anything at all . . . what could you possibly see in me?”

“It’s hard to put into words, and you’ll only get a big head. I shouldn’t wonder if the nurses have already given you one. William, he has taken them hostage, and now he comes for us. We mustn’t give in.”

“Have you gone spellbinding again?”

“I can’t tell you the personal relief. I feared I would scramble about and find something to make them go away. When you’ve suffered a great deal, you can’t bear to suffer again. I feared . . .” Tears rolled down, and William took her hand. “I feared that those papers would become my personal appeasement, that I’d offer them up like one of England’s territories. You see, I stood to lose everything once more. Maggie, my people, everything.” She closed her eyes. “But I passed the test, and it’s good to get down to the bottom of myself, and oh goodness, it’s taking effect. Like morphine, except drowsier. I hope I am not an addict; I
like
the effect. Very peaceful. Where was I?”

“Personal appeasement.”

“Right.” She slowly opened her eyes. “I passed when I looked him straight on and realized he’d never stop coming. He doesn’t want territories. He wants it all. I knew then the bottom of myself, that something there would never stop opposing him. It is strong, and secure, and good.” Tears rolled down, and she gripped his hand. “I knew what Arthur did. No wonder he went out ruefully serene. I must tell Mr. Butterfield the secret: We have an ally. The shatterer will not prevail. Maggie goes forth to meet him.” Her fevered gaze wandered the ceiling. “Man the ramparts. Watch the road. Gird your loins, and collect your strength.” Her eyes closed, and this time she seemed to wilt, as if the medication had taken full effect.

William rose from the chair. He started for a nurse, but she had come for him. “I think she’s
 
—”

“Mr. Percy, we need to prepare her for the operation. You can wait with the others. We will keep you informed.”

“I have to tell you something important,” Clare said weakly, eyes still closed. “Can’t think what it is. . . .”

“You already did. It’s all right, we’ll talk when they’ve fixed you up.” His breath caught. “You owe Cecy a ride on your boat. Don’t disappoint her.”

“He sees the prayers. It’s the only thing he’s afraid of.”

William fingered the edge of her coverlet. “Who?” he said, playing along as with someone senile, even as it pierced his heart.

“The shatterer. He sees a great wall between us and him. Hopes it’s made of glass.”

“Glass
can
shatter.” His fingers moved from the coverlet to touch the back of her hand. “Make it a great wall of iron, Clare, and keep us safe.”

“He’ll have a surprise . . .” And she was asleep.

“Mr. Percy.” The nurse held the door open for him, and that was it, no more time.

He went to the door, took his hat from the peg, and went to put it on. Then he paused, staring at the gray felt hat in his hand.

“Just
 
—” He held up a finger to the nurse, striding to the bedside table. He picked up the Bible and opened it to where the leaflet was. Nahum 2:1 was underlined:
The shatterer has come up against you. Man the ramparts; watch the road; gird your loins; collect all your strength.

He closed the book and set it on the table. He picked up the fallen daisy, laid it by her side, and left the room.

Across the English Channel, in an uncovered greenhouse, a bandaged man stood watching the moon.

Another came alongside.

“All right, Captain?” He looked down at a man sleeping against a stone trough, and nudged him awake with his boot. “Curtis. You’re up.”

“Such a foe is rising, who intends to erect his throne equal to ours throughout the spacious North,” the captain said to Jamie, as if he were filling him in, giving him the lay. There was something about him this evening. He was watchful. Alert.

“He at it again?” Curtis said hoarsely. He scrubbed his face with both hands, and shook himself.

“You’re on watch, Curtis.”

“Yeah, I’m going.” He yawned. “See anything?”

“No,” Jamie said, watching the captain. “All’s quiet.”

The captain watched the moon and the stars. Something about the watching was quite lucid tonight, and tense, as if he expected nothing good.

“Let us advise, and to this hazard draw with speed what force is left, and all employ in our defense, lest unawares we lose this our high place, our sanctuary, our hill.”

“Milty, let’s get some shut-eye.”

“What enemy, late fallen himself from Heaven, is plotting now the fall of others.” His eyes narrowed, traveling the sky, and his fingers turned the wedding ring.

“I can’t sleep unless you do.”

He lingered a moment more, and followed Jamie.

“Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate to human sense the invisible exploits of warring spirits?”

The British Expeditionary Force today is almost surrounded. That is the very grave position caused by the surrender of the Belgian Army.

 
—Daily Mail

Nothing is gained by blinking facts or mincing words. The British Expeditionary Force and the French divisions with it are beset on three sides and from the air. All are in danger of being cut off from Dunkirk.

 
—Daily Telegraph

We must keep all our anger for our one enemy, Hitler.

 
—Daily Express

And oddly enough, I notice that since things got really bad, everyone I meet is less dismayed. . . . Even at this present moment I don’t feel nearly so bad as I should have done if anyone had prophesied it to me eighteen months ago.

 
—C. S. LEWIS TO OWEN BARFIELD,
Oxford

I hope the BEF is cut to pieces sooner than capitulate.

 
—DIARY ENTRY OF GEORGE ORWELL

From Ramsgate the first convoy of “little ships” sailed at 22.00 on May 29. By the next day they were streaming across the Channel in seemingly unending lines.

 
—Dover Castle: A Frontline Fortress and Its Wartime Tunnels