The Eidolon (9 page)

We reach the edge of the village and make our way up the gentle incline to Casimir’s cottage. It’s a simple single-storey white dwelling, ablaze with climbing flowers in the summer, but unassuming and somewhat bare now, apart from a few white daffodils peeping out from pots beside the front door. The late afternoon light is fading in the eastern sky, and as we arrive at Casimir’s gate, I turn to take in the sunset, breathing deeply.

You can taste the air here – it’s clean and fresh, like a spring from a mountainside. The mouth of the glen reaches out towards the sea, and the village, with its spire and its hunched terraced houses, lies nestled in the basin of the ancient land. Behind us, stretching to the east, the snow-capped mountains rise like they’re guarding the glen’s secrets, but the younger southern sentries are smaller, rolling down to the low ground. You can see the skies to the south through the gap between the mountains and the sea. It’s like a giant’s mouth with a gaping hole where a huge tooth used to be. To the west, the sea is calm, glowing in the orange dusk, as it sweeps out towards the islands. A crimson sun sets behind them, stealing away what’s left of the day. Just beyond the village in the western fields of the glen, a circle of standing stones stands silent and still, a remnant of a world long forgotten. I used to play there when I was a child. Most of them are broken, but a couple still stand in their full glory; towering, watching. The last of the sun’s rays cast long shadows onto the land in front of the stones, like dark fingers reaching across the earth.

Casimir looks out towards the sea. “I never tire of this, you know, even if it is a bit of a blur these days. You can still feel it.” He sniffs in the air, contented. “Wonderful.” Turning, he unlatches the gate.

“I’ll help you inside.”

“Not at all, lad,” he replies. “I’m fine once I’m in my own patch. Off you go and see you mother, now.” He smiles in the way that someone does when they care for you. “I’m glad to have seen you, Robert. Look after yourself.”

I watch him make his way up the path, fumble with his keys and open the door. I’m gripped with the urge to follow him inside, to open a bottle of whisky and embark on one of our long, meandering conversations that start in the world of science and end up way off track, some time in the small hours, in the wilderness of philosophy. He turns back and waves before quietly closing the door. Tomorrow would have to do.

A
LITTLE FURTHER
up the track is my home. It’s like stepping into the past when I open the cottage’s creaky oak door. A warmth of familiar scents, sounds and feelings wash over me: the smell of the logs freshly piled on the blazing fire, the scent of the wooden timbers sagging in the low ceilings, the clang of a cast iron pot on the range. Indistinct memories and a deep sense of refuge flood through me as I walk through the hall where my old boots still sit on the rack and my dark grey coat and baggy jumper still hang from the hooks by the door.

“Mum?”

“In here!” I walk into the kitchen, almost colliding with my mother as she throws her arms around me. I drop my rucksack onto the floor and embrace her. My mother, Marion Strong, is shorter than I am; her dirty blonde hair tied up on top of her head only just reaches my chin.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you, Robert!” Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. She holds me at arm’s length, her hands clasping my face, and peers at me over her half moon specs. Her eyes are warm, a little older than I remember, but have the same vitality they’ve always had. “Look at you!” she says proudly.

I do look, glancing sideways to the driftwood-famed mirror askew on the wall, but I don’t get the same sense of pride which seems to thrill her. I’m unshaven, my hair is standing in different directions, thanks to its beanie experience. I don’t look any better than when Chris told me I looked a mess. There’s no getting away from it – I look rough. Still, my mother loves me.

“So how was your journey?” she asks.

“It was fine,” I say, taking a seat by the old wooden table that dominates the room. “No hold ups.”

“That’s good. I was so pleased when you called!” She beams like a little girl. “I’ve made some soup, are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry, remember?”

She grins as she lifts a bowl from the wooden dresser, stacked with assorted plates and cups and mugs. A copper pan dangles from a hook in the low ceiling and a bunch of dried, faded flowers hang upside down beside it. There was always a sense of comfortable disorganisation about the place and I’m glad that it hasn’t changed.

“So how’s the business going?” I ask. My mum earns a modest living making jewellery in the small workshop behind the cottage and enjoys wearing her creations. A chunky wooden necklace hangs round her neck, a pair of large, silver hoops swing from her ears and bronze bracelets jangle as she moves.

“Oh, it’s fine. A little slow these days, but I don’t need much to keep me going. I’ve got an exhibition in the museum at the end of the week.” She places in front of me a bowl of soup brimming with lumpy vegetables and a slice of bread that would make a perfectly functional doorstop. Beats pasta and Dolmio sauce.

“That’s good. Should get you some more clients.”

“Hopefully,” she says as she makes the tea. “So how was your trip away?”

“It was a difficult climb,” Articulation isn’t easy while chewing on the doorstop. “We got a bit lost on the descent, but it was a welcome change of scene, and Danny was good company.” That’s as much information as I want to give, whether it’s my mum or anyone else who asks.
Tell no-one
. The monk’s words echo in my mind.

She sits down opposite. “And has Danny grown up any?”

I can’t help but snort. “What do you think?”

She laughs, then glances sideways at me. “How about Cora? Have you heard from her at all?”

“No, nothing.”

“That’s a shame,” she says. “Maybe you should take a trip to the pottery to see her – it’s only the other end of the glen.”

“I’ll see. So, when did you see her?”

“I met her in the shop a couple of times. We had a good chat. I think she’s enjoying the space up here.” She eyes me over her specs, in the way she does when she’s formed an opinion about something, and knows that a look is enough to express it. “And how about you?”

My mouth has gone dry, despite the soup. “I think it’s the right thing. We both needed the space.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“So,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, “what else has been happening in the big metropolis?”

“Oh, not much. There’s a new minister, who doesn’t seem to have won over many hearts and minds so far, but it’s early days. Michael Casimir’s doing alright – I’m sure he’ll be keen to see you. I told him about your job when you called to let me know. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Course not. I met him on the way home. He looks a lot older.”

“Yes,” she says, her expression sagging a little, as though she was trying to forget it. “It’s such a shame he doesn’t have any family at this stage in his life.”

“We should go and see him tomorrow. I’d like to head up the ridge in the morning, but we could go round later on. Maybe take him out for a drink.”

“That sounds fine. I’ve got to drop off some necklaces for Jessie first thing,” she says, nodding at the bundle of coiled sparkles on a shelf, “but I’ll be in when you get back. Oh, I almost forgot, a man came to the door this morning looking for you.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know – he didn’t leave his name. He said he was a work associate – said he would call by later in the week. Quite a distinguished looking gentleman. Well dressed and very polite.”

It doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve worked with. “Did he leave a number or a card or something?”

She shakes her head. “He just said he would be in touch sometime later this week.”

“Well, if it’s important enough, he’ll be back.”

A
FTERNOON FADES INTO
evening, and then night. Darkness leaks in through my open window on a clean winter breeze. Sleep comes to me eventually. The sounds of the waves in the distance, their soft brushing on the black shores, the rustle of a few leaves on brittle branches, fading, becoming silence. For a while, there’s only blissful silence.

A breath on my skin. Whispers suffuse my subconscious. She’s there again, reaching out for my hand, and I want to resist but I can’t. Her hand reaches closer, closer, until our fingertips touch. Darkness. It feels like I’m rising up, like she’s lifting me up, and we’re moving, gliding... I’m drowning in a feeling of helplessness, going under...

I jolt upright, panting, doused in sweat, and shove open the window into the empty dawn. “What do you want from me?” My voice carries out over the field behind the house.

The thud of footsteps and the door opens behind me. My mum is standing in a nightshirt, staring at me. “Robert?”

I glance at the digital alarm clock, which reads 06:47, and let out a slow breath. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

I
LEAVE THE
house for the ridge, after raiding the fridge and cupboards for some food – Twiglets, a large chunk of cheddar and homemade bread. A lazy winter sun struggles to dispel the bleak mist that lingers over the land like a banished cloud. The glen has an earthy scent: the scent of wood and plants and rain and life: not the sterile life of the city, but the life that grows and struggles and prevails unnoticed all around. The engine room of the planet. As I walk up along the well-trodden track I listen to the sound of my boots on the rocks and soil. It makes me feel part of the land, that noise. But I’m uneasy. I feel like a guitar that’s out of tune, too subtly to say which string is off, but enough to know that the whole thing doesn’t sound right.

Beyond, the swell of the sea and the shrill call of the gulls, as they swoop and dive over the coastline, drift through the mist, muted a little by distance. Clouds lurk on the mountains, but I know the track well. If I stay on it, it will bring me back down to the west of the village. My mind, still blistered from that fucking nightmare, begins to sooth, surrounded by the enduring mountains and the timeless ebb and flow of the tide.

T
HE SUN PAYS
lip-service to the sky behind the clouds as the track leads me down to the glen. At least the days are getting longer. I hate the short days of winter; it feels like you’re being robbed of time. How anyone could live in six months of darkness in some godforsaken place like Spitsbergen is beyond me. It’s an easy path downhill, much easier than the climb, but my pulse is picking up speed with each step. I can see the pottery from here, smoke twisting up from its fat chimney. There’s Cora’s car, outside, on its own. No customers. I’ll have to talk to her, uninterrupted. And I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to say.

What if she doesn’t want to see me? I stop outside the green door, fidgeting.
God, Robert, you’re not seventeen.
I take a deep breath and stoop to avoid bumping my head on the small door frame. Scottish people were evidently a lot shorter in bygone years. The pottery is a brightly lit white room with deep window sills and shelves displaying all kinds of pots and jars, jugs and plates. I tread carefully, keeping my hands in my pockets, aware that breaking something would not endear me to Cora. My fingers find the silver ring on its leather cord. Movement comes from the back of the room, beyond a stone arch in the wall.

“Hello!” It’s her voice. My heart quickens as she steps through the archway. Her long dark red hair is tied behind her head and some strands have escaped over the pale skin of her cheeks. She brushes them away with a hand dusted in clay. She freezes as her eyes meet mine. In that moment, it’s like I’m looking at her for the first time. I’d forgotten what drew me to her in the beginning. She has a look of serenity, a deep contentment that’s settled in her eyes, as though she’s comfortable with the person she is. The tension I’d grown used to seeing in her face is gone. She looks better without me in her life.

“Hello, Cora,” I say, smiling as casually as I can.

“Robert, what are you...” she says, as she wipes her hands on the blue apron that covers her jeans and white shirt.

“It’s alright, I’m here on business.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s my mum’s birthday today and I need to get her a present.”

“Oh, of course.” She smiles, a little awkwardly. “I’m impressed you remembered.” It sounds like sarcasm.

“So, how are you doing?”

“I’m... not sure yet.” She frowns, ringing her dusty hands. “How about you?”

“I’m, eh – I’ve been better.”

We stand there, looking uncomfortable. Virtual strangers again.

“Eh... I’ll take this,” I say, and pick up a stone-coloured jug on the shelf next to me.

“Good choice,” she says. “I made that one.”

“Really?” I turn it round carefully in my hands. “It’s beautiful.”

“Give her this from me.” She lifts down a sandy, domed salt cellar. She used to insist on giving one present to people from both of us. “So how was your trip?”

“It was... well...” I take a deep breath. “I’ve not been right since I got back... I feel like I’m going a bit crazy, you know? I can’t sleep. I keep having these dreams...”

“Look, Robert, I’m sorry you’re having a hard time, but you wanted this. You know you did. You can’t just...”

“They’re dreams about Sarah.”

She hesitates. “What?”

“Every night since I got back – she keeps trying to show me something, and I get this uneasy feeling, like I’m drowning...”

She steps closer, studying me. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a rational explanation, Robert, like you have for everything else. You’re not telling me you believe them?”

“No, it’s just...”

The door behind me creaks and a couple with flecks of grey in their dark hair stride in. They’re wearing matching blue waterproof jackets and hats.

“Hi!” says the lady. American, eyebrows raised, grinning widely. One of those tiresomely eager and optimistic people. “Could you tell us how to get to Kilmartin, please? We’ve gotten lost. Oh, I love this vase! How much is it? Do you have it in another colour? Oh, I’m sorry, you’re serving someone.”