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John Irving is twelve when his daemon fixes.
It happens overnight. He wakes up and turns and sees Addie is perched next to him and she has taken the form of some large, strange bird with a long, long neck and patterned feathers. She’s never worn that form before. She always takes on sensible, practical shapes, fitting ones for a boy of his age. This form is pretty but he doesn’t know what it is and it’s far too noticeable.
“You look so silly like that Addie,” he says sleepily. “Change back.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not,” she says slowly. “I think I’m ... stuck like this.”
He sits up, bewildered. Addie flutters up a little, stretches her new wings wide.
“I think I’ve stuck,” she says again.
“But ... but you can’t, Addie! You can’t have! You can’t look like that! People will look at you! They’ll ... they’ll think ... things! You have to change!”
But she can’t. She tries, he can see that she tries, he can even feel it in a strange, grinding in his very bones. But there is nothing she can do. She’s stuck, as all daemons must do but she has stuck into something awful and he cannot understand why. Father will be disappointed. Everyone will be disappointed.
“I just don’t know what I did wrong,” he says to her tearfully and she hangs her head on her new slender neck. He wants to cuddle her but how can he when she looks like this?
“I, I don’t think you did anything wrong,” she whispers. “I really don’t. I think this is just me, that’s all. We’ll get used to it, John. I’m sure we will. Given time.”
But he does not. He cannot. Whenever he sees her, he feels disturbed. What are people thinking? Yes, obviously, you should not judge a man on his daemon alone, everybody knows that, it is in the Bible. Plenty of good, up-standing, brave men have had the most peculiar of daemons, some of the lowest in society have had daemons that look attractive. But this bizarre, slender, pretty bird? How can anyone not look at her and not think there is something strange about him?
“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now,” his father says, practical and blunt. “I expect you’ll grow into her.”
And Irving supposes that is the best he can manage, now.
*
She does not hold him back. They are far beyond men being judged for daemon alone in their civilised country. Indeed, some people admire her, say she’s a good looking sort of thing. Adamantine might not look right to him but she can play the part. Her long neck always curves gracefully, her head is always up, wings neat. And she is not unable to fight, should the need arise. Her beak is sharp, her feet clawed and when she spreads her wings out full, she can even be a little intimidating. No, in many ways, it could have been worse.
And yet Irving can never quite shake the wrongness of her. The fear that she is a signal, a flag of shame revealing messages about his soul that he cannot have other people know. If he is close to her, that would suggest he doesn’t mind what she can say about him and he does, he minds so much. Other people do not seem to have this disconnect. He watches them pat their daemons idly, chat with them and longs for it. It is not fair. What has he done wrong?
Of course, as he grows, he accepts that it is simply another test. The Lord shows you a part of yourself with your daemon. Obviously, the Lord felt that Irving needed to be aware of his own weakness in a physical way. Perhaps if He had allowed Adamantine to fix as something more pleasing, they would have been weaker, more prone to sin and he knows that he does want to sin, some part of him inside seems horribly flawed and it terrifies him.
“We must always be strong,” he tells her as she stands behind him. “Both of us. In the face of any temptation.”
“Yes John,” she says quietly. “Of course.”
*
The Terror. She’s a beautiful ship really, Irving supposes, very impressive, especially if you want to be there – which, in truth, he is not quite sure he does. But there is money and experience and camaraderie to be had, he is sure of that and Sir Franklin is a wonderful man with a most magnificent golden eagle daemon that sits on his raised arm with a proudness that Irving envies. He tries to imagine Adamantine sitting on his arm like that, shudders. He would look a prize fool. He is jealous too of Commander Fitzjames’s beautiful dog, her curly fur trimmed to perfection, standing at his side looking almost royal. In fact, all the Erebus officers have beautiful, smart daemons any man could be proud of and Irving can only pray they don’t look at him too closely.
Still, the daemons aboard the Terror herself are a soothingly motley collection. Captain Crozier has a most peculiar creature which appears to be a misshapen shaggy badger – except the eyes are in the wrong place. Little has a sheep, not an English countryside type but a beautiful, brown-woolled creature with a long neck. And there is, of course, Hodgson’s slender mongoose, yellow as his hair and usually draped around his neck like a little scarf.
“She likes it there,” Hodgson says happily. “Comfy for her. Good thing too, it’ll be blasted cold for us in the Arctic, I’ll probably just have to cover her up with scarves and hope she doesn’t smother! More practical for ladders than poor old Little though.”
Irving can see the point, though the sheep has proved remarkably nimble so far when he has watched her. She looks quite nice really, solid and dependable. Unconventional perhaps but you still look at her and think you can trust the man she belongs to.
“Your bird’s a lovely one,” Hodgson tells him kindly. “Did you ever look her up, find out exactly?”
“No,” Irving says. “She’s some sort of heron, I am told.”
“Oh, I had to know about Mnemosyne here,” Hodgson says. “Far too curious about her when she went all peculiar on me! Not sure I learned much when I found out though!”
Mnemosyne lifts her head, gently butts Hodgson’s ear with her little nose. She’s such a slight small thing, but speedy, clever. So easily hidden if you wanted to.
“Doesn’t she want to come and say hello?” Hodgson asks, looking over Irving’s shoulder.
“No,” Irving says quickly, not looking at where Adamantine stands, knowing she’ll keep totally still. “She doesn’t really like to talk.”
Hodgson blinks, then smiles, shrugs as though it does not matter. Which it doesn’t, Irving reminds himself. Lots of men are private with their daemons. Besides, Adamantine doesn’t like to talk. It is not a lie. Sometimes, she does not even talk to him. Why would she want to talk to anybody else?
*
They journey and at first, it is wonderful.
There is something freeing about sailing, sometimes. When Irving is standing there and there is just water moving by, the curl of the waves in the ocean, the wind in his hair, it feels like being released, as though he can almost see the full size of God’s glorious world, almost touch the full beauty of it, feel it deep in his soul. Adamantine sometimes flutters onto the railings beside him, her feathers rippling and he knows she feels it too, the beauty of it, the glory of it, she understands and it is wonderful. They are seeing things that most men will never be blessed to see, they are going to places most men will never dare go. When he sees the great sky and sea together, he feels God is close, God can hear him and knows him and he cannot imagine anything closer to perfection.
*
And then it all goes wrong.
*
He is not worried at first. They are frozen in, but they knew it might come. It is a shame but it will only hold them back a while. God will see them on their way again soon enough. In the meantime, it is a place for meditation and prayer, surely, a time to make things right in their souls. A time for improvement and study.
Except, as it becomes darker and colder, Irving feels his certainty begin to fray. There is something awful about the lack of sun that he cannot quite explain. It makes him feel pale, queasy even. Sometimes, he wakes in the morning and feels as though there is no point rising from his bunk at all, that you might as well stay huddled in your own warmth and refuse to get up and do your duties. He can see it affecting the men too. Lethargy, laziness, people turning to unnatural things to get themselves through. It cannot be allowed. They have to push through. This is the perfect place to improve one’s self, to make oneself as close to God as they can be. There are no distractions here, no excuses. You rise and you do your duty. That is all.
“It’s all right to be tired,” Adamantine says as he forces himself out of his bunk.
“I’m not tired!” he snaps at her without looking around. She does this sometimes, voices his worst urges to him, another sign of the weakness inside him. It has to be fought. A daemon can be a conscience but it can also be a path to convincing yourself not to improve, accepting your worst aspects and surrendering to them.
“John – ”
“Shut up,” he orders her and she obeys.
It does not help that she cannot move as she used to when he must venture out. It is so cold here. Daemons are not ruled by their forms entirely, they are not beasts but nor can they ever rise entirely above the bodies God gives them and Adamantine is not designed for this cold. She hops into the bag Irving had designed for her willingly enough but it is always cramped and strange. She presses against his back as he walks and he wonders if it is the fact that she curls and cannot stretch her wings or legs is what is making him feel so trapped.
*
Spring, but no sign of thaw. He prays nightly for melt, for freedom, for release. Surely God must see fit to grant it soon. Surely He must. Sir John believes so utterly, so fully. Sometimes, Irving wishes he were under him, not Captain Crozier but then he feels guilty for it. Captain Crozier is a good man too, generally kind. He has never once said anything of Adamantine strangeness, even admired her once, seeming to believe she reflected well on Irving. Yes, Captain Crozier can be kind. And if he were on Erebus, he would not be with Little, who has been so gently patient with him and he would not be with Hodgson, who is often a strangely delightful companion, a source of unusual knowledge that Irving has never expected to know. They can talk for hours and Irving cannot help but like it. No, he must be happy in his situation.
But oh, he wishes a thaw would come. He wishes they were free.
*
He does not expect it.
He is puzzled when he is sent to find Mr Hickey and cannot find him, but not unduly puzzled. The ship needs constant maintenance, a caulker’s mate might be doing anything anywhere. And some men did like to slip away for privacy, Irving quite understands it, although of course, he tries never to give in himself to such a need. Mr Hickey is known for being a rather slippery man who likes to disappear rather than do work.
He might well be in the orlop.
As he climbs down the ladder, he realises he can hear something. Breathing. No, not breathing, gasping. Strange little gasps, some sort of exertion that people do not want to be heard.
“Is someone there?”
He is sure he hears a voice whisper “Sh!” and Adamantine hears it too, flutters forward, hops up onto one of the crates.
“Answer me!” he orders and there is a strange creeping sensation inside him and then Adamantine falls back, almost seeming to lose her balance, scrambling back on clumsy legs as Mr Gibson comes out from behind the crates; Mr Gibson without his jacket, Mr Gibson rearranging his trousers, Mr Hickey doing the same, oh, oh, oh no ...
Panic fills him, a wild, unreasoning panic that he cannot assuage or understand. They have been, they have been doing things, the most unnatural and horrifying ... things against the articles, things ...
He is barely aware of what he says to them before he flees. Adamantine flutters after him.
“John. It’s all right, John – ”
“Shut up! Do not speak to me! How, how can it be ... it cannot, it ... oh ... ”
His mind will not stop replaying it. Mr Gibson coming out of the shadows, his clothes, Mr Hickey’s clothes, the little gasped breaths ... but it cannot be, surely not, they, they must have been doing something else, surely it cannot, surely, surely, he must stop thinking about it, he must not let it poison him, Mr Gibson is a good steward, he has been friendly, Irving has liked him ...
“John,” Adamantine says and she tries to lay her head on his shoulder. He thrusts her away, disgusted and she stumbles, almost hits the desk. He cannot look at her. He has to think. He has to make this make sense. It must. It must. He did not see, he did not see so he does not know but what else, what else could it be ...
His head is spinning. He prays for peace, for understanding, for knowledge. He prays for everything to come a little clearer.
Like all of his recent prayers, they go unanswered. He cannot seem to stop going over it again and again but nothing new comes to him when it does. Mr Gibson. Mr Gibson and Mr Hickey. Things, things in the dark, pants and gasps and clothes awry. They were not, they cannot have been, it is impossible, it is not real, please, please, what should he do? What should he do?
“Perhaps it was innocent,” he mumbles aloud. “Perhaps it was. You can be innocent, can’t you? You can be innocent.”
“Oh John,” Adamantine says but he does not look at her. He cannot look at her.
*
He does not want to let Mr Gibson into his room but Mr Gibson looks so pleading that he cannot refuse. He lets him in and steps back, locking his hands behind his back. Mr Gibson stands there, his daemon at his side. She’s a pretty sort of dog, even bundled up to keep her warm. Her head is currently dipped. She and Mr Gibson have always behaved so well, so appropriately.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Mr Gibson whispers. “I ... I understand you must be disappointed in me. I wanted to explain.”
“I do not know what explanation you could possibly give,” he says roughly.
“I ... I did not mean it. Mr Hickey, he ... I thought he was just meaning to be friendly sir, it has been ... I know it is a poor excuse, sir, I know it, but the winter was so hard and a friendly ear, that was all I wanted, truly, I thought he wanted the same, I did not know what he intended and then ... then ... ”
His daemon shudders slightly, her head hanging low. Irving stares at them both. His hands are sweating. He does not know why.
“You did not know?” he hears himself say. He feels strangely far away, as though the conversation is not quite happening to him at all.
“No sir, I did not,” Mr Gibson says. His voice is so ... so earnest. So pleading. “I just thought he meant a kindness and he, he was kind but, but ... I’ll spare you the details sir, I do not mean to ... but when I told him it could not happen again, I, he ... he would not ...”
He can picture it, see it in his mind so clearly. The winter was so terrible, so hard. A man weaker than himself might easier want to turn to affectionate, kindness. Mr Gibson is a good man but obviously weak and Mr Hickey, Mr Hickey must be the sort to prey on it. Irving can quite imagine it, Mr Hickey gently asking Mr Gibson what was wrong, listening to him kindly, perhaps laying a soft hand on his leg, just friendly at first, just men being friendly and then slowly stroking upward, soft and kind, a comfort in the dark, but wrong, seductive and wrong.
“I was afraid, sir,” Mr Gibson says and without thinking, he reaches out one of his own hands, presses it to Mr Gibson’s arm. The man is so thin, so rigid with fear. It seems right to squeeze gently.
“He pressed you then? He would not let you stop?”
Mr Gibson looks at him, nods.
“Yes, sir. I told him we shouldn’t but he, he said ... I know it was weak sir, I should have taken my punishment but I was afraid sir.”
The poor man. The poor man, forced to suffer for so long, tricked by wiles and deceit. He squeezes Gibson’s arm again to continue soothing him and Gibson looks at him, his face still so afraid. Of course he is, well he might be, he has sinned but sin can be forgiven.
“I will not report it to command. I should, you know it but I will not see ... I know you to be a good man, you do not deserve to be punished for another’s sin. But you must repent, Mr Gibson, you see, don’t you? You must pray for forgiveness.”
“I will!” Gibson agrees. “I promise, sir!”
His daemon is looking up at Irving now. She has soft, dark eyes, pleading eyes. She must be so afraid for him. Doubtless she will have tried to talk sense into Gibson but perhaps also been overwhelmed by his fear. Daemons are often overwhelmed by the humans, it is why they are such bad consciences.
They both kneel and pray. Irving adds a private prayer before they begin, that he is saying the right things, leading Mr Gibson the right way, helping the right way. He is not going to fail, he isn’t going to let anyone doubt, God is with him, God is helping him. God wants him to guide Mr Gibson into being better. God wants him to be better.
“The Lord knows we can improve,” he whispers to Mr Gibson. “He believes in our abilities to push ourselves, to banish temptation. We can resist all sin, we are strong enough with His help.”
He longs for that feeling of belief that should come with the words. He used to feel it. He used to feel safe all the time, knowing God loved him and God was with him. Can God not see him anymore? Is God no longer looking? Is that his sin, that he does not quite believe any longer and so God cannot see him?
“Sir?”
Mr Gibson is looking at him. Irving smiles at him gently.
“I want you to promise you’ll keep praying, Mr Gibson. I will help you if you come to me. You are not alone. God is always with you.”
Mr Gibson nods. He smiles, as though he believes what Irving has said absolutely.
It terrifies Irving that he does not.
Adamantine is watching them. He knows it.
He does not look at her.
*
Mr Hickey stares at him with big, innocent eyes and Irving hates him.
It is shocking, how much he hates. Unchristian. He must forgive Mr Hickey, encourage him to better himself and he does encourage him, tells him the ways to help yourself, to live a better life and Mr Hickey stares demurely at the ice beneath their feet and Irving knows, he just knows that Mr Hickey is an abomination, he feels no guilt for what he has done, he would do it again if allowed, he is unrepentant for everything he did to Mr Gibson, he is .. he is dirty. He makes Irving want to wash, his skin itches all over as Mr Hickey stands in front of him. Disgusting.
“He cannot be that disgusting,” Adamantine says softly later on. “Or Mr Gibson wouldn’t have fallen for it, would he?”
“Mr Gibson is an innocent,” he snaps. “He just trusted the wrong person.”
“Are you sure we aren’t, John? Mr Gibson had a reason to want you to believe he was entirely innocent of anything. Didn’t you think Mr Hickey seemed genuinely confused?”
“A liar. A consummate liar. I’m surprised you fell for it,” he says icily.
“John, I saw – ”
“Why are you arguing with me?! Why are you behaving like this? Why do you want me to ... what sort of thing are you trying to make me do?”
He looks at her. She is shrinking down slightly, head hung down.
“I’m not trying to make you do anything, John. I’m only reminding you – ”
“I don’t need you to remind me of anything!”
She shrinks further. Why is she cowering from him like that? What is the matter with her? Is it another sign that he is not trying hard enough? That somewhere on this voyage, he has allowed some sort of sin to crawl into him? What is wrong with him? He is not like this, he is not so angry, he is not ...
“Pray with me?” he whispers and Adamantine hops gently to his side, whispers the well-worn words that have always brought him such comfort and now seem to simply make him want to weep.
“John,” Adamantine says and her beak gently touches his ear. It is such a delicate touch that it makes John close his eyes. He is afraid. He is afraid. He does not know what he is afraid of, only the fear is terrifying and heavy and waiting for him.
“Talk to me,” Adamantine says and he opens his mouth, then stops.
“Is that gun shots?”
He grabs his coat and she leaps into her bag, tucking herself in before he has even finished getting ready himself. He scoops her up, throws her on his back and hurries on deck, just behind Captain Crozier.
After that, there is no time for a while to think about anything except for the horror of Sir John’s death. No time to do anything except his duty. It is almost enough to drive Mr Gibson and Mr Hickey from him entirely.
Almost.
*
He dreams of Hickey.
They are on the ship but he is warm and there is bright sun. He is trying to do something, he is not sure what but Mr Hickey is there, helping him so that’s all right. He is a little unsettled because there is so much to do but the sun is lovely and he is warm. Hickey leans over, takes Irving’s hand, smiles at him, a strangely sweet smile.
“Like this sir. That’s right.”
His hands are hot, terribly hot. He presses close and he is hot too. Irving is on fire, he must pull away, he must but he does not. Hickey’s fingers curl around him, they are wandering over him, burning him, burning, he likes it, he wants to burn –
He jerks awake, horrified. His body is betraying him, his body is aching and burning still.
“John?”
“D-don’t. Don’t! I am fine!”
He grips his blankets, closes his eyes. A nightmare. A nightmare and his body is confused, that is all. No man can be entirely controlled. As long as he does nothing, as long as he lies here and calms down and does not touch or think. Pray, pray and it will go away, pray and it will stop. He is not like that. He is not. He never has been. Please God. Please God. Please God.
*
Mr Hickey haunts him.
He seems to see the man everywhere he goes. Carrying supplies. On watch on the deck. Caulking. His rat dances over him; inescapable, flickering movements that catch attention. How can he allow his daemon free rein like that? Shamelessness, perhaps. Sometimes, Irving has seen him take her in his hands, kiss the top of her head, tickle her belly. He smiles when she wriggles with pleasure. It is obscene. A man who behaves so with his daemon cannot be natural.
“Mr Goodsir likes to pet his daemon,” Adamantine whispers. “He cuddles her all the time.”
He ignores such an inane comment. Mr Goodsir is quite a different matter. Hickey is the peculiar one. The one who clearly has something deeply wrong with him. Besides, Mr Goodsir is an anatomist and clearly a shy and sensitive man. He probably needs a little comfort from time to time. It is simply not the same thing.
“John. Don’t look at him. Just don’t.”
“I’m not!”
“You are. You’re looking, John.”
He hears her take a step closer to him. He does not look around. He can’t be looking. He can’t. He, he has prayed so much. He has fought this weakness, he has begged to be delivered of it.
“John ... ”
Her voice is so soft. She tries to put her head on his shoulder. Irving flings her away, ignores the stab of pain when she hits the desk, stumbles to his feet, walks out of his cabin blindly with no idea where he is going except that he cannot be alone. Sin is pressing all around him. He is better than this, he is better than this, he is not a sinner, he has fought it and prayed and he is good, he is good, he is good -
“John? Are you all right?”
George Hodgson is standing there, looking slightly puzzled, his daemon draped over his shoulder like a tiny foxfur. Irving feels a strange urge to clutch at him like a child. Instead, he makes himself stand a little taller, smiles what he prays is a friendly smile.
“I, I am quite well. I find myself in ... desiring a little company, is all. You ... you would not like to ...?”
He cannot seem to think for the life of him what people do when they want to be together. It is as though his brain is tipping along with the slowly changing angle of the ship and all the sense and knowledge is leaking out and being replaced with helpless stupidity. Hodgson blinks at him, then smiles one of his bright smiles.
“Certainly, if you like! Shall we see if we can coax Edward out too? Between you and me, I’m beginning to worry about him a little. He looks so serious all of the time and that sheep of his is looking positively shaggy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with looking serious,” Irving says. “I agree about his daemon though. Perhaps he is nervous about shearing her. But several men have been speaking of the bags and clothes for daemons being rather worn and frayed. That might help him along a little.”
“Yes, I’ve heard something of the sort too,” Hodgson says. “Is yours all right in hers? Maybe we could largen it a little, give her more room?”
“No,” Irving says firmly, knowing Adamantine has stepped out behind him, is standing carefully, as though everything is well. “She is quite fine, thank you. Quite fine.”
*
Winter is coming upon them like a slow, unavoidable nightmare and the creature that stalks their ships becomes bolder and bolder. Irving tries to stay brave for the men. Has nightmares about teeth and claws. Nightmares that sometimes turn into other dreams, dreams of Mr Hickey that are getting worse. Mr Hickey touching him, Mr Hickey in his bed with him, Mr Hickey naked, straddling him, saying things to him that he cannot resist and he wakes with his body aching, or worse, with his sheets stained, as though Hickey is some sort of incubus, leeching things away from him -
God, please, make it stop. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but I’m trying! I am! I’m not, I won’t, but please, please have mercy on me ...
But mercy is thin on the ground for them all.
He stands at the front for the lashing, as he must. He tries not to look. Tries not to see. But Hickey, Hickey is there, naked. His muscles are just as Irving imagined them to be, coiled beneath his skin. He is almost hairless, smooth, sleek. Touchable. His hips are tapered. Before they thrust him down over the table, tie him there, there’s a glimpse of –
Please, please, I am trying, I am trying ...
He has seen lashings before, plenty of them, although never of this level. Never a grown man spread over a table, never heard the whip crack again and again and again, never heard a man grunt and moan but not scream, not scream at all, never seen his daemon so still and neat, tail curled up, so still but juddering at every blow.
Hickey stands at the end, lifts himself tall. The rat leaps easily up him, stands on his shoulder, so balanced. Is it Irving’s imagination or does she look at him, little eyes taking him in? Seeing him, seeing into him, knowing the depraved, disgusting creature he really is?
He feels terrible, peculiar urges tearing through him. He does not want them. He is not like this. He is not like this! And yet as he stumbles through his duties, he thinks again and again of the smooth, silky-looking skin, the sounds Hickey made, the sounds -
Mercy, mercy, have mercy on me, please, Lord, please, please, please ...
Prayer and desperation gets him through his duties. He is able to report to the captain without humiliating himself. Then he goes to his cabin, slumps on his knees, buries his face in his hands.
“John.”
He does not answer her. He cannot. His voice is gone. He is adrift. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with him? Was he always this weak? So easily pulled to such abhorrent lusts? He has prayed and begged for mercy but it is not coming. What has he done to make God turn from him like this?
“John. Please. Look at me.”
No. No, no, no. He can’t look at her. He can’t. His body is hurting him. Everything is hurting him. He keeps seeing Hickey, hearing him, what sort of monster is he that such violence could make him desire?
“John.”
Adamantine tries to hook her head over his shoulder. He shoves at her, repulsed. For a moment, his hand somehow closes tight around her slender, fragile throat. She gives a little cry. Her wings spread, as though she wants to defend herself. Defend herself against him?
He releases her. She moves back. John turns away again. Wrong. Everything is wrong and breaking and he does not know why or what to do, only that somehow, he must have failed so dreadfully and he does not know when or how or even what to do to put it right again.
*
Winter. Ghastly, hellish winter. The men are mostly gone, fled to Erebus but Hickey, Hickey is not and he looks at Irving and Irving is sure that he and that rat of his know and that horrifies him. How can he? What sin has written itself on Irving’s face that Hickey can see it there? How has he failed himself so badly? Can they all see it? He is sure that people are looking at him differently. The Captain, Little, even dear Hodgson, they look and study and they see that something has gone wrong in him.
Everything is slipping from him. He looks at himself from the outside and wonders what he has become, tells himself he can fix it, better himself again but whenever the moments come, he always fails.
And all the while, Adamantine watches him fail. And he hates her for it.
“That was cruel,” she says. “What you said to Manson.”
“Oh shut up!” he snaps at her.
“He’s not quite there, John, you know that. Why didn’t you show him a little kindness?”
“He was disobeying an order!”
“He was scared! His friends are dead! He needed a little gentleness!”
A little gentleness like Hickey showed him. Light and delicate, out of nowhere, coaxing Manson into obedience, his rat scrambling onto Manson’s rabbit daemon and grooming her long ears with an obvious softness, a softness Irving seems unable to reach any longer.
“He needed to do as I say!” he says harshly, trying to cram Hickey away. “He needed to give up his blaspheming thoughts and obey when he is ordered, not be cosseted like a child!”
“You are blinded by your own desire to be ordered!”
Adamantine has never sounded like this before. He turns and stares at her. She is flaring, her wings jutted out, head-feathers lifted slightly, turning her head in agitation to look at him first with one eye, then the other.
“You are blinded by the fact that you want to pretend you can wish things away! You bully a man because you want to believe that with enough harsh words and cruelty, everything will cease to be a torment! Because you drag yourself from your bunk each day and pretend that you feel nothing but wholesome thoughts, pretend your prayers still soothe you, you think everyone else should pretend the same! Because you want to pretend that you feel nothing but purity when I know you’ve – ”
He snatches a book from his desk. Flings it at her. Then he is on the ground, vision black with pain, as though someone has stuck him in the temple, which of course, they have. He can hear Adamantine whimpering softly somewhere nearby, except it is not her. It is him who is whimpering in pain and she who is silent. When he is able to lift his head, he sees her crumpled up, head hidden beneath her wing, body twitching slightly. He reaches out, lifts the book that lies at her side. The Bible. He threw his Bible at her.
He smoothes the pages, crumpled where they landed on the floor. His head throbs. Feels as though it ought to be bleeding. Why does Adamantine have to talk? If she were silent, if she did not –
“Something’s wrong,” Adamantine says and he realises she is right the moment she does. There is running. The sound of shots.
With all the horror and drama of the attack on Mr Blanky and the amputation, he half-forgets what has happened until much later, when he is pressing another warm drink on Hodgson, who is still trembling slightly from everything. Hodgson smiles at him, clutches the mug close. His daemon has left her customary place on his neck to stand on his shoulder and fuss over him, as Irving feels he deserves.
“You were so brave,” he says.
“Oh, well,” Hodgson says, smiling almost shyly. “You’d have done the same if you’d been out there. I say, what happened to your daemon? Is that a cut?”
He looks. It is. He isn’t sure if it is from being knocked or from the corner of the Bible itself.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s nothing. She ... fell.”
Hodgson gives him an odd look. Irving tries not to see it. It is fine. It does not matter.
“Is everything all right, John?” Hodgson asks softly.
“Of course. Of course! It has just ... it has been a long day.”
Adamantine does not speak to him that night. She does not speak to him the next day when they discover the captain is ill with gastritis, very ill according to Little, whose face is grey. She does not speak to him at all. She does not look at him. He does not look at her.
It is as though she does not exist.
*
It is Christmas and it is cold.
He should not have stayed outside so long. He should not be out at all really. But he has tried and tried to pray and all he can feel around him is wood boxing him in, trapping him and the idea that if he was just in the open air, that the prayers would go somewhere, would reach the ears that needed to hear them has become irresistible. He wants the cold. It is so cold that it feels more like fire than anything else – or it did when he could truly feel it. He cannot now. He cannot feel anything really.
It is wonderful, not to feel.
“Sir?”
A voice, calling to him. After a moment – too long a moment? Time seems to have lost most meaning – he turns. The man is bundled up, shadowed but he knows who it is. He would always know.
“You should come in now,” Mr Hickey says quietly. “You are not needed on the watch. It’s very cold.”
Irving stares at him. Slowly obeys. His limbs do not really want to work. Mr Hickey takes his arm, as though he is a lady, helps him down the ladder. His rat appears from nowhere, nuzzling at him, helping him remove his layers. Irving looks at his own. His hands are curiously resistant when he tries to remove his coat.
“I think you’ve done yourself harm, sir,” Hickey says. His voice is strange. Is that just Irving’s swimming head? “Why were you out so long, sir? Here, let me remove your gloves. Ah, see, the state of your fingers. You’ll need to see the doctor about that – or will you? Only if you care, I suppose.”
Nothing he says makes sense. Irving stares at him, that that pale skin and gingery hair. His fingers feel hot. His mouth is ... is ..
“Will you take care of me, Mr Hickey?” he hears himself saying distantly.
Hickey looks at him. His eyes have taken a sharp look.
“Do you want me to, sir?”
“Yes.”
“You only need ask me, sir.”
Hickey’s hand is burning him, just as it always does in his dreams. Perhaps he will burn Irving up entirely, turn him to ash. He will not mind. It will be nice. He stares at Hickey’s fingers as they slowly stroke along his own. His rat daemon has scampered down, is perched on the back of Hickey’s hand, leaning down to look at Irving’s too-white fingers. He can feel her soft breath on him. What would it be like if she touched him? Christ, what a sin that would be, to have her in his hands, not just another man but another man’s daemon?
“Please,” he says. He does not know what he is asking for. He does not know anything. He hurts, all through him, inside and out and he is so cold. He feels as though he is dreaming. Hickey is standing so close now, his head tipping upwards and it would only take Irving leaning down, finding those lips and he will be lost and he will not have to fight any longer ...
Movement. A flurry of it. And Hickey gives a curious cry and yanks back and Irving dimly realises that Adamantine has scrambled free from her bag and stabbed at Hickey’s daemon with her long beak.
“No,” she says. “No. We do not want you!”
“You don’t, perhaps,” Hickey says, slightly breathless. Despite the attack, he is not covering his daemon protectively as another man might. She perches on his arm, a spot of blood beneath her, quivering, crouched, waiting. “I think he does, pretty bird.”
“No. He does not. John. We’re going. John.”
When he does not move, she bites his frostbitten finger. It hurts, even through the cold, hurts enough to rouse him from his stupor. Hickey is staring at them both, a nasty smile playing on his lips and Irving stumbles back, horrified now that Hickey has seen him so weak and helpless. He lurches away, heads for his cabin without thought, even though his fingers are throbbing now and he knows he must do something about them. But everything pales to what happened. What nearly happened.
He drops to his knees when the door is closed and Adamantine ... Adamantine laughs. She laughs loudly and horribly and in a way he has never heard her laugh before.
“You pray now? What are you even praying to, John? There’s nothing out here!”
“Don’t,” he whimpers. “Don’t, please, don’t say that – ”
“There’s nothing! Nobody! Look at yourself! You nearly killed us and now you try to reach out as though anybody is listening?!”
“Stop it. Please. Addie – ”
The childish nickname spills from his lips without thought. She flares, feathers everywhere, incensed in a way that he has never imagined she could be.
“Addie? You think you can love me now? You would have touched that thing of Hickey’s – ”
“I wouldn’t! I would never! Stop it, stop it, just, just let me pray, I need to – ”
“There’s nothing listening – ”
“Stop it, stop it!”
He’s grabbing at her, shaking her, pulling her feathers. She tries to pull away, stabs at his hands again, flapping madly and he hates her, he hates every disgusting part of her, he hates himself –
“What the devil is going on?!”
Hodgson, standing at the door. Irving stares up at him, realising they have grown loud, they have been audible and Hodgson has heard them and now he can see them; Irving with blood trickling down his neck, feathers everywhere –
He lets Adamantine go. Struggles to his feet. Tries desperately to find words. Hodgson looks slowly over them. His daemon scrambles down his arm so she is sitting on the floor, then trots over to Adamantine, looking up at her. Adamantine droops her head and touches her beak softly to the mongoose’s nose.
“All right,” Hodgson says and his voice is gentle. “All right, old thing. Let’s get you seen to. Come on. Come with me now.”
“I – ”
“No, hush, it’s all right. My cabin now. Come on. They’ll stay here.”
“W-what?”
Hodgson doesn’t answer, just wraps an arm around Irving’s waist and pulls. Irving has no resistance. He stumbles with Hodgson, looking back just once as Hodgson closes the door, leaving their daemons alone together.
“N-no, I don’t, I don’t like – ”
“They’ll be fine. Hush. It will ache a little but there’s so little space we won’t really feel it.”
He’s right. There’s the tug of the daemon bond beneath his heart but when they are in Hodgson’s cabin and Irving is sitting on his bed, it is close enough that it only an ache rather than a pain. Hodgson kneels, takes his hand.
“Good Lord, John! Where you outside? Well, no, that’s obvious, why were you outside?”
“I ... I wanted to ... to pray.”
“Pray? I think God would hear you well enough indoors, old thing.”
He doesn’t answer. He feels sick. Hodgson gives a soft sigh. He takes Irving’s hand gently.
“Should I take you to Doctor MacDonald?”
“No! No, please ... please. I am quite well. I am quite well, I just, I need to ... I need to ... why are they alone, why did we leave them together, I don’t like Adamantine talking to people ... ”
“Because they need time to talk,” Hodgson says firmly. “Don’t worry, Mnemosyne won’t tell me anything after and your Adamantine won’t tell you anything either. Sometimes, daemons need time to talk, I think. Get things off their chests too. It’s good for a man, to know that his own self has space to breathe. Space to confess if necessary”
“Confess? George, you sound like a Papist,” he says with a laugh, trying to sound friendly. It all sounds wrong in his throat. Hodgson pauses a moment, an odd look crossing his face. Then sits next to Irving, takes his hand and begins to gently wash his fingers.
“John,” he says. “John. You were ... hurting her. Hurting yourself. Why did you do that?”
There must be an excuse. There must be something he can say that does not make him sound mad. There must be something he can do - but he is cold and tired and his head and hand are throbbing and Hodgson’s hands are so gentle and he is tired.
“I nearly kissed Cornelius Hickey.”
Hodgson’s hands still for a moment. Then he begins washing again, calm and steady.
“And why did you do a thing like that?”
He sounds curious. Just as he does when you tell him an interesting fact that he doesn’t already know and he wants more detail. Not disgusted or repulsed or horrified. Just quiet and curious and gentle and Irving feels as though some thing is breaking inside of him.
“I ... I think I ... I am like him. A ... a creature like him. I, I, oh George, I have wanted such awful things, it is rotting me and I pray, I pray and He is not hearing me, he is not listening and I think, I think He has turned from because I am such a sinner and it is her fault, it is her fault, she, she makes me – ”
“Stop. Stop. John, stop. Look at me.” Hodgson’s voice is firm. “Your daemon cannot make you. She is part of you. What you feel, she feels, what you do, she does. She is not trying to make you sin.”
“No. Stop. You don’t know her, you ... she ... why isn’t God helping me any more? Why can’t He hear me?! Is it because I don’t deserve it? Oh God, George, I’m so afraid, I’m so afraid!”
He is crying. Crying like a child and Hodgson stops his washing and wraps his arms around Irving’s shoulders and Irving sobs into his neck, clinging to him as Hodgson rocks him softly and gently and whispers “There now, old thing. There. There.” until Irving finally finds his tears stopping and he is able to breathe again.
“You’re a good man,” Hodgson whispers in his ear, still rocking him. “A good man. You’re a good man and I like you and your daemon is a good daemon and she loves you, John. She loves you ever so much, I know it. I don’t think she wants to hurt you.”
Irving shakes his head. Cannot speak. He thinks of Adamantine striking Hickey’s daemon away. Thinks of her soft and heavy on his back. She has not tried to make him do anything. Of course she has not. But then ... but then.
“Oh George. I’m so tired.”
“I know. We all are. This is ... perhaps the closest thing to hell that any of us will experience. But I know God is still listening to your prayers, John. Of course He is. Because you’re a good man.”
“Good? George, I am filthy! Did you not hear me? I nearly ... with Hickey. I wanted to. If, if Adamantine hadn’t ... I would have.”
“We all want things. We ... you’re a good man. I know it. No matter what things you might want. Out here ... out here, it is not ... I do not think God would judge us so harshly for sins out here, John. No, no, look, listen to me. We are being tested and it is hard and what is most important is, is holding on to ourselves, isn’t it? It is staying true to our spirits. You may have ... have wanted Mr Hickey in a way that ... but you see, you stopped yourself, didn’t you? You stayed true to yourself. Could that not be God helping you remember that your daemon loves you? Wants to help you? Love is not evil, John, it is His word that we love, isn’t it? How can you love God if you hate yourself this way?”
Irving feels heavy. He feels that a long time ago, he would have had things to say to George about this speech. It is not strictly speaking, correct, he is sure of it. But the words are soft and kindly meant and they resonate somewhere inside him beneath the cold and darkness that seems to have taken such a grip on him, the sin of despair that has taken over his soul without him even noticing. And George is right, that Adamantine saved him, stopped him and he was so ungrateful, he hurt her for it and he should not have done. But then, he has done so much. So much wrong.
“I have sinned,” he whispers limply.
“Do you want to pray with me? Now?” George asks.
He nods. George gently helps him to the floor and they kneel together. George is still holding his hand and he squeezes it gently as they whisper familiar words together. It is grounding, bringing him back to himself, to reality. He lifts his head and finds himself looking into George’s and George smiles gently at him.
“Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I do. Oh George. Thank you. You, you are so comforting.”
“Well,” George says and he blushes a little. “Well. Anyway. Let me sort your hand out now, for goodness sake. You’ll need those damn fingers when we get home. Imagine the embarrassment whenever people asked how it happened and you didn’t have a heroic story! You’d have to make one up and I know you’d feel silly about it.”
He continues to babble on in that vein as he bandages Irving’s fingers carefully. Irving closes his eyes. His hands ache badly now but George is gentle. He wonders drowsily what Addie is saying to Mnemosyne but it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much. He feels safe in a way that he hasn’t for so long. He does not want it to stop. He wants to stay here forever. He has never allowed himself to realise how truly good George is, how truly kind and he ought to tell him but he cannot seem to find the words.
He must fall asleep, though he does not remember doing so. But suddenly, he is waking up, squashed into George’s bunk with him. George is burrowed close, snoring softly and his daemon is back with him, draped over his neck again, her head under his chin. Irving twists a little and sees Adamantine standing by the side of the bed, head tucked down as she sleeps. There are still marks on her where he pulled at her feathers and he feels a wave of guilt. He should not have done that. He should not have done a lot of things. But he can do better now, he is sure of it.
She stirs. Lifts her head and stares at him with one slightly uncertain eye.
“I ... I am sorry,” he whispers. “I am sorry.”
She touches her beak to his cheek; a hard little kiss of forgiveness. She leaves her beak there, resting against him. He ought to get up, he supposes, ought to return to his own room but he is warm and even though he is not exactly comfortable, he feels safe here, safe and comforted and strangely closer to God than he has felt in a long time. He closes his eyes, thinks over the words that he has droned and droned and feels there’s a touch of lightness to them that has been lacking for a long time. As though they are going upward, being heard, meaning something.
When he next wakes, it’s because George is shaking him, smiling at him.
“Let’s get to it then,” he says and Irving nods.
*
Carnival sounds wonderful, actually.
He has never really liked parties – they are a place where you go and you have to try and fit in and Irving can remember many where he has stood awkwardly with Adamantine behind him, praying that he looks the part. But it has been so long since there has been any kind of joy and everyone is so excited and he finds that it is infectious. George is so obviously delighted by it all and Irving is happy to see him so happy. He cannot help but look at George as a saviour, as someone who has pulled him from darkness and showed him the way back to light. The man has always been a good friend but now he is something else, he is somehow love that has guided Irving to back Christ, blasphemous as it might sound if he ever tried to voice such a thought. When he is with George, that love spills onto him and Irving is torn between fearing it and revering it.
“What should I go as?” he asks shyly and George smiles.
“Anything you like! Something pretty. I’m going to as Marie Antoinette. I’m going to look very beautiful.”
He laughs a little at that.
“Of course you will,” he agrees and finds that he must fight an urge in himself to say that George always looks beautiful. “Well then, I will try to think of something pretty to impress you!”
“Whatever should we go as though?” he asks Adamantine afterwards. “I have never been very good at costumes. I always end up looking silly. And we must make our own ... and I, I would like George to ... like it.”
Adamantine flutters over, stands close, not quite touching. He wonders about touching her but doesn’t quite dare. He is still trying to find his way with her. Still uncertain.
“Go as something with wings,” she says. “I have always wanted to fly with you.”
There is something warming about that statement and he finds himself smiling at her. Adamantine dips her head slightly in response.
Making the wings is not too hard, although on the night of the party, he has to ask Little to help get him into them. Little doesn’t mind – he seems to have eschewed a costume entirely, though he is wearing some sort of hat which Irving is sure George made for him. He ties the wings on, helps adjust the halo.
“You should make sure you enjoy yourself tonight,” Irving tells him.
“Of course,” Little says but his eyes are far away and Irving knows that he will wander the revels and watch and worry about them all without really engaging with them at all. He wishes he could help but knows he cannot. He’s only a third lieutenant, he isn’t important or skilled enough to take the burdens Little has. So he does the only thing he can. He puts a hand out, a pretend blessing.
“I’m an angel now,” he says. “The Lord commands you to have a good time tonight. Now you have to or I shall come and make you pray with me until you say you are sorry for not listening to such a high command.”
Little smiles. His sheep gives a little bleat of laughter, then seems surprised at herself.
“I will have fun,” Little says. “Make sure the two of you do the same, John.”
And so John does. He lets himself go. He drinks and sings and laughs and lets himself be carried away by the joy of not being John Irving of the Terror and just being John Irving and Adamantine and both being free.
And then freedom goes up in flames.
Standing on the ice, watching the tents blaze, smelling the smoke and wood and charring meat, he can’t help wondering numbly if somehow, he has done something wrong. If his embracing of George, his new affection for Addie, if something, something has brought this upon them, if it is his fault ...
“It’s not,” Adamantine whispers, her beak close to his ear. “It’s not our fault. It’s not your fault. It’s ... just terrible.”
There are burn marks on her, singes on her feathers.
“You, you should have flown out. You, you wouldn’t have been hurt if you had flown – ”
“Stupid. I would never, ever leave you, John.”
He puts an arm around her neck, pulls her close. All around him, other men are doing the same thing, clutching and cuddling their daemons near them, needing their safety and comfort. He can see Mr Gibson close, kneeling on the ice, is arms around his dog. Mr Manson with his rabbit cuddled in his arms. Jopson stroking his cat with jerky fingers. Captain Fitzjames’s poodle, on her back legs so she can put her paws on him, reach for his face. Mr Hickey, standing in the crowd, his rat on his shoulder, both of them staring at nothing at all.
“John? Are you all right?”
George, staring at him. Mnemosyne is clutched tight in his hands. Irving cannot answer. He nods jerkily instead, then looks back at the flames and wonders numbly if things can ever be all right again. After a moment, George steps up beside him, reaches out and John seizes his hand, holding it as tight as he can until the blank terror in him subsides and he knows he has enough strength to go on
*
Little takes the advance party and Irving misses him far more than he expected. There is so much to be organised, so much to be done and all the while, he feels a dull, uneasy sort of fear dogging him. The men are afraid and trying to pretend they are not. They are all haunted by Carnival, their dead friends and crewmates, the knowledge that Mr Goodsir is their only surviving doctor for all of them, the dread of an uncertain march. Irving moves between them, knowing there is almost no comfort that he can offer. Even George’s happiness looks dulled and weary. They write lists. They speak to the men. They try to think of everything that they might need to consider to walk so far and Irving tries desperately not to fear.
“Is your bag big enough?” he asks Adamantine, focusing on a practical matter. “You’ll be able to come out sometimes when the sun is coming up but it will be easier for you to travel inside it. I can enlarge it.”
Adamantine leans over his shoulder to look, then rubs the top of her head very lightly against Irving’s chin, her feathers rasping against his beard.
“I’ll manage,” she says. “Don’t worry about me, John. Use any leftover wool for the men. It will be better for them, anyway.”
“If you are sure ... ”
“I am. Let some of them feel the comfort of it”
He rubs his cheek against her head gently, closing his eyes.
“Addie. Are ...do you think ...?”
“I think we believe,” she says. “And faith makes all things possible, does it not?”
*
Their journey begins. They walk. They climb. They scramble. It is exhausting and strange and nothing Irving has ever done has prepared him for it. Adamantine is buried in her bag for hours at a time and he has never realised just how uncomfortable it would be. When they camp, he is desperately relieved to be able to let her out when he can, even when the chill makes them both shiver.
“Is your hand healing?” George asks him one night as they curl in their tent together and John bites his lip, has to look away. Nothing is really healing any more and he knows it. The spectre of scurvy begins to stalk them all and Irving knows they all fear that most of all.
He cannot sleep. He lies awake and listens to George breathe and Mnemosyne shuffle at his throat. Adamantine nestles beside him and after a while, Irving rolls over to her and begins to stroke her back, feeling the soft rasp of her feathers beneath his fingers. It is comforting. He could have done this for years. Loved her for years and he allowed fear to cloud him, hold him back, stupid, worthless fear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and she puts her break softly to his cheek in answer and finally, he is able to sleep.
*
Irving stands in their tent, his mind churning. Adamantine is already in her bag, warm on his back but he wishes she were not. He would like to hold her, feel her feathers.
Their food is making them mad. Their food is making them mad. Everything they have eaten over years and years, making their bodies ache and their minds stupid. If they cannot find game to hunt, they will become weaker and stupider. And the scurvy too, everything is against them. Everything.
He swallows. No, not everything. Captain Crozier is calm and positive, believes the natives will help them and he has been right about so many things, so why not that? Lieutenant Fairholme may well be on the way back with help, coming for them. He will not despair any longer. God is with them. Love is with them.
“John?”
George has come in. Irving turns to look at him. George is looking pale and strange. He has Mnemosyne around his neck, barely visible beneath his collar.
“George. Are you ready for the hunt?”
“Not really, not yet. I ... John ... John. Have you ever ... you ... ”
He has never seen George so clumsy with words before. Adamantine gives him a very gentle nudge with her beak through her bag but he doesn’t need it. There is something so obviously wrong.
“Have you ever doubted everything?” George whispers. “Have you ever been ... you know something is wrong but you don’t know what to do about it? Don’t even know if you should do something about it?”
Irving pauses, nods gently. George isn’t looking at him. He reaches up, as though he wants to touch Mnemosyne, then drops his hand again, as though he cannot bring himself to. He rocks a little on his feet.
“John. John, I am so tired. My head ... ”
“It’s the food,” Irving says. “Did Little tell you? It is bad. But that is why this hunting is so important. We can do this, George. All we need do is find some game.”
“There are so many men, John! So many, too many, it cannot ... it cannot ... we cannot do it! We cannot!”
“Of course we can!” he says fiercely. “George, look at me! Of course we can! Do not despair! We’re together, aren’t we? That, that will be enough, I know it! Fairholme will have sent us help, he will be on the way with better food, all we need do is survive till then – ”
“What if he is not coming back?”
George’s whisper sounds torn from him, as though it is a secret he cannot bear to reveal. Irving feels the world shudder around him. If Fairholme is not ...
“Then we would manage,” he says. “We would manage, George. But he is on his way, I believe it. You have given me such hope, George. Let me give you some in return?”
An impulse takes him. He does not let himself think. He steps forward, takes George’s face in his hands. Kisses him.
George’s mouth is warm. It tastes slightly salty, almost as though he has eaten bloody meat – but perhaps that is wishful thinking, hoping they will find something soon. He stands quite still for a moment, then his hand comes up and he strokes Irving’s cheek very lightly.
“John,” he says. “Oh.”
It should be wrong. It should be but it is not. Irving knows it is not with all the certainty that he has ever been able to place in anything. He cannot say why it is not but it does not matter. It is not wrong. He has been wrong so often but not here, not now.
“I am sure we will find something,” he says fiercely. “I am sure. Keep faith, George. When, when we return from the hunt, I am sure we will have meat and then you can tell me what is truly troubling you, in detail, not just these uncertainties. Whatever it is, if you have done wrong, I will forgive you, as you forgave me and I will give you hope, just as you did.”
George smiles at him. He puts his arms around Irving, hugs him tight, then lets him go and Irving leaves the tent. Adamantine stretches her neck out of the bag to put her beak near his ear.
“You did well,” she says and he allows himself to be just a little proud.
*
The Netsilik family stare at him as he approaches, as if he is some kind of monster. Perhaps he is. He feels terrified as he looks at them. What if he ruins this, this one chance for them all?
“John,” he says, abandoning his title, abandoning it all except this need to connect, to be understood, to be seen. “John.”
They look at him and then he realises, they are looking for his daemon and he fumbles, releasing Adamantine. She springs out lightly and then they relax a little. Adamantine moves gently between them, touching her beak to the noses of their daemons; all forms that are infinitely better suited to their world. The child’s unfixed one begins to try to imitate her form, struggling to make itself so big and one of the adults laughs at the sight. They give Irving food and he swallows the meat gratefully. Oh, they are good, they are good and the hope in him swells. He was wrong to doubt God’s love and mercy. He was wrong all along about so many things but he has been blessed with the knowledge of that now and he will do better now. He will never despair again.
*
Something is wrong. Is that Farr lying down? It looks like it. Why is Mr Hickey crouched over him like that, so much like a crow?
“What happened? Hickey? Hickey? Hickey?”
He reaches them. Reaches out. And then –
– Hickey punching him, punching him hard in the chest over and over again and it must be very hard because he cannot breathe all of a sudden, something is wrong, he cannot act, he cannot think and then Hickey lets him go and he is falling, falling and he will crush Addie and he tries to twist so he does not but his body, his body will not move right there is something, something so wrong he does not know what, he cannot focus any more, everything is brief glimpses of thought –
Hampstead is the place to ruralize -
- a bloody knife in Hickey’s, his blood, oh. Oh ... –
- Hickey’s hand on his mouth, covering it, his hand is hot, the way Irving always dreamed it would be –
Place to ruralize, extramuralize -
- a spiral of faces in his mind, he knows they are people he loves but he cannot grip them, cannot make them real, he wants them though, he wants –
- he cannot breathe. Cannot breathe -
- Hickey staring down at him, rat on his shoulder, watching almost curiously –
- he has let his dear George down, there will be no meat for him and he promised –
Hampstead is the place to ruralize
- the memory of feathers rasping under his hand, the softness of the fur blanket on his cheek –
Addie. Addie. I am sorry, do not leave me ...
Her beak against his cheek, loving, forgiving, his beautiful bird –
On a summer’s day.
And then there is no more need for thought at all.