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63
Somehow, and at some point, it’s Rory’s arms I wake up inside. The sky is still dark with night, and a drowsy, sleepy hush still radiates from the other chiefs. I glance over my shoulder to find Rory wide awake, like sleep had never graced him, his long fingers gently curling my hair into lazy ringlets.
His gray eyes are contemplative as he regards me. I turn on my side, the lantern light flickering low and painting us with blankets of lighter shadow. For a while, we just watch each other, contented.
Eventually, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“AmIokay?” A small huff of laughter comes from his mouth. “Yes, little saint. Underneath this devilishly handsome visage lies a huge dose of pure A-grade ecstasy.”
Ecstasy. It’s a word that sends me back to clubbing in the summer. Of hot, heady, hazy nights spent dancing and pressing against bodies, surrounded by all the boys I love. Inhibitions lost, partying all night in a state of pure hedonistic bliss and utter relaxation.
“Luke showed me a picture once,” I murmur. It feels almost taboo to speak, the island is so, so quiet. “He was doing some kind of project for Religious Studies, and he showed me a sculpture.The Ecstasy of St. Theresa. This woman — a saint — had her heart pierced by a golden arrow shot by an angel. And Luke turned around and said, ‘This is how you make me feel — all of you.’ Intense pain but also deep religious rapture. And I never forgot the look on his face, because it looked just like her.”
A small, fond smile plays on Rory’s lips. “He’s one of the most romantic people I know.” He places his hands beneath his head, tilting himself toward Luke, and lowers his voice. “I think we took his mind off things tonight. He’s going to be hurting for a very long time.”
“I know.” It’s a soft admission, a symbol of understanding. It’s a phrase I don’t want to speak. It’s the truth.
Rory nods, comprehending my tone. “It must have been difficult, when you lost your dad.”
I twist on the ground, my back naked and flush against overgrown grass, as we enter uncharted territory. There’d always been a mutual understanding that my dad was off-limits, a topic I never wanted to discuss. Not even something that can qualify as a meretopic, really — he’s all of me, threading through my bones and my blood. He exists in the shape of my nose and the curve of my forehead. He’s in my love of specific meals and old rock bands. He isn’t atopic. He’s my whole world; he’s half of me.
My soul is exposed and split under a broken sky, and the squeeze in my heart is overwhelming when I think about him — because thinking of my dad inevitably leads to thoughts about my mom. But tonight — for the past few nights — my pain has been eclipsed by someone else’s. And there’s something horribly liberating about that fact, that the world still turns, liberating enough for me to open my mouth and say, “It still hurts. But sometimes…” I lick my lips. My heart is hammering too fast, picking up crazy amounts of speed as I prepare to speak the unspeakable, to give it power in this world. My voice softens. “Sometimes, when I throw myself into something, or hang around with you guys, and… I’ll forget he’s gone for the briefest moment… and it’snice, you know?” I let the words hang there, and I must be dead inside because tears don’t sting my eyes. I can discuss my dad without being washed away in sheer, petrifying grief, and that scares me. “The moment I remember he’s never coming back, that’s when the guilt hits. Because I forgot about him, and I wanted to. For just that flash of a moment, I forgot him. Stopped carrying that weight and let him go.” My lips part, and softer still, I whisper, “But I don’t ever want to let him go, because if I do, then maybe I truly will forget.”
Rory stares at me for a long time, his gray eyes soft with surprise. “You never told me. You’ve been feeling this way for so long. Why didn’t you say?”
I swallow down the shame. “It was never the right time.”
Rory’s hand reaches out to take mine and he laces our fingers together. “What was he like?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested. Maybe in another world, they would have met. Rory would have been achingly polite, and while my dad would have been stumped by his golden, polished facade of English aristocracy, he’d still have offered a beer and to shoot some hoops. Later, he’d have taken him out in the van. They’d have chased storms together, for fun.
I find myself reveling in this scenario, wishing it could come true. “Funny. Impulsive. Caring.” A smile spreads across my face as I remember him as clear as day. “He had my mom in stitchesallthe time. With him, she was happy — they made each other happy. High-school sweethearts, you know?” I glance in Rory’s direction, wondering how much of my soul I can divulge, because it feels like an outpouring, like I’m digging and digging, tossing away the layers of dirt that have accumulated over the months and years since my dad passed. Rory’s listening, his attention rapt. “And I know Mom’s had a hard time of it… but I have, too… and I don’t know how to talk to her anymore. It’s like meeting half a person. She’s all faded around the edges and I don’t even recognize her.” I glance again at Rory, feeling like I’m in dangerous territory when talking about my mom, like the ground will suddenly cave beneath me with one wrong, ill-judged word — and I wonder when that happened. When the trauma of dealing with Mom became more overwhelming than the aftermath of Dad’s death. “Sorry,” I mumble, tilting my face away from him. “I’ve never told anyone this. I-I don’t speak about this.”
“I know you don’t,” Rory says, his fingers tightening around mine, encouraging me to turn back to him again. “I think you need to.”
“Maybe. It’s what people always say, that talking helps.” And it does — in the last few minutes, it’s as though I’ve ditched an entire rock-filled suitcase of baggage. I’m still carrying a couple more, but there’s a lessening, a release. I definitely feel lighter.
Rory makes a soft scoffing noise, turning his head to gaze up at the unshed rain. “People vote for my father and support Antiro. I don’t trust people, generally.”
“What was your mom like?” I ask, curious. Like me, Rory’s always shielded her at arm’s length, a reserved subject clearly loved and beloved but rarely mentioned. I remember his father’s words as though he’d murmured them straight down my ear:The loss of his mother radiates from every pore.
At first I don’t think Rory’s going to respond. There’s a faraway look in his eyes as he reminisces. “Whip-smart,” he eventually answers, quiet and serious, like he’s trying to get away with saying the least he can, the most his hesitant heart will allow. “She knew she was going to die but still signed up for a PhD in Medieval Studies. Something she’d always wanted to do.” My eyes trace Rory’s pink parted lips. “She had all these books… huge, intimidating textbooks… and she’d flick through them every night and show me the pictures. She’d build stories around them. She adored me. Adored being a mother.” His light gray eyes darken, and for a long time he says nothing, looking torn about offering more. “My dad nursed her in her final months. It broke him. I know he’s still broken from it but I can’t…” He shakes his head, dark blond strands falling across his eyes. “I can’t forgive him for the things he’s done since, the confusion he’s generated in his grief.” He gives me a soft, pained half-smile. “I’ve never told anyone this, either.”
In peace, together we lie holding hands beneath the ink-black sky, still streaked with silver and shimmering faintly above the trees like an errant firework.
“Can I ask,” I begin hesitantly, because part of me already knows the answer and doesn’t want it confirmed. It’s why it’s taken me so long to bring it up. Avoidance. “The rain… It’sraining.” My voice is distant. Not a drop lands on us, but when I look past the trees and toward the loch, rings pool across the dark water’s surface like normal. “You’re seeing it too, right?”
Rory’s face is very calm. “We all are,” he replies, as though we were watching nothing more than an absorbing movie on a screen. “Only some of us are paying close enough attention than others.”
“Explain. Please.”
“This island… it’s the hub of the energy that exists in Lochkelvin.”
I note that Rory saysenergyand notmagic. We speak in terms of science, perhaps because science is easier to accept than magic. Still, it feels like a lie. Because I know, staring up at the bloom-black sky, that the two are not remotely the same entity as other people quaintly believe. At that moment, a scepter slashes straight down between science and magic, that this is the latter and not some kind of new scientific discovery. The energy pulsating beneath the unfalling rain is primal, ancient, yet somehow also new. I feel it in my blood and bones. I feel it between Rory’s interlaced fingers, as though they too were crackling with the same energy. It’s terrifying. It’s not understandable. It’s real.
“Is it related to the standing stones?” Hearing Rory’s deliberately calm voice, I find myself copying him. I try to keep my heart level even though it feels like the sky is exploding with angels.
“Neolithic stones,” he answers, like it’s an answer on a test. “They regulate the island, make it temperate.” It’s true — it’s very, very temperate, considering it’s an otherwise cold night in November. All of us are naked and warm on an island with tropical plants and lush green trees. This is starting to feel like our own private Eden.
“How?”
