Sacrament

He made no reply. ‘Are you too weak, Jacob?’ she said, still pulling up her skirt. ‘Is the mystery too much for you?’

‘It’s no mystery,’ he replied. ‘Not after all these years.’

Now she smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of her thighs. She had fine legs; solid, meaty legs, her skin pearly in the candlelight. Sighing, she slipped her hand beneath her dress, and fingered herself, her hips rising to meet her touch.

‘It’s deep, love,’ she said. ‘And dark. And all wet for you.’ She pulled her skirt up to her waist. ‘Look,’ she said. She had spread herself, to give him a look at her. ‘Don’t tell me that isn’t a pretty thing. A perfect little cunny, that.’ Her gaze went from his face to his groin. ‘And you like the look of it, and don’t you pretend you don’t.’

She was right, of course. As soon as she’d started to raise her skirt his dunderheaded member had started to swell, demanding its due. As if his limbs weren’t weak enough, without having to lose blood to its ambition.

‘I’m tight, Mr Steep.’

‘I’m sure you are.’

‘Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely fit my littlest finger in there. You’ll have to do me some violence, I suspect.’

She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A little shudder of anticipation passed through him, and he proceeded to take off his coat.

‘Unbutton yourself,’ Mrs McGee said, her voice bruised. ‘Let me see what you have there.’

He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his mud-spattered trousers. She watched him, smiling, as he brought his member out.

‘Oh now look at that,’ she said, not unappreciatively. ‘I think it wants a dip in my cunny.’

‘It wants more than a dip.’

‘Does it indeed?’

He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her sex, to give himself better sight of it. Then he stared.

‘What are you thinking?’ she said.

He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. ‘I’m thinking…’ he said, ‘…that I’d rather have this today.’

‘Oh would you?’

He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. ‘Let me put it here,’ he said. ‘Just the head.’

There are no children to be had that way,’ she said.

‘I don’t care,’ he replied. ‘It’s what I want.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ she replied.

He smiled at her. ‘Rosa—’ he said softly ‘—you could not deny me.’

He slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. ‘We should give up all hope of children,’ he said, staring at the dark bud between her buttocks. They have always come to nothing.’ She made no reply. ‘Are you listening, love?’ He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful expression.

‘No more children?’ she said.

He spat in his hand, and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously, and slickened her arse.

‘No more children,’ he said, drawing her closer to him. ‘It’s a waste of your affections, smothering love on a thing that hasn’t even got the wit to love you back.’

This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made children numbering in the many dozens, he had for her sake taken them from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their misery, if the cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back when he’d disassembled them and disposed of the pieces, always with the same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls contained only bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain; nothing.

He pushed his prick into her. ‘It’s better this way,’ he said.

She let out a little sob. He couldn’t tell whether it was out of sorrow or pleasure, and at that moment didn’t really care. He pressed against the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.

‘No…children…then…’ Mrs McGee gasped.

‘No children.’

‘Not ever?’

‘Not ever.’

She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down towards her.

‘Kiss,’ she said.

‘Be careful what you ask for—’

‘Kiss,’ she said again, raising her face towards his.

He didn’t deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her tongue, which was nimble, dart between his aching teeth. His mouth was always drier than hers. His parched gums and throat drank deep, and murmuring his gratitude against her lips, he pressed hard into her, their hold on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands went to his throat, then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him deeper, while his fingers pulled at her buttons to gain access to her breasts.

‘Who are you?’ she said to him.

‘Anyone,’ he gasped.

‘Who?’

‘Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo—’

‘Laurent. I liked Laurent.’

‘He’s here.’

‘Who else?’

‘I forget all the names,’ Jacob confessed.

Rosa brought her hands back up to his face, and caught tight hold of it. ‘Remember for me,’ she said to him.

There was a carpenter called Bernard—’

‘Oh yes. He was very rough with me.’

‘And Darlington—’

‘—the draper. Very tender.’ She laughed. ‘Didn’t one of them wrap me up in silk?’

‘Did he?’

‘And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoever he was.’

‘We have no cream.’

‘And no silk. Think of something else.’

‘I could be Jacob,’ he said.

‘You could. I suppose,’ she said, ‘but it’s not as much fun. Think of someone else.’

There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Roberto—’ She moved her body to the rhythm of his litany. So many men, whose names and professions he’d borrowed to excite her, wrapping himself in their reputations for an hour or a day; seldom longer. ‘I used to like this game,’ he said.

‘But not any more?’

‘If we knew what we were…’

‘Hush now.’

‘…maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Not as long as we’re together. As long as you’re inside me.’

They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each other, limbs and kisses intertwined, they would never be separated.

She started to sob again, the breath pushed out of her with every thrust. Names were still coming to her lips, but they were fragments only, pieces of pieces—

‘Sil…Be…Han…’

She was lost to sensation; lost to his prick, to his lips. For his part, he had given up words entirely. Just his breath, expelled into her mouth as though he were resurrecting her. His eyes were open, but he no longer saw her face, nor the candles that shook around them. There were instead vague forms, particles of light and dark, pulsing before him; dark above, light below.

The sight brought a moan from him. ‘What is it?’ Rosa said.

‘I…don’t…know,’ he replied. It pained him to have this sight before him and not understand what he was seeing, like a fragment of music to which he could put no name, though the notes went round and round his head. But for all the anguish it caused him, he would not have had it taken away. There was something in the sight that quickened a secret place; a place he never spoke of, not even to Rosa. It was too tender, that place; too frail.

‘Jacob?’

‘Yes…?’

He looked down at her, and the phantom evaporated.

‘Are we done so soon?’

Her hand went between her legs, and took hold of his prick. Half its length was still inside her, but it was rapidly softening. He tried to push it back in, but it simply concertinaed against the tightness of her arse, and after a couple of dispiriting attempts he withdrew. She stared at him rancorously.

‘Is that it?’ she said.

He put his prick away, and got to his feet. ‘For now,’ he said.

‘Oh am I to be fucked in instalments then?’ she said, pulling her skirts down over her pudenda and sitting up. ‘I give you my arse against my better judgment and you don’t even have the decency to finish.’

‘I was distracted,’ he said, picking up his coat and putting it on.

‘By what?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Jacob snapped. ‘Lord, woman, it was just a fuck. There’ll be others.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied sniffily.

‘Oh?’

I think it’s high time we let one another alone. If we’re not out to make children, then what’s the use of it? Huh?’

He stared hard at her. ‘You mean this?’

‘Yes, I do. Most certainly. I mean it.’

‘You realize what you’re saying?’

‘Indeed I do.’

‘You’ll regret it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll be weeping for want of a fuck.’

‘You think I’m that desperate for your ministrations?’ she said. ‘Lord, how you deceive yourself. I play along with you, Jacob. I pretend to be aroused, but I have no desire for you.’

That’s not so,’ he said.

She heard the hurt in his voice, and was astonished. It was rare, and like all rarities, valuable. Pretending not to notice, she went to her battered leather satchel and pulled out her mirror, and squatting beside the candles for better light, studied her reflection. ‘It is so,’ she said, after a little time. ‘Whatever was between us is dying, Jacob. If I loved you once, I forgot how. And frankly I don’t much care to be reminded.’

‘Very well,’ he said. She caught his image in the glass; saw the look of distress that crossed his face. Rarer than rare, that look.

‘As you say,’ she murmured.

‘I think…’

‘Yes?’

‘I…I would like to be alone for a while…’

‘Here?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

He flicked his fingers together, and a feather of flame leapt from them, extinguishing itself above his head. She did not care to watch him exercise this peculiar gift of his. She had her own skills, picked up, as Steep’s had been picked up, like jokes or rashes, somewhere along the way. Let him have the room to brood, she thought.

‘Will you be hungry later?’ she asked him, sounding (much to her perverse delight) like a parody of a wife.

‘I doubt it.’

‘I have a meat-pie, if you want something.’

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘We can still be civil, can’t we?’ she said.

He let another flame go from his fingertips. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’

With that, she left him to his musings.

X

Halfway along the track that led from the crossroads to the Courthouse, Will heard the squeaking of ill-oiled wheels behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see not one but two bicycle headlamps a little distance behind him. Breathing an inventive little curse, he stood and waited until Frannie and Sherwood caught up with him.

‘Go home,’ were his first words to them.

‘No,’ said Frannie breathlessly. ‘We decided to come with you.’

‘I don’t want you to come,’ Will said.

‘It’s a free country,’ Sherwood replied. ‘We can go wherever we want. Can’t we, Frannie?’

‘Shut up,’ Frannie said. Then to Will: ‘I only wanted to make sure you were okay.’

‘So why’d you bring him?’ Will said.

‘Because…he asked me…’ Frannie said. ‘He won’t be a bother.’

Will shook his head. ‘I don’t want you coming inside,’ he said.

‘It’s a free—’ Sherwood began again, but Frannie shushed him.

‘All right, we won’t,’ she said. ‘We’ll just wait.’

Knowing this was the best deal he was going to be able to make. Will headed for the Courthouse, with Frannie and Sherwood trailing behind. He made no further recognition of their presence, until he got to the hedgerow adjacent to the Courthouse. Only then did he turn and tell them in a whisper that if they made a sound they’d spoil everything and he would never ever speak to them again. With the warning given, he dug through the hawthorn and started up the gently sloping meadow towards the building. It loomed larger by night than it had by day, like a vast mausoleum, but he could see a light flickering within; there was nothing but exhilaration in his heart as he made his way down the passage towards it.

Jacob was sitting in the judge’s chair, with a small fire burning on the table in front of him. He looked up when he heard the door creak, and by the flames’ light Will had sight of the face he had conjured so many ways. In every detail, he had fallen short of its power. He had not made a brow wide or clear enough, nor eyes deep enough, nor imagined that Steep’s hair, which he had seen in silhouette falling in curly abundance, would be cropped back to a shadow on the top of his skull. He had not imagined the gloss of his beard and moustache, or the delicacy of his lips, which he licked, and licked again, before saying:

‘Welcome, Will. You come at a strange time.’

‘Does that mean you want me to go?’

‘No. Far from it.’ He added a few pieces of tinder to the fire before him. It crackled and spat. ‘It is, I know, the custom to paint a smile over sorrow; to pretend there is joy in you when there is not. But I hate wiles and pretences. The truth is I’m melancholy tonight.’

‘What’s…melancholy?’ Will said.

There’s honest,’ Jacob replied appreciatively. ‘Melancholy is sad, but more than sad. It’s what we feel when we think about the world and how little we understand; when we think of what we must come to.’

‘You mean dying and stuff?’

‘Dying will do,’ Jacob said. Though that’s not what concerns me tonight.’ He beckoned to Will. ‘Come closer,’ he said, ‘it’s warmer by the fire.’

The few flames on the table offered, Will thought, little prospect of heat, but he gladly approached. ‘So why are you sad?’ Will said.

Jacob sat back in the ancient chair, and contemplated the fire. ‘It’s business between a man and a woman,’ he replied. ‘You need not concern yourself with it for a little time yet and you should be grateful. Hold it off as long as you can.’ As he spoke he reached into his pocket and pulled out more fuel for his tiny bonfire. This time, Will was close enough to see that this tinder was moving. Fascinated, and faintly sickened, Will approached the table, and saw that Steep’s captive was a moth, the wings of which he had caught between thumb and forefinger. Its legs and antennae flailed as it was dropped into the flames, and for an instant it seemed the draught of heat would waft it to safety, but before it could gain sufficient height its wings ignited and down it went. ‘Living and dying we feed the fire,’ Steep said softly. ‘That is the melancholy truth of things.’

‘Except that you just did the feeding,’ Will said, surprised by his own eloquence.

‘So we must,’ Jacob replied. ‘Or there’d be darkness in here. And how would we see each other then? I daresay you’d be more comfortable with fuel that didn’t squirm as you fed it to the flame.’

‘Yes…’ Will said, ‘…I would.’

‘Do you eat sausages. Will?’

‘Yes.’

‘You like them, I’m sure. A nicely browned pork sausage? Or a good steak and kidney pie?’

‘Yes. I like steak and kidney pie.’

‘But do you think of the beast, shitting itself in terror as it is shunted to its execution? Hanging by one leg, still kicking, while the blood spurts from its neck? Do you?’

Will had heard his father debate often enough to know that there was a trap here. ‘It’s not the same,’ he protested.

‘Oh, but it is.’

‘No, it’s not. I need food to stay alive.’

‘So eat turnips.’

‘But I like sausages.’

‘You like light too, Will.’

There are candles,’ Will said, ‘right there.’

‘And the living earth gave up wax and wick in their making,’ Steep said. ‘Everything is consumed, Will, sooner or later. Living and dying we feed the fire.’ He smiled, just a little. ‘Sit,’ he said softly. ‘Go on. We’re equals here. Both a little melancholy.’

Will sat. ‘I’m not melancholy,’ he said, liking the gift of the word. ‘I’m happy.’

‘Are you really? Well that’s good to hear. And why are you so happy?’

Will was embarrassed to admit the truth, but Jacob had been honest, he thought; so should he. ‘Because I found you here,’ he said.

That pleases you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But in an hour you’ll be bored with me—’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘—and the sadness will still be there, waiting for you.’ As he spoke, the fire began to dwindle. ‘Do you want to feed the fire, Will?’ Steep said.

His words carried an uncanny power. It was as though this dwindling meant more than the extinguishing of a few flames. This fire was suddenly the only light in a cold, sunless world, and if somebody didn’t feed it soon the consequences would be grim.

‘Well, Will?’ Jacob said, digging in his pocket and taking out another moth. ‘Here,’ he said, proffering it.

Will hesitated. He could hear the soft flapping of the moth’s panic. He looked past the creature to its captor. Jacob’s face was utterly without expression.

‘Well?’ Jacob said.

The fire had almost gone out. Another few seconds and it would be too late. The room would be given over to darkness, and the face in front of Will, its symmetry and its scrutiny, would be gone.

That thought was suddenly too much to bear. Will looked back at the moth: at its wheeling legs and its flapping antennae. Then, in a kind of wonderful terror, he took it from Jacob’s fingers.

XI

‘I’m cold,’ Sherwood moaned for the tenth time.

‘So go home,’ Frannie said.

‘On my own? In the dark? Don’t make me do that.’

‘Maybe I should go in and look for Will,’ Frannie said. ‘Perhaps he’s slipped, or…’

‘Why don’t we just leave him?’

‘Because he’s our friend.’

‘He’s not my friend.’

Then you can wait out here,’ Frannie said, looking for the breaking-place in the hedge. A moment later she felt Sherwood’s hand slip into hers.

‘I don’t want to stay out here,’ he said softly.

In truth, she wasn’t unhappy that he wanted to come with her. She was a little afraid, and therefore glad of his company. Together they pushed through the mesh of the hedge, and hand in hand climbed the slope towards the Courthouse. Once only did she feel a little shudder of apprehension pass through her brother, and glancing towards him in the murk, seeing his fearful eyes looking to her for reassurance, she realized how much she loved him.

The moth was large, and though Will held its wings tight-closed, its fat, grub-like body wriggled wildly, its legs pedalling the air. It repulsed him, which made what he was about to do easier.

‘You’re not squeamish, are you?’ Jacob said.

‘No…’ Will replied, his voice far from him, like somebody else’s voice.

‘You’ve killed insects before.’

Of course he had. He’d fried ants under a magnifying glass, he’d cracked beetles and popped spiders, he’d salted slugs and sprayed flies. This was just a moth and a flame. They belonged together.

And with that thought, he did the deed. There was an instant of regret as the flame withered the moth’s legs, then he dropped the insect into the heat, and regret became fascination as he watched the creature consumed.

‘What did I tell you?’ Jacob said.

‘Living and dying…’ Will murmured, ‘…we feed the fire…’

At the Courtroom door, Frannie could not quite make out what was going on. She could see Will bending over the table, studying something bright, and by the same brightness glimpsed the face of the man sitting opposite him. But that was all.

She let go of Sherwood’s hand, and put her finger to her lips to keep him quiet. He nodded, his expression surprisingly less fearful than it had been in the darkness outside. Then she turned her gaze back in Will’s direction. As she did so she heard the man on the opposite side of the table say:

‘Do you want another?’

Will didn’t even look up at Steep. He was still watching the fire devour the body of the moth.

‘Is it always like this?’ he murmured.

‘Like what?’

‘First the cold and the darkness, then the fire pushing it all away, then more darkness and cold—’

‘Why do you ask?’ Jacob replied.

‘Because I want to understand,’ Will said.

And you’re the only one with the answers, he might have added. That was the truth, after all. He was certain his father didn’t have answers to questions like that, nor did his mother, nor any school-teacher, nor anybody he’d heard pontificate on television. This was secret knowledge, and he felt privileged to be in the company of somebody who possessed it, even if they chose not to share it with him.

‘Do you want another or not?’ Jacob said.

Will nodded, and took the moth from Steep’s fingers. ‘One day won’t we just run out of things to burn?’ he wondered.

‘Oh my Lord,’ Mrs McGee said, appearing from the shadows. ‘Listen to him.’

Will didn’t look at her. He was too busy studying the cremation of the second moth.

‘Yes, we will,’ Jacob said softly. ‘And when everything’s gone a darkness will come upon the world such as we can none of us imagine. It won’t be the darkness of death, because death is not utter.’

‘A game with bones,’ the woman said.

‘Exactly,’ said Jacob. ‘Death is a game with bones.’

‘We know about death, Mr Steep and me.’

‘Oh indeed.’

The children I have carried and lost.’ She moved behind Will as she spoke, reaching out to finger his hair lightly. ‘I look at you, Will, and I swear I would give every tooth in my head to call you mine. So wise—’

‘It’s getting dark,’ Steep said.

‘Give me another moth then,’ Will demanded.

‘So eager,’ Mrs McGee remarked.

‘Quickly,’ Will said, ‘before the flame goes out!’

Jacob reached into his pocket, and pulled out another moth. Will snatched it from his fingers, but in his haste he missed catching hold of its wings, and it rose above the table.

‘Damn!’ said Will, and, pushing back his chair, along with Mrs McGee, he stood up and reached for the tinder. Twice he snatched at the air, twice he came away empty-handed. Enraged now, he wheeled around, still grabbing for the moth.

Behind him he heard Jacob say: ‘Let it go. I’ll give you another.’

‘No!’ Will said, jumping to snatch the creature out of the air. ‘I want this one.’

His efforts were rewarded. On his third jump his hand closed around the moth.

‘Got it!’ he cried, and was about to deliver it to the flame when he heard Frannie say:

‘What are you doing, Will?’

He looked up at her. She was standing at the Courtroom door, her shape murky and remote.

‘Go away,’ he said.

‘Who’s this?’ Jacob said.

‘Just go,’ Will said, suddenly feeling a little jittery. He didn’t want these two parts of his life talking to him at the same time; it made him dizzy. ‘Please,’ he said, hoping she’d respond to civility. ‘I don’t want you here.’

The light was guttering out behind him. If he wasn’t quick about it, the fire would die completely. He had to feed it again before it went out. But he didn’t want Frannie watching. Jacob would never share what he knew – that knowledge which only the wisest of the wise understood – while she was in the room.

‘Go on!’ he shouted. His yelling didn’t move her, but it intimidated the hell out of Sherwood. He fled from Frannie’s side, off down one of the passageways that led from the Courtroom.

Frannie was furious. ‘Sherwood was right!’ she said to him. ‘You’re not our friend. We followed you in case something had happened to you—’

‘Rosa…’ Will heard Jacob whisper behind him, ‘…the other boy…’ and glanced out the corner of his eye to see Mrs McGee retreat into the shadows, in pursuit of Sherwood.

Will’s head was spinning now. Frannie shouting, Sherwood sobbing, Jacob whispering, and worst of all, the flame dying and the light going with it—

That had to be his priority, he decided, and turning his back on Frannie, reached out to put the moth to the flame. But Jacob was there before him. He had put his entire hand – which he had made into a cage of fingers – into the dying fire. Inside the cage was not one but several moths, which caught alight instantly, their panicked wings fanning one another’s flames. An uncanny brightness spilled through Jacob’s fingers, and it occurred to Will that he was not seeing anything natural here: that this was some kind of magic. The light washed up over Jacob’s face, and flattered it into something beyond beauty. He didn’t look like a film star, or a man on a magazine cover: he wasn’t all gloss and teeth and dimples. He was burning brighter than the moths, as though he could be a fire unto himself if he wanted to be. For an instant (this was all it took) Will saw himself at Jacob’s side, walking in a city street, and Jacob was shining out of every pore, and people were weeping with gratitude that he came to light their darkness. Then it was all too much for him. His legs gave out beneath him, and down he went, as though he’d been struck a blow.