What he saw, even in Cuthbert’s humorous, intelligent face, was nothing – nothing at all. Cuthbert’s eyes were flat with Hax’s doom. In Cuthbert’s eyes, it had already happened. He had fed them and they had gone to the stairs to eat and then Hax had brought the Guard named Robeson to the wrong corner of the kitchen for their treasonous little tete-a-tete. That was all. In Cuthbert’s eyes Roland saw that Hax would die for his treason as a viper dies in a pit. That, and nothing else. Nothing at all.
They were gunslinger’s eyes.
Roland’s father was only just back from the uplands, and he looked out of place amid the drapes and the chiffon fripperies of the main receiving hall that the boy had only lately been granted access to, as a sign of his apprenticeship.
His father was dressed in black jeans and a blue work shirt. His cloak, dusty and streaked, torn to the lining in one place, was slung carelessly over his shoulder with no
regard for the way it and he clashed with the elegance of the room. He was desperately thin and the heavy handlebar mustache below his nose seemed to weight his head as he looked down at his son. The guns crisscrossed over the wings of his hips hung at the perfect angle for his hands, the worn sandalwood handles looking dull and sleepy in this languid indoor light
“The head cook,” his father said softly. “Imagine it! The tracks that were blown upland at the railhead. The dead stock in Hendrickson. And perhaps even.., imagine! Im agine!”
He looked more closely at his son.
“It preys on you.”
“Like the hawk,” Roland said. “It preys on you.” He laughed – at the startling appropriateness of the image rather than at any lightness in the situation.
His father smiled.
“Yes,” Roland said. “I guess it… it preys on me.
“Cuthbert was with you,” his father said. “He will have told his father by now.”
“Yes.”
“He fed both of you when Cort – “
“Yes.”
“And Cuthbert. Does it prey on him, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Such an avenue of comparison did not really interest him. He was not concerned with how his feelings compared with those of others.
“It preys on you because you feel you’ve killed?”
Roland shrugged unwillingly, all at once not content with this probing of his motivations.
“Yet you told. Why?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “How could I not? Treason was – “
His father waved a hand curtly. “If you did it for something as cheap as a schoolbook idea, you did it unworthily. I would rather see all of Farson poisoned.”
“I didn’t!” The words jerked out of him violently. “I wanted to kill him – both of them! Liars! Snakes! They —“Go ahead.”
“They hurt me,” he finished, defiant. “They did something to me. Changed something. I wanted to kill them for it.”
His father nodded. “That is worthy. Not moral, but it is not your place to be moral. In fact… “ He peered at his son. “Morals may always be beyond you. You are not quick, like Cuthbert or Wheeler’s boy. It will make you formidable.”
The boy, impatient before this, felt both pleased and troubled. “He will – “
“Hang.”
The boy nodded. “I want to see it.”
Roland the elder threw his head back and roared laughter. “Not as formidable as I thought… or perhaps just stupid.” He closed his mouth abruptly. An arm shot out like a bolt of lightning and grabbed the boy’s upper arm painfully. He grimaced but did not flinch. His father peered at him steadily, and the boy looked back, although it was more difficult than hooding the hawk had been.
“All right,” he said, and turned abruptly to go.
“Father?”
“What?”
“Do you know who they were talking about? Do you know who the good man is?”
His father turned back and looked at him speculatively. “Yes. I think I do.”
“If you caught him,” Roland said in his thoughtful, near-plodding way, “no one else like Cook would have to . . . have to be neck-popped.”
His father smiled thinly. “Perhaps not for a while. But in the end, someone always has to have his or her neck popped, as you so quaintly put it. The people demand it. Sooner or later, if there isn’t a turncoat, the people make one.”
“Yes,” Roland said, grasping the concept instantly —it was one he never forgot. “But if you got him – “
“No,” his father said flatly.
“Why?”
For a moment his father seemed on the verge of saying why, but he bit it back. “We’ve talked enough for now, I think. Go out from me. “
He wanted to tell his father not to forget his promise when the time came for Hax to step through the trap, but he was sensitive to his father’s moods. He suspected his father wanted to fuck. He closed that door quickly. He was aware that his mother and father did that . . . that thing together, and he was reasonably well informed as to what that act was, but the mental picture that always condensed with the thought made him feel both uneasy and oddly guilty. Some years later, Susan would tell him the story of Oedipus, and he would absorb it in quiet thoughtfulness, thinking of the odd and bloody triangle formed by his father, his mother, and by Marten – known in some quarters as the good man. Or perhaps it was a quadrangle, if one wished to add himself.
“Good night, father,” Roland said.
“Good night, son,” his father said absently, and began unbuttoning his shirt In his mind, the boy was already gone. Like father, like son.
Gallows Hill was on the Farson Road, which was nicely poetic – Cuthbert might have appreciated this, but Roland did not. He did appreciate the splendidly ominous scaffold which climbed into the brilliantly blue sky, a black and angular silhouette which overhung the coach road.
The two boys had been let out of Morning Exercises —Cort had read the notes from their fathers laboriously, lips moving, nodding here and there. When he finished with them both, he had looked up at the blue-violet dawn sky and had nodded again.
“Wait here,” he said, and went toward the leaning stone hut that was his living quarters. He came back with a slice of rough, unleavened bread, broke it in two, and gave half to each.
“When it’s over, each of you will put this beneath his shoes. Mind you do exactly as I say, or I’ll clout you into next week.”
They had not understood until they arrived, riding double on Cuthbert’s gelding. They were the first, fully two hours ahead of anyone else and four hours before the hanging, and Gallows Hill stood deserted – except for the rooks and ravens. The birds were everywhere, and of course they were all black. They roosted noisily on the hard, jutting bar that overhung the trap – the armature of death. They sat in a row along the edge of the platform, they jostled for position on the stairs.
“They leave them,” Cuthbert muttered. “For the birds.”
“Let’s go up,” Roland said.
Cuthbert looked at him with something like horror. “Do you think – “
Roland cut him off with a gesture of his hands. “We’re years early. No one will come.”
“All right.”
They walked slowly toward the gibbet, and the birds took indignant wing, cawing and circling like a mob of angry dispossessed peasants. Their bodies were flat and black against the pure dawnlight of the sky.
For the first time Roland felt the enormity of his responsibility in the matter; this wood was not noble, not part of the awesome machine of Civilization, but merely warped
pine covered with splattered white bird droppings. It was splashed everywhere – stairs, railing, platform – and it stank.