“And so the Ancients were punished for their arrogance. I know—I’ve read the histories, Julian; it’s an old sermon.”
“Punished for the crime of attempted prosperity. Punished for the crime of free intellectual inquiry. Or so the Dominion would have us believe.”
“Perhaps the Dominion histories exaggerate; but surely the Secular Ancients weren’t entirely innocent.”
“Of course they weren’t. Who is? The Ancients suffered under an economic system that resembled nothing so much as a complex elaboration of Private Langers’s Lucky Mug. They were beset by greedy Aristocrats, belligerent Dictators, and ignorant Religionists… as are we, if you haven’t noticed.”
“But aren’t we making progress of our own? Our cities are larger and busier than they have been since the Efflorescence of Oil.”
“Yes, and it might be that we’re on the cusp of a change in our traditional arrangements. The workers are discontented—even some of the indentured are learning to read and to express their grievances. The Dominion still keeps a tight grip in the west, but fights to stifle the Unaffiliated Churches in the east. In politics, the Presidency confronts an increasingly restive Senate, peopled by new-money Owners who distrust the old order or want a bigger piece of it. The Army of the Laurentians and the Army of the Californias function as independent powers, only nominally under the control of the Executive. And so on. The entire system wobbles on its axis, Adam. All it needs is a push in the right direction, and it would collapse.”
“Would that be a good thing?”
“Increasingly, I think it would.”
“People would suffer, though.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t people always suffer? Suffering is unavoidable.”
Perhaps he was right about that. But his nonchalance frightened me. Sam had once accused Julian of “behaving like a Comstock,” in a sense not complimentary to him. This was something worse, it seemed to me. Now he was thinking like a President.
* * *
For the rest of the afternoon we set aside Political Philosophy and attended strictly to fishing. The day was as sweet as the sight of two kites bobbing over a sunny blue lake could make it, and if the dividends were unimpressive—Julian snagged a single fish; I did not snag any—we wouldn’t starve for our failures. It was a day that, as boys, we would have enjoyed wholeheartedly. But we weren’t boys, and the pleasant illusion was impossible to sustain. Eventually the sun approached the hilltops of the Hudson highlands, the air grew calm, the long light silvered the leaves of the birches, and we packed up our kites and catch and started back to the Country House.
Edenvale was melancholy in the gloaming. Whether or not it was ever an Eden , just now it seemed more like Eden after the Falclass="underline" untenanted, possibly haunted. I found myself wondering whether Julian had disturbed the dead with his loose talk; and I pictured our indignant ancestors emerging from their wormy basements, all charged up with Electricity and Atheism. Despite the absurdity of the idea I was grateful when we passed out of the shadows of the forest and onto the wide lawn of the Estate. Lamplight soft as butter seeped from the windows of the Country House, a welcome sight.
There was also the faint and reassuring sound of music. We reached the house and entered the back hall quietly, so as not to make a disturbance, then followed the sound to the parlor, where Mrs. Comstock sat at the piano striking the familiar chords of Where the Sauquoit Meets the Mohawk.
Sam gazed at her as if lost in admiration; while Calyxa, her coiled hair shimmering in the lamplight, stood with clasped hands, singing:
Though the years have fled
Since we were wed
Where the Sauquoit meets the Mohawk,
Still the fields are green
Down in between
Where the Sauquoit meets the Mohawk (etc., etc.).
Sentimental though the song undeniably was—it had been popular in Mrs. Comstock’s youth—its virtue was its melody, which clambered up and down a minor scale as if in sympathy with human hope and mortal resignation. Calyxa seemed to know this, and she gave the melody an appropriate voice, so that the song became a wholehearted lament, sweet as summer love reconsidered in an autumn dusk. It made me think of the fallen condition of Edenvale, and of all the losses Mrs. Comstock had suffered since the death of her husband, and of the threat that hung over her son.
Calyxa performed the song in its entirety. Mrs. Comstock banged out the final chords of the last chorus and sat away from the piano, drained… but Calyxa, to the astonishment of us all, carried on for another two verses without accompaniment. Her fine voice expanded into the dusky stillness, singing:
In a tender year
You kissed me here,
Two hearts joined in one beating;
But lovers met
May suffer yet,
And love, like time, is fleeting.
But if your heart
From mine must part
Where the Sauquoit meets the Mohawk,
Still the rolling sea
Keeps the memory
Of the Sauquoit and the Mohawk.
Long moments passed after the last syllable faded into the air. Mrs. Comstock, obviously moved, wiped her eyes. When she had controlled her emotions, she gave Calyxa a curious look.
“Those verse aren’t in the song-sheet,” she said.
Calyxa nodded and seemed embarrassed. “No, I’m sorry—I added them myself—impulsively.”
“The lyrics are your own?”
“It’s a trick I picked up singing in taverns. Make up a fresh verse, surprise the audience.”
“You invented these lyrics beforehand, or on the fly?”
“They were an improvisation,” she admitted.
“What a remarkable talent! I’m increasingly impressed with you, Calyxa.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Comstock,” Calyxa said. She very nearly blushed—something I had seldom seen her do.
Then Mrs. Comstock cleared her throat. “In any event, the men are back from the woods. Julian, Adam, please sit down. We’ve had a communication from the Executive Palace , and I need to tell you about it.”
* * *
Julian whitened, in so far as his naturally pale complexion made that possible. We did as we were told, and seated ourselves.
“Well?” Julian asked. “Which is it—a death sentence or a reprieve?”
Mrs. Comstock was somber but didn’t seem unduly alarmed. “Perhaps a little of both. We’ve been invited to the Independence Day celebration on the Palace grounds. Deklan sent a note claiming he wants to honor the heroism of ‘Captain Commongold,’ now that the Captain is revealed as his nephew.”
“My notoriety protects me,” Julian said in a sneering tone. “At least until the Fourth.”
“I doubt he’ll make an attempt on your life before that date, in any case, and he can hardly slaughter you at the height of the celebration. In the meantime you should issue a statement to the newspapers acknowledging your patrimony and giving credit for your achievements to the Comstock bloodline.”
“And abase myself before that butcher? Shall I defile my father’s grave while I’m at it?”
Mrs. Comstock flinched. Sam said harshly, “These are measures to protect your life, Julian.”