Out into the hallway he went, past Rafael, who was standing a yard from the bedroom door, as yet unable to enter, through the apartment to the door, down the stairs and out into the street. Adrianna would serve Patrick well, he knew. She'd always been tender and pragmatic in equal measure. She'd rock Rafael, if he wanted to be rocked; she'd make sure the body was presentable for the medics when they arrived; she'd scrupulously remove all the evidence of the suicide, and if anybody questioned what had happened tell such barefaced lies nobody would dare challenge her.
But for Will, there were no such distractions. There was only the terrible emptiness of a street that had always been the way to Patrick's house, indeed would always be the way to Patrick's house, but that now no longer led anywhere important.
What now? he wondered. He wanted to be away from this city, back into the painless river from which he'd been hauled; that torrent where loss could not touch him, and he could swim inviolate. But how did he get there? Perhaps he should go back to Lewis's house, he thought; perhaps the fox, who had plotted to bring him on this sad trek, was still sorting through the rubbish, and could be persuaded to reverse the process; unmake his memories and return him to the flow of things.
Yes, that's what he'd do; go back to Cumberland.
The streets were busier than ever, and at the intersection of Castro and 19th, where the foot-traffic was particularly heavy, Will caught sight of a face he recognized. It was Drew, moving through the crowd on his own, doing his best to present a contented face to the world, but not doing a very good job of it. He came to the corner and could not seem to make up his mind which way he wanted to go. People pushed on past him, on their way to this bar or that; a few glanced his way, but getting no reciprocal smile from him, looked elsewhere. He didn't seem to care much. He simply stood in the flow, while party-goers moved on about the business of the evening.
Will started in his direction, though it was not his intended route, moving easily through the crowd. When he was perhaps twenty yards from the corner, Drew apparently decided he wasn't ready for a night of revelry, because he turned and headed back the way he'd come. Will followed him, not certain why he was doing so (he could offer neither solace nor apologies in his present state), but unwilling simply to let Drew go. The crowd thickened in front of him, and though in his present state he was able to pass through them without resistance, he had not yet got the confidence of his condition. He proceeded with more caution than was strictly necessary, and almost lost sight of Drew. He pressed his spirit forwards, however; on through the throng of men and women (and a few who were in transit), calling after Drew, though he knew he had no hope of being heard. Wait, he yelled; Drew, please wait! And as he ran, and the figures turned to a blur around him, he remembered another such chase, pursuing a fox through the flickering wood, while the light of wakefulness waited for him at the finishing line. This time he didn't attempt to slow himself as he had that first time; didn't try to look over his shoulder at the street and the crowd, fearful he would not see it again. He was happy to be leaving. Drew had emerged from the knot of bodies at the intersection and was now no more than ten yards ahead of Will, staring at the sidewalk as he trudged back home. As the distance between them closed, however, Drew seemed to hear something, and raising his head, glanced back towards Will; the third and last soul to whom he was momentarily visible tonight. Will saw him scan the crowd, his expression sweetly expectant. Then his face grew brighter, and brighter still, and Castro, and the crowd, and the night that contained them both, went away into the west, and he woke.
CHAPTER XVIII
He was in the wood, his head laid in the very spot where the birds had fallen. Though it was still night in California, here in England day had come; a crisp, late-autumn day. He unknitted his aching joints and sat up, the turmoil he'd felt leaving Patrick's side soothed somewhat by the quiet ease of his waking state. There was quite a litter around him. Some half-eaten fruit, a couple of discarded slices of bread;much of it on its way to rot. If these were, as he guessed, the remains of meals he'd had up here, then he'd been resident a goodly span. He put his hand to his chin, and found what was probably a week's growth of beard. Then he cleared the gum of sleep from his eyes and got to his feet. His left leg was numb, and it took a little while to shake it back into life. While he did so, he looked up through the bare branches at the sky.
There were birds up there already, circling over the fells. He knew how fine it felt to have wings. He'd been in the heads of eagles, lately; and in hummingbirds as they siphoned the blossom. The time for such bliss was past, however. He had taken the journey - or rather his spirit had - and now he was returned into himself to be in the world as a man. There was sorrow here, of course. Patrick was gone; so was Sherwood. But there was also the work the fox had called him to; sacred work.
He put his full weight on his leg to test its reliability, and finding it strong enough to bear him up hobbled away from his littered nest under the tree and out to the edge of the wood. There had been a light frost the night before, and though the sun was showing itself between the clouds, it had too little warmth to melt the glaze; it glistened on the slopes and fields, and roads and roofs. The scene before him, both above and below, looked like a picture made by a miniaturist of such genius that every part of it may be scrutinized, down to the smallest spiral of a fern or the flimsiest nuance of a cloud, and will be found to be perfectly delineated, just waiting for the eye and soul to see it.
How long did he linger at the edge of the wood, drinking all this down? Long enough to watch a dozen little ceremonies below. Cows brought to a trough; washing hung on a line; the postman on his early rounds. And then, after a time, the four black cars winding in slow procession from Samson Street towards St Luke's.
'Sherwood...' Will murmured, and limping still, started the slope,
leaving a track of sharper green in the frosted grass. The church-bell had begun to toll, and its echo came off the fells, filling the valley with its news: a man is dead. Take notice that a good soul has gone on his way; and we're the poorer for it.
He was only halfway down the hillside by the time the funeral convoy reached the gates of the church, which was on the far side of the valley. It would take him another half-hour at least, given his limp and his fatigue, to reach the place, and even if he did he suspected he would not be welcome there in his present condition. Perhaps Frannie would be happy to see him, though he couldn't be certain. For the rest of the mourners, however, his filthy figure stumbling to the graveside would only be a distraction from the business of the hour, which was to pay their respects to the dead. Later, when the coffin was in the ground, he'd find a quiet time to visit the churchyard and say goodbye. For now, he would pay better service to Sherwood's memory by keeping his distance.
The coffin had been lifted from the back of the hearse and was now being carried into the church, the mourners filing in behind. The first figure to come after it was, he assumed, Frannie, though he could not make out her face at this distance. He watched while the congregation entered the church, and disappeared, leaving the drivers to lounge against the church wall and chat amongst themselves.
Only now did he continue on down the slope. He would go back to Hugo's house, he decided; there he could bathe, shave and change his clothes, so that by the time Adele came back from the funeral (where she'd surely be) he'd be looking more presentable.