As for the Jane Writer, it lights the pictures and makes them move, but I’m afraid its name is only the trace of a memory and nothing more. When I ask Trevor he shrugs and says that’s what Cat’s mother called it and that’s what it is.
I’ve grown used to the work at the O. For a while I could only waddle like a fat sow, but now Walt is born I help Dell with cooking and banking up the fire. And together we watch the baby. Dell is my friend now and knows everything about me that can be told in words, though nothing of what lies deepest in my heart. She knows that Brendan is Walt’s father, which makes Walt almost a brother to her. That Brendan might be dead. That if he’s dead, then I am to blame. She was quiet when I told her that – sad and thoughtful. I was afraid she would hate me for it, but she knows what men can do, knows about the dangers of the road, never goes far without a knife in her belt.
When someone leaves word at the O I help her write it. We use the wall for paper and our pen is a stick padded at the end with fur. Our ink is pale and watery but we crush berries into it – blackberry, hawthorn, sloe – and so the word lasts long enough to be passed on, then fades, making space for other words. Trevor can neither read our letters nor understand how their shapes can make a sound, seeing them, I suppose, like the scatter of leaves blown in at the window.
I read to Dell from the books and have found a different way of reading, moving forward from one sentence to the next, content with one meaning at a time, sometimes two, often not even one if the words are hard and their meaning too strange to us. Dell is curious about my own book, but finds my writing in it no odder than many things I do.
And what of the Book of Air? I still love it above all other books that exist or might exist. I still feel Jane’s presence sometimes, though I am far from the Study. I still want to believe that everything is in Jane and Jane in everything, but it gets harder. And I wonder if it could ever be true for Dell or Trevor or any of the people who live beyond the village.
Other things I once believed seem just tales to me now. The story of Maud who went at night to the house of windows that is now a ruin. Of how she danced with the Monk by starlight to the jangle of bells. Of how one night she didn’t come and the Monk in sorrow tore out his own heart. Brendan said this was good for a winter evening by a cottage fire and I think he was right. And the story of Old Sigh who flew down from a burning tower, without a stitch of clothing on him, to save the Book of Moon. The Mistress told us that one, but I think now it was a story meant only for children.
Jason
I’m woken by the church bells. Abigail is breathing steadily against my neck. We’re snug in our quilt, bedded in mossy soil and dead leaves, and the old trees stand around us in the grey light.
A slight movement tells me Abigail’s awake. I sense her listening.
‘Jason?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you hear that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Nothing, probably. It means Django’s up. Or never went to bed.’
‘Do you think we should find out?’
‘I’d rather stay here with you.’
‘So would I.’
She stirs and we disentangle from each other. I get up and pass her some clothes, her underwear and her skirt, and turn my back to let her dress.
We leave the wood and walk down the woodland side of the brook, hand in hand, pushing through straggly yellow weeds. The Mercedes with its nose dipped towards the water reminds me of our last wild car ride.
‘Jason,’ she says, ‘last night…’
‘Yes.’
‘When you said am I Jewish, why did you say that?’
‘It’s a star of David, a Jewish symbol.’
‘Because I think I must be.’
‘But Cheryl was a Christian. I mean, seriously.’
‘Cheryl wasn’t anything. She just went along for the ride, and to protect me from my mother’s influence.’
‘But if your mother…’
‘Mum wasn’t Cheryl’s, not really. Cheryl adopted her. So you’ll remember who you are. That’s what Mum said when she gave it me. That must’ve been what she meant.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But what does it mean? That I’m descended from all those Old Testament people, those kings and prophets and high priests, those Israelites wandering in the desert?’
I can’t help laughing at the earnest way she says it.
‘And I was never meant to be praying to Jesus?’
‘Join the club.’
That makes her laugh too.
Reaching the road, I climb over the fence. Abigail follows and I help her down. She’s preoccupied, thinking about her mother I suppose, and the whole Jewish thing, and I’m wondering what it means, if anything, and whether she wants to talk about it. But turning to the church I see Simon on the tower looking down over the parapet. I don’t see any clothes on him. He holds himself against the cold and his little shoulders shake. There’s light from the window below him and the shadowy form of the monkey swinging on the bell ropes.
I run round to the gate and into the churchyard and see Django standing on the roof of the nave, straddling the ridge. He’s got his clarinet in one hand. There’s the bulge in his jacket where he keeps his Bible closest to his heart. He edges forward, moving westward towards the tower. The slates are bright with dew. The stained glass below him flickers with colour – not sunlight but candles. The altar must be covered in them. His foot slips and he recovers, arms out, holding himself steady with a little panting laugh of excitement.
With a few stray notes, the bells fade. The monkey runs out through the porch to meet us, then back inside the church. Up on the tower, Simon begins whimpering. He has his back to Django, but it’s obvious that whatever’s happening Django is controlling it. Simon is leaning forward, as if nerving himself to take more risk. I hear behind me Abigail’s sharp intake of breath. And I hear all the birds of the morning – a riotous clamour – and nothing now to disturb or silence them, no traffic, no tractor or chainsaw, no fighter plane, no road drill, nothing across the wide expanse of fields and woods and wasteland and distant abandoned streets – just birdsong. The air seems dense with the sound, but it’s as thin as ever. When Simon leans forward there’s nothing between him and the churchyard but a fifty foot drop.
Django’s laughter grows and he begins to shout. ‘Don’t be afraid, Simon. They that wait upon the Lord shall mount up with wings like eagles.’
Simon shivers and lets out another whimper. Then he takes a step up and he’s standing naked on the edge of the parapet. My insides react with a lurch as if I’d taken that step myself and was already falling. And I see how this is meant to end.
I make my voice as steady as I can, just loud enough to reach Simon without startling him. ‘Simon,’ I say, ‘step back away from the edge. Whatever he’s said to you, you don’t have to do this. Step back and wait for me.’
Django’s looking at me now, and his face is so full of joy I could punch him. ‘Consider not the things of old,’ he says, ‘For, see, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. Sorrow and sighing shall flee away and the tongue of the stammerer shall speak plainly.’
‘Leave him alone,’ I tell him. ‘You’re scaring him.’
‘I’m not scaring you, am I, Simon?’