Meg sat back, sighing deeply. Mad. Her brother was mad. “I suppose I realised it earlier,” Ben said, his fist slowly unclenching; something relaxing in him even as he spoke, “when I was out in the garden. But I didn’t understand it Not until a moment ago.”
“Understand what?”
“That I was on the outside. Small, insignificant. And what I was doing was small and insignificant, too. I had to get inside. Into that dark intensity at the heart of things. Over the rim, so to speak.”
“But I thought that was what you were doing.”
“No,” he said, the boyish smile returning. But for once Meg found she couldn’t follow him. Just what exactly did he mean when he said he had to get “inside”? “But eight years, Ben. All of that careful, painstaking work ... wasted.”
He shook his head. “No. Not wasted, Meg. Think of all the things I’ve learned. All of those tricks and techniques I discovered along the way. Things no one else can do. I can use all of that Refine it Focus it all on something real, something meaningful.”
And Death? she wanted to ask. Isn’t Death meaningful? Or was that merely rhetoric?
“What will SimFic say?” she asked, changing tack, trying to bring the discussion back from its metaphysical heights and onto firmer, more practical ground. “Oughtn’t they to be in on any decision you make about the work? After all, they paid you enough for it” He smiled. Tve already thought of that I’ll give them HeadStims. Three of them. I can cut them pretty quickly, from the basic background material. They can get one of their boys to run basic plots over the top. There’s a big market for them now, especially in America.”
He paused and, for the briefest moment, looked away. It was a strangely revealing gesture. Then he looked back at her, defying her to gainsay him. “In fact,” he continued, “they’ll probably be more pleased than if I’d given them a completed shell. They could have the first of them six months from now.” “And Jack Neville?”
“Jack will go along with whatever I want” “Maybe. But he’ll be disappointed. You said ...” “It doesn’t matter what I said,” Ben said, a slight irritation creeping into his voice. “As long as he makes a profit on the deal.” “But I thought you said ...”
“Meg!’
She looked down, stung by the reprimand. It was so unlike him.
For a long time after that she sat there quietly, running it through her mind. It all seemed much too quick, much too neat to satisfy her, yet she could see that something had happened in the garden earlier; something that had crystallised his thoughts. But she knew that the real genesis of that moment lay several days back, when he had begun to re-read his workbooks. Moreover, she suspected that it was not so much to do with the meaning or direction of the work as with something else. Yet to ask Ben would be to break another of their unspoken rules. For a time she hesitated, then, her voice soft, almost apologetic, she asked:
“Were you afraid, Ben? Was that it? Afraid that you couldn’t match The Familiar?”
Ben didn’t look away. His eyes held her own. Nor did he flinch at her question, yet his stare became fixed and fierce, as though tormented. Finally, it was she who looked away.
My God, he was afraid...
Afraid. Ben, who had never been afraid of a single thing in his life Afraid of failing? Afraid, what?... of being merely human? And how long had he felt like this? Since the reading? Or before? Was that why he had failed to heed her advice? Had the crisis come long ago, and she had missed it?
It was quiet where they sat. There was only the sound of the grandfather clock in the shadowed hallway. Then, unexpectedly, he got up and walked over to the window. Standing there, looking out through the open casement, he began to talk. “If s all quite simple, really. The challenge I set myself was to try to create something better, more powerful than The Familiar. But how could I do that? The Familiar was perfect. I see that now. I said all I had to say in that, showed all I had to show. To go forward from that...”
He paused, shaking his head, then.
“I fled into complexity. Into the realm of intricacy and fine detail. I thought that somehow the answer might lie there. But I was wrong. Worse, I thought I could nail Death. Pin him down and copy him. I thought that maybe that way I could finally out-do myself, by landing the biggest fish of all. But I couldn’t. I was only fooling myself. It was all semantics and sophistry. And when I came to understand that, I had to take a step back and reassess what I was doing. That” s when the fear first came.”
“But Ben...”
“No. Hear me out, Meg. If I don’t say this ...” Ben looked down. For the first time in his life he had been humbled by something; for the first time he was in awe of something bigger than himself. And when he met her eyes again it was a different Ben Shepherd looking out at her.
“You were right, you see,” he said quietly. “I was afraid. But it wasn’t just that The fear ... well, I can live with that Whaf s much more difficult to live with is the possibility that I’m wrong. That The Familiar isn’t my final word on things. That I really can improve on what I did. But not with this. That’s why I have to throw this other thing off. That’s why I have to start anew.” “I see,” she said softly. “But what will you do? Where will you start to look?”
“I have no idea.”
“And you’re sure that this other thing ...”
“Is a dead end?” he finished for her, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth because of the pun. “Yes. Quite sure.”
She shivered, as if cold, then, stepping closer, held him to her tightly, feeling the faint tremor in him.
“You understand then?” he asked softly, whispering the words into her ear.
“No,” she answered. “But if it’s what you want to do.”
Meg set the large blue earthenware bowl down on the table among the other bowls, then slipped off the oven gloves and set them aside. “Mmmm ...” DeVore said from the far end of the table, “that smells delicious.
What is it?”
“It’s Ben’s favourite,” Meg answered, looking to where Ben sat, facing Catherine across the table. “Rabbit stew with dumplings.” “It sounds wonderful,” DeVore said, his dark eyes sparkling at his hostess.
“Oh, it is,” Catherine said, reaching across to lay her hand over DeVore’s. “There’s nothing in the city can touch Meg’s cooking. She has a genius for it” “Then I am honoured, Miss Shepherd.”
“You’re welcome,” Meg said, a slight awkwardness to her manner as she lifted off the lids and began to ladle first stew and then carrots and potatoes into the deep bowls by her elbow. “But I cannot honestly accept your praise. The rabbit was as he was made. We merely caught him. And the spices are mixed to my mother’s recipe. I but carry out her instructions.” “Very modest,” DeVore said, his eyes seeming to drink in Shepherd’s sister, “but I know there is a kind of magic in good cookery. And if Catherine praises it...” Catherine had put on weight, Meg noticed. Not much, but enough to make her seem more solid, less cat-like than she’d once appeared. As the years went by her natural beauty was being slowly swallowed up by a kind of matronly quality. Ben had commented upon it more than once - on one occasion even to her face. But just now Ben was silent, as he had been this past hour. ^ Meg lifted the first bowl and handed it across to Catherine to pass on to their chief guest.”Thank you.” DeVore unfurled his napkin and placed it on his lap, then looked about him, waiting until the others had received their bowls. When all were ready, Ben gave a little nod and they all began to eat “Oh, yes,” DeVore said after a moment, looking across at Meg with a beaming smile. “This is indeed a delight. That taste!”