Once inside the village of Fingerpost and nearing his house, Augustus was compelled to stop and speak, and what he had to say sent a chill throughout me.
“I have made a decision, dear brother. I must go and look for my son.” I stared at Gus in disbelief. I could scarcely find breath to say, “But you must know that there is the strong likelihood that such a venture would be tantamount to committing suicide.”
“Then are you saying that it is more than likely that your nephew Newman is himself dead?”
I shook my head. “I’m saying that your going abroad in your current state — frantic, wild-eyed, and reckless — will not achieve the objective you seek and may expose you to great harm.”
Augustus allowed the weight of my hard words to sit heavy upon his brow for a moment. Then he returned in an angry tone: “You don’t know what is out there. It’s all conjecture on your part. What if Newman is alive? What if he’s trapped somewhere and waiting for his father to come rescue him?”
“And what if he is someplace where you shall never find him? You’re my only brother, Gus. How could you even think of doing such a thing?”
“Because Newman is my only son. You cannot hope to know in your bachelorhood, Freddie, how it feels to lose a child.”
“I am not insensible to your pain, Gus, but I cannot allow you to do this.”
“And just how do you intend to stop me?”
“By any means possible.”
“We shall see about that.”
I took a deep breath. “Have you not stopt to think of what this would do to Charlotte? To your daughter Alice?”
“Alice no longer wishes to be a member of this family. And Charlotte no longer loves me.”
Both statements took me aback — especially the latter. “How can you be sure of such a thing?”
“I’ve seen it in her look, Freddie. I’ve felt it in her touch. Ours has been a hollow marriage for some time now — long before Newman went away. I know that he’s an unruly, devilish, pranking boy, but I love him with all of my heart, and without him there should be little left for me but a slow march to the silent grave with only my brother for occasional diverting fraternity. So I am prepared to take the risk at whatever the cost. I owe it to both Newman and to myself.”
I looked into my brother Gus’s eyes and saw the terrible pain of his predicament. And yet I could not, under any circumstances, ratify his decision. “I forbid it.”
“Forbid it? Just what will you do, Freddie: have your friend Muntle place me under arrest?”
“If I must.”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly serious, brother.”
Not another word was said. Gus had had his say and I had made my remonstration, and it remained to be seen if what I said would do any good.
Chapter the Tenth. Monday, June 23, 2003
ewman Trimmers staid his hand as it reached out to pull upon the loose bark of the old tree that stood before him. He had for a brief moment sought to know if through actual ingestion he might learn if some part of it was edible. Newman was hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, but concluded as the hand came to rest again within his lap that perhaps he could go another few hours without being reduced to gnawing upon trees and chewing up leaves and twigs.
My nephew had hidden himself in the forested hills that overlooked the country home of Dean and Evelyn Ryersbach since his escape on Saturday. He had begun his journey home with a strong sense about the direction he must go to reach Dingley Dell, but the woods had tricked him, had turned him round, and had left him disoriented in very little time at all. Here there was nothing for a boy to eat without tools of procurement. There were mushrooms, but Newman durst not taste them, for he knew that some mushrooms found in the wild weren’t toothsome at all, but poisonous toadstools that tricked the eye. He had come upon the mountain stream that had earlier tried to drown him and had seen a fish swimming therein and had grabbed for it without success and had soaked himself anew, and now he was wet and cold. The sun could not find him here in the wooded darkness. Nor would food walk itself up to him and leap into his lap and ask to be eaten. A deer had approached, and Newman and the creature had considered one another for a long interim before it parted. Newman supposed that the animal had walked up to find out who he was and to learn why he sat shivering and wet and cold and hungry beneath a tree. Who was this creature who did not behave as two-legged creatures usually did — tramping noisily about except for that time of year when they softened their tread to be furtive and cunning and then, paradoxically, to murder the quiet with noisy blasts from their smoking sticks?
It was clear that the time had now come for Newman Trimmers to come down from the wooded hills and find a settlement of some sort that would provide a morsel or two of food to keep starvation at bay. Perhaps he might discover something palatable in the town dustbins, or best of all meet a kindly baker who would take pity on a hungry, ragged boy and tender him a mouldy bun. The thought of the chance to put something into his empty stomach made Newman bold, and so he rose from his pallet of moss and leaves and made his way out of his secluded retreat.
In less than an hour my nephew was standing upon the side of a gravelled road, and wondering where it would take him. Would it lead to someplace where he might nourish himself? Where he could sleep soundly between linen sheets and restore himself for the purpose of essaying once again his long and wending journey home? The answers to these questions would come in time.
For now he must go down the gravelled road. And this he did. By and by, he came to a junction. Upon the shoulder of a smoothly paved thoroughfare stood a directing sign affixed to a metallic post. It said, “Jersey Shore 6 miles.” Thought Newman, Am I near the strand of a sea, or is there some great lake close by? (For what else could be the literal meaning of a place called Jersey Shore, except that it should be a littoral one?)
Within the half-hour, Newman had grown slightly less alarmed by the Outland conveyances that raced past him — vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Some were built like waggons and chaise-carts with room for ample storage in the open rear; others resembled Dinglian vans and Pantechnicons with room for storage within. Then there were those that carried only passengers (and perhaps a little something in their boots); and every now and then there came along a great myriad-wheeled monster machine with room enough inside to hold the entire contents of a railroad boxcar. These belched a most acrid-smelling smoke and sometimes blared their horns like the trumpetings of great elephants (or what Newman thought that great elephants should sound like, having never heard one). The loudness of the blasts compelled him in every instance to cover his delicate ears and hasten from the shoulder. Yet he never put himself at such distance from the road that he couldn’t feel the whoosh of the warm air being displaced by the prows of the massive man-made beasts.
A driver of one of the smaller vehicles had stopped alongside him to ask if he would like a “lift.” Though Newman knew the word to indicate in Dingley Dell a hoisting device, he assumed that this was the Outlander’s word for “ride.” The cordial old gentleman in the rusting conveyance had asked if Newman should like to be taken somewhere.
Yet, after his rude treatment by the Ryersbachs, Newman trusted no one — not even courteous old men who seemed upon first glance to be well-meaning.