He went to the door, stepping carefully through the broken glass. He put his ear against the door.
Faintly, faintly, he could make out the sounds of an argument.
He heard Grieve's voice, and the voice of her father.
— We have to let him in. If we open it for just a second. We have to.
— No, said Stark. The door is closed and sealed. It will not be opened again. The matter's closed.
— But he's out there.
James could hear Grieve crying. Then he heard the scuffle of feet.
— NO! Stop her.
Stark's voice was loud.
What's happening? thought James. Grieve must be trying to open the door.
— I've got her.
It was McHale's voice.
— Grieve, Grieve. Calm down. It will be all right; I promise.
— I hate you, she said. I hate you all.
— You'd better give her a shot, said McHale.
— Noooooooooo! No!
Grieve was screaming, and then she was not.
James pounded and pounded on the door. His hands ached. It was useless.
James stepped away from the door. It was useless to stand there. He made his way back across the wine cellar and up the stairs. Then he was in the hall.
Outside, he thought. I shall go see what's outside.
He went by the front entrance, and out the door.
The first thing he saw was the city, on fire, in the distance. At least half the city burning. The smoke was everywhere, with a hot red core.
Dear God, he thought, and looked up.
Above, pale, wispy clouds covered the sky like ribbons.
The clouds, he thought. Those are the clouds. He recoiled in horror. Then the noise began. He heard it in his ear, in the space behind his eyes; he heard it on the planes of his face, and in his mouth. Singing. A great noise of singing, like a chorus. The sound swelled. It hurt. The pain grew. He fell to his knees. All along the avenues cars were still, smashed into one another, smashed into walls, smashed into houses. Fires grew, consuming buildings, houses. People fled, screaming, lost to the sound of their own voices.
On the lawn James lay, and the pressure of the sound of singing grew in his head. It grew and grew, and he thought then that he might die. But then it stopped, and everything was silent.
— James, James! Wake up!
James opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed built into the wall of a long, airy room with broad windows. They were thrown open and a light breeze was blowing.
A girl was standing there, beautiful, with short black hair and bright eyes. She was dressed as if to travel, in a wool skirt with knee socks, a short fleece coat, and a scarf. A cat was under her arm. It too was looking at him.
— James! she said. Everyone's waiting for us. It's time to go.
She came over to the bed and leaned over him. Her face was very close.
— Come on, you! Come on. The light is changing. Father says we have only minutes before it begins.
Nov 2005
the end
appendix a Note on the Naming of Characters
In Scotland, in a town called Rosewell, there is a small cemetery. I lived for a month nearby.
I would go sometimes to the cemetery in Rosewell, and for this novel, as a tribute to the land on which I wrote this book, and to the people there, I have named many of my characters out of the cemetery.
Most of the names I chose were men who died in mining accidents, though some died in the Great War, others in their sleep.
Nothing in the book has anything to do with the lives these men and women led. I felt a gratefulness to the place, to Hawthornden, Rosslyn, the River Esk, and to this Rosewell graveyard, and it seemed the right thing to do to fill my book with the vague shapes of their letters.
Here is a list of the names I found there.
James Carlyle
John Sutherland
Cpl. Arch Renwick, died in France, age twenty-one, 1918
James Sim
Pat Jordan, died at Kelty, 16 April 1929
Grieve Cochrane
Will Watson, killed at Whitehill Colliery, 10 June 1929
Andrew Morris, Whitehill Colliery, 1934, age twenty-four
Samuel Mathieson, Whitehill Colliery, 1940
Charles Higinson, Whitehill Colliery, 1935, age twenty-one
Leonora Loft
James Leslie
Lily Violet
Martin Stark, died at Hawthornden, “There is no death”
Robert Wallace Wight, killed at Bilston Glen Colliery, 1965
Spiers Jones
John Clechorn, age twenty-one, “who fell asleep at Midfield Cottages” 12 October 1908
Thomas McHale, pit accident, 1935
Thomas McHale, accident, 1933, age twenty-one
David Graham, Whitehill Colliery, 1937, age thirty-three
James Abernathy Stewart, Whitehill Colliery, 1932, age forty-seven
Margret Grieve Cochrane, “Asleep”
A NOTE on Sources
One source employed that Stark reads, on the sixth day, is from The Sorrows of Young Werther, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I have used the excellent translation of Michael Hulse (Penguin Classics, 1989).
Acknowledgments
Thanks be to:
B. Kingsland
J. Jackson
G. Costello
E. Schreiber
C. Despont
Kuhn Projects
Purple Fashion
Hawthornden Castle