The Prince Of Mist

8

Shortly before daybreak, Roland got on his bike and rode back towards the lighthouse cottage. As he travelled along the beach road, a pale amber glow began to tint the covering of low clouds. His mind raced with worry and his nerves were on edge. He pedalled as fast as he could in the vain hope that the physical exertion might dispel the hundreds of questions and fears colliding inside him.

Once he’d crossed the harbour and gone up the path to the lighthouse, Roland stopped to recover his breath. From the top of the cliff, the lighthouse beam sliced through the last shadows of the night like a blade of fire. He knew his grandfather would still be there, expectant, silent, and that he wouldn’t leave his post until the darkness had vanished completely. For years Roland had lived with the old man’s unhealthy obsession without querying the reason or the logic of his behaviour. It was simply something he’d accepted as a child, one more aspect of daily life he’d learned not to question.

As time went by, however, Roland had become aware that the old man’s story didn’t quite hold together. But never, until that day, had he wanted to admit to himself that his grandfather had lied to him or, at least, that he hadn’t told him the whole truth. He didn’t doubt his integrity for one minute. In fact, over the years his grandfather had gradually been disclosing the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, at the centre of which, Roland now realised, was the garden of statues. At times he did so through words spoken in dreams; more often through the half-formed replies to the questions Roland asked him, but somehow Roland felt that if his grandfather was keeping him from his secret, he had done so only to protect him. This state of grace, however, appeared to be coming to an end, and it was time to face the truth.

Roland set off again, trying to put these thoughts behind him. He’d been awake for too long and his body was beginning to feel the strain. When he reached the lighthouse cottage he left his bicycle leaning against the fence and went indoors without bothering to turn on the light. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed like a dead weight.

From his bedroom window he could see the lighthouse itself, some thirty metres beyond the cottage, and behind the large windows of its tower, the motionless silhouette of his grandfather. Roland closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

The events of that day paraded through his mind, from the dive down to the Orpheus to the accident of Alicia’s and Max’s younger sister. Roland thought it was both strange and somehow comforting to realise that just a few hours had brought them so close together. As he lay there in the solitude of his room, thinking about the brother and sister, he felt they had become his closest friends, two soul mates with whom, from that day on, he’d be able to share his secrets and fears.

He noticed that the very fact of thinking about them was enough to make him feel safe, as if he was not alone. In return, he felt deep loyalty and gratitude for the invisible pact that seemed to have bound them together that night on the beach.

When at last exhaustion won, Roland’s last thoughts as he fell into a deep, refreshing sleep were not about the mysterious uncertainty that hung over them, or the grim possibility that he would be called up to join the army that coming autumn. That night, Roland fell asleep in the arms of a vision that would stay with him for the rest of his life: Alicia, draped in moonlight, dipping her white skin into a sea of silver.

*

Day broke under a blanket of dark, menacing clouds that stretched beyond the horizon. Leaning on the metal railing of the lighthouse tower, Victor Kray gazed down at the bay, thinking about how he’d learned to recognise the mysterious beauty of those leaden, storm-clad days that foretold the advent of summer on the coast.

From his vantage point, the town looked like a scale model meticulously assembled by a collector. Further on, towards the north, the beach extended in an endless white line. On bright sunny days, standing in the same place, Victor Kray was able to distinguish the shape of the Orpheus under the water, like a monstrous fossil wedged in the sand.

That morning, however, the sea was like a deep, murky lake. As he scanned its surface, Victor Kray thought about the last twenty-five years he’d spent in the lighthouse that he himself had built. Looking back, he felt as if every one of those years was like a heavy stone, weighing him down.

As time passed, the anguish of his never-ending wait had led him to believe that perhaps it had all been a fantasy, that his obstinate obsession had turned him into a sentry guarding against a threat that was only imagined. But then the dreams had returned. The phantoms of the past had awoken from a sleep of many years, and were once again haunting the corridors of his mind. And with them came the fear that he was now too old and too weak to confront his ancient enemy.

For years now he had barely slept more than two or three hours a day. Most of the time he was alone in the lighthouse. His grandson Roland spent a few nights a week in his beach hut so it wasn’t unusual that, for days at a time, they might have only a few minutes together. This distance from his own grandson, to which Victor Kray had voluntarily condemned himself, did at least give him some comfort, for he was sure that the pain he felt at not being able to share those years of the boy’s life was the price he had to pay for Roland’s safety and future happiness.

Despite all this, every time he looked down from his tower and saw the boy dive into the waters near the hull of the Orpheus, his blood froze. He had never wanted Roland to know how he felt, and ever since Roland was a child he’d always replied to his questions about the ship and the past, trying not to lie to him but, at the same time, never explaining the true nature of events. The day before, as he watched Roland and his two new friends on the beach, he had wondered whether that hadn’t been a huge mistake.

Such thoughts kept him in the lighthouse longer than usual that morning. Normally, he returned home before eight, but when Victor Kray looked at his watch it was already half past ten. He went down the metal stairs that spiralled around the tower and walked over to the cottage to make the most of the few hours’ sleep he allowed himself. On the way he saw Roland’s bicycle and knew he’d come home for the night.

As he stepped quietly into the house, trying not to disturb his grandson, he discovered that Roland was waiting for him, sitting in one of the old armchairs in the dining room.

‘I couldn’t sleep, Granddad,’ said Roland. ‘I was out like a light for a couple of hours but then suddenly I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.’

‘I know what that feels like,’ Victor Kray replied. ‘But I have a trick that never fails.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Roland.

The old man gave him one of his mischievous smiles, which took sixty years off him.

‘I start cooking. Are you hungry?’

Roland considered the question. Yes, the thought of buttered toast, jam and fried eggs tickled his stomach, so immediately he agreed.

‘Right,’ said Victor Kray. ‘You’ll be first mate. Let’s get cracking.’

Roland followed his grandfather into the kitchen, ready for his instructions.

‘I’m the engineer,’ Victor Kray said, ‘so I’ll fry the eggs. You make the toast.’

In just a few minutes, grandfather and grandson managed to fill the kitchen with smoke and the irresistible aroma of freshly made breakfast. They sat opposite one another at the kitchen table and raised their glasses full of creamy milk.

‘Here’s to a breakfast for growing boys,’ joked Victor Kray, pretending to be starving as he attacked his first slice of toast.

Roland looked down. ‘I was in the ship yesterday,’ he mumbled.

‘I know,’ his grandfather replied, his mouth full. ‘Did you see anything new?’

Roland hesitated, then put his glass on the table and looked up at the old man, who was trying to maintain a cheerful expression.

‘I think something bad is happening, Granddad,’ he said at last. ‘Something to do with some statues…’

Victor Kray felt his stomach lurch. He stopped chewing and put down his half-eaten piece of toast.

‘This friend of mine, Max, he’s seen things,’ Roland continued.

‘Where does your friend live?’ asked the old man calmly.

‘In the Fleischmanns’ old house, by the north beach.’

Victor Kray nodded slowly.

‘Roland, tell me everything you and your friends have seen. Please.’

So Roland told him what had happened over the last two days, from the moment he had met Max to the events of the previous night.

When he’d finished his story he glanced at his grandfather, trying to guess his thoughts. The old man gave him a reassuring smile but remained impassive.

‘Finish your breakfast, Roland,’ he told him.

‘But…’ the boy protested.

‘When you’ve finished, go and find your friends and bring them here,’ the old man continued. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

*

That morning, at thirty-four minutes past eleven, Maximilian Carver phoned from the hospital to give his children the latest news. Irina was continuing to make progress, albeit slowly, but the doctors still couldn’t assure them that she was out of danger. Alicia noticed that her father’s voice seemed fairly calm so she guessed that the worst was over.

Five minutes later, the telephone rang again. This time it was Roland, calling from a cafe in town. They would meet at noon by the lighthouse. When Alicia put down the phone, she remembered the way Roland had looked at her, entranced, the night before on the beach. Smiling to herself, she went out to the porch to give Max the news. She recognised the outline of her brother, sitting on the beach, gazing out at the sea. Over the horizon, the first sparks of an electric storm crackled across the sky like a string of bright lights. Alicia walked down to the shore and sat next to Max. It was a cold morning and there was a bite in the air – she wished she’d brought a jumper with her.

‘Roland called,’ she said. ‘His grandfather wants to see us.’

Max didn’t reply, his eyes still fixed on the sea. A flash of lightning tore through the sky.

‘You like Roland, don’t you?’ Max asked, playing with a handful of sand, letting it trickle through his fingers.

Alicia considered her brother’s question.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And I think he likes me too. Why do you ask, Max?’

Max shrugged and threw the handful of sand towards the water’s edge.

‘I don’t know. I was thinking about what Roland said, about the war and all that. That he might be called up after the summer… It doesn’t matter. I suppose it’s none of my business.’

Alicia turned to her younger brother and tried to look him in the eye. He raised his eyebrows the same way Maximilian Carver did, and she saw the reflections in his grey eyes, the bundle of nerves buried just beneath the surface of his skin.

Alicia put her arm round Max and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Let’s go in,’ she said, shaking off the sand that had stuck to her dress. ‘It’s cold out here.’