White Eyes (part ten)

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Chapter Five: Seventeen Years Later

The old tree by Charicadd Town Junction had been dead for two years. For a while, Argo had attempted to revive it. Every day he would go there: he would trundle along a cart of manure and lay it at its roots; he would make the long trek to the old well and back to bring it water. But no matter what he tried, the tree remained grey, stiff and lifeless.

It had been that way since the day Morgan died. The night before, it had been green and flourishing, waving its thick foliage in the breeze. In the morning … all that was gone. It no longer seemed to laugh at Argo as he went past; no longer did it turn its leafy green arms to the morning sun. Argo had watched its demise in despair; in the absence of his wife, it had almost seemed the only thing worth living for. And now it was dead.

Argo still felt the loss of Morgan as a deep wound; the cold knife of Death had pierced him to the heart. He could not picture her face, or imagine her laugh, without aching terribly inside. There were times when he felt physically ill.

Argo had kept away from the town ever since that day. He had not shown his face in the square in broad daylight for two years – and when he did visit, he visited in the evening, when the stalls and shops were just starting to close, and kept his face hidden. He had not even visited his old friend, the baker. In fact, he was quite sure that not a soul in the town knew of the tragedy – not even of his child.

It was on one particular evening, in midsummer, after leaving home to buy the week’s supply of food, that Argo ran straight into the one person he had not expected to meet – Mr. Oldman, the baker. He certainly did look old, thought Argo, as the man picked himself up from the ground and began muttering profuse apologies.

Argo gave him a small smile and bent to pick up a parcel the baker had dropped. His hood slipped slightly as he straightened up.

Mr. Oldman took the object gratefully.

“Oh, thank you, sir … most kind …” It was at that point he looked up – straight into Argo’s eyes. He did not even notice when he dropped the parcel again.

“Dear Lord,” he muttered. “Oh, dear Lord …” After searching Argo’s face for a moment, he spoke again. “Argo?”

Argo stopped trying to conceal his face, hesitated, and then nodded.

“Yes – it is me.”

The old baker seemed lost for words.

“Dear Lord,” he said again. Then, “Argo … it really is – two years, Argo! Where were you? We thought you were – both of you –”

Argo managed a small smile.

“We – I – have been living in a house on Old Dirt Road – a short way down from Morgan’s old house.” His throat constricted painfully as he said the name.

Mr. Oldman looked about ready to hug Agro. Restraining himself with an effort, his face broke into an ear-to-ear beam.

“Why,” he said, “this is wonderful! The whole town must know! Argo, you have no idea how worried we all were –”

Argo stopped him in mid-sentence.

“I have no time to stop by for greetings, Master –’’

Mr. Oldman’s smile faltered, and then broke out again.

“Master! Yes, you were my assistant once, weren’t you? A fine mess you made of the job sometimes, too …” He grinned at some distant memory.

“Oh, yes! By the by, how is old Morgan getting along nowadays? Still climbing trees and jumping off roofs and whatnot, no doubt?” He chuckled.

Argo felt the line of his lips tighten.

“Morgan is dead,” he said shortly.

The smile on the old man’s face froze. As the full impact of what his former servant had said struck him, his eyes widened in horror.

“Morgan – dear little Morgan – surely not …”

“It’s true, Master. She – she died shortly after giving birth.”

Mr. Oldman’s eyes did not leave Argo’s face. His lip trembled involuntarily; his face blanched.

“Morgan … dear little Morgan,” he stammered again. “How – how awful …I would never have guessed it … oh, Argo, my boy, I’m so sorry …”

“It is not your fault,” choked Argo. “The time for mourning – is over. She died – two years ago.”

The baker shook his head slowly.

“Oh, dear Lord,” he breathed, yet again. He suddenly looked up, and fear was in his eyes. “But the child,” he stuttered, “surely the child lives?” He looked terrified to learn the answer.

“The child – the child is – alive,” faltered Argo, but Mr. Oldman had caught the hesitance in his voice, and studied his face carefully before speaking again.

“Argo,” he said hesitantly, “Argo, this must be devastating for you … I – I don’t know what to say …”

“You needn’t say anything,” said Argo shortly.

“Oh, come now, my boy … I want to help you. Come and stay with me, lad, or at least stay for supper – ’’

“No,” said Argo, so abruptly he knew he had sounded rude. “I am sorry, Master. I have things to do.”

“Argo – ’’

“There is nothing more to say.”

Mr Oldman looked most aggrieved.

“Well, then,” he said after a while, in a strained manner, “I suppose – we should say goodbye for the present?”

Argo nodded tensely and held out a spidery hand. The baker looked at it tremulously for a moment, and then pulled Argo into a tight embrace. He let go very quickly, but Argo acknowledged the action with a small smile.

Mr. Oldman watched Argo’s face intently.

“I had – I had best be off,” he said, and turned to walk away, but after a few paces, stopped and looked back. “And Argo,” he added, “I truly am – sorry.” He turned again and strode away, somewhat less briskly than before.

Argo arrived home very late that night. As he entered the little shack, a thin cry reached his ears. Laying his sack quietly upon the low table, he made his way down the hallway.

As he entered the room, he spied the little bundle of material lying motionless atop the little straw bed. Argo approached it and lifted it gently in his arms.

“Carla,” he murmured softly.

As his face hovered above the bundle, a tiny hand reached out, touching his long nose with soft fingers. Argo held his slender hand above the bundle. The tiny fingers roved around aimlessly for a moment, and then grasped his bony index finger tightly.

Argo freed his hand gently and pulled the blankets away from the child’s face, gazing sadly down at it.

Through the gloom, two milky-white eyes stared back at him.