Chapter 358
Snow on the beat. The fire in the window. Vigolas against the log wall, Kompis beside him, Mingus between them. Nagel crouched in front, iron creaking, his hand an inch from Vigolas's forehead.
looking at Kompis.
standing. Becoming, mid-motion, a nail: the gaunt iron length narrowing, hardening, a square spike, rust flaking, the flat dented head.
The nail driving itself into Vigolas's forehead. Not through bone, not through skin: through the place where a memory goes, a faint gold ring of light opening on his brow like a knot-hole in wood.
Inside Vigolas, the corridor of his chest, the long bare wall with empty hooks. And pouring down it, from where an iron nail has been driven into the ceiling, not one picture: a billion. A torrent of small warm moments, every one of them the same: the cabin at night, the fire, the snow at the window, a golden dog on the rug, and a boy (eight, ten, twenty, older) sitting by the hearth with his hand in the dog's fur, saying something, quietly, to the dog, to the fire, to nobody.
A billion times. Every beat. Drawn like snow, like a blizzard of gold leaves filling the corridor, hanging themselves on every empty hook, and more, and more, until the wall is covered and the floor and the ceiling.
And in every picture, this time, the balloon is full.
THE BOY, A BILLION TIMES (drawn small, layered, like a chorus): …Kompis. · I'm Kompis. · I'm Kompis, boy. · My name's Kompis.
outside, his head thrown back against the cabin wall, eyes wide, the gold ring on his forehead blazing, tears pouring.
in his forehead, rust running from its head like a nosebleed. And inside the iron, faint, the same pictures passing through it: Nagel feeling every one go by on its way.
his head coming down. His eyes finding the boy beside him. Slowly. And his mouth opening, and the word coming, out of him, this time, not off him.
hearing it. His whole face breaking open.
(No balloon.)
saying it again, louder, testing it, the way you test a tooth.
pulling itself out of his forehead, unfolding back into a gaunt iron man crouched on the porch, the gold ring on Vigolas's brow fading to a faint mark like a knot in wood.
Vigolas grabbing Kompis by both shoulders and hauling him into a hug that knocks the dog off both their laps, the two of them falling sideways on the porch boards in a heap, Mingus climbing on top.
The crew watching: Emma on the line with her hand over her mouth, Isa a beat late with a small surprised smile, Smurjan's shadow curling round the steps like a cat, Rougeina pretending to look at the snow.
sitting up in the heap, wiping his face, the faint knot-mark on his forehead.
red to the ears.
getting up out of the heap, turning, looking at Nagel. The gaunt iron man crouched at the end of the porch, cracked down the chest, rust streaking him, snow on his flat head, the firelight in his eyes.
walking to him. Looking up at the empty hole in the lintel above the cabin door. Then at Nagel.
very quietly, looking him in the rivet-eyes.
And Nagel creaking. Not a word. A long, long, rusted, aching sound, like an old door opening for the first time in a century.
The gaunt iron man on the porch in the snow, his seam of a mouth open, creaking, his whole body shaking with it, rust falling off him like leaves, the firelight in his eyes so bright it spills, and the creak drawn across the whole page as one long unbroken line, a sound with a billion beats of standing in the cold behind it.
(Nobody interrupts him.)
the creak finally running out. His head bowed. Snow on it.
padding up and sniffing Nagel's knee. Then leaning his whole golden weight against the iron leg.
Kompis opening the cabin's door. The warmth pouring out: firelight, woodsmoke, the smell of pine. The room inside: a hearth, a rug, a kettle, a blanket. Real. For the first time, awake.
turning in the doorway, holding the door wide.
at the bottom of the steps. Looking at the open door. At the fire inside, the one he has watched through the window a billion times. Not moving.
in the doorway.
looking down at the porch boards, at the blackened ring spreading under his iron feet even now.
looking up at the fire through the open door. The firelight in his rivet-eyes. Content.
The cabin door open, firelight spilling out across the snow. Inside, the crew coming in one after another, stamping snow off their boots, Emma last, coiling up her rope. Outside, at the bottom of the steps, a gaunt iron man standing in the snow beside the door, his back to the wall, facing out at the field of finished statues. Guarding.
by the door, snow settling on his flat head, the fire's light on one side of him, the cold on the other. Mingus, inside on the rug, getting up again, padding back to the door, and sniffing at the gap, at the iron man outside.
(The dog sniffs. …Again.)