Chapter 19

Pen and Sword

Max sat in his favourite high-backed chair. His mother sat in the chair next to him, her hand on his arm. His belly was full of the dinner she had cooked. His father, the professor, sat across the room, but behind his paper. Max sipped at his glass of his father's port. The click that the drive shaft made as it wound its way through the walls, from the domestic engine to the dish washer, sounded off beat to the tick of the grandfather clock. But Max was content, enough.

He had discovered, despite his turmoil, that a tiny part of him was actually still alive and looking forward to the Archaeology trip to Paturau. Maybe it was all he felt he had left or was at least the first thing he found amongst the ashes of his hopes for Harriet. Certainly, it was finally something real in his chosen field.

He had also decided, somewhat bloody-mindedly, that the Gothic Masquerade, whatever it may actually be, could well serve as an interesting distraction. It did, of course, cross dangerously near the territory of romance, but in its favour the invitation contained neither of the standard lines 'RSVP by....' or '….and partner.' Naturally the latter was standard practice for Masquerade, and thus the pressure to manufacture a date was relieved.

Max's mother had agreed, as soon as he had finished asking, to teach him to dance or to at least help him improve the rudimentary steps that he already had. They were at the tail end of that conversation now, where she had asked him if there was a particular lady? When the dance was? What dances would be involved? And when could they start?

He had told her that they could start right away, this very weekend, and that there was no particular lady.

When a polite amount of time had lapsed Max excused himself, strolled outside into the warm evening air and proceeded down the road for Dickie's. It was only then that he realised that neither of his parents had asked him where he had been two nights previous and why his bed had not been slept in? He had completely forgotten that this should have been an issue, wrapped up as he was in greater griefs.

Why had they not bailed him up about it?

Max saw the professor's hand in this, for surely his dear mother would have been most concerned when she had discovered his absence that morning. He could only guess that they had somehow calmed their anxieties and reasoned that he was growing up and should be thus given his space.

Definitely Father's involvement.

Max gave a chuckle. The request for dancing lessons, although unconnected to his night's unexplained truancy, must have gone a long way to restoring his mother's heart.

* * *

On the way up the path Max emptied the Pearce's letterbox, depositing the contents on the doorstep of the house for Dickie's father to find. The double doors at the front of Dickie's shed were ajar and the light of a lamp showed within.

“Evening,” he called wandering into the cramped workshop.

“Evening Max. Coffee?”

“No thanks. I won't stay long. Where are you?”

“Here!” announced Dickie, sliding out of the large round cylinder that lay on the ground, so that his shaggy head appeared almost between Max's boots, causing his visitor to jump with fright. “Sorry. I wasn't expecting company.”

“Were you asleep in there?”

“Not at all. I'll sleep when I'm dead,” he said, completing the outward slide and standing to brush the dust off his overalls. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this night's visit?”

“To the fact that you are a scholar and a gentlemen. And this...” he answered producing his invitation to the The Gothic Bal Masqué for Dickie to read.

“Oh yes. It is that time again. And you have been invited. Very nice,” reflected the inventor, handing the black card back.

“So, what is it?” asked Max.

Dickie clicked his tongue.

“But of course. You didn't know who Rowan was. So, it stands to reason that the Bal Masqué will also be a mystery. But it is simply what it says it is, a Masquerade Ball.”

“But it says it is a Gothic Masquerade. I'm not a goth. Nor are Wiremu or Wang. Why have we been invited?”

“That is the real question,” remarked Dickie with a shrug. “But don't be mistaken the Bal Masqué, while hosted by the Department of Gothic Architecture, is not exclusively for goths.”

“Go on. Who is it for?”

“For those who... who they find interesting.”

“Yeah right. It is clearly a mistake. I'm only a first year.”

“That I doubt. A mystery but not a mistake. This is the goths we are talking about. Wiremu, the first Māori student at Victoria, that is interesting. Wang, the first Chinese student, also interesting. You... well... maybe they felt they should collect the whole set. You know, not break the three of you up.”

“Thank you friend,” said Max sarcastically.

“But there is that story you tell about a fight you were in, where some goths showed up at the end. Maybe you have caught their eye.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Who knows. In the least you have been invited to the grandest ball of the year.”

“I noticed there was no RSVP,” said Max, stifling a yawn.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Of course not! It's unnecessary. No one would consider not going!”

Max moved to the door, signalling his imminent departure.

“Do you think you will go?”

“Ha! I doubt I will be getting an invitation!”

“Good night Dickie,” said Max, producing the black envelope that he had found in the letterbox and placing it on the bench, before slipping out the door.

* * *

The following day Max sparred again with Julian Roil. They worked exclusively with the rapier. New replacement broomsticks had appeared and were safe within their wooden heads. They talked little, content to test one another. The goth was obviously a master swordsman, although he seldom chose to exploit this, preferring instead to probe and draw out Max's skills by pressing him to his limit. At the end of the time Max thanked him and although no future date was set, Max knew they would duel again.

Apart from the sword work the day at university and indeed the entire weekend after it passed without event. In the day time Max stayed around the house, helping in the aviaries, and catching up on his studies, while in the evening he let his mother teach and reteach him various basic dance steps, a task she took to with zeal and military-like precision. For there is much formality and etiquette to be attended to when one is set upon dancing and dancing well.

Max did however notice anew the rumble of trains passing through the night and on up the valley to the Salisbury Slate Quarry. And he could not help himself but to think of Harriet.

* * *

The week after Max started practising with Julian Roil, Captain Von Tempsky gave his last white silk square to Gilbert Lavisham. Max was surprised how much this mattered to him. He really had believed that it was for him, that the Captain would include him in his inner circle.

But Von Tempsky had paid him little attention since their initial talk after the first class, and Max had no idea what 'talks' he might have had with those other four; Kingi, Ginger, Ihaka and Gilbert. However, it was a little puzzling that the captain, as far as Max could tell, had never seen either Kingi or Ginger spar.

Gilbert, who at Von Tempsky's command, had closed off the class by completing a couple of instruction rounds with another of Max's fellow black suits, was clearly an excellent swordsman. Equal, as far as Max could tell, with Roil. Although what actually set one fencer above another was still fairly dim to Max. After this latest display Max was again surprised at how well he himself had fared against Lavisham that first day. Beginner’s luck, as someone had said at the time.

The dispensing of the four silk squares from the captain's kerchief made no sense to Max, but what he did understand were his feelings of intense jealousy. Although he squirmed and tried to see it another way, that was what it boiled down to, old fashioned jealousy. That kind of hot envy for another's good fortune that his old Sunday school teacher would have warned against. He had lurched away from the end of the class, sick with himself and his weaknesses, burning with anger at Lavisham and Von Tempsky and hollow with grief anew for Harriet.

She had not been present for the class. At first this had not surprised Max. In fact, he was glad of it, for she was gone completely from his life, and he needed it to stay that way. He was doing his bit to keep it that way. But still he didn't like it, he wasn't glad she had turned out this way. Sometimes, when he was weak, he preferred his dead fantasy over reality. And he was weak that Wednesday. After all, 'the dream of Harriet' had shaped his path for so long now.

No one else could see it, for Max protected himself well. But he was floundering, casting about for a firm hold. He had grabbed on to the fencing, and that was maybe why Von Tempsky's silk squares hurt so much.

That evening, alone in his room, Max studied the rubbing of Harriet's coin. He had kept it, for although ultimately frustrating, the short saga had been his first real archaeology. At once his mind went back to when Harriet had given the image to him, only two short weeks ago. He recalled how light she had been, how easy she was to be with and how right he felt in her company. Then the room and the memories seemed to close in on him. He sat on the edge of his bed for a long dark moment, head bowed and in hands, hair falling forward to make his face a hidden shrine to his grief and hurt, now so quickly returned.

Finally he stood, crossed to his desk, turned the lamp there to full and took his seat. After gathering an ink pen and paper he wrote;

Dearest Harriet

I find myself asking what is real? In what can I hope?

The reality I hope for, indeed that I pray for, when I so often think of you, is a return to the moment we shared together on the front of that Consolidation locomotive. Your eyes so wide, you so free and alive with the wonder of the night, of steam, wind, iron and the journey. I believed then that I saw the real you. And my heart did swell so at that seeing.

But was I mistaken? Was it truly you who I beheld?

For she who I saw, I loved.

If no, then I am a fool, your fool, who imagined. Who imagined his greatest happiness.

All evidence does now point me out as that piteous fool. Maybe even more so for yet again opening my heart to you with these very words. Forgive me.

But even now I dream that my understanding of what I currently see is somehow not reality. And that we have a hope.

Max

As the ink dried he killed the lamp and laid himself down on his bed. In the morning he would reread the letter and if it still passed as sane, seal it in an envelope and address it to Miss Leith at Leith Engineering Ltd, Collingwood.