The sea was shimmering in the sunlight. Luke and Virgil were coming back from a night out fishing, when Ashley opened his window.
“Hi there, did you catch anything?”
“Just a few mackerels and herrings, but there we are, better than nothing at all,” Luke said, smiling.
It was amazing to think of his balance in such situations. Not the same, however, could be said of Virgil. He just dropped the nets out of the boat and went off to his breakfast. Mary guessed his mood by glancing at his clenched fists and decided to let go. She would have liked to soothe and encourage him, but something held her back. Around the table nobody spoke, everybody was trying to look casual and relaxed to no effect. Virgil was fidgeting with his napkin, and they spent quite a few moments without saying a single word.
Finally, Rosemary came down the stairs, looking quite relaxed.
“Here we go again, we always must wait for her to get up…,” Virgil said.
“Please, son, be silent now, we don’t need any of that for today,” his father said with a frown, while Rosemary pretended not to have heard her brother’s provoking remark. She looked really glad this morning.
“Good morning, everybody,” she said with a smile, “I have very good news for you, Ashley.”
She paused and enjoyed his questioning look.
“The Count has invited you for tea.”
She handed him a grey card.
“You are expected this afternoon at five. I would have told you yesterday, but you disappeared. Where were you by the way?”
Ashley ignored her question and said:
“Thank you, I will be more than glad to see the Count.”
She was too excited by the prospect that he would be one of her co-workers to take notice, but Mary knew better and could see that something was bothering him. She remained silent.
After breakfast, Ashley went down to the beach. The sand was warm, and the water lapped his feet. What was the meaning of the crazy man’s words? He was crazy, therefore there was no meaning, but he had sounded so definite and defiant that Ashley resented him. Now the fear was gone, he felt irritation for his words. Who are you, lunatic, to tell ME what I am like? What is your business with me, then? How can certain people get away with anything? The water opened at his arms’ movements; he splashed all around. Then, while floating on his back, he burst into a boisterous laugh he could hardly stop. After all, he had something to tell his colleagues back in London. He swam quickly.
***
An elderly butler ushered him into the Count’s studio and left him waiting there. Books were everywhere, even above the door frame, and all looked ancient, as he had expected. Nonetheless, there hung a picture that caught his attention: a young brown-haired lady was riding a white Arabian horse, while holding out a wand with intertwined snakes. Her robes were flowing and quite conventionally depicted, but her face had nothing of the Victorian sweetness and dreaminess that you would expect in a feminine portrait of that time. She was almost in a frenzy, her eyes ablaze with what he deciphered as wrath, against a backdrop of dark and entangled woods.
“That was my great grandfather’s treasure. He had it made by an Italian painter. She represents unbridled passion and the loss of reason. The wand with the snakes is a sort of caduceus, but with reverse qualities, dispensing madness instead of healing.” The Count’s voice resounded behind Ashley.
Ashley turned towards him with an admiring expression on his face. The Count pointed him to a wood-carved chair and sat down himself.
“Now, Mr. Seymour, you know I have invited you to talk about the folklore project and your part in it.”
Ashley nodded.
“You need to take pictures of Manx folk-dance, especially the dance of the Sword Professor Davies was talking about. We must document not only traditional clothing, but also every single step.”
Ashley reached out for his folder:
“Here is my portfolio. It includes both portraits and landscapes.”
When the butler came in with the tea tray, Count Stanley said he would serve tea himself, and the elderly man withdrew discreetly. Everything looked exactly like it must have been centuries before. Ashley wondered at the preservation of that lifestyle and watched the Count’s confident hands pour the tea.
“So, it is agreed. You are now our official photographer,” the Count said. “I would be glad, if you accepted to stay overnight. There is plenty I must show you, Mr. Seymour."
“I am bound by your hospitality, I cannot say no,” Ashley said.
Count Stanley smiled.
Later, the Count’s photo gallery made Ashley stare in amazement: there were precious pictures of the end of the nineteenth century that by themselves bore witness to the technical evolution of photography. Besides, they depicted such crucial points in Manx history and customs that they must be a treasure for the Heritage Foundation. Now, Ashley’s task would be to document how these very customs had been preserved or modified in modern times. His work would be stored at the Foundation, rather than at the Count’s, because of its scientific importance.
As they sat in front of the crimson marble fireplace, enjoying a Cuban cigar, the Count said:
“Mr. Seymour, I can see you feel at home in your profession, you are self-confident that you can handle the job, and so am I. Yet there’s something incongruous about you. If I may venture to say what it is, I would opt for fear of your very self… as if you were running away from yourself...”
Ashley stiffened on the leather couch. How this sounded familiar to his ears. He remained silent for a few seconds, trying to decide whether he could be off guard with this man. He looked into his eyes and felt compelled to speak.
“Well, to be sure you have a point there. I have lost the woman I loved a year ago, and feel guilty about her death, although it was a car accident. She loved this island, so I have come back, but it’s kind of tearing me apart. I love it too, but I am brought in front of myself as if in front of a deforming mirror…”
The Count’s eyes darkened as he listened: he too had lost his wife, although many years before.
“I see where you are, I have been there too. My wife died of cancer ten years ago, and I used to feel I was a stranger to myself. Only the study of philosophy helped me to attain uncommon access to myself. I discovered what it means to be initiated into one’s very self. Our ancestors said the soul is on a spiralling journey on earth, and beyond. Many hear the call, but not all follow through. For those who pay attention, the quest starts, and they go through wildernesses far worse than the desert. You must be transformed and reborn, to be able to share your experience with others.”
Ashley was perplexed:
“I don’t know about this. I am not a mystic. I think that once you’re dead, you are buried and that’s it.”
The Count smiled:
“That’s what you believe, not what you know.”
The flame flickered in the hearth, they both fixed their gazes upon its tongues, as if they held comfort.
“You know,” Ashley added, feeling their strengthening bond, “yesterday something bizarre happened to me, when I was hill walking in the hinterland. I took shelter in a tholtan because of the tempest, when a strange man burst in and threatened to take my life.”
The Count, suddenly stirred, asked:
“What was his appearance? Was he a thief?”
“That’s what I thought myself at first, but he was not interested in my money. He had penetrating green eyes but looked bewildered.”
Ashley was suddenly aware that those eyes had been familiar to him, and now felt the same under the Count’s gaze.
“He tied me hands and feet and said he would behead me, but he put it off to next time! I thought he was raving, but then he said something…”
The Count stood up with a seraphic expression on his face and, leaning against the mantelpiece, said:
“My friend, maybe he was not at all a murderer, only a sign for you to wake up.”
Ashley was taken aback by this answer.
“How would he be a sign?”
The Count strode across the room and took an old book from one of the shelves. He gave it to Ashley.
“Do you know this medieval poem?”
Ashley had a look at the yellowish cover: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. No, he had no clue.
“Then you should read it, take it with you to your room tonight. It’s a modern translation.”
***
The high-ceilinged bedroom made Ashley feel uncomfortable. The room was rather bare, although the chestnut furniture was valuable and ancient. He put the book on the side table. The Count could behave in a mysterious way sometimes, but he liked him. It was past midnight when he started to read: he had been half-waking for an hour and decided that reading would be helpful; besides, it must contain something worthy of his attention, judging from the Count’s point of view. As the story played out in his imagination, he grew more absorbed, until he reached the point when the Green Knight put Sir Gawain to the test of his axe. He lay transfixed in his bed. He switched off the light. What the hell did it all mean? As he tried to minimize the coincidences, his eyelids grew heavy with slumber. A gloved hand reached out for him and those green eyes fixed him intensely. Your time has come, they seemed to say. The silver axe hung on his head: the man of the tholtan was ready to behead him for good…