‘Do you have any idea how much I want to hear from him?’ I walk away from her and then back again, leaning close to her face. ‘Tell me.’
‘Nathan, there are many White Witches who see visions of the future. If Marcus has seen this vision, you can be sure that the Council will know of it too. Marcus wants you to understand him but also understand the Council.’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘There are two weapons that together will kill your father. Both are protected by the Council, until they are ready to be used.’
‘What are they?’
‘The first is the Fairborn.’
‘And?’
‘The other weapon is –’
But then I don’t want to hear it. I know what she is going to say and there is a sound in my head like thunder and animal growling and I want it to stay, grow louder, because this message is not the message I have been waiting for. It has to be wrong. Mary is saying it but maybe I haven’t heard it right with this noise in my skull. And if the noise carries on I won’t have –
‘Nathan! Are you listening?’
I shake my head. ‘I won’t kill him.’
‘That is why you must leave. If you stay any longer with White Witches, the Council will make you do it. You are the second weapon.’
the sixth notification
It’s just one possible future.
That’s the mantra I repeat to myself. There are millions, billions, of possible futures.
And I won’t kill him. I know that. He’s my father.
I won’t kill him.
And I want to see him. I want to tell him. But he believes the vision. He won’t want to see me. Ever.
And if I try to see him he’ll think I want to kill him. He’ll kill me.
Mary has given me the address of Bob, her friend who will help me find Mercury. She says that I should leave immediately and I tell her that I will, though I’m just saying words. I don’t know what I will do.
I head home.
I want to talk to Gran. I need to ask her about Marcus. She has to tell me something. And Arran’s Giving is now only a day away. I want to be with him for that and then I’ll leave.
I arrive in the evening. It’s still light. Gran is in the kitchen making a cake for after the Giving ceremony. She doesn’t ask about Mary’s party.
I don’t say ‘hello’ or ‘missed you’ or ‘how’s the cake coming on?’. I say, ‘How many times have you met Marcus?’
She stops what she’s doing and glances at the kitchen door saying, ‘Jessica’s come home for Arran’s Giving.’
I move close to Gran and say quietly, ‘He’s my father. I want to know about him.’
Gran shakes her head. She tries to persuade me that she’ll tell me tomorrow but I threaten to shout for Jessica to come and hear the story too. Even though Gran must know I’d never do that, she slumps down in the chair and, in a voice that’s only a murmur, she tells me all she knows about Marcus and my mother.
In our bedroom I open the window. It’s dark now and a thin sliver of moon is rising. Arran gets out of bed and hugs me. I hug him back for a long time. Then we sit on the floor by the window.
Arran asks, ‘How was the birthday party?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Can you tell me anything?’
‘You tell me about tomorrow. How are you feeling?’
‘Fine. A bit nervous. I hope I don’t mess it up.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Jessica’s come back for the ceremony.’
‘Gran told me.’
‘Will you come?’
I can’t even shake my head.
He says, ‘It’s OK.’
‘I wanted to.’
‘I’d rather you were here, now. This is better.’
Arran and I talk for a bit, reminiscing about the films that we watched together, and eventually talking more about his Giving. I say I think his Gift will be healing, like our mother’s. She had a strong Gift and she was exceptionally kind and gentle; Gran has told me that. I think Arran will be like her. He thinks it will be a weak Gift, whatever it is, but he doesn’t mind, and I know he’s being honest.
Much later he goes to bed and I draw a picture for him. It’s of him and me playing in the woods.
I sit on the floor through most of the night, my head by the open window, watching Arran sleep. I know that I can’t stay for the Giving, not if Jessica will be there. And I can’t tell Arran where I’m going. I can’t even tell him goodbye.
I’m still trying to make sense of my mother and father’s relationship, and why Gran hid it from me, but in the end it’s easier not to think about it at all.
It’s still dark when I leave. Arran is sprawled across his bed, one foot over the side. I kiss my fingertips and touch them to his forehead, put the picture on his pillow and scoop up my rucksack.
In the hall I switch on the table lamp and pick up the photo of my mother. She looks different to me now. Perhaps her husband loved her – he looks happy enough – but she looks sad, trying to smile but squinting instead.