The Descent Into Darkness
Written for Waen.
October thirty-first was the last day he remembered before the descent into the darkness.
It must have been the thirty-first. He had sat crouched in his tiny little house, dressed in his tattered clothes, and realised that it was Allhallow Even, and remembered that when he was little he used to go with all the other children and beg at doors, used to dress like a demon with animal skins his father let him have for the day and disregarded for one day how valuable they were, used to sing and escort the spirits out of town. He had remembered that he couldn't do that now. There was no way to get rid of the spirits, though sometimes he swatted at the darkness to be rid of them. They didn't go. Ayrton remembered that once there were other people--how strange that seemed! Other people didn't exist now, not here, not now. He had been alone so long... He remembered that once there were other people, but there weren't any longer, and without companions and lights, the spirits didn't go. How he hated them!
That was the last thing he remembered, but before that, before the darkness, he had thought of other things. He thought of Captain Grant, of Bob Harvey, of the men who were convicts as he was, and of his father, his mother, the children in town who went out on Allhallow Even. Sometimes he threw himself against the walls of his house and sometimes he screamed or made tiny whimpering sounds or spoke in a horrible broken voice. He was a horrible, broken person. He was never sure, before the darkness, whether the man he hated most was Captain Grant or Robert (he was the only person in creation who could call Bob Harvey Robert) or his father or himself.
He thought of his father, his father Michael Kennedy, who had been such a kind man, such a good man, such a man of revolting perfection where his family and his business were concerned. Mr. Kennedy was a fine father for his son, as well as a loving husband; he was everyone's friend and ever helpful; fond of hunting because he sold the skins and a fine fisherman who gave away what he caught to the fish women on market day. Ayrton hated his father; hated him in the dark, and hated him before Allhallow Even, and hated him even now. He might repent of anything in the world, be the most penitent sufferer there ever was, but he could not stop hating his father.
And then he had let out a low sound of misery, and thought of Captain Grant. He only hated Captain Grant for having been responsible for his imprisonment there. He had lived on the tiny little island in his tiny little house and belonged in darkness, where he thought wildly of nothings and was alone, striking out blindly at the spirits that surrounded him, and it was all because of Captain Grant, who had not even done anything. That was all the reason he had for hating Captain Grant; but he had still hated him, with so much power and anger that he was sometimes dizzy.
He would tear at his hair once in a while. There'd been a time when he'd never understood that--how in hell did you tear your hair? It seemed stupid, a sort of dramatic action that you heard about only in very old things that you didn't believe. But now he knew. He would scrabble at his hair with his aching hands, until they caught in a tangle and he tore hard to get them free; or he raked his fingers through it viciously and long pieces came out. That was when he would think of Robert.
How he hated Robert!
Bob Harvey--what a horrid bloody name! He growled and buried his face in his hands and thought of Robert.
He met Robert years ago, when he was still named--what was he named back then? Ayrton couldn't recall--at any rate, when he took the train to get to the coast so he could get on a ship. Trains were still new then, and not meant to take passengers, so he'd first walked to the nearest big town and then hidden himself in one of the cars of a lumber freight bound for Dublin, with the memory of kissing his mother good-bye and tipping his beaten old hat to his father with a smile (he'd not yet hated his father then...) still fresh in his mind. There, he'd stumbled across a fellow in a captain's uniform, asleep in the corner of the very car he was riding in, and as he'd woken the fellow up by falling over him, he apologised shyly and said hello.
"Hello, man. Won't you tell me your name now that you've woken me up?" the fellow'd said, grinning with an air that made the young Ayrton fall madly into worship of him. Robert was always almost charming, back then and years later.
"It's--er--" --Well, at any rate, he'd said his name back then. Something Kennedy.
"Well, Mr. Kennedy," said the fellow, "I'm Robert Harvey. What, pray tell, are you doing in my boxcar?"
"Going to Dublin, sir, to go to sea."
"Are you, now? Well, Mr. Kennedy, it so happens that I have a merchant ship in Dublin which I am returning to. Would you like to be a middy?"
"A what?" asked Ayrton, wide-eyed. He was already twenty-three at that time, but a silly, stupid country fellow who'd never left his town. Robert frightened him and filled him with awe and admiration at the same time.
"A midshipman. It's entirely possible, though you're a bit too old for it. Still, stranger things have happened. Would you like that?"
"Yes, sir! Certainly! Thank you!"
"Oh, I wouldn't thank me. I've not agreed to anything yet."
"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry--"
"No, no! For God's sake, don't be that!" Robert rolled his eyes. "Very well, Mr. Kennedy, a midshipman you are. I hope you get your sea legs quickly."
"My what?"
He had been too stupid back then to realise that Robert was doing something terribly unlikely. A captain didn't just invite a man who'd never been on a ship before in his life or even hardly heard of one to become a member of his crew. But Robert didn't do things the usual way, damn him, and he must've been amused by the idea. Ayrton was certainly amusing to begin with. He stumbled around the little ship, was ill over the side often, garnered absolutely no respect from the seven hands, and spent a lot of evenings hiding in his cabin (because it was only him and another boy named Thomas aboard to help, Robert gave them both their own cabins).
After five years, he changed. He became able to know his way about, to command, to be trusted to do important or difficult things. He became useful to Robert, and stayed on the ship for years.
And he loved Robert. Robert was an astounding man; he was brilliant like nothing else, clever and funny, but sometimes given to fits of melancholy where he locked himself in his cabin and Ayrton would have given anything to bring him out, bring him back; and Robert knew everything about everything and ran his ship firmly and steadily, so that he was respected and a little feared, but with a strange sort of kindness to his men, too, so that they would never have thought of leaving him.
Thus, after five years, Ayrton was privileged when Robert decided to love him back. There were times, once in a while, that it made him shiver and want to hide--but Ayrton loved him, and it was an honour to be the man who Robert chose. He was told secret things about the ship's plans that no one else knew; was taught how to manage things and take charge of a ship, and subsequently named second in command; was taught his letters and learnt how to read and write through Robert's careful instruction. That was how he found out that Robert hated imperfection; through the learning. He was shouted at if he got something wrong, really shouted at, but kissed gently when he finally made a perfect 'A'. And it was all honour, all kindness on Robert's part to teach him and show him and love him... Between the time he first laced up his boots in the morning, and the time he unlaced them at night before he slept, almost everything he thought about came around to Robert, and how wonderful Robert was.
Then, ten years after Ayrton first met him, five years after Ayrton was first loved by him, three years after he learnt at last all his letters and could read a book without help, eight days after they were informed that their employer (the man who sent them out across the world to bring back supplies for his factories and artifacts for his house and museum) had died of the cancer, Robert announced to Ayrton, Thomas, and the seven hands that they were now becoming 'mercenaries'.
"We'll get higher wages this way, my good men, and won't have to worry about being unemployed," he'd said, smiling widely with that horrible charm. "Now, go see what materials you can donate to our cause. We'll be needing a new flag now." He went back to his cabin and wouldn't come out for the next three days, no matter how Ayrton argued and pleaded with him through the door.
So they were pirates, though Robert never used that word. They attacked other ships, gathered more men, stole gold and tea and jewellery and rice with equal amusement and spilling of blood. Ayrton tried to forget that part now. He became Ben Joyce during that time, and abandoned his old name--what was it? He almost remembered--it was--well, never mind--he became Ben Joyce and plundered ships with Robert, became a demon, often kissed him with blood on his lips.
That was for--for another five years, he remembered. Then they were caught, convicted, sent to Australia. Separated. He did not see Robert again for a long time, and slowly began to see things differently. All the years he spent in Australia, he slowly lost his love of Robert and began to hate him instead. He had been tricked--that poor, stupid, simple boy he'd been a long time ago had been tricked, ruined, corrupted, and all because of Robert. He repented of nothing then, but he hated Robert for what had been done to him. He swore a thousand times that he'd never be so foolish again. He would never dare to be in love with anyone; he would never trust anyone; he would be his own, now that he had been taught to survive on the sea. He would have his own ship, and Robert could go to hell. If he ever got free... It was all feverish dreams.
At last there was the time of Captain Grant, and brief freedom when for a few moments, he dared to think he might truly do the things he'd sworn he would--and then it was all over; he was found out; he was caught; and he was left on this tiny island in his little tiny house alone.
He hated himself. That was why he hated himself. He began to realise, when he was alone, that it was all his own fault. It was not due to his father, or to Captain Grant, or to Robert. It was due to him. They were his own damned choices. His fault... and he dragged himself to the side of his house, curled up in a ball, wept like a child, fell asleep for vague hours... woke again and knew himself to be a horrible creature. He hated himself. He began to realise that it was not so difficult a question after all, the question of who he hated most. Himself. Ayrton or Ben Joyce or whatever he called himself. He was evil. He was the demon who had pursued himself. When he struck out at the spirits on Allhallow Even, they were really him, or him ten or five or fifteen years ago, little memories laughing at him.
And then on October thirty-first, he descended into the darkness, and remembered nothing. Those creeping thoughts of shame or horror disappeared in the darkness. He had only wild unclear memories of things that had happened, and of those he hated, for several months, and then they went too. There was only the dark, overwhelming and huge. Only the dark...
Suddenly, the dark was lifted. He didn't know how long it had been. He didn't know what had happened. He was standing on soft grass, looking out to the wide, tossing sea, and there were trees around him. How long had it been since he'd seen a tree? And there were men all around him, with kind faces or suspicious faces, watching him, waiting for something... He felt fresh air, and it was beautiful.
He heard one of them say, "Now you are a man again!" and he realised he was weeping.
He had left the darkness.
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