Free Conscious Decisions of the Heart by John Wiltshire Page B

knees. He was almost sick at the overwhelming memory of another run, another smell of woodsmoke—and then a fire. Nate. He hadn’t thought about Nate for many months, but it was a year ago he’d died in Ben’s cottage. A year. Ben was thirty years old, but, at that moment, he felt defeated by age.
     
    Soon they had the first snowfall. Ben had spent the last few weeks chopping wood, a job he enjoyed, stacking the cords neatly under the eaves of the house. He had a fireplace in his room, and now evenings were spent reading Danish in front of the fire with Radulf and wine. It was safer this way. One evening, he’d foolishly accepted an invitation from Amy to her birthday party. It hadn’t gone well. Why could he not stay, indeed? She was single; he was single. She was offering. He was…desperate. He wondered later, when he’d made his pathetic apologies and left, whether if she’d been a man he’d have weakened or not. With men it was so much easier, both understanding the unspoken. Women, in his limited experience, didn’t. If he’d stayed and slept with her, she would expect more.
     
    The following day, in the library, he was very glad he’d been strong. She seemed relieved as well, and when Gabby wasn’t looking offered him a leftover slice of birthday cake. All his new girlfriends in the library seemed to think he wasn’t eating enough. He craved the attention and allowed their concern. He’d even let Gabby measure him up for a sweater she was knitting.
     
    § § §
     
    Toward the middle of November, while he was fixing shutters to the windows around the house, his phone buzzed. He yanked it out. Hello Ben
     
    His fingers were too cold to text, so his reply came out as where uck r u? He had to think for a while to remember the English.
     
    The reply came back very swiftly: not with u and that’s all I think about
     
    He groaned and sat down on the ice-covered chair. How is he? The inevitable question.
     
    He’s dead
     
    Ben sat back, hardly believing what he saw. He wasn’t sure what to text but decided to send I’m sorry. For you. Honestly
     
    Thank you. I kept promise. That all that important no?
     
    Keep one now and come home
     
    Soon. Have things must do first. Home 1st week December?
     
    December? No. Now!
     
    Maybe u have missed me?
     
    If u want 2 no how much have missed u come home.
     
    Irritating child. I c u soon.
     
    Ben tipped his head back and caught a stray snowflake on his cheek. It was time to go home. He couldn’t bear to tell Ingrid, so he didn’t. He continued to cut wood for the next few days so she’d have enough to last for a small apocalypse.
     
    On the third day after Nikolas’s message, he went back to the Mikkelsen summerhouse. He called in to see Hans, but he wasn’t there so he talked to his little daughter for a while about mermaids and then about Radulf. At a suitable moment, he asked her where the keys to the house were kept. He wanted to say good-bye—to what, he wasn’t sure. But as someone who believed in fate, he also believed in omens. Something about Nikolas’s last communication had set the hairs on the back of Ben’s neck rising and had caused him sleepless nights. He couldn’t shake the terrible feeling he wouldn’t see Nikolas again, that the vast and awful country which had once swallowed the little boy had finally taken the man.
     
    The house was slightly different than he remembered from their earlier visit. Some of the timeless quality had gone. Hans had taken the dustsheet off the piano and lit a fire to keep the damp of the bitterly cold day out. Ben wanted to see the bedroom. Here again, some of the sheets had been pulled off the bookcases. He wandered around, looking at fossils and globes, models and books. Now he could read the titles. Above one bed, someone had thrown knives at the wall toward a hand-drawn target. It was not as accurate as the throwing he’d seen on a T-shirt in another time and another place. He guessed