Free Dreamhunter by Elizabeth Knox Page A

remain within, death and freedom.
    Make his name his Own and he is.
    If your Will departs he will.
    Laura’s father released her. She stood, her eyes squeezed shut, weeping. She could hear the running feet, the hard shoes of the first official, and a scattering of footfalls following him. She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t know if her father was still standing near her or not. But then he said, from a short way off, ‘Those are capitals. Name. Own. Will.’ Then, ‘Name,’ he said again. ‘Remember that.’
    ‘Mr Hame,’ said the official. He sounded breathless.
    Laura heard her father say, ‘I’ve been trying to explain how little time I have.’ He addressed this remark to the official but seemed still to be speaking only to her. Then Chorley arrived and wrapped his arms around her. Laura smelt the bergamot in his hair oil. It was a smell that always made her happy. She opened her eyes and looked over her uncle’s shoulder at her father, who was standing beside the official, looking shabby, rumpled and small.
    ‘For heaven’s sake, Tziga! Is it really necessary to browbeat the child?’ Chorley said.
    Laura’s father said that Doctor Wilmot had given him a shot so that he’d stay awake throughout the journey. ‘I’m over-medicated, I think,’ he said.
    ‘He won’t be here for my Try!’ Laura said, aggrieved, to everyone but her father.
    ‘I know, honey,’ Chorley said. ‘But your Aunt Grace will take care of you.’
    ‘Mr Hame,’ the official said again. He had a grip on Tziga Hame’s arm. Laura’s father turned away with the official and began back down the platform. Chorley put his arm around Laura and they followed, walked up to the others, Laura’s Aunt Grace and Rose. They went along together, all of them touching Laura, while her father walked ahead. Laura noticed the moment the official collected himself enough to release her father’s arm.
    They reached the special train’s private car. Inside it a maid was lowering the silk blinds against the glare of the low sun. Laura could see tables, white linen, silver, a steaming tea urn.
    ‘Tziga,’ Chorley said, ‘where’s my camera?’
    ‘I had to leave it,’ Tziga said.
    Chorley flushed and compressed his lips.
    ‘It won’t be rained on, at least,’ Tziga said. Then he held up his wounded hands, reminding his brother-in-law.
    Chorley blinked. He seemed distressed. He glanced about him at all the men from the Regulatory Body and swore.
    ‘Look, Grace,’ Tziga said, ‘Chorley’s camera is at the stream with the blue clay bed. The cutting.’
    ‘I know the place,’ Grace said, to her husband. ‘Don’t worry — I’ll drag some ranger along to carry it for me.’ None of that country’s pioneering film-makers had yet been able to build a camera light enough for a person Grace’s size to carry with comfort.
    It was Grace who first put a hand out to Tziga. She squeezed his arm. She said she’d mind Laura at the Try. Rose kissed his lapel — and shot him a stern, disappointed look on her cousin’s behalf. ‘Bloody government contracts,’ she said, quite audible to the officials. ‘I won’t be signing any.’
    ‘Our loss, I’m sure, Miss,’ one of the officials said.
    Tziga Hame opened his arms for his daughter.
    She made him wait, nestled against her uncle, the ever present, constantly attentive and affectionate Chorley. Then she conceded and went to him. He pressed her into his shirt front and kissed her hair. Was he asking for forgiveness, or forgiving her? It was more than just a going-away embrace.
    ‘So —’ Laura said, ‘when I see you next, it’ll all be over.’ She rubbed it in.
    Her father whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’ He said, ‘Goodbye, darling.’ And then he let go and climbed the folding steps into the train. Dr Wilmot and two officials swung up behind him into the private coach. The rest went in the guard’s van. The stationmaster blew his whistle and waved his flag and the engine shot out a