Counting Stars Read online

  She wears high heels, short skirt. Makeup is caked on her face, her eyes are rimmed by black mascara. I start to turn away, then catch my breath at the tenderness I see in her. She is thirty, or older, or even my mother’s age. She smiles, she licks her lips, she tugs gently at the straps beneath her white blouse. I stare at the entrance to the Time Machine, at the darkness inside.

  “Make sure you come and see the Time Machine,” she says.

  I stare at her.

  “Remember,” she whispers. “Remember, bonny boy.”

  I turn my eyes away, I leave the field, I hurry home.

  I’m in the kitchen with my sisters. Dust seethes in the sunlight that’s pouring in. Light flares in the loose strands of my sisters’ hair. We gaze at the eggs. We practice naming them, remembering them.

  “Blackbird,” we whisper. “Starling, larky, wren.”

  I show them the paired pinholes in each egg, tell them how to blow out the stuff from inside. I tell them it was Dad who taught me all this, who years ago took Colin and me through the old lanes at Felling’s edges. I tell them the rules he taught me: be silent and quick, don’t damage the nest, take only one egg, and only when the clutch is three or more.

  I see tears in Catherine’s eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  She raises her hand into the streaming light. We watch the dust in silvery fragments dance and seethe about us.

  “Human skin,” she says. “They told us at school—the majority of dust is human skin. Dead skin.”

  We meditate upon this. We laugh. The dust rises and falls, we watch it stream into our mouths with breath.

  “Angels are like this,” says Catherine. “Their bodies are subtler than ours. Their atoms are dispersed. They are more spirit than matter. They are all around us.”

  We look at her.

  “They told us at school,” she says. “It’s true.”

  We all laugh again.

  “It’s true,” say Mary and Margaret together. “It’s very very true.”

  “It is,” I say. “And I saw a Time Machine today.”

  Dad comes in from the sunlight. He has his heavy herringbone coat over his arm. He kisses the girls and sits with us and sighs at the beauty of the day. He lights a Players and the smoke weaves and spirals through the dust. He shifts on the hard kitchen chair, catches his breath.

  “Press there,” he says, taking my hand, holding it against the base of his spine. I press, feel the complicated solid bone beneath the flesh and skin.

  “There?” I ask.

  “There. Yes, there. Press harder, son.”

  He touches the eggs gently and tells us he’s seen a Time Machine today.

  “I know,” I say. “I saw it come to Felling Shore.”

  He breathes the smoke from his nostrils.

  “I saw it going down,” he says. “Just as it did those years ago.”

  He reaches out and touches my cheek.

  “Who’d believe it? It’s the same Time Machine that I saw on Felling Shore when I was a boy.”

  We lean close together, above the eggs.

  “You’ll have to take me,” he says. “It won’t stay long. You’ll have to show me.”

  He laughs, touches us all, kisses us all.

  He ponders.

  “Larky?” he says. “Blackbird, starling and wren?”

  I dream that God clambers through the hawthorn at Felling Shore. He balances on thin boughs, gazes into the nests, carefully takes eggs from clutches of more than three. He holds them on His tongue for a moment, then swallows them. Little Kitten watches Him from the ground. She keeps saying, “Give us an egg, sir. Please give us an egg.” At last He tosses one down to her. It cracks open on her palm as she catches it. A feathered child comes out, bright and tiny as a hummingbird.

  I catch my breath. It’s our dead sister, Barbara, the fourth of us. I watch her fluttering toward the blue sky and deserts of the Time Machine. “Forgive us,” whispers Little Kitten. “Give us another egg, sir.” But God is furious. He glares darkly down at the girl. He becomes careless and clumsy. He shoves egg after egg into His mouth. Yellow yolk and bright blue shell dribble from His lips. The hedges tremble and the air is filled with the alarm cries of parent birds. I see Barbara flutter through the beaded curtain of the Time Machine. I rush to follow her, and wake in the darkness inside.

  Next afternoon Dad calls me from the garden. He’s tying the stems of roses against the fence. He squeezes a bud and we see the petals packed moist and dense inside. He tells me how fortunate I am. He tells me there will be nothing I can’t do.

  “You understand, don’t you?” he says.

  I nod.

  He smiles, ironic, blows smoke on the aphids to make them die.

  “We’ll go now,” he says. “Just you and me, the two of us. I’ll take the others later.”

  In the house the girls and Mam are at the kitchen table. Colin is somewhere upstairs, trying on his best yellow shirt or his best blue jeans.

  Dad takes me inside, brushes my hair down, tugs at my sleeves and hems to make me neat. He lays his herringbone coat across his arm. He sighs, presses his hand into the small of his back.

  “Where you two off to?” says Mam.

  He grins and winks. “Nesting,” he says. He kisses the girls. “I’ll take you to the fair later,” he says. “I won’t forget.”

  We step out into the streaming light.

  “Goodbye, little chicks,” he calls.

  An untidy cluster of tents and stalls, a couple of merry-go-rounds turning. The caravans are parked above the water. The din of compressors, Elvis’s howl, the scent of onions and boiling fat. The people of Felling move at ease through the field and through the fair. We pause by the hawthorn at the edge of the field. Brilliant light pours down, carries the singing of larks from somewhere high above. Dad faces me, watches me. I see the darkness of his beard beneath his dark skin, the heavy eyebrows, the glittering eyes. I see that soon I will be taller than him.

  “Are you happy?” he asks.

  I shade my eyes and look away and don’t know what to say.

  “Not a fair question,” he says. He raises his hand to some passersby. “You will be happy. You’ll have everything we’ve missed.”

  We move forward. He lights a Players. We weave our way through the crowds between the shooting galleries and merry-go-rounds. I feel his hand guiding me forward. Little Kitten stands in the walkway wearing a white dress, calling out that she can tell the age of anyone for sixpence. She catches my arm as we pass. She points to Dad. “Forty-two,” she tells him. She holds out her hand. “Give us me sixpence, then.” He laughs and tosses the coin to her.

  She winks at me.

  “Give us an egg,” she squeaks.

  We move on.

  “It’s unbelievable,” he says. “It’s the same Time Machine as in my day. The same woman, the same man. They can’t be.”

  The woman stands on a low stage before the facade. She wears net tights, a bathing costume whose stiff bodice shimmers like a kingfisher’s wing. There is an older man beside her, in black top hat and tails. The beaded curtain is pulled back to expose a cool blue interior. The man leans out toward the gathering crowd. He scans our faces.

  “Who is bold enough to enter the Time Machine?” he calls.

  The woman smiles, so gentle.

  “Who could cope with the journey?” she asks. “Who could understand what will be seen?”

  I gaze up at her. Dad’s hand rests in the small of my back, pushing me forward. She catches my eye, her gaze moves on.

  The man holds a glittering black rock to us.

  He tells us, “Here is a stone brought back from the Moon.”

  He holds a curved piece of brass.

  “The breastplate of a centurion,” he calls.

  He shows a framed indecipherable script.

  “Writing from the ninth millennium,” he whispers.

  He leans closer.


  “What will the next voyager bring back? What wonder will be added to our marvelous museum?”

  She catches my eye again. She leans to me.

  “Who will travel with Corinna in the Time Machine?”

  There is laughter in the crowd. Some kid calls, “Me! Me!” Dad’s hand stretches across my back. “You,” he whispers. “You!”

  Corinna grins, leans down again.

  “You?” she asks. “This bonny boy?”

  She reaches down for me. I find my hand in her own. I find myself stepping upward. I hear Dad behind me laughing and calling: “Remember me!”

  They hold me between them on the stage. The man grips my shoulders, runs his hands over my arms and hips. “Call me Morlock,” he tells me. He peers deep into my eyes. He asks my name, my school, and I answer softly while Corinna holds my hand and tells me to be brave.

  “Are you intelligent?” he asks. “Can you remember what has been shown to you?”

  I nod. My head is reeling. I hear laughter and mockery from the crowd. I see the open curtain of the Time Machine.

  “What are your ambitions?” says Morlock.

  I gulp, reel.

  “To be happy,” I say.

  “Happy! Then what are your dreams?” he says. “What are your visions? What wonders have come in your young life?”

  I stare down at Dad. His eyes burn, they urge me to reply.

  Corinna strokes my cheek.

  “Be brave,” she whispers.

  I see Little Kitten laughing at me from between the stalls. A huge man bound in heavy chains lumbers through the field outside.

  “What are your dreams?” says Morlock.

  “I see God,” I whisper. “I see babies flying. I go to Heaven and Hell. I see the dead come back to life.”

  Morlock laughs. He slaps my back, shakes my hand.

  “We have chosen well, Corinna. Take him inside and make the preparations.”

  She turns me toward the entrance.

  “Who else will come inside?” calls Morlock. “Who will see our voyager set off on his journey through the ages? Who will enter our marvelous museum and learn of the intrepid voyagers from the past? Who will be there when the boy returns with his stories and his souvenirs . . . ?”

  We enter the blue interior, and behind us the people of Felling begin to step up to pay and follow . . .

  Inside: a translucent canopy, straw spread upon the grass, shelves, caskets and cupboards, another low stage, and the machine itself. It’s an upright cylinder, tall and broad as a hawthorn tree, made of timber, heavily varnished. Lights fixed in vertical rows, purple and red, flash on and off, on and off. There’s a large dial like a barometer, The Past to the left, The Future to the right. There’s a curved door with heavy brass fittings. Its name is printed in flaking gold paint: The Time Machine.

  I imagine that I will have to disintegrate, that I will be broken up in there, that my atoms will be dispersed so that I can slip subtly through space and time. I tremble at the thought of this. Corinna puts her arm around my shoulder. I smell her perfume and her sweat. I feel the harsh fiber of her bodice, then above this the soft flesh of her shoulders and breasts. She cups my chin in her palm and kisses me gently on the cheek and asks me to say my name.

  “We choose our travelers for their looks and their brains and the wanderlust we see in their eyes,” she whispers. “I’ll be with you. I’ll tell you what you must do and what you must say.”

  She kisses me again.

  “Everything will be fine. Wherever we take you, it will be fine.”

  She presses her finger to my lips as Morlock leads the audience in.

  They gather before us, they grin. Dad laughs from the back of the crowd. Morlock stands beside me again and tells the crowd he can feel the strength in me.

  “The future or the past?” he asks me.

  I catch Dad’s eye again.

  “The future,” I say.

  He pulls a lever in the stage and the machine begins to turn and rumble on castors set into the stage. The lights flash more urgently. He hauls the lever back and slowly the machine halts. He stares into my eyes. He says that he can feel my readiness for astounding flight. He presses a button beside the dial.

  “Take him in, Corinna,” he says. “Lead him to the future.”

  She leads me to the threshold.

  Morlock shakes my hand, kisses Corinna, turns to the crowd again.

  “While this boy travels through the ages, I will take you on a tour of our museum. Take him in, Corinna.”

  She opens the door, guides me inside. I look back to see the crowd gazing intently after us, Dad waving. The door slides shut, the outer wall begins to turn. Corinna giggles.

  “In here,” she says, opening another door, pushing me gently in.

  A small square room, a still and peaceful place. Yellow padding on the walls, a padded bench, a shelf of books. Names and dates scratched and carved in the timber door and on the timber between the padding. Blue light filters down through frosted glass in the ceiling. We sit side by side on the bench. Our thighs touch each other’s, our outstretched feet touch the opposite walls. I brace myself, hear the rumbling of the outer shell as it plunges through the ages.

  “When we return,” says Corinna, “Mr. Morlock and the crowd will ask you some questions. You’ll want to know the answers, won’t you?”

  She reaches up to the shelf above our heads and brings down a folder with The Shape of Things to Come written on its cover. She spreads it over our linked knees, begins to turn its pages. Inside are photographs and drawings and film stills. There are rockets and flying saucers and groups of gentle citizens strolling beneath trees. I see how Corinna’s nails are bitten to the quick. The flesh of her thighs swells at each of the thousand holes in her fishnet tights. She puts her arm around me, she speaks to me gently.

  “You must say that we found ourselves in a great city. There were buildings all around us that touched the sky. The people wore silken robes and traveled in tiny flying machines. You must say that in the future we will travel to the stars in the blinking of an eye. Machines will do our chores. Disease will be conquered. The savagery of our natures will be tamed and there will be no war. We will begin to communicate telepathically. We will begin to understand how we may make true contact with the dead. All of us will travel easily through time.”

  She cups my chin in her palm.

  “Yes,” she says. “We chose well. Listen. This is also what you must say.”

  I gaze into her eyes. I listen, and am disappointed by these bland and unsurprising visions. I think of Dad outside. I think of my sister mingling with the earth. I think of dust and angels and of the salty slime that can become a flying thing. I feel her leg against my leg. I turn my eyes from her. I seek the image of a hummingbird, and read the names carved into the machine’s heavy timber. They form an intricate deep pattern of letters and numbers. The most recently carved are readable. Those beneath are blurred. Those from the distant past have been written over many times. They are clues, fragments, meaningless cuts in the grain.

  Corinna touches my cheek.

  “Yes,” she tells me. “You can add your name.”

  With the tip of the knife she gives me I write myself alongside these unknown others. I name myself, I name the place in which I name myself, I name the year in which I name myself. I finger the lettering, trace the outlines of my oblivion.

  Corinna draws me to her once more.

  “This is yours,” she says.

  There is money in her palm. She draws me closer. She kisses me on the lips. She presses the coins into my palm.

  “Yes, this is yours. I know you’ll answer well, so this is yours.”

  She touches my cheek, my lips.

  “Keep our secret and you could come to visit me at night.”

  She smiles. My face rests on her shoulder. I look into the shadow between her breasts.

  “It’s true,” she whispers. “You could come to see me.” She laughs.
“Would you like that?”

  I nod. I bite my lips. I inhale her perfume, her sweat. I hear her heart beating as the Time Machine rumbles on.

  “Everything will be fine,” she whispers. “Keep our secret, answer the questions. Let me test you. Where did we go to? What did we see?”

  I answer well. She grins and applauds.

  “What will be defeated?” she whispers.

  “Death,” I say.

  I lie there for an age with my cheek upon her breast. She whispers that I am a brave one, a perfect time traveler. I almost sleep. I start to dream of my father breaking into fragments, traveling to the future alongside me. Then Corinna shows me a little glass jar, filled with earth. I lift the lid, rub the earth between my fingers, feel the dry grit, the fine dust, nothing growing there.

  “Our little souvenir,” she says. “Earth from the far future.”

  Soon the Time Machine begins to slow, returning us to Felling Shore, early May, the year before my father dies. . . .

  Dad laughs as we stand there, Corinna and Morlock and I, before the little crowd beneath the blue canopy. We show the jar of earth, we allow the spectators to dip their fingers into it. My head reels at the questions that are called to us. With Morlock’s and Corinna’s help, I answer. We came to a great city. There was work for everyone, though many days were spent in leisure. The planets seemed as close as countries do now. We understood the nature of God and we saw how His spirit shines in everything. Yes, each of us will be able to travel through time. Yes, we will indeed be happier then. At last, Morlock puts his arm around me. He says the boy is exhausted. He announces that it is over. He tells the crowd that they have seen a wondrous thing and that they may go now. They leave, whispering, wondering, laughing. Dad waits and we step down from the stage.

  “I traveled in the Time Machine as a boy,” he says.

  Morlock smiles.

  “Ah! In my father’s day. In Corinna’s mother’s day.”

  Corinna kisses me. She whispers, “Don’t forget. Make sure you come to me.”

  Morlock carries the earth to the museum. Corinna waits for us to leave.

  We go out and the day is already darkening.