Darkness - Book One of the Dark Series of Novels

Epilogue: The Canary

Arnold woke in the morning light and rose, going to his calendar and casually striking off October 25th. He stretched upwards and pushed his limbs outwards, twisting, creaking, cracking but comfortable. With the blood flowing in his veins, a sudden rush of warmth overtook him. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead and his armpits. He stripped naked except for his slippers and went downstairs. He put the kettle of water on the stove and went in search of the date bars his wife had made. Thirty October 25ths or so ago they appeared, and about half the mornings that he woke they were there. Today there was one left in the fridge. Arnold grabbed it, taking a bite, and finished preparing the tea for his brief breakfast at the kitchen table.

Breakfast finished, he went out to the backyard to look for tombstones. Though almost certain there wouldn't be any, because his wife had to live, had to be alive somewhere for her to have made the date bars, he still strode out every morning in dread. The inconstant nature of his family's survival weighed on him. Mornings where he found tombstones where his rock garden would be, he wept – every morning, no matter how many times he had seen them, he re-experienced their death as if it was new, fresh. If they were dead, he would sit in his boat in the water to save Edmund. He wouldn't do anything else, but he couldn't let Edmund die. With Edmund saved, he would go back inside and sleep – taking pills, drinking whisky, doing whatever he could to rush through this day, to cheat it, and to wake the next morning. This morning the sandbox was a blank slate, and that made Arnold joyful. His family was gone, but they were alive somewhere. He bounced to the docks, made his way briefly to the lighthouse to turn the light off. He then found the first rock for his garden – the large, smooth, flat Pandora Hill.

One at a time he brought the thirty-six rocks – and he was certain now every morning that thirty-six was the perfect number – and laid them near the sandbox. He looked at his watch and had just enough time to arrange the rocks by size in a single line before Rodney was set to arrive. Finished, he went down to catch Rodney as he pulled into the dock. "Saw me coming?" Rodney asked. "Foggy mornin'. Good eyes, I should'a'guessed, given that you're a keeper."

Arnold asked about Marie's special order – did he have the whisky or the ties? Today, Rodney had everything. Arnold took his gifts and placed them carefully inside the house, glad that tonight he would have a drink to share with Edmund when he arrived. He helped Rodney unload the last of the goods and made himself soup and a sandwich for lunch before going outside to tend to his rock garden.

He observed the sandbox. He compared in his memory the dozens – maybe hundreds? – he had made. He brought out as best he could the memory of his favourites. Satisfied that he had a good plan, he took the rock representing Pandora Hill and placed it in the centre of the sandbox. Next he carefully worked in concentric circles around the first stone until the remaining ones were set. He raked the sand in long, unbroken strokes until something clicked inside him, until he felt the satisfaction of looking not upon a garden but upon his very home, his Discovery Island from above. He saw the lighthouse, the dock, his house, and he felt his family there with him. He sat nearby and for a few minutes appreciated the opportunity to have once more made this garden before he went to the lighthouse.

Arnold switched on the light – earlier than he normally would. He knew Edmund was riding out in the forest somewhere, lost. He knew that Edmund could reach the coast and would see the lighthouse, but wouldn't be able or willing to go back into the forest to try to find a path. The only constant in Arnold's changing days was Edmund's distressed arrival. His story changed – sometimes, the world was in the most desperate shape. Sometimes, it was moderate but worsening. Often it was somewhere in between. But every afternoon Edmund arrived, lost, on his way home. Arnold appreciated the company, and it was the best part of his day every day.

He got into his boat holding only a book to read to pass the time. He started the motor before riding out to the meeting place off shore. He waited. He had thirty-four minutes until Edmund would arrive, so, as he did many times, he read and he waited. Once he had tried to go out into the fog to find Edmund, but he'd failed, and by the time he came back to the island, Edmund was already washed up on shore, dead. So instead the best practice was simply to wait with his book for Edmund to arrive.

Arnold would read a page, check his watch, then read another page. Edmund was never more than three minutes late or early. But today Arnold waited five minutes; then ten; then twenty. He put the book down and rode out into the fog. He found nothing and came back to the shore. Edmund hadn't washed ashore where he normally would on days that he died. Arnold rode around the island three times before the darkness became too much. It was clear that Edmund wouldn't make it today – somewhere in the infinity of possibilities and minor happenings that changed October 25th for Arnold, the seemingly impossible had happened: Edmund didn't arrive.

The novelty shook Arnold. He had been accustomed to variation, some more major than others, but he anchored his days on this one constant event. He went inside and opened the bottle of whisky alone, drinking by the fire until he passed out from exhaustion.

***

Arnold woke with the morning light and rose out of bed. Today he stretched before going over to the calendar and marking off October 25th with his eyes half-closed, his attention already pointing to the door. Today he dressed in light pants and a loose shirt. He went downstairs and put the kettle on the stove to boil. He put a mug on the counter and put a bag of his favourite tea in it while waiting for the water to boil. He checked the fridge for date squares, found none. He checked the cupboards and found none. He exhausted all possible storage places, finding none. With a heavy, anxious feeling in his stomach, he went outside to look at the sandbox.

Coming around the corner, he saw the first stone. His heart sank, and he stopped moving. Tears welled in his eyes, and he put his hand over his mouth and took another step forward, seeing two more stones. He stopped thinking, considered going immediately back inside, drinking whisky, downing pills, Edmund might not arrive, after all, and he didn't need to save him, to wait a whole day in such anxious pain for something that was no longer assured. Instead, he went forward to pay his respects to his family, and as he came around the corner he saw thirty-three more rocks and the well-groomed sand of his rock garden.

At first he felt nothing but relief – his family was alive. He took his hand from his mouth and put it to his forehead, wiping away sweat, then tears. He wiped his face again with his shirt and turned to go inside. He went back into the kitchen where the kettle was boiling and poured the water into his mug. He went to sit in the living room, where he saw the whisky bottle his wife had ordered as a gift sitting where he had left it the night before. He dropped his mug – it shattered on the ground, soaking his slippers in hot water. He kicked his slippers off, went back outside and saw the rock garden for what it was: complete, and completed yesterday. He rushed upstairs to his calendar and broke down in tears once more when he saw that he had crossed off October 25th twice. He grabbed his pen, and when his hands were shaking too much to draw a line, he stabbed it through the calendar into the drywall to mark October 26th.

He sat on his bed and breathed himself into coherence before he threw on all manner of clothing, ran out to the dock, got into his boat and left the island to search for his family.