Finton Moon (21 page)

Finton could hear no other voices. Everyone must have left. He'd closed his eyes, but he wouldn't cry. Wouldn't allow him the satisfaction. His entire body sang with the sting of the many lashes, but the words that could save him would not rise to his throat. “I said, did you have enough, or do I have to hit you again?” Tom sounded tired—if not quite defeated—as if he, too, had had enough of the senseless torture.

Finton was tempted to just give in, to just say the required words that would signal his repentance, but also his insufficiency. Finally, he managed to open his eyes and look up at his father, tears on the brink of falling forward. He knew his father would show no mercy. But mercy was neither what he wanted, nor needed.

“I love you,” Finton said.

For a moment, Tom stood and stared at his youngest son. Then he wrapped the belt around his trembling palm and left without a word, shutting the door behind him.

At first, Finton just lay on his bed, dazed, damaged, and confused, wondering how everything had spun out of control so fast. While Tom waited for some word about a police investigation in which he was the only suspect, he was under extreme duress. So Finton already forgave him. Nonetheless, Tom seemed to be afraid of his own son and, while demonstrations of emotion had never been his father's specialty, lately something had driven a wedge between them.

Finton nearly wore out his brain thinking about it, but his thoughts eventually turned to Mary Connelly, lying on her own bed in her house up the road, barely able to breathe. Sad and afraid, he closed his eyes and the room fell dark. Ripples of colour quivered like sound waves—radiant splashes of orange and violet, inflected by occasional ink-blot splashes of candy apple red and blueberry blue. His soul soared upward, rocketed through the air and thrust forward, up and away, until the heavens turned black, then suddenly exploded in an infinite plethora of colours. All around him danced ten thousand points of light—stars and planets of every shade, both subtle and vibrant. Round and colossal, they were so close he could almost touch them. He soared upward slowly, purposefully. Looking down, he realized he was gravitating towards a hunter-green surface, alive with tendrils of waving grass—at last, his Planet of Solitude. Before him the universe lay apocalyptically bare—extravagant, exposed and divine. Stars zoomed past and exploded in the dark midair, crashing into nothingness, while manifold comets roared arbitrarily overhead.

At last, his feet conquered the luxuriant surface of the planet, and he found himself sitting beneath his tree. He'd sat here before on this same patch of grass with his back against the towering apple tree, which sprouted red fruit hanging low.

He channeled his thoughts towards Mary, how sick she was. How congested her chest was. She coughed now and then, but it hurt so much that she forcibly held back. Her skin was pale, her face rashed. All around her people gathered to pray while her mother sat beside her, holding her hand, and her father stood by the window, looking out. Above the bed hung a large crucifix. Mary was speaking, but he couldn't hear the words. He focused hard, leaning towards her, nearly touching her.

But her lips didn't move.

What are you trying to say?

I'm ready to let go.

But you can't.

Don't wanna be sick no more. Just wanna feel better.

I can help you. I can come to you.

He tried to imagine her with him beneath the tree. But he could no more conjure her there in his lap than he could invoke himself into her bedroom.

Understanding what he needed to do, he opened his eyes, startled by the shift into mundane reality. He concentrated on the bedroom window, but the light hurt his eyes. He wondered how long he'd been gone.

A sound arose from outside his bedroom door. “Hello?” he asked.

The door opened a crack. “I just came in to see if you were all right.”

“I'm okay.”

“I was in my room, and to be honest, I didn't want to get in the way of your father's wrath.”

He watched Nanny Moon step inside and close the bedroom door behind her. She perched on the edge of the bed, her back turned partially towards him. “I don't know what's going on between the two of you, Finton. But you're going to have to be more careful around him. Your father is under an awful strain. Don't talk back so much.” She looked at him as if guessing his thoughts. Her eyes were softer, moister than he'd ever seen them. But then, Nanny Moon wasn't usually the effusive type. “I know it's hard for you.” She chuckled. “You're the one they said was going to take on the world some day.”

He blinked, shocked at this reference to his first days. “Who said?”

“We all said. You came in through the front door practically ready for a battle. For hours, you did nothing but cry, and we all wondered if you were gonna bawl yourself—or us—to death. We were ready to kill either you or ourselves. But I thought you were crying for the state of the world you'd found yourself in. It was like you didn't belong here, and the next thing you knew, here you were.”

Finton suddenly felt embarrassed for the tears he'd almost cried earlier. “Nanny Moon?”

“What is it?”

“Are the stories true?”

“Most stories are lies, but I s'pose they're true just the same.”

“The ones about when I was born.” Finton drew a deep breath and wondered if he dared to ask. “Did it really happen the way they said?”

“Well, I s'pose that depends on who's doin' the telling.” She paused, then seemed to sober as if realizing she wouldn't get off so easily. “I could tell you not to mind any of it. It don't really matter, ya know.”

“But…”

“But the fact is, you were born. Isn't that all that matters?”

“But it feels like everyone is just making stuff up.”

“Yes, b'y. I s'pose it does. But the truth is, your mother and father loves you very much, and if there's anything you needs to know, then they're the ones who should be sayin' it—certainly not the likes o' me.”

He wasn't comforted by her words. In fact, they made him more confident that his past was a door which he needed to open and walk through. Someday.

“Don't worry,” Nanny Moon said, patting his ankle. “You've always been the toughest of the Moons. I think they're afraid of what you can do.”

“What can I do?” he asked, his heart thrumming. “I'm the smallest one.”

“The smallest, but the biggest.” She smiled weakly.

“I don't understand.”

His grandmother sighed and patted his leg. As she got to her feet, she groaned as though she were lifting a thousand pounds. Finton was suddenly aware of how old she was. Turning towards her, he noted the lines on her face, the bend in her back.

“You don't have to understand, darlin'. Just believe.”

“Believe what?”

She smiled wistfully and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek with her soft, cold lips. “You'll know when the time comes. Meanwhile, be careful. No matter what you think, you're not invincible. Do what you think is right and the world will come to you.”

She asked if there was anything she could get for him. But, as there was nothing he wanted, she departed, shutting the door and leaving him alone.

She was no sooner gone than he stood up and dashed to the window. Then he pushed back the curtains, forced open the latch, hoisted the window and clambered out.

The Turning

The Connelly driveway was crammed with cars, which made him wonder if he was too late. Even as he strode up the front step and rapped on the wooden door, he fought the urge to barge in and bolt past everyone, fly up the stairs and find her.

He didn't recognize the person who opened the door—probably some relative—so he asked if he could see Mary.

“It's not a good time.” The young woman's voice quavered. “Mary's not well.”

“I need to see her.”

“I'm sorry. Come back another time.” Her eyes were distant, brimming with tears, as she started to close the door.

“I can help her.”

“Only God can help Mary now.” The door was shut in his face, and Finton found himself on the outside, looking up at the brass knocker.

He grabbed hold of it and again banged on the door. There was only one entrance, and it was the one he needed to go through.

“I've got to see her,” he demanded, more forcefully than he thought himself capable of.

“Well, you can't. Now please go away.” The young woman, whom he'd thought pretty, was becoming less attractive.

“No one can help Mary the way I can.”

She'd been about to slam the door again, but she paused, appraising him with her big, sad eyes. “What can you do? You're just a boy. And an ignorant one at that.”

“I can—” He hesitated, unsure of what to tell her that wouldn't sound naïve or insane.

“You can what?”

“I can comfort her. I'm her friend, Finton Moon, from down the road. We're in the same class. Can I just see her? It won't take long. She'd
want
to see me.”

Something softened in the young woman's face, and she glanced behind her. “Just a minute.” She left the door ajar as she turned to talk with someone. Finton was tempted to sneak inside, but he remembered what that kind of brashness had earned him from his father. One false word or move, and the whole enterprise would be jeopardized. He had to do it right, for Mary's sake.
Be calm and be careful
, Nanny Moon had said.

At last, the young woman came back to the door, shaking her head. “Mary can't see anyone. And her mother said for me not to let anyone in, especially a Moon.”

“But if I can't see her, I can't help her.”

“You need to go home. This family's had enough upset without you coming along and making it harder. No one here even knows who you are—but we knows your father, and that's enough.”

“That don't matter.” He summoned the strength to disobey, despite his trembling legs. “
I
know Mary—that's what matters.”

“I'm sorry—” she started to explain again, even as she averted her eyes and began closing the door. He bolted past her and dashed up the stairs.

When he arrived at the entrance to the bedroom, she was lying in bed, the covers pulled to her chin as she shivered uncontrollably. Near the window, her father gazed out at the backyard, barely giving Finton a glance.

“What do you want?” Her mother appeared startled, sitting beside Mary and holding her hand. “Oh, you—didn't Teresa send you away? Who do you think you are?”

“Finton Moon,” he said as he sniffled and swiped at his nose. “I'm here to save Mary.”

The room smelled like mothballs and vomit, with a hint of Lemon Pledge. The earth-brown curtains were drawn shut, and Mary's body was swaddled in quilts, the top one an embarrassment of butterflies. Finton stepped forward as if treading on thin ice, careful of breaking through to the other side. No one spoke to him, but they all observed Mary as if by ignoring the boy they could wish him away.

He was vaguely aware of how he'd done this before. Just laid his hands on the sick part and… did something. Wish? Pray? He couldn't remember.

Somehow, he hoped, it would come to him.

He forced his way among the strangers and stood beside the bed, gazing at Mary. Despite the blotches on her sallow cheeks, she looked peaceful with her eyes closed. Stepping forward, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy. Glancing around, he realized they were all watching him and waiting for something miraculous to happen, even when they didn't believe it could.

“I need space,” he said. No one moved, but they all regarded him with quizzical expressions. He looked to Mary's sister, Laura. “I can't do it with everyone watching.”

“Do what?” she asked. “There's nothing to do. Let God take His course.”

“Maybe God's busy,” he said.

“You mean to say you think God sent you?” A general sense of unease invaded the room as people began to squirm in their seats.

“I just came to see if I could help.” Finton shrugged. “I've done it before.”

“What have you done before?”

“Helped sick people.”

“I've heard about you.” Sylvia Connelly cleared her throat and stared at him. “Bridie Battenhatch.”

Finton nodded, certain she was now going to toss him out.

“The doctor says it's useless. And I never put no stock in that nonsense with Miss Bridie.” But she nodded towards her sick daughter. “See what you can do.”

He knelt on the floor and folded back the covers from the side of the bed, slowly so as not to disturb her. Fumbling around, he at last found Mary's cold hand and clasped it in his own. He closed his eyes and focused.

He saw the room go dark. The myriad colours. The flashes of red. The white apple tree on the Planet of Solitude.