body too, when the time comes. Yes, it will guard mine too.
Ella and I sat in silence as the train sped on, watching the fairy-tale image recede into the distance.
“It’s like Camelot, don’t you think?” she whispered.
“Like Camelot,” I echoed.
The station at Penzance was a bustle of people and bags and lines waiting for taxis. “Come on,” said Ella, tugging my arm. “Let’s walk. It’ll only take an hour or so. And the last boat to the island doesn’t leave until ten.” So we walked through and out of the town. A light drizzle began to fall. Hot and tired from traveling, we welcomed the rain and the air and the smell of the sea. We walked together, smiling, a little awkward now that we had actually arrived, as two lanes gave way to one and cars grew slower and less frequent. At last we had left the crowds and clustered buildings of the town behind, and Ella led me from the main road and onto a smaller track which led down to the beach. “Look here,” she said, pointing.
I looked and saw the castle, rising from its cone-shaped island, a natural progression of the granite, ringed by blue sea.
“So this is the view Blanche saw,” I said.
“What do you know about Blanche?” She looked at me sharply.
“Not much. Only that she was your grandmother and that she lived here.”
“Who told you?”
“Sarah.”
“I see.” There was a pause. “So she’s got to you already.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Tell me then.”
Another pause.
“Not now, James,” said Ella at last. And before I could speak she had moved abruptly on, first walking and then running down the steep incline thick with binding grass, which led to the beach. “I think we can make it to the boats from here,” she called as I stood uncertain whether to follow. “Run!” Her command came to me over the wind. So through the rain I ran, hot from exertion, my clothes sticking to me from the combination of sweaty train hours and the damp of the drizzle. It began to rain heavily now. I ran on. And always Ella was before me, crying out, a long unbroken shout of something lost between joy and rage; a sound I could not explain or understand but which held me in its thrall, even as the sand spilled into my shoes and the rainwater ran down my neck. Running behind her, always nearing, always eluded; it is how I have spent my life. Talking of it now I can taste the salt in the air and feel the pounding of my blood.
We were taken to the island by a bearded fisherman obviously surprised by our lack of luggage. “This is the larst boat, sir,” he said, “if you’s thinkin’ of comin’ back tonight.”
“We weren’t,” Ella replied for me.
“Very well, miss.”
And in a rickety boat that smelled of mackerel we made the short crossing to the island’s harbor as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon. I was half surprised to find a village beneath the castle walls, for in my mind I had already cast Seton as a self-sufficient entity, removed from our world; but I was glad of a beer and a plate of steaming cod, drowned in batter, in the “sweet pub” of which Ella had told me. It also took guests, and she reserved two rooms before we sat down to dinner, giving her surname as Warrington.
“My mother’s name,” she said quietly as she passed the register. “Only a fool would sign Harcourt on this island; he wouldn’t have a moment’s sleep for all the attention he’d receive.”
I nodded, understood, and signed my own name.
When we were sitting at a table in the cozy bar, listening to the rain beat steadily on the windowpanes, she smiled at me. “So, here we are.”
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” I asked, feeling the weight of family history even in the worn leather of the pub which bore the Harcourt arms on its sign.
“It is, partly,” said Ella. “I wanted to show you the island and the castle. But there’s something much more specific that I want you to
Ella and I sat in silence as the train sped on, watching the fairy-tale image recede into the distance.
“It’s like Camelot, don’t you think?” she whispered.
“Like Camelot,” I echoed.
The station at Penzance was a bustle of people and bags and lines waiting for taxis. “Come on,” said Ella, tugging my arm. “Let’s walk. It’ll only take an hour or so. And the last boat to the island doesn’t leave until ten.” So we walked through and out of the town. A light drizzle began to fall. Hot and tired from traveling, we welcomed the rain and the air and the smell of the sea. We walked together, smiling, a little awkward now that we had actually arrived, as two lanes gave way to one and cars grew slower and less frequent. At last we had left the crowds and clustered buildings of the town behind, and Ella led me from the main road and onto a smaller track which led down to the beach. “Look here,” she said, pointing.
I looked and saw the castle, rising from its cone-shaped island, a natural progression of the granite, ringed by blue sea.
“So this is the view Blanche saw,” I said.
“What do you know about Blanche?” She looked at me sharply.
“Not much. Only that she was your grandmother and that she lived here.”
“Who told you?”
“Sarah.”
“I see.” There was a pause. “So she’s got to you already.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Tell me then.”
Another pause.
“Not now, James,” said Ella at last. And before I could speak she had moved abruptly on, first walking and then running down the steep incline thick with binding grass, which led to the beach. “I think we can make it to the boats from here,” she called as I stood uncertain whether to follow. “Run!” Her command came to me over the wind. So through the rain I ran, hot from exertion, my clothes sticking to me from the combination of sweaty train hours and the damp of the drizzle. It began to rain heavily now. I ran on. And always Ella was before me, crying out, a long unbroken shout of something lost between joy and rage; a sound I could not explain or understand but which held me in its thrall, even as the sand spilled into my shoes and the rainwater ran down my neck. Running behind her, always nearing, always eluded; it is how I have spent my life. Talking of it now I can taste the salt in the air and feel the pounding of my blood.
We were taken to the island by a bearded fisherman obviously surprised by our lack of luggage. “This is the larst boat, sir,” he said, “if you’s thinkin’ of comin’ back tonight.”
“We weren’t,” Ella replied for me.
“Very well, miss.”
And in a rickety boat that smelled of mackerel we made the short crossing to the island’s harbor as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon. I was half surprised to find a village beneath the castle walls, for in my mind I had already cast Seton as a self-sufficient entity, removed from our world; but I was glad of a beer and a plate of steaming cod, drowned in batter, in the “sweet pub” of which Ella had told me. It also took guests, and she reserved two rooms before we sat down to dinner, giving her surname as Warrington.
“My mother’s name,” she said quietly as she passed the register. “Only a fool would sign Harcourt on this island; he wouldn’t have a moment’s sleep for all the attention he’d receive.”
I nodded, understood, and signed my own name.
When we were sitting at a table in the cozy bar, listening to the rain beat steadily on the windowpanes, she smiled at me. “So, here we are.”
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” I asked, feeling the weight of family history even in the worn leather of the pub which bore the Harcourt arms on its sign.
“It is, partly,” said Ella. “I wanted to show you the island and the castle. But there’s something much more specific that I want you to
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