was yelling. “If your baby can’t get to sleep, you stay home with him.”
“You always want to tell me what to do, but when it comes to helping me with one small thing, you complain!” Maria shouted.
“Aye, one small thing! You’re trying to lead a double life, Maria! Thanks to your own stupidity, you now have a responsibility to look after a baby. And yet every day I’m minding him while you go to visit one of your friends, or to the market, or—”
“Or to church! To
church
!”
“
I
wanted to go to church, and
I
have not been stupid enough to deserve to have to look after a baby day and night!”
“Stupid? Are you saying it was my fault?”
“Yes!” Anselm’s crying rose into uneven, raucous screams.
“My fault? Are you—”
At that moment Stirling came into the room. “Leo, what are you doing?” he said sternly.
“Just … er …” I crossed to the chair and picked up my jacket from it, as if I had only just come into the room to get it.
“You shouldn’t listen to their argument. It’s not your business.”
“All right, preacher.” I followed him out to the living room, where the shouting could not be heard. “Happy now?” But I could not help smiling at him. The way he always tried so earnestly to be good, to do the right thing. “You’ll make a good priest, Stirling, I swear.” He took it as a compliment.
I was restless all that evening. “Why don’t you read something?” said Grandmother, looking up from her sewing.
“If there was anything to read, I would.”
“Have the newspaper,” she said. “I have finished with it.”
I did not much feel like reading the newspaper, but I did notargue. I took it back to the bedroom and read the reports of the war at the border. The shouting above had subsided now, though I could still hear the baby crying.
I was reading the casualty figures when Stirling came running in, took something out of his chest of drawers, and pushed it into my hand. It was a book. “What’s this?” I asked him, turning it over.
“The book that Aldebaran wrote,” he said. “Remember, we were talking about it. The prophecy.”
I glanced toward the living room. “It’s all right,” said Stirling, grinning. “Grandmother is downstairs visiting Mrs. Blake. Will you read it to me? You said you would.”
I put the newspaper down and examined the book. It was very thin, bound like
The Golden Reign
—like a book that would sell many copies. They used to print all the books like that—even these great prophecies that they printed first like Bibles, for rich people. There had been thousands of different books printed every year when I was small. My father had listings and charts of the titles on the wall above his desk, I remember. “Leo, will you read it?” Stirling said.
I came back from my thoughts. “All right. When will Grandmother be back?”
“Not for an hour.” He sat down beside me.
I began to read. “ ‘A prophecy of the lord Aldebaran, written in the sixth year of the reign of Cassius the Second.’ ” Stirling listened in silence. Most of the text was background information, a long introduction that discussed the context andthe meaning of the prophecy. “Who wrote this?” I said when I finished reading that section to him. “It is like Father’s style.”
“Is it?” said Stirling, leaning over my shoulder though he could not read the words. “Could he have written it?”
“He could. They always used renowned writers to interpret the prophecies.” I began turning the pages of the old book. It was the custom to leave out the name of the author; I knew that, but it didn’t stop me searching for his name.
“Grandmother will be back soon,” said Stirling. “Go on reading, Leo.”
I gave up looking for my father’s name. “All right.” I turned to the end of the introduction, where the actual prophecy began. It was no more than a few lines. I began to read. “ ‘I, Aldebaran, witnessed these things, in the
“You always want to tell me what to do, but when it comes to helping me with one small thing, you complain!” Maria shouted.
“Aye, one small thing! You’re trying to lead a double life, Maria! Thanks to your own stupidity, you now have a responsibility to look after a baby. And yet every day I’m minding him while you go to visit one of your friends, or to the market, or—”
“Or to church! To
church
!”
“
I
wanted to go to church, and
I
have not been stupid enough to deserve to have to look after a baby day and night!”
“Stupid? Are you saying it was my fault?”
“Yes!” Anselm’s crying rose into uneven, raucous screams.
“My fault? Are you—”
At that moment Stirling came into the room. “Leo, what are you doing?” he said sternly.
“Just … er …” I crossed to the chair and picked up my jacket from it, as if I had only just come into the room to get it.
“You shouldn’t listen to their argument. It’s not your business.”
“All right, preacher.” I followed him out to the living room, where the shouting could not be heard. “Happy now?” But I could not help smiling at him. The way he always tried so earnestly to be good, to do the right thing. “You’ll make a good priest, Stirling, I swear.” He took it as a compliment.
I was restless all that evening. “Why don’t you read something?” said Grandmother, looking up from her sewing.
“If there was anything to read, I would.”
“Have the newspaper,” she said. “I have finished with it.”
I did not much feel like reading the newspaper, but I did notargue. I took it back to the bedroom and read the reports of the war at the border. The shouting above had subsided now, though I could still hear the baby crying.
I was reading the casualty figures when Stirling came running in, took something out of his chest of drawers, and pushed it into my hand. It was a book. “What’s this?” I asked him, turning it over.
“The book that Aldebaran wrote,” he said. “Remember, we were talking about it. The prophecy.”
I glanced toward the living room. “It’s all right,” said Stirling, grinning. “Grandmother is downstairs visiting Mrs. Blake. Will you read it to me? You said you would.”
I put the newspaper down and examined the book. It was very thin, bound like
The Golden Reign
—like a book that would sell many copies. They used to print all the books like that—even these great prophecies that they printed first like Bibles, for rich people. There had been thousands of different books printed every year when I was small. My father had listings and charts of the titles on the wall above his desk, I remember. “Leo, will you read it?” Stirling said.
I came back from my thoughts. “All right. When will Grandmother be back?”
“Not for an hour.” He sat down beside me.
I began to read. “ ‘A prophecy of the lord Aldebaran, written in the sixth year of the reign of Cassius the Second.’ ” Stirling listened in silence. Most of the text was background information, a long introduction that discussed the context andthe meaning of the prophecy. “Who wrote this?” I said when I finished reading that section to him. “It is like Father’s style.”
“Is it?” said Stirling, leaning over my shoulder though he could not read the words. “Could he have written it?”
“He could. They always used renowned writers to interpret the prophecies.” I began turning the pages of the old book. It was the custom to leave out the name of the author; I knew that, but it didn’t stop me searching for his name.
“Grandmother will be back soon,” said Stirling. “Go on reading, Leo.”
I gave up looking for my father’s name. “All right.” I turned to the end of the introduction, where the actual prophecy began. It was no more than a few lines. I began to read. “ ‘I, Aldebaran, witnessed these things, in the
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