Chapter One
Voices, Sometimes
Sunday: 1
The rains had been heavier than predicted by the ash-blond pundits, and lasted longer than expected, causing the river to swell and burst its banks, the consequence being the worst flooding in half a century or more. Entrepreneurs had immediately started going around with sandbags, which, pressed against doors, kept all but the merest dribble out. There were two main doors at Withern Rise, and three sets of French windows. All were sealed, but the garage doors were forgotten until it was too late. By the time Ivan remembered, the floor of the car was underwater and he was convinced that it would never work again. According to the local TV news, insurance companies were bracing themselves for the claims that were going to "flood in." The pun amused the presenters smirking in tandem behind their shared desk.
"Smug bastards," Ivan muttered.
But the rain had stopped at last, sometime in the night, and Naia, gleefully out of doors for the first time in days, took photos of the submerged garden before setting off in Grandpa Rayner's old green waders. Rayner hadn't been a tall man, and he'd had small feet, so she could only just get into them, and they pinched her toes, but at least they kept her dry as the water sloshed around her legs. She wanted to see this new "landscape" from the pedestrian bridge that rose like a long, low rainbow drained of color to link the drowned Coneygeare with the drowned Meadows. It was quite a slog up the slope in those boots, but the view from the top was worth it: a wide world of water punctuated by tiled and chimneyed arks, the floating spires of churches, sunken trees in clusters. Withern could not be seen from the bridge, largely thanks to the enormous willow, in full bright leaf, at the southern end of the boat landing. But she was delighted to see a pair of swans cruising serenely by.
There was no empty rowboat on Naia's river. Not then.
Sunday: 2
Alaric had never known such contentment. For four months he had complained about nothing, longed for nothing, not once wished for more than he had. He no longer slouched around, scowling and snapping at the world. Why should he? His life was complete. Best of all, the real prize, he had his mother back. Well, as good as. He was able, for long stretches, to forget that she had given birth to Naia, not to him. Back in February, forces beyond their understanding had kicked the pair of them into each other's realities, simultaneously depriving them of their means of retreat. In an instant, the realities had adjusted about them to make them fit where they did not belong, and at once, to everyone but themselves they had lived all their sixteen years there. Naia's former occupation of this life presented Alaric with a few problems, however. Her brain held the memories that were expected to be in his: conversations, incidents, events, jokes, shared sights and sounds. There'd been a lot of odd looks and raised eyebrows, from his teachers, from Alex and Ivan, from his friends, but these were generally overcome without too much hassle.
His relationship with his friends was curious, even to him. Especially to him. The boys who thought of him as their mate had no idea that they hadn't previously known anyone called Alaric. They wouldn't have been pally with Naia, or any girl, except under sufferance, or unless she was a "goer" like Bonnie the Bike. One or two of them might have fancied her—Davy Raine, for one—but most were more likely to catcall as she walked by, or raise a fist while thumping the crook of an arm, leering for one another's benefit.
Naia. She was never far from his mind. She was the twin he would have liked. If they had in fact been twins they would have argued a lot, but they would always have made up before long because, deep down, they were so much in tune. She was livelier than him, with a quicker smile, a lighter, brighter character, yet they were the same in most ways that mattered. But they were not twins. In a way, because of their exchanged circumstances, they were enemies now. It had not been his intention, but he had seized her world, literally, and occupied it today as if born into it. She no longer had a place here. But Alaric harbored a secret dread, which sometimes woke him in the night in a cold sweat, that Naia might find a way to return here and repossess her life: a recurrent fear that he suppressed for large tracts of time, but that never quite went away.
Now that the rain had stopped, he wanted to go out and experience the new conditions. Question was, how was he supposed to walk across a flooded garden, and beyond? The only boots long enough were Grandpa Rayner's old waders, but they were too small in the foot. Which left . . . shorts and sandals. Sandals! What the hell was he doing with sandals in this reality? Still, they'd serve a purpose. The water would be cold on his legs, but he could put up with that for a while.
He told Alex of his intention. To her face he called her "Mum," as she would expect, but in his mind he used her name. He'd never done this with his real mother. Ivan too, was "Dad" only when addressed. Alaric had tried to overcome this last small hurdle of acceptance, but so far he hadn't been able to manage it. In time, perhaps.
Continues...
Excerpted from Small Eternities by Michael Lawrence Copyright © 2006 by Michael Lawrence. Excerpted by permission.
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