Long Lankin: Stories (Vintage International Original)

  Praise for John Banville

  “If Banville is capable of writing an unmemorable sentence, he has successfully concealed the evidence.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Banville is a master at capturing the most fleeting memory or excruciating twinge of self-awareness with riveting accuracy.”

  —People

  “Prodigiously gifted. He cannot write an unpolished phrase, so we read him slowly, relishing the stream of pleasures he affords. Everything in Banville’s books is alive. Bleakly elegant, he is a writer’s writer … who can conjure with the poetry of people and places.”

  —The Independent (London)

  “Banville is the heir to Proust, via Nabokov.”

  —The Daily Beast

  “A glorious stylist whose prose holds sustaining pleasures, both large and small.”

  —Newsday

  “Banville’s mastery of language is an intense delight.”

  —Evening Standard (London)

  FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EBOOK EDITION, JULY 2013

  Copyright © 1970, 1984 by John Banville

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Ireland by The Gallery Press in 1984.

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-80664-2

  www.vintagebooks.com

  Cover design by Megan Wilson

  Cover painting by Duncan Hannah

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Wild Wood

  Lovers

  A Death

  The Visit

  Sanctuary

  Nightwind

  Summer Voices

  Island

  De Rerum Natura

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  My lady came down she was thinking no harm

  Long Lankin stood ready to catch her in his arm

  Wild Wood

  A fine rain began to fall, it drifted soundlessly through the tangled branches and settled on the carpet of dead leaves on the ground. The boy turned up the collar of his jacket and crouched by the fire. He was cold. About him the wood was silent, yet beneath the silence there were movements and strange sounds, strange stirrings and rustlings in the trees. He shivered, and blew into his cupped hands. A burning branch fell in a shower of sparks from the fire and rolled near his feet, hissing in the wet leaves. In the hazel grove behind him a tuneless whistle rose, punctuated by the dull cracks of an axe wounding wood. He stood up and went into the trees.

  —Is the fire all right? Horse asked, turning with the axe held above his shoulder.

  —Yes, said the boy.

  —You didn’t put any of them green branches on it?

  —I only used the dry wood like you said.

  He made another chop at the branch before him and muttered:

  —They’d see the smoke.

  Horse was sixteen, a great hulking boy whose clothes never fitted because he outgrew them while they were still new. He had a raw bony face and huge hands, and a mop of carroty red hair sprouted up from his skull like the stalks of a root vegetable. Horse knew the wood from which the best bows could be made, and he had a secret method of hammering nails flat for arrowheads. He could build a fire in the worst conditions, and he knew how to skin and cook a rabbit. Such gifts made him the natural leader of the gang, but he never acknowledged this leadership, and seemed unaware of the unspoken honour. A strange wild creature who rarely spoke and never smiled, his own secret lonely ways took all his concentration.

  The boy sat down on the rotten stump of a tree and looked at his hands.

  —Horse, he said. Are you going to school tomorrow?

  Horse said nothing, but went on chopping at the branch as if he had not heard. The boy went on:

  —I think I better go in tomorrow. If I mitch again they might send someone home to my aunt to see what’s wrong. Then they’d find out and I’d be in trouble.

  —Here, said Horse. Peel that.

  He threw the long branch like a spear and it plunged into the ground at the boy’s feet, then he turned back and attacked another part of the tree. The boy pulled the branch from the ground and with his penknife began to peel away the bark in long green strips.

  —Well you won’t be going in tomorrow then, Horse?

  For a while there was no reply, then Horse said violently:

  —Not going back anymore. Never.

  —But what will you do?

  —I’ll build a hut here and live in it.

  —But they’ll come and take you away, Horse. You heard Harkins what he said, that he’d send you to Artane.

  —Too old, Horse grunted.

  The boy looked at the knife in his hand, shaping silent words on his lips, testing them. He said:

  —They might put you in prison.

  Horse turned, the axe held loosely by his side. His pale blue eyes were wide, his mouth worked uncertainly.

  —They won’t put me away anywhere, he muttered. They come for me here, I’ll show them.

  He whirled about and with a grunt brought the axe down savagely into the fork where two long branches met. They split apart with a crack, one fell on either side, torn and dead. He moved on into the tree, the axe flashing as he swung it again and again, white chunks of wood flying about him.

  The boy watched the wood falling and flying, the axe flashing, and Horse’s mouth moving mutely, and thought he heard, far away in the wood, other sounds of destruction echoing these about him. At last Horse’s axe embedded itself in the trunk of the tree, and he grew calm as he worked it loose.

  After a long time the boy said quietly:

  —I saw someone in the wood.

  The wind rattled the leaves above them.

  —In the trees out by the fire, he said. I thought someone was moving around and watching me.

  Horse stared at him with his mouth open, then he turned and crashed away through the trees towards the clearing where the fire burned. Alone now, the boy looked at the branch in his hands, bare of its bark and gleaming like a moist bone. He raised his eyes and looked fearfully into the shadows gathering about him, and listened to the stirrings and rustlings. He stood up and went out to the fire. Horse was sitting on his heels among the leaves, carefully feeding the flames with pieces of dry wood. The boy sat down beside him.

  —Did you see anyone?

  Horse shook his head absently. His eyes were vague, as though his mind were moving in some private landscape. They sat silent, listening to the small voice of the fire singing. The rain stopped, and in its place the night began to fall. The boy said:

  —Maybe I only imagined there was someone.

  Horse was biting his knuckles and gazing pensively into the fire. The red flames flashed in his eyes.

  —How could you live here, Horse, in the cold and wet? the boy asked. And you know they’d come and get you. They’d come for you and then they’d say you were mad and put you away. What would you do then?

  Horse pushed another stick into the flames.

  —They wouldn’t get me. I’d be gone before they came. Run away.

  T
he boy sighed and rubbed his forehead.

  —All right, Horse. But maybe we should go home just for tonight. Just until you have everything fixed up here.

  —I’m not going home.

  He began to rock slowly on his heels. A long tongue of flame leaped in the fire. The boy shivered as the damp ground sent a chill along his spine. Horse said:

  —I had a white rabbit one time. She had pink eyes and a pink snout. She was a nice rabbit. I kept her in a hutch I made with chicken wire and all. Something got in at her one night and killed her. Ripped her throat like that—slash. Like that.

  He paused, and turned his great pale eyes on the boy.

  —They won’t find me.

  And then, as though his challenge had been heard, there came to them the sounds of something moving through the wood. Horse got to his feet and stood with the axe held in his fist. The boy looked up at his face, searching for a sign. The noises came nearer, and then a figure left the trees and came slowly toward the light.

  Horse raised the axe, and the flames flashed along the wicked cutting edge. He took a step forward, and another, and the figure before him halted in uncertainty. All was still. Far off in the wood something cried out, and the strange voice called to them over the tops of the dark trees.

  —What’s up, Horse? said the figure in the shadows. It’s me.

  Horse gave a grunt of surprise, and the boy jumped to his feet.

  —Rice, he cried. You gave us a fright, boy you really did.

  Startled at the loudness of his own voice, he lowered his head and looked at his hands in confusion. Rice advanced, and Horse lowered the axe but did not move from where he stood. Rice passed him by, laughing nervously.

  —You gave me a bigger fright, he said. Your man there with the hatchet, I thought he was going to take my head off.

  He laughed again, and stood by the fire with his hands on his hips. Horse came and sat by them without a word. Rice looked from one of them to the other and asked:

  —What’s up here?

  —Nothing, said the boy. Why?

  —You’re very pale, the two of you. Who did you think I was, anyway?

  —Why did you come out here? Horse asked quietly.

  —Do you not like my company, Mr. Big Shot?

  Horse shrugged his shoulders and looked away. Rice turned and grinned at the boy, and winked. Rice was a fat little boy with a plump round face and straw-coloured hair. He had short thick fingers with broken nails, and he was always short of breath. He turned to Horse again and said:

  —You’re getting dangerous with that hatchet. Some day you’ll go rightly off your nut and brain somebody.

  He gave a little wheezing laugh. Rice was the only one of the gang who was not awed by Horse. Now he said:

  —Hey Horse.

  —What?

  —I have a message for you. I came out with it specially.

  —What message?

  —Ah let it wait a while, Rice said slyly.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a sticky pink sweet and popped it into his mouth. Sucking noisily, he gazed into the fire.

  —Funny thing, he said. I met a fellow out on the road.

  They looked up at him, waiting, but he seemed to have forgotten about them. He brooded, his cheeks working slowly on the sweet, and then the boy prompted:

  —Well? What about it?

  Rice looked down at him, startled.

  —What about what?

  —The fellow you met.

  —O yes. Yes.

  He sat down between them, taking great care that his bottom was covered by the tail of his raincoat.

  —Well, he said. I was coming up the hill on the bike and it was getting dark. There was this fellow sitting in the ditch at the top. Well, I wasn’t afraid of him or anything, but as I said it was getting dark, like. Anyway, when I was going past him he calls me over and tells me about this murder.

  He paused, and the silence about them seemed to grow more intense. After a moment Rice went on:

  —He said there was a woman killed in town last night. Her head was battered in.

  —What woman? Horse asked, without raising his head.

  —That Mrs Hanlon that had the shop in the lane down by the picture house. You know her. We used to get the sweets from her when the matinees were on. Her.

  —I know her, the boy said. I remember her.

  —This fellow, anyway, he said that she wasn’t found until this evening. She was on the floor behind the counter and the shop was shut. She was on the floor and her head battered in and blood everyplace.

  —Who did it? the boy asked.

  Rice ignored him. He was staring into the fire with a perplexed look.

  —He was a funny guy, he murmured.

  —Who?

  —This fellow that said about her getting murdered. Funny-looking.

  —But who did the murder, Rice?

  —What? O I don’t know. He said that no one knew. The guards are looking for a man but he says they won’t find him. He says anyone who’d do a thing like that would be smart enough not to get caught. He was a queer guy.

  Horse moved a little away from them, and with his axe began to cut a notch in a thick green branch. Rice and the boy stared into the fire.

  —Nothing was took, Rice said.

  —What do you mean?

  —He said there was nothing took out of the shop. No money or anything. Nothing at all. That’s queer, isn’t it?

  —Queer all right.

  The boy looked at the wood that encircled them. It was fully dark now, and the firelight threw long shadows that pranced and leaped against the trees. He shivered, and turned to Horse. But Horse was gone.

  —Horse, he called softly, but no answer came.

  Rice stood up and looked about him.

  —Where’s that mad eejit gone to now. I never heard him make a move.

  They stood side by side and peered into the darkness that lay between the trees. They looked at each other uneasily. The boy crossed the clearing to where Horse had been sitting. No trace was left of him but the branch he had been whittling, it lay there in the firelight with a deep wound in its side, bleeding a trickle of sap.

  —Hey, Rice softly called to him. Look at this.

  The boy went and stood beside him and looked where he pointed. Horse’s axe lay at their feet, a wicked weapon among the leaves. They turned and walked slowly together about the perimeter of the clearing. They searched the shadows, and even stepped among the trees, but would go no deeper than where the firelight reached. They called to him, and called, and nothing answered but the wild wood’s echo.

  Lovers

  Birds were going mad in the square, spring and the recent rain had them convinced that they were enchanters. Muriel crossed the road and sauntered along by the green railings, swinging her bag and whistling with the magic music. Late April sunlight was in the street, softly washing against the houses and dusting the ragged trees with colour.

  She turned the corner and light from above flashed in her eyes. She looked along the tall face of the houses. At a high open window a figure stood, one hand on the sill. She waved her arm, and smiling she lowered her head and ran across the road. As she came near it the door opened and a bent old man in a shabby raincoat shuffled out on the step. He peered at her, his jaw working, his little eyes half closed against the light. She was about to step past him when he turned and slowly, firmly closed the door. She watched him as he went down the steps muttering to himself, then she grinned and put out her tongue at his back. She rang the bell. After a long moment she heard steps in the hall, and Peter opened the door.

  —Well, she said. You came at last.

  He stood in the dark musty hall, smiling, one arm raised and laid along the edge of the door. The front of his sweater was covered in dust, and he needed a shave. He was about to speak when she pointed at his head and laughed.

  —Look at you, she said. You have cobwebs in your hair.

 
—Cobwebs. So I have.

  They climbed the stairs and he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. She said:

  —Have you everything ready?

  —Almost.

  The flat looked as though something had exploded there. On the sagging bed were piled books and papers tied into bundles with thick white string. Two battered trunks stood by the window, their straps straining. The kitchen table held the remnants of two or three meals, and the floor had a thick layer of dust that soaked the sunlight where it fell. An ancient wardrobe lay on its side before the fireplace like a great dead animal, its mirror smashed. She stood in the middle of it all and looked around with comic despair. He lit a cigarette and leaned his long thin frame against the sideboard. He watched her, smiling. She said:

  —Have we to take all this?

  —Well, not the wardrobe.

  She laughed, and dropping her bag she stepped near him, and the light picked out the tiny yellow flecks in the pupils of her eyes. When she opened her lips a thin silver thread hung between them an instant, and broke. He took her in his arms and kissed her. After a moment she laid her cheek against his neck and asked:

  —What will we do today, Peter?

  He did not answer, but buried his face in her dark hair. She moved back a pace and looked up at him.

  —What’s wrong?

  —Nothing, he murmured. Have you forgotten?

  —What?

  —We said we’d visit my father. You said you would come with me.

  She went to the window, and he said wearily to her back:

  —One day. It’s not much.

  —I know. But I’m afraid of him, Peter.

  He snapped his teeth together and looked at the floor. He said:

  —How can you say that? He’s just an old man.

  —I don’t know.

  He went to her, and her lip was trembling when she turned. He took her face in his hands. At first she would not look at him, but he stood silently and stared at her until she raised her eyes. He said slowly: