The Ecliptic Read Online Free PDF Page A

Quickman’s backgammon games sometimes ran late, depending on how well Pettifer fared
against him, and I planned to stay up afterwards, working until dawn—I would probably miss breakfast. It seemed cruel to leave Fullerton unchecked for all that time. ‘I’m just
going to look in the window.’
    The others started backpedalling through the snow. Then they paused, waiting in the moon-blue space between the dwarf oaks. They made hurry-up gestures with their hands: ‘Go on
then!’ ‘Get on with it!’ ‘Don’t take all night!’
    I walked up to the bare front window of Fullerton’s lodging. The shutters were folded back and the inner blind was not yet closed. Nobody was inside. His canvas bag lay open on the floor
with most of his clothes spilling out. There was a classical guitar leaned against the bedframe. He did not quite have the look of a composer to me, or the swagger of a rock’n’roll
singer, but I thought perhaps he could have written music for the theatre or the folk scene.
    It was then that he emerged from around the side of the hut, dragging an oil drum behind him. I had no time to move away. When he saw me, he stood still, but he did not flinch or seem surprised.
He carried on hauling the empty drum through the snow, towards a patch of level ground, where he shoved down hard on its edges to stabilise it. ‘Knell with a K,’ he said, sounding less
angry than I expected. ‘Are you lost?’
    ‘I just wanted to see how you were feeling.’ This came out rather meekly. ‘You missed dinner.’
    ‘Wasn’t hungry,’ he said. ‘Mystery solved.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
    He gazed at the ground. A fat bird cawed and streaked the dark above us. Fullerton jerked his head up. ‘The crows are all grey here. I can’t get used to it.’
    ‘You should see the herons when they come in the spring. They make nests all round the island. It’s wonderful.’
    The boy gave an uninterested murmur. Then he turned for his lodging and walked straight inside, leaving the door wide open. I was not sure if he was coming back. I waited, hearing the scuff of
his footsteps on the floorboards. After a moment, he came out with a stack of what seemed to be pamphlets or magazines, bearing them in his arms like offerings. He did not look at me, just tipped
the entire set into the rusty drum, rumbling it. The glossy covers glinted as they dropped into the can. He dusted off his fingers and headed for the door again, stopping only to squint into the
trees. ‘Your friends are waiting,’ he said.
    ‘Will we see you at breakfast?’
    ‘I doubt it.’
    I could not understand his hostility, so I did what felt most natural to me: I turned the problem inward, assumed that I had spoken out of turn. ‘I’m not usually one for small
talk,’ I said.
    He sighed. ‘That makes two of us.’
    ‘Well, I’m trying to make a special effort.’
    ‘That’s nice of you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t need it. The whole point of coming here was to be alone. I really don’t get on with people much.’ And he
threw up his hands and carried on into his studio.
    ‘You’re much too young to talk that way,’ I said, when he came back. Now he was holding a set of ratty papers, banded with a thick elastic. A burgundy passport was on top of
the pile, under his thumb.
    ‘I’m old enough to know my limitations.’ He dumped everything into the drum. ‘Why did
you
come here? For company?’
    There was a lot I could have told him then, but I sensed he would not be glad to hear it. ‘There’s a difference between privacy and solitude, you know.’
    ‘Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it.’ He padded the pockets of his cagoule. Underneath, he had on a coarse wool sweater that could not have been his own, as the round-neck
collar was so loose it revealed his bare clavicle. It must have been one of Ender’s, or taken from lost property. He was wearing sturdy boots now, too, which gave him extra height.
‘Shit,’ he said,