Why can’t we see him?

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Sufficiently advanced magic: Fantasy and Science Fiction

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‘Why can’t we see him? I want to go up. I want to go up to see him.’

‘Alexander needs his rest, Sara.’

‘But he never comes down. How can he always be so tired if he never comes down?’

‘We’ve been through this before, Sara.’

‘But what does he do all day, up there by himself? Isn’t he lonely?’

‘He’s got plenty to occupy him. Don’t worry about that.’

‘But what about friends? What about me? Who does he see, up there all day?’

‘It’s easier for Alexander if he keeps to his own company these days. You know this, Sara. Now run along. You’re not the only child wanting dinner.’

She pretended to be satisfied with these answers, even to have forgotten about Alex, until one Sunday afternoon when Sister Rose disappeared to the kitchens, Sister Iris fell asleep in her armchair, and the other children were absorbed in a game of Monopoly.

She skipped up the stairs, quiet in her stockinged feet, until she was standing outside the door leading into the attic. She pressed an ear to the wood and listened…

Rattling, followed by the sound of things falling, rolling across wooden floorboards. Dice. But why was Alex up here, playing alone, when everyone else was downstairs together?

‘Alex,’ Sara hissed through the door, and the sound of the dice stopped immediately, replaced by a silence that reminded her of someone holding themselves very still, being circled by wasps at an outdoor tea party.

‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘It’s Sara. Why do you never come out? Aren’t you lonely?’

‘You shouldn’t be here. Go back down.’

He sounded worn out, a little hoarse. He was here, though, just metres away, just inches. Just behind this door.

‘It’s not the same without you,’ she told him. ‘The others only want to play boring games. And they whisper mean things about me, now that you’re gone.’

A door slammed below in the house and Sister Rose’s voice echoed up the stairwell, ‘Sara?’

‘Please, Alex. She’ll be here in a moment. Please just tell me what’s happening.’ Sara tried to keep her voice steady and brave, but it cracked before she’d finished speaking.

She heard Alex sigh, and then step closer, right up to the door.

‘Only because it’s you,’ he said. The door opened a crack. ‘You have to stay back, though. And you have to promise not to scream, or to laugh.’

He swung the door wide, and Sara’s hands flew to her mouth. Because there he was, her best friend in all the world, except that now he looked old. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes clouded, and his skin deeply wrinkled. What had been his thick, dark hair had turned grey, and sparse over his scalp.

‘Sara, I’m sorry,’ he began, as footsteps thundered and suddenly Sister Rose and Sister Iris were both there, fury and fear flying from their lips, their eyes, their gloved fingers.

Alex shrank from the commotion, edging back into the gloom of the attic; Sara couldn’t let him disappear. She slapped away the Sisters’ reaching, snatching fingers, launching herself forward to cling to her friend, as if holding tight to him might turn things back to how they had been.

She heard Sister Iris gasp, before Sister Rose wrenched her back, away from Alex. And then she was being marched off, down the stairs, the grip of both Sisters’ hands tight on her shoulders.

‘The maid’s room would do for her,’ said Sister Rose to Sister Iris.

Sister Rose disappeared then, back up to the attic, while Sister Iris took Sara to a small bedroom on the second floor.

‘You’ll stay here, in case it’s catching. We can’t have you going back to the other children. You must understand that.’ Sister Iris sighed and rubbed her eyes, and Sara noticed how tired she was looking, how afraid. ‘You shouldn’t have touched him, you know. That was stupid.’

‘But what’s happened to him?’ Sara asked. ‘What’s happened to Alex?’

Sister Iris sighed. ‘It started with a great weariness, was all he could tell us. And then an unshakeable heaviness of heart.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’d best go and help Sister Rose.’

She left after that, shutting the door softly behind her, and Sara didn’t know what to do, or to think. A growing hopelessness made her sit down on the narrow bed. Soon she found that she could only weep, and watch as her tears turned the smooth skin of her hands to wrinkles.

© Naomi Ishiguro

Naomi Ishiguro

Naomi Ishiguro was born in London, in 1992.