Boy in the World. Niall Williams

can hear.

       Even if he can hear can he understand?

       Is he out of touch? What does he know about now?

       If he is all-powerful why does he not appear more often?

       Why is he invisible?

       Why does he allow evil?

      Why does he allow death? And disease. And horrible accidents?

       If we are his creations why does he not make us good?

       Is there only one God?

      The dark furry wings of these questions had fluttered madly in the boy’s mind one after the other until he had arrived not at any answers but at the most maddening questions of all:

       Who am I?

       And why?

       Why?

       Why am I alive? What am I for?

      The cream-coloured envelope that morning had only added to this confusion. The boy felt that it was as if some power, some force had swept into his life in the last twenty-four hours and upset everything.

      It was a poor excuse, he knew. It was not something he would easily be able to explain, and the Master must be ashamed of him now. The entire village must be talking about him. He walked more quickly. The stones of the road crunched under his feet. How was the Master going to explain it, how was he going to show himself in the village shops ever again? Sour yoghurt of shame settled in the base of the boy’s throat. But he could not think of going back. No. Bolting as he did from the foot of the altar was the only thing he could have done; he was propelled to do it.

      That was it, propelled.

       But by what?

       By who?

      Confusion made him slow down and stop. He stood in the middle of the road, the dust blowing against his Confirmation clothes. Then he heard the Master’s voice calling out from behind him.

      ‘Don’t start again for a minute.’

      The boy turned and saw the old man puffing along to catch up. When he did he reached out a hand and leaned on the boy and briefly let his head drop low while he sought to catch his breath.

      ‘I had to leave the car,’ the Master said, his voice a whispery gasp. ‘I thought I wouldn’t have any trouble catching up to you.’ He wheezed twice, ‘But God bless you, the legs of you, you walk very fast.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ the boy said.

      ‘No need to be sorry.’

      ‘But I ruined everything.’

      ‘Well, there’s many ways of looking at a thing,’ the Master said, his head upright now and his breath coming more steadily. ‘And if it wasn’t what you wanted, then if you’d gone ahead with it you could say I was the one would have ruined everything.’

      ‘But I don’t know what I want.’

      ‘I know that. And I know there’s many there today standing up and being confirmed don’t know what they want either but are too lazy or afraid or deceitful or dim-witted to say so. And some of them only want the envelopes with the money from the aunts and uncles.’ At that, the Master paused and looked about. There were no cars coming or going on the country road and they were halfway from the village to home. He seemed to consider this for a few seconds and then said: ‘Well, we might as well head on together, eh? I daresay the aunts will be hurrying off home and not coming back to the house now.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘You’ll have to stop saying that.’

      ‘But …’

      ‘No.’

      The Master’s tone was final. The boy said no more. They walked together homeward. Because in the village the Confirmation was still proceeding there was no traffic and they could walk down the centre of the road. In the stillness of the countryside there was peace, and for a time the problems that had bubbled in the boy’s mind grew calm. They were just walking, that was all. There was only the blue and white sky of the May day, the fields, the cattle standing in them, the birds and their short quick flights making them seem like creatures of mission, or messengers darting through the air.

      ‘The world is full of conundrums,’ the Master said when they were not far from home. ‘Conundrums, puzzlements,’ he added, ‘and to a young person with any intelligence it will seem as though these should be thought about and puzzled over and eventually solved. That’s the thing. Solved. And as I well know, and have tried to tell you many times, you are not a boy of any intelligence, you are a boy of very great intelligence, and so these puzzlements have to seem even greater, more urgent to you. And even greater and more urgent the need to solve them.’ The Master stopped in the road and put his finger in the air, as if pointing to an invisible blackboard just in front of him. ‘And I know there are very many adults who, if I gave them the time, might look at you and say: the boy thinks too much, you must get him to stop thinking about things so deeply, get the boy outside, give him hard chores, something to tire him out. But you know this is not what I think. I think this would be like having a very fine racehorse and tying him to a plough. Do you understand?’

      ‘But what’s the use of being intelligent if it only makes things worse?’

      The Master didn’t answer this straight away. They walked forward the last few yards towards the house.

      ‘It is all right to think about things,’ said the Master. ‘It is all right to find the world full of problems and to want to be able to solve them. Beginning with the ones right here in your life. And all right too not to have any idea how to proceed.’

      They stepped through an overgrown arch of hedge where there was a small green gate. On the ground in front of them was a wandering line of flagstones that wound its way in the form of a question mark up to the house.

      ‘See,’ the Master said. ‘When I laid these I was not so sure how I was going, only where I wanted to get to.’

      They arrived at the front door and stepped inside the house that had been set for the Confirmation party.

      ‘Well now,’ the Master said, his cheeks flushed and his soft grey eyes watering a little, ‘I haven’t walked from the village in years. Lemonade, I think.’ He poured a glass for himself and one for the boy. They sat at the kitchen table and for a time the only sound was the ticking of the large clock on the wall.

      Then the boy said he would go upstairs to his room and read for a while and the Master nodded. He wanted to be able to say something more to the boy but what it was or what exactly the words were escaped him, and so instead he smiled kindly.

      In his room the boy threw himself on to the bed. He kicked off his polished shoes, pulled free the tie and opened the button at his collar. He let his eyes look along the titles of the books on the shelves. He had read all of them already, but sometimes liked to read over again his favourites even knowing how things would turn out. In fact sometimes the books were better for that. Now he took down the hardback David Copperfield the Master had given him two years before, which had been too difficult at first, but become in time one of the boy’s treasures. Now he opened the first page and read the opening words as if meeting again an old friend.

      ‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.’

      Downstairs the Master sat in an old leather armchair. For a long time he considered what had happened and what it was he should do now. He felt hurt for the boy at how things had turned out, and his hurt was so sharp and pressing that he thought of seeking relief in one of the whiskey bottles waiting for the guests that were not coming.