Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

, plunged into the mist.

to the west.

The cold mist covered their faces, turned into real spray as the fishing boat accelerated, poured into plastic boots, hit the hood of the raincoat, and turned Jason's hair into a tangle of black strands. steel wire. "Twenty and ten minutes until sunrise," said the older boy, with such certainty that it seemed as if the sun was moving according to his will, and Stanley wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.Jason is a G-type star. If the world refuses to revolve around him, he will probably correct its orbit by himself.

The morning mist dissipated so quickly, as if it never existed.Now they couldn't see the coast from any direction, only the dark green water, and the sun submerged below the sea level was like a beating heart, and the blood gushing out made the sea redder every minute.The deck vibrated under their feet, and for a few seconds it seemed as if the ship would break free of the water at any moment.Then the sun completely got rid of the sea water, a dazzling celestial body, the magic disappeared, and Stanley lowered his gaze, the golden light swayed with the waves.

Mr. Tredo told the truth, the sea is calm and mild, and the wind seems to be warmer than on the shore.The boys watched as the fisherman expertly lashed the bait and cast out the hook as the reel on which the line was reeled whirled and hissed softly.The fathers were talking about banks and horse racing, and Jason was talking about his base again—he'd been talking about it all summer—and Mr. Coleman had given him the keys to the back yard tool shed around Christmas, and Jason had put This old shed was converted into a studio, if it can be called "remodeling" by putting carpentry kits and tool boxes in it.He was fixing a broken bike, buffing out the chain bit by bit, tightening the pedals, and straightening the wheels.Stanley wasn't listening, his father was reeling in the line, and the rod was bent at such a dangerous angle that Stanley felt that it would snap with the line at any moment.A sea bass is pulled out of the water, shining silver and splashing in all directions.

The sea bass showed up at their table that night, carefully cut into beautiful chunks, lightly poached in butter with grated sage, and deep-fried until golden.Jason stole a half-bottle of cider from an unattended cooler and slipped Stanley out of the hotel.Some kind of festival was still going on, and there were bonfires on the beach, but the summer days were so long that the fires were so pale compared with the long-lasting sun, that they looked like ill-made baubles.The boys climbed onto the reef and watched the fire and the surrounding figures from a distance.The wine bottle was passed back and forth in their hands. Jason drank the last bit of wine that had no bubbles, and casually pushed the glass bottle into the depression between the rocks.

The wind turned and brought the noise from the campfire and the faint sound of the organ.

"Maybe we should go back," Jason said.

"Correct."

They continued to sit where they were until the stars appeared.The fire was blazing, and a miniature sun reflected the dancing crowd into thin shadows.

It was June 1982, 6, exactly a week before Stanley's tenth birthday.

2.

They usually set off in mid-August, when Saint-Malo from the inner city to the docks is enveloped in a pre-apocalyptic hectic atmosphere, with brass-bound suitcases piled up in the hotel lobby.Two Breton girls hired to keep the books crowded behind the wooden counter, took back the keys, and handed out the bills.The checked tablecloths were put away in the dining room, and the round bare tables were pushed against the walls.The carpet was rolled up to reveal the uneven floor.The doors and windows of the empty guest room were wide open, the quilts were piled on the floor, and the curtains fluttered in the slightly chilly sea breeze.The Colemans generally catch the same ferry as the Stanleys, which means the boys have a few last hours to play, the end of summer.

Contrary to Stanley, Jason was very eager to return to school, no doubt eager to return to the dozens of planets of various shapes orbiting him.From this year on, he can finally be a substitute player for the cricket team, and maybe he will be able to get a chance to officially play before Christmas.All this sounds so foreign to Stanley, Jason might as well explain to him the distribution of vegetation in the Azores.Stanley didn't particularly dislike school, but he didn't particularly like it either, with the only bespectacled Danny Marshall barely counting as his friend.Everyone called him "Piggy" because Marcell was short-sighted and had asthma, just like the piggy in Lord of the Flies.Maybe it's because Stanley is the only one who calls him Danny, and Piggy keeps clinging to him, clinging to this little bit of kindness, treating him like a straw in a sea of ​​social anxiety.Stanley is forced to become his Ralph, a reluctant good man, a preoccupied protector.Piggy and Ralph, all they need is a good horn.

The time between two summers is a tedious film on loop: the gray stone walls of boarding schools and the rapidly shortening days combine to make up the saddest three months before Christmas.Bells in September, sleet in October, and eternal nights in November.The boys were all dressed in black uniforms, and during the short ten minutes between the last class in the afternoon and evening prayer, they looked like a group of giants with folded wings when they sat and chatted idly in the small dark inner courtyard. moth.The kitchen offered the unchanging mashed potato and onion soup with a green apple or shriveled orange.The early morning mass was long and empty, and the chapel smelled of a damp mineral and rotting wood.Piggy dozed off next to Stanley, his glasses cocked on his forehead, and snoring like a fake.

The weather would improve after Easter, and if the temperature returned quickly enough, they would be allowed to don flat straw hats on a clear weekend and walk in procession on the meadows by the river under the watchful eye of the housemaster.This was the only time Stanley could get rid of the piglets, and Danny Marcel would be alone in the dormitory for fear of an asthma attack.Stanley carried his books, plural, so that he could enjoy the freedom to ditch one for another when the whim struck him.He walked alone across the still barren meadow toward the woods, holding down his hat so it wouldn't be blown away by the wind.The sunny April day was deceiving, the sun was warm but not warm, and the wind was still bitter enough to pierce uniform jackets and shirts.Stanley was looking for a little corner where he could be alone, sheltered from the wind but not far from the crowd.Gaspar was a quiet boy. On the day of the admission interview, his father told the principal that it sounded like he was apologizing, as if quietness should be classified with mumps, a difficult but necessary stage in childhood.His father wanted him to work at Barclays, which was probably why they were so eager to associate with the Colemans.Stanley had no interest in it, but never said it.

He sat down next to a chestnut tree that had been knocked down by lightning the winter before last. The sprouting bushes could block the cold wind from the river. If he stretched his neck, he could still see the students playing at the bottom of the slope. He took off his uniform jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.The housemaster lit his pipe, which belched gray clouds of smoke like an old-fashioned coal-fired steam engine.Spreading his coat on the fallen leaves, Stanley opened one of the books, some kind of adventure, with a dog and a raft in it.Likely recommended to him by Jason, it sounds like a story he'd love: A child declares war on nature.Stanley prefers stories like The Wolves of Willoughby Heights and The Black Cotton Fields, where declaring war on adults is far more sinister and fun than fighting beasts.

Then came the summer of 1985.Stanley had grown a staggering four inches this year, nearly matching Jason's progress, but it didn't help.The innkeeper's twin daughters are as old as Jason, 4 years old. The three of them seem to have stepped into a secret club first, but the door of this club is closed in front of Stanley. He can only listen through the window in frustration. Listen to the commotion inside.It was bound to be a bewildering holiday, and they were all old enough to no longer find football and tag fun; but not old enough to take part in the adult world and the entertainment that world had to offer.

Maybe that's why when Jason suggested going to the lighthouse, they all said yes.

There are two roads from the Irishman's Hotel to the lighthouse, both of which need to leave the inner city surrounded by stone walls, one through the forest, and the other is cut into a steep sea cliff, without fences, and faded warning signs are nailed everywhere to remind People pay attention to falling rocks.They chose the path by the edge of the cliff, with bare rocks on one side and a vertical cliff on the other side less than two meters away. The sound of waves hitting the rock wall was like thunder.A seagull's nest was built on the protruding rock, and Jason climbed up on his hands and feet, looking for the source of the chick's cry.Stanley looked around for fear that the gulls would suddenly return and peck out their eyes.There was only a single baby bird in the nest. "Don't touch it," said one of the twins, and Jason shrugged, left it where it was, and climbed down.

"Look," he said, putting two eggs into Stanley's hands.

They were slightly larger than eggs, gray and speckled with black, and slightly cooler than Stanley's palm.The twin sisters recall the first time they cracked open a gull's egg and a chick slid out, a slippery, gray-black mass of dead flesh with formed eyes, claws and beak. "Interesting," Stanley commented, pushing the egg back into Jason's hands.

"Do you think there will be chicks in it?" Jason held up a seagull egg, thinking that the sunlight would shine through the shell, but the egg was like a fossil.