John by Niall Williams

secrets. Behind him at two paces the short, squat figure of Auster watches, and on the near stones Linus, fair-haired, slim, tall but stooped, shoulders curved forward as if to hide himself from the slight wind.
    'Linus, go,' Matthias says over his shoulder. 'Attend him. But do not call him the Beloved.' He does not take his eyes from Papias. Stones click the other's departure toward the cave.
    'Young Papias, you are weary,' Matthias says. 'Weary from troubles and grief. I read it on your face. Your cold hands burn red.' He shakes his head slightly, as though there is an unfair balance he would set right. 'Go, go and be at peace.'
    Released, Papias begins to turn. But the cloak is still about him. 'But Papias, know that if you have concerns, if the Ancient appears' - Mathias pauses to consider the word - 'diminished in his faculties, exhausted, if you consider him too greatly taxed by his duties, come and let me know at once. Do this. I will assist you in all things. Do you understand me?'
    Papias nods to be free.
    'Go then, and may God bless you.'
    At last he hurries away along the sea-washed stones. The day is calm but dull. Weak light is smeared. Grey waters stir restlessly. He descends to the eastern shore and across the large rocks. Seabirds scatter and return to stand behind him. Places he clambers on hand and foot. The rocks rise toward a short cliff as if the sea has broken them from the land and abandoned them. Papias makes his way upwards. In crevices are feathers or twigs or small bones decaying in sunlight and sea air. Sometimes in the rock gaps are clear falls to still pools below. His reddened hands cling to pull his weight upward across a flat-faced slab. He kicks into a smallest ledge, goes cheek-printed against the rock and hauls himself head and chest over, then climbs atop. He stands a moment, looks up at the fringe of green and the ragged thorn bush that leans aslant from the cliff edge. A powdery ground is at the top. The sea now well below him, he considers at once the route onwards and does not look down.
    He does not see Auster following.
    At full stretch Papias can reach the cliff top. Briefly cruciform, he clings either side of him to the rough face of the island. His fingers scrabble. Ground falls away. There is no hold. He should go back down and around the long way. But then he will be seen. Instead he scratches at the dry dirt and pebbles above him. There is nothing solid. An error now and the fall would break his back on the rocks below. Papias feels the rashness of the plan, how guilt skews the mind. His toes are pressed in the tight mouth of a thin ledge, his heels in the air. But he won't go back. He is not sure he could. He hangs there some moments, a cross of conviction. With breathy whisper the sea below collapses upon itself. Sounds of soft breakage and gull cry and the beating of his own heart: these things Papias hears. He hands away loose dirt, its click and clatter marking the distance down. He tries a claw of cliff top, but there is no support in it. It gives easily. Ache knots in his calves. For a moment there crosses his mind the thought of letting go, of stepping out of his toeholds and falling headfirst, the brief bliss of flight, his robe aflutter and the perfect calm of a mind cleaned of all concern. It is a moment only. Then he is returned to the faith that there is something for him, that there is a destiny yet unknown that is his and that it has been scripted by the Lord himself. Emboldened so, he grasps the thorn bush. He takes it in both hands, the coarse knotty twist of it, then pulls.
    It gives but only a little. Its roots, not deep, are gone wide for water. Papias releases his footholds and scales the cliff face, hangs briefly asway, kicks blood toes off rock, heaves, then rises face-first into the thorn bush till he can get his chest above ground and fall forwards, panting on the upper edge.
    He rolls over for breath. The sky is grey and unforgiving.
    Papias rises