The Night

Terence Stamp

THE NIGHT

Published by

Escargot Books and Music

Ojai, California

First digital editions 2013

Terence Stamp asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN 978-1-908191-48-9 (ePub)

ISBN 978-1-908191-52-6 (Mobi)

The two lines quoted from ‘I Get Around’ (Brian Wilson) are reproduced by permission of Warner Chappell Music Ltd.

Cover design: Betina La Plante

For Christopher Thomas and John Drew

CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED AS the fire started. There was a moment without thought, and then he remembered how it was.

How cunningly he had been led to this moment, how willingly he had followed the path. As the ache cleared, he could work out dim shapes and knew where he was. They had piled leaves against the door, no doubt pushing them in until the last moment—closing the two halves, fastening them together and finally shooting the bolt—when the fire caught. The window behind him was open and, if he craned his neck, he could follow the pain from his wrists, link by link, through the open frame to the point where he was manacled—probably to the spokes of the larger back wheel. His dog was howling with fright. The sound was close. Tied to the same wheel no doubt. Just like our great elder, he thought, to keep with tradition: all possessions to be burned with him.

The dead leaves were taking now, their scorching fumes filling the air with the smell he had loved as a boy, a smell which reminded him of all the good things of life on the road.

To end this way. He examined the voice within him, whose whisperings assured him that everything was all right, that rescue was at hand—and saw the folly of it. What was this insane optimism? It had been with him as long as he could remember. But now he must cut himself loose. Tonight he was surely to die. He had to admit it to himself, had to prepare for his last great adventure. But there was no one to pray to—no one to listen. He called to his dog—poor, dumb creature. It yelped at the sound of his voice, as trusting of him as he was of . . . who?

How would it be to die? To die in the fire?

From the birth of his race, fire had been the tradition: “It is only a moment of discomfort,” his father had told him, “then you are somewhere else.”

His feet were closest to the line of flame. He could see his brown lace-up boots, not new, but not old—they would take the heat first. And how would his feet burn? The same as hedgehogs cooked in mud, probably.