Eclipse Three

"He's going to get chocolate on it," his own dad said, but Linton just kept holding the book out to him.

"It's OK, Graham," Linton said. "They won't know it's not hundred-year-old chocolate by the time it goes to auction next."

"What about carbon dating?" muttered Eloise.

"That's just for dinosaurs and fossils," Kay said. "Gimme."

"'Give it to me,'" Linton corrected.

"Please," added Graham.

He held the book carefully. There were line drawings of animals, almost on every page. They all wore clothes. You could tell the animals were still little, though, because of their being next to leaves and grass and things. There were colored pages, too, pretty and pale, of animals rowing boats. "Read," Kay said.

Linton opened the book, began reading something about spring-cleaning. Then he said, "No. Not tonight. I think it should be more…" He flipped through the pages, and began again:

Home! The call was clear, the summons was plain.

"Ratty!" Mole called, "hold on! It's my home, my old home! I've just come across the smell of it, and it's close by here, really quite close. And I must go to it, I must, I must!"

Kay had barely understood it, the first time, but it was the voice that mattered.

Home! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken, that day when he first found the river.

The voice, warm and flexible and fluid like the river, taking him somewhere he'd never been before, introducing the two animals who were such good friends, and looked after each other when they were lost in the snow, and found the pathway to the Mole's little house in the ground, and Ratty made the fire and cooked some snacks, and then-and then-

– He's a musician, he said, -my other dad.

– What kind?

– Piano, mostly.

It was the harpsichord, really, but there was always one thing he changed or left out whenever he talked about them. He just did.

– Jazz?

– No. Classical. And new music. Downtown stuff.

– Is that where you get it from, the music?

– He's not my bio dad.

She pulled both his arms around her, flattening her breasts against him. -Sorry.

– He hates what I do, my band, anyway.

– Music snob?

– No. He thinks I've got no technique. And know what? He's right.

– Ohhhh, you've got technique, all right. I love your technique.

Every year after that, Linton read from the book on Christmas Eve. The same chapter, Dulce Domum, where they're trudging through the snow on their way back to Rat's cozy River Bank digs, but Mole suddenly catches the scent of his old underground home, and they go and find it but then it's all cold and there's no food and then they build up a fire and then Rat finds some biscuits and sardines and then they light candles and then – and then they hear voices, and Mole says, "I think it must be the field-mice. They go round carol-singing this time of year," and then they open the door to the field-mice with lanterns and mittens and little red scarves and then-and then-

We others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses, have not even proper terms to express an animal's intercommunications with his surroundings… and have only the word "smell," for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day…

– Enjoying yourself?

He was giving her all he could, holding back carefully, holding back to observe her giving in to him, to observe how she enjoyed it, to admire his own skill and selfless self-restraint.

– Mrrrrrph…

– Is that a Yes? It is, isn't it? Cat got your tongue?

– You're evil.

– No I'm not. I'm good…

Linton tried reading Dickens once instead, and Eloise nearly had a meltdown. They were very young. Fu

– Wait, she said. She pushed her tangled hair back from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

– What?

– My turn.

He tried to say No, but he shivered with delight as she did things, delicious things with him on Christmas Eve.

– Cat got your tongue? she purred.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither… A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.

He lost it. She was giving him everything he wanted, and it was a terrible thing. All that physical pleasure, tricking him into feeling on top of the world, feeling powerful and invulnerable and joyous. And then-And then-

He heard the music.

Villagers all, this frosty tide,

Let your doors swing open wide

Linton at the harpsichord, the book in front of him so he could improvise right there as the little mice came to the door in the snow, and the lamps were held high, and they sang their carol:

Though wind may follow, and snow beside,

Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;

Joy shall be yours in the morning!

The very first year, Linton just spoke the words, fiddling around with underscoring as he read. The second year, though, he had composed a tune, secretly, to surprise them, and when he got to the field-mice he put the book down and went to his instrument, and rattled it off on the keyboard, singing with gusto.

Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,

Blowing fingers and stamping feet,

Come from far away you to greet-

You by the fire and we in the street-

Bidding you joy in the morning!

They made him sing it again, in falsetto, to sound like mice. And after that they copied him, learned the tune, made harmonies. Every year since then, as Kay changed from treble to baritone, and Eloise's soprano grew from piping to rich, it was the song they sang on Christmas Eve.

Were they singing it now? He doubted it. He doubted it very much. If they were, he would be there. He would be there, singing, instead of right here, howling, as his pleasure refused to be staved off another measure.

"Oh, Ratty!" he cried dismally, "why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might have been at River Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!"

Oh, and he knew he should be there now. He should be there with them. Even if they weren't singing. Especially if they weren't singing.

Omne animal triste post coitum.

All animals are sad after sex.

She nuzzled his neck. They were stuck together, the sheet wrapped around their legs, soaking up sweat and come. He started to shake.

He didn't know which he hated more, the idea that they weren't, despite what had happened, or the idea that they were: that somehow Linton was sitting gamely at the keyboard, pale and shaky-unless he was flushed, yeah, maybe he was flushed with a recent feeding from the bags in the fridge, for which Graham had called in every favor that years on the Board of the Sloan-Kettering could bring him-Linton sitting at the keyboard, eyes glittering with pleasure, young and strong and sure of himself for a few hours, until the daylight rolled around again and he had to go back in the-oh, no, it wasn't fu