The Good Mother 1988

Leaving the park, Mark headed straight down the street towards the fairground, which had been built by workers from the railway depot where he had once worked as a track engineer. The sunny afternoon was brightly lit up Cambridge, and the city seemed as alive and active as ever. People were hurrying about their business, children were playing in the streets, and the familiar noise of city life was everywhere. All this was still going on, but to Mark the whole world now seemed alien, as if it were separated from him by an invisible wall. The sounds and movements that had once seemed an integral part of his everyday life now only irritated him and made him feel alienated.

Mark walked toward the fair, but his thoughts were far from what was happening around him. He was still thinking about his recent conversation with Baselard, and how his life had taken such a strange and painful turn. Baselard, in his usual manner, had not offered him a choice. He had simply forced him to return to Boston, to leave the arena, to hide from all his problems, as if Mark could forget everything and start over. But how could you start over if you knew you could never actually get anything back?

At that moment, he realized that he had asked Baselard for that extra hour for a reason. He knew that he was risking so much, that his life was already in ruins, but he needed to touch, at least for a moment, something that might not be worth it. The fairgrounds by the railroad tracks seemed to him to be more than just a gray and modest gathering of workers and their families. It was his creation, his little revolution, which almost no one knew about, but in which he had invested so much effort and hope. And even if this project did not become what he had imagined at the beginning, it was still important to him. It was a place where he tried to believe that change was possible, that it was possible, at least for a moment, to feel part of something significant.

And now, when Baselard was urging him to leave it all behind, Mark could not let go of this piece of his past, this small victory. If the fair had not been for him just an empty entertainment, not attracting the interest of the public, he would not have felt such a need to go there again, even for a short time. Having asked Baselard for permission, he felt that he was not yet ready to make a decision. This hour was more than just an opportunity to shirk his duties. It was a moment when he could at least look one last time at what he had created, one last time feel like he was who he was.

Mark walked down the street, and every step brought him closer to the fair, but inside he increasingly felt how this connection with this place, with what he had once considered important, was slipping away from him. Scenes from the time when he had distributed weapons to the workers, inspired them to fight, emerged in his memory. He had been full of determination then, confident in the correctness of his path, and the fair had become a symbol of this path. But now it seemed empty and unnecessary, a symbol of failure, that he had not been able to develop his idea to the scale he had dreamed of.

The fair was nearby, but Mark's steps were becoming heavier. It seemed to him that every step he took towards this place was a step towards the final farewell. But despite the internal pain and disappointment, he needed to go back there, to see with his own eyes how everything looked now that he was no longer the same person he had been before. Everything had changed, and he knew that this might be his last look at this project, at this place that had once given him hope, but now brought neither success nor understanding.

Mark walked down the street, looking at the people who walked past, not paying attention to him. Their faces were alien to him, they continued to live their lives, while he felt his world crumbling. When he finally approached the entrance to the fair, he suddenly smelled a strange, heavy smell of smoke. He instantly became wary, his heart began to beat faster. A piercing alarm pierced his chest, and without thinking, he rushed forward, ready to find out what was happening. He did not even think about the fact that it could be connected with something dangerous - his instincts told him that something was wrong before his eyes.

But as he took a step forward, several workers standing nearby instantly jumped up and grabbed his arms. He felt their strong fingers gripping his wrists and tried to break free, not understanding what was happening. At first he did not recognize their faces in his haste, but quickly noticed young Galbraith among them, a 17-year-old boy who was nervously looking around.

"What?" Mark asked sharply, trying to free his hands, but the workers wouldn't let him go.

Receiving no answer, he continued to struggle, but Galbraith, like the others, was relentless. He tried to look at the faces of each of them, but instead his gaze fell on the group of people who were approaching.

At first he saw a few gendarmes, their dark uniforms standing out against the sunny sky, but a moment later their silhouettes disappeared into the shadows of the huge trees nearby. Behind them, with a slow, confident step, came Jordan Thurlow, the same loyalist leader Mark had encountered in the past. His face remained stony, his gaze cold and indifferent as he measured Mark with his eyes, but he did not even pause, continuing his walk towards the fair.

Mark felt a surge of rage, but at that moment the workers holding him tightened their grip, as if predicting his reaction. And one of them finally spoke:

"Now you can."

This was said with such calm that it sobered Mark. He felt the grip loosen, and the workers let go of him, but did not remove their hands. They quickly rushed forward, and Mark, somewhat astonished, followed them, not understanding what was happening.

His thoughts were overflowing: What did it mean, "now is possible"? Why had they waited for this moment, remaining completely calm? And why had the leader of the loyalists not paid attention to him? Mark continued to follow his comrades, feeling his pulse quicken. It all seemed so strange that he could not shake the feeling that something new was about to begin in his life, something important that would change everything.

When Mark finally ran into the fairgrounds, his heart sank at what he saw. He stopped in his tracks, staring straight ahead with his lips pressed tightly together. The fire raged around him-everything that had once been the labor of his comrades was now engulfed in flames. Tents, tables, decorations-everything was burning, tongues of fire devouring them mercilessly, and the smoke he had smelled as he approached was now unbearable.

Mark stood paralyzed, watching everything he had created with such care, with such tenacity, disappear into flames. He heard no sounds of crying or cursing, only the roar of the fire and the crackling of the burning structures. The workers around him were silent, their faces hidden under a heavy veil of grief and loss. They stood to the side, not trying to put out the fire, not interfering with what was happening, their eyes blank, as if at this point they had already lost all hope of restoration.

Mark realized that the workers' silence was not just one of confusion. It was the silence of grief, grief that their efforts, their faith in the cause, had been destroyed. Everything they had fought for, everything they had built, had been destroyed by their enemies, the loyalists. It was not just destruction - it was an act of revenge, an act of humiliation that wounded them even more deeply.

He looked at the workers, and their eyes reflected the shadow of loss, but not one of them said a word. The silence hung in the air, so heavy that it seemed as if every breath they took was drowned in this silent cry of pain. Mark felt how this silence, full of bitterness and hopelessness, swallowed up everything that had come before. He knew that these people, despite all their resilience, had become victims of political struggle, and that perhaps he himself was part of this destructive process.

Mark took a step forward, turning his gaze away from his companions, stepping across the charred planks that had once been part of what his friends had worked so hard to build. And immediately his gaze fell on what had once been bright and full of life-a carousel, once bright and cheerful, with spinning horses and whistling musicians, now consumed by flames.

Its metal frame and wooden elements were cracking, and flames were shooting out from holes torn by the fire, bright and destructive. The spinning figures that had once symbolized carefree joy were now twisted in the flames, seeming to dance in fiery agony. This carousel had been lovingly built, every element thought out in detail, but now it was a shadow of its former self.

Everywhere, the bouncing lights rose into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke behind them, as if the carousel, once filled with laughter and joy, was now sending out its last farewell cries. The wind carried them away, like departed dreams.

Mark glanced back again, and his gaze fell on the stands, the large wooden benches that served as a place for spectators to enjoy the festivities. In one corner, where the more active workers often gathered, there was a decorated place where they could show off the results of their labor. But now there were only fires in that place, battered wooden structures, their rigid ribs breaking under the impact of the fire. Even their rigid form, once a symbol of discipline and order, now seemed pitiful and broken.

Mark turned his gaze to the dance floor. The place where joyful dancing had once taken place, where workers and their families had rejoiced in their small victories, was now covered in ash. The wooden panels where people had once danced and laughed were now curled and stinking from the fire. This wasn't just lost time - it was alien, painful loss. People were losing not only a place to have fun, but also a part of themselves that they had invested in this project.

In the sky, above, where bright flags used to hang, now hung only black clouds of smoke, which slowly stretched to the horizon, like black flags adapted to the pain that these events brought. The fire licked the last remnants of brightly colored ribbons, and they, like fragile illusions, burned without having time to pay tribute to their creators.

Mark stood in the midst of this destruction, feeling the bitterness in the air. Everything that had been built, everything they had waited and worked for, had been burned. These men, their sweat and their faith in this cause, all had disappeared in the flames, and now only ashes remained. This fire was not just destruction - it was the burning of ideals, of dreams that the workers had put into this celebration of labor, which had now become a symbol of their defeat.

The workers' silence became louder than any words. They did not dare take a single step, only stood to the side, looking at the ruins, unable to believe what had happened to them. Mark felt his own sadness spread across their faces. This was not just the loss of material goods - it was the loss of their collective dream, and perhaps this fire became a metaphor for the fact that his revolutionary ideals, despite all his efforts, were also burning and fading into oblivion.

Mark felt every glimpse of the burnt ruins cut into his consciousness like a searing pain. Every collapsed corner, every twisted detail of the ruined buildings became a reminder of how his efforts, his faith, and all his plans had failed in this cruel world, full of violence and injustice. Galbraith, standing next to him, finally tore his gaze away from the burning dance floor, which remained for him the place where he had never dared to ask out a single girl. With sadness and despair in his voice, he turned to Mark, asking the question that tormented them all:

"Mister Parvis, what are we going to do?" he asked quietly, unable to hide the sadness that sounded in his words.

For him, this fair was almost personal - after all, it was there that he first felt that he could be part of something significant, that he could be a real part of collective work. And now it all burned down.

Mark was silent for a long time, not knowing what to say. He could not find words to console the boy, he could not console himself. His gaze was riveted on these charred, melting structures, and even the fire that had previously filled his inner inspiration now seemed only fuel for despair. He felt a lump stuck in his throat, preventing him from saying a word.

Meanwhile, the other workers standing next to him also began exchanging glances full of anxiety and uncertainty. Their eyes were filled with questions, worry, maybe even fear. They were waiting for Mark, as their leader, to give them some kind of answer that would give them the strength to figure out what to do next.

When the silence became almost unbearable, when his throat was constricted with pain, Mark finally swallowed the lump that stood in his chest, with difficulty, as if giving up a part of himself along with it. He opened his mouth and uttered words, but they sounded heavy, as if each word was given to him with excruciating effort.

"The times are such now," his voice sounded hoarse, and he hesitated a little, "that we need to leave, hide until..." he fell silent, unable to finish the thought.

His eyes remained fixed on the void, and his face was covered in beads of sweat. It wasn't just the heat of the flames that surrounded them, but also the pressure that was on his shoulders. He knew there was no other way, and leaving was the only right thing to do. With each passing moment, as everything around him crumbled, he felt their dreams burn along with the fire, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But he knew one thing: they had to leave, to keep some hope alive.

Galbraith stared at him, trying to understand, to see something in his face that might give them all some measure of confidence in this uncertain future. Mark exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment, as if trying to gather his strength. He felt his chest tighten at what was happening around him, at how his whole life, his whole struggle, seemed so fragile now. He took a few steps forward, unable to take his eyes off the blazing remains of the fair. But finally he raised his head and met the eyes of the workers standing nearby. All of them, their faces funereal, as if they had lost something more than just the wooden structures filled with their labor.

The silence was deafening, but Mark still pulled himself together and spoke, barely holding back his tears:

"I just ask you, comrades, to remember… that not all is lost," his voice trembled, but he continued. "Because a spark will ignite a flame."

He paused, trying to sound confident, even though his heart was pounding like never before. He saw the workers' eyes soften, their faces begin to soften. It wasn't just his words - it was the last fire he could give them, that tiny, but so important, twisted flame of hope.

"This is not the end, comrades," he continued, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders a little, although the future remained foggy and uncertain. "We started small, and it is small that can become great. We have lived through much, and if we stand firm and do not break, it will not fade away. Remember, the loyalists will not break us, no matter how much they want to.

With these words, Mark turned and, without looking back, walked forward, leaving his comrades standing in place. His steps were confident, but with each passing minute they became more tense, as if he were trying to hide the indescribable weight that was pressing on his shoulders. He tried to walk in such a way as not to betray his inner struggle, so that his gait would not betray the fact that his heart continued to beat faster in his chest and the lump in his throat. Although he said that the loyalists would not break them, he himself felt as if the ground was shaking a little under his feet.

The hot air, laden with the smell of smoke, hit him in the face, but he kept moving forward, trying his best to stand up straight, as if that was the only thing he could control at that moment. Taking a breath, Mark felt the weight of the situation growing, but he did not allow himself to break stride. He knew that he was being watched, that his friends were waiting, that perhaps every step he took now mattered. But all he could do was keep going, not showing any doubt, not revealing his pain. He could not afford to be weak, especially not now, when every second was precious.

Mark stepped out from under the park arch and quickened his pace to forget himself, at least for a while. He knew that he had to leave now, to hide before it was too late. Thoughts about what lay ahead only grew stronger with each step, but he tried to drown them out. At the same time, one thought was spinning in his head: he had to make it, get to the river, to the steamer, without delay. In order not to lose this last chance, he decided to take a taxi.

He raised his hand, expecting at least one of the taxis passing by to stop. Several minutes passed. Cars passed him one after another, as if on purpose. His patience was wearing thin, and he felt the tension growing. He walked along the sidewalk, angry at his own helplessness. Somehow his plans always ran into small obstacles, and this only added to his irritation.

Finally, the driver of the old Ford, noticing his gesture, stopped the car. The older man with the dented face sitting behind the wheel looked at Mark through the side window. He seemed busy, his eyes were confused, and perhaps he was wondering whether to take a passenger, given that he was not yet completely sure where exactly he wanted to go.

Mark came up without wasting any time, opened the door and got into the car. The driver, as if apologizing for the pause, did not say a word, but still looked at Mark through the mirror, waiting for instructions.

"To the Charles River," Mark said quickly, trying not to lose his pace. "Faster, please!"

The driver raised his eyebrows slightly and tilted his head slightly to the side, as if trying to figure out where exactly he needed to go. He wasn't sure of the route, and there was some confusion in his voice when he finally decided to ask the question.

"To the pier?" he asked, speaking with a slight hint of doubt, as if he found it difficult to believe the information he had received was correct.

Mark felt the anger rising in his chest again. Was everyone around him so slow-witted? He exhaled quickly and turned to look at the driver.

"What pier, idiot?" Mark said, almost irritated. "Just to the shore, where the thick undergrowth is, got it, stupid old man?!" he shouted, as if trying to take his anger out on this innocent driver.

Mark felt an uneasy feeling that the driver still didn't understand how important every moment was, especially now. The old man clearly hadn't expected such a reaction. He fell silent, looking down at the money that Mark had thrust into his hands, unfolding a wad of bills. Shaking his head, as if trying to understand what was going on, the driver silently drove forward.

Mark leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the window, and he was lost in thought again. Fragments of thoughts about the ship, about time slipping away, continued to spin in his head. "I have to make it," he repeated to himself, trying to rid himself of doubts. Destiny probably still left a chance. But what if... He clenched his fists, fighting the growing anxiety.

The car sped along familiar streets, but Mark could already feel everything around him becoming too quiet and tense. Soon the road, winding, came to a section where a cliff overgrown with dense thickets opened up on the left side. The Charles River was somewhere below, hidden from view by the greenery, but Mark knew for sure that it was there, and this was his only way. He felt that the time had come, and the sooner he got to the water, the better.

"Stop!" Mark ordered the driver sharply, grabbing him by the shoulder and getting his attention.

The driver, somewhat confused, did not understand what was happening at first and continued driving, but when he saw Mark turn around abruptly, he immediately braked. The car swayed, and Mark had already opened the door without waiting for it to come to a complete stop.

"Stop, I said!" he commanded again, abruptly jumping out of the car. The driver, clearly stunned, opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the door slammed shut with a dull, irritated sound. Mark did not look back, his gaze was directed downwards, to the place where he had to go.

The driver was still sitting behind the wheel, looking at the rearview mirror with a puzzled and bewildered expression, as if he didn't know what to make of it. He couldn't understand what the rush was, why Mark was in such a hurry, and why his behavior had become so strange. It seemed as if the man sitting next to him was about to lose his mind. The driver didn't get out of the car - he just continued to sit, turning the steering wheel in his hands and still not believing that everything was really happening.

Mark didn't waste time. He glanced back at the road, made sure there was no one nearby, and immediately moved down to the thicket. His steps became rapid, and he paid no attention to the branches that whipped his face, leaving scratches on his hands and clothes. The wind whistled in his ears, and every movement was filled with determination. He felt no pain - only one thing was important to him: to get to the water, to his salvation.

The driver finally got out of the car, but only to look at Mark's strange behavior. He stood there, dumbfounded, watching him disappear into the greenery, a look of bewilderment on his face. He shook his head, feeling his confidence in common sense crumble. This was more than just madness, and it became clear to the driver that Mark might actually be crazy.

He got back into the car, but this time he didn't move right away. He sat in silence for a while, waiting to see what would happen next.

Mark walked down to the river, each step confident and quick, despite the hissing branches and thorny thickets. Almost oblivious to everything around him, he headed toward the place where he had left his boat in a rush and excitement a few days earlier. The thickets that had once seemed like an obstacle to him now became the only path to salvation.

Shaking hands cleared a path between the tall grasses and thorny bushes until finally his gaze fell on the familiar silhouette of a small boat hidden in the greenery. His heart jumped, and he immediately began to pull it out, feeling the full weight of the moment settle in his chest. The boat was covered in a layer of dirt and leaves, but Mark did not pay attention to it. He knew that every moment mattered, and that if he did not make it in time, he would not get a second chance.

He continued to pull her through the undergrowth, berating himself for not hiding her somewhere more convenient. The boat, though light, felt heavier than ever at this moment. Each movement of the pull became more and more tense. The air smelled of fresh earth and greenery, but all Mark could smell was sweat, which, just like the day he freed Harey, was pouring onto his face, burning his skin.

Finally, when he pulled the boat onto a small patch of sand, his hands were shaking. He quickly checked its strength, as if he was searching for something, something wrong, but he was satisfied that everything was fine. He lowered it into the water, waiting until it skimmed the surface of the river. The waves that rolled gently along the shore rocked the boat slightly, but it stood firm.

Mark didn't waste a second and, almost without thinking, got into the boat and began to push off from the shore with an oar. With each stroke he felt his heart speed up, how the thought that he was so close to salvation made him act even faster. The boat was undoubtedly a familiar friend, and now it had to be his only means of salvation.

When Mark had already cast off from the shore, and the boat, getting used to the water, began to gradually move away, he seemed to be completely alone. The water calmly rolled him along the river, and in his head only his own thoughts were heard. But suddenly a sharp, loud sound of a horn cut through the silence, echoing throughout the river. This sound was so loud and unusual that Mark involuntarily stopped.

He immediately looked up, not understanding what was happening. For a moment, it seemed to him that the sound was somehow familiar. And then, when he looked back toward the shore, his eyes fixed on a small dot that gradually became clearer - it was the taxi driver's car, the same driver who had given him a ride a few minutes ago. Suddenly, the car, which had been standing on the road for some time, abruptly moved off, and its driver blew that same loud horn. The sound was deep and drawn out, like a farewell chord that echoed across the water and seemed to be slightly overdone, like a sign of respect.

Mark was a little confused. He stood on the oars, looked in the direction where the taxi driver had just been, and his gaze was slightly confused. It was so unexpected that for a moment he even thought he had misunderstood something. But then a slight smile appeared on his face, and he quietly said to himself: "What, what, I never expected such a send-off!" He grinned, feeling how something in him, hidden and still unclear, seemed to thaw slightly.

The taxi driver's unexpected gesture, which seemed so simple, in its strange, almost symbolic simplicity, suddenly touched something in Mark's soul. He felt how this emotion, conveyed from afar, this barely noticeable sign of respect and, perhaps, even support, penetrated his heart. With each moment, when the car moved away, he felt how this strange and unusual manifestation of attention filled him with strength. It seemed that an invisible thread connected him with this man, who just like that, without further ado, appeared on his path. And although the situation remained unclear, and the difficulties did not disappear, this small but sincere gesture of the taxi driver gave him confidence. He felt that he was not alone - someone still noticed him, even if it was only a moment in the vast silence of the night.

Mark laughed quietly, surprised at himself, and with a slight chuckle on his lips, he looked up. Suddenly his eyes fell on the silhouette of the steamboat Alexander York, which was slowly moving along the river. Its outline stood out against the light, not yet dark sky - the sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, but there were still a few minutes before nightfall. Mark's heart jumped slightly. His strength returned to him again, and despite his fatigue, he immediately accelerated the movement of his boat. A determined flame appeared in his eyes - like a predator who sensed his prey. Each stroke was confident and precise, with each effort he was getting closer to his goal. Time was compressed, and he knew: this was his last chance.

When the steamer was only a few meters away, Mark, without slowing down, threw down the oars and, not worrying about his boat, rushed forward. He grabbed the side, pulled himself up, and, deftly jumping over it, found himself on the deck of the steamer. At this moment, his movements were quick and confident, as if he really had always been there, as if the steamer itself and its surroundings were part of his plan.

Once on deck, Mark immediately assumed the appearance of a completely calm man, who seemed to have just left his cabin or returned to the ship. He did not intend to attract unnecessary attention to himself, and his gaze quickly scanned the deck, noticing several sailors or passengers walking around. He took a few steps to the side, trying to move naturally, as if he had just headed toward the passage or the back of the ship.

His gaze immediately caught on a gendarme standing nearby, who barely noticed his appearance. Mark immediately realized that his presence on the ship could raise questions. He smiled nervously, trying to smooth out the internal tension, and discreetly adjusted his bow tie, as if this gesture could bring more calm and confidence to his image.

Without losing his composure, he clasped his hands behind his back and, trying not to show his anxiety, slowly walked forward, heading towards the bow of the steamer. Each of his steps was measured, like a man who is in no hurry and has no reason to worry. But inside he felt the growing tension from the gendarme's gaze haunting him. The latter stood motionless, not taking his eyes off him, and it seemed that his piercing gaze pierced Mark through and through.

Step by step, Mark approached the bow of the ship, feeling that with each passing moment it was becoming more and more difficult for him to maintain confidence. He quickened his pace, but in such a way that it was not noticeable, continuing to move with that same calm, deceptive confidence that, in his opinion, could make the gendarme believe that he had every right to be there. But at the same time, Mark was not thinking about how calm he looked, but about the fact that any carelessness could give him away, and on board a steamer any step, any mistake could turn out to be fatal.

When Mark finally stood on the bow of the steamer, his gaze automatically turned to the distance, where the outlines of the city stretched along the shore of Cambridge, already immersed in the evening light. In this silence, as if captivated by a light breeze that pierced the steamer, he suddenly felt strange. As if every sound was expectant, as if someone he had not yet seen was hiding on the deck. And then his eyes fell on a chair standing near the side. In it sat an old man - a man clearly of a different breed, an aristocrat, which left no doubt in the cuffs that, despite their wear, still betrayed his belonging to the upper class. He sat motionless, almost merging with the soft light falling on the deck, absorbing the last rays of the day.

Mark noticed how the chair rocked slightly, and the old man, holding his breath, seemed to enjoy the moment, gazing into the distance. It was not his habit to lose himself in thought, but seeing such a picture, he felt a strange sense of anxiety that seemed to cover him. The old man's peace contrasted with Mark's inner tension.

Mark did not immediately notice how tiredness had overtaken him, but one way or another, it became a reason to be distracted and give in to some superficial curiosity. He exhaled, feeling how the tension was leaving a little, and, holding back the suddenly overwhelming tiredness, decided to start a conversation, although he did not expect a serious answer. His gaze was directed into the same distance as the old man's, and his voice sounded even, even with a slight shade of curiosity, under which some kind of challenge was hidden.

"Aren't you sad to leave the good city of Cambridge?" he asked, as if challenging himself and at the same time trying to distract himself from the disturbing thoughts that were not leaving him.

A few seconds of silence passed. The old man seemed not to have heard him, or perhaps was in no hurry to answer. Suddenly Mark noticed his hand flicker in the air, as if he was about to do something, but then changed his mind. It was not an obvious moment, but it nevertheless cast a shadow on what might have been wrong. The old man's face remained hidden from his view, and, thinking that it might be an illness of old age or simply a lack of confidence, Mark decided to continue.

"Not sad, right?" he repeated, his voice slightly livelier. The question now sounded like a light mockery, but also with obvious irritation that the old man had not shown due interest and had not answered immediately.

Mark was about to repeat his question, but suddenly he heard a familiar, sharp and unpleasant voice that penetrated his consciousness, causing his heart to stop for a moment.

"I'm not sad," the old man said with a sarcastic tone. "And in fact, I'm not leaving Cambridge. On the contrary, I'm thinking about how to get there immediately. Together with you, mister Parvis!"

Mark froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. It was the same voice he had heard not long ago - vile, commanding, with endless self-confidence that shone through every word. He recognized it. Paul Buher. The loyalist spy. The one who, several times in his time, knew how to use any situation to his advantage. Who could easily manipulate people like puppets, and stood on the same side with enemies whom Mark had never forgiven.

Mark froze, his body as if frozen, and his insides twisted. His mind tried to grasp something else, but it couldn't. He was sure that Buher couldn't be here, on the ship. How? Why? And suddenly he realized: this was all part of a plan that he had apparently not taken into account.

Suddenly the old man rose from his chair, his movements swift and decisive. He looked at Mark with such a look that Mark felt the full weight of it, as if Buher saw right through him, knew all his weaknesses. And then, without any embarrassment, the old man put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, as if he were returning to his younger years, when such gestures seemed ordinary and carefree.

In response to the whistle, Mark heard a loud stomping sound. The stomping of heavy, forged boots. This was no coincidence. Buher had clearly given the signal. At that moment, everything became clear. Mark realized that his manipulations, his caution, his planning-all of it had collapsed in an instant. At the moment of the whistle, he had become a target.

Without losing a second, Mark quickly turned and rushed through the door leading to the cabins. He ran quickly along the narrow corridor, involuntarily feeling how each sound of footsteps was getting closer, how he himself seemed to be losing any chance to escape. The stairs up to the upper deck were his last chance.

He climbed a few steps, moving quickly, but his heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear his own breathing. The only thoughts in his head were that he had to make it in time, not let himself be caught. In the meantime, he could hide on the upper deck, and then act further, if, of course, he managed to escape.

With each step upward, Mark's nervous tension became more and more noticeable. Far behind him, he could feel the pressure continuing to build, not letting go. But he did not give in yet, and his efforts did not seem in vain. He did not stop until he reached the last deck. Here, on the spacious roof of a cabin clearly intended for service personnel - perhaps it was the so-called "service compartment" or "crew platform" - he finally paused to catch his breath.

The river stretched out in the darkness before him, but it was not his destination. Mark's gaze was directed forward, toward the horizon, where the railroad line glimmered dimly, crossing the steamer's path. Time passed, and the steamer, as if slowed by fate, moved straight toward the bridge that would be the decisive moment Mark was waiting for. Along the river, bridges often became obstacles that had to be crossed at the right moment. This was a railroad bridge, and trains often crossed it, and therefore their escorts.

Mark stood on the roof of the cabin, feeling the hot, heavy air wrap around him, growing thicker with each passing moment. The day had already reached its peak brightness, and despite the light, he could not allow himself to relax. Every sound, every movement, every flicker on the horizon made his nerves tense like a string. The giant bridge was already in sight, and he knew that every step he took had to be calculated to the last detail. Time was against him, and no mistake could be made.

He didn't feel tired. He didn't think about the gendarmes chasing him, about the need to find shelter. His thoughts were focused only on how every detail, every moment had to come together. The bridge... It was like an inescapable fate that couldn't help but happen. His heart was pounding like a hammer on metal when his gaze slid back to the steamer, which, like a giant, was moving faster and faster. Each of his movements was more desperate, and with every meter his pulse quickened.

He clenched his teeth, the muscles in his legs tensed to the limit, the veins in his neck bulged, and adrenaline filled every cell of his body. He felt his muscles coiling into a spring, ready to fire at the last moment. He was ready. His whole life, this whole chase, all his actions had come down to one thing, and this moment was decisive. He clenched his fists, feeling the strength gathering in every muscle.

Time stood still. He felt his breathing quicken and quicken, his heart pounding with every beat, his muscles burning with tension. For a moment, everything around him disappeared. He saw only the bridge and his jump. It was necessary. His eyes narrowed, and he felt the veins in his forehead tense, a rush of adrenaline rushing through his blood. It was too late to hesitate. He was ready to jump.

A few seconds, and the world around Mark became one, like a gust of wind rushing through space. In that moment, time did not exist. He was not a man, but a movement, a machine, tuned to a single, decisive jerk. Everything in his body was tense, like a string ready to snap. The bridge, a dark mass hanging above him, became the center of his world. Sounds disappeared, only silence remained, which was as deadly as the rustle of his breath.

When the bridge was directly above him, Mark made the final push. Everything in his body tightened like a spring ready to explode. And then it did - his body shot into the air like a torpedo, full of tension, determination and the will to live. His muscles contracted one last time, and everything around him froze. It was as if he had shot out of himself, forward, into the void, away from this damned deck. With every millimeter of ascent, his muscles turned to stone, every breath was driven into his lungs as a last chance.

His gaze was fixed on the metal railings of the bridge, approaching with terrifying speed. They seemed not just an obstacle, but a symbol of everything that could kill him. He knew that in the next moment, everything would either succeed or fail. He was on the edge. He could not afford to lose, he could not stop.

The moment he was airborne was monstrous. As if in slow motion, every movement was an incredible effort, as if the weight of the air itself was trying to stop him. His head was spinning from the sudden jump, and his body felt like it was being pulled into some kind of abyss. Everything around him was blurry, but his eyes were fixed on his goal. He felt like every millimeter of air he covered became important.

With maximum effort, exhausting his last strength, Mark did not hesitate for a second - he jumped. His whole body, every cell, all his nerves compressed into one point, and the next moment he transferred his will into one single effort, like a taut spring, ready to tear the space between himself and death. With enormous force he jumped up, overcoming the iron railing of the bridge, and at that moment, when his body was torn into the air, and the air cut his face, Mark felt how every moment of this jump stretched into infinity. His eyes did not tear themselves away from what was ahead, and finally, the next second, with a tension that made him shake all over, he stepped over the railing and stepped onto the bridge.

At that moment, his heart seemed to skip a beat, as if the whole world had stopped. He was safe, but the sensation was incredibly brief, momentary. Inside, as if in a cage, energy raged, not allowing him to relax. His head spun from the sudden movement, and his breathing became heavy and uneven. Instinctively, he rushed forward, pressing his heels into the iron surface of the bridge, stamping his feet and as if throwing off all the weight that had accumulated over the past seconds. His brain automatically switched off everything unnecessary, forcing his movements to be coordinated to perfection. He did not notice how his legs, one after the other, carried him further along the bridge, and the tension in his body grew.

There were no trains here on the bridge. He knew he was on the brink of a monstrous stroke of luck. He felt it as a special, fleeting touch. The despair of what might happen next was gone - there was no train or cars ahead. But despite everything, his mind could not stop: every forward movement was like a fight for every second of life. All he felt was this cold and inexorable tension - another test he had to pass.

A few steps passed, and already at that moment Mark realized that the ground beneath his feet had hardened. He ran a few meters along the metal surface of the bridge, and despite the whistling wind in his ears, he could feel his breathing calming down. It was an inexpressibly important moment - he was not crushed by the wheels of the train, and, most importantly, he was not caught by the gendarmes. His path was open.

With each step, with each new moment, his confidence grew stronger. Mark's gaze no longer wavered - it was firm, resolute. When he looked back, his gaze met a picture: on the other side of the bridge, far behind, on the deck of the steamer stood the gendarmes. They were still shouting, waving their hands, but everything was clear - they could no longer do anything. The steamer, without slowing down, sailed away, carrying away all their evil intentions. At that moment, Mark felt how the weight that had been crushing him finally subsided. He understood - he got out.

When the bridge, with its dark and menacing danger, was left behind, Mark did not lose a second. He was full of determination, his legs moved automatically, on the verge of fatigue, but instinct and fear urged him to action. The railway stretched before him, and he saw how the train slowly approached, laboriously overcoming the steep slope, covered with dense thickets of trees that hid it from what was happening behind him. With each step it seemed to him that he was losing time, but the path to salvation was now one - this train.

On the other side, gendarmes on horseback were flashing into view, their figures looking like black silhouettes against the already foggy horizon. Their hooves were pounding the ground, creating sharp sounds that echoed in his ears. They were getting closer, and Mark felt time slipping away. Their rapid gallop indicated that they knew where he was, that he had already been identified. Apparently, they had been warned by those who had remained on the steamer, and now they were racing along the railway, hoping not to miss the chance to intercept him before he took refuge in the train.

Ignoring the approaching noise and thunder of hooves, Mark gathered his last strength and, when the train was already very close, for a moment he felt how everything around him slowed down. His muscles tensed, and without thinking, he rushed forward. His body, merging with the movement, as if instinctively pushed by despair, instantly rushed to the first car he came across. The moment his feet left the ground, adrenaline exploded in his blood, filling his body with a wild surge of energy. A gust of wind hit his face, piercing with cold, and his heart pounded in his chest with such force that it seemed about to burst out.

Without stopping, he felt his fingers instinctively grab the handrail, and the next moment his body was in the air. He jumped through the open window of the carriage, and despite the sudden jump in sensation, his hands confidently grabbed the edge, and his feet landed easily on the floor of the carriage. Time seemed to slow down, and with a deep breath, Mark quickly secured his position, looking around to make sure no one had noticed his maneuver.

The corridor was long and a little dimly lit, but Mark didn't waste time looking around. He quickly glanced around, his eyes sliding over the seats until they settled on the slightly open door of the compartment. He walked up without making any noise and stepped inside. It was quiet inside, and only the soft rustling of a newspaper held by an old man at a small table by the window broke the silence.

The old man was an ordinary man, at first glance. His gray hair, the deep wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks spoke of age, but there was something special about his gaze. Despite his visible fatigue and age, his eyes remained sharp and attentive, as if he saw much more than just the outward signs of time.

Mark paused for a moment, watching the old man carefully, and then, without saying a word, made a sign for silence. He sat down opposite him, leaning back in his seat, trying to feel safe for just a moment. His face relaxed a little, and he allowed himself to exhale, although inside he was still seething with tension.

Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly noticed a bright movement behind the glass. He squinted, and against the backdrop of the cold wind and the dark forest, he saw a small butterfly circling near the window, as if playing with his reflection. He smiled involuntarily, and the tension that had been so strong just now disappeared for a moment, leaving a slight feeling of peace.

"Delia Eucharis," he said with a slight detachment, as if he were about to give a lecture on entomology. "The one and only, she calls us."

The old man, who had been completely absorbed in his newspaper, suddenly stopped reading, as if he had discovered that the words on the pages had lost their significance. He slowly lowered the paper onto the table, and its edges rustled slightly as it touched the surface. A slight shadow of displeasure crossed his face, and he frowned slightly, as if something had suddenly disturbed his calm. He looked up, and through the lenses of his glasses, which had long since become covered in dust, his eyes met Mark's. His gaze was heavy, intent, and somewhat cold, as if the old man did not see a person in front of him, but only something that demanded attention but was not worthy of respect. There was no curiosity hidden in that gaze, but rather indifference, like that of a man who had long ago learned to evaluate the world around him from a certain distance.

"Who calls?" the old man said, and there was a slight hint of interest in his voice, but he remained detached, as if he did not expect any serious answer from his interlocutor.

Mark, without interrupting his reverie, continued to look at the dark green of the forest outside the window. His gaze was fixed, as if he was looking for something important in this impenetrable darkness that was hidden behind the shadows of the trees. A light wind outside raised dust, but he did not feel it - his mind was occupied with something completely different.

"Time," he finally said with such pathos that the words seemed as weighty as stones. "Time, in the person of this butterfly, calls to us," he added, and, crossing his arms over his chest, continued without looking at the old man: "We live in an era that will be studied."

The old man frowned, but did not interrupt. He sat and listened attentively, trying to make sense of Mark's words, as if trying to figure out where they were leading. Mark continued, unaware of his presence, as if he were talking to himself, not expecting an answer.

"Decades will pass," he said, his gaze still fixed on the window, on the forest that hid the last of the sun from the travelers' eyes. "People will think about us and argue about us. Of course, various opinions will arise, but for the most part," he inclined his head slightly, and something like dreaminess flashed in his eyes, as if he were thinking about something important, "future young people, I hope, will treat us with sympathy."

The old man was silent, his eyes narrowed, trying to understand the meaning of these words, struck by the depth and strangeness of Mark's speech. He had never met people who could speak like that. The silence in the compartment dragged on, and Mark finally turned to him, his gaze direct but distant, like a man speaking not so much for his interlocutor as for himself.

"Do you agree?" he asked suddenly.

The old man blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question, and nodded, confused. Something about those words had touched him, but he wasn't sure what.

Mark smiled faintly and his gaze turned to the window again. Suddenly, against the backdrop of the lingering silence, there was a loud knock on the door, which broke the tense silence in the compartment. The old man shuddered, reached for his glasses, as if intending to take them off and see what was happening. But Mark, as if sensing what was about to happen, quickly straightened up, not allowing the old man to complete his gesture.

"What's the matter?" he said with authority and confidence, without turning his head.

"Checking documents," came the hoarse voice of a man who was clearly used to giving orders. "Open up!"

Mark closed his eyes for a moment, as if considering his next move. He was in no hurry, and he did not lose his composure. When he opened his eyes, his face was completely calm, as if there was no threat.

"Excuse me, but let the lady get dressed," he said in a quiet but firm voice, confident that these words, spoken without a shadow of hesitation, would be able to delay the pursuers at least for a short time.

The old man squinted and looked at him in bewilderment. He opened his mouth, but could not immediately utter words.

"Uh... a lady?" he asked in surprise, looking around the empty compartment, in which, apart from the two of them, there was no one else.

Mark smiled faintly, and his gaze grew more determined. He walked to the window, his fingers tightly clasped around the cold frame, as if trying to feel the power of this moment. He stood for a moment, holding his breath, before opening the window. He seemed to be deciding whether to say something important, or to leave it in silence. Finally, he spoke words that seemed more like a thought out loud than an answer to the old man.

"Let's not hide it," his voice was quiet, but there was bitterness in it, "there were mistakes. Who can argue with that? Making noise, taking risks, jumping out of windows - all of this, you must admit, is reckless."

The old man continued to look at him, his surprise growing with every word, and he raised his glasses, as if trying to get a better look at Mark's face, trying to understand what he was talking about.

"But what else was there to do?" Mark continued, not looking at his interlocutor, more focused on his own thoughts. "We simply had no choice. We lived as best we could."

Mark made an effort, and the window frame creaked open, letting in a cold wind. His face was momentarily covered with a light layer of frost, and the noise in the compartment increased sharply, as if the train itself had begun to become part of this restless world in which he had to exist. The sounds of iron, shouts, cold - all this burst into the space that Mark was ready to leave.

He glanced at the old man, his gaze brief but no less determined.

"I hope they understand us," he said quietly, almost in a whisper.

"Who are 'they'?" the old man breathed out, but Mark no longer paid attention to him.

"I have honor," he said briefly, and the next moment he jerked the frame sharply, opening the window all the way.

The next second, Mark jerked the frame open, throwing the window all the way open. The wind rushed into the compartment, as if it was trying to tear him away from this world filled with noise and closed walls. Without wasting time, Mark instantly assessed the moment, chose a point and, without thinking, jumped.

Landing on the tracks, his body reacted to the impact, but he quickly regained his balance. Turning to face the departing train, Mark wiped his upper lip. A gentle wall of wind stirred his hair, and he leisurely pulled his pince-nez from the pocket of his waistcoat. As if it were a habitual gesture, he put it on and, with a kind of theatrical seriousness, cast a last glance at the disappearing train.

He was in no hurry, in no hurry to say goodbye. His gaze was cold, but with a slight hint of regret. The silhouette of the train, moving away in the fog, remained in his head. Everything that had happened seemed to be part of some crazy and not fully understood performance, where he was not just a spectator, but the main figure, dodging his fate.

Mark straightened thoughtfully, his shoulders hunched, and then walked forward slowly, feeling the tension leave his body. Thoughts of Cambridge, of the apartment he had left behind, of Baselard sitting there alone, grew more vivid with each step. He couldn't help but think that perhaps he hadn't done the best thing by leaving him alone.

"Well, yes, the old man must have gotten tired of waiting," Mark thought with a good-natured grin. There was no reproach in this thought, rather a light irony and understanding. Baselard was a man who knew how to adapt to circumstances, even if they were not the most comfortable. "A few hours of rest in a cozy apartment will not be superfluous in his difficult work as a revolutionary," he grinned under his breath, slightly quickening his pace.

The pince-nez on his face glittered in the dim light of the sunset, and his thoughts gradually carried him far from the world around him. He continued walking along the rails, not noticing how the evening sky was darkening and the space around him was narrowing into thick shadow. His gaze froze on one of the tracks on the railway, but his thoughts were already elsewhere - in the past, in those moments when he was with Harey.

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, the thought of her, of his ex-wife, of how he had made things worse, came crashing into his mind. He remembered what Baselard had said in the park, when he had worriedly tried to explain to him that he should not have tried to free Harey in this way. "You let your wife down, and there was such a chance to save her!" the old man had said. Mark felt the weight of that statement, as if it were physically pressing on his chest. He had tried to help, and in turn, he was hurting her.

He remembered that moment with the barge, when he had decided that it should be sunk. He thought that by doing so he would free Harey from persecution, from pressure. But now, on the rails, in the silence of the night, he realized how naively wrong he had been. Sinking the barge, of course, could not help Harey. On the contrary, his actions had only attracted attention. He was sure that because of his actions, she was now being held in another place, under increased guard.

"They probably think she's a dangerous criminal now," he muttered out loud. "They took her to a place I'll never be able to get to. And all because I was too sure I was doing the right thing..."

Mark quickened his pace, unable to bear the weight of thoughts that seemed to be dragging him down, burdening every cell of his body. Soon he broke into a run, not thinking about the night journey ahead and the shadow of past decisions behind him. His whole body, like his mind, was striving for something that could ease this oppression. But each new step did not relieve him of the pain, but only intensified it.

And then, out of nowhere, there was the face again-his daughter Molly's. It was a bright, almost painful blur in his memory, as if reality itself had suddenly torn the peace of his thoughts apart. Molly was wearing the same short-sleeved red-and-white striped shirt he had once worn on the day he had taken the mad step of sinking the barge to free her mother.

Her eyes, full of unspoken questions, seemed to bore into his consciousness, dragging out everything he had tried to forget. There was no judgment in her gaze, only a silent expectation that he, as a father, would find an answer. But Mark did not know what to say. It was excruciating. He felt his heart squeeze with pain - from the knowledge that this gaze left him with no way to justify himself.

And suddenly, as if time had melted and everything around him had disappeared, he understood. He had lost not only himself in this chaos, but so much that was dear to him. He had lost the opportunity to fix everything, lost the chance to get back what he had missed. And if he did not change what he had done, he would lose even more - everything that could have been.

Mark gritted his teeth, holding back the pain, and without thinking, he rushed forward. But his body moved faster than his thoughts, and the words that wouldn't let go kept spinning in his head. "You're not my father." Those words, spoken in the dandelion field when his daughter's world had collapsed with Harey's arrest, echoed in his mind like a painful blow. The pain and despair in her voice haunted him. He heard them over and over again, like an echo that wouldn't go away.

Her words were simple, but they held all the bitterness, all the truth he didn't want to see. He was weak, helpless, unable to be who he was meant to be. He saw the disappointment in her eyes, the emptiness, and he knew he was the cause of it. He wasn't her protector, he wasn't her rock. He was the one who allowed her to say those words.

Then he stood before Molly, completely at a loss for words. He didn't know how to respond, didn't know how to explain that everything he did was for her. But her words were like a blow, like a sharp knife that penetrated deep into his soul. He felt his weakness, his helplessness. He wasn't the man she needed. He had failed to protect her, hadn't taught her the important things he could have passed on. He had become the one who couldn't be a worthy father and allowed her to say those terrible words.

Mark quickened his pace, trying to somehow get rid of the obsessive thoughts, but they did not let him go. They followed him like a shadow, and with each step they grew, like an unbearable burden on his shoulders. He could not escape from them - they held him in their claws. Harey's look, her words, everything he did and did not do... This feeling of guilt that squeezed his chest did not give him peace.

He wasn't what he could be for her. The Good Mother - Harey was that. She always took care of her daughter, she always tried to do the right thing, to be there when needed, to love and support. But Mark? He was a bad father. He wasn't there when she needed him. He was too busy with his own things, his own ideas, his own beliefs. He let himself get caught up in these searches and left her alone. He wasn't there to support her in her time of need, to help her.

Those words, spoken with such raw childish anger, now sounded in his head like a death sentence. She might have long forgotten this moment, but for him it was forever. He played those words over and over in his mind, torturing himself, because he knew: he had lost her. Lost her trust. Lost her faith in him as a father.

He realized it too late, when he could no longer fix it. He had lost everything that was important, everything that was real. All his efforts, everything he had tried to do, the desire to change the world, to save Harey - it had all been in vain. At the moment when Molly needed him most, he was preoccupied with something abstract, illusory, with beliefs and ideas that did not matter to her. He had not noticed what was really needed - just to be there, to support, to listen.

He could have, if he hadn't been so blind, so narcissistic, so out of touch with reality. He hadn't noticed that she needed his support, not his grand plans, not his ambition to change the world. All he needed to do was be there, next to her when she screamed, when she was hurt. But instead, he was preoccupied with himself and his inner world, not noticing how she was disappearing from his life.

Walking along the train tracks, Mark felt the weight of the knowledge that Harey had been a good mother. And he? He was a father who had failed in that role. That realization was clearer to him than ever before. He had not learned to be the kind of person who could support Molly, the kind of person who could replace her mother in her eyes. When she needed him, he had not been there, unable to give her what she needed. And now, looking back, he knew that he would never be the person that Harey had been to her daughter.

He tried to justify his actions, telling himself that everything he did was for their future, for her safety, to right the wrongs of the past. But now those justifications seemed hollow. He hadn't been there when it mattered. And now, looking back, he could see how much worse he'd made it. He was drifting away from Molly and from Harry, and he didn't know how to fix it. Every action he took felt like a step in a circle, returning to disappointment again and again.

He tried to run away from his weaknesses, thinking that by fixing one mistake, he could make everything right. He hoped that by saving Harey, he would put everything back in its place, that he would become someone who could fix his life again. But in reality, everything only got worse. He couldn't be there for those who needed him, and the more he tried to change things, the more he destroyed.

Harey Dunlop had been The Good Mother. He had been a bad father. This realization was inescapable, like a heavy burden that he could not escape. He could not change anything that had already been, and this feeling of guilt that he had never become what Molly could have supported did not leave him. As he walked forward, he felt how each step only deepened the gap between him and what he could have been. He was moving to a place where there was no turning back, no possibility of changing anything, and only one thing awaited him ahead - absolute emptiness.

When horses die, they breathe their last,

When grasses fade, they wither fast,

When suns decline, they dim and pass,

But when men die... They sing at last.

Velimir Khlebnikov, Russia, 1912 (five years before the Great October Socialist Revolution).