They were in bed. The night before his trip. Of course. It would be that memory. Because of the harp, it would be.

His room. Spring night; almost summer weather. Window open, curtains blowing, her hair around them both, the covers back so he could see her by candlelight. Her candle, a gift. The very light was hers.

"Do you know," Rachel said, "that you are a musician, after all."

"I wish," he heard himself say. "You know I can't even sing."

"But no," she said pursuing a conceit, playing with the hairs on his chest. "You are. You're a harper, Paul. You have harper's hands."

"Where's my harp, then?" Straight man.

And Rachel said, "Me, of course. My heart's your harpstring."

What could he do but smile? The very light.

"You know," she said, "when I play next month, the Brahms, it'll be for you."

"No. For yourself. Keep that for yourself."

She smiled. He couldn't see it, but he knew by now when Rachel smiled.

"Stubborn man." She touched him lightly with her mouth. "Share it, then. Can I play the second movement for you? Will you take that? Let me play that part because I love you. To tell."

"Oh, lady," he had said.

Hand of the harper. Heart of the harpstring.

Lady, lady, lady.

What had brought him back this time, he didn't know. The sun was gone, though. Dark coming down.

Fireflies. Third night then. Last. For three nights, and forever, the King had said. The King was dead.

How did he know that? And after a moment it seemed that very far down, below the burnt, strung-out place of pain he had become, a part of him remained that could fear.

How did he know Ailell was dead? The Tree had told him. It knew the passing of High Kings, it always did. It had been rooted here to summon them far back in the soil of time. From Iorweth to Ailell they were the Children of Mornir, and the Tree knew when they died. And now he knew as well. He understood. Now I give you to Mornir; the other part of the consecration. He was given. He was becoming root, branch. He was naked there, skin to bark; naked in all the ways there were, it seemed, because the dark was coming down inside again, the door unbolting. He was so open the wind could pass through him, light shine, shadow fall.

Like a child again. Light and shade. Simplicity. When had all the twisting started? He could remember (a different door, this) playing baseball on the street as darkness fell. Playing even after the streetlights kicked on, so that the ball would come flashing like a comet out of brightness and into dark, elusive but attainable. The smell of cut grass and porch flowers, the leather of a new fielder's glove. Summer twilight, summer dark. All the continuities. When had it turned? Why did it have to turn? The process changing to disjunctions, abortings, endings, all of them raining down like arrows, unlit and inescapable.

And then love, love, the deepest discontinuity.

Because it seemed that this door had turned into the other one after all, the one he couldn't face. Not even childhood was safe anymore, not tonight. Nowhere would be safe tonight. Not here at the end, naked on the Tree.

And he understood then, finally: understood that it had to be naked, truly so, that one went to the God. It was the Tree that was stripping him, layer by layer, down to what he was hiding from. To what-hadn't there once been a thing called irony?-he had come here hiding from. Music. Her name. Tears. Rain. The highway.

He was skewed again, going down; the fireflies among the trees had become headlights of approaching cars, which was so absurd. But then it wasn't, after all, because now he was in the car, driving her eastward on Lakeshore Boulevard in the rain.

It had rained the night she died.

I don't, I don't want to go here, he thought, clinging to nothing, his mind's last despairing effort to pull away. Please, just let me die, let me be rain for them.

But no. He was the Arrow now. The Arrow on the Tree, of Mornir, and he was to be given naked or not at all.

Or not at all. There was that, he realized. He could die. That was still his choice, he could let go. It was there for him.

And so on the third night Paul Schafer came to the last test, the one that was always failed, the opening. Where the Kings of Brennin, or those coming in their name, discovered that the courage to be here, the strength to endure, even love of their land were none of them enough. On the Tree one could no longer hide from the living or the dead, from one's own soul. Naked or not at all, one went to Mornir. And oh, that was too much for them, too hard, too unfair after all that had been endured, to be forced to go into the darkest places then, so weak, so impossibly vulnerable.

And so they would let go, brave Kings of the sword, wise ones, gallant Princes, all would turn away from so much nakedness and die too soon.

But not that night. Because of pride, of pure stubbornness, and because, most surely, of the dog, Paul Schafer found the courage not to turn. Down he went.

Arrow of the God. So open, the wind could pass, light shine through him. Last door.

"The Dvorak," he heard. His own voice, laughing. "The Dvorak with the Symphony. Kincaid, are you a star!"

She laughed nervously. "It's only at Ontario Place. Outdoors, with a baseball game in the background at the stadium. No one will hear a thing."

"Wally will hear. Wally loves you already."

"Since when have you and Walter Langside been so close?"

"Since the recital, lady. Since his review. He's my main man now, Wally." She had won everything, won them all. She had dazzled. All three papers had been there, because of advance rumor of what she was. It was unheard-of for a graduate recital. The second movement, Langside of the Globe had written, could not be played more beautifully.

She had won everything. Had eclipsed every cellist ever to come out of Edward Johnson Hall. And today the Toronto Symphony had called. The Dvorak Cello Concerto. August 5, at Ontario Place. Unheard-of. So they had gone to Winston's for dinner, to blow a hundred dollars of his bursary money from the history department.

"It'll probably rain," she said. The wipers slapped their steady tattoo on the windshield. It was really coming down.

"The bandstand's covered," he replied airily, "and the first ten rows. Besides, if it rains, you don't have to fight the Blue Jays. Can't lose, kid."

"Well, you're pretty high tonight."

"I am, indeed," he heard the person he had been say, "pretty high tonight. I am very high."

He passed a laboring Chevy.

"Oh, shit," Rachel said.

Please, a lost, small voice within the Godwood pleaded. His. Oh, please. But he was inside it now, had taken himself there, all the way. There was no pity on the Summer Tree. How could there be? So open, he was, the rain could fall through him.

"Oh, shit," she said.

"What?" he heard himself say, startled. Saw it start right then, right there. The moment. Wipers at the top of their sweep. Lakeshore East. Just past a blue Chevrolet.

She was silent. Glancing, he could see her hands clasped tightly together. Her head was down. What was this?

"I've got something to tell you."

"Evidently." Oh, God, his defences.

She looked over at that. Dark eyes. Like no one else. "I promised," she said. "I promised I'd talk to you tonight."

Promised? He tried, watched himself try. "Rachel, what is it?"

Eyes front again. Her hands.

"You were away for a month, Paul."

"I was away for a month, yes. You know why." He'd gone four weeks before her recital. Had convinced them both it made sense-the time was too huge for her, it meant too much. She was playing eight hours a day; he wanted to let her focus. He flew to Calgary with Kev and drove his brother's car through the Rockies and then south down the California coast. Had phoned her twice a week.

"You know why," he heard himself say again. It had begun.

"Well, I did some thinking."

"One should always do some thinking."

"Paul, don't be like-"

"What do you want from me?" he snapped. "What is this, Rach?"

So, so, so. "Mark asked me to marry him."

Mark? Mark Rogers was her accompanist. Last-year piano student, good-looking, mild, a little effeminate. It didn't fit. He couldn't make it fit.

"All right," he said. "That happens. It happens when you've got a common goal for a while. Theatre romance. He fell in love. Rachel, you're easy to fall in love with. But why are you telling me this way?"

"Because I'm going to say yes."

No warning at all. Point-blank. Nothing had ever prepared him for this kick. Summer night, but God, he was so cold. So cold, suddenly.

"Just like that?" Reflex.

"No! Not just like that. Don't be so cold, Paul."

He heard himself make a sound. A gasp, a laugh: halfway. He was actually shivering. Don't be so cold, Paul.

"That's just the sort of thing," she said, twisting her hands together. "You're always so controlled, thinking, figuring out. Like figuring out I needed to be alone a month, or why Mark fell in love with me. So much logic: Mark's not so strong. He needs me. I can see the ways he needs me. He cries, Paul."

Cries? Nothing held together anymore. What did crying have to do with it?

"I didn't know you liked a Niobe number." It was important to stop shivering.

"I don't. Please don't be nasty, I can't handle it... Paul, it's that you never truly let go, you never made me feel I was indispensable. I guess I'm not. But Mark... puts his head on my chest sometimes, after."

"Oh, Jesus, Rachel, don't!"

"It's true!" It was raining harder. Trouble breathing now.

"So he plays harp, too? Versatile, I must say." God, such a kick; he was so cold.

She was crying. "I didn't want it to be..."

She didn't want it to be like this. How had she wanted it to be? Oh, lady, lady, lady.

"It's okay," he found himself saying, incredibly.

Where had that come from? Trouble breathing still. Rain on the roof, on the windshield. "It'll be all right."

"No," Rachel said, weeping still, rain drumming. "Sometimes it can't be all right."

Smart, smart girl. Once he would have reached to touch her. Once? Ten minutes ago. Only that, before the cold.

Love, love, the deepest discontinuity.

Or not quite the deepest.

Because this, precisely, was when the Mazda in front blew a tire. The road was wet. It skidded sideways and hit the Ford in the next lane, then rebounded and three-sixtied as the Ford caromed off the guard rail.

There was no room to brake. He was going to plough them both. Except there was a foot, twelve inches' clearance if he went by on the left. He knew there'd been a foot, had seen the movie in slow motion in his head so many times. Twelve inches. Not impossible; very bad in rain, but.

He went for it, sliced the whirling Mazda, banged the rail, spun, and rolled across the road and into the sliding Ford.

He was belted; she wasn't.

That was all there was to it, except for the truth.

The truth was that there had indeed been twelve inches, perhaps ten, as likely, fourteen. Enough. Enough if he had gone for it as soon as he saw the hole. But he hadn't, had he? By the time he'd moved, there were three inches clear, four, not enough at night, in rain, at forty miles an hour. Not nearly.

Question: how did one measure time there, at the end? Answer: by how much room there was. Over and over he'd watched the film in his mind; over and over he'd seen them roll. Off the rail, into the Ford. Over.

Because he hadn't moved fast enough.

And why-Do pay attention, Mr. Schafer-why hadn't he moved fast enough?

Well, class, modern techniques now allow us to examine the thought patterns of that driver in the scintilla-lovely word, that-of time between the seeing and the moving. Between the desire and the spasm, as Mr. Eliot so happily put it once.

And where, on close examination, was the desire?

Not that we can be sure, class, this is most hazardous terrain (it was raining, after all), but careful scrutiny of the data does seem to elicit a curious lacuna in the driver's responses.

He moved, oh, yes indeed, he did. And in fairness-do let's be fair-faster than most drivers would have done. But was it-and there's the rub-was it as fast as he could move?

Is it possible, just a hypothesis now, but is it possible that he delayed that scintilla of time-only that, no more; but still-because he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to move? The desire and the spasm. Mr. Schafer, your thoughts? Was there perhaps a slight, shall we say, lag in the desire?

Dead on. St. Michael's Emergency Ward.

The deepest discontinuity.

"It should have been me," he'd said to Kevin. You had to pay the price, one way or another. You certainly weren't allowed to weep. Too much hypocrisy, that would be. Part of the price, then: no tears, no release. What had crying to do with it? he had asked her. Or no, he had thought that. Niobe, he had said. A Niobe number. Witty, witty, defenses up so fast. Seatbelt buckled. So cold, though, he'd been, so very cold. Crying, it seemed, had a lot to do with it, after all.