The house on the cliff

“Well, then, whoever made the arrangements had no right! This is my house, and I can do what I want. This is my cave, and you can’t stop me coming here. By all rights, I ought to turn you in. That’ll cause trouble, alright, for you and whoever brought you here. My father’s in the government, who knows what crimes you must have committed to be hiding here like a rat in a hole!” He was silent for a long time and there I stood, caged in my anger, sullen and flushed with shame, too proud to back down. “You offered to help me, earlier,” he said, calmly. “I accept your offer. You can help me by staying away.” “I’m not a little kid!” I raised my eyes to his and saw there only kindness, and the barest trace of humour. I remembered how when we had first met, only moments ago, I had replied to the false threat of a gun with the stammered words “I’m a child.” He said, as though reading my mind, “At your age someone can say that they are a child, or that they are not, and speak the truth in either case.” “It’s a horrible age.” “You’re right, it is.” “Usually people tell me these are the best years of my life.” “I suppose they’ve forgotten.” Another long silence. “It’s getting dark. Can you see well enough to climb?” I gave him a dismissive look. “I could do it blindfolded. Try me.” “I believe you. Will you believe me if I tell you how glad I am to have met you?” He waited for my answer, as if it was important to him. Despite the cliché, I knew he wasn’t just being polite. “In spite of all the horrible things I just said?” He nodded. “I didn’t even give you my word I won’t come back. I don’t give my word just like that.” “So I have realised.” I straightened up, almost standing at attention. “I will, however, think about it very carefully,” I said, with emphasis. “Thank you.”