by John Marsden
‘He didn’t even thank me,’ he complained to Mayon.
‘Why should he?’ Mayon asked. He was in a provocative mood.
‘Well, he just should. Good manners,’ Argus said. ‘I did him a favour, and he’s supposed to thank me.’
‘Listen, boyo,’ said Mayon. ‘What’s all this “should” and “supposed to” stuff? We’re talking about people here, human beings. “Should” and “meant to” don’t apply. Once you start to formulate codes of behaviour and decide that everyone has to abide by them, and that those who don’t are rude or ignorant or bad, then you’ve lost sight of what people are. Tell me, why did you help Tiresias by offering to carry his chair?’
‘I felt sorry for him,’ Argus said promptly. ‘He was getting in such a mess, and I thought it’d be nice to give him a hand.’
‘All right, now tell me another reason.’
‘I felt bad that we don’t get on very well and I thought it might help him understand that I don’t dislike him,’ Argus said, not quite as promptly.
‘Do you dislike him?’
‘Well, not dislike him exactly, but I don’t like him all that much. He’s so unfriendly. I feel sorry for him, but he makes me a bit nervous.’
‘Now tell me another reason for carrying the chair.’
‘Um . . . I wanted to see what the inside of his caravan looked like, ’cos he’s always so secretive.’
‘Right. Next one.’
Blushing, but laughing a little at himself, Argus hung his head and said, ‘I wanted everyone around the fire to see what a good fellow and helpful person I am. Especially because I’ve been pretty lazy today, and I thought people might be a bit angry at me.’
Mayon laughed with him. ‘You’re certainly honest,’ he said. ‘Now, what does all that tell you?’
‘That everything’s much more complicated than it first seems,’ Argus said, remembering the old leather-covered book back at the farmhouse, a long long time ago. ‘Nothing’s simple.’
‘Yes, that line sounds familiar,’ Mayon commented. ‘And that’s a good start. But what else can you say?’
Argus considered for a few moments, then decided what he wanted to say. ‘What I don’t like about all this,’ he said, ‘is that it makes me wonder if there’s any such thing as people being kind to each other, just for the sake of being kind. You know, “being good”, which we’re always told to be. Does “good” mean anything at all?’
Mayon shrugged. ‘It’d be very convenient if everything was as simple as that. The world would be a simple place. But shallow and two-dimensional as well. I mean, when two people look at a pond, who has the richer view? The one who sees the pretty sheet of water, or the one who also sees the rich life teeming in the depths and around the edges? Is it better to be ignorant and happy, or wise and sad? Assuming those words go together, which of course they often don’t. I don’t know what the answer is to the question, and indeed the question is too “black and white” to be worth much, but I do know that as soon as you start to formulate rules and laws and codes of behaviour you’re in trouble. And that goes for something as simple as a system of manners. Because they don’t allow for the complexity of each situation, nor for the fact that each situation is so different. Your carrying of the chair, for example. If you’d carried it a day earlier or a day later, or if you’d carried it for someone else, or if someone else carried the chair for Tiresias — then a whole different set of factors would have come into play.’ Mayon paused for breath.
‘But you have to have rules and laws,’ Argus objected. ‘I mean, there are some situations that are just bad, and so one law can cover them.’
‘Such as?’ Mayon asked.
‘Well, killing,’ Argus said. ‘I mean, killing someone’s always wrong.’ He paused a moment and thought, trying to see his statement through the glasses that Mayon was providing. ‘No, I guess not,’ he concluded reluctantly.
‘Why not then?’ Mayon prompted.
‘Well,’ Argus said, ‘because every case is different. Sometimes the person gets provoked into doing it. Or the person who does it might be a bit mad in the head, so they don’t know what they’re doing. Or someone might have been brought up to be violent, or without any self-discipline; so even though the killing is wrong, the killer can’t be blamed much.’
‘Yes, good,’ Mayon agreed. ‘Also, there are so many different situations in which one person might end the life of another. There’s the soldier on the battlefield, for example. He is probably in a different category from a person who murders for money. And then there’s the man I knew once, who owned a fishing boat and worked from a port near here. He would fish a long way out, three or four days’ journey from his home. When his little son was old enough he would accompany his father and help as much as he could. But, one night the candle they were using started a fire. The little boy’s clothing caught alight, and he was frightfully burnt. The father knew a little medicine and realised that the boy could not survive the three day trip back to port. He knew the boy would die in appalling agony, and so he took a pillow and ended his son’s life.’
‘And if someone’s about to hurt you or kill you, or hurt someone in your family,’ Argus said, ‘you might kill them then, if there was no other way out of it.’
‘We’ve come a long way from you carrying a chair for Tiresias,’ Mayon laughed.
‘I still think he’s a weird person,’ Argus commented.
Mayon was exasperated. ‘Then you’ve learnt nothing from this conversation! When you say “weird”, you mean he doesn’t match up to your set of “rules” for human beings — rules that are impossible, inappropriate, and which ignore everything you’ve come to understand about people!’ He cuffed the boy lightly but affectionately on the head. ‘Go and check the performance area. I’m going to bed.’
Argus ambled away into the dark, his mind in a turmoil. He wondered if one day he would figure it all out, understand everything, but a quick glance up at the stars reminded him most emphatically that he wouldn’t. He tightened a few ropes on the main tent and picked up some rubbish that was blowing around, then he too went to bed. He dreamt that night that he was walking through a huge house of many storeys. The higher he went in the house, the steeper and more difficult the stairs became, and the more cluttered were the rooms. But each succeeding room was also full of richer and more fascinating treasures. When he woke in the morning and recalled the dream, Argus needed no help in understanding what it meant.
Chapter Thirteen
Argus and Temora walked miles and miles along the sand. At times they had to scramble across rocks to get around the headlands, but usually they were able to enjoy the fine white powder that lay warm under their feet. Three weeks had passed since their passionate afternoon near Finauer; the fair was about to turn inland again, on a route that would take it a long way from the coast. On their only afternoon off in the area, the two young people had decided to enjoy a last sight of the sea.
In three weeks they had formed a close friendship that they both valued. The fair had been moving quite quickly through a number of small fishing towns, so the work had been hard and the hours long. The turnover of stringers had been so heavy that Argus was now Jud’s longest-serving employee. Often they had been short-staffed and everyone had to take on extra duties. Argus had grown to respect Temora’s cheerful serenity, her ready grasp of detail, her willingness to work without complaint for lengthy stretches of time. When he was tired his spirits were often raised by her cobbled laughter.
At first they had been teased often about their friendship, especially by Ruth, and by the twins, Lavolta and Parara. Condemned to a life in which normal relationships were impossible, the twins, Parara in particular, were fascinated by other people’s affairs. After a few days, however, the teasing stopped, as new matters came along to claim the general interest. In fact Argus and Temora had not had many opportunities to be alone together. When they were alone, the conversation was sometimes faltering and sti
lted, sometimes flowing and easy. The same was true of their physical relationship. There were days when neither of them wanted to touch each other. There were days when one was in an erotic mood but the other wasn’t. On a couple of memorable occasions both had delighted in the pleasure they could give each other. Sometimes when they had been talking late into the night in Temora’s tent Argus would end up sleeping there but, despite Jud’s sly innuendos, on most of these occasions they just enjoyed the comfort of having a warm body to hug and hold.
Now, on the beach, they were roaming far and wide, racing across long expanses of sand to throw shells at seagulls or to examine unusual clumps of seaweed. And then they would walk side by side, talking about anything and everything. ‘You know,’ said Argus on one of these occasions, ‘the whitest things in the world are seagulls, milk and fresh snow. They’re the three whitest things.’
On one headland the rocks were piled up in huge jumbles and the waves beat furiously against them. The air was full of spray and an invisible vapour danced on the faces of Argus and Temora, as they watched from a distance. ‘All that power and noise,’ Temora said. ‘It looks like the water’s not doing anything, but it always wins in the end. It might take centuries, but it wears those rocks away, sooner or later.’
‘Imagine if you could harness the power,’ Argus said. ‘That’d be something. You could do a lot with that.’
It was difficult to get around the headland, and they were nearly inclined to give up and go back, feeling they had come far enough already. But Argus’ suggestion that they should do just that was turned down by Temora. ‘No, come on’ she said, laughing, ‘there could be something magical on the other side.’ So they inched their way up a crack in a rock, and crawled over a long, dangerously smooth and slippery section, then squeezed through some narrow gaps, until Temora, who was leading, gave a triumphant shout and cascaded down a sandhill onto the new beach.
This was a beach different from any other they had come across. It was quite small, and very beautiful: a stream of fresh water coming down a fern-lined gully had enabled the dark-green vegetation to grow right to the edge of the sand. It was rockier than the other beaches too, and its surrounds were riddled with dark holes that indicated caves. The outstanding feature though, compared to any other part of the coastline they had been on, was the evidence of a human presence. In the fringe of palms and grass and bushes along the treeline was a hut built of roughly hewn timber and driftwood, with two glassless windows that gazed at the unknowing ocean. A hessian curtain flapped idly in the sea breeze, unchecked by any human hand. A homemade chair sat empty by the front door, also facing the waves. Seagulls stalked the beach, pecking angrily at the heavy wet sand. Nothing else moved.
‘Let’s go,’ said Temora. ‘I don’t like the look of this.’ But there was nothing in her voice to suggest that she really wanted to go, and she made no movement back towards the headland. When Argus began walking towards the hut, she followed readily enough.
They came to the door of the hut and stood about two body-lengths from it, trying to see in to the black interior. ‘Is anyone there?’ Argus called out nervously. There was no answer. He took a few more steps forward and peered through the doorway. ‘I think there is someone there, asleep,’ he said to Temora, who was looking over his shoulder. He knocked loudly on the wooden frame, hurting his knuckles a little in doing so. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could see there was indeed someone stretched out on a camp bed against a side wall. Argus knocked again, and called, ‘Hello! Anyone home?’
‘Maybe he’s dead,’ Temora said, and giggled.
‘Don’t laugh,’ Argus said grimly. ‘I think he might be.’
Temora gasped, and Argus stepped gingerly into the hut and over to the bed. One look at the open mouth and staring eyes of the figure on the bed told him all that he needed to know. Temora, now framed darkly in the doorway, asked, ‘Is he?’
‘Yes,’ said Argus, ‘only it’s not a he, it’s a she.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Temora, ‘I’ve never seen a dead body.’
‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Argus, aware that he was hardly acting appropriately, but not sure what he should be feeling. Temora came forward and stood beside him, gazing in fascination, her hand over her mouth.
‘What do you think she died of?’ Temora asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Argus answered, ‘but she looks pretty old.’
He picked up the cold white hand that hung lifeless beside the bed and placed it across the woman’s chest, linking it with the other hand that was already there. Then, not without some revulsion, he closed the tired eyes and tried to close the slack mouth, but without success. Temora took a cloth from a washstand and soaked it in a nearby bucket of water, then gently wiped the dried white saliva from around the mouth. They looked helplessly at each other.
‘What do we do now?’ Argus asked.
‘I don’t know. Take the blanket off and see if she had any bad injuries or anything.’
Argus lifted the hands while Temora peeled off the blanket. Argus was praying that she would not be naked but she was dressed in a rough shift made of brightly coloured material. Though there were no signs of obvious trauma her legs were covered with many old scars and burns, that showed up pale against the dark tanned skin. Her feet were bare.
‘Well, I don’t know what she died of,’ Temora said.
‘Guess it doesn’t matter,’ Argus answered. ‘It doesn’t matter to her now, anyway.’ He folded the blanket and put it on an old box that sat next to the bed and they stood looking down at the body.
‘It’s amazing,’ said Temora. ‘She seems so . . . sort of colourless. Not white, just colourless, the way water has no colour. I’m not scared of her any more but I can’t say she’s exactly an attractive sight. Her skin feels a bit clammy.’
‘She looks like she’d have been a nice old lady though,’ said Argus. ‘I mean, it’s a bit hard to say with her mouth the way it is, but she looks sort of kind. Not that you can ever tell, of course.’
Temora was starting to take an interest in the contents of the little hut. Apart from the bed and box and washstand the single room dwelling contained only an improvised table, made out of planks, a couple of stools, and a number of other trunks and boxes that served as cupboards. The decorations were simple: a painting of a boat, done in a child’s hand, but old and faded; a broken doll, one-eyed and battered; a couple of bottles containing flowers; some shells and pebbles; and a dried flower arrangement. The only features that were really striking were a number of beautifully-worked pieces of embroidery hung around the walls and piled on top of one of the boxes. The scenes they depicted were of children: children dressed in vivid clothes; children at work; children on a beach; children playing musical instruments and dancing.
Temora and Argus looked through the pile of pieces on the box, lost in admiration. Both were aware that they had never seen more skilful work. The designs and the execution were the work of a great artist. ‘Maybe she had children and lost them?’ Argus ventured.
‘Mmmm,’ Temora said. ‘These are amazing. My mother does embroidery but she’d give up if she ever saw these. Look at that doll.’ She pointed to a broken doll that had been worked into one of the pieces, a perfect miniature of the doll perched on the window-sill of the hut.
Argus started to open some of the boxes and chests. The first one contained only a jumble of clothes; the second a collection of books that seemed to be mainly poetry and which showed evidence of having been well-read. Other boxes held cooking and eating utensils and food. But it was the last box, nearest the bed, that revealed something of a personal nature. There were various curios, oddments, bits of jewellery, and a packet of papers.
‘I don’t know if we ought to be doing this,’ said Temora uneasily, as Argus pulled out the papers and began to open them.
Argus shrugged. ‘Looks like she’s all alone. I don’t imagine she’d have visitors from one year to the next. We sh
ould at least try to find out who she is.’ He unrolled a sheet of paper and, after glancing over it, began reading out loud:
My boat moves out through the harbour.
I slip like a ghost past the bar.
I catch the wind at the headland
And steer by the evening star.
My vessel is stormed at by water
That tears at my sheets and my sails.
My bow is lost in the furrows
As water floods over the rails.
But it’s storms that give me my reason
And darkness that strengthens my sight.
From days of sweet calm I learn patience.
I sail unafraid into night.
I’m not a hunter or trader.
I go where I must, at the call.
The treasure of death still awaits me,
A dark, golden world to explore.
They were both silent for a few moments. ‘It’s hard to believe,’ Temora said at last, ‘that she could have written anything like that, the way she’s lying there now.’ Argus continued to sort through the papers. There were more poems, and a packet of sketches, mainly of sea-birds, executed amateurishly but with a loving touch. About half the pile seemed to consist of letters. Argus started to read one but then stopped almost at once, and parcelled them up again. ‘It doesn’t seem right,’ he said.
Temora had found a very old, very solid brass magnifying glass, and was using it to examine a ring set with a deep red stone. ‘Beulah,’ she announced, reading an inscription on the inside of the ring. ‘That must be her name.’
