“No, thanks. How do you feel about going on?”
“I’m all right.”
Billy bent down to get hold of his pack and put it on, but Matthew stopped him. “You have a rest from that. Til carry it.”
“I can manage it quite easily.”
“Never mind.” He touched the boy’s forehead and found it hot to his fingers. “I think by tomorrow we’ll be able to stop and rest properly.” He stared round at the scene of bareness and devastation. “We can’t stay here.”
There was an upward slope to the land after the ridge, not a very pronounced gradient but one which went on and on exhaustingly. The ground was extensively shattered, riven with cracks and fissures and littered with loose rocks, from cobble size to huge boulders taller than a man. Above the tide line it was still all devastation; at one place there was a stretch of woodland in which not a single tree remained upright—the whole had been smashed to a level of undergrowth.
They had covered nowhere near as great a distance as he had hoped, but he had to call an early halt; the boy was too tired to go on. The sun was quite low in the west. Matthew tried to get a fire going but failed. He opened a tin of sardines, but Billy would not eat anything. Matthew covered him in the blanket and sat near him, talking of anything that came into his head, trying to cheer him up. After a time his breathing changed, and Matthew realized he was asleep.
Billy woke during the night with a sharp cry that wakened Matthew also. He was shivering again, with greater violence than before.
Matthew said, “What is it, Billy?”
“I want to go home.” He was sobbing with deep gasping sobs; it was more an adult misery than a child’s. “I don’t like the trees.” He was feverish.
Matthew said, “There aren’t any trees, Billy. It will be all right.”
“The trees all broken … I’m cold. My feet are cold.”
“We’ll find you a warm place tomorrow, a warm comfortable place.” He hugged the small body to him. “Try to get to sleep, Billy.”
In the end the boy dozed off. Matthew lay awake for some time, thinking about the destruction by which they were surrounded. There were these belts, stretches of land where the shocks had caused greater damage than elsewhere. Alderney, for instance. They would be out of it tomorrow. The going was bound to get easier. They would reach Battle by evening, perhaps before. After that … He had not just been comforting the boy: After that, it would be all right.
He thought Billy seemed better in the morning; he spoke more cheerfully and managed to eat some ham. But Matthew still would not let him put the pack on his back, carrying it himself by the straps. The going was easier, too, justifying his optimism. There were fewer fissures and landslips, and they passed close by a copse in which most of the trees were standing. Not long after they started, they had skirted the rubble of buildings which Matthew thought might be part of the hinterland of Brighton, and their course now took them through a valley with hills on either side that looked like what he remembered of the Downs. Far up on one of the slopes he saw a moving dot of white, and recognized it as a sheep grazing. It gave him a lift of hope. Perhaps the good lands would lie beyond the bad.
Billy was faltering, and he cheered him up by telling him a story of what was going to happen: The land was getting better, and they would find this place up in the hills, with trees all round—not broken trees but trees you could climb—and they would build a hut, like the hermits only bigger, and Jane would be there with them, and she would nurse Billy until he was well, and after that she would look after them both, and they would go and hunt for food for the winter, and chop wood so that they could have warm fires. Billy said something, but he did not quite catch it.
“What was that, Billy?”
“Will it be long?”
“Not long. Keep at it, old chap. When we get there, you can rest as long as you like. Do you want to rest a bit now?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’d rather go on, Mr. Cotter.”
The line of horizon grew nearer. They were going up toward the crest of this long long rise. Going down would be easier, and they should be able to see across the plain the hills which were their objective. It would not seem so bad once they were in sight.
He said to Billy, “We’ll rest at the top there, and I’ll point it out to you.”
The sun had come out, and for the last two or three hundred yards they were bathed in sunshine. When Matthew saw beyond the crest, beyond the sharp crumbling drop, to what lay beyond, it was a dazzle of silver first, a great gleam which he did not understand. Understanding came as he stood there, and his gaze took it in fully.
This was the missing sea. Bright blue, polished by sunlight, it stretched on ahead of them, with no break or sign of land.
He stood, confused, half seeing, half remembering.
On such a summer’s day, the first time they came to the island, they had gone to the cliffs, to Icart, and there had been that broadness, that silvered blueness, and they had been away from everything, alone together, the small golden-curled figure beside him in a scarlet windcheater with a bright blue lining, and she had gasped with wonder and pleasure, and he had known that what he had was peace, an end to all the irritations and bickering; and known that there was a term to happiness.
He heard April’s voice:
—I despise you as a man. As a person, I almost envy you. Nothing has changed for you except the scenery.
He argued with her now, as he had been unable to do then:
—She was worth searching for, worth abandoning everything else for.
—You had lost her already, April’s voice said.—You lost her when she went away, grown up, to live her own life. You were searching for a fantasy.
—For the living person, no fantasy. She might have survived. There was a chance.
—No chance, and you knew that. You chose the fantasy because you could not face life. You never could.
—It was different for you. You buried your dead.
—Yes. He heard the warmth and bitterness and strength in her voice.—I buried my dead.
He turned from her, from the accusation, from the experience of pain and ugliness, to the sea of the past. There had been rain in the night, he remembered—he had heard it beating against the hotel window—and the morning had been clean and fresh, diamond-bright, and the gorse flowers sharply golden against the sky. Jane had gone running ahead along the cliff walk, picking flowers, and he had followed her. They would come and live here, he thought, and he would have this for a few years, and then the recollection of it… .
April’s voice:
—You chose the fantasy. Even so long ago.
—Reality, not fantasy. I knew I had to lose her. I was prepared for that
—And afterwards?
—Afterwards? Nothing. Nothing that matters.
—No. That’s why I despise you.
The sea, he thought, the heart-easing beauty, the contentment. To stand and look out at something like infinity, with the small figure silent by one’s side. Although her body lay far out under the calm water, the moment had been real and was real. If from staring he looked down quickly beside him …
He looked, and knew himself, and understood. Not Jane, but Billy, staring uncomprehendingly at the sea, still shivering in the warm sun. He had taken his fantasy to the bitter end and seen it drown. That was not important. But the boy was ill.
16
THE SLOPE was downhill and the sun was warm in their faces, but they did not get very far on the return journey that day. Suddenly Billy was tired, complaining of pains in his legs. They stopped to rest at increasingly shorter intervals, and at last, as the sun went down, Matthew decided that he must have sleep. There was a fairly large mound of ruins nearby, and after he had settled Billy as comfortably as possible, he went foraging. The debris was very much fragmented, but it looked as though it had not been turned over before.
The things one found, though, were less and less valuable w
ith time and exposure to the elements. Blankets with a Harrods label, but damp and musty, growing some kind of fungus in the folds. If they were washed and dried out they would still be all right; here and now they were useless. A stack of tins, but most of them blown and all of them rusted and with labels that the wetness had made indecipherable. The smell of death had largely given way to the dank smell of rot. Death was still in evidence, but showing the cleaner gleam of bone. A skeleton in stained and tattered red pajamas, crushed in the ruins of a bed. Matthew was turning away when he saw the shine of metal; a lighter, clasped between fingers from which the flesh had gone.
At first he was disposed to leave it; the fuel would have evaporated, and the chances of finding a new supply were pretty small. But the arm moved, jolted slightly by the shift of his weight, and the lighter slipped from the bony fingers and fell. Matthew picked it up and saw that it was not an ordinary lighter but a butane one. He spun the wheel, and the flame jetted out. Quickly he cut it off; it was too valuable to waste.
After that he abandoned foraging and instead collected wood and built a fire close to the place where Billy was lying. The boy had been asleep, but he awoke and stared at the leaping flames. Matthew went through the food that was left in his pack and found the tin of pheasant in wine sauce that he had picked up on Alderney. It was something, he thought, that might tempt the boy’s appetite, and he set about warming it up. He talked to Billy while he did so, telling him that they would soon be at the hermit’s hut, where he could rest properly. And when he was well, they would go back to the grotto, to Lawrence and the others, and stay with them. He would like that, wouldn’t he?
He nodded. The night was drawing in fast, and the firelight glowed on the whiteness of his face. He said, “Jane is dead, isn’t she, Mr. Cotter?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” And that was true; The boy was sorry for him.
He felt ashamed, angry with himself. He said, “Never mind. Supper’s nearly ready. Let’s see how much you can eat this time.”
That was not much, and only at Matthew’s patient urging. Later he dozed off, to wake in nightmare. The earth was moving, the house falling down around him. He was trapped and could not move. He called out for his mother, and Matthew held him in his arms to comfort him.
“Dad,” Billy said, “Dad—is it all right, Dad?”
“Its all right. Go to sleep. There’s nothing to worry about now.”
There was plenty of wood but most of it in unwieldy lengths. Matthew found enough that could be broken by hand, though, to keep the fire alive until the small hours of the night. Billy slept fitfully at first but later fell into a heavy slumber. Matthew dozed beside him. He awoke at first light and set about finding means of getting the fire going again. Billy slept on, and the sun was well up before he wakened.
He was, Matthew knew, not really well enough to go on. On the other hand, there was no means of looking after him properly here, and no shelter. The weather had been kind again, but it was unlikely that that would last. If the rain returned … And they were not much more than a day’s journey from the hermit. Billy could be left there while Matthew covered the final stretch to the grotto. And Lawrence had not only medical skill and experience, but some medical supplies. It was the only sensible thing to do. .
Billy was listless and disinclined to move, but Matthew coaxed and jollied him into activity. Once they had started, he seemed a little better, but he was very weak, and Matthew gave him as much chance to rest as possible. He let him have quite a long rest in the middle of the day, when he got another fire going and warmed up soup. While it was warming, Billy said that it smelled good, but after a few sips he turned his head away. The high temperature had returned; his forehead burned to the touch.
They made poor time during the day, but they had luck with the evening stop. They were traveling above the tide line, and Matthew saw ruins on the far side of a field and rectangular blocks of yellow which intrigued him. He went closer to investigate, and called Billy to follow him. The ruin had been a farm, and nearby a Dutch barn had collapsed in splintered and shattered wood, scattering baled straw all round. Some of the bales were still wired, but many of them had broken open. It was a fairly easy matter to make a bed for Billy, and the straw also helped in starting a fire. After he had done that, Matthew went hunting round the neighboring fields and found potatoes. Foragers had been here before, but there had been little method or concentration in their ransacking, and he found quite a lot of potatoes in the ground.
He came back and told Billy. “Well bake them. Do you think you’ll like that?”
Billy nodded. “I think so.”
“How do you feel now?”
He coughed. He had begun coughing during the day, a deep rasping which sounded painful, but he did not complain about it. “Not so bad.”
He ate a couple of baked potatoes and a little meat, and Matthew thought he would settle. He found straw for himself, and went to sleep exhaustedly. Billy’s coughing woke him, and he went to the boy to find him feverish and uneasy. He sat with him for a long time before he fell into deep sleep. Then he got back into the straw and woke to a day cloudy but bright. It must be at least an hour after sunrise.
Matthew had seen a stream beyond the potato field, and he went there now, to wash and to refill their water container. He took Billy’s empty bag also, and filled it with potatoes. Even though they were hampered by Billy’s feebleness, he had good hopes of reaching the hermit’s hut that day. The potatoes would be a small return for hospitality. He took his time, choosing the best tubers, and came back whistling to the place where he had left Billy. He stopped whistling as he came round the corner of the ruins of the barn. Billy was still there, but so were others. Half a dozen men, and two bedraggled women.
One of the men was holding the shotgun.
He was a dark shaggy man, an inch or two over six feet, wearing a black leather jacket. He gave the appearance of being in authority over the others; apart from holding the gun, a pair of field glasses was suspended from a strap round his neck and rested against his chest. There was a scar down one side of his face, only partly masked by his black beard. It looked a recent one, acquired either during the earthquakes or in fighting subsequently.
He said, in a thick north-country voice, “So you’ve got back. Are there any others, or is it just you and the lad?”
There was no point in lying to him. Matthew said, “Just us.”
“That’s what it seemed like.” He lifted the gun and sighted along the barrel, drawing an imaginary bead on something in the distance. “Quite a useful piece, this. Where did you get hold of it?”
“I picked it up.”
“And a box of cartridges. Very handy. Just the one box? No more tucked away somewhere?”
Matthew said, “No. You can see were traveling.”
“Aye, it looked like that.” He put down the gun and stared at Billy, still lying in the straw. “He’s not a bad-favored youngster.” He bent down and pushed a grimy fist against his cheek. “What’s thi name, then?”
“Billy.”
“Fair enough. How’d you like to come with us, Billy?” Matthew said, “He’s sick. I’m taking him to some people who can look after him—a doctor.”
The man stood up and, almost without looking, cracked Matthew across the face with the back of his hand.
He said, “I’ll tell you when to talk. I’m asking the boy, not you. You can do what you bloody well like.” He laughed. “I couldn’t fancy you much.” He turned back to Billy. “How about coming with us, eh?”
Billy had a fit of coughing. When he had finished, he said weakly, “No, thank you. I want to stay with Mr. Cotter.”
The man had been smiling, but the smile faded. He said, “And you will do as you’re bloody well told, or you’ll feel the edge of my strap. Get up!”
Matthew said, “He’s sick.”
The man turned round slowly, and took a step toward Matthew. He said, “I warned yo
u, didn’t I? You must be more bloody stupid than you look.”
“I don’t know what it is,” Matthew said, ‘“but the other two died of it. There were four of us. There’s this cough and after that blotches and sores.” He tried desperately to remember the symptoms of plague. “And swelling in the groin.”
The rest of them had fallen back at his first sentence. The leader stuck it better. He stared at Matthew and weighed the gun in his hands. “Guns don’t carry germs,” he said, “or if they do, I reckon I’ll take a chance on it. Tins don’t, either.” He swung round to the others. “Tip that bag out, and take the tinned stuff. Come on, jillo!”
They hung back, showing their reluctance. He studied them for a long moment, and then broke the gun and clipped the barrel back in place.
“Both loaded,” he said. “I can spare one cartridge—two if I have to. So pick up that stuff, and we’ll get moving.”
They scrambled to obey him this time. He must have shown in the past, Matthew thought, that his threats were not idle ones. And he was a powerful man; some of the other men and both the women showed marks that might have been those of violence. Matthew wondered about the gun. Clearly he saw it as increasing his power. But if one of the others got hold of it … And he would have to sleep.
As one of them picked up the box of cartridges, he said, “I’ll have that!” He took half a dozen cartridges and stuffed them in the breast pocket of his jacket, and then gave the box to one of the women. “Mind you look after it. All right. We’ll be on our way.”
They started to move off. The big man looked at Matthew and shook his head slightly. “You may be lying,” he said, “but its not worth taking chances. And the kids sick, all right. But just in case you are lying …”
He swung without warning, and with extraordinary power and skill. The punch caught Matthew on the side of the jaw, and he felt himself lifted and slammed down. The ground hit him hard. Lying there dazed, he worked it out that the man must have been a professional boxer at some time. He did not have much leisure to ponder this, though. A boot caught him savagely in the side, making him cry out with pain. He doubled up, feeling sick. He heard footsteps going away, and looked up. Billy was watching him, frightened.
A Wrinkle in the Skin Page 20
