by Clare Dudman
He looks at Megan, wanting her to turn around and look at him, but she stays exactly where she is, glaring at Edwyn.
The sheep are not only needed by the men in the valley, Edwyn points out, but will be needed by the rest of the colonists when they get there, and the only way to get them there is overland – the flock is too large now to go by any small ship. Someone is going to have to go sooner or later – and they will be doing the colony a great service if they go now. Edwyn shifts a little away from Megan’s gaze and then locks Silas’ eyes with his own. ‘What do you say, Mr James, are you ready?’ He tips his head to one side and a grin twitches beneath Edwyn’s beard. ‘Or are you afraid?’
There are a few moments of silence before Silas gives the only possible answer.
Ten
Yeluc
For some time I waited. Songs turned to chants and chants into the mumbling of wind over weeds. As the men quenched their fires the women led the children away and their bodies became shadow and the shadows became night. My stomach reminded me it had not been fed, so I crept down to where their embers still had reddened sleepy eyes. There was meat there. I could smell it – small pieces they had dropped. It was overdone, spoilt, but I was hungry. My feet made no sound on the sand and I bade Elal entice the wind from its sleep to blow sand over my tracks.
I saw where they slept. There was one guarding the entrance to their chamber with one of his sticks but he slept too. They had drawn up the ground to make a shelter. They had assembled one stone upon another and on top of this tied down reeds and bits of twig. They were like the Cristianos then: they do not like to wander after the rou, instead they build houses and keep their animals with them. These animals are sad beasts. They are kept in pens with earth walls and their misery when they see the world and yet cannot go out into it, gives them the long white fur of an old man. I know this. I have heard them bleat. Sometimes the bleats are angry but mostly they are sad. It is a sound that travels across the desert and has greater power than the wind. Anyone who hears it becomes a little sad too and is moved easily to tears.
Ah Elal, are these your beasts too? Or are there some you do not own? I heard some of these animals lowing close by but I didn’t go and see them then. Instead I crept to where these strangers slept. I stood still by their entrance and watched them sleep. They had one small lamp but it allowed me to see them all: men in one place, women and their young curled beside them in another. Their air was foul with their breath and the walls held it there – still, fetid, the sealed inside of a carcass left too long in the sun. Then, as I watched, one of them stirred. A girl-child. Even though she was as tall as a young warrior and her breast as lean as a boy’s, I could see what she was. The line of her jaw was soft, her cheeks full and dark, her hair like the many twisted twigs of the calafate. She raised herself up and seemed to look at me but she didn’t see me. I was as still as a reed on a windless day. For the count of five heartbeats I saw the lamp shine off her eyes and then they closed again and she fell back. She murmured to the body that lay next to her and moved closer, curving herself around the other, her arm reaching out. And I remembered how that felt, how it was to be wrapped in the body of another, and I remembered Seannu and longed to be with her again.
So I climbed the hillside above their camp and clicked behind my teeth for Roberto. Seannu and her sisters had left and gone inland. I knew from the signs they had left in the fire – a round stone and then a longer one pointed to where the sun rises – where to find them. But it was dark so I lay below my mantle and listened to Roberto tearing at the dead grass beneath the thorns. It is a comforting noise and it always makes me sleep, even when my stomach is growling at me and memories are trying to prod me awake.
I awoke with the sun and the strangers calling to each other on the beach below. Only one of them noticed my footprints: the girl who woke in the night, I saw her following them then looking up to the cliff where they stopped. She didn’t see me. Elal has bestowed upon me a gift: I can become thorn even to a passing mikkeoush, and I am silent because Elal guides my steps.
I watched then as they went to where the cattle lowed, the hogs grunted and their white rou-like creatures were entrapped. Beside them was a pool, encrusted at the edges with salt, pink as flamingos, and the men trod through this with short, sharp shouts as if they had seen something great, when really they had seen nothing at all: just a pool that will pass, something that comes with the winter rains and then disappears as soon as the sun stays longer in the sky. But they took the water from this place and smacked their lips.
It takes them a long time to return for they are laden with water. I can hear each footstep as they snap twigs and break through the crust of sand. They have barrels which it takes two of them to carry, and buckets and some have bottles which I watch to see if one breaks for if it does I shall remember where it falls and scoop up the fragments: a piece of bottle is precious, Seannu would pounce upon it, the blackness of her eyes surrounded at all sides with white.
But nothing fell, everything was carried as carefully as a mother carries her young, and they were singing a low tune in time with their steps. For a time I listened, then my mouth moved with theirs, and then quietly, so quiet my voice was just a murmur, their words became mine, a sound like their animals staring at the fence, deep in my throat.
Careful Yeluc. Even though you are far away and they don’t look back, they still might see you. Elal doesn’t own them as he owns you. His power might slip. Your voice may grow loud and there are things you cannot help.
The sun rose in the sky and soon I could smell the camp: meat boiling in water, the fragrance of wood turning to ash, and another smell, sweet, intoxicating, making me want to go closer. But I did not.
That smell, and with it a word that they used that can be rolled on the tongue. Bara. Bread. The promise of sweetness in the mouth, the shell of the outside and then softness within. A nut and then the gentleness of young meat. It was that day that I smelt it first, with the strangers, and I knew then that I would know them, because of that smell, because of what they could do.
Eleven
The sheep have evil eyes, their pupils like slits, and the irises a poisonous yellow. When they bleat it is as if an old man is groaning, and Silas is sure they are complaining to each other as they trot. John Jones is a small tired-looking man with a large family; the grown-up children of his first late wife having been left behind in Wales. He whistles and his dog comes to heel – a fine obedient animal, and Silas feels a pang of jealousy. He remembers Polly, Benny and Sammy, the way they always seemed so anxious to please, and the way Polly in particular used to look at him with such unconditional adoration and trust. Then he remembers the last time he saw them – trussed up by Trevor Pritchard’s sons – and quickly blinks away the memory.
John’s dog pants, its tongue lolling from its mouth.
‘Good boy.’ John pats the animal on its head, and the dog’s tail whips the air. ‘Ready?’ he asks Silas. Silas nods. They have enough supplies to last a couple of days, which Edwyn has insisted would be enough to take them to the valley.
‘Besides, you are sure to find more water, there will be ponds, just as there are here,’ he assures them.
‘And the odd fountain appearing miraculously from a rock, I expect,’ Silas mutters to himself miserably. But there is not much else they can do – there is a limit to how much water a man can carry, and if they carry too much they will travel even more slowly.
‘Faith, Silas,’ Edwyn says, clapping him on the shoulder.
‘I’ve got faith,’ Silas says, shaking him off.
‘You’ll see when you get there.’
They glare at each other for a few seconds more and then their eyes drop away.
John sets off, whistling at the dog to follow, and for a few minutes the dry valley to the south is filled again – this time with sheep instead of white, dirty water. Silas gives Myfanwy and then Megan and Gwyneth a long tight hug.
‘You l
ook after your mam now,’ he tells Myfanwy and the child nods seriously. Silas laughs and runs his fingers lightly through her hair. ‘Tell me if she’s been naughty, understand? And make sure she eats all her dinner.’ Then looking firmly forwards he begins to walk. When he is sure that they can’t see the expression on his face he allows himself to look back. Stupid, he tells himself, blinking away tears, and slaps the rump of a straggler with the palm of his hand. It gives a surprised little trot and then scampers after the rest.
For a couple of hours they make good progress. John seems to know where to go without a compass. He heads off with a confidence Silas alternately admires and doubts. There is a driving wind that makes every move forward a struggle and the sheep are irritating – some straggle, while others stray from the rest. He runs after them as quickly as he can, encouraging them back on course but soon he is left behind, with just a few sheep near him. He slaps them all on the rear and encourages them onwards with a click from the side of his mouth – a sound that he usually reserves for horses. Then he looks around. John has disappeared from sight.
‘John?’ he calls but there is no answer. In the distance he thinks he can hear a dog bark. Suddenly anxious, he hurries towards it leaving the sheep behind. They will catch up if they have any sense. ‘John?’ he calls again, but there is no reply. Apart from half a dozen sheep, he is suddenly alone.
The wind has died down to a whisper but the pack on his back has thin leather straps which are eating into his shoulders. He stops for a short time to shift it into a more comfortable position and when he looks ahead again there is a fine mist drifting in from what he thinks must be the east. He hurries forward, calling out again for John and then the dog. The land becomes higher and the mist thicker. A mound he had thought was a sheep turns out to be a large pale-coloured rock. He stands on top of it trying to see, but the mist is rapidly thickening into fog. He listens for the sound of a bleat or a bark but there is nothing. In each direction the land, or at least the part of it he can see, is the same – undulating scrub, small thorns and tiny plants close to the ground like mould with sandy soil in between.
He hurries up a slope, his breath adding to the fog. His heart, drumming in his ears, is all he can hear. ‘John, can you hear me?’ he calls, but his voice is muffled.
Defeated, he sits and takes a swig from his bottle. In spite of the fog, which is making his clothes damp and heavy, he is thirsty. He squints anxiously at the sky searching for the sun, but the fog is too thick. How can the weather have changed so quickly? He searches again, thinks he sees a place where there is a glimmer of light, then pauses. Is it afternoon or morning? He guesses it must be afternoon by now – so over that hillock must be the west and that valley must lead south. He thinks of John and the way he strides out with such confidence. That way. It must be that way. He steps forward and immediately encounters his own footprints in the dust. Either he was going the wrong way before or he is now. He looks again at the sky. Maybe that patch of light isn’t the sun after all.
There is a strong whiff of smoke. How can he smell smoke in the middle of nowhere?
‘John?’ he calls again.
This time there is a faint sound in return but it is not a sound he knows. He stops still, holding his breath. Indians. He remembers now. That is how they smell. Like smoke, that’s what Selwyn Williams said. Like Hell. He sits as quietly as he can, and listens. The sound comes again. A distant drum. Very distant. Far, far away. He breathes again. A twig snaps close by. Snap. Another one. He tries not to move. Something is creeping closer, not taking care, not needing to take care because whatever it is is about to strike him or spear him with an arrow. He doesn’t quite know what weapons they have, but he expects they have arrows. In spite of the cold a small trickle of sweat starts to roll down his side from his armpit. Then an evil eye peers at him through the fog and its eyelid blinks. It opens its mouth and lets out a plaintive bleat. A sheep. His shoulders sink and he breathes out. Just a ewe. He stands and the sheep runs away to where he can no longer see her. Silas sinks onto the ground, unpacks his blanket and prepares to wait. At the moment there is no point in trying to go anywhere. He covers himself with his blanket and shuts his eyes.
In the morning the fog has gone and so have all the sheep. He takes another gulp of water from his flask and shakes it. Almost empty. He thinks of John – he must be almost at the river by now, if he has continued.
At least Silas can see the sun now. He decides to head towards it. If he reaches the sea then at least then he will know where he is. He staggers forward. The land is barren in all directions, like a desert, like the one the Israelites had wandered around when they had been cast out of Egypt. Like the place God the Son fought against the temptations of the Devil. No doubt Jacob would call this a test. Silas snorts. He doesn’t want to be tested, doesn’t want to have to think. When he starts to think all that he finds are uncomfortable questions. It is better not to think at all. ‘Be quiet!’ he yells at the empty hillside, and it shudders back his voice.
Something moves in front of him: a small bush divides and an armoured animal with fur and a pointed face and tail emerges, looks at him and then scurries away making a trail in the sand behind it. He has never seen such a thing before – an animal with its own battle dress – and thinks of going after it. Perhaps if he hit it hard enough with a rock he could kill it and drink its blood. Rock into bread. The lessons from Sunday school are slowly coming back to him. He follows its track over the sand but the animal is too fast for him. He reaches the top of the hill and looks around him. He smiles. Satan must be losing his power: God the Son was tempted by visions of great cities, but all Silas sees is a sand dune, and below that, stretching out against a long beach, the sea. For a few seconds he just stands and looks at it – enjoying the soft crashing of the waves against the shore. There is something comforting about its sound. It is familiar, recognisable – the same sea that Megan is seeing now, part of the same one that his sister can see from her back door at Conwy. The Atlantic is nothing more than a very large pond connecting them all. He runs, shouting, across the sand.
He guesses that this way is south, but he doesn’t care any more. He has used up all his water now and his throat is burning. When he swallows it hurts more. He tries not to think of drinking but when he does all he can remember is the spring he came across as a boy on his uncle’s farm. It had been raining and one day he had spotted a trickle of water emerging quietly from the ground where all there had been before was lichen-covered rock and mud. He remembers the sound and the smell of dry rock that had suddenly become wet and the taste of the water, slightly chalky, but cold and sweet against his tongue and then the lush green of the ferns and grass where the trickle joined a stream a few feet away.
Silas looks around him. Grass – how he misses it. Not these yellow-green tufts but grass that is as lush as a child’s head of hair, mile after mile over hills and fields, trimmed neatly with the constant nibbling of the sheep. He will never see it again, he realises, and treads onwards in the direction he hopes is south. The beach has given way to dunes, and he is walking along the top of these where the sand is harder and bound together with spiky vegetation. From time to time the dunes end abruptly in small cliffs. He stops at the end of one and looks around him. It is not that far down. He takes a few steps backwards and then runs forward and leaps into the air. The gap is greater than it looks. He lands awkwardly at the bottom of a gulley, his ankle twisted beneath him. A sharp burning sensation sears up his leg. He tries to stand but the pain causes him to cry out and collapse again. The wind sweeps down, channelled by the walls of the cliffs and he shivers. He manages to push himself near to upright on the leg that will bear his weight and finds a place where the wind has worn out a shallow cave in the sand.
He looks around him. This place has obviously been used by animals. He can smell the musty odour of old droppings. In the corner there is a heap of something that is partly black and partly white which he suspects is a carcas
s but has no intention of investigating more closely. If he were an animal, he thinks, he would crawl here to die. He curls up in a hollow, as far to the back as he can. At least here he is sheltered.
He sleeps. He dreams of the hilltop above Conwy and then, in a state halfway to sleep, allows himself to drift downwards through the castle gateway and the street where he first saw Megan. Such a beautiful girl – long, and not too lean, with long brown hair tied back in a blue bow of ribbon – and that way of glancing back she had, laughing at the stranger behind her, unafraid, slightly defiant. Talk to me. If you’d like. If you’d dare. And for a long time he hadn’t. For a long time he had been perfectly content just to look. If only he could see her now. Just one last look. As she was then.
He is smiling. In spite of everything he is smiling. He doesn’t want to wake. If only he could continue with this half dream, half memory. But in his dream, he moves. He jostles for position. There’s a fair in town and word is going round the fair that in one of the stalls there is the fattest woman in the world and she is sitting there, naked as the day God made her, smiling quite shamelessly at anyone who pays to take a look. Everyone is crowding close, keen to get in line. He is being nudged from both sides, tipping left, then right, laughing and crying out. Then behind him someone calls and he turns, knowing who it will be, anxious to see her, twisting around on one foot, all he wants is the merest glimpse of a smile, perhaps a word, or the touch of her hand, but all he feels and sees is pain – bursting through: white, searing, a scream burning everything else away. He opens his eyes. His ankle is twisted beneath him – and she is gone.
He closes his eyes again but there is nothing there. He shifts slightly but there is no point in moving. Eventually he will sleep and maybe he will return to his dream. It is all that matters. That dream and the girl with the ribbon. The one he loved. He will lie here and she will come back to him.
