by Clare Dudman
Outside it rains. At first all he notices is the cold, and then, incredulously, the comforting and familiar sound of the drops beating down. He thinks vaguely of puddles and reaches out with his hand so that it returns cold and wet. He licks his fingers then reaches out again. The taste of the water revives him a little. He crawls out and finds a small puddle and drinks it dry, scooping sand, mud and water into his mouth. He looks around. That small puddle was all there was and now the rain has stopped. He returns to his shelter and closes his eyes.
She doesn’t come back immediately. It is as though he has to work through the rest to find her: the spring, the street, the fair. But at last she’s there: a circle of light shining on her head as if there’s a halo touching her hair. She’s in front of him this time. It’s his turn to reach out, tap her on the shoulder… but when she turns it is the fat woman who looks round, with long black hairs sprouting from her chin, smiling at him with a toothless mouth, and two small horns on her forehead.
Silas opens his eyes and hears the end of his own scream. Outside it is just becoming light. He is panting; sweat that has soaked into his clothes is making him shiver. He tries frantically to get rid of the images in his head. He crawls from the cave and down the gully until he can see and hear the sea. His heart begins to slow and he allows himself to furtively touch the memory: it wasn’t Megan, not really, it was something else just pretending to be Megan.
He looks at his ankle. If he keeps his foot square to his leg it doesn’t hurt as much. Perhaps he can bind it there so it doesn’t move. He will go on, he decides, gritting his teeth as his ankle nudges the ground. It is important to keep fighting. Important not to forget.
He forces himself to his feet yelling out with the pain. There is no one to hear. It doesn’t matter. He yells again, enjoys the sound, and sniggers. He can walk, just, if he is careful. All this shouting and crying has made his throat dryer still. He needs to drink. He needs more water – if only he could find a pond, a river, a sea. The sea! He can’t believe he hasn’t thought of this before. It’s just a big pond of water.
He hobbles forward, a small man, more like a troll now than a man, his clothes hanging in ribbons where he has torn them on the thorn, his strands of hair grown long since they left the ship – a bright bedraggled ginger protruding from beneath the brim of a tatty, black felt hat. One deep footprint and then beside it a more shallow one – his good foot and then his bad one. The sea foams over the toe of his boot and he stops for a few minutes to sit down on the wet sand to remove it. Maybe the sea will cure him. He ties his boots around his neck and wades in to his waist. Cold. Jiw, jiw, it is cold. It doesn’t matter if yelling dries his throat now. There is plenty to drink. He cups it in his hand and tries to swallow, but he can’t. The salt makes him gag, but at least it is wet, and his legs are so cold he can’t feel them. He wades out, relishing the numbness, then picking his way back up the beach to the high-tide line and its fringe of seaweed and detitrus.
The wind is blowing again, making him cold, and the seaweed is sharp on his feet. He walks on a little more. Despite the seawater, he is still thirsty – in fact even more thirsty than he was before. He licks his lips and tastes the salt again and he is thirstier still. He quickens his pace. The faster he goes the sooner he will reach the river, or at least a pond. Maybe it will rain. He mutters a tentative little prayer but all that happens is that the sun appears from behind a cloud and shines more brightly. Something glints in the seaweed in front of him. He staggers closer. A green bottle. The colour makes him catch his breath. Green fields, green trees, green grass. A sob escapes from him. Hiraeth. Such longing for home. It seems so cruel; he prays for a little rain and is rewarded with anguish. He stoops down to pick the bottle up, meaning to throw it as far away as he can, but stops. It is too heavy to be empty and the cork is still sealed in place. He finds his knife and hacks it out and sniffs: alcohol of course, and by its smell quite sweet, but at least it is something he can drink. Forbidden, but only by chapel; God Himself, he has heard, takes a more liberal stance. Didn’t God the Son miraculously produce the stuff at a wedding? He smiles; he has never heard Jacob use that passage. He takes a small sip and swirls it around his mouth. He has never tasted wine before. He doesn’t like it much, but he drinks again, more of a gulp this time, which tastes a little better.
He squints ahead. It won’t be long now, he thinks. He must be nearly there. They’ll be surprised to see him. And so will the Meistr when he eventually arrives there too. He imagines Edwyn Lloyd’s smug little smile changing to an open O as he sees Silas waiting there for him with the rest. Did God tell you about this, then, Silas would ask, and for once the man would be speechless. Silas is laughing out loud now, weaving onto the beach and then onto the dunes. He is so happy he could sing, so happy he could dance. He gives a little leap, and then, ignoring the protest from his ankle, another one. He is making more progress like this. From now on he will not walk but jump.
He has finished the bottle now. It seemed easier to drink it all at once rather than to have to go to the effort of finding a way of carrying it without spilling any.
Above him a seagull cries and wheels.
‘Thank you, ffrind,’ he calls up to the sky and the seagull answers. The same birds. The same ones that followed them over here, swooping down on anything they threw out to sea, even Richard in his shroud, in his box. The shadow creeps over him with its fingers. He mustn’t think of it.
Maybe the bird knows his sister. ‘Do you know Muriel James?’ he asks it, and the bird calls back that it does.
‘Is her back any better?’
‘No, just the same.’
‘Come down here and talk to me properly.’
But the bird remains where it is, wheeling on a draught from the sea.
‘Do you know Edwyn Lloyd? Can you see that valley he’s been telling us about?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s very close.’
‘Is it like he said it is?’
‘How is that?’
‘With meadows and tall trees.’
‘No, nothing like that, you’ll have to see for yourself.’
The bird wheels off, then dives suddenly into the surf, plucks up a fish and then flaps away down shore. ‘Follow me,’ it calls, and Silas staggers after it as quickly as he can.
The Welsh call it the river Camwy, the Tehuelche Indians call it the Chubut – the twisted one – because it is a river that writhes and squirms in its outsized valley. From its mouth sticks out a great tongue of sand, a sly thing, partly submerged and flicking back and forth, endeavouring to scoop up anything that passes by on the South Atlantic.
It takes Silas some time to realise that the spit of sand that he is hobbling along is skirted on one side by river and on the other by sea. He is moving erratically with his eyes on the seagull, crying out, gesticulating towards it, pleading for it to come closer. The bird in return does appear to be actually taunting him. It flies back and forth, never moving so far away that he completely loses sight of it, and crying out from time to time as if to attract his attention.
When Silas does eventually see the river he cries out, screeches insults at the seagull and limps quickly along its bank whooping. The river is broad and in full spate with high steep banks. He keeps hobbling to the edge and limping back, cursing and moaning, until he reaches a place where there is a slope – then he staggers headlong into the water. The river has the opacity of thin milk here, a pale yellow, and Silas comes up spluttering and choking before dipping in his head again and drinking. When he emerges he is white and shivering. The rock flour has converted him into a ghost. He shakes himself like a dog, flicking off water then resumes his hurried stagger a few paces along the riverbank. Then, without warning, he stops and vomits, again and again: first rock-choked river water, then something pink – the wine, then something paler and then a painful retching which produces nothing. His stomach is empty. He staggers on a few more paces and then collapses where he stands. Then, curling in
upon himself, groans a few times and lies still and quiet.
The wind blows around him. For several minutes he lies there listening. There are the usual whistles and rustles though the branches of shrubs and then something else – a faint animal-like howl. He looks around him trying to see where it comes from. There is a path. It takes him a few moments to realise it, but when he does he jabbers to himself and continues along it quickly.
The light is fading when Silas appears. One of them yells at the sight of him, while a couple of men curse out loud. He looks ghostlike and surreal – a lurching, supernatural troll.
‘What are you?’
But Silas doesn’t speak. He creeps up to the fire and falls silently into a faint.
By the light of the fire Jacob Griffiths recognises his face. He shakes him cautiously. ‘Silas? Is that you?’
Silas retches again and groans.
‘Can anyone fetch him some water?’
‘I was talking to a seagull,’ Silas murmurs, his eyes still shut.
‘Of course you were.’
‘He told me that Edwyn Lloyd has been telling us lies.’ His eyes open. ‘He said the Camwy valley is just as barren and dry as anywhere else.’
‘Well, you’ll be able to see for yourself tomorrow.’
‘Did you see Will Bowen?’
‘Yes, we found him.’
‘Was he all right?’
‘Yes, in the Lord’s arms now.’
For a few seconds there is silence. All that he knew about William Bowen was that he was young, headstrong and insolent – and wouldn’t listen to anyone. He remembers Edwyn calling after him to come back and then imagines William waving his words away. It seems too severe a punishment for a little disobedience. He imagines the young man becoming lost, becoming frightened and then curling up, defeated and alone.
Silas closes his eyes again, the events of the past few days are coming back to him. ‘I had some sheep.’
‘What happened?’
‘Where are they?’
The men are crowding round him now, saliva lubricating their words. It is days since they have had much to eat.
‘They wandered off with John Jones.’
‘All of them?’ The voice sounds incredulous, desperate. ‘Where did they go?’
‘Back to the bay, I suppose. I don’t know. I wandered around for days.’ Silas’ voice breaks. ‘I was so thirsty. I’d no idea where I was. There was nothing to drink. Nothing to eat. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He is sobbing now. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
Twelve
Yeluc
The sun passed over the sky once, twice, and nothing changed. The strangers on the beach span around themselves like mikkeoush caught at all sides. Then a few of them walked on a trail to the south and didn’t come back. More rocks were dragged from the ground to build their shelters and soon the sand was dark with tracks, one path leading the way to the pond and the animals. I noticed patterns; their lives were like the designs the women draw on skins and cave walls: a red line in the morning when they woke, made fires and ate. Then a zig-zag of yellow ochre as they fetched water, gathered more stones, and the women clattered metal vessels over fires. When the sun rose to its highest point another red line, marked on the day’s mantle only they could see, and they ate again, and another when the sun set. Every day was the same: wake, eat, do, eat, do, eat, sleep.
My belly was tormented by their smells and caused me pain. Go hunt, it said, but in the daytime I pretended I did not hear. Sometimes I have to remind it who is master.
Eat, my stomach says again, and grips me so hard I stagger to where the cliff becomes shelf and the rou skip on their long legs, sniffing the air. At any sound they pause and their whiskers search the wind with small twitches. Even when a rou nibbles at a herb his eyes are searching around him. They are nervous, difficult to catch, and their meat is lean and unsatisfying but my stomach is desperate. I creep up close to where a young one is tearing at a charcao plant. He is more absorbed than the rest, chewing on the delicate fronds as if he is thinking. He dies with my single bola; an instant death, scattering his relatives into the scrub beyond. I salute his body and wish his spirit a peaceful journey, then, gripping him by his soft white underbelly, carry him close to the lagoon that the white men use. This rou, I decide, would be better boiled. I behead him, skin him quickly then divide his body into four. There is little meat, but my stomach gurgles in anticipation. I call Roberto for my armadillo shell which is tied to his saddle, and scoop some water from the lagoon. It is stale and coloured with mud.
A twig snaps. Close by. Like the rou I am sensitive to sounds, and even though my eyes both point the same way, like it I am always watchful. I have been hunted too. I quench the fire with my foot but I can do nothing about the smell of smoke. Holding my mantle close around me, I sink slowly to the ground and listen: footsteps moving towards the lagoon, human ones uncaring where they tread. Then a voice, a young girl’s, calling. But nothing replies. It comes again. Two notes, the first one rising the second falling. She moves forward again. I peer out. It is the girl with the black calafate hair. She is carrying a large empty vessel to the lagoon, looking around its edge for a place to walk. Selecting a place she crouches then reaches out and dips it in, then looks up, around, at me.
Elal. Has she seen me? She stops, her mouth slightly open. She blinks once but does not stop looking. Then she speaks. Three words, rising at the end. She waits a few heartbeats then speaks again, a handful of words this time: two words, a space then the three again. Her vessel is sinking, the water is covering her arms and she turns to rescue it. By the time she looks back I have gone. She pulls the vessel from the water then looks back again to where I was, then at my bush where she would see my eye if she knew where it was, then to one side and then the other.
She calls again, and this time someone answers. She makes the sounds of a snake and flaps with her arms. Now there is quiet, and a time full of waiting. For a few long breaths nothing moves. Then she calls over her shoulder, a voice so full of disappointment I am tempted to stand and let her see me. She inspects her vessel and walks towards the answering call. I wait until I am sure and then I stand. My stomach reminds me it has not been fed and I walk back to the armadillo shell. Some other creature has carried away one of the rou legs but there is enough left to lull my stomach to silence. Then I resume my post at the top of the cliff and watch to see what will happen next.
Another day. Late, the sun already high, and a rain touching my skin as lightly as the brush of a fox’s tail. The people on the beach below carry on with their pattern; the yellow ochre merging with the red. From time to time one of them looks out to sea, peers and then away again, and once a woman climbs near to where I shelter and looks out from the top of the cliff.
She is a tall woman with long black hair, like Seannu used to be but with more flesh on her rump and breast. Below us the smiling fish are making loops and circles above the waves and when she sees this she smiles too. Then she looks to the place where the sea bleeds into the sky. I know what she wants; for the swan to return but she does not have this magic. She holds open her arms and then lifts her hands to her head, then her knees fold as if they are too weak for her and she is on the ground, a moan as if her spirit is escaping, louder and louder until it breaks like a wave: ‘Rich-ard’, and a sob. I wait but she doesn’t move. The air fills with water and still she doesn’t move. Her thin mantle sticks to her body and I can see what lies beneath – more cloth with laces as if she needs something to hold her together. Elal begins to cry upon her; his tears large and cold, but still she does not move. She is quieter now, her head resting on the ground in front of her, so close that if I reach out I can touch her. My hand creeps out. I could smooth her hair – the way I smooth Seannu’s – or touch the sodden cloth. If she lets me, I could ask my spirit guide to help me heal her. But there is a call from the beach below and her head starts upwards. She takes the thick cloths that cover her legs and sweep
s them up to wipe her face. She is younger than Seannu, her face less worn and her hair not painted with grey. She stands carefully, her body shaking, then calls back.
Then there is another cry. ‘Mam!’: a word like a hum and she runs towards it. ‘Mam?’ She slithers and falls down the steps of the cliff, crying out and laughing, then runs to where a child waits and sweeps her up in her arms.
It grows dark. The sun hides behind a grey cloud so night comes early. The smell of cooked food drifts close to the ground. I creep towards it, hungry for its taste. I see them sitting about the fire in groups eating from bowls. The woman who climbed the cliff sits with a baby on her lap and a small girl with hair the colour of the fox’s fur – the part of his tail before the tip – next to her. The calafate girl sits next to a pregnant mother and her son; the son asleep against her belly, twitching as if bewitched. Then the girl puts down her bowl and looks up and she sees me.
I call on Elal to make me disappear but she gives a small soft cry low in her throat. I smile and hold open my arms, but she makes no sign back so I step quickly backwards out of the firelight where only Elal can see me. I sink into the cliffs. I know each cave, each stairway of soft rock. Even though I am old and have lived through too many seasons, I climb as easily as a cat and just as silently. I rest at the top and watch again.
With the day they come to the cliff and look up. Have they seen me? Do they know I’m here? One of them starts to climb but the rest call him down. Then they huddle together on the beach.
Ah, Yeluc – is this long ago or now? Men huddling together, holding thoughts of you in their heads. Men talking in low voices making plans. As they disperse, you back away. Each movement is known, each pant of breath, each thud of the heart. As they form a line and move towards the cliff you rise to your knees. When they start to climb you are looking for your horse, clicking for him until he notices you. You call for him and when he comes you swing yourself on his back. You do not look back. You do not turn. Even Elal cannot protect you now. You press youself down against the horse’s neck and whisper into his ear to go faster. Around a hill, following the twists of a valley so they cannot see you. But behind you are shouts. The fast ones have scaled the cliff. They have found that it is easy, there are steps, almost as if someone has made them. But you do not look. No, do not look Yeluc. Then, once, there is that sound that burns the air. Roberto lurches and you steady him with the reins. It is the only time you need to pull on them. Then you cry to him, ‘Alo,’ that word he knows. The word you invented with him when you were both foals. Go, most splendid one. And he goes. Faster than they are. Faster than what comes out from their sticks. South, to where you know they will not follow.
