by Clare Dudman
The dog returns with a rabbit in its maw, and then something like a small deer. Each one has been killed with a single bite, expertly placed. Then he presents them with a fox and a couple more rabbits. He drops each cadaver at Silas’ foot and then trots off again into the desert. The bodies are still warm. Silas gathers them together and Jacob helps him to skin them, then they assemble a spit over the fire and thread the six trussed carcasses upon it so they hang like fat beads on a string. When they start to cook the dog returns with a rabbit that he keeps for himself.
‘What shall we call him?’ asks Silas.
‘Antur,’ says Jacob, ‘our hope, our future.’
The smell of cooking invades dreams. It is the odour of every feast, every Christmas, every Easter, and the men smile as they sleep. Then they wake shouting and laughing. Soon everyone is grabbing and eating – their faces glistening with trails of fat and their hair festooned with pieces of gristle. Silas has never felt so full; his stomach strains against the belt he has had to draw in to keep his trousers up. All may be well. All they have to do to survive in the place is to find enough game – and surely if a dog can do that then so can they.
The dog curls up on Silas’ feet. He strokes its head. Just like Polly’s head – the same size, the same shape. His favourite little dog – oh, how he’d loved that animal. Antur shivers suddenly, a single ripple spreading over his body like a pebble in a pond.
‘Someone walking on your grave, eh, boy?’
In the night a brief shower turns the top layer of ground into mud. They call again for Antur but he has gone; the only trace of him is footprints leading out of the fort and quickly disappearing in the desert. They whistle again, but the empty desert whistles back.
‘Is it possible for everyone to have the same dream, do you think?’ Silas asks.
‘No, it happened,’ says Jacob, patting his stomach. ‘Our manna from heaven. A sign from God. We are meant to be here, brawd. Even you must believe that now.’
Fifteen
Yeluc
Inside the river there are good and bad spirits. They are easy to see; even those without powers can hear their voices – young spirits laughing and playing tricks on each other in the mountains, and then, on the plains, the sighs of old men as they are swept out to sea. Sometimes they swell with anger, roar and fight each other for territory; bite at the land and swallow great mouthfuls, only to spit it back when they are spent. And they are sly, changing where they lie at a whim, flooding without warning, then settling themselves in to a new place with slurps and belches.
When I look at the river now I see it has changed again; it has claimed some new land for itself, and it twists in a great arc before it reaches the sea; smooth and languid, a great tongue of water mixing with the ocean, grey-brown then blue.
I offered the river a homage: a little of the mara’s heart I had kept in a pouch, and it swallowed it without thanks. I told it about the strangers that have come and it said nothing back; but then the river spirits rarely talk to Elal’s people, they talk only to themselves. So I rode Roberto silently along the Chubut’s banks, trying to overhear words in the river’s chatter, until I reached the high land. Upon this high land, which is all pebbles and small rocks thrown up by the river, is a piece of land that is higher still. It has been made by white men, so I have heard, and this happened not so long ago, when I was a child and still lived in the chief’s toldo. This higher land they call a fort and it has four corners and an entrance near to the river and is surrounded by a shallow narrow lagoon of its own. It is usually quiet here. Powerful spirits haunt it and block the ear of anyone who goes near with the thickest skins so no sounds can be heard. Even when the sun shines it is cold and it is somewhere to ride past quickly to avoid being cursed. But it is here that Sil-as and his white brothers have chosen to rest and make camp.
Sixteen
Selwyn Williams comes over the desert alone with the pigs. It has taken him just four days. He is filthy, but completely unruffled, as if he has just completed a not very arduous stroll in the park.
‘But there’s a trail,’ he says, when someone admires his time, and points back from where he has just come. ‘Indian – hasn’t anyone else seen it?’
The men shake their heads and wonder what he means.
Several groups of men have arrived from over the desert now – with horses, supplies and other animals – but no one has ever reported seeing a trail before.
‘Tracks, marks...’ he pauses, seems to think, ‘things out of place… rocks, broken branches… difficult to explain.’ Then he looks around him. ‘Ah, Silas.’ He strides forward, and hugs him. Silas staggers back grinning, struggling to breathe again after being in such close proximity to Selwyn’s sweat-soaked clothing.
‘It’s so good to see you! When you didn’t return with John... well, you can imagine how Megan is, poor woman.’
Silas nods then swallows. It is something that rarely leaves his mind. The thought of Megan hugging Myfanwy to her alone on that beach is his last thought before he sleeps.
‘Where’s everyone else?’
The men exchange glances. Jacob claps him on the shoulder. ‘There’s only us, Selwyn,’ he says gently, ‘we’re all that’s here.’
‘But the women and children?’
‘You left them behind in the bay, don’t you remember?’
Selwyn shakes him off. ‘No – they should be here.’ He looks around him, as if he expects them to leap out from somewhere. ‘Where are they?’
‘There’s no one here but us, Selwyn.’
‘No schooner? One arrived from Buenos Aires, a large one, and the Meistr persuaded her captain…’ Selwyn stops abruptly and closes his lips.
‘You’ve got to tell us, man. Who was on board?’
‘Women, children, the Meistr, the Meistr’s wife.’
They stand still, letting the sense of it sink into their brains.
‘All of the women and children?’ Silas asks quietly.
‘Nearly all.’
‘When did it leave?’
‘A few days before me. It should have...’ He stops, looks round at the stricken faces. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know...’ He pauses again then adds lamely, ‘I’m sure everything’s all right.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Jacob quickly, but his shoulders have sunk. He swallows then seems to straighten himself. ‘We’ve built quite a little village here now, who do you want to show you around?’
The pigs squeal with merriment as they encounter the mud of the riverbank in the pens that have been made for them. The colonists have accomplished a lot in the four weeks they have been here: ground has been cleared, there is the start of a track by the river, a few mud-houses have been assembled from turfs and reeds, and the livestock is secure within earth-wall pens and fields. Everything is ready. There are plenty of men and animals, but no women and children.
The men work. They go to the coast and look out. They continue to work and then they go to look out at the sea again. Nothing changes. No one comes.
That evening Silas walks along the river too, following in the footsteps of the men who have gone there before him. After a few paces he encounters Jacob returning. The minister’s step is slow and although his body is still broad it has lost a little of its bulk and his face is sunken below his eyes. Even so, he has obviously made some attempt to shave his face, but his skin is gashed, as though his knife was too blunt.
They stop on the path, facing each other. ‘Any sign?’ asks Silas, but he knows the answer. He waits for Jacob to shake his head, then turns to look over the river. It is the same both sides, quiet, nothing moving, nothing much living. He sighs. ‘The new Wales – is this what we came so far for, eh, Jacob? Is it really any better than what we had?’
Jacob smiles. ‘It will be better, brawd, you’ll see. When Edwyn Lloyd comes...’
Silas’ fingers curl into his palms. ‘Edwyn Lloyd!’ He spits on the ground beside him. ‘It’s his fault we’re in this plac
e. The man is a liar. Milk and honey, that’s what he said. Look at it!’
‘Have faith, brawd.’ Jacob’s grin diminishes, but only slightly. ‘It will come to pass. We must have patience and all will be well.’
‘I’ve run out of patience, Jacob,’ Silas says slowly. His fists tighten.
Still Jacob smiles. It is a rictus.
Silas steps forward and prods him in the chest: ‘We’ve lost everything, don’t you understand?’
Jacob’s grin is replaced by a slackly opened mouth as each prod nudges him backwards. ‘Don’t you care?’ Silas steps closer, Jacob’s breath in his face. ‘They’re all gone, Jacob, all of them. Your sister. Your two little nieces. Your nephew.’ His voice breaks.
Jacob glances anxiously behind him. Below his heels there are pieces of wood and small branches being carried along in the river. It is fast flowing, deep, and very, very close.
Silas drops his voice so it is intense and quiet. ‘They won’t come back now, don’t you realise that? Just because of that madman and his lies. We should never have come here, never have listened. How can you still believe in him now?’
Jacob smiles again and touches Silas on the shoulder. His hand opens and the broad fat fingers completely envelop the top of Silas’ jacket. ‘Whatever happens, they are in the Lord’s hands now. It is hard, but we must take comfort from that.’
‘I don’t want them in His hands, I want them in mine,’ he says, shaking his arms to throw Jacob off. ‘I don’t understand you, Jacob. You seem to have no sense. You’ve lost all that you love and yet you just smile as if everything is well.’
Jacob goes to touch him again, but Silas shoves him away, ‘No, leave me alone!’
Jacob’s mouth opens as his foot slips from underneath him, his eyes widening as the river looms beneath him. For a few frantic seconds he struggles to regain his balance, then he rights himself and steps away from the water’s edge. He scowls briefly at Silas but then he seems to collect himself. He looks upwards and breathes out slowly then takes a couple of steps down the path and turns back to face Silas. ‘You are upset and worried,’ he says, ‘and you don’t understand the Lord’s way. I forgive you, brawd.’ Then he walks swiftly away, back to the settlement.
The days pass slowly. Five days and then six.
‘Dead, the lot of them,’ says one man.
‘You can’t know that.’
‘Shipwrecked.’
‘If you can’t think of anything else to say, be quiet.’
The fire crackles and they watch the wood shift. Silas thinks of Megan hugging Myfanwy and Gwyneth to her and then calling out for him. He should have been with them. He feels a tear collect in the corner of his eye. When he blinks it travels slowly down the side of his cheek.
Seven days, then eight days pass. ‘How can we have a colony without women and children?’ Silas asks suddenly. Beside him Selwyn gives a quiet sniff and Silas looks up. The big American’s face is wet with tears.
‘What’s wrong?’ Silas asks.
Selwyn buries his face in his hands.
‘A girl?’
Selwyn nods and swallows a sob. ‘Annie Warlock.’
Silas remembers the large rough-looking blonde from Swansea, a servant with one of the wealthier families.
‘She said she loved me, but I said nothing back.’
Silas pats him on the shoulder. He opens his mouth then closes it again.
‘She’ll never know, now, will she?’
Silas can think of nothing to say. Jacob is moving around the camp fussily putting things in order. He is folding blankets, picking up dirty cups, tutting over bones that have been discarded around the fire. How can the man carry on as if nothing has happened? When he feels Silas’ eyes on him he holds out what he has collected and tuts again, inviting Silas to share his disapproval, but Silas looks away and squeezes Selwyn on the shoulder. The great bear of a man is shaking.
‘We’ll help each other, ffrind.’
Nine days and a flock of thirty ewes arrives from the north, and with them John Jones and another man – both of them tired but happy. John and Silas hug each other. ‘Where did you go?’ they ask each other in unison.
‘Back to the port when I couldn’t find you.’ He stoops to smooth the back of his dog. ‘You let me down, that time, didn’t you, boy?’ The dog pants and wags its tail. John pats him on the head. ‘Never mind, not your fault, boy. These sheep are better behaved, on’d yw hi?’
‘How’s Megan?’
‘Not good...’ he trails off. ‘But why are you asking me?’ He looks around him still smiling. ‘Where’s the wife? Fine welcome from the woman, this is.’
When they are told they are not here both men grow pale and silent. They walk slowly into the fort with their heads hanging down. When they are sitting by the fire Silas asks where the sheep have come from and John tells him that Edwyn Lloyd managed to persuade the Argentines to send some more.
‘That man can persuade the sun not to shine,’ says Selwyn.
‘Did you ever find the first flock?’ asks Jacob.
John shakes his head. ‘Gone for good, they are.’
Jacob looks from John to Silas and gives a smug little smile. ‘Perhaps you had a better helper this time, John.’
Silas stands with his fists clenched.
John shakes his head again. He stares into the fire for a few moments. ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ he says quietly. ‘There was a fog, see. As thick as that cawl my Mary makes, it was.’ At the mention of his wife John’s voice fades to a murmur.
Silas turns away. No one wants to understand, no one wants to know. He walks away without thinking of where he is going – out of the fort and then along the path to the coast. How he wishes he could just walk backwards through time, back and back, across the desert, across the sea, taking Megan, Myfanwy and Gwyneth – and Richard with him. The thought of Richard’s face squeezes his heart so tightly that he cannot bear to breathe. It thuds against the hollow spaces inside him, each beat making him gasp. Richard, Richard, Richard. He tries to make it go away, but it won’t. It is as if there is a hand around his heart and with each pulse the fingers tighten. He walks forward and there are more sounds, more beats – thuds coming up through the ground into his feet – in and then out of time. Waves. The ocean’s heart, reminding him of his own.
He comes to the end of the path and looks down. The moon is full, a long beam of cold light that reaches from the horizon to his feet. He has often seen great brown sea lions come ashore here and in the light of the moon he sees that there are some resting there tonight. They are on the platform below him – great huddled masses of flesh, all looking grey in this light, like mounds of something soft gone solid, snuggling together as if they are cold. They make no sound. He sits and watches them but they don’t move. The heartbeat of the sea goes on and the fingers keep in time, squeezing and squeezing. He doesn’t want to remember but he does. A heartbeat faltering. A quiet thud not keeping time. Slower and slower. Out there in the ocean. Another time. The shadows creep out and this time he can’t send them back. He’s there. In the hold of the Mimosa and it’s happening again.
The doctor patting his arm and telling them he’s sorry. The man walking away as if there’s nothing to be done. The boy has a fever, he wants to tell him, that is all. It will pass. These things do. The fever will pass and the hatch will open and the storm will finish. And they will all go up the ladder out of this place with its sickening smells of death and Richard will wake and walk into the light – just as he did yesterday. He was walking then and he will walk again. How can he not walk now?
And Megan reaching for the lamp, smoothing back the boy’s hair, his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. He will open his eyes soon. But he doesn’t. She leans forward and kisses him lightly on the cheek. But even though they both watch he doesn’t wake.
No one moves. No one speaks. The ship tips and creaks. The hatch to the hold closes, opens, closes again.
And suddenly there
is Jacob: pushing through, dropping down, gathering the boy in his arms.
And it is as if they are both just there – warm statues no one can do anything about. Everything just happens and they can do nothing.
The world moves slowly.
The space where he was, the small dent that his body made. His body. His body. Not there. He looks again and again. Knows and doesn’t know. Believes and doesn’t believe. It hurts too much. He reaches out, touches the pillow, and draws away. Cold.
Then colder still. Wind in his face. Spray in his eyes and a small box slipping into the water, the lid slipping, the shroud unfurling, and for a few seconds it doesn’t sink, he knows he should look away but he doesn’t, something is holding his eyes, keeping them still, making him watch as the waves pull at the shroud a little more and a small hand appears, reaching out like one of those flowers on the beach which he knows are really fish, and he watches it sink, blue-green wave after blue-green wave, and then something inside him screams: a sound like a flame, burning, searing, cutting. Sorry, sorry, sorry. He grabs at Megan and draws her to him. His fault they came. Sorry. He believes it now. He knows it now. Her heartbeat and his, the only sound she makes, the only movement. Thud, thud, thud, like the sea.
The same sea beats now. Its waves creep up the shore towards the sea lions as the light fades and the moon rises. One of the sea lions has slithered laboriously into the water. A beam of moonlight picks out his head as he bobs in the sea, and as Silas follows it over the waves he thinks of how it must be to have a head full of nothing except the feel of cold water on a blubbery body, the slipperiness of fish as it slides down into the gullet and no worries of God or death or people gone and never coming back. Never coming back.
A cloud passes briefly over the moon and the world darkens and then becomes brighter again. Beyond the waves is something else – too big for a bird and too white for a whale. He squints ahead, wishing his eyes were stronger. It must be a sail – the sail of a ship – close and coming closer. He stares at it a little longer – even from here he can see that it is bedraggled and lopsided. A schooner! His yelp disturbs the sea lions and they look up into the darkness.
