A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees

by Clare Dudman

  ‘I think you just wanted a slave. Because that is what I am now. Promised to you before God... but then you made a promise too, Silas, and as far as I can see you have no intention at all of keeping it.’

  Fifty-three

  It is January and the sun shines down with a hard dry heat. The ground bakes. The ears of wheat are turning yellow, becoming ready to bloom. Every day Silas inspects them and then goes into the village. The same question is asked again and again – in small groups outside each house, inside the warehouse where they all meet to buy supplies, outside the chapel – is it time yet? Shall we wait another day?

  Edwyn calls an informal meeting for everyone who is around. Only Jacob is missing, but Jacob doesn’t need to know; he has chosen to plant vegetables rather than wheat and can often be seen tending them alone in his field.

  ‘I think we should harvest now,’ says Caradoc, and Selwyn agrees. ‘Wait another week and everything will blossom and be ruined.’

  The American, David Parry, nods. ‘The weather is so hot here and things happen quickly in the heat.’

  ‘I agree we should be vigilant,’ says Edwyn, ‘but if the Lord has given us the sun, surely we should make the most of it. Every day the ears become more golden and fuller. Surely we should wait for as long as possible.’

  ‘There is a danger of being too greedy,’ says Silas quietly from the back, and everyone turns to look. The people around him agree. ‘At the moment a harvest would be easy, the weather ideal and we all know how quickly things can change.’

  ‘Just another day, brodyr, then. Let us make a compromise. Another day and we start the harvest – agreed?’ Edwyn’s face slowly rotates on his neck. It is like a light, illuminating each nodding head in turn.

  Silas goes back to his house and waits. It is cool in the living room and Miriam and the children have gone in there to get out of the sun. Miriam and Myfanwy are absorbed in the book and he enters so quietly they do not look up. The place has begun to smell of Wales, he realises. The perfume of a damper, greener place rises from everything here like a memory from all the pieces of furniture, books and blankets that Miriam has begged or borrowed from friends or family.

  When he sits on Megan’s old chair it creaks, and the two of them look coolly at him. How alike in their ways they are he thinks. Although Myfanwy looks like a paler, plumper and smaller version of Megan, in mannerisms she mimics Miriam: the way they hold their head slightly to one side, and the way a smile always has to be earned, and then is only given so grudgingly. Miriam stands and smoothes down her skirt. She is plumper than she was he notices – her hips have broadened, and she seems to have done something to her bodice so her chest swells like a rooster’s. He smiles.

  ‘What are you smiling about, Dadda?’ Myfanwy asks.

  ‘I was admiring what I see.’

  Miriam walks from the room into the kitchen and returns with a basket of washing. ‘The sky is getting heavy out there. I think it is going to rain.’

  He frowns and rushes out. There are clouds building up in the east, a fine even-coloured layer, dividing the sky into two unequal sections. But apart from that the wind has changed direction and lessened. She is right. There is a heaviness. And he fancies the air is not quite as dry. He goes to his horse. The stallion seems restless as if he knows something is about to happen. Silas swings himself into the saddle and yells over to Miriam.

  ‘I’m going to tell them in the village. You go and tell your father. Maybe no one else has realised. Then get the sickle ready. We’re going to have to move quickly, I think.’

  The rest of the villagers do not take long to persuade. Edwyn organises them, tells each farmer to tell someone else, but most of them have realised already and as he returns to his farm Silas can see them out in their fields, small shapes frantically sweeping the air with their scythes. Miriam is waiting for him, her shorter work clothes on, her sleeves rolled up and a scarf and hat on her head.

  The sky has become darker now, the layer to the west larger and more grey. It is a smooth bank of cloud, the line between it and the clear sky to the east straight and perfect. It creeps across the sky towards them and below it the climate gradually changes from the heat of a dry summer day to a colder and more humid autumn. They work quickly and efficiently, side by side, Ieuan coming to join them once he can be spared from his father’s plot. Silas cuts and Miriam ties the wheat into sheaves. It is something she only learnt to do last year and he is surprised and pleased at how well she does it. The wind has picked up now, buffeting all of them, picking up the wheat as he cuts it so that she sometimes has to run after it. She is lean and strong, grabbing the wheat like a boy, then tucking it under her arm like a woman picks up a wilful child, and tying it with such an expression of serious concentration that he smiles.

  They stop just once for the food she has brought for them both – a couple of hard-boiled eggs and some bread – and finish just as the sun is about to set behind the mountains. Then the rain that has been threatening for the last two hours finally falls – heavy cold drops on the hot land, and they run to the house exclaiming and laughing. Beside the house they pause. It seems like the rest of the valley has succeeded too. All the plots that they can see each have their collection of sheaves. They will have a fine time collecting them all together in the warehouse. There should be a celebration. At last the entire valley has proved itself to be fertile.

  ‘Mam says she is keeping Myfanwy with her for tea so we can have a rest,’ Miriam says, slipping in through the door. He face is still flushed and glistening with sweat. Silas pours water from the kettle onto some yerba leaves in two mugs. They have sometimes taken to having their tea the native way, in a mug with a straw.

  ‘You did well today,’ he tells her, bringing the two mugs into the living room. She is sitting on their newest piece of furniture – a long settle he has made which she has padded well with cushions. She wedges herself into the corner, sighing, stretching out her legs and arms. Her stockings have holes, and her arms are scratched up to where her sleeves end. He says nothing but comes back with a little soap and water, then sits beside her to dab her skin clean. She laughs and cries out, pretending that it hurts her more than it does, then, when he has finished, demands that she returns the compliment.

  There is a tear in his trousers, and the material around it is matted with blood. ‘I should see to that,’ she says, and tries to roll up his trouser leg. ‘This isn’t working,’ she grumbles, then smiles suddenly and grabs at his belt.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘I’m your wife, Silas, remember. Don’t you think I’ve seen you plenty of times already?’

  Mumbling disapprovingly he allows her to peel them from him. The wound is not deep, in fact he cannot remember it happening, but it spreads across the whole of his thigh. She kneels before him with the bowl of water and he watches as her slim fingers squeeze out the cloth and then firmly apply it to the outer edges of his wound, working inwards as she would if she was treating a stain. He leans back, his eyes closed, tries to pretend her hands are not there, but he can feel them, travelling over that part of him that used to belong exclusively to Megan, claiming it for herself with every wipe, every dab. When she reaches the wound he gasps. The pain is close to pleasure.

  ‘Sorry, shall I stop?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, carry on.’ He hears his own voice, soft, low, like that of a cat being stroked.

  She pauses as if registering it. He can feel her looking at him, can hear that she smiles – the almost silent snaps as the strands of saliva drawn apart by her lips break. Then she starts again. Her motions are wider now and her hand more gentle. When the wound is clear she discards the cloth and continues with her hands, one each side of his leg, kneading his flesh – cold but becoming warmer.

  ‘Silas?’

  ‘Yes?’ He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to see. He just wants to imagine what is there.

  ‘Don’t ever leave me,’ she says. ‘Promise me.’

/>   His eyes open. Not Megan. He attempts to keep his face steady. He reaches out to touch her hair as he would stroke Myfanwy’s. Her smile broadens and he leans over to kiss her lightly on her head. ‘I promise,’ he says.

  Fifty-four

  It is still raining. In fact it has not stopped for hours. Just a few steps outside and they are immediately soaked, their clothes and boots heavy. Each step is hard work. The short journey to the Jones’ house and back makes Silas feel tired and old.

  ‘You’re not old, husband,’ Miriam tells him later as they peel away their saturated clothes and put them on the rack to dry in front of the fire. Myfanwy is asleep already. Silas and Miriam sit on the settle and listen to the rain. It drums on the roof, the window, the track, the cart outside, then they hear it hissing along gullies, gurgling around the house and finding places to escape to the river. Miriam shivers. ‘Too hot to move just a few hours ago,’ she says, ‘and now this!’

  All night it rains and the day after that. And the day after that. On and on.

  ‘Fine summer this is,’ Selwyn says to each person that passes. He is the proud father of two boys now, each one resembling him in face and their mother in build. The neighbours smile back and then look wistfully at their fields; the sheaves of wheat are drenched in rain and there is no chance of winnowing yet.

  Jacob delivers sermons on the flood, emphasising the fact that God had found it necessary to start again because of mankind’s wickedness. ‘We should take this as a lesson,’ he says darkly. ‘It is our Lord’s way of telling us to look to ourselves, and examine our consciousnesses. Have any of us done anything of which we are ashamed and not yet asked the Lord for forgiveness?’ He looks around the chapel picking out faces and settling on those he seems to think are transgressors. The colonists shift uneasily in their pews.

  ‘What about the other flood, brother?’ says one member of the congregation during the afternoon tea that follows. ‘Was that God punishing us too? What had we done?’

  Jacob doesn’t answer. He smiles his tight smile and moves on. Now that he is settled back in Patagonia he has re-established his ridiculous beard. It stands out stiffly from his face like the mane of an old lion, the rest of his face scrupulously shorn. He socialises with no one but Edwyn and Caradoc. He delivers his sermon, supervises prayer meetings and takes lessons in his school, but mainly he is alone, often seen tending the grave of his sister, an isolated figure, rarely meeting the eyes of anyone in his lone walks through the village.

  After the service he catches Miriam alone and asks her if her husband has made his peace with the Lord.

  ‘And what did you say?’ asks Silas when she returns home.

  ‘I said that you didn’t need to. You had done nothing wrong.’ She pauses, and looks at her hands. ‘I think he has gone a little mad, Silas – and I think he hates you.’

  They sit quietly. The rain beats down against the glass. There is something dripping somewhere out in the kitchen. It beats as steadily as the clock ticks.

  ‘It’s bad to hate,’ Miriam says suddenly. ‘Yeluc told me. He told me that it was bad for the soul.’

  ‘I sometimes think Yeluc knew more than anyone.’

  ‘Once he told me that one day all the Tehuelche will die and all that will be remembered of them are the pictures they drew.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said he could see things, he could travel into another place and in one of these places there were no Tehuelches at all. Their tongue was forgotten and no one could remember who they were. Then he travelled a little further and all the Galenses were gone too, and the Cristianos, and all anyone spoke was one tongue which he didn’t know.’

  ‘Did he mind?’

  ‘No, he said all that mattered was that Elal knew where everyone was so that he could take them on his white swan to live with their ancestors in the stars. He said that it didn’t matter what tongue anyone used, that Elal understood them all.’

  ‘Did you speak to him a lot?’

  ‘Yes, when he came to Mam’s kitchen. He used to like to watch her cook. I think he liked the scraps she used to feed him.’

  For a few minutes she leans against him. Outside the rain spatters against the new glass in the window.

  ‘One day, I told him about the angels in the clouds, and he said they were like Elal’s birds and that it was good to see such things. It helped you to remember that the world belongs to Elal and that we are only here because he lets us stay.’

  Something blows against the window making it rattle in its frame.

  ‘Sometimes I think Elal and God are the same thing.’

  Silas smiles and nods. ‘Sometimes I think that too.’

  The window rattles again and she huddles against him. ‘It’s getting fierce,’ she says.

  A crack of lightning illuminates the room with a sudden blue-white light, then almost immediately a roar of thunder answers it. The rain smashes at the glass with a new intensity. Silas hurries to the window and looks out, but of course the moon is hidden by clouds. He squints through the glass and the rain but it is too dark to see. All he hears is the rain, falling into water.

  In the morning he reaches out but there is no one there – just Myfanwy standing by his bed with a doll.

  ‘Where’s Miriam?’ he asks.

  ‘Gone out to look at the water. She said not to worry. It’s drowned the field but it won’t drown us.’

  Miriam is standing behind the house just looking. It is something they have seen before. Instead of a river in its valley there is a wide lake, rain still splashing down into it, the heads of the stacks of wheat just poking through.

  ‘It can still be saved, can’t it, Silas?’ She seems to know he is there beside her without looking at him. ‘Dadda says maybe we can fish it out, and it will dry when the sun returns.’

  He slips his hand into hers. ‘Yes, my love, all will be well.’

  Fifty-five

  Someone is watching. Silas turns around. Edwyn is standing at the open door to the kitchen silently watching them. Silas wonders how long he has been there and what he has seen: Silas helping Myfanwy to dress in front of the fire then taking the kettle from the stove; Miriam smiling at him when he gives her some tea, and that small kiss he gave her, just a touch on the cheek.

  ‘What do you want?’ Why does the man just stand there at the doorway just watching them?

  ‘Your help, Silas. Everyone’s help. Did you hear the cows?’

  Silas glances at Miriam and they both shake their heads. ‘Well, they’re getting restless. They don’t like the water coming close and I don’t think the pen will hold them.’

  ‘What do you want from me, Edwyn?’

  ‘To help me shore up the pen.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  It is still raining. A sudden gust of wind causes Edwyn to pull up his collar. Silas has not asked him in.

  ‘Well, there’s no use waiting until it stops, is there? They’ll all be gone by then.’

  Silas glances at Miriam. She tells him with a brief nod of her head to go.

  Silas hears it now: the distant lowing of cattle beneath the patter of the rain on mud and the moaning wind.

  He considers telling him he has too much to do, but Edwyn looks at him so appreciatively when he puts on his jacket that he changes his mind.

  In the end there are just the two of them – everyone else is too busy rescuing what they can from the flood.

  The wind is picking up as their horses reach the village. Water has covered the fields, but the wheat sheaves are still intact. There are little waves on the surface of the water and for a few seconds Silas is fooled into thinking it is flowing backwards inland, but then the wind changes direction again and the waves head out to sea. It is cold. Even though it is still January and midsummer it is cold. Yet just a week ago Silas felt too hot to work even in his shirtsleeves and Miriam had stripped down to her chemise and complained that decency did not allow her to go further. The thought
of her peaceful presence makes him yearn for home. ‘Just a couple of hours, mind, then I’ll have to be heading back.’

  Edwyn nods his head once, then after a few minutes adds, ‘Thank you, Silas.’

  The cows are east of the village on a patch of land that is a little higher than the rest. Silas can hear their lowing clearly now he and Edwyn have gone beyond Rawson – a continuous mournful groan – grey like the sky, depressing his spirit, making him long for the warmth of his living room. Maybe the cows can smell the river as it creeps towards them. They are milling around at the end of their pen opposite the river, as far away as they can get from the water. The flooding has churned up new black silt smelling of sulphur and airless decay. They snort at the air, beat up new mud, and then one or two of them lower their heads like bulls and charge at the earth wall that holds them.

  ‘Look,’ says Edwyn, ‘it’s crumbling.’

  The mud is slippery in the rain, and the ground is waterlogged. The horses are slithering so the two men dismount and, armed with spades, walk the rest of the way on foot. After a couple of steps Edwyn grunts and falls to the ground. Silas starts to help him then falls flat himself. He struggles upwards then looks at Edwyn and then down at himself and laughs. ‘Look at us – we’re like two brown, fat elephant sea lions – all we can do is shuffle forwards on our stomachs.’

  For a minute Edwyn just looks at him, then a large broad smile erupts on his face. He throws back his head and falls back into the mud, snorting like one of the pigs the colony slaughtered at Port Madryn four years ago. He sounds so much like an animal that Silas laughs back.

  They stagger to their feet, still laughing. ‘I knew I should find a good companion in you, Silas.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. Last night I...’ He stops, reaches out and presses his hand down on Silas’ sleeve. ‘We’re too late,’ he says.