Rope of Sand

by C F Dunn

  “I understand. I won’t say anything, I promise.”

  “Right, I reckoned you wouldn’t; that’s why I told you.” He ran his hand over his Army crew cut, backwards from the nape of his neck to the top of his head, looking older. “When I’d sorted myself out and knew what I wanted to do, he helped with all the application forms for the Army, that sort of thing. And… oh yeah… he taught me to fight – weird stuff too, not what the Army teaches. It gave me an edge when I joined. I’ve been promoted already,” he said with a degree of pride, “though you’ve not seen me at my best,” he appended, grimacing.

  I thought Joel more self-effacing than he would have me believe. “Matthew has a few years on you, I wouldn’t worry. He obviously thinks you have what it takes or he wouldn’t have bothered to teach you.”

  Joel shrugged. “Sure, but where’d he learn stuff like that? You haven’t seen him use it yet. It’s weird, but it works.”

  I wondered if I had inadvertently seen it, although I wouldn’t know whether the techniques he employed so effectively against Staahl and Sam would be considered weird or not.

  “Mom hates it though. She thinks he encouraged me not to go to college, but she’s wrong. I would’ve left school anyway; he just gave me a direction.”

  It sounded all so familiar, this conflict of expectation, except my grandfather died when I was still a child and I had no one to turn to except Nanna. Grief for the lost years spent in hurt resentment, and for my grandmother, whom I never expected to see again, welled unexpectedly and I swallowed it before Joel noticed. He stared into the heart of the fire with his own thoughts.

  “You know, Joel, my father didn’t want me to be an academic, and I found it hard to forgive him that. He kept on pushing until I wanted to throttle him. He wouldn’t listen to anything I said and I felt so guilty for not doing what he wanted.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders like a brother would, a touching gesture I appreciated.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Do you guys get on now, after all this time?”

  “Now that I’m old and grey and ready to retire to my grave, do you mean?” I replied, glad to lighten the mood with good-tempered sarcasm.

  “Hey, you’re not old at all; you’re pretty ho…” He took his arm from around me.

  “OK, OK,” I said briskly to save his embarrassment. “My father and I sort of get on now, but it’s only happened recently – since I’ve known Matthew, in fact.”

  Joel grunted a laugh. “Yeah, he has that effect on people.”

  I hadn’t thought about it like that. “I suppose he does, yes. Where has he gone, by the way?”

  Joel looked around. “To see if the pig is ready, I guess. I’d better give the old man a hand. Huh, I wouldn’t say that to his face, of course.”

  I laughed. “No, you wouldn’t dare.” But we both knew that he would because they had the sort of relationship built on mutual trust and respect that meant that he could get away with it.

  I stamped my feet on the frozen ground to get my circulation flowing again, and looked around for somewhere to sit. The hump-backed log Ellie had been fetching to add to the fire still lay in the snow where she had dropped it, yards away from the low bank above the fast-running river. It would make an admirable seat if I could turn it forty-five degrees. The shattered remains of the branch had left a deep furrow where it had ploughed the snow and stuck fast, and it was all that I could do to lift one end. Yet Ellie had dragged it all the way from the river edge where it must have lain for years half-submerged, worn smooth by grit-laden currents until the surface shone silver-grey in the half-light.

  I perched on the ridge of wood but it heaved and rolled, sinking deeper, and I rolled with it, my legs sticking up like a beetle on its back. I struggled to get up, but it was too much effort and I lay in the bed of snow and contemplated the blue-washed sky instead. The first stars were just visible and growing in vibrancy every second, pulsing and pushing day into night. The sounds of the family around the bonfire faded, consumed by the urgent voice of the river, and a light breeze, kicked up by the fast-flowing water, sent tremulous fingers of anticipation through the fine, bare branchlets of the willows. All round my head, a hundred lesser voices joined in volatile chorus as explosive frost penetrated pockets of ice within the snow’s surface, minute detonations reverberating against my ears. The raw edges of my senses quivered, feeling the tiny vibrations of approaching footfall.

  A darker form came between the stars and me. “Are you quite comfortable down there?”

  I smiled dreamily up at him. “I’m listening to the snow.”

  Amusement chased over Matthew’s face as he leaned over me. “Of course you are. Do you do this sort of thing often?”

  I had a little think about that. “Only on Thursdays,” I said at last.

  He shook his head. “Ah, but this is Wednesday.”

  I kicked my legs like a colt. “I don’t like to be predictable.”

  “Heaven forbid you should ever be that! Would you like a hand out of there?” I stuck both hands out to him in reply and he pulled me to my feet. “What were you trying to do, apart from listening to the snow?”

  “I tried to move the log so that I could sit on it, but it was being recalcitrant. I do so hate it when inanimate objects have a mind of their own.”

  “Very trying, I agree. You could have asked for some help, you know.”

  His family were building something in the snow with a great deal of whooping and snow fights in between raising what looked like walls. Dan had joined in, avoiding most of the confrontation, but not entirely, as his heavy winter coat was layered with snow.

  “They were having too much fun; I didn’t want to disturb them.”

  “Where would you like it?”

  I turned around. Matthew had the log balanced under one arm, its contorted length compliant in his control.

  “I thought between the fire and the river so I have the best of both worlds.”

  “Good choice,” he said, selecting a level piece of ground and driving the broken spur of the log into the snow so that it didn’t wobble but formed a relatively level, stable bench.

  The pig had been suspended on a makeshift spit made of spars of green wood. It straddled the edge of the fire, the flames still too fierce to place it directly over the heart of it, but the margins glowed orange and hot, and the pig’s skin prickled as the meat cooked. I swivelled my legs over the log to watch the last light of day glimmer on the dark waters and felt heat warm my back. Matthew sat next to me with his legs stretched out in front of him.

  “You knew I wasn’t hurt earlier, didn’t you?” I said to him.

  He bent over and gathered a handful of snow in his bare hand and crushed it into a ball, moulding until it became a sphere of ice.

  “You weren’t in pain – or none that I could detect.” He threw the ice ball at the river where the churning water swallowed it. “Why did you run? I would have protected you. I wouldn’t have let them get to you, and you would have been safer with me.”

  I detected a note of disappointment, as if he thought that by running I demonstrated a fundamental lack of trust. I tried to find a way of describing the sudden sense of panic and fear that seeing him, surrounded and at bay, had caused, that it wasn’t my own safety that had concerned me, but his own – irrational as that might seem. I lifted my legs and bashed my feet together watching the snow fall in clumps off my boots.

  “I know you could have protected me, I just thought that perhaps if I ran they would split up and be easier to defeat; you know, divide and rule, and all that. It did work a bit, you have to admit; you took out Harry, didn’t you?”

  Firelight threw his face into sharp relief. “But not before Joel and Ellie managed to get in a few hits.”

  I began to laugh. “Matthew, it was only a bit of fun…” and faltered. His eyes had become black, his irises consumed by his pupils, and I saw no responding humour in them. As soon as I spoke, I understood the signific
ance of it for him. If I had reacted the way I did, if I ran and prevented him from keeping me from harm in a mere contest with his family, what would I do if I were similarly threatened and the weapons were made not of snow, but steel and iron?

  “It was just a game, Matthew,” I whispered.

  He stared straight ahead of him and back in time. “It is never just a game, and even a game can serve a purpose.”

  All I could see were the faces of the hunters and the hunted, and words rushed from my mouth before I could stop them. “I couldn’t bear… I couldn’t bear to see you hunted, not even by your family in a stupid game with… with snowballs,” I cried.

  A look of wonder replaced the disappointment. “You did that for me?” I nodded. “Emma… sweetheart, I wasn’t the target, you were, and you made it easier for them to pick you off…”

  “But it gave you a chance,” I interrupted fiercely.

  “And at what cost? Why would I want a chance if you had none? What purpose would that serve?” We were beyond talking about a snowball fight, touching on what haunted us both. Matthew stroked the side of my face with the tips of his bare fingers. “I have none of your physical vulnerability. I can persist when you cannot. What would I do without you, Emma? What would be the point of my existence then? I can’t go back to how it was before. I couldn’t face life without you, not now, not after this.” The familiar tight lines creased the sides of his mouth, and the muscles around my heart compressed in response.

  “Matthew, you talk as if we’re about to be attacked at any moment.”

  “I want us to be ready for any eventuality, no matter how remote a possibility it might be. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Call it a habit of a lifetime.” He smiled grimly.

  “It does matter if you spend it looking over your shoulder.”

  “You knew that would be part of a life spent with me. I tried to make that clear.”

  “You did, but perhaps I didn’t realize how it would pervade every facet of our lives. I think I am only just beginning to understand that.”

  “And…?” he asked.

  “And, what?”

  “Are you having second thoughts about your decision to stay with me – about us?”

  I scanned his face, seeing his eyes unwavering but apprehensive, at the straight line of his nose before it dipped down to the curve of his mouth. I saw the way his eyebrows drew together in a pleat in the middle of his ever-young face as he frowned at me, and how the whole came to the neat, blunt point of his chin before sweeping down to the little hollow at the base of his neck that I loved so much. I thought of never seeing that face again, not hearing his voice in the vibration of his chest as I rested my head against him. To never again feel the strength of his arms holding me, or the love radiating from him when he caressed my hair or whispered my name. I shivered as a new wind brushed the back of my neck despite the warmth from the fire.

  “I cannot contemplate life without you, Matthew, whatever that life might bring.”

  “Emma, being with me places you in constant risk of my exposure and whatever that might entail. Your existence does not threaten me as I do you.”

  I shrugged in a display of nonchalance I did not feel. “So be it. That’s my choice, isn’t it? I’ll stay for as long as you want me.”

  “Hah!” He laughed sharply, causing me to look at him in surprise. “I’ll take you at your word. That’s a lifelong commitment you’ve just made.”

  “Then I am content,” I said earnestly.

  He placed both hands around my face, forcing me to look at him although his eyes were bright in mine, as painful as the sun. “When it comes to your safety, promise that you will listen to me, Emma, and do what I ask.” He saw my hesitation and his eyes burned steadily hotter. “At some point in the future, there might be no room for your mule-like obstinacy. I need to know that I can trust you to let me protect you.”

  I held his gaze. “And vice versa, Matthew. I’m not promising anything unless I know that you will do everything in your power to protect yourself and keep from harm.”

  He dropped his hands and my face felt suddenly colder.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course, what?” I demanded.

  “I will do everything in my power to keep myself from harm.” That was suspiciously easy to extricate from him. I attempted to read his face but he bent down to gather more snow. “Now it’s your turn,” he stated flatly upon completion of his task.

  “I will endeavour to comply with your wishes, Matthew.”

  “That’s not good enough. I want you to promise me.”

  I shuffled on the log and stamped my feet on the ground, up and down, in front of me. “I’m getting cold,” I muttered.

  “And that won’t work either. Say it.”

  “Oh, all right, then. I promise I’ll try to…” He skewered me with a look. “I promise I will listen to you.”

  “And do as I ask to keep you safe.”

  I felt more and more like an intractable teenager. I blew out my cheeks and screwed out a tart “Yes”.

  “Yes, what?”

  “I promise.”

  He clapped his hands together with a satisfied grin. “Right, good – that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I pouted, still feeling that somehow he had extracted more out of me than I had him.

  The fire had reduced into a sizable mass of incandescent embers, and the pig now roasted over the middle of it. Every now and then, fat escaped from the skin and a spear of flame leapt from the fire. Twizzling around, I welcomed the warmth on my face.

  Joel approached with something in his hand. He offered an insulated glass. “I thought you might like some of Grams’ gløgg. This one’s non-alcoholic and it’s hot.”

  I took it from him. “Thanks.” I sipped cautiously at the dark red liquid, the colour of dried blood, and coughed. “Wow, that’s… strong.” I took another sip, feeling it scouring my throat. “I – love – it,” I managed, wiping my eyes.

  “There are no half-measures with Pat,” Matthew observed.

  “Right,” Joel agreed. “I’d better get back to help out with the ice house.”

  Matthew and I watched as he joined his siblings and father. From where we sat, it looked like he directed operations.

  “I used to do something like that when I was a child.” I reflected. “My grandfather would take us down to the Meadows, depending on how much snow we had.”

  Matthew pulled my hood up, insulating my neck and ears from the deepening cold. “Did you build ice houses?”

  The glass warmed my hands through my gloves, and its contents my tummy. “Sort of. Beth and I used to build snow forts. It could take us all day – sometimes two – so Grandpa would bring a primus stove and he would make us tea.” I recalled the hissing blue flame and the smell of bottled gas and wet snow and damp gloves. “He couldn’t do much building himself because of his war injury, you see. It left him breathless much of the time, and he was very old by then. Anyway, we would build and build – so much better than a sand fort because we didn’t have to beat the tide – and then he would mount a standing attack having laid siege by withholding our tea and sandwiches until we were starving, and we would have to defend ourselves.” I lifted one leg over the log so that I straddled it as if on horseback. “We always had to build castles based on the real thing, and they had to be historically accurate, of course: a classic motte and bailey, Celtic hill fort, star fort, concentric castle, you know the sort of thing. I think over the years Grandpa took us through every type he could think of. We learned so much without him ever teaching us a thing. We were disappointed if it didn’t snow.” I picked at a piece of rough bark where it had become trapped between the trunk and the stub of a branch. “Anyway, that’s what we did.”

  Matthew was a good listener and I grew a little self-conscious talking about myself. He pushed the end of my scarf beneath my hood, securing it. “No wonder you like history,” he observed, his smile indulgent.

  “It was more
than that, though. Beth enjoyed the building and the defending as much as I did, but I don’t think that it ever burrowed under her skin in the same way it did mine.” I paused, thinking about our different attitudes to the past. “I know that it sounds contrived, but history makes sense. I don’t know why people can’t see the relevance of it. Whatever happened yesterday is part of today and helps shape tomorrow.” I could hear myself becoming emphatic and blushed under Matthew’s scrutiny. “What did you do when you were little?”

  He looked at me for a moment longer, as if he were there with me in the snowbound fields of my childhood, picturing me as a young girl with a long plait of bright copper against the white. He blinked and came back to me.

  “It would depend on the winter, of course, but most years my father would take me sledging or snowballing with Nathaniel or my cousins. If the conditions were right, he’d have the horses hitched to an old wagon carcass, which he had mounted on some sort of runners that looked like long skis, and we used it like a sleigh. But the best times were when the fields flooded and froze and we went skating…”

  “You had skates!”

  “Indeed we did. My uncle brought some back from the Low Countries before… well, obviously before things became strained between him and my father.” Matthew kicked at a hummock of snow in front of him, scattering the fine crystals. “They were good times. We had skating parties on the ice, or huge snowball fights, and we would have a bonfire on the banks of the river, like this. Just like this. And if the time was right, we would have a pig slaughtered to cook on it.” He interrupted his own narration. “Have you ever seen pink snowballs?” He observed me obliquely, and it took a second before the penny dropped.

  “Ugh, blood snowballs? That’s revolting!”

  He grinned. “It’s better than what we did with frogs in spring…”

  “Stop! I don’t want to know,” I protested, covering my ears.

  He took my hands away and held them in both of his, rubbing them to keep them warm. “But then we had the fields drained so the crops were more reliable, but we needed really cold, prolonged frosts before the fish stews or the moat froze. The water was much deeper than the flooded fields, and you needed that depth of frost and it didn’t happen as often.” He leaned over and drew a small circle in the snow between where our legs nearly touched and idly dotted the centre of it. “Anyway, those were good times,” he said again, “before Nathaniel had to take on more of his father’s workload and things became difficult for all of us.” He stabbed the centre of the circle with his finger, then scrunched the snow up in his fist, letting it fall. The fire spat and soared at regular intervals now, and the smell of roasting meat wafted towards us.