The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  On Christmas Eve, in our lounge, we sat around the fire as the spectral darkness spread outside – spreading on that magical night over the shut-up houses, quiet fields. Mum was putting a glass of sherry, two mince pies out for Santa, some carrots for the reindeer.

  ‘Mum, there are millions of children in the world. How does Santa get to all their homes on just one night?’

  ‘Because he’s magic, darling; that’s how he can do it.’

  ‘And does he really eat a mince pie in every home? Millions of mince pies – he must be really fat!’

  ‘Santa’s fat!’ my sister sang, bouncing on the sofa.

  ‘Stop that, Sarah!’ My dad’s look settled my sister down.

  ‘Well, if you look at pictures of him, he is rather chubby,’ Mum said.

  ‘And all those glasses of sherry – he must get totally drunk!’

  ‘Well, he is a rather jolly type.’

  ‘Mum, have you ever got drunk?’

  ‘No! And you shouldn’t either!’

  And so the evening went on – the fire’s spits and crackles, the sharp crumpling noises from Dad’s newspaper. After some time, I put another question.

  ‘Mum, is it true that, not on Christmas Eve, but Christmas Night, animals can talk?’

  ‘So I’ve heard, love.’

  ‘Maybe I should try it and see. I could try with Richard Johnson’s dog.’

  ‘But,’ I went on, ‘the dog’s very young – human babies can’t speak so why should Richard’s dog? Maybe I should try it with the cows in the fields.’

  ‘You’re not going near those bloody fields!’ my father said. ‘Don’t want you falling through the ice into a ditch or spiking yourself with barbed wire!’

  Knowing I couldn’t chase that topic, I tried another.

  ‘Maybe we’ll see angels tonight! It is Christmas Eve after all!’

  ‘Don’t you start going on about that again!’ Dad said.

  ‘But it says in the Bible you can see them at Christmas!’

  ‘It says a lot of things in the Bible, but it doesn’t mean they can happen round here!’ Dad said. ‘The most bloomin’ miraculous thing in Emberfield is we’re spared a lot of the rot that’s taking over the country!’

  Dad gave a vigorous rattle of his newspaper, telling us the conversation was closed. In the last couple of days, I’d had similar reactions – Mr Davis clipping me round the ear with his ancient hand when I’d asked if he’d seen angels, Jonathon’s dad looking at me as if I was crazy.

  We were eventually shunted off to bed and I lay in the blackness – exhausted by an excitement that made sleep difficult. Rather than trembling with the fear of ghosts and monsters, I listened with anxious breath for the scrape of reindeer hooves on the housetop or the jangle of sleigh bells. And several times, I was jerked out of my slumbers by what could have been the scratch of animal feet above. But eventually sleep overcame me and I was content to snuggle into its dark comfort.

  After some hours I woke up. There was a singing which filled the house and must have echoed for miles across the fields beyond. It was beautiful, unintelligible, high – a soaring, crystalline babble. Though meaningless to me, I could tell this music was delivered in some sort of language. With this strange noise around me – indeed, the notes seemed to swirl and swoop, leaving comet trails of sound – I pulled my drowsy frame from the bed, stretched some of the sleep from my body and stumbled from my room onto the landing. Here, if anything, the song was stronger – I realised there were many parts to its harmonious whole. It now resembled some fountain – spurts of translucent sound were hurled up, others curved in clear arcs or splashed back down to join the pool of bass noise at the bottom: a pool – which while one entity – was fractured into a thousand glassy fragments. Guided by the singing, I tottered downstairs. The curtains of all the windows were closed and it somehow felt forbidden to open them. But – through the fabric and through the gaps between fabric, sides and sill – I could see an orange glow. The kitchen door was shut, but a rectangle of orange light shone from behind it. I reached up, twisted the knob, pushed the door. The light wasn’t on, but the kitchen was filled with a gleam. My mother stood at the table, knife in hand, slicing fruit for the next day’s salads.

  ‘Ryan,’ she said, ‘go back to bed, please, I’m busy.’

  The curtains were open, and the window showed the source of the noise and light. In the black heavens, were long lines of angels. Hands joined they floated in the midnight sky, singing out their weird melody. And on these angels no faces, no robes, no halos, no feathers could be seen. They were simply an outline, a shape, filled with nothing except a raging fire: my fiery angels, singing strangely beautiful songs to me on Christmas Eve. If I had to gauge their position, I’d have said they were somewhere over our fence, but a long, long way above. Yet their flaming bodies shone light down – piercing the night, lighting our back garden with their glow. I could see our bushes, our fruit trees, the crust of snow on the ground puckered and dimpled like Christmas cake icing.

  ‘Mum, what’s going on?’

  Mum looked up from her hurried chopping while the exquisite singing resounded in our kitchen. It was like being shut in a music box.

  ‘Oh that,’ Mum said, ‘oh, they’re just angels, love. I wouldn’t pay them too much attention – they’re probably just celebrating Christmas.’

  She gathered up a few peelings, flung them in the bin. I again looked through the window. Five lines of angels floated, each one grasping his neighbour’s hand. The lines were not straight, but rather had peaks and dips. On each angel, a pair of wings was outlined, and the angel at the highest point on each row wore a fiery crown. I guessed they must be what I’d heard called archangels. I began to get hypnotised, enchanted by that fountain of sound: lost among its shooting jets and clear spinning spheres.

  ‘Come on, Ryan,’ Mum said, as a lettuce lay on the table beneath her poised knife, ‘don’t just stand there – off to bed! If Santa comes and sees you up, you won’t get any presents.’

  I reluctantly turned to go. Both Santa and angels – that would be too much. I closed the kitchen door, retreated from its orange oblong shine. My feet trudged the stairs while my mind was tossed and whirled by those crystal sounds on its way to sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jonathon and I stood on the shore of Marcus’s pool. Over the flat fields, the beginnings of twilight seeped into the sky – painting it with moody streaks and slashes of grey, red, black. The pond reflected the darkening dome above – its surface a mirror of the heavens’ melancholy. The pool was a deep rich brown, fattened with snowmelt. Its stench had been softened by all that extra water, but still the familiar smell – of rotten eggs, blocked drains – floated up. Jonathon fumbled in the carrier bag he held by his side. I gasped as he pulled out a dagger – one he’d got for Christmas, a gift with which he’d been overjoyed. It was, of course, plastic, but that’s not how I saw it then. To me, its blade was silver, its handle gold. And it was at that gold I gazed – that gold carved in knotted loops, etched with complex patterns. Jonathon turned it in his hand. He stared at it – mulling, I guessed, its breath-taking beauty, pondering that lethal blade. He looked like a knight of old admiring a long-treasured weapon, an esteemed heirloom.

  ‘Can’t be easy for Marcus,’ Jonathon said. ‘Stuck in that pond, no toys to play with.’

  His knife’s silver edges, its golden curves caught the fading light, the weapon gleaming as Jonathon’s fingers lovingly fondled it.

  ‘Can’t be much fun …’ I replied – my voice low, lacklustre like the sky.

  ‘It’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever had!’ Jonathon said, his lips starting to quiver.

  We were silent for a moment, as was the standing water. I stared at its motionless skin. I glanced up, looked at Jonathon: he now stood sideways, arm drawn back, limbs tensed, solid as a statue’s. I tried to catch his eye, but he stared ahead – face both wavering and determined. A few more seconds, an
d he lunged forward – his arm thrust, hurled the knife over the pond. It flew in a tumbling arc, pierced the quiet pool. A crown of sludgy liquid sprang up – a gesture of thanks – before the knife was pulled under, the water sloshed back down and the swaying surface was sealed. Just a few lethargic ripples hinted at what Jonathon had lost.

  ‘Well, we did promise him,’ I said, solemn in the way the moment seemed to demand.

  Jonathon turned to me – face pinched with the sorrow of his sacrifice, his sad eyes blinking.

  ‘Now you,’ he said.

  I too had a plastic bag. I delved into it, heard its sharp rustle. I also pulled out a knife, another Christmas gift. Though it didn’t quite match the workmanship of Jonathon’s, it did have one special feature. Its bronze handle – all of it was bronze in colour – was topped with the head of a dragon. Its fearsome snout, wicked teeth, vast nostrils had been carefully sculpted. And – best of all – beneath a heavy curve of skin, the green jewel of that monster’s eye sparkled.

  ‘Chuck it in,’ Jonathon said. ‘We have to make Marcus happy – we need his protection! You’ve seen the incredible whackings Weirton’s given out this term: that one with Darren Hill last week – I really thought we’d have another Lucy! And I’ve such an idiot for a brother – remember when he nearly blinded me! God knows what problems he’ll cause me next!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘and remember when Craig got Stubbsy back after Christmas – wouldn’t like him to do something like that to me!’

  I manoeuvred my body sideways. Clasping my dagger, I brought my arm back. I guess I looked solid in my stance, but I could feel myself tremble. In that silent moment, I thought of how I’d unwrapped my present on Christmas morning – the surge of tingly bliss that had started in my stomach then gushed into my chest at that sight of that weapon. I remembered my parents’ smiles when they’d seen my grin, heard my happy yell. My lips had also curled up at the thought of brandishing it in front of a cowering Stubbs. But now my belly ached with sorrow as guilt throbbed in my heart. At least Marcus would enjoy it – it wasn’t as if I’d just hurl it into a dustbin. I tipped my torso back then flung the dagger. It curved sadly in its twisting flight. My eyes watched each inch of its arc. It plunged into the pond; a splash went up; the pool gave a gulp before contented ripples spread over its surface.

  ‘Do you think that’ll be enough?’ I said. ‘He’s done pretty well today – those two brilliant knives.’

  Jonathon stared at the bank; his eyes darted as if searching for something in the sludge. His lip was still shaking.

  ‘Maybe…’ he eventually said, ‘maybe we should give something else – something extra special, just to be sure. Remember the last thrashing Weirton gave Stubbs – blimey, I was sure he’d choke!’

  I fumbled again in my bag. My hand clasped a familiar hilt. As if unsheathing my weapon from a scabbard, I drew from that carrier a majestic sword. I held it up: the silver of the blade flashed over the water. It shone with the weak fire of the dying sun – a sun already being wrapped in its cloudy shroud.

  ‘Whoah!’ Jonathon said.

  Patterns snaked around the golden handle, a handle whose centre was set with a huge ruby. The blade tapered in magnificence to its deadly point. Gripping the hilt with both hands, I swung the sword – repeatedly carving a figure-of-eight before parrying, feinting as I battled an unseen enemy. I stepped back, thrust my weapon, plunging it into my opponent’s belly of air. My invisible slaying complete, I turned victorious to Jonathon.

  ‘Should I lob it in?’ I asked, half-hoping my display of the sword’s prowess would have put him off the idea.

  ‘Yeah, if we give him something so fantastic, he’ll have to keep us safe from my brother, the other kids and Weirton! I’m sure Marcus would love it!’

  ‘He would. Isn’t there a legend of someone throwing a sword into a lake?’

  ‘King Arthur.’ Jonathon nodded.

  ‘That’s right! I could be like King Arthur!’

  ‘The only problem was,’ Jonathon said, ‘when he chucked his sword into the lake, he died.’

  ‘But he’s coming back!’ I said. ‘When England really needs him, he’ll come alive again!’

  ‘How long ago did King Arthur live?’ Jonathon asked.

  ‘A very long time ago – I don’t know exactly, maybe a hundred years.’

  ‘A hundred years!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘so Weirton couldn’t have known him, but maybe Weirton’s granddad or great-granddad did.’

  Jonathon stared down in thought for a moment.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t be King Arthur because he got his sword from the lake first! You didn’t get yours from the pond.’

  ‘He didn’t – King Arthur drew his sword out of a stone on Christmas Day! I got mine out of wrapping paper – same thing!’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’

  For some moments, we just looked at the pond.

  ‘When Arthur threw his sword into the lake,’ Jonathon said, ‘a hand reached out of the water to catch it.’

  ‘A hand!? Really!?’

  ‘Yeah, it caught the sword, held it up then dis-ap-peared under the surface!’

  ‘Wonder if the same thing will happen today – maybe Marcus will reach out his hand and grab it.’

  ‘Let’s try and see.’

  I again got into my throwing stance. I pressed my feet into the oozing mud, held my body sideways, with my arm – hand clutching the sword – stretched back. Another look at my weapon, and sadness tugged my heart down. The silver blade shimmered; the carvings on the handle swirled around the ruby; the sun’s last rays glinted on that jewel: lit the endless chambers within that blood-red gem. My eyes moved to my weapon’s tip: a point so sharp it could have punctured the low cloud. I hauled my gaze away; sucked in breath to calm my nerves, and – with a couple of bounds forward – I cast that sword like a spear. It winged over the pond, slicing the air in a neat curve before it pricked the surface. The weapon dove into the pool; shards of water flew up: I counted five strands of dirty liquid – four as long as fingers; one thicker, stubbier like a thumb. Like a fist, those five shards gripped the sword, dragged it swiftly down. The surface closed over it; the pond gave a gloopy belch. The ripples that spread across the pool seemed especially satisfied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The winter had passed – that force which had lashed us with cold and snow had eventually handed spring its weary baton. After Marcus’s pond had melted, we had a few mild weeks, with little rain. It stayed dry as we inched into March, which meant the children could be released from the asphalt paddock of the playground and allowed onto the grass. And, for all that time, Marcus showed his gratitude by protecting us – though Weirton’s hand swooped and walloped, neither Jonathon nor I caught any of its blows. Though Craig clashed with Stubbsy, Richard Johnson, even his mate Darren Hill, he got on OK with Jonathon and me. And no other lads did anything too terrible to us, nothing that could put us in danger of sharing the grim fates of Lucy and Marcus. I remember, one break-time, lying on the school field. The shouts, squawks and giggles of the children formed a distant and strangely melodious hubbub. I was staring up, gazing at the drifting clouds. Some looked like the continents on the school’s globe – floating Africas or Asias. Others were built from bulbous boulders, towering strongholds that could be the misty fortresses of giants. Were there worlds up there? Did their peoples look down on us – pondering as the breeze carried them over land and ocean? I felt a sudden desire to be up in those clouds – floating freely with just the wind as my ruler. How great it would be to look down on Emberfield as it flitted by far below – to watch it speed past before those currents high above carried me elsewhere.

  ‘Ryan.’

  A voice shattered my musings – I moved my eyes towards a figure standing over me.

  ‘Hi, Jonathon.’

  ‘Hi, Ryan. What you up to?’

  I roused my sleepy brain before I answered.

 
‘Oh, now I was just daydreaming, but before I was thinking about the world.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know, I was thinking – what’s it all made of?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jonathon asked.

  ‘Well, think about the different things in the world, right. There’re solids, like this earth.’ I bashed the ground in demonstration. ‘Then there’re liquids – like water.’

  ‘And orange squash,’ Jonathon cut in.

  ‘Yeah, and the coffee Weirton drinks. And air – air’s just air. And the only other type of thing is fire. So that’s what the world’s made of: four kinds of thing – solids, liquids, air and fire.’

  Jonathon nodded.

  ‘Yeah, see what you mean,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a different idea.’