There was no noise from them, no disrespect. They just watched. My going was a quiet affair. Everyone wanted me gone but everyone knew the role they themselves had played. For the most part people stayed in their houses, stayed in the town, while the old Marshal was put on a boat with the most basic of provisions and implements.
I kissed her. This time she did not pull away. I am still grateful.
About half a mile off the coast I looked around at them for the last time. The two of them, Abel and Tora, were left. They had half turned towards each other. They may have been talking. I still wonder what they were saying.
When I kissed her she smelt of the harsh soap they used on dishes.
I can smell it now.
I wonder if the townspeople would recognise me. I have a beard and long hair. I cut the hair occasionally but it is impossible to get a close shave using just a knife. I am also brown, like the island, and lean.
Though I eat regularly it is not the sort of food that puts meat on your bones. In Bran I grew pale from a mostly sedentary life and slightly overweight, a flabby man living a soft life. Though we did not have much food, it was often very fil ing. Now though, I have broader shoulders, strong legs and carry no extra weight. Altogether a fitter man.
They might have wanted me to die on the way here. There is no guilt if a man drowns alone miles from anywhere. But I didn’t. I survived.
I drank dew and rainwater. Ate seaweed. I caught some fish. Once I pulled a dead one from the surface of the barren ocean. I arrived on the island and have eked a living from it. Alone. I imagine people. I imagine others. Faces of others. Voices. But I know they are not real. I know they are not alive.
But now this coat. It has been worn recently. Food and fuel will have to wait today. I must set out on a tour of the island. I have to check if I am still alone.
I have been sitting in the cave for a long time and it is afternoon by the time I set out. After just over an hour of walking the cliffs come into view. They would be close enough to see from much further off but you have to round a bluff. It is an impressive sight, at least by the standards of this island. They stand vast, grey and crumbling, like a derelict monument to a forgotten leader. Though their decay represents the erosion of my time here, I feel awe, not trepidation, when I’m near them. The sea around the cliffs is tainted with the mud and is always rough. I sometimes think it looks like blood.
The tide is out today. The sea has retreated leaving a long strip of grey beach. The tides are extreme here. In a few hours the waves will be beating against the cliffs from below, the rain more gently from above.
Out along the strand I see a much paler object, so pale it is almost white. A rock perhaps. But it is different to any I have seen on the island before.
I begin the climb down to the beach.
A few minutes later and I am closer, my eyes fixed on the object.
I slow down, stop walking. I know what it is now. Now I can hear only the wind. The wind and the waves. Everything has slowed down.
Stopped. I breathe in, which seems to take minutes. I pick up a rock and I am moving again. I run towards the mound. Stop again. Run. I veer off towards some boulders and crouch behind them, my eyes still fixed on it. My breathing is quicker now. It comes in rasps like it does when I have been chopping wood. It does not move.
I watch for minutes. The rain falls in swathes along the beach. I feel it run into my eyes and down the back of my neck. The rain is heavy and sometimes he disappears behind curtains of water. I have to wipe the rain from my eyes to see him properly.
It is the first person I have seen for a decade. He is large, bulging with fat. Not a working man. His face is turned away from me. He is lying on his stomach, feet turned in towards each other, his palms upwards. He has no hair. A white whale, and possibly a dead white whale.
The coat must belong to him.
In the last ten years I have seen only shadows. This is different, so solid, so unlike a mirage. I blink, holding my eyes closed for seconds.
Each time I open them he is still there.
I walk out slowly from behind the rocks. I open my mouth to speak.
No words come. It is as if I have forgotten how. I try again. This time it is a breath, just louder than the wind. I swallow and try once more.
Finally the word comes out. ‘Hello.’ It is a whisper, a croak. Again. The word is no more than a grunt. It still does not sound like the word I know it is. He does not move. I am now three metres away from him.
I walk in a circle around him, keeping the same distance, my hand still clutching the rock. A dog with its prey. I can see only part of his face.
He is clean-shaven with heavy jowls and a double-chin. His eyes are closed. From his face I know he is not dead.
I crouch down on my haunches and watch his face closely. He is breathing. His bulk rises every few seconds and his lips part when he exhales. He seems peaceful. A man dozing on a beach.
His fat fingers rest on the sand. White worms in black mud. He is covered in drops of water, the rain or the sea. They glisten in the last of the light.
I raise myself, walk up to him and prod him in the ribs with my foot. He does not move. I lean down and shake him roughly by the shoulder. He is as cold as stone. His eyelids open. The eyes are red, the irises dark, almost black. For a few seconds he does not move. Suddenly he takes fright, tries to shuffle away from me, using his arms to shift his bulk. He cannot lift himself. His breathing quickens. I hold up my hands to show I mean no harm and take a step back. I do not speak.
Instead I crouch down again so I don’t tower over him. This seems to relax him slightly and his breathing becomes more regular. We look at each other. I can still only see half his face.
After a few moments I say again, ‘Hello.’ I can recognise the word now but my tongue feels thick in my mouth. He does not respond. I introduce myself. I do not know what name to give myself, my military title or just my birth-name. I decide on both. ‘I am Bran. Marshal. I live here.’
I realise I am speaking in short bursts. I have to get used to talking.
His eyes give nothing away. I am not sure he has even heard me. I try again. ‘Where are you from? Axum.’ It is more a statement than a question.
Still nothing. ‘You are safe. Talk.’
The man closes his eyes. He may be in shock. I have no idea what he might have endured. I place my coat over him to keep him warm.
As I lean closer I catch his scent. He smells of the sea. Not the pleasant smell.
We do not have much time. The tide is out but there are just a couple of hours before it comes in and if we are caught here we would both drown. And the light is fading. I can let him sleep for just a short while before we need to start walking back the way I have come.
There is accessible higher ground half a mile away. I know I will in all likelihood have to half carry him as he looks weak. I set off for the higher ground taking my bag with me so I will have nothing else to carry when I return.
When I do it is dark. I find him in the same position. I wake him again. ‘You will drown here.’ Though he does not reply he seems to understand and tries to lift himself. I place my hand under his arms and haul him up. He stumbles against me, his legs without strength.
He makes me think of a white grub, one whose only purpose in life is feeding. I ignore my distaste and place his arm across my shoulders and my arm under his. Like this we walk slowly along the beach. At one point I smile to myself at the picture we make. To a creature flying above us, or staring down from the grass ridge, or pressed back into the black mud of the cliffs, we would make an odd couple indeed. One tall and stringy, weathered brown, half carrying the other, a stumbling and bloated man, in the dark, pale as the rain.
It is raining hard now. There is some light from the moon behind the clouds but it is faint.
I resign myself to a night of cold and wet. With no fire, no hot food, it is simply a case of waiting out the rain, waiting for dawn.
&nb
sp; I shuffle up the last section of the cliff and walk a hundred metres inland to a grassy area with the man still hanging on to me. I let him down. He now seems asleep or unconscious. My grip slips on his wet skin. He falls into a puddle and lands with his face in the water, mud splashing onto his cheek. An eye and part of his mouth are under water.
He splutters, tries to move but can’t shift his bulk. I watch him gag. I am breathing heavily from the strain. He lets out a gurgled cry. Not a mute then. I take his arm and turn him over. ‘I will build shelter,’ I say to him. ‘I have food. We will sleep.’ He looks blankly at me.
I spend the night shivering, clasping my arms around me, and sleep little. The man sits across from me leaning against a rock. He seems not to mind the cold and sits watching me, expressionless. When I wake, after drifting off for what seems like just a few minutes, he is still staring at me, his black eyes unblinking. It is dark but I am close enough to see his eyes. I can smell him too. It is not something I am used to, another human’s smell. The smell of wet grass, mud, rotting birds, pine from the forest, the sometimes dank smell of the peat smoke: these I am used to, these have become mine, my smell, a smell of an island man. But his, an odour of the decaying ocean, wet skin, almost sweet but distastefully so, his is alien.
As it grows lighter and his face comes into focus, I have a feeling I recognise him. I search my memory. I cannot place him.
‘Hello,’ I try again. My voice is coming back. ‘I am Bran. I live on this island. What is your name?’ He is still looking at me but says nothing.
‘Who are you? How did you come here?’ I feel myself growing annoyed at the silence.
‘What are you? Axumite?’ I ask again. ‘What were you there?’ I sigh when he still does not respond and look away through the opening of the tent.
‘You have had a hard time. I understand. You do not have to talk to me now.’ I am annoyed but I have a duty to this man. He is on my island. He is my responsibility. ‘There is a cave on the other side of the island. It is where I live. It is warm. I can make a fire and cook. We must go now. It will take hours to get there.’ I know this will be a difficult trip back. I now have all my gear to carry and can see that he is no stronger than yesterday so I will be supporting him as well.
I get to my feet and begin to gather up the canvas. He does not move and I drag it over him as if he wasn’t there. I put the bag on my shoulders, walk behind him and, without a word, lift him up from his armpits. He is a dead weight and when he gets to his feet he totters unsteadily. I hold him by the arm. ‘Can you walk?’ At that he tries to walk, takes a few steps but his legs shake and I take him by the arm again.
Like this we make our way slowly back to the cave, stopping every few minutes to rest. I am tired too, having barely eaten for two days. By the time we make it back it is early afternoon. I have to forego collecting fuel. There is a small store of it but it won’t last long.
In the cave I look again at him. I search my memories. Something there I cannot find.
I build up the fire, place him on my bed, take my fishing gear and head off down the path, closing the door behind me.
My mind wanders as I fish. I almost miss a tug on the line. I find my self making up stories that could explain this man’s presence. An ambassador from Axum sent to re-establish contact with Bran. A refugee. A man from an undiscovered part of the world, a place lost for centuries, untouched by our wars, our famines, our destructive climates. A place of dragons and legendary kings. He has walked up from the bottom of the ocean, half man, half fish. Buried in the mud of the cliffs for ages, released now by the waves, he has been brought back to life by the warm rains. My imagination knows no bounds. A killer.
A man from who knows where driven by vengeance and greed and lust for death. A silent man, plotting even now to take over my island. Or, like me, an exile, a visionary, a leader of men fallen foul of changing sentiment, banished to take his chance on the high seas. More sinned against than sinning. I allow my mind to wander too much.
Considering his size, the coat, the softness of his flesh, he is most likely a senior figure in Axum.
Perhaps still a criminal though. But then I too, in law, am one.
I think about him in the cave and wonder what he is doing. My back is to the cliff. I begin to feel his eyes staring at me from the ridge.
I look around quickly. There is nothing to be seen.
And then I know.
And then I know who he is. It comes to me. It has been over twenty years since I last saw him and he has changed so much and I hadn’t got a clear look at him until this morning. That is why it has taken me so long. I jump up, turn as if to run to him but sit down again. There is no reason to let him realise I know who he is just yet. I need to see if I can discover his intentions, to see if I can make him talk.
His name is Andalus. He was ruler of Axum. A senior leader indeed.
He is the man with whom I concluded peace for our territories, the man with whom I formulated the Programme, though it was mostly my idea. I am surprised he is here. Very surprised. It is potentially a bad omen. I will have to find out his story and to do that I will have to keep my knowledge of his identity secret and hope he doesn’t recognise me.
I hook a second fish. They are both small but enough for one night.
At the cave I cook them with some roots I place near the fire. The outside of the root becomes charred but the inside remains soft. I don’t know what it is but it tastes like sweet potato. When I give him the food he eats hungrily, quickly. It is the quickest I have seen him move since I found him. I am surprised he does not burn his mouth. He finishes long before I do and I give him some of mine. While he eats I watch him and the memories come back. Beneath the bulk, somewhere within this fat grub of a man is my enemy, my enemy who became a friend, of sorts. Under a changed skin is a link to what I am, to what I was.
We eat all the food and by the time we finish it is dark again and we settle in for our second night.
He is still sleeping when I leave the cave the next morning. He lies on his side, curled up like a baby. I am concerned that my routine has been put out. If I am to feed him I will have to collect more fuel and harvest or catch more food. I will have to work more quickly. I take my clothes with me when I go swimming and head straight to the peat beds from there.
When Tora came to me on that Wednesday evening after the death of her mother, I knew then that we would last. And we did; until near the end. As I held her – she did not then hold me back – I had to take a couple of sharp breaths to avoid making a sound. I don’t know if she felt these. I knew because if a relationship can survive that it can survive almost anything. I did not think of asking her to join me in exile. I suspect Abel would have vetoed it but it was not a question I would have asked. For all I knew when I left the settlement I would be dead in a matter of days. No, I did not want Tora with me. I do wonder what she would have said but, truth is, she most likely would have said no. She had moved on, though I suspect she still harboured feelings for me. I have no regrets. If she had been here the supplies would have to be divided in two, making our time together shorter. And if we had had a child it would be shorter still. There comes a point at which, if I had been a patriarch with a content wife and several children, the birth of a further child would cut our time down to hours. Perhaps even, though this is mathematically impossible, a birth would cause time to regress, to go backwards and we would already be dead. We would never have existed.
This man I have found, he will cut down my time here but at least it will end there. At least he is only one variable.
Back in the cave I find he has not moved.
I address him: ‘Are you ready to tell me why you are here?’ His eyes are open but he is unblinking. He has shown no signs of recognising me. ‘I will need help collecting food and fuel.’ He does not reply. I am beginning to grow impatient but I will give him some more time. He is a guest after all. And an acquaintance. Through the war and beyond we Brans mai
ntained a spirit of generosity, though in the time of the Programme it had little chance to show itself.
In spite of having little food we always catered for refugees who continued to trickle in during and after the war. We absorbed the healthy ones into our society where we could, absorbed them into the rationing system. The populace weren’t allowed food in their homes since communal cooking cut down on waste. So we would stand in a queue with these refugees, these people who had given nothing to us, and they would be fed the same as everyone else, the same as the healthy at least.
I decide to head back to the beach to fish instead of collecting grass seeds and roots. Fish will help Andalus get his strength back more quickly.
The seeds I mash and boil into a gruel of sorts. It is less appetising than fish but if I am to eke out every moment of the island’s life I need a balanced diet. I look after myself in this way. I fear there will not be enough time to collect seeds if I have to catch twice as many fish. If I fall behind and cannot collect enough food I will lose strength and grow weaker faster and I might never be able to get out of the spiral.
The balance would be thrown out.
I have been able to smoke fish but in the damp it is difficult to store food and the worms and insects seem able to find whatever I leave out.
I have tried eating these worms too but they are vile and I would rather eat the food that attracts them.
I could keep a fire going in the cave. Eventually the moisture on the walls would go and it would be dry but to do that I would exhaust my fuel supplies very quickly.
I catch four small fish this time. They are like the ones I used to enjoy as a young man but have a sharper nose and a slightly gamier taste. I call them Species Three as they are the third variety I caught. The task of naming I leave to others. I check my crab nets, which are located nearby.
One contains a couple of crabs and I remove these carefully.
Andalus is sitting on the floor when I get back to the cave. ‘Who are you?’ I ask. He does not speak. I walk up to him. He has his back to me. I whisper, ‘Who are you?’ I bend down and whisper even more softly in his ear, ‘I can guess, if that’s the way you want to play it. I can guess your name.’ He does not move. He still appears not to recognise me. I step away and walk round to face him. I hold up the fish. ‘Do you know what to do with these?’ I have not yet gutted them. ‘You can nod or shake your head. You do not have to talk.’ He does not move. ‘I will give you a knife. You place the point here,’ I show him where I mean, ‘and draw the blade downwards like this. You must do this so we can eat.’ I realise I am talking to him as if to a child.
Wall of Days Page 3
