I have lost the other, the old man, the judge, the one who, acting on orders from Abel, banished me from the settlement of Bran.
I walk back to Abel’s house. I am surprised at my feelings when I saw the judge. He is not someone I have blamed before for sending me away and I don’t know what I would have done if I had caught him.
But I am pleased nonetheless. I have seen someone from the past, someone whose name I know and not just dimly recognise. He is here.
And I am certain he recognised me. For now, that is enough.
Limping slightly I move off to sit in the shade of the wall near Abel’s house. There is a bench and I sit and wait for him to come home, or to leave it.
But nothing happens. Nothing at all. The street is quiet. When people pass sometimes they look at me only to look away quickly. It is fleeting but I do not imagine this. Sometimes they do not seem to notice me at all. A few children run after each other. Mostly there are no people in the street at all. More significantly, there is no movement in the house, or none that I can notice. The curtain does not twitch, the door does not open. I sit in the shade with my head resting against the wall. A fly settles on my forehead and I brush it away. I feel the sun on my face, on my skin, and my eyes close.
Abel. It is a common name in Bran. Its origins are unclear but we tell of two brothers at the beginning of time. Abel is murdered by his brother. He is the victim of the first evil. Why we would name our children after victims I have never understood. The tale tells of a man who takes his brother into a field. The man is jealous of his younger brother. Of what precisely he does not know. Of the fact that he is younger. He waits till his back is turned, picks up a stone. As he does the act, striking blow after blow, crows rise as one from the field, startled. Hundreds of them. They don’t make a sound. Or if they do he cannot hear. They blacken the skies above. The red earth stretches from horizon to horizon.
Abel was not a victim.
The judge sits on a raised platform. Behind him is the wall on which, beneath the heading ‘Marshals of Bran’, is inscribed my name and the date ‘Bran, b1’. He begins to speak, ‘Marshal Bran, you are hereby sentenced to exile in perpetuity. You will be given a boat, provisions.
You are to set sail, due east. If you find land before the territory of Axum, then that is where you should stay. If you do not, then you must take your chances in Axum. Under no circumstances are you to return to Bran. If you do you will be executed. The people’s court has decided to spare you the fate that you dealt out with the utmost willingness.
You have shown no remorse for your actions even though it is clear you are alone in pursuing the policies. You will never be forgiven by this town for we hereby expunge you.’ He folds his hands in front of him, leans slightly forward. ‘You were once a warrior, once a man with vision. Now…’ He pauses, and leans back. ‘Now, do not come back.’
With that he waves his hands and soldiers come and take me by the arms, quite gently, and lead me back to the cell. The court is silent. I turn to look over my shoulder. Abel is standing in the gallery. He is shaking the hands of the men next to him. He will not meet my eye.
Tora is not there. The next time I see her is my last day in the town for ten years.
I am woken by a hand on my shoulder. I look up, still half asleep. The sun is behind her face. A yellow glow comes from her hair. At first I think it is my lover. I sit up straight. It is not. It is Elba.
‘Good morning,’ she says. I have not slept for long.
‘Yes. Hello.’ I am still a bit confused.
‘You’re enjoying the sun?’
‘I am tired. I have had a long journey. Maybe it is catching up with me now.’
She moves out of the sun and sits next to me. Her skin is flushed.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘I am.’
‘Come to the kitchens with me then.’
We get up from the bench and start to walk slowly towards the kitchens. I ask, ‘Have you remembered Tora yet?’
‘Have I remembered who?’ She answers this very quickly.
‘Have you remembered the person of whom I spoke?’
She smiles at me. I find this a little frustrating but her smile makes her seem younger than she is. It brightens her. ‘I am sorry.’
I stare at her for a few seconds. ‘You know who I am.’ It is not a question.
‘I am sorry. You have not told me your name.’
I ignore this. ‘I saw the judge this morning.’ I look closely at her. She does not answer. ‘The judge. From ten years ago.’
She looks ahead. ‘What would you like to eat?’ is all she says but she takes me by the arm. I am silent.
In the kitchens she says, ‘Sit anywhere you like.’
I watch her as she walks away. She is not old but not in the prime of her life either. I wonder if she has a husband, a lover. I turn back, remembering Tora.
When she returns with food and has placed it in front of me, instead of leaving she remains standing. I pause in the act of lifting my fork to my mouth. ‘Do you mind?’ she says, pointing to the seat next to me.
‘Not at all,’ I say and make as if to pull the chair out for her but she gets there first and in my haste I knock my knife to the floor.
‘Thank you,’ she says and takes a clean knife from one of the other settings and places it in front of me. It is an unfussy movement, making light of my clumsiness. She would make a good wife.
For a few seconds I do not know what to do.
‘Not hungry?’ She asks, pointing to the food.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, and smile.
‘Was she an old lover of yours?’ I am slightly taken aback by the forwardness of the question but not for long. I decide to answer truth fully.
‘Yes. She was my lover for twelve years before I went away. Twelve happy years.’
A serious expression comes over her face. ‘Why did you go away?’
If there is a game with this woman she is good at playing it. For a moment I wonder whether I have changed more than I think. Perhaps ten years in the rain have altered me. I am certainly slimmer and probably a lot darker. It is as if the peat has soaked into me, through my feet, staining my skin a dark brown.
‘I was sent away.’ I watch for a change in expression but there is none.
‘Why?’
‘The courts sent me away. The judge.’
‘Ah, you’re one of our ambassadors. You have been away a long time?
It seems as if you have.’
‘Why is that?’ I do not show my surprise at her talking of ambassadors.
‘You seem…’ She pauses. ‘Perhaps things have changed a bit in the last few years. You will get used to us soon again.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I probably will.’ I stare into her eyes, slightly longer than is necessary.
‘How long were you away?’
‘Ten years.’ I am still staring at her. She drops her eyes from my gaze and hesitates.
‘And the woman? Why didn’t she go with you?’
‘It would not have been right.’
‘Forgive me,’ she says. ‘I ask too many questions.’ She begins to get up as if to leave. Without thinking I grab her wrist.
‘Stay. Please. I mean, if you don’t have any work to do.’ She sits again. ‘I told you she used to work here.’
‘Yes, I remember you saying but I do not remember someone called Tora. I have been here almost twelve years. No Tora.’
‘She started these kitchens. She was the first one to organise the meal rota.’
She shrugs, ‘Sorry.’
‘She looked a bit like you,’ I say. She looks away again.
‘What will you do if you find her?’
‘If I find her?’ Now I pause. ‘It has been a long time. I don’t know. It depends on the first meeting, I think. Then I will know what to do.’
I do not tell her that Tora was the only person I have ever loved. I do not tell her of the trial, though I am convinced
she knows about that.
How could she not? I do not tell her of Abel. I do not tell her of the island. Soon though. I will tell her why I came back. I feel this with some certainty.
But I truly don’t know what I will do when I see Tora.
The woman senses my change in mood. ‘I should get back to work,’ she says.
I want to keep her as an ally. ‘Forgive me,’ I say. ‘I do not mean to be rude. I would like to talk again. Would you mind if I called on you?’
She looks around, as if shy. ‘I don’t work nights. You could come this evening.’ She turns to walk away but stops, then turns back.
She stoops to talk to me and whispers, ‘You shouldn’t go chasing men through the streets. We don’t like that sort of thing. It will not be good for you.’ She walks off before I have a chance to respond.
I make my way to the Marshal’s office. On the way I go to the shelter to find Andalus. I give him some food I took from the kitchens.
When he is done I lead him to the courtyard of the administrative complex. Again there is no one around. I walk up to the Marshal’s door and knock. There is still no reply to the second knock. It is the middle of the day and the office should be open now. Even if the Marshal is not in, there should be clerks and officials about. A settlement cannot function without its administration. The townspeople though do not seem to care. It is a somnolent place, much changed since I left. There are few people on the streets. How many people have died, I wonder.
With the area so fertile I doubt it is possible for a town’s citizenry to be entirely replaced by a new one. Almost no one around and many of those I do see appear furtive, they shuffle around barely glancing up and when they do they hurriedly look away. Apart from the children, proof that the town is not dying. And the woman from the kitchens.
There’s a story in her, that I can sense. But there is a distance about her.
She is far away.
I open my palm and bang on the door. I can hear an echo. I try the handle but it is locked. I turn to go and Andalus is right behind me. I have to pull up to avoid bumping into him. ‘Do you want to try?’ I push him towards the door. He stands in front of it doing nothing. Then he turns his head slowly towards me. Is he shaking his head? I cannot see.
He is standing in the shadows, I in the sun. I cannot see him.
I leave him to follow me. We go back to the shelter and I lie down.
I will try again later. I will not criticise. I will remain civil. My case will be difficult enough to state without my losing my temper.
Speech from Andalus would make it so much easier. ‘People of Bran,’
I imagine him saying, ‘My land, Axum, is under siege from a band of people neither of us has come across before. I escaped because I was out on a surveying trip when they attacked. I tried to go back to rescue Axum but I could not get past. I thought of Bran, once an enemy, now an ally. On the way to find help I got lost at sea. These people, the third band, could well be on their way here right now. For all we know they could be sweeping over the hills in the night, eyes glowing red from the dust kicked up by the heels of thousands. They are strong. They will not rest until Bran and Axum are slaughtered. They are the new breed.
We can defeat them but only if we unite.’ How easy would it be then for me to get what I came for.
A third force. More people. Perhaps a blessing. Probably a curse.
The world is so vast, our memory of it so small. Everything we see, all new lands we come across, each new set of ruins; new, yet we always feel like we’ve seen them before, like we’ve been there before. We are a group of people who have lost their memory but retain a sense of having been. Once we were kings. Now it appears a terrible accident, an extinction, a curse has wiped our memories clean. Almost clean.
Every now and then something from below pokes its head above the surface, like the people I imagine crawling up from underground into the smoke. It sickens you to think of what might have been.
Could others be closer than we think? We have explored much but there was always more to see. Maybe we missed them. I think this often.
Untouched by our curse, a village with green grass, smoke coming from chimneys, fat children singing.
My people seemed afraid of the search, of the ruins, of finding something new. I had evidence for that but chose not to see it. My stories fell on deaf ears. Few wanted to hear about the ruins, about pictures that I found, strange artefacts half buried in the dust. Once we were marching through an area of desert. We walked towards what we thought was a tree in the distance. It was a stone pillar. At the base was an entrance leading underground. My men hung back. I asked for volunteers to go with me. Each man hung his head. ‘I will go alone then. I will show you there is nothing to fear.’ I took a torch. One man begged me to stay. In fact he grabbed my arm. I pushed him away and ordered them to make camp.
I descended stone stairs. The torch flickered on the walls. It was cool below ground in spite of the heat of the torch. The passage went further underground and turned corners. I marked my way with a stone. I had been walking for a long time when I began to see them. Shelves set into the walls. On each shelf a body, some wrapped in cloths, some not. I walked deeper into the cavern. Hundreds and hundreds of them stretching from my feet to above my head on both sides of the walls.
I came at last to a circular chamber. There on a stone slab a piece of metal in the shape of a cross. There was a red stone in the middle of it.
It flickered in the fire.
It was cold in there and I left, hurrying out. I did not know what to make of it and I left it feeling dumb. Too many stories to be told, even for me.
Outside the men would not meet my eyes. They were silent. I did not tell them what I had seen. It was three days before they recovered their humour.
Later in the afternoon I go back to the Marshal’s office, this time on my own. I spend a long time waiting, knocking, shouting. I kick the door once. The sun sets and I leave. I will not let the Marshal avoid me. I will have my say.
I make my way to Elba’s flat alone. In the settlement lights come on in windows, flickering behind curtains, barely lighting the street.
Shapes move past the lights, past yellow drawn curtains, hover like spirits before fading into black. I sense more of them, figures moving behind the walls, trying not to make a sound.
Not dead then.
I walk the long way to her flat and see few people out. I come to a place in the wall where you can climb up to the ramparts. It is normally guarded but now there is no one here. The gate is on a latch, not locked.
I lift it and walk through, climbing the narrow stairs. I used to come here sometimes, at night mostly, still summer nights. Looking out over the town, the quiet darkened town, I can see all of it. I can see the town hall. I can see the walls and the grey wooden buildings that have stood for so long, the architecture of a people with little imagination, little will to better themselves. I was torn, I remember, between fatherly feelings, between wanting to protect this mongrel people and anger at the lack of imagination, at the lack of will to do something out of the ordinary, to be extraordinary. A failure of imagination. I felt anger, sometimes, that it was left to me, a stronger mind, to lead, to imagine, to impose something like order on these simple people. I wondered if it was worth it. To have saved a savage is perhaps no great thing after all.
It is true, they did imagine something different for a while. But were they true believers or simply believing for the sake of expediency? I fear the latter. But then sometimes, at night, lying awake, I too sometimes stopped believing. I never told anyone that. Too late though. I stopped believing too late. Too late to stop the faces coming to me in the dark, to stop the screaming of the children in the island night.
I have achieved little since coming back. I have not told my story, I have not found Tora or Abel. I need a reaction in order to know what to do. Somewhere in the town, somewhere in a building I can see will lie the answer, will lie my futu
re. Somewhere in the town if alive, or somewhere just beyond the walls if dead, lie their bodies, my touchstones. Breathing or decaying, breath or fetid airs, their fumes I imagine wafting in the warm breeze, drifting here to my nostrils. I could follow them like a dog follows its prey. So close.
But not close enough. I have come home after a long absence and my children have made rules of their own. The patriarch has returned but his children no longer know who he is. Or admit to know.
If I don’t get a reaction soon I will have to take matters into my own hands.
8
I am surprised when the door opens. It is opened not by Elba but by a girl. She has large brown eyes. I am struck by them. They remind me of mine when I was a boy. It is the same girl I saw when entering the town for the first time.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What is your name?’ I lean down to her.
She turns her face away from me and walks into the flat leaving the door open. Elba appears. ‘This is my daughter,’ she says. ‘Tell the man your name.’
The girl looks up and says boldly, almost haughtily, ‘My name is Amhara.’
I did not expect Elba to have a child. She had not mentioned it before. But then why would she? In the settlement children spend a long time away from their parents. They are schooled intensively and live in boarding houses for most of the week. That way we could both accelerate their learning and ensure that each was provided for equally and adequately. I presume that at least has not altered since my time.
‘That is a beautiful name.’ I say in response. ‘And how old are you?’
‘Nine.’
I will admit disappointment at the fact that Elba has a daughter.
Though I do not expect much of her, it will mean that her loyalties will never be totally with me.
‘I did not mention her to you as it did not come up,’ Elba says, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘nothing to be concerned about.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘You have a very beautiful daughter.’
Luckily Elba smiles at that point and asks if I would like to come inside.
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