The Marshal waits for me, his hands crossed in front of him, unlike a soldier.
‘What can I help you with today?’ he asks.
Enough is enough, I decide. ‘We had an appointment yesterday.’
‘Did we?’
‘You mean to say you don’t remember?’
He shrugs.
‘Do you recognise me yet?’ I ask. I wonder if he notes my sarcastic tone. ‘You have had time to think, time to remember. I do not, I’m afraid, recognise you. You were perhaps a minor official when I left.’
The Marshal remains standing, not answering my question, waiting for me to finish.
‘I think you know who I am,’ I continue. ‘I think you know very well. What I can’t decide is why you would choose not to acknowledge me. Throughout my life I have been either hero or villain, depending on your political leanings. I have never been an object of indifference.’
The Marshal allows a smile to cross his lips.
‘But I am not the only issue here. The man I brought with me is one that has to be reckoned with. He is perhaps now of little use, of little consequence. Perhaps what he has seen has driven the life force from him but what he represents is important. The possibilities encased in his being here are what should be of interest. Perhaps the man Andalus is gone but we should understand why there is that void, the void in the space where he stands.’
‘You’re a philosopher,’ says the Marshal. ‘Or a poet.’
I do not respond to this.
‘Where is this man, then, this Andalus?’ He emphasises the second syllable, whereas he should know to emphasise the third. It is a mistake some of my less well-informed people used to make.
I do not correct him. I turn around, reaching out to Andalus who I assume is behind me. He is not. There is no sign of him.
I turn back to the Marshal. ‘He was here. He has wandered off.’
The Marshal smiles and turns to go.
‘I am not finished,’ I say. I have raised my voice.
He turns back. The smile has vanished.
‘Where are Elba and Amhara?’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘You know she doesn’t want to be a part of your plan. Hesitant at the very least.’
The Marshal looks at me without replying. His face is blank.
‘I saw them go inside.’
‘They are not who you say they are.’
I decide not to pursue that. Instead I say, ‘I would like to talk about my situation. I would like a decision from you. A deadline, at the least.’
‘You would like to talk,’ says the Marshal. It is not a question.
Before I can reply he stands aside and motions me through the door.
I walk straight ahead towards the staircase leading to the Marshal’s office. There is no sign of Elba and Amhara. Through a corridor I see the hall I was in last night. I think about going straight in there and questioning the meaning of the erasure of my name. But that can wait.
I walk up the stairs, past the doors to offices belonging to clerks and lower officials and straight through the door to the Marshal’s office.
Inside, things have changed slightly. There is a rug on the floor that wasn’ t there before and a cabinet against the right-hand wall. I notice too my portrait has been removed from above the desk. The space where it used to hang is darker than the surrounds. The desk and chair are the same and showing their age. I run my fingers over a scratch in the desk’ s surface. I remember making it – a slip of a knife. I remember it becoming dark with age. I turn to face the Marshal who just now appears in the door.
‘You seem to know your way around.’
‘Apparently so.’
Momentarily I feel as if I am back in my post and this man is the supplicant, instead of me. I find myself moving to the chair behind the desk but stop. I stand to one side and let the Marshal pass. He asks me to sit.
‘How may I help?’ The Marshal sits behind the desk, facing me.
‘You no doubt know who I am,’ I begin. ‘You no doubt know that according to the terms of my sentence I am not allowed to return to the settlement on pain of death. Nonetheless I have returned. You must be wondering why I have done so, why I have flouted the terms of my sentence.’
I pause but the Marshal says nothing.
‘I am surprised, I have to say, at the lack of urgency shown by you at my presence, at Andalus’ s presence indeed. I am surprised I am being left alone and not arrested. It is an agreeable turn of events in some ways but one which I would like to understand. We have things to clear up here. Firstly, you should be aware of the reasons for my presence since I believe as Marshal you have a duty to react to them.
That is my major concern, as it has always been. Secondly, I would like to understand what this means. Why has the policy of the town been to ignore me, to pretend they don’t remember, for this must be what is going on? Perhaps it is not my concern. I am, after all, no longer of this place. Nonetheless I would like to understand what it means. Will I be forced to leave again? Will I face execution? Will I have to serve time in prison within the colony? I hope for leniency, given the dangers I have faced bringing Andalus here, bringing him to your notice. Thirdly, I would like to talk about the events of the past, about what we did.’
He interrupts me. ‘Who is this man you have brought to us?’
‘You must know who he is. Andalus, the General of Axum, the one who brought near destruction on our people, as we did on his. The one I fought, the one with whom I concluded a peace.’
‘I have not seen Andalus.’ This time he changes his pronunciation.
‘He appears to be traumatised. He is certainly not the same man who led Axum. Something has happened and I believe we need to try to discover what it is. In the time since I found him he has not spoken, has not said a word. He is docile. Quite tame. Much like a dog, you might say. He does what you tell him. Every now and then I can see a glimmer in his eyes of who he used to be. There was an instance on the island when I was chopping wood. He came up behind me, like a ghost, and the expression in his eyes… I did not trust him for a while after that but he seems harmless.’
‘You were on an island?’
‘Yes.’ I look at him unblinking. ‘I survived.’
‘Tell me about this island.’
I contain my irritation at the changing of the subject and decide to humour him. ‘My calculations told me I was on the very edge of our territories as agreed with Axum. Any further and I would have been in violation of the Treaty and you could have been back at war. Banished by the town I saved, for carrying out what was necessary to save them, only to initiate war as a result of my banishment. You did not think of that possibility when you gave me a raft and a few provisions.’
‘I gave you a raft?’
I make a point of maintaining my patience. ‘Not you personally, though I’m sure you had some role in the whole proceeding. Not you but your office, specifically the man who occupied that seat before you, Marshal Abel.’
‘Abel?’
‘Yes, Abel. You are not going to tell me you have forgotten him as well.’
The Marshal smiles and looks down at his desk. ‘So, tell me about the island.’
Again I feel this is a waste of time but it is dawning on me that my people have lost a sense of urgency. Things have slowed down. I begin:
‘The island is a dead place or to be accurate, a dying place. It is like a body lying face down in a pool of muddy water, slowly sinking, slowly drowning.’ I stop myself.
‘The island I have documented well. I have brought my notes with me.’ I tap the bag that I hold. ‘My intention was to hand over the notes to the town’ s geographer. Though the island is disappearing there is knowledge there and since we have lost such a lot, a little is valuable.’
The Marshal holds up his hand to stop me opening the bag. ‘That can wait,’ he says.
I fix him with a stare. ‘You are right. There is little of interest on the island. The
island is not the story here, or at least not the main story. What is of interest is Andalus and what is to be done with him.’
‘Still, humour me. How long were you on the island and how did you come to return to us?’
‘Ten years. I arrived there about three weeks after being sent away from here. It was the first dry land I had seen. Relatively dry at least.
I set up camp. I found water. I caught fish. I made fire from peat and from wood found in a small forest. I harvested grains and tubers. I caught seagulls every now and then. They were mostly dead already. I worked out how long the island would last, how quickly it was slipping into the water. I noted the rates at which food stocks dwindled – the fish, the birds – and worked out how long my fuel sources would last. I made annotations on the types of fish I caught, the varieties of grains I found, the earth, the rocks. I did not plant more because I did not need more. My life I realised would run out with the island’s. That was how it was for all the time I was there.
‘One day Andalus washed ashore. There he was, a large white being stranded on my shore. It took me a while to recognise him but eventually I did. He showed no signs of recognising me. In fact he showed no signs of noticing what was around him at all.
‘I began to realise what his presence might mean and decided I should do what was right and face death by bringing him to your attention. And here I am.’
‘And here you are.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And how long do you plan to stay?’
I shake my head. ‘There are still questions, things to be done.’ I lean in towards the Marshal. ‘What have you done with Marshal Abel?
What have you done with his lover, Tora?’
‘Tora?’
‘My lover, before I left.’
‘You think I should know you?’
‘If you don’t, you are a simpleton.’
His expression changes. ‘You are a guest in this town. Do not forget.’
‘A guest you don’t know what to do with. You have choices: give him the best room, or, try to ignore him in the hope that he will go away, or, take him outside into the orange groves, set on him, slit his throat, bury him so no one can see.’
‘We will not kill you. We are a good people, a forward-looking people.’ With that the Marshal leans back in his chair, folds his arms behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. He speaks again. ‘You were here last night.’
This throws me slightly. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘Your footprints were all over the place.’
‘How did you know they were mine?’
The Marshal shrugs. ‘Who else?’
‘The door was open.’
He says nothing.
‘I walked into the hall. I have seen what you’ve done.’
‘What have I done?’
‘You have erased my name from the wall of names.’
‘Erased, you say?’
‘Erased. Perhaps a joke. Perhaps some ill-advised conception of public good.’
‘Explain?’
‘Someone, you, the real Marshal, someone, not liking what we did, chose to eliminate traces of the person most closely associated with the error. Error, as they saw it.’
‘What error is that?’
I hesitate, wondering if he is being deliberately obtuse, or is admitting that he too sees the merits of what we did. ‘The error, as some like to call it, of eliminating the weak, of following the policy that killed some yet saved so many. The policy designed to fix our world, broken in an original sin. The policy that some called a cull.’
The Marshal stares at me for a few moments. ‘Why were you here?’
‘Why was I here? I was passing. The door was open. I was curious.
I wanted to see my old rooms again. I wanted to see my name on the list.’
‘And you were disappointed when you did not see your name?’
‘Of course. You do not erase history simply because you do not ap prove, simply because you wish you had another and this is clearly what has happened here.’
‘By removing names from a wall?’
‘It’s emblematic. The removal of the names stands in the stead of something greater, something darker.’
‘You think we should keep telling ourselves the stories that frighten us?’
I think I might be on the verge of extracting a confession from the Marshal.
‘Why should you be afraid of it? The past has as much power over you as you allow it. Punish if you like. Crucify if you must. Burn the guilty and throw their ashes to the wind, blacken their names and cast out their families. Do not sweep under the carpet. Avenge guilt and move on. Even the guilty deserve to be remembered, deserve the status of being guilty.’ Too much, I tell myself.
The Marshal betrays no emotion. After a while he looks down at the table and says, ‘Let’s go down to the hall then. Let’s see if what you’re saying has merit.’ I want to remark that what I say has merit regardless of what is on the wall but I hold my tongue.
We do not talk again until we are in the Great Hall. I am about to point out the error when the Marshal says, ‘Madara, Abel. Not a long line yet, though an auspicious one.’
I am surprised to say the least. ‘The first is not the right name. You must know that. And you have an Abel there but no end date to his rule. Tell me, where is he, what has become of him? And why is your name not there? Are you not proud to be Marshal?
He snaps at me. ‘I have more important things to do than write my name on a wall. It will get done soon enough.’
‘Regardless, Madara is still wrong.’
‘What should be written on the wall?’
‘I think you know the answer to that but I will indulge you,’ I say. ‘The first Marshal of Bran was Bran. Me, the man named for the settlement. The second Marshal was Abel, my second-in-command.
He became Marshal when I was banished. You may very well be the third Marshal but I cannot say for sure.’
‘You cannot say.’
‘Cannot say whether you’re the third, the fourth, the fifth. You know very well what I mean. The names on that list, if there are three, should be Bran, Abel, Jura. That is the error. The wrong names, the wrong number.’
The Marshal walks up to the wall, stands with his nose almost touching it, looking at the names. He puts his hand to them and rubs his fingertips over the gold lettering. ‘You asked if I was proud. I am very proud to be Marshal of Bran and to follow such men. Madara then Abel, a man even greater than the first.’ He pauses. ‘On wood such as this you would have to be extremely careful sanding it if your alterations were not to stand out. Extremely careful. It has such a soft texture, is so finely grained that only an expert craftsman would be able to remove paint and then repaint without leaving any traces of his work. Come and have a look.’
I step closer.
‘Do you see any marks?’ He points to the name Madara. ‘Do you see any difference in the wood?’
I have to admit I do not.
‘Then,’ he says, barely bothering to conceal his triumph, ‘You have to concede that you are wrong.’
‘You said yourself an expert craftsman could have done it.’
‘You misunderstand. But, never mind.’ He turns away from me, his back to the wall. ‘You say you know a great deal about history but I am not sure you have learnt from it. Nevertheless it has been a pleasure talking with you. I enjoy the exchange of ideas. You must come again and we can continue our discussion. Of course you should announce yourself when you do and not walk around like a thief.’ I cannot tell if he is serious or not. ‘But for now you must go.’ He walks off.
At the entrance to the hall he turns around, looks me in the eyes and says, ‘Madara was our first ruler. In some ways a truly great man.
He wrote our constitution. He saved us all from starvation. But he was brutal, too brutal. Perhaps a man of his time. Then that time ended and he could no longer be a man of his time. He had to go. He had to end. That is his story. Abel took over.
His was the true vision, a vision that healed us and gave us stability and a sense of purpose, an identity we have come to cherish.’
I am too stunned to reply. I can only watch the Marshal leave. But then I shout, ‘You cannot deny me forever, Jura. You will have to reckon with me in the end.’
I turn back to the wall, run my palm over the wood again. I walk out of the room, out of the building, out of the courtyard. As I go I look up at the window. Perhaps a shadow, a hand, a pale face. Perhaps nothing.
I have left without answers but I will be back. If I can’t get answers from the Marshal, I will find them myself. I will find proof of what is being done here. I will find Abel and Tora.
I walk quickly to Abel’s house again. I knock hard at the door, place my ear to the wood and listen intently. There is nothing. Once more I knock and listen.
After a few moments I tiptoe away from the door to the window. I cannot see through it. The sun shines brightly on the pane and blinds me. I place my face against the glass. At first I can see nothing. One by one objects become visible: the stone floor, a chair, a table, a chest against a wall. On the chest a jug and basin. At the far end of the room a passageway deeper into the house. The chair has been knocked over.
Peering to my left I can make out where the door should be but cannot see it as it is just behind a wall that juts out, blocking my vision. I imagine someone standing there, waiting for me to leave. I press further into the glass, using my hands placed around my face to block out the glare of the sun. The floor is covered in a grey film of dust. It is thin, just a few days old.
It is obvious to me by now that I will get no easy answers. Few people look at me in the streets. One, the judge, has run away from me.
The two, three hundred people whose names I knew have vanished. A Marshal who is plainly not a leader of men. A woman who pretends not to know me or her predecessor, pretends reluctantly perhaps, out of duty, obligation. That I do not know.
Wall of Days Page 13
