by Joy Dettman
Then Lenny walks into the light. Like Pa he is, with his long nose and small eyes near closed against the glare. Other parts of his face are protected from the sun by rusty face hair which near hides the narrow slash of his mouth. His green overall, though stretched to fit, was made for a finer, longer male; the legs of it crinkle, wrinkle above his boots. He wears a greasy cap pulled low over his eyes, and he lifts neither head nor cap, as the grumble of thunder growls up from his barrel chest. Like bookends he and Pa, they have been hewn from the same rough rock, though one has been well weathered and near worn away by storm and wind and time.
Together they stand, their two great dogs at their feet. Jonjan stands apart, looking from the barn, to the dust storm, to his craft.
‘It has no anchor. If I might stow it indoors I would pay well –’
‘You reckon that frekin fence got built for decoration, eh, boy?’ Lenny says.
But the stranger is not looking at Lenny. He is staring now at the tank-stand and at the green of the pumpkins, and I think his eyes are very good, for too quickly he turns his head. Too fast, he steps back, then back again.
‘Good health to you and to the Chosen,’ he says, and the snarling dogs cower closer to the earth.
‘He seen too much, Pa?’
Pa’s index finger strokes his face hair as he spits to the dust, and with a swinging motion of his right leg, turns to Lenny. ‘Reckon so, boy.’
Lenny sighs. He stares towards the pumpkins and my hair, his own finger scratching beneath his cap. ‘Reckon he knows what he seen, Pa?’
‘Reckon he thinks he knows. Reckon that’s maybe why he come.’
Jonjan is on his way and walking quickly when Lenny’s whistle quivers, falters then dies, and the dogs, a well-matched pair, run free. One hits the stranger in the back, the second grasps his ankle, dragging him to the dust. They straddle him, their bared teeth only inches from his eyes.
‘I’m not a searcher,’ Jonjan cries. ‘I am no threat to you or yours.’
‘Makes no never-mind now, boy. Stuck your nose where it shouldn’ta got stuck and you come unstuck.’ Lenny appears to be such a slow beast but he has much strength and can move with unexpected speed when necessary. Before the storm is upon us, the gate has been opened and both rider and his three-wheeled flying machine have been dragged into the old barn.
Pa calls to me then, and the dogs search, but the winds are grey with dust, and wild. Pa does not find me for I have lifted the lid of the water tank and climbed within, where I remain, crouched low in the little water, safe from dust, and from the dogs. As with the shed and the generator, the grey men brought this tank. It is a good place for me to hide, and when I do not wish to be found, I am not found.
Afternoon light has given way to evening when I scramble from my hide to share my drips with the pumpkins. In the shed the men still curse the city generator.
I walk the length of the rear verandah and through the back door into the kitchen where I take up my cordial from off the table, which is a rickety thing, but large enough to hold all we need. This cordial I drink daily, and when all of the bottles are empty the grey men return and bring more for me.
The last bottle is almost empty. I smile. So that is why Lenny and Pa’s labour in the shed has such importance. The grey men require much bright light for their work with me.
Lord, how I thirst for the cordial. I pour a measure into a mug, add water, then drink it fast. I make another which I carry outside. The stranger is in the barn and he too will thirst.
My eyes near closed against the last of the windborne dust, I sidle along the edge of the house to the western corner, which is not far from the shed. The dogs sense I am about; there is much yap-yapping, but they are tied by strong cords to either side of the barn’s main door; they will not break free.
It is a very wide doorway, as the barn is wide – many times the dimensions of the city men’s shed, which is forty paces south of it. As with the house, the barn has stood tall and strong on this land since before the Great Ending. I like it well, and like the loft, where once, long, long ago, many men slept in compartments, separated by small walls. Each compartment has a window opening and from these I can look out to the tops of the mountains that surround our land.
Tonight I enter through the side doorway. And he is there, bound hand and foot, then tied to a wide support beneath the loft, his arms dragged high, his feet barely touching the earthen floor.
I peer at him from the doorway, and at his beetle machine, then I creep inside, my back to the wall, and I offer the mug, though he has no hand to hold it.
He stares at me, and in disbelief, but says not a word.
I step nearer. Words do not come easy to my tongue; I have had little use for them since Granny died, and this evening, my fickle tongue denies me. My finger reaches out and briefly touches his blue overall. ‘You thirst?’
He flinches, and for a moment his feet lose their purchase on the floor; he swings there by his arms, but his eyes do not leave my face. I draw back, place the mug down and wait until he gains his feet before approaching him again, for I have such a strong desire to know of the others.
‘You . . . you are a very young one of them,’ I say.
‘You are female.’ His words are less than a whisper.
I wait, for I like his soft voice and wish him to say more. He says no more.
‘Do you know my name?’ I say.
‘I know nothing,’ he whispers. ‘Free me. I have not been here today. I have not seen you.’
‘You are here. I think you are not blind, so you see what you see, and you see me.’
‘Oh, Moni,’ he moans as he struggles against his bonds, trying to lift himself high, then he slumps, stands motionless, his eyes raised to the roof. ‘Oh, Moni. Help me now.’
‘Oh, Moni,’ I say, copying his words and his tone. I like to mimic. I can make the call of the rooster and of the crow too, the whistle of the eagle. ‘Oh, Moni. Help me now.’
‘You speak her name in jest!’
‘You . . . you speak it . . . you speak it as a prayer of the ancient ones. Prayers will not make that which is bad go away,’ I say as I walk to the side door and look across to the generator shed. Both dogs are barking; surely they will rouse the men from their labour. I wait, listen, but they are very busy with their cursing, so I return to his side. ‘Her name is not a prayer. She was a female child of the old ones who played in the fields and wove garlands for her hair.’
‘You know of her name. Have I found her place?’
‘You have found my place and I think that is not allowed by the grey men.’
‘Tell me that she sent the storm to guide my craft to her land and I will die happy.’
‘To die is not to be happy. Three times I have seen death and I think it did not make the ones who did it happy.’
He sighs in a great breath, then sighs it out so slowly. I stoop, touch his city shoe, which is unlike the boots the grey men bring for Lenny and Pa.
He waits until I stand before he speaks again, but slowly. ‘You know of Moni?’ he asks. ‘You know of her name?’
I turn to the hills, struggling to clear my mind of the grey mist that begins to wash over it, and to explain what I know is there behind the mist. ‘I have . . . I have talked with Granny of the Moni child who knew of raindrops on her nose and . . . and oceans that . . . that . . . that in her ancient ancestors’ time . . . that they might dip in a finger and the ripples would draw giant wheels upon its surface to end in another land.’
‘There is no other land. There has been much waste of both labour and life in the searching for it.’
‘It is not so in the books.’
‘The books? The writings of Moni?’
‘We had no paper and Granny’s pencil was too small for much writing.’
‘Who are you?’
I shrug, reach out and place my hand on his arm, uncovered by the sleeve of the overall, and my fingers play on warm gold dust, feathered
with gold dust hairs. ‘Granny once told me of the others, of their great buildings and black roads . . . and . . . and of the many wires strung like a giant spider web across the sky. Have you seen such things?’
‘You speak of the city. I am of the city.’
‘Does it belong to the three grey men and the thick males who hold the guns?’
‘Who are you?’
I shrug again, and my hand moves from his arm to his chest, but the storm has near blown itself away and it is taking the light with it. My eyes feast on his face, and my hand reaches to touch his face, striving to know it until the day of my ending. So smooth it is, so fresh with youth. He does not fear my touch. I fear it, for within my mind a lost place is stirring.
‘Tell me I am dreaming you,’ he whispers.
‘I have many dreams. In my dreams I run so fast to where there is laughter, and . . . and I am free. If this were a dream . . . if this were a dream, I would cut your bonds and we would fly to the places of Granny’s books, and we would swim together in the old ocean and play beneath a gentle sun and there would be laughter – if this were a dream.’
‘Free me.’
‘In my waking there is no freedom, Jonjan.’ I walk away from him then, for within the flesh of me there comes a strange feeling of discomfort I have not known before.
‘You think to arouse me. You are one of their bed-boys!’ He spits the words at me.
I turn. ‘I have read of such things in the newsprint that wraps the bottles safe. I have read that these males are cloned for their beauty then cut to suit their masters.’
‘And you are beautiful. And you are of my father’s doing. He is testing my loyalty to the laboratories.’
‘I am female and of my mother’s doing.’
‘You have been trained well, liar. Go from my sight.’
‘I have been trained only in truth, Jonjan.’
But he has closed his eyes, lifted his face towards the rusting roof. ‘Oh, Moni. I searched for the purity of your land and I find that they have been here before me to defile it.’ His face is angry as he looks at me. ‘Go from me, liar. Tell your men to make a fast finish of what they have begun for I will not go back.’
‘I do not name you searcher when you say you are not searcher.’ Again his eyes are turned to the roof. For minutes I wait, watching his chest move fast with his breathing, then I slide the front opening of my overall down, just a little. I do not know why I do this thing, except that Granny did not tolerate lies. She spoke only truth to me and I spoke only truth to her. I am not liar.
I slide the fastening more, quickly taking it to its full length, and also the leg fastenings, then I step free of it. When Granny lived I wore many levels of garment, but this now is the only one I wear. It is a city thing, warm or cool, as need be.
I touch his arm, stand before him as his eyes turn to me, and I think he has not before seen a true female. He does not repeat his liar accusation but weeps with wide eyes. Such tears, and he has no hand to dry them. I wipe his tears away, and he says not a word as I opened his fastener and allowed my hands to caress the firm skin of his chest.
For a time, how much, how little, we stand thus, and it is as the warmth of a dream, and gladly I dream as I reach for the sawtooth knife that is kept on the ledge. With it I saw through his bonds.
So close we are, I think our heartbeats have become one. ‘Until they make a light their fence will not begin its singing. You may leave,’ I say.
‘And if I do not wish to leave, strange female one?’
‘Then you may stay, I think.’
He offers his hand and I take it. It is soft as my own, and as long. I smooth his swollen wrist, place my lips to it, as another had once soothed my own small hurt. Lord, why is it that he makes me remember such things? Before I have not remembered such things.
But the dogs are barking and Lenny’s curse comes from close by. I draw Jonjan deeper into the barn, draw him by the hand towards the ladder that leads to the loft. We climb there and hide together.
It is a fine thing to do, this hiding with another. We kneel so close, as in the praying position of the ancient ones, but we do not touch.
And then –
The mouth is for speaking. We do not speak. The mouth is also for eating; he begins to eat of my mouth, then I eat of his mouth. And his hands begin to praise me, and mine praise him. And the dogs are barking.
We cling then, cling together. And . . . and . . . and our limbs entwine and we become as one.
And if the dogs still bark, I do not hear them. If the men still curse, I do not care, for there is such a bittersweet happening that I may not describe it, for I have not the words to describe such a joy.
Lenny and Pa’s light comes fast and bright through the loft window, so much light that we may see the faces of each other and see this thing that we have done.
Jonjan is afraid. Too quickly one becomes two. I climb first to the floor and I cover my secret with golden fabric while in the loft he covers his secret with blue. I take up the mug of cordial and sip it as I watch at the side door until he climbs down and walks to me, and his hand takes the mug and the hand that held it, and his breath is on my face.
‘They come. You must fly,’ I say.
‘If you fly with me.’ He drinks of the cordial, drinks in a long swallow. Then he looks at me. ‘Curse them to hell,’ he says and he throws the mug at the wall. He turns from me, walks quickly to his machine, leans there, as if a weakness has come too suddenly upon him. I believe this thing we have done has damaged him.
‘You must fly,’ I say. ‘You must take your machine now, Jonjan.’
‘You are a prisoner of their tomorrow juice and you don’t know it,’ he says. ‘I should have known it. I should have known.’ And he sits, his back against his machine.
‘You must not sit there.’ I pull on his arm, try to lift him.
Again he looks to the roof. ‘Forgive her, Moni, for she knows not what she has done.’ He sighs, and I think he sleeps!
I run from him.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
Came the dogs then to feast upon the dead. And the dogs died. Came the rats to feast upon the dogs and the rats thrived.
Came the wailing of the damned and the stench of death upon the air, and it covered all of the land.
And fear became man’s daily bread, and panic his fresh water.
But from the priests and the law-makers, from the builders and the engineers, from those who knew arms and much of armaments, from the scientists, the surgeons and others of great knowledge, great wealth or important position or occupation, one hundred and twenty-five had been chosen.
And they had prepared a place for them, and they had taken with them abundant stores from the storesheds and water enough, and that with which to purify both air and water.
And they had taken with them medicines and books, tools and arms. And they had locked themselves secure in a building beneath the great southern city where they might remain safe from airborne and manborne disease.
And as rats in a hole they waited for the seventh day to end.
THE REMEMBERING
There has been a length of many days between the grey men’s comings. It has been the time they name the Resting Phase, which comes after the Harvesting. How many days I do not know, only that I must swallow no more yellow pills during the Resting Phase and that there are blue pills after it. Only that their grey hands do not intrude during the Resting Phase.
Granny once said to me: ‘Time is a gift. Never question or measure a gift, girl.’ The Resting Phases are gifts. I do not measure them. I know only that the day of Jonjan’s coming was the day of the first golden pumpkin flower, and today we have many fat green pumpkins. I know that the spotty calf was not born on the night of that wondrous happening in the barn, and now he has grown and may not suck more milk from the brown cow, for Pa steals all of it to make his cheese.
And that is all I know.
The grey men
came again last night and they were not pleased with me. Lenny likes me to please them, for in their giant flying machine, they bring him a great plasti-wrapped gift from the city, and they bring a wheeled machine which they use to lift their gift to the earth and carry it to the generator shed. I have watched the unloading of it by night, and watched Lenny opening the cords and seal by day.
Inside it he finds many things. There is corn for the stock and plasti-cans of cornbeans for us. There is fruitjell and the grey oil spread, packets of crispbites and much, much cornbread. There are potatoes and carrots, paper towels, containers of chem-wash, pills for Pa’s aches, V cubes for Lenny, and sometimes overalls, boots and sandals. Always there is the cordial.
Each bottle is wrapped individually and safe in city newsprint, then packed with more newsprint into a carton. The cordial is mine, thus the crumpled newsprint is also mine.
I have handled Lenny’s V cubes, just for a moment. They are less than a handspan in both height and width and on five sides there is a prancing dancer. On the sixth side they have made a map of many paths and colours. I do not understand the pleasure of these cubes, though Lenny likes them well. He sits on the verandah rocking in Granny’s old chair, squinting and smiling at the figures, then he hides them away.
The pages of my newsprint he does not enjoy, for he cannot make sense of letters. I am smoothing my crumpled pages when he comes to lean close to me and to study the page where there is a large colourful likeness of the 172 February female. I have seen her before, but the words above her say that she has now left the world, for she had passed her twenty-sixth year.
I think Lenny likes to look at her long dark hair and her large dark breasts, but I like her name. Names are important. ‘Feb-ru-ary.’ I say. Perhaps she knew my mother. ‘Feb-ru-ary.’
Because of his young limbs and yellow hair, I have found a brief remembering of mother since the day of Jonjan. If I close my eyes tight I can see her golden hair spread in the dust. If I press my fingers hard into my ears, I can hear her words.
