by Joy Dettman
One hundred years and two Granny walked the earth, and for many days more I sat on her bed, staring at the tapestry while watching her fade into death, though her voice did not fade until the final day.
‘A rabbit is a survivor,’ she had said to me. ‘He’s had no time to grow smart because he lives only to breed, girl. He’s not a fighter. See how he hides from his tormentors. He goes to ground. Find the rabbits and be one with them when the hounds come baying for you, and never doubt it, they will come when I am gone.
‘Safety is a figment of man’s imagination, girl. Waste not a minute of your time in feeling safe. The searchers will come, and keep on coming until the last freeborn has been taken to die in their filthy city.
‘Every male has his price. Trust none of them – not old Jem or his bastard. Trust yourself, girl, and your instincts. If the hairs on your neck quiver, then run for the hills. If you feel the chill of ice in your spine, run for the hills. Only the rabbits who have learned to live in holes will survive this new world, girl, so when I am gone, become one, or die.’
I tried to heed her warnings. While she had lived I did not trust the men, but I gained so much external freedom after her death that I forgot the more important inner freedom. It is gone.
I feel my way across the room to my bed now where I rest against soft pillows, sipping from my cordial bottle. Sickly sweet it is. I hold it in my mouth until slowly it trickles down my throat. I sip, swallow. It stills my thinking, brings to me a soft content. And so I sleep.
Hush, baby. You must learn silence. It is the voice that comes sometimes to my dreams, and I love those dreams well, but tonight I feel the cold hand of the speaker covering my mouth, sealing it.
‘Mummy?’ I try to call. ‘Mummy.’ In my dream I fight to call her name aloud.
Keeping silent when in a cage only assists the keeper in achieving his own desired results, girl, Granny says, for she too is with me in my dream, her poor clawed hand striving to free my mouth.
My scream awakens me, and my wild heartbeat. I gasp air, breathe deeply, filling my lungs, for the dream was so real. I search the room with my eyes but I am alone and the cordial bottle is still in my hand.
How many years have passed since the grey men first came with these bottles? How can I know if I do not measure time? I measure the weight of the cordial and already this bottle is half empty. So much of it and the last I have wasted with my morning spitting up. I place it down and my hand moves to the roundness of my breasts, then to the slide fastener that will not easily fasten across them.
Granny’s doctoring book told me that breasts were created for the suckling of human infants as the brown cow’s teats were made to suckle the spotty calf. Pa steals the cow’s milk for his cheese. The grey men steal the foetus from me so they may not suckle.
My hand moves slowly across my naked breast, so slowly, but I snatch it away. I had not thought much of these parts of me before the coming of Jonjan. They were there, and as my arms, my legs, a part of me. Now I can not touch them without feeling that inner ache of the flesh.
Why?
‘Learn to cover yourself,’ Lenny had said to me.
Why? Since childhood I have run near naked in this place.
But . . . but perhaps it is better if I cover myself. Tomorrow. Tonight I will think of the entwining with Jonjan and of my breasts, and tomorrow I will find something to cover these thoughts away, then I will think no more of my dear dead stranger.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
In time the trembling of the earth grew less, and in the sky, one day, a grim sun reappeared.
And it was blood red.
And in the night sky our lady moon arose and she had given birth to a daughter who moved in orbit around her.
And in time man crawled from his shelters and from his holes beneath the earth and he saw that which he did not understand, nor wish to see.
For to the north, where the great highway once led to distant places, there was an ocean, and fire spewing forth from beneath the ocean.
And to the south, where fine buildings once reached toward heaven, there was a gaping canyon.
And when man turned his face to the west, towards the mountains, he saw glazed and black desolation.
And he wept for what was lost.
And many returned to their shelters and to their holes beneath the earth and they used what means they had to escape this world they did not know.
THE WOODEN TRUNK
There is a chorus of voices coming from the burned-out rooms and Granny’s voice is loudest of all. All morning I have heard it. The timber moans and the roofing iron plays a strange rhythmic melody. It is as if they call to me. I can hear it in my room, and in the kitchen where Pa sits over his morning meal. I do not wish to share the kitchen so I go to the library room where I stand looking down to the cellar, dug deep by the old ones. It is our safe place when the bad storms come; its ceiling of solid wood and metal beams that support the floor of the library room, and also of Pa’s room. On many nights Granny and I sheltered in the cellar while the nails holding the roof of the burned-out rooms squealed free and the twisted iron flew.
The cellar trapdoor, a heavy contrivance, was hinged long ago. It has given up the struggle to survive; the city adhesive gun will not repair it, so the trapdoor leans against the wall. When we must go to this room, we walk around the dark hole.
I do not like this hot season when the winds blow in from the pits of hell. Today, inside and outside, there is no air to breathe, but from out of the cellar always comes air that is cool, air that retains odours from that other age. I walk down to the cool now, my hand on the brick wall for the steps complain loudly.
‘Watch your footing there, girl,’ Pa warns.
I watch my every step on those trembling stairs that lead to a smooth masonry floor, for I do not trust them, nor the handrail Lenny continues to repair with the city adhesive gun, which fires bullets of black glue, hot from the barrel. They adhere to both wood and metal, and I think the handrail is more glue now than wood; it sways like my freedom tree in the wind.
The freezers are grey city things, and safe in the cellar. Much of what comes from the city is stored in them, and at times Lenny kills a young bullock or pig, or the old hens when they forget to lay their eggs. He cuts them into sections, binds them in plasti-wraps, then packs them into the largest freezer; its length is almost my length and it is half as tall as I, and packed high with meat. In Granny’s time, we ate much meat when we had it and none when we did not. Granny said it made us strong. I think the grey men do not have it for they are not strong and have not near reached the height of us.
I walk a while amongst the old things, place my nose close to old containers; some hold the scent of yesterday. It is when I turn to leave this room that I see the green timber Lenny has used to support the stair rail. I stare at it, and at what appears to be a handprint picture, like the handprints the wandering ancient ones have painted on the walls of the spring cave.
This is no ancient print. Surely it is Lenny’s, painted with black glue. I wish for better light to see, but down here, I am beneath the earth and there is no milky globe overhead. My eyes turn to a narrow window, high overhead; it is covered by grey plasti which allows through only a minimum of muted light, for outside, that window is close to the earth and thus near lost beneath dust and storm-blown debris. Yet, as I stare at it, I see the shape of a second handprint. I have not seen such things before, not in this place; I have seen them only in the cave of the spring, painted with red and white on the flat rock wall.
I fit my hand to the print on the stair rail. The finger length is as mine, so the handprint is mine, painted with black paint.
But I did not paint it.
Lenny has gone off with the dogs. Perhaps they will hunt wild pig or rabbit while he checks the fences. This he does often. It is not only the wanderers our singing fence keeps out, but the blacrap, an aggressive weed Lenny fights with fire and with his bo
ots, for it is a poisonous thing which Granny would not allow on our land.
Pa is not in the kitchen when I walk up. I find him in the shed, playing watchdog with his eyes closed. He sleeps beside the generator on his hide-covered chair, aware that while the generator’s heartbeat continues, the fences will sing and no wanderers will set foot on our land; thus, while it beats, he may sleep soundly. And I? I may have my freedom. I run to the cellar window and kneel before it.
The heavy plasti fixed there by glue has been ripped away at one side. I kneel before it and fit my hand to the second handprint. And certainly it is mine.
But I did not paint it.
And there. And there. The scrape of dark fingers mark the wooden frame and the bricks beside it. I stare at the smears while in my mind a small bud of excitement is awakening. It is a new thing, this bud, its petals delicate and pink, and it draws me again down the steps to the cellar; this time I take with me Lenny’s small battery light, which makes fine patterns on the walls. By its light I peer at the stores packed tightly into cartons, seeking I know not what; I guide its beam into dark corners, study a broken chair that wears a skin of dust thick enough to hide away its colour. As I move it, dust trickles. A tricky fluid thing, it pools, running this way and that, rippling like water. I play with it long, watching the patterns the dust creates as it trickles away, and I think of water. Think of a pool of blue, of the ripples made there by wind.
There are many items stored here, all covered in dust. There are shelves and small rusting containers, filled with rusting things. And beneath the steps there is an old wooden trunk. And it is not as it should be. It has been moved from its place. A giant of a thing, to move it would have required much strength. Granny and I could not move it. And the green blanket of the old ones, which for all of my days has covered this trunk, is gone. It is not in the cellar.
‘Lord.’
The bud of excitement tentatively unfolds its first petal as I kneel beside the trunk and peer into a storehouse of odd garments.
Oh honour her, Oh honour her,
Oh sleep and dream of day.
Oh honour her, Oh honour her,
tomorrow you may play.
These silly words come to me often from a place I do not know. I sing them now, softly, over and over as I search the trunk. Such an assortment of old garments, many only pieces, many near rotted away. I shake a red sleeve free and hold it high by a thread; it begins to come apart in my hand. I take up a small square of green, and a heavy brown blanket, coarse-woven.
‘Why did you save these, Granny? Who was meant to find a use for such things?’
Waste not, want not, girl.
It is not her voice I hear! It is memory. It is only the harsh whisperings of aged fabric on wood. ‘I do not want, Granny. I have fine food and overalls now, and strong boots for my feet.’
A rabbit can’t run far in strong boots, girl.
‘So, in the place where you have gone, you have not forgotten the rabbit. Do you have the kangaroo in that place? You may tell me of the kangaroo,’ I say, tossing the fabric back. Then I see in the battery light’s beam the blue of her eyes. My mind stills, and my hand reaches deep to touch; it emerges with a folded square of fabric, sprinkled with small blue flowers. And there, beneath it, is another of red and white squares. I shake this one, certain it will fall apart in my hands, but the fabric is good. It is good. I find more of them, one of aged yellow and one of green with many flowers of many colours upon it. Quickly I gather them, and the brown blanket which, when shaken free, becomes a hooded cloak I have not seen before.
Learn to cover yourself, Lenny had said. His words sent me here. So I will cover myself with what I have found.
My feet still beside the meat freezer while I focus the light beam on a black stain. Surely it is glue spilled from the adhesive gun. But trapped within it is the imprint of a shoe and there is no such shoe worn on Morgan land. Our boots leave a pattern of bars in the dust and my sandals leave behind no mark at all.
I stoop, scratch at the shoe print with a fingernail. Glue is immovable. I have tried often enough to move it from my window. This is not glue. I spit on the black flakes collected beneath my nail and rub the colour on my palm.
And it is blood! Dried blood.
Who leaned beside this freezer? Who left his footprint, his handprints for me to find? My light beam searches the walls, the floor. Then there is no more time to ask questions nor to chase answers for my light disturbs a black rat.
Granny did not fear the rats. She said once that she killed them, ate them, and they kept her alive. I fear them and do not wish to eat them. Fast then I run up the swaying stairs, my arms loaded.
It is late afternoon when I shake the much-flowered garment free of its sharp folds. A strange colourful thing, made with stitching so small, Granny’s reelthreads and needles could not do such work, but it is a silly thing which has a front and no back. I like its large flowers well, and its many colours, so I play with it, and with the red and white thing, which is of similar construction. All four of these garments have a front but no back! Some time passes before I find the correct pathway into the flowered one, which has wide bands that reach across my shoulders, and long ties that wrap the half-dress at my waist. The breast section is wide, covering well the space in my overall. I try the brown cloak then and it reaches my ankles. Strange fastenings? They are of holes on the one side of it and wooden discs on the other that I must thread through the holes, but it covers me and has a hood to hide away my flaming hair. I think it will be very good for when the searchers fly, and I think Lenny will be pleased with it, though its heat is too much for today; also it holds a strange odour. I remove it, press my nose to the fabric, breathing in the odour. So familiar it is, yet I can not find the place of its memory. Surely Granny had worn it. I hang it behind the door then walk from my room to the mirror that lives inside a tall cabinet near the top of the stairs.
Granny once told me she smashed every mirror in the house when she returned from the city. She did not smash this one. It is small, and shows only small parts of me. I twist and turn before it, I bend and peer at the imp of my reflection. Her mouth is smiling, but her eyes do not smile. I think she sees the flowers, of pink and yellow and blue. I think she wears a sad smile, but I like the imp’s eyes, which are green as the pumpkin leaves.
Pride comes before a fall, girl.
‘You are in the graveyard, Granny,’ I say to her as I walk away from the mirror. She follows me downstairs to the kitchen, and when I open a plasti-can of fruitjell and stand eating it, she is leaning over my shoulder for I swear I feel the spray of her spittle on the back of my neck.
She was born in this house, as was her father, and her father’s grandfather, and even old Aaron Morgan before them. Granny once told me that he was alive in the time of the Great Ending, which was long, long ago, that he had lived for one hundred and five years, had lived to walk with her and hold her infant hand, though he had not lived to learn of the city men and their searchers, who came in their evil flying machines to steal her away from Morgan land.
They put fire to her house and her father and brothers burned in their beds. Many times Granny told me that story, though I did not much like to hear it. She said that the old halls and the hills were alive with the ghosts of the others who had been slaughtered on this land.
I wish her ghost would leave my side and join the others in the burned rooms, for her whisperings in my mind disturb me.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
In the city, one in a thousand survived for reasons that were many. But they would not survive long. Disease was airborne, waterborne, borne of animal and man. And on the streets, man had become a prowling dog.
And below the streets, in the building of the one hundred and twenty-five Chosen, there was inequality and distrust, and little water. And when, in time, the great doors were opened and the Chosen walked again into day, they numbered eighty-five.
Of these, eight
een were female.
But the voices of the Chosen were loud and their guns were powerful, and both gun and voice were heard across all of the surviving world.
And the priests came out to pray, and the law-makers emerged to make laws and the important men retained their importance while the engineers set to repairing, and the scientists and the surgeons worked side by side with the priests and important men.
In time there came into chaos and destruction an ordered calm.
And the Chosen gathered about them the strongest of those on the streets who had survived the Great Ending, and their wages were water and such food that remained from the old world.
And in time great fires were set and the western quarter of the city cleansed of the dead.
And disease descended to the cesspits to await its time to rise.
THE GREY MEN
I have studied the pages of the foetus in Granny’s doctoring book these many days. I have read each word that is written and there is not one word written which will tell me how a foetus may be sucked from the belly when it is unripe for removal. The book speaks of trimesters and symptoms, of birth and of the time after the birth. It speaks of the garments and the feeding and also of the crib.
There are four brief lines that speak of abortion, which Granny’s dictionary explains is the word for the sucking out of the unripe foetus.
