by Joy Dettman
Lenny is checking the fences. Old Pa has taken his pills. He will be sleeping somewhere, hiding his pain and his sleep. Perhaps this is the day for which my basket was prepared.
And what of the searchers?
If they are about, then they can not put their crafts down on the hill. It is rock and ridge and ravine, and the little searchers, when from their crafts, do not move well over rocky terrain. The hill is safe; I have only to get there.
I walk to the barn and do not see Pa. I take up my basket and stand in the doorway, peering at its contents while the beat of my heart grows fast, and faster still. I shake my head, think to place the basket back in its place. But . . . but why did I pack it with such care if not to use what it contains?
My eyes search the land, the sky. I see no searcher, nor sign of Lenny. The dogs are not tied. They will be with him. I listen, and believe I hear distant barking from the west.
Still I wait, checking my supplies. Only four plasti-cans of cornbeans. Why did I not take more? Three cans of fruitjell, only two of the sweetened cornmilk. Lenny’s sharp knife, a cloth-wrapped lump of Pa’s cheese, stolen from where he hangs it on the verandah to air-dry. Only one packet of crispbites, one bottle of cordial, a blanket.
I can not think too long on this thing, for thinking makes my fear grow stronger and, too, the sun has already come far from the eastern mountains.
Fast then, I leave the barn and walk east; the spring cave is to the north of our land, but by walking east I will come sooner to the woods where there are tall trees, both alive and dead. They will hide me from the searchers. I run across the open land, my eyes searching the sky for the glint of silver wings, searching the land for Lenny or his dogs.
Then I am in the woods where I rest a while, slow my breathing and my heartbeat before turning my footsteps towards the north, and up, for it is here where the hill begins its climb.
It is fine to walk free, to renew acquaintance with the ancient trees, grown tall towards the sun of that time before. There is one here that I remember well, its leaves and bark long fallen, its timber worn by storm to near white. Granny had named it the god tree. Still it stands, limbs outstretched, more regal than the living trees. I rest a while beside it, place my hands upon it for I love its age, and the age in which it had lived.
The land grows steep now, and with no path to follow, I climb, my feet picking their way carefully. I begin to think my sandals not a sensible choice, for sticks strike at bare skin and rocks bruise, as if bidding me to turn my feet for home. Too soon I come upon the fence. It sings today. I can not climb over, or through it. My hands can not touch it to part the cutting wires; like some cushioning wave of energy it impels them away. The city is surrounded by such a fence. The newsprint says that many of the lower order try to leave the city, that at times escapees cut these wires with special tools.
I do not have the special tools, only my knife, and when I try to touch it to the wire, it is flung from my hand. I retrieve it, place it again in my basket as I look towards the hill. I have come only one-third of the distance and can go no further.
This fence was brought here, piece by piece, in the grey men’s flying machine. Two city men, aided by many sowmen, built it. Those beasts have a usefulness when flogged into use, or so it is written in the newsprint. I did not see them. I was locked in my room during the many days of the fence-building, but at times I heard the wailing in the night, for at sunset they were chained in the barn.
Granny would not have had such things on her land. Had she lived, her dart gun would have put the sowman beasts out of their misery, and perhaps also their keepers. She once sent a dart through a searcher’s heart when he put his craft down on our land and came with his strange shoulder pack a hop-hopping towards the barn. She did not give him the greeting Pa gave to Jonjan, but felled him without greeting – and one swift dart. So small he was, smaller than the grey men. Pa burned him and Lenny cut up his craft.
She once put an end to a crazed sowman who fought with our old male dog, then she killed the dog, for she was afraid of city disease. Pa was not pleased. It was one of the infrequent times I heard her speak to Pa.
‘If you’d been where I’ve been, boy . . . If you’d seen what I’ve seen,’ she had said to him.
So pitiless she was, but strong. She would not have tolerated this fence; in the time before the Great Ending, all of this hill belonged to Granny’s family, all of the caves, and the place she named the falls. All of these woods had belonged to the Morgans.
The western mountains are bare now, and further down our own hill, across the remains of Morgan Road, few trees survive. Our woods sent roots deep within the earth to the water below. This is what Granny told me, as her father had told her. ‘The Morgan woods did not give up and die,’ she had said. ‘Nor did my people.’
Thus I will not give up my plan to escape because of a city fence.
I walk east again, keeping the fence in sight. It takes me far from the house and deeper into the trees, but no nearer to the spring cave. For a long distance I follow that fence, seeking a break in the wires, or a tree I might climb that will offer me a branch to bridge the fence, but to no avail.
Then the fence leaves the woods to wander open ground. This is a dangerous place with only rocks for shelter.
The day is hot and my mouth grows dry with the knowledge of what I carry, and of what I do not carry. I did not think to bring water. My mind at times is such a misty, useless thing, but I understand well that to wet my throat with the cordial and grow drowsy and careless in the sun would be a mistake, and I know where I will find both water and shelter. Shading my eyes with my hand I look up to Morgan Hill.
‘You are a city thing like the searchers and you can not climb those rocks,’ I tell the fence as I follow it onwards, speaking to it as I walk. ‘You will give up before I do,’ I say, and together the fence and I continue.
My sandals rub with each step; I should have thought to wear my boots, but I did not think. I should have thought to bring water. This plan was ill planned. I look at a smooth rock, think to sit a while. My toe bleeds and I have a fat blister on my heel, but I shake my head and I walk on, not daring to stop, for the bottle in my basket is growing heavy with its presence. It will quench more than my thirst. Each of my muscles can taste it, my sinews cry out for it and my tongue grows thick with memory of it. ‘Later,’ I whisper. ‘Later,’ I promise. ‘Later.’
It is in the worst of the heat that I come upon an animal track, so I leave the fence and become an animal; surely this track will take me to water.
A scattering of twisted trees survive where it leads me, though they are little taller than I, and I could count the number of their leaves on my hands, their seeking roots cling to rock and delve beneath the rock, fight to live. Also there is ground growth here, grey clusterings that shelter beside rocks and amid the tree roots. Lenny cuts this stuff for the stock and brings it down on his wheel-sled and I think the cows like it better than pumpkin.
I can not now see the fence, but if I look up, I believe I can see the place of the spring cave for there is a glimpse of the green weeping trees which shelter its mouth. They are the only true green on our land and they retain their colour in all except the coldest season; the group is well watered by the spring, and how the stock like their leaves and also the small grasses that grow in their shelter. Too high, too far above me it is today, and a fence between. I need water.
I turn back, look towards the house, now hidden behind the woods. I will retrace my footsteps and tonight wait for the grey men to come and carry me away in their machine.
This thought is enough to send my feet hurrying forward along the animal track, though the way is not easy. In truth, I begin to fear my thirst, and my hand, which is reaching, reaching, ever reaching for the cordial.
Then I see it above me, the glint of the fence, and my seeking hand is required again for more climbing.
The narrow track leads me up, and up to the fence’s e
nd at the edge of a ravine. And that is why it ends, because there is nowhere for it to go. But small feet have found a way around, for the track continues on the other side.
‘Foolish city fence,’ I say and, like the animals, I crawl down to a ledge where a slim wire-wrapped metal support stands tall. The ledge is not so narrow. On hands and knees, my basket placed before me, I make careful and slow progress around the support, and when I stand again I am on the other side of the singing wire with only a gentle climb before me. I laugh, follow it as it twists, turns up, and up, and up.
At one such turning I see to the side of me a patch of blue. It is something blown here on the wind or dropped from a searcher’s craft. For minutes I sit on a boulder, my eyes scanning the area for a fallen searcher. I see no crushed silver wings so my interest returns to the blue and, beside it, the glint of gold.
Granny once said that in the time long before old Aaron Morgan, there was much gold found in these hills, and even in Morgan creek. It was a malleable metal, similar to that which Lenny uses to make the dart heads for his gun, and it is of as much interest to me, for though in recent weeks he has allowed me to handle his day calculating machine, he will not allow me to handle his dart gun – too often Granny threatened him with such a gun.
The weeping green at the cave mouth is closer now, though the climbing up to it again grows steep. I don’t much like this path, but when I next stop to rest and look down to the ravine, I have a clear view of the blue and the gold.
And I know that it can not be what it appears to be.
My basket left on the rocks, I climb higher, until I can see what is below me, and I see what does not now appear to be such a random arrangement of colour. There are two arms outstretched, the thickness of trunk. Two legs.
‘Lord help me,’ I whisper as cold fingers creep to my neck, and to the hair on my scalp. Then, with little thought given to the inescapable return climb, I scramble down.
Once amid the stunted trees and rocks I lose sight of the blue, and wonder at my stupidity. Have I not fought hard enough to get this close to water? Was the climb so easy that I go back to do it again? But I step around a clump of the grey scrubby growth and I see him.
And I see him!
He is less than half a man’s length from the edge of the ravine, and it is my dear Jonjan and insects swarm around him and on him and he has about him the smell of death.
So young he was, and strong, on the day of our entwining; he walked so free, his arms swinging, his long yellow hair shining clean. Now it is a matted nest of dust and blood. I weep for him as I cradle his head in my arms and comb his hair with my fingers, and I know I have done this before to another and I know that his limbs will grow stiff and cold.
A torrent of tears bursts from me, and I cry, but not for him. ‘Mummy. Mummy. Mummy,’ I cry.
He sighs. Twice.
I thought him dead!
I lift my head and breathe in hope as I turn his poor face to mine, and so blistered by the sun it is, it makes my blisters nothing. I wipe my tears and suck in hope as I look further. His head is cut, his leg is a twisted, mutilated thing where the bone protrudes and insects have been busy. My belly, weak, unreliable, forces me to crawl away from him, expel its contents into the ravine.
So he lives, but barely. He will not live long. The ravine is deep. I stare down to it, knowing that with his last strength he had tried to drag himself to its edge so he might fall and end his pain. I believe I will end the pain for him, and for me. We will fall together, die together.
But a crow flies by me and perches on an overhang of rock. It watches me, its round bright eyes derision filled. I look at its feet and they are Granny’s clawed hands. It is she who led me to the animal track, and to this ravine, and to him. Now she taunts me. She did not accept my tears gladly.
‘Leave me alone!’ I look for rocks to throw at her. She caw-caws and flies higher, stands on my basket where she peck-peck-pecks at its contents.
And I remembered the cordial and the soothing mist it brings.
Fast I climb for it. My sandal strap breaks. I pull it from my foot, throw it at the crow. It flies off, but not far. I remove my other sandal, and my aim is good. The crow flies.
Seated on a rock I take the bottle in my hand and open it, remove that foolish dispensing top and throw it far. One sip only. It is sickly sweet and warm, but it wets my tongue, and tears wet my eyes as I look at Jonjan, remembering his strength, the sweetness of his mouth. I sip again, then, though I do not wish to, I replace the screwing top and seal my cordial’s misty comfort away. Slowly I climb down to Jonjan with my basket.
How long has he been lying here? Did he escape, only to return, and why did he return? So many questions. Always, so many questions and no answers.
Evening is close by the time I drag him back from the edge and beneath the overhanging rock. Its shelter is not much, but its floor is flat and a twisted tree will offer some protection from the morning sun, if he lives until morning. The pain of my rough handling must have been great; he did not move nor murmur. I think he is already waiting for the great door of death to open so he may walk through. I will stay with him. I will hold his hand until it grows cold and will not hold mine.
Lord, how I thirst; the nearness of the spring cave makes my thirst more, but I can not climb more, my back aches, my bleeding feet throb. I look again at the cordial. It will ease my aches and my thirst; it will make me forget both sorrow and throbbing feet. Yet I do not sip it. Instead I look at his twisted leg, then down to his feet.
He wears strong shoes with giving soles and cords to tie them tight. And I think . . . I think he will not know if I steal them. I think when he is dead he will not know that I have been here.
With care I remove them. They fit me well and are so soft within. I am already climbing when I think to carry water for him. I look down at my basket and the bottle. I look at the can of cornbeans. It is near as large as the bottle, so I return, open and eat beans with my fingers then lift his head and trickle the juice onto his sun-dried lips. I believe he is as Granny on her final day; I believe there is a reflex swallowing. Then, with the empty can in the pocket of my half-dress, I leave him.
Oh, shady place of silence, my cave. And water. A deep pool, it is never quite hot and never quite cool. I drink of it, and when I think to leave it, I drink more. How foolishly small my container seems, and how much of it I spill on my journey back to him, but certainly he swallows some of what I have brought and I think he would swallow much more. Water is life. Why did I not bring him water before?
My second climb is harder in the last of the daylight, and my container much larger. I fill the plasti-wrap that protected my cordial bottle and this too I wish I had thought of sooner rather than later, and I wish I could place it down when I return to him, but the thing is as a bubble that will burst. I transfer a little of the precious stuff to the bean can, add more to my cordial bottle, then I set what remains in a smooth depression between the rocks. This lends the bubble support. Perhaps it will last until morning.
Such a lonely, barren place I have come to. I do not like to see the sun fall into the earth and night shadows creeping towards us. I watch them as I eat a can of fruitjell and force a little into his mouth with my finger. I can not see now if he swallows or not, and when the can is empty, I lick it clean. I will use it. I will bathe his face, cool him, as I had cooled Granny’s poor face near the end.
With a strip of fabric ripped from my much flowered half-dress, and water from my reservoir, I bathe his face. Then the moons creep up to light our shelter with brightness enough for me to see the leg fastening of his overall. Lenny’s knife is sharp; it cuts away the putrid fabric, exposing fully the mutilated leg, a cruel and filthy thing alive with the crawling white grubs. My cleansing of it must cause great agony, though he does not move nor cry out.
Such a deep feeling of sadness there is in the handling of him. I think I can not bear it. I think it is to be as the death watch of Gra
nny, and I do not want to watch his dying as I watched hers. I do not.
I make a long drink of cordial and drink it fast, my back against the rock wall, his head pillowed on my lap so my hand may smooth his brow. The night is warm, I have no need of blanket but I cover me and him, feeling less alone and safer from the ghosts when wrapped with him beneath it.
It is a strange memory time to hold him thus, to feel the weight of his head and the movement of his breathing. I did not place my arms around Granny, feel her final breath; it is my mother I am remembering, my mother who I had held close, soothed with my baby hand when her own would sooth me no more. Tonight I soothe him, touch his face, comb his hair with my fingers, but so weary am I, I close my eyes and forget to watch for ghosts. Sleep soon carries me away.
A sweet sleep it is, and free.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
Of the one hundred and sixty-two breeding females, many ran willingly from their shelters to kneel at the feet of the Chosen. But there were many taken unwillingly from their males.
And these were driven through the street like cattle of the fields. And they were herded into the safe building of the Chosen which had great doors and locks on every door.
And each female was fed and cleansed, then put to breed with one of the Chosen, for in this new world there would be no place for those of the lower order.
In the year 13 of the New Beginning, twenty-two female infants and seventeen males were born. Those which survived their third month were taken from the birthing female’s breasts, for many of these females had come from the lowest level of society. Their contamination of the young could not be allowed.
Of these young, the male infants were placed with those who had sired them, and given the name of the father. They were to become the young lords of the New Beginning.
