by Joy Dettman
The brown rabbit is safe from it. His bright eyes still peep from behind a bush, and I think perhaps he laughs now at his pursuers, for soon he will have no more need to fear those fading hounds with their slavering jaws. Today they run in from a greying corner as if striving to escape the sun’s sting.
The owl, perched high in his tree, has lived strong. Safe from sun and hounds he looks like a feathered old god, unmoved by the scene below.
As a child I had sat on this bed, playing with pearls from the oceans, and with rings, their colourful gems dug from beneath the earth. How Granny had loved to finger them, the bright gold and jewels making a mockery of her poor clawed hands as she had spoken to me of each piece.
‘That’s old gold, girl, Morgan gold. In times more distant than old Aaron could recall, three thousand people lived on this hill, trading their gold for supplies. See this bracelet, girl? Old Aaron once told me it was forged from a lump of gold picked up in our creek by his great great grandmother.
A great great grandmother? It was then, and is now, too difficult, too distanced for my mind to comprehend – as is a community of three thousand males and females. So many? How could there be food enough for so many? It is impossible to think such numbers, and across such a distance of time, and I shake my head as I fit a ring to my finger. It is too large. I place the bracelet over my hand, but it weighs heavy. Such useless things they are. I do not want to deck myself with them, nor want to be in this room. I drop Granny’s treasures back into their wooden box and leave the tapestry on the wall. The room is dry, the ceiling intact. The rabbit will remain safe beneath the bushes.
I search the floor then, search each drawer of her cedar-wood chest for the calendar but find only blankets that smell of the drawer and four small rough brown garments Granny had worn against her skin in the cold seasons.
Strange, formless fabric it is, and certainly not woven on her loom. It is as the weave of the colourful upper garments the men had worn, as if woven from one continuous thread, for when I find an end and pull it, break it, it cuts the garment near in two. Quickly I place it back in the drawer, for I hear her words in my head.
Waste not, want not, girl.
As I move then to leave the room, I glance again at the aged photographs which hang beside her wardrobe. One is there of this house when it was young and loved. A male stands before it, an infant in his arms. I have seen it many times, and think again how strange the clothing these people wore. There is a likeness, too, of a female who wears a golden garment. Her face has been captured by one she loves well for there is love in her red-lipped smile.
I glance at the others, familiar since childhood. Granny once told me of their names, but I have forgotten which face fits each name – until I see the likeness of a young one with corn yellow hair and cheeky blue eyes.
‘That’s my grandfather’s grandfather, girl,’ she had said, her finger pointing to the child. And how foolish her words had sounded to me that day, for the likeness was of a very young male who had appeared to be no older than I – at that time. ‘That’s old Aaron Morgan himself,’ she had said. I had discounted this likeness and her words.
Today I do not discount her words. This is my Aaron, the writer. Suddenly, time, which has previously been too large for my comprehension, becomes smaller, and easily within my grasp. I know that my small Aaron grew to be an old, old man. And I know Granny’s age. The two together make two hundred years. So . . . so, that is near the time which has passed since the Great Ending.
‘I have read your words,’ I say to Aaron Morgan, my fingers reaching out to touch the dusty glass that keeps his image safe. ‘I know you did not much like rice, which Granny’s dictionary tells me was the seed of a grass plant that grew in water and fed much of the old world – so it was not poison.’
His cheeky eyes look at me, and I think his smile grows wider.
Some photographs are missing from their frames. Some have long fallen. There are many hooks waiting lonely here with only the grey thread of spider webs to support the non-faded squares of wallpaper in this gallery of loss.
I walk back to the Aaron child, and smile at his smile. This child does not yet know that his fine safe world will die. How could he smile so if he knew? He does not know that one of his blood will die faceless, her clawed hands striving to cover that facelessness as she left the living to meet again with her people.
‘I know you well, my Aaron child,’ I say to him. ‘And I know that the sun returned to shine upon your face, and you lost your fear and you lived to be one hundred years and five more, and if you had found paper enough, you would have written your thousand page king story and found a fine end for it where you smiled and played again, and where you held the hand of the small Moni child and walked with her and talked with her. And she lived to touch my hand and walk with me, and one of her blood has implanted a foetus within me. See. You continue, and you are not so distanced from me.’
Then I hear him. I swear I hear his laughter coming from the burned rooms. Such a merry sound it is. He has heard my words, and in that other time, he rushes to tell his people.
We will live. We will live.
I steal his photograph from the wall, and the one of the male and infant. Then the red-lipped smiler appears lonely, so I steal her too and I close the door, leaving Granny’s ghost to sleep in peace or to finger her jewellery in the night.
The photographs are placed safe within the cover of Aaron’s journal, and as I do this I see that he has written the month names on many pages. So I sit again and read them, copying his months onto the first page of the Book of Moni. Aaron’s November is surely the city men’s Nov. His December and Christmas, their Dec. Their June is as Aaron’s.
That night, as Granny before me, I make a calendar, and I use the names of Aaron’s time, and I say that this month is July. From Lenny’s day calculator, I see the number is 12.
So, I will begin to measure time.
The hour is late and my back aches. I have sat too long at my calendar, but still I sit on, loath to leave the warmth of the kitchen. I glance at the pages of newsprint, which I have looked at many times before. They are filled with names, colour and fantasy. There are likenesses of fine tables and very fine chairs and fabrics of many colours; there are likenesses of birds, of the sparrow and the starling, the pigeon, which live in the city and fly free. They do not fly here. Perhaps the distance is too great for their small wings.
I read a little, turn a page, and do this until I come to the end, then start again at the beginning, thinking perhaps I will see a name to give the one within me. It has little room left in which to grow and when it has no more room, it will come out, and it will have a name.
Girl of the mountain. This is the name Jonjan gave me. It is better than ‘girl’, but I will find the infant a very fine name.
If –
I shake my head and think of Salter, Sidley and the lost Stanley. What silly names these are. I would rather be ‘girl’ than have such silly names. Jonjan is a precious name, and Aaron. Perhaps the infant’s name should be Aaron Morgan, for the one who sired it was of Granny’s ovum and thus of Aaron’s blood.
Lenny is watching me. He makes a drink of chem-tea, then walks to my side, extends a mug, which I accept. He stands, his back to the fire, swallowing great gulps of tea. Pa has gone to bed with his pills; with this ice-cold weather his aches are so bad he can not at times walk to the table to eat.
I turn more pages. Lenny walks to the shelf and takes up the last packet of crispbites. He opens them. ‘We’ll be eating pumpkin for breakfast, dinner and tea soon,’ he says.
‘I will gladly die of pumpkin poisoning,’ I reply, still thinking of Aaron.
‘All right for some,’ he says, then offers the packet. I take a crispbite and eat it.
He has cleansed himself and taken the hair from his face with his new knife, which he worked long on before the blade was slim enough for his liking. He has taken the habit of the face-scraping and the c
hem-tub on the nights he wishes to come to my bed.
‘She’s a female,’ he says, leaning over me, looking at the child in the newsprint.
‘Perhaps I will have a female,’ I say.
He nods, scratches at his ear, then moves away. ‘Better if he comes out a male, girl. They’re not wanting for males in the city.’
He is looking at me, but I am looking at the Merith child. Her hair is a fiery cloud and her eyes are wide. I think she is afraid of the one who made this likeness. Her small hands twist the fabric of her overall.
I know her face well, for it is the face I painted on my board. I read of her now, and of the promised one, and I search for more of it. Search all of the pages. They do not tell me who her father is. I study each of the male faces, seeking Nate, and though I can not clearly see his face in my mind, I know that he is not in these pages.
‘It has reached its third year and has been named Merith,’ I say to Lenny. ‘I am pleased it has a name, though in the newsprint the words say they do not trust it, for it has a strange ability with letters and figures. I think this is not allowed for the females.’
‘If yours comes out a male, we’ll name him Thomas, for the old one.’
‘Thomas?’ I make full eye contact with Lenny. In Aaron’s journal there is much mention of Tommy. ‘There is a stone in the graveyard for Tom Martin.’
‘Pa says that tall red stone marks the first one of his blood. He lay his own pa beside it.’ He sits, wants to speak again, so I say the other name from Aaron’s pages.
‘Logan is a good name for a female.’
He does not seem to know that name. ‘Better he comes out a male.’
I yawn, stand. He places his mug down, steps from foot to foot. He does not talk of this thing we do, but I can read his actions as easily as I read this newsprint. I walk to the stove, turning my back to it, gathering some final warmth before I go to my bed. He walks outdoors to the chem-shed.
The newsprint still open at the image of Merith, I take it with me to my room and place it beneath my pillow so I might dream of her and the one who was her father.
I am asleep before my head is down. I dream not of the Merith child, but of Lenny, and Lord, it is such a strange dream I have, and real. We are entwining in the forest amid webs of plaited greenery, and he lies beneath me, and I look down at him and I think he has the look of Jonjan, though I know that he is Lenny. A sweet and stirring dream it is, and there comes to me such a feeling as that which I had felt in the loft.
Then Lenny’s movement on my bed brings me back from my dream with this feeling of . . . of loss. I sigh so deeply. I do not want the reality of Lenny, but the one of the dream, and I want to sleep again, reclaim my dream.
He is beside me, his hand reaches out to touch me. I take the hand, hold it, and in the dark I trace its palm with my finger, feel the calluses of his labour, feel the nails of each finger.
‘You have a good hand,’ I say.
He does not wish to speak but to mate.
I have no love for him, but a liking, and a trust of him now, and tonight this heat of the inner flesh, this great need for the closer closeness draws me to him, and I allow his hands to be the hands of my dream.
He is not Jonjan. Perhaps he caused the death of him, though I think not. He had not caused the death of the trading wanderer who had asked only for books.
But soon I think little more. The feeling of the dream begins to drive me, and as in the dream, I move over Lenny, my eyes closed as I move slowly, so slowly to my own need. In truth, I do not want this mating to end fast. And it does not end fast, and when it does, it is with a great explosion – enough, I think, to cause a second Great Ending.
How I cry when it is done. I cry because he is not Jonjan and I cry for Lenny too, and I do not understand which one I cry for. Jonjan is gone and Lenny it is who pets me, pats me, mouths my face, smooths my hair. And later, when my crying ends, there is such gentleness and humility in his manner as he speaks strange soft words, of us, and of the young one, and of what he will do to the grey men.
My poor, poor Lenny, he does not know that tonight he is the used and I the user. But . . . but, were male and female not meant to be together to share this closeness? And if there is no choice of who we are together with, and when there is this great need of the flesh, then surely the two must join and become complete with each other.
All night he remains with me, and in the morning, he creeps silently from my room, returning late with my cup and toasted cornbread and I sit up in bed like the old Queen of England from those ancient times, and I read to him from my newsprint while he watches the infant heaving in my belly, his good hand on it, his small eyes filled with wonder.
‘Is it hurting you, girl?’
I turn to him. ‘There is no pain, only the discomfort of fullness. I believe it may soon wish to come out.’
‘Last night. It wouldn’ta harmed it?’
‘Last night did it – and me – no harm,’ I reply, and my blood moves anew with the memory of last night.
In my mind, in the dark, I could see the dream Lenny, but the light is bright now, and the daytime Lenny is with me. I see his age, his features, yet it does not banish the sweet remembered pleasure of our joining. In truth, I look at him and wonder if he will wish to come to my bed again tonight. I believe I will not mind.
He rises then, and I feel the loss of the closeness. ‘The warmth of another in the bed is certainly a wonderful comfort in this season,’ I say to him. My face warms with these words and I turn it towards the window, but he has picked up the newsprint and I do not think he heard my words for he stares at the Merith child, his expression puzzled, then he stares at my flushed face and my tumbled hair, his small eyes wide.
‘She’s one of yours, girl!’
‘You speak in riddles.’
‘The little female,’ he says. ‘Those eyes. She’s from out of you.’
‘They take from me a litter of foetus I think would not survive.’ I shrug. ‘The newsprint says Merith is from one of the old ones’ frozen embryos, as was Jon – as was another who died.’
‘Maybe she is and maybe she ain’t, but they’re doing something with what they’re taking from you, girl, and they are wanting bad what they’re getting from you.’
I lean towards him and share the newsprint. ‘Her hair is almost as mine.’
‘And the eyes – like yours used to look, when you was on the cordial.’
‘Her eyes are afraid.’
‘She’s one of yours. They’re growing them full size in the frekin city. And they’ll know to the day when this one is coming out. That’s what they’re waiting for.’
‘When they come again, I think that they will not care if it is ready or not.’
He hands the newsprint to me, and there is silence as the infant heaves, rolls over.
‘They’re not taking it,’ he says, and I see that his eyes have become wet, and for an instant I see the pale blue gems washed clean. I pat his arm.
‘They are not taking it from us, Lenny.’
‘First time you said that, girl.’ For a moment I do not understand what he speaks of. Then he adds, ‘Reckon it’s my name. Reckon I wanted that hard old bitch to speak me name. Never got to hear it.’
‘Names are important and must be spoken and remembered, Lenny Martin,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says, then quickly he walks from my room and I hear him on the stairs. ‘Lenny Martin,’ he says. ‘Lenny Martin.’
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
It is written in the book of ancients that a flier once flew too close to the sun and the wings of his craft melted. This is not possible. The air above the clouds grows thin and cannot sustain life. In time the searchers became accustomed to the thin air and could not easily breathe air of the lower earth. And in time their eyes grew large, and their legs thin, and they could not walk upon the earth. And they did not thirst as man, nor eat the food of man, nor did they make much communic
ation with those of the lower earth.
In time power packs were built for them, that they might wear upon their backs. And these packs carried them with great ease when they were away from their craft. And these packs provided filtered air and nourishment.
And it came to pass that havens were built beyond the city boundaries where the searchers might have safe anchorage for their craft when the sun went down, and where comfort and entertainment, such as the searcher desired, might be found. For they were the heroes of the new world.
And two such havens were constructed to the east of the city, within the flying distance of the copters, and many stores were stored there, and quarters were built there for the visiting Chosen, who came to the havens to have conversation so they may know of all that the searchers had seen.
IT IS TIME
There is no wind and no ice this morning but the clouds hang low and I can not see the hill; it is wrapped well in its milky veil, though to the east I think there is the ghost of the sun. Today it may break free. I believe it is as restless as I, and eager to again move freely across the land.
For twenty-seven days I have been a prisoner of this kitchen and its warmth, and for the past seven nights Lenny has warmed my bed. And I have welcomed him.
I tell myself it is the infant which draws me to him, and the sharing of it in the dark of my bed, where it becomes more difficult for me to remember that it is not of Lenny’s direct seed. It is certainly of his blood. Also, I think, as my dream of last night suggested, it is better I do not remember. In my dream Lenny came to me, and in his arms he carried the infant. It was a male child, and large and, Lord, how it resembled him. In my dream I wished him to take it to the hills and bathe it clean, for its clothing was rags, such as Granny had found for me to wear.
The dream brought with it memories of my infancy, and arms that carried me. I do not think they were Granny’s arms. Memories of my early life here are in dark shadow, with only patches lit by sunlight, or moonlight. It is the odours of this place I recall well. The aged odour of Granny’s bed, the odour of books, and the offensive odour of the men. My nose became accustomed to it.
