by Joy Dettman
Poor cows, they have had no pumpkin, nor the pigs. And the sow must be released. Tomorrow. I will clean myself now, then start the air-tub and clean my bedding and my garments, and the infant’s wrappings, though not, I think, in the same wash. And the paper towels. They are thick and strong and do not fall apart when soaked by the infant’s wastes. Perhaps they might be rinsed in water, but first the infant must be rinsed.
I make it a bath in the waste bucket, adding water from the kettle, and a pinch of chem-wash. I strip the silly thing with its kicking legs and tiny waving arms. How it fears the water at first dip, then it settles, and stares at me with slate grey eyes while I trickle water onto its belly. Like a slippery little piglet it is, but as I am washing it, the black cord on its belly washes away. It appears more finished without that shrivelled cord; I think too that its face is daily becoming less bruised and misshapen. I am moved to smile at it as I lift it free of the bath and dry its fluffy head before binding its lower half with paper towel and plasti-wrap.
Having filled its belly, it settles into the carton bed I have made for it on the table. I remove my soiled overall and stare down a while at my new slimness. My round pumpkin-belly, a part of me so long, now sleeps soundly and tonight I hope it will sleep long.
I use the chem-tub, thoroughly cleansing my hair, then think to rinse it beneath the running tap. Wrapped in a blanket, I sit before the stove, brushing my hair dry. Like me, it appears to have found a will of its own. It falls beyond my breasts, and as it dries, it flies. It has never been like this before, but then, since Granny’s death, I have never used water to rinse it, nor cared much for it, and never have I brushed it dry before an open oven door.
A strand taken between my fingers, I study it by firelight. Its colour is strong, and tonight it feels soft to the touch. I brush it over my shoulder, gather it into three, then plait it, as Granny had on the day of the dandelion, on the day she had woven the dandelion into my hair. I had loved that day, but how suddenly she could change, and the gentle hand that touched my hair could rise and hit. How quickly her face could move from frozen stillness to that of hostile, screaming virago. I had no time to make my own adjustments to her moods, thus I learned to keep between us a good distance.
Such was life with her. Such was my life.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
The searchers came by night. And fire was set to the Morgan settlement. Four males, both infant and adult, were murdered in their beds.
And the searchers found the nursing female with a male infant at her breast. She was old and wily. And she fought the searchers with voice and knife and club. When it was seen she would not be taken alive, she was left dead.
For the searchers had seen the youthful female at play in the fields. Reward for her would be great, for she wore the golden hair which was much prized in the city.
But the golden one evaded the searchers, choosing the flames and death to capture.
And when it was seen that she too would burn, the searchers made effort to retard the flames so they might stun her. Thus she was carried to the laboratories. And she was neither golden nor youthful. And no reward was given.
Much time now passed. And the Moni child was not with the living if not yet with the dead. Thus, her ovum was quickly matured and Harvested else it die with her.
But she would not die.
The surgeons then came. And much time was spent in healing the parts of her important to the laboratories’ work. For in the city, in the year 102 of the New Beginning, a law had been passed against the needless waste of female life. In the year 104 Moni left her bed but did not yet leave the laboratory, for the master of the breeding station would not tolerate in his presence the one they named the roasted rat.
In that year, of the forty-three females housed in the breeding station, eleven were freeborn, twenty-two were from the cloning laboratories and ten were incubating mutations, of a size which could produce litters of six and eight.
And these groups were separated, for only the freeborn could create the sons of the Chosen.
In the year 107 of the New Beginning, to the freeborn group, Moni’s number was added. And then there were twelve.
No freeborn infant came forth from her womb, for she was awful to behold, though her ovum was Harvested and much of it stored.
THE RAINS
The two milking cows have waited in vain for Lenny’s hands. Thankfully, the half-grown spotty calf from the brown cow has again been suckling – which means that I may still steal milk from its mother. I remove her from the cow yard, a fence now between her and the calf. Tomorrow I will take more milk and try to make Pa’s cheese, if I remember how.
There are moments when I can not think of tomorrow, moments when I feel it would be a relief to see the grey men’s craft – if they would bring Lenny with them. He must bury Pa. I can not do it, and I can not walk far to search for Lenny. The rain continues to fall in blinding sheets.
Also, I can not bear to be inside the house.
The child wrapped warmly, I feed it on the verandah, and in truth I do not know how it can feed even out there. I smell the sickening odour in each breath I draw, I taste it on the food I try to put in my mouth. It is around midday when I can stand it no longer and begin to prepare my mind for what must be done if we are to remain beneath this roof.
My equipment gathered, I stand on the verandah, the dogs at my side. Having looked death in the eye and been given a second chance, these massive brutes I once feared have become gentle giants. They will not leave me when I am about, and when I am not about, they guard my door.
I have taught them to stay away from the black cat and her kittens. The male had one in his mouth and I screamed at him, ran at him. He dropped the tiny fluff ball and cowered from me. Since then he has not ventured again near the kittens and dons a guilty expression when I pet the poor wee things. I believe these dogs have good minds, and like my approval and my petting better than my anger. The kittens now sleep on an old blanket bare metres from the dogs, who find it better to pretend they are not there.
For minutes I push against Pa’s doors that open to the verandah. They no longer wish to open; perhaps they are sealed from within. Like the grey men, I make myself ready with paper towel mask over nose and mouth before entering Pa’s room from the passage, where I spread a half-full container of chem-wash and fill the air with chem-spray. Then I wrap him, in both under and over bedding, using Lenny’s adhesive gun and many cartridges of the glue to seal the bedding. I find two large corn sacks, and using one from each end, I cover the whole, and join them in the middle with the adhesive gun.
I weep many tears over Pa, the task of wrapping him made more difficult by the running taps of my eyes, though, in truth, many of the tears are not tears of compassion but born of fumes from the adhesive gun, and from the chem-wash and air-spray. But it is done. Only the doors now. I breathe deeply of air from the kitchen, then return to the room for my struggle with the doors to the verandah. The dogs sit outside, watching my great effort, and when I finally burst free to the outside, they do not think to enter where I have been, and I do not wonder why.
The doors left flung wide, I hope the wind will cleanse this room while I cleanse myself long in the chem-tub. Twice I fill the dispenser; still the odour of that room is in my nostrils. I wake the infant to feed, then settle it snug in a cornbean carton on the table, for the kitchen has grown warm. It is drying the washed towels, which are not as soft as previously, but clean enough to be soiled again.
It is late when I don Pa’s cape, which will shed the rain far better than my woven cloak. As I walk the yard, breathing rain-cleansed air, the dogs walk west, so I allow them to lead me. Perhaps they will lead me to Lenny. How sweet is the air, and how light and swift my footsteps.
It is well before our creek that I see the water. Like a brown ocean it covers our flat lands. The city fence that crosses our creek is as a sieve, collecting debris washed down from above, and building with i
t its own fence to hold the water back.
Apprehension prickles my neck, my scalp. But we are near the mountain top. Water does not run uphill. Soon it will wash that fence away and all the water will run down the creek to the dying trees below.
I stand, staring at the debris, my fingers combing back my hair as more water falls upon my face. Has Lenny attempted to cross the creek to search for me? I look again at the flood-built fence of fallen branches, but do not sight the one I seek clinging there, and logic tells me that there is no reason why he would walk this way.
My companions do not wish to go further; they sit at my feet, look where I look. I pat the male’s head, then the female asks for her turn. I think they vie for my attention, then the male takes a section of Pa’s cloak between his teeth, and he tugs on it. Perhaps in his dog mind he is taking revenge on the cloak for the kicks its previous owner had dealt out to him.
‘You will break it,’ I say as I pull back on it. ‘If you want to return, only tell me.’ He barks and dances around me then, his wide mouth laughing, he takes the cloak again, and pulls. My boot slides in the mud, and I fall to my knees.
‘Curse your brindle hide,’ I say. He sits in the mud beside me, looks at my face, his tongue lolling long. I laugh loud at his foolish face. I should not laugh at this time. I should not – and the clouds agree. They burst open, dropping new supplies on Morgan Island. Side by side then, my dogs and I run to the shelter of the verandah, where I see a new flood. The tank is overflowing, making its own small river that runs down to the pigs’ yard and to the dam, dry for all of the years of my life. So it will fill now and I will need to find a new place to dig the white clay for my paintings.
How can I think of such a foolish thing at this time? I should celebrate this water. No more buckets to carry to the stock. What a pity it is not raining green grass, then I would not have to cut pumpkins for them, which I must do today.
Four pumpkins I take and a bucket of city corn. The load on my wheel-sled is heavy, mud sticks to my feet and to the pumpkins when I slice them into segments with the axe. Poor cows. They eat while I am cutting.
I toss one pumpkin to the pigs. Let them fight over it, or eat each other. I do not like their ways, and have no energy to supply more.
It is when I place the axe again in the barn that I look at Jonjan’s vehicle and open the box behind it. He has been there before me to take what food he carried. Nothing remains. I touch the seat and the prongs that perhaps guide this craft, then I lift the seat and find beneath it a battery, and many wires connected to it by a small gripping clip. I trace the wires to the veins of the silver wings that rest like the wings of an insect at the body’s side. It is unlike the searchers’ crafts that are all wing and little body. This one has much body, and good wheels to move across the earth. I have seen it move with Lenny’s weight astride it.
Its battery appears as the two I used to make the generator thump. This thought makes my heart beat faster, for I am thinking of Pa again, and the dogs are frowning, pretending also to understand my dilemma, if offering no solution.
‘Perhaps you think I should burn the rest of the house and move out to the barn with you?’ My companions wag snake tails. They like this idea well. ‘This vehicle would move him,’ I say, and the words given air, my mind finds wheels and rides them, and my attention creeps to the vehicle’s wheels. It has three.
The male dog nudges me forward. Piece of cake, he grins and blinks his small red-rimmed eyes. How like Lenny he has grown. I pat his head and smile as I stand looking at the vehicle, wishing Lenny had taught me the trick of driving it. He had not, but I remember his words at the dinner table.
‘Thought you might use it to get around, Pa,’ he had said. ‘Stays on the ground if you don’t move the wings out. Docile as a cow. Save your legs the walking.’
‘Know what you can do with their frekin city things, boy. Know too well what you can do with ’em,’ Pa had replied.
I am not afraid of city tools or docile cows.
Confidently I climb onto the seat and I place my feet on two small ramps, as had Lenny. A light glows between the prongs, and my dogs run like trained guards to investigate while I gather my courage. There are levers and dials, which make me think of the air-tub which has dials that turn and buttons to press. I think of the chem-tub, a simple thing, either on or off. I think of the generator. Certainly it has lights and two levers, one which feeds power to the house and one to the fence. I visualise the V cube and its map-face.
There is no map-face on this vehicle and the dials will not turn. But it is a city thing and it will work in a similar way to the other city things.
Time passes and the fool thing defeats me.
Fortunately, I step off, placing my full weight on the right foot ramp. There is a click, followed by a whirring purr from the rear of it. I push again at the right ramp, at the left, then both together. There is an angry whirring which I feel through my legs. Still the wheels do not move.
Much time is wasted in playing with the projections on either side of the wheel, and while lights blink on and off they are not what makes this vehicle move.
‘Abomination!’ I hit the holding section with my right hand. The beetle wings quiver and many lights wink at me. Like a cat I spring to the earth for the wings are unfolding, spreading. If this thing wishes to fly, then I do not wish to be on it. But it will not fly. The wings can not open to full extension; they still, and lights blink-blink merrily. I study the dial which has symbols, two lit by green and a spread wing symbol, lit by red. I do not like the flashing red so I move the holding section, but carefully until the red light shows on a wheel symbol, which has an arrow, pointing down.
Down is good. The wings fold down and the dogs move closer, their heads to the side, as perplexed as I. Carefully then, I place my foot on the ramp to again mount the seat and the vehicle launches itself at the rear wall. I scream and spring to the earth. The vehicle rolls to a halt.
Fear. I believe I perspire with fear, and my heart is thump-thumping like the generator motor. Minutes pass before I am brave enough to touch the device again. This time I move the red light to the three-wheel symbol, where the half-circling arrow points up, though I do not much like up. Again I touch the ramp with my toe, just briefly, on off, on off. The vehicle moves forward. Stops. Moves. Stops.
With great concentration then, I take the seat, my feet well clear of the ramps, and once safely on the thing I tentatively toe the ramp. We move forward, my vehicle and I. We move between the barking dogs, with much stop-start action until we are free of the barn. Ever ready to jump clear, I play a while, becoming a little more free with my feet, and I find my right foot sends the wheels forward and my left foot halts them. I try them both separately then together, and what a tumult of protestation comes from the small wheel that lies between the wings at the rear.
For a long time I practise, discovering that different pressures cause the vehicle to behave in different ways. For a time I forget Lenny, forget that Pa is dead, forget all but gaining mastery of this vehicle.
Forget the infant.
But in this playful, forgetful place I have found the means to remove Pa from the house. And I will move him, and on this day.
I will need cord. And I have plenty. Pa saved the cord that bound the supplies. I fetch it, a great ball of it, then with many deviations, manoeuvre the vehicle to the edge of the rear verandah, where, after securing the cord around the seat of the vehicle, I measure it out to Pa’s open doors.
It will be a race now against time and the fading light, thus there is nothing to be gained by listening to the tremulous wail from the kitchen. Milk is wasting, dripping from me, wetting me from within while the rain is again wetting me from without, but I have wound my cord well around the plasti-wrapped parcel which I will not think of as Pa. It is as the parcel of supplies that must be moved from one place to another; it is only a problem I must overcome. Tonight the house will belong to me.
Once, lon
g ago, I looked up the meaning of euphoria in Granny’s dictionary. Feeling of well-being it said, happiness, giddiness, relaxation, elation. The words meant little to me then. Today, as I move Pa’s bed so he may fall from it with no obstruction, so he may glide through to freedom, I know euphoria. I am giddy with relief, or exhaustion. I do not yet feel full up with well-being, but, Lord, I am euphoric.
For the first time in my life I do what my mind, my will, bids me do, be it right or wrong. And when I return to the yard and the rain, I am free to breathe the sweet pure air of freedom, free to laugh at my dogs, who also laugh with the joy of their bounding, barking freedom. We three are so noisy that for an instant we do not recognise the new silence.
The vehicle’s lights have stopped their blinking and its whirring is dead. So close to victory, I am, but without my vehicle there can be no victory. I try the ramps. No light glows.
So, I have failed and euphoria withers, turns black like the pumpkin flowers when their work is done.
The light is almost gone. There is day and night and no time between during the cold season. Frustrated by failure, I turn from left to right, from east to west. I had wanted this task completed today. I had believed it would be done. When I hear the infant’s bellow, it is too much. Something stirs in me, prickles my skin.
‘Curse and God damn your frekin contrary city hide,’ I say to the vehicle.
Oh, I have known frustration, and desperation; I have understood futility, pain and sorrow, but this is anger, and it requires release. I kick the wheel of my fine vehicle, and it is good, so I kick it again and walk away, thinking to leave the useless thing in the rain. But . . . but I will make it go again. It wants only a battery, and then I will have only five batteries. I like the shape of five, and as a child liked best the mathematic tables of five.
