by Paul Beatty
‘Hold on,’ shouts the hand-voice near to you now, next to your ear. ‘Hang on to the ropes.’ But it is too late the, wind and the rain fling you over the side, only for the hammering wave to push you back and dump you on the deck. ‘Try to stay calm,’ says the voice and you hear it quietly despite the wind and the panic, ‘Think how trees bend. Accept the storm and survive.’ ‘Never!’ you scream back.
You reach the end of the bridge and turn right. There is only one place to go, one place for action. The path to the beach is sheltered. The wind choruses in the pines above you like the choir that sings the storm into being, but the rain falls even more coldly here. Then you are out into the gale again and the shingle crunches and clutches so that running on is harder and your footing slides away from you as you run towards the sea.
‘Now, now. Do it!’ shouts the voice now in your head, now in a far place and time and not in this storm as it mocks at you, ‘Time to swim!’ and you crash into the waves that are white foam in the dim light. Thrown back you turn again and run at them again. A white fountain hammers you over, burying you in a pall of white. Beach-stones lash your feet. The current takes you and down you go, rolling at the bottom of the wave, as the faces laugh and kiss. Then it takes you up and smashes you against something hard and rough. A wall but there are no walls nor rocks on the beach. Despite yourself, you flail out your arms and whatever it is scratches at your skin. It is wood. Then there is a rope and steps. You try to avoid them but the waves throw you back and invite you to climb. It is the side of a boat.
On the deck the mast is down and the beached boat rolls madly. Again you try to throw yourself back like a floundered fish into the sea but it rejects you as an unworthy offering. You stagger towards the stern. You see a figure, a man rolling backwards and forwards in the waves. He is like a doll and his blood stains the deck. You hold him below the arms and pull him up into the shelter of a hatch. Your strength goes. The part of the mast still standing comes down and hits you on the back of the head. The faces swirl away; hers, kissing his. Last before the blackness is the voice. ‘There, there, child it’s over now.’ Hands and arms have you safe and there is a kiss on your forehead and the touch of yellow hair on your face.
The first thing Francesca could recall for sure about her recovery in the Infirmary was a passing memory of the smell of herb tea combined with pain from her side and head as she had attempted to roll over. After that there was a gap, which might have been seconds or days.
Next she could remember her head being supported as the rough edge of a beaker was put to her lips and a kindly voice encouraged her to drink.
On one occasion, she was suddenly conscious and screaming with pain. Someone seemed to be gouging at the back of her skull. She tried to raise her hands to protect herself but she did not have the strength. She endured the pain until they stopped whatever they were doing to her and it went black again.
After that memories became more common. She remembered someone bathing her eyes and that she opened them and saw a blurred face before the shock of the brightness of the light made her shut them again. But the pain in her head was not as bad.
Wind blusters in the roof, fingers trying to unpick the fabric of the building that is your safe home. The storm is an animal trying to break through the ceiling way up there above your bed. It means to kill you. You cover your ears with your hands and bury your face in the blankets, as the roundhouse is shivered by the thunder and the lightning is so intense that you can see it through the thatch.
Then she is there. Hands reach out and pick you up. Her voice whispers in your ear and you cling on to her neck, burying your face in her yellow hair, as she rocks you back and forward, whispering and comforting you.
The door explodes open and he comes through, trailing wind and water. He forces the door shut again. ‘We must go,’ he says, ‘the river is rising.’ You do not understand the words, the fear simply communicates itself. They wrap you up in two blankets. Then he takes you and you are flung out into the storm.
But then there were the dreams. They were worse than the awake-pain. They were vivid and disturbing, and she could not impose on them any sense of time or order. She must have called out in these dreams, for once she remembered the night and someone holding her hand and asking gently what was the matter and stroking her hair and saying it was all right and to go back to sleep. Then she slipped back into the dream again, back to the rain and the lightning.
The water is still round your feet. The man has had to put you down. He holds your hand as he pulls you through the water while he helps the woman as best he can.
‘Get to the bridge,’ he is shouting. ‘We must get to the bridge before the water brings it down.’ He stoops and whispers in your ear, ‘Hang on to the ropes,’ and you do. Your hand moves from one to the other as the water rises but you make it. You climb the bank on the other side and then there are two others; a woman and a man. The man picks you up. ‘You’re safe, my girl. The flood won’t make it through the ditch.’ The woman helps the lady with the yellow hair. You pass through the gate and it is shut behind you. You feel the wind drop, though it rages above in the unsheltered air. The man gives you back to… who is she? You put your arms round her neck and hear a voice: ‘There, there, child it’s over now.’ Hands and arms have you safe and there is a kiss on your forehead and the touch of yellow hair on your cheek.
In her memories there was a point when there was a face above her and again that smell of herb tea. Her legs were stiff and uncomfortable and so she tried to roll over but the movement triggered aching from what she could tell immediately were bruises all along her sides, and there was still the sick pain in her head but this time it was different. She tried to open her eyes but they were sticky and thick with matter. Effort was required for the first blink. Once that was accomplished more effort went into making her eyes big, to stretch back the lids until she could hold them open without blinking. Then, miraculously, the world came into focus and the first thing she saw clearly was an ash staff leaning against her bed.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ said the familiar tart voice, though quiet and gentle in a way Francesca had never heard before. ‘Would you like some of this herb tea I’ve just brewed?’
‘Where am I?’
‘You’re safe and in the Infirmary but you’ve had a very bad blow to the head, so try to lie still.’ Then Sylvia’s voice snapped back into its normal commanding tone: ‘Keeper, one of your charges is awake.’ Immediately, two Infirmary attendants were at her bedside.
‘If you can help her up into a sitting position she can have some of my herbal tea,’ continued the Head Gardener as if it were a simple question of planting out seedlings in her own Glasshouses.
‘All in good time Sylvia,’ said an equally authoritative voice in response, ‘I give way to your knowledge on medicinal herds and their effects, but this is my Infirmary and I want to see how my patient is and if she’s ready for any of your so-called tea.’
Two attendants helped Francesca into a sitting position, propped up on a pile of lambswool- stuffed pillows. ‘Look at me,’ said the Keeper. Francesca looked into her blue eyes, whose focus flicked from one of her eyes to the other and then back. ‘So far so good. Your pupils are even.’ She held up a single finger in front of Francesca’s face. ‘Focus on this, please and follow it with your eyes but don’t try to move your head.’ The finger went slowly from left to right, then up and down. ‘Good,’ said the Keeper, then she put both her hands on Francesca’s shoulders and probed with her long, persistent fingers into the muscles all the way up the neck. Occasionally Francesca winced but the only thing that this elicited was a low grunt from her torturer.
‘How’s your head?’
‘Very sore.’
‘Can you see clearly?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ The Keeper of the Infirmary and the Head Gardener both let out a sigh of relief. ‘Have I been very ill?’ said Francesca.
Sylvia put he
r hand on her arm. ‘Yes, very ill. You’ve had the worst head injury anyone can remember in the community; certainly of anyone who has survived.’
‘Can you lean forward so I can see how your head is?’ said the Keeper.
‘I’ll try,’ though she knew her strength was beginning to fade and she was beginning to feel faint. But with the help of the attendants, she was able to lean her head forward. There was a bandage and the Keeper lifted its corner. Then she sucked her teeth.
‘It looks alright but I don’t want to disturb it much yet, though it will have to be sewn up as soon as possible and the bone put back if it’s to heal and keep out infection. But there’s no fresh blood oozing from it so it looks as though the pressure has been relieved and the scalp and skull are healing. The fact that she’s properly conscious suggests that as well,’ she spoke half to herself.
‘Do you want to resume giving her the poppy juice?’ said Sylvia.
‘I think so,’ said the Keeper, ‘but at a reduced dose. I want to see if she can start to sleep again naturally. You can give her a dose of some of that terrible concoction of yours if you want to. Wonderful thing. the recovery power of the young,’ she remarked as she left them.
A fresh herb tea was brewed and Sylvia sat on a stool close to the bed as she helped Francesca sip it.
‘What is wrong with my head?’
‘You got a very bad blow to your head in the storm.’ Francesca looked blank. ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ Francesca thought hard.
‘Anya lighting the fire at the Harvest Festival.’
‘Well let’s just say you got up to quite a bit more than that later in the night. Now rest. I’ve got to see about the other patient in here.’ Stretched out a few beds down was a tall grey man, with a dishevelled beard, whom Francesca had never seen before. He had a heavily splinted and bandaged right arm, as well as some other facial bruises and cuts.
‘Who is he?’
‘Don’t worry about that now but without you he wouldn’t be here. Now rest and try not to move your head too violently. We had to drill a hole in your skull to relieve the pressure. That’s what’s under the bandage.’
As the effort of sitting up and the effect of the poppy juice took hold and she drifted off again to sleep, she watched Sylvia stop at the end of the grey man’s bed and look thoughtfully at him. The expression on Sylvia’s face was strange; half the care of the herbalist for her patient; half suspicion and doubt.
In the next few days, Francesca gained in strength and could stay awake for longer and longer periods. On the following day she had a light meal and on the day after that they decided to redress the bandage on her head. When the Keeper inspected what was underneath properly she decided to seal it up. Francesca was given a draught of something that made her confused but pain-free, while they cleaned up the wound, replaced the plug of bone they had removed and sewed back her scalp over it. Afterwards her head felt sore but better than it had.
Sylvia came each day to tend to the grey man and more and more in passing to talk to Francesca.
‘How long was I unconscious?’ Francesca asked her on one of these visits.
‘Four days,’ said Sylvia.
‘Four days?’ Francesca was astonished.
‘As I said when you first came to, you’ve survived the worst head injury anyone in the community can remember.’
‘And you’ve been here all that time?’
‘Well, in and out, for both you and him.’
‘Has he got a head injury?’
‘No, he had a broken arm, which has been set. But that combined with the effort of navigating his boat to Heron Fleet running before a storm had exhausted him. We’ve given him some sedatives to let him recover while the arm sets properly. He should be up and about in few days, as will you be. In fact the Keeper has allowed Anya to visit you. So you won’t have to put up with only my company anymore. She’ll be here later on to bring you your evening meal; you’re to go onto normal food from the Hall.’
‘Oh ma’am I sorry to have been such a trouble.’ Francesca was alarmed the Head Gardener had taken offence.
‘Nonsense,’ said Sylvia sharply. ‘I can deal with your sort of trouble easily enough. Now concentrate on getting well. There’s quite a lot of preparation and cleaning up to do in the Glasshouses and I don’t want to be short-handed for long.’
In the evening Anya arrived carrying a hot tagine from the hall complete with some hardbread and a flask of elderflower champagne sent by the Head of the Council. Anya hugged and kissed her, then sat on the stool so that they could eat together.
‘You gave us all the most terrible scare,’ Anya said. ‘When we found you, we thought you were dead; you and the man on the boat.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember anything after you lit the fire in the Gathering Hall.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Nothing at all really but I have had some very vivid dreams though most seem to be about when I was little. All I’ve managed to piece together so far is that in some way I saved the grey man over there.’ Anya shifted on her seat as Francesca said this.
‘Don’t worry, even if you never remember it won’t matter. Do you want me to fill in any of the gaps?’
‘Yes but just the bits about him. I think it will be better if I let the rest come naturally.’
‘Well he was on a boat that went aground on the beach in the storm. We don’t know how or why but you swam out to it and had pulled him out of the surf which was engulfing the back of the boat. If you hadn’t got to him he would have drowned. You’d dragged him back behind a hatch cover but then you got hit on the head and collapsed. You were both unconscious when we found you.’
‘What sort of boat was it?’
‘That’s one of the mysteries about him. His boat is much the same design as the ones the fishers use but far bigger. You’ll be able to see for yourself in a few days. After the storm had gone they managed to bring it round into the channel and it’s now in the river anchored near to the bridge.
But there’s a mystery about that too. No one but the Council is allowed on board. One Apprentice from Robin’s roundhouse got his ears boxed by a Gatekeeper for having the audacity to swim round it to get a better look. The only things that seem to have been brought ashore from it have been taken to Peter’s longhouse.’
Through telling Francesca this gossip Anya’s mood had been light and happy but as she finished it suddenly changed. She leant forward and put her hand on Francesca’s arm. ‘You know I love you don’t you?’
Francesca responded, covering Anya’s hand with hers but slightly surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, ‘Of course I do,’.
‘You know I’ll always love you, no matter what?’
‘Yes,’ said Francesca puzzled.
The following day, two of the attendants helped her out of bed. She was a bit shaky and getting on to her feet revealed all sorts of other cuts and bruises, but with help she was able to walk the length of the Infirmary.
As she passed the bed of the grey man she took the opportunity to have a closer look at him. He seemed not to have moved since the previous day, though she imagined he must have had to move when the attendants checked his broken arm. And he must have been woken to drink and have some food. She had noticed that she had been very thirsty when he was first awake and that the attendants had insisted she drink as much as possible now that she was conscious.
She concentrated on his face. The features were sharp and bony, the skin a deep weathered brown. In the community only the fishers and the herders went that colour, being out in all weathers all year round. And there was a yellow, metal ring in his ear, something she had never seen before. He was clearly an Outlander, and interesting and rare enough for that alone, but beyond that she could make no connection with him.
The Founder’s Diary III
Day 31
The fort to which we were taken is in some sort of converted industrial building. We are pris
oners, though the soldiers who guard maintain they are doing this for our own good. The women and the children have been segregated from the men and we don’t know where they are or even if they are alive. All our belongings have gone. They shot the horse for meat and stole all our salt mutton; requisitioned is the way they put it.
I cannot free my mind of the image of his body. I want to weep but I must remain strong for the children. It seems impossible that someone so full of life and fire should be so easily extinguished.
Day 32
He is dead and our dream is at an end. If it was not for the children I would kill myself! But the others want me to go on writing and so I will for their sake, if it makes them feel better.
The soldiers feed us but the food is rationed and basic. At the evening meal Naomi reported that she had glimpsed the wagon tucked away in an empty part of a store room. Our job when out is to forage in the no-man’s-land between the forts. The gangs we work in are about ten-strong plus an armed guard. The women have been divided into two gangs led by a couple of more experienced women. Miriam leads our gang. She is kindly enough but has her job to do. We have spoken. She lost her man last year which gives me a rudimentary bond with her.
Day 33
The men are alive! Those of us who believed they were still alive had assumed they where being kept somewhere else, perhaps in another compound, but tonight Isabel saw Jacob near where the lorries are off-loaded. She got close enough to get a word with him before the soldiers saw it and broke them up. Jacob said he’d make sure that there’s someone near the same place each day.
Day 35
The men are held at the other end of this building and they have found a spot round the back of our latrines, where there is a crevice where a pipe comes into our part of the building. They think they can put messages there. They will try to send us something tomorrow. It’s up to us to find where it comes in on our side.
