by Jeff Kamen
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘I’m alright. You?’
‘I’m fine. Just going home. What about you?’
‘Same. Been up top with Az.’
‘Sonja’s Az?’
‘Yeah. Dunno the other one really.’
Jaala studies her discretely as the girl looks away, searching the features she has only ever known from a distance. ‘Take it you enjoyed the party?’ she says, and smiles as the girl gives a soft earthy chuckle.
‘You mean that weddin? I was out of it.’
‘Well, you seem fine now. Quite a night, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Reckon everyone was pissed.’
‘Think you’re right.’
The girl changes her grip on the skin.
‘You made a good Perchta. Got me at first, I didn’t know who it was.’
‘Yeah? Caught you out?’
‘Well, you know, all that beer.’
The girl snorts. ‘Yeah, well. Happens.’
Jaala smiles in agreement, taking in the girl’s wiry dark hair, the pitted scars on her cheeks, marks of a recent adolescence. She notes the smell of smoke and garlic on her, of sweat from running. The angry hazel eyes. Yes, she thinks, you’re your father’s girl all right.
The girl sets her jaw determinedly. ‘Seen you with them kids yesterday. You teach em readin, don’t you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you do, read stories and that?’
‘Sometimes. Depends who’s in the class. Sometimes we just work on writing. Why? Fancy joining us?’
‘Nah. Not really.’
‘Is that right?’
Radjík squints an eye. ‘Yeah,’ she says, less warmly.
A silence falls.
Jaala isn’t sure what to say next, but afraid the girl will walk on again, she says, ‘If you want to read, I could teach you, if you like. It’s not so hard.’
Radjík curls a lip. ‘I aint goin with no kids.’
‘It doesn’t have to be with them. You could come alone. Just you and me.’
‘Eh?’
‘I could teach you by myself. If you wanted.’
‘… Yeah?’
‘I’d be happy to. Could be fun.’
‘Dunno. I’ll think about it.’
‘Well. Do that. There’s no rush.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I spose.’
Looking downhill, Radjík seems uneasy. Jaala looks behind and notices Sandor walking out from the camp. He seems to be heading up towards them.
‘See you around,’ the girl says, and goes on her way.
~O~
The fifth moon fades and at last comes summer, the warm days stretching ahead of her like a season of youth itself; a time to be lived, not hidden from.
And now it is Sandor out walking with her most of the time; he, not Anya. They go along dusty paths lined with saxifrage and rock rose and the dotted hides of toadflax; with cranesbills, with orchid spikes littered with petals like tiny elfin ears. Everything feels in place and in bloom for them, the long grass their bed in the sun and the chill brooks theirs alone for sitting by and dipping in.
Walking barefoot into shade, their faces dappled, upraised, questioning each other. Leaves turning in the water, silky touch of moss beneath; a long kiss in the stillness. Then later, going home, he whistling quietly, the hill trails scented with meadowsweet and thyme.
Occasionally they burn leaves in his shelter to keep out insects, and in this thick and sultry haze she bends over his body and rubs in oils with her fingertips, murmuring as she teases him, as she strokes and plays and brings him to a fire that will soon consume them both. His breath over her like feathers, caressing and promising her, tantalising, the crushed roseheads he sprinkles on her skin falling like flecks of darkened snow. At times she bites at them, and at other times she lies shivering with pleasure, mute and softly sated, her eyelids growing heavy and all other thoughts, all other concerns, fast receding.
When the next moon arrives, she sees figures ploughing in the distance as she takes her classes out to the slopes. Carts trundle slowly with their loads on the rutted way down to the threshing barn. The backdrop to many evenings that year is a vast bloody sky that falls away in tatters and lies smoking, burning in a haze of darkened scrolls. Life feels so good to her, like something inrushing, leaving her breathless; yet when he asks her to move permanently to the lower camp, she hesitates. That old instinct again, inexplicable. She tells him that she can’t for the moment, that her neighbour’s kids have been ill and she’s promised to keep an eye on them. That, after all, there’s no need to hurry.
He turns to her with a curious expression, one of doubt. ‘That’s Anya talking,’ he says.
‘Don’t be silly, I just need more time,’ she says. ‘Just a little. That’s all.’
She wonders whether it’s connected with him, or is some problem of her own, some fraught complication buried in her secret windings. Either way, she knows that something is holding her back, some tiny awkward thing, a subject she prays she will lose sight of until finally it reveals itself, stands clearly in the open.
She is walking home from the Tarn with the rest of the hunter clan when it happens, heading back after a long day out swimming. All trooping along with wet hair and limbs pleasantly weary from exercise, the usual banter passing to and fro. She is talking with Rosa, a girl she has grown friendly with, when voices rise ahead. She looks up to see Radjík kicking out viciously at her brother, who slaps her in return and stands off glowering. Sandor appears to speak to them both, making some small remark in passing, barely noticeable. Seconds later there is another nasty scuffle between the pair, then the girl stalks away while Lajos stands jeering, hurling abuse at her.
A few others come up to clap and whistle as Radjík departs, all of which Jaala observes impatiently, waiting for Sandor to reconcile the siblings and calm things down. But he does nothing, and to her surprise the rest of the group continue along as before, none even mentioning what has happened. She brings up the incident later, in bed, but instead of responding, he closes his eyes.
‘You’re not going to say anything?’
He says nothing, lies still, yet she can feel the tension in his body.
‘Sandor,’ she says gently. ‘What did you say to make them fight?’
He remains as he is, quietly inhaling.
‘Come on. Answer me. You know what I’m talking about.’
For a moment he looks at her, then turns away.
‘Why do you do it? Why are you so hard on them?’ She strokes his shoulders, kneads them. ‘It’s no good ignoring me. You must be thinking something. There must be a reason.’
‘You think too much,’ he whispers. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘I just don’t see why you can’t show them ... I don’t know ... a bit more understanding. More kindness. Like you do to me.’ She hesitates, watching him, then adds, ‘I mean, Lajos, he’s got a child. He’s got Sonja and everything. But Radjík ...’
He replies with a snort, staring away from her across the matted floor. In the gloom a tendril of smoke curls from the stove, slowly dissipating.
‘She’s different. She needs a softer touch, she’s not unbreakable. Don’t you see? She needs your love.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he growls.
‘What? What don’t I understand?’
‘They are what they are, with or without me.’
She sits up. ‘But they fight all the time. I’ve seen it, and it’s starting to bother me. Doesn’t it bother you?’
He lies motionless.
‘Sometimes … I feel like they’re just doing it to impress you. To ... I don’t know. To get a reaction from you.’ When he fails to respond, she adds, ‘Don’t you see? It’s not right, Sandor. It’s not healthy.’
‘It’s their way,’ he says, then reaches for the lamp and pinches out the flame.
~O~
She tries to broach the subject whenever she can, tries with subtlety and skill, but gets no
where, simply ruins a few good evenings that she might otherwise have enjoyed.
Confused, she wonders if she is being too sensitive about the matter; but the more time she spends in the lower camp, the more she becomes convinced that something is wrong, out of place. The matter preys on her. As though freshly awakened, she notices how often he places the siblings in competition with each other, sending them into a rage at times, whether they’re at rest, or out climbing or shooting. And no longer does she ignore fireside stories about how they’ve injured themselves trying to outdo one another during hunting trips: now she takes note of every detail, no longer laughs them off as jokes or exaggerations. She studies the pair, follows them around at times, shocked to discover how heavily they drink, and how destructively. Shocked too that she’d never noticed it before — or if she had, had somehow disguised it from herself, made excuses.
She pictures their faces bubbling in a box, an image sent like some silent warning from the mother. Death faces flickering in the heat, following them on the paths.
She wonders what to do, feeling she can’t speak to Anya about it without everything unravelling. There are others in the camp — Tanya and Rosa, even Sonja — that she knows will listen, but her fear is that whoever she confides in will talk. They are all too close; few secrets last long in the camp. After more deliberation, she decides to approach the siblings directly, but Lajos freezes up the moment she makes contact with him, and from then on, although never unpleasant, always polite, he manages to avoid her. Radjík, as ever, she finds much easier to communicate with, but mysteriously, their contact becomes reduced to the girl merely offering her a drink on occasion, or giving a nod as they go about their chores. As if some hidden barrier has been put in place, prohibiting them from getting on. As if for Radjík, to make friends with her father’s lover would be to break an unspeakable taboo.
Sitting with a group of hunters one night, she is drinking glumly, tired of her thoughts, when a furious commotion breaks out. She hears Lajos yell, ‘Little bitch,’ and looks over to see Radjík stumbling backwards into some onlookers, one arm locked around Lajos’ neck and a knee going in at his groin. Before anyone can separate them, they lay into each other like thrashing trees, Radjík clawing with her nails while Lajos hauls her about with a hand clamped over her chin, gasping as they struggle. ‘Fuckinkillyou!’ he screams, then kicks her legs away, and the pair fall in a bristling tangle. Before matters can escalate, the two huge brothers intervene. Yvor grabs Lajos’ arm and yanks him away, whilst his older brother Pétar pins the girl to the ground and tries to calm her down. By now most of the camp has gathered at the scene, some getting involved, some simply looking on, the siblings continuing to seethe at one another, struggling to free themselves.
She looks to Sandor’s shelter, thinking to ask him for assistance, to find him looking on by lamplight with an expression she can only interpret as signalling approval; perhaps even excitement. As if he’s been released in some way, having watched the wild offshoots of himself go to war on his behalf, their violent struggle somehow bestowing peace on him. Furious, she leaves the group and strides across to discuss the matter. He is seated again as she approaches, sharpening a knife on an oil-smeared stone. He is dishevelled, appears to have been drinking. As he looks up, she tells him to follow her into the forest.
‘What for?’ he says.
‘Get up before I make a scene,’ she replies, then leads the way to the trees. Once out of hearing of the camp, she rounds on him. The sky is clear that night, and under a pale spray of stars she can see his eyes on her, see his teeth.
‘Take that smile off your face,’ she snaps, and after a hesitation it disappears. ‘What were we talking about the other night?’
He belches into his fist.
‘Sandor, this is important.’
‘Is it? Is that what you’ve decided?’
‘Don’t you care? Don’t you bloody care? These are your children.’
‘That’s right. They’re mine. Not yours.’ His teeth glint again. ‘You don’t have children, remember?’
Her gut knots at this. Knots in a cold dread sickness. She whispers, ‘Did you really need to say that?’
‘I just said they’re not yours,’ he says, leaning back against a trunk.
She stares at him. ‘So? What does that mean? Would you behave like this if they were? If they were ours?’
‘There’s a difference.’
‘What? What’s the difference?’
He reaches out, swaying, and clasps her wrist. ‘Come here. Come to me.’
‘Get off me.’
‘I want you.’
‘No. We’re here to talk. So tell me, what’s the difference?’
He pulls her. She shoves him back again, but he clings on.
‘Fine, be like that. But just answer my question. What’s the difference between them being what they are and being ours?’
His grip tightens.
‘Come on, answer me. If we had them, would you let our children hurt each other? Would you? Wouldn’t you want something better for them?’ She twists herself free, pushes him away again. ‘Talk to me. What’s the difference?’
‘Because their mother was a slut,’ he says, his arms hanging loosely. ‘A whore. A fuck. A nothing.’
‘And me? What are you going to call me when you’re bored one day? What’ll you call me then?’
‘You worry about the wrong things,’ he says. ‘You scare yourself. Don’t think so much.’ He brings his hands to his chest, cups them. ‘I told you before — take what’s here. It’s all you need.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just … just ... oh, this is stupid. I’m going. We’ll talk about this when you’re sober.’
‘Wait,’ he growls, reaching for her, and feeling his hand on her shoulder, she turns on him in fury. ‘Go away,’ she hisses. ‘Just go. If you clean yourself up, I’ll see you tomorrow. Otherwise I … I don’t know.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home. I hate you like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like someone who doesn’t care about anybody. Like a prick.’ She goes to add something, but changes her mind and pushes through the branches before he can persuade her to stay.
Home feels comforting to her, but also strange. She sleeps poorly. The next day she does not go out to see him, nor anyone else. Nor does she go to work. Instead she lies in the dark, keeping herself quiet, keeping things calm.
Pushing.
Ma haza? … Maza turid? …
Listen listen listen …
… mushkila … mushkila ...
Shutting out the call of ghostly female voices.
Chapter 20 — GRIP
And in his hour of need his father is there again, waving across the years, a thin and bearded figure standing just beyond the security zone. His face so gaunt and harrowed, barely straining a smile. Prisoner of Gabelstad, that gloomy expanse of bubbling marshes and loping Älterwurms and food production plants.
Metal whistles rip across the parade ground. Factory windows glow in the distance like radioactive tiles. He supports his mother as the guards usher them through to the visitors’ yard. A crunch of gravel underfoot, then they are allowed to meet. He works his small hand through the mesh fence. His father reaching for him, touching him, holding on.
It’s good to see you, Marty. Even here …
Those kind eyes, trying to find strength for them all, trying to joke with them. His mother weeping, then himself, then all three of them, hands linked together through the fence, entering the same despair. As if acknowledging that the family was doomed, that it was their destiny to always suffer this way ...
He was aroused from a darkening reverie by a creak from across the room, somewhere adjacent to the desk. He looked up blearily, struggling, then slumped again. The creaking resumed. This time his eyes went to the shape of a door opening inwardly; to a set of long bony fingers curling around the frame. He stared in
horror as a tall figure emerged, one that reached to its skull before turning to him like a creature scenting prey. He recoiled moaning, chafing his wrists in an effort to free himself, seeing things he did not wish to see, scenes in which the shadowy figure of his dreams had found its way beneath the base to study him. There to get the feel of him at its leisure, sucking in knowledge with cold and stony patience, knowing to the minute when he’d be taken down below and delivered according to its wishes ...
And now it had come for him. Its eye sockets winked and gleamed.
‘Nnngh. Nnnngh.’
It came gliding around the desk and made its way towards him, fading in and out of the lamplight. As it loomed closer he screamed into his gag, choking on the damp and dusty fabric. Then it was upon him, dry chuckles extending behind it like a kite string, and he tried to back away, twisting himself into a position where he could kick at it, but it had already seized him.
It whispered, ‘I don’t know who you’re going to get killed first — Vonal, Stoeckl, or yourself. As for me, it’s too late ... I’m already dead.’
He tried to kick again, dazed, seeing shades of Ischmann before him, yet it was not Ischmann. The chuckles stopped.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ it said. ‘He’s not asleep, is he?’
He struggled frantically as long fingers unpeeled the tape from his lips.
‘Moth? Stop it, Moth. What’s wrong? What have they done to you? Moth, pull yourself together. What have they done to Stoeckl? Tell me. What’s happened?’
At this, he froze. He hung there blinking with wet lashes, mired in joy and misery and confusion. When he blinked again, Lütt-Ebbins appeared in a soft aura, plucking the cloth from his mouth. ‘Lütt?’ he gasped, dragging the air into his lungs, but was shushed quiet.
‘What happened to Stoeckl? What’ve they done?’
He coughed his throat clear, watching as his friend examined the body at his side.
‘They … they drugged him. It-it was Tilsen. He was trying to …’
‘Shhhh. Keep it down,’ Lütt-Ebbins said, and then with brisk rigour checked Stoeckl’s wrists, his neck pulse, peered beneath his eyelids. ‘Shit, he’s out cold. How long’s he been like this?’
