by Jeff Kamen
‘... The true person inside.’
‘Good. Now go to her. You must go to her. Understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then go.’
Chapter 55 — The Guard
He opened his eyes, weak from drinking, from lack of sleep. For a second he thought he’d dreamt it, but the blast continued to resound. He was up at the shutters in a rattle of bedsprings, looking out at the birds exploding from the trees in fright.
The ceiling creaked. He heard Cora running down the stairs and into the kitchen, and as he leant out he saw her going barefoot into the garden, wrapped in a shawl. He strained his neck in hope of seeing something, but nothing happened. Instead, a heavy and portentous silence followed; a few feathers dropped. Under a pale mercury sky, the trees stood in misty calm. Far beyond them he thought he could see drifts of smoke. They ate breakfast with his ankle chattering excitedly against his chain.
He made a scratch on the bedside wall with his mind racing, desperate to know the fallout of the blast, whatever it might be, in whatever form it came. Later that morning, working on the fence, his job on the waste trench mercifully completed, he waited for the first results to manifest themselves, imagining a bomb, gas igniting, all the things the explosion might have signified.
Cora had stationed him near to the pighouse, and he stood there sharpening the ends of some palings while she sat on a chair in the orchard clipping the piglets’ teeth with pliers. He was not sure which most had his attention — her, or the writhing animals. So far, neither of them had referred openly to the previous night’s conversation, although he’d felt it present in every glance between them. He was hoping he might build on this moment of intimacy, use it to reduce his sentence in some way, but when he sent a querying look in her direction, it seemed her manner was cooling significantly. Afraid of wrecking things, he smiled blandly and switched his focus to the pigs.
Not for the first time, he shook his head at the noise. He’d never heard a racket like it in his life. It was like children screaming at the top of their lungs in undiluted helium, all of them struggling and fighting, and he was not pleased when a few minutes later she called him across to help. With a huge sigh he put down his billhook and spent the rest of the morning holding the creatures in a miasma of bloody snouts and wild blue eyes and squeals and flaying hooflets.
Over lunch, sensing he’d redeemed himself a little, he asked her as casually as he could what she thought of the blast; what she thought it meant. She looked up from her soup with an expression of mild admonishment and said nothing, as if to make clear that what had been said over wine had in no way set a precedent for future exchanges.
‘So you haven’t thought about it? I-I’m not sure I believe you.’
She dipped her spoon and lifted it. ‘How I know?’ she said. ‘What, maybe good, maybe bad. I stay here. We dig the garden.’ She took a mouthful of soup and paused. ‘This time you don’t eat worm.’
‘Worms,’ he corrected, and bit his lip.
There was a short silence. The fire popped. ‘You don’t eat them,’ she said.
~O~
He didn’t. Still hobbled, he used the freshly cleaned barrow to bring her heaps of ashy sediment, trundling it across from the surrounding slopes and depositing it over the wall as close to the rear garden as he could reach.
Once he had a good pile of it ready, he wheeled portions round to where she was working and left her to distribute it inbetween chores. The operation had puzzled him at first: she’d scalp a length of turf and leave it to one side, then dig out the exposed soil and shovel it into sacks. She’d then shovel sediment into the trench where the topsoil had been, and mix it into the subsoil so that it lay as a greyish blend. Afterwards, she’d returf the plot and tread it down, often, she explained, protecting the area with a tarp to begin with, until grass and soil had had sufficient time to bond.
‘Sometime I leave it few month, sometime a year,’ she said, when he asked her to go through the process again. ‘You see?’
‘Ah, I think so,’ he said, following her to an exposed strip she’d dug. He said he understood that she traded the black soil she kept in sacks, but not the sediment’s role in the operation. To which she replied that it was not so much about the sediment’s role, but that of the soil she mixed it with.
‘To do what?’
‘Make it better. Make it good.’
‘Make what good?’
‘This ash.’
‘I, ah, I still don’t see what you mean.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘You eat worm, no?’ she said.
‘Well, I ...’
‘And worm eat soil. Any soil. They eat this mix, you see? Turn bad soil to good.’
‘You mean they …’ he began, and could not help but smile at the simplicity of it all. On seeking her permission, he took a pinch of soil from the ground and squatted down in thought, rubbing the moist black grains between his fingers. The deep musky scent he’d noticed before returned to him richly, and he murmured compliments about her system that had her looking on with warm approval. After that, he spent a while studying the worms’ behaviour, asking her at one point where they came from. To his surprise she told him she didn’t know: ‘They here four, five year,’ she said. ‘I see one day they make the soil good. After, I grow plant. Lots. Now the apple always good.’
He looked up to find her brow raised questioningly. ‘Ah ... yes, they are,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Crunchy.’
She turned with a wistful expression to the world beyond the birches. ‘One day I make a field. Yes, crop for my pig. Vetch. Beet. Carrot. Tomato. Krumpiri.’
‘Krumpiri?’
‘Potato. My Clareka, her husband goes to the merchants for cutting, for seed. I grow everything here now. I make good soil, I have the stream. Not too much wind here. It’s a good place, you see?’
He looked around the garden, the fine rain damp on his face, earthscents rich in the air, trees swaying, sighing. ‘Yes,’ he said, he had to admit it was.
~O~
That evening, with a cold, dark and uncertain world lurking beyond the door, it occurred to him that the days leading to his departure were running by a little too soon.
The more he dwelt on it, the greater the dread he felt building, for the terrains beyond the flamelit walls seemed to hold nothing but menace for him. He saw himself being trapped on a ledge with long mournful howls echoing from the uplands. His raw wet hands cut on razor-sharp rock; droplets of blood discovered by a curious black snout that disappeared sniffing into the darkness. When he drew his ankles together, the heavy cuff felt like a warm hand around him, keeping him safe and dry and whole.
‘I, ah ...’ he began. ‘Ah, Cora.’
She looked up.
‘I, ah ... well. It’s … it’s about ...’ He coughed. ‘Well, what I’m ... what I —’
‘Speak. Just speak.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Well ...’ He studied his meal. ‘Wh-when are you planning to let me go?’
She took a forkful of mash, ate contemplatively, then answered, ‘You count these day. You tell me.’
‘A week,’ he said immediately.
‘A week,’ she echoed, lifting a shoulder. ‘Then you go.’
‘Then that’s it? I, ah ... I can go home?’
‘Da. You go home.’
He coughed again, wondering what else he was supposed to say. He felt his knee jigging and stopped it. ‘Well, ah, c-can I take some food with me?’
‘There is food out there, no? Rabbit. Bird. Nut. Nice food.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, I suppose there is.’ He swallowed. ‘And, ah ... oh, yes. Can I have my knife back?’
She smiled. ‘I give you knife, maybe you come back to kill me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, struggling to meet her eyes. ‘Look, I promise I won’t hurt you. I’ll, ah, get out of your way. It’s just ... just that it’s a long way to go.’
‘You tell me short way.’
‘And you leave?’
‘That’s right. I’ll leave.’
‘… Leave me.’
‘That’s right. I’ll just … leave you.’ His lungs were dilating uncomfortably. He started to wheeze. Pump. And wheeze.
‘And you promise you leave?’
‘That’s ... that’s right. I promise.’
‘On what you promise?’
He drew in a scorching wintry breath. ‘On ... on my father,’ he managed. ‘On my father’s life.’
She met his eyes without expression. ‘I get some wine,’ she said, and rose from the table.
He watched her walk away, watched her full swaying form. Ate without tasting a thing.
‘Sranje,’ she muttered from the store.
‘What?’ he called, wondering what he’d done wrong.
She returned tutting. ‘I forget these plier. All our tool.’
‘I’ll, ah, I’ll get them,’ he said, setting down his cutlery. ‘It’s raining.’
She looked across doubtfully as he scraped back his chair.
‘I don’t mind,’ he insisted, ‘it was me, anyway, I forgot them. I meant to bring them in.’
She studied him a moment, then reached into her pocket and tossed him the key. ‘Mind these wolf,’ she said as he worked the lock, watching as though to ensure he was doing no more than free himself from the tableleg. He wheezed a nervous laugh, showing that the chain was still cuffed to his ankle, then as she turned back to the scullery he opened the door and went clinking outside.
The night was huge and blackly overcast. He studied the southern sky and found no trace of light there, nothing to hint at the Ostgrenzers’ presence at all. He went through to the orchard and passed beneath the hanging branches, imagining spending the night alone, a lost creature with nothing to fend away the perils of the darkened world but his raw and bloodied fists. Once more he found his lungs hurting, and he wondered if he should ask for another treatment. All this and more was troubling his mind as he went through to the back and rounded up the tools and trudged back again, going through to the front to find a warm glow emanating from the kitchen. It was unlike her to leave the door open, and he walked out a little way to see if she was in the garden, to find two shadows crossing his path.
He froze, looking towards the kitchen to find a hulking brute of a man standing there. A man with a tank strapped high on his back and a gun pointed at Cora’s face. An Ostgrenze guard. He was drenched, his uniform mud-smeared and hanging in places. Cora looked scared and pale, and stood with her hands at her sides as he surveyed the room. Masked, monstrous-looking, the guard flicked his eyes around the foodstuffs strung from the beams, and then he turned, using the gun to indicate the hallway, his shaven head dripping like a joint of meat.
Moth gasped. The night around him seeming to throb. To alter dimension. The wind swirling strangely. He had to get out of the light, yet the chain — the tools. Terrified of making a noise, awkwardly posed and clutching handles, he bent to gather the chain and muffle it, then retreated at a shuffle to the orchard. Dragging his chained foot along, he realised that the guard suspected she wasn’t alone. He hid himself in the trees just as the front door slammed shut.
He stood breathing in spasms, staring at the house. He had no idea what to do, whether to get further out of sight or wait and see what happened next; then as a light appeared in her bedroom, it struck him that his chance had finally come. He had tools with which to defend himself, the cover of darkness to shield him. He could do it. He could run, run far, and no one would follow.
He looked to the little side gate, then back at her lit shutters. He told himself he’d head away the moment he was sure the guard hadn’t thrown her down, was not touching her, perhaps even savaging her on the bed ...
The room fell dark. He saw that whatever he planned to do, he was going to have to do it quickly, and without a sound. He set down the tools and wrapped the chain tightly round his leg and stuffed the loose end inside his sock. He was gathering up the tools again, preparing for his exit, when he saw his own room light up, the glow visible in a cracked orange grid. He waited, squinting, his features growing pained and taut. Unlike the visit to her room, the glow remained. He watched in despair, trying to recall if he’d made the bed or not — if it looked as if another person was living there. What about the spitting bowl? Was it still on the table? Could she contrive a story to account for it? An old sickly aunt or something, gone from the house in terror of the invasion? What about his coat? Was it hanging over his chair, or had he hooked it up behind the front door? His goggles — what about his goggles? ‘Come on,’ he whispered, ‘talk to him, Cora. Make it up.’
By the time the light retreated he felt so weak he had to rest against a tree, and he leant against it cursing, tortured with indecision. He knew that what he did next would influence the way he spent the rest of his life, and how over many years he’d recall his departure into the night — and how he’d recount his journey to his friends on reaching home.
Talking to Lütt-Ebbins and others. Seeing the little shakes of the head, the incomprehension in their eyes. Then running to the desert, finding his father at last, talking with him man to man, explaining his actions. Explaining why he’d left her. Watching the bearded figure look away, grieving and saddened, for all he was pleased to see his son again — and all this with the Genetik woman looking on, she who had saved her people in the fire, her dark head lowering as he described how the last he’d seen of Cora was the fading of a hidden lamp.
And then all those moments alone with himself. Thinking of her fate, a woman with a pose like a dancer, forever swaying away from him ...
Before him two different universes were opening up: one mapped out with a run to the hills, one with a treacherous progress through the house. But to what end? To be killed himself? Captured? Taken away? Hauled up before the guard’s leaders?
How long he stood there he did not know, but when he came to stir, to move again, he noticed among his tools the mallet and billhook. Leaving the other tools aside, he clenched the two handles tightly, then trod in small hasty steps towards his window.
~O~
Twisting, pulling the other leg through, he slunk down to the mattress and rose cautiously. He turned to draw the shutters, then thought better of it.
He’d made so much noise clambering off the rainbarrel he was amazed the guard hadn’t come searching for him by now, and taking care not to creak the springs, he hopped off the bed and crossed the room to listen at the wall.
They were both in the kitchen. He could hear the occasional scrape and clatter as Cora undertook the guard’s rough bidding. Fearing being heard should silence fall, he went to the door and eased it open and looked down at the boards, trying to recall which to avoid and which he could safely tread upon. Then he closed the door and stood in the dark. Breathing, just breathing. He knew that if he opened it again there was no turning back, and he took a minute to make sure the chain was not coming loose, that his laces were tied, that his weapons would not clash together. Then, with his head growing light, he opened the door again and set off down the dingy passage.
He trod very slowly, easing a foot down on each chosen board as though it might detonate. Stopping and starting all the way, his weapons poised for balance, grimacing at every murmur in the wood until he was standing with his shoulder to the doorjamb, swallowing down something hot that had risen in his throat. He knew he could not panic now, could not betray her. He closed his eyes. There was a loud clash of pots, followed by an apology. He wondered if it was a signal. A message that she’d heard him, was telling him to leave, get away while he could. His eyes darted wildly, then settled. No. She was simply preparing food. Boots crossed the floor and he winced, clutching the implements, ready to strike. Then he realised they were going away. He heard the front door swing open and a few moments later it shut again and the guard pulled up a chair and sat.
He released a
long shaky breath. All he needed to know was where the guard was sitting.
Sweat was glistening on his face as he cut a look inside. A huge figure sitting where Cora always sat. His back to the room, eyes to the front door. As if expecting someone to enter at any moment. What had she told him? Had she given him away?
She seemed to be making as much noise as she could, and perhaps wary of this behaviour, the guard grunted something, at which she croaked another apology. He swallowed again. She sounded like someone else. Frightened. Someone he didn’t know.
He looked at the mallet. He thought if he got a good swing with it he could do some damage, but it might not be fatal. He’d even known the head to fly off mid-use. The billhook, then. It was fairly blunt, but might split the man’s skull if he could be certain of his balance. If he could only get him around the neck, if he only had …
He almost cursed aloud. The chain, of course. The chain. He went slowly to a crouch, placing the weapons flat on the floor before tugging the links free from inside his sock. He’d just started freeing the chain when he paused. In order to use it properly he’d need both hands. He studied the weapons. Whichever one he chose would need to be tucked inside his trousers. He thought the billhook might just be the worst thing to have pressing upon his middle that he could pick, and in selecting the mallet, he slid it inside his belt with the head sticking out and returned to unwinding the chain.
Each movement an agony as he strove to keep it from clinking. Willing, begging Cora to continue making a noise, he drew it from around his leg and held the slack out, rising carefully and winding the free end round his fist until he was able to stand fully upright, the chain running vertically upwards from his ankle. Then he wrapped the knuckles of his other hand and stood with a short length of chain held horizontally before him. He could still move his cuffed ankle freely, still walk as he needed to. He changed grip, unwinding one hand a few times so that he had enough length to work with, then prepared himself to go.
His thoughts were interrupted by the slap of the guard brushing down his uniform. He heard Cora moving again, the sound of dishes, cutlery being set on the table.
