by David Towsey
‘My name’s Typh, what’s yours?’ Her voice was light and high, but it crackled over the words, like autumn leaves. Her hair frayed in the breeze, across pale cheeks. She was staring down at the bodies.
His name. What was his name? It was important, but he’d lost it there, amongst the hundreds of uniforms. Or had it been burnt, the only part of him caught by the flames? In the army he was just another body, but before—
He remembered his wife. His mother. His father. They all mouthed one word.
‘Thomas,’ he said, coughing. The faces faded away.
She was wearing a cream cotton shirt with the buttons undone. It was a boy’s shirt. He could see rose spots on her belly. She picked up a big book and put it carefully on her lap.
‘T-h-o-m-a-s,’ she said, marking it on a page with some kind of stick. She turned to face him, her eyes red and sunken. She looked ill, as though she hadn’t seen the sun in a month and hadn’t slept either.
‘Where are you from?’ she said.
He opened his mouth, trying to shape the words. But instead, he coughed again. Ash and dust shot out of him with every dry wrench, like grey puffs swept up from a wood floor. His body shook. He rolled away from the girl, covering his mouth. He expected blood to coat his fingers and his insides to spill out onto the grass.
But there wasn’t any pain. Not from his throat, not from his skinless hands, not from the hole that ran through him. Just spasm after spasm.
Minutes, hours, weeks might have passed as he lay there. Finally, the coughing stopped.
He turned back to Typh. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t even flinched when he’d started coughing. She’d sat silent and still as he choked, a small smile on her faded lips.
‘Where are you from?’ she said again.
‘Bark … ley,’ he scraped from his throat.
‘Barkley? A lad from Barkley in an army pit?’ It was a man’s voice, deep. Thomas looked away from the smiling girl.
An old man stood in front of him. He was wearing a robe that whipped about in the wind. His skin was blotchy and yellowed. Deep lines criss-crossed his cheeks. Like the girl, he didn’t look well.
Thomas scrambled onto his knees. The child made another note in her book.
‘Do not be afraid. We won’t hurt you,’ said the old man. ‘Welcome back.’
‘He’s not far from home,’ Typh said.
‘I can’t go home.’ He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his head. ‘I’m … evil.’ The word sounded childish and simple.
‘You don’t say?’ the old man said with a grin: yellow mushroom pegs lining a cave.
‘His name’s Tho-mas.’
‘Good, solid Bible name that.’
‘How old were you, Tho-mas?’ Typh said.
Were. That was how he had to think of himself, how others would see him. If he let them.
‘Wh-why should I tell you?’ he stammered. ‘Who are you people?’
He stood up. Typh stared up at him, her small nose carving through the moonlight. She didn’t look anything like Mary, but he saw his daughter’s face. He closed his eyes. Typh should be in braids, playing chase and threading flowers, not sitting on the edge of a pyre pit asking questions of the dead.
‘My name is Cirr,’ the old man said. ‘We’re the ones with answers. You’re little more than a child, taking his first steps, uttering his first words.’
‘What does that make her?’
‘One hundred and fifty-three years older than you,’ she said.
‘No. No, it’s not— It’s not right,’ Thomas said.
‘What is “right”? You need help; someone to show you the future you could have,’ Cirr said.
‘I have no future, it was stolen from me.’ Thomas pointed at the smouldering pit.
‘You’re not the first to crawl out of there. You’re not the first to have a choice.’
‘What choice do I have? I’d have chosen to stay dead. Find heaven. That was my choice.’
‘Heaven.’ Typh snorted.
‘You could choose to see this life as a gift, a second chance. Do you have a family, Thomas?’
He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to tell these people, these Walkin’, anything else. Cirr carried on:
‘You’ll want to see them again, naturally. And you could; the returning soldier falling into the arms of his wife and children. They might even see past the scorched skin and colourless eyes. But you’re a changed man. War and death do that.’
‘So instead I should follow you?’ Thomas said.
‘We have answers; a way of life for who you are now. We can offer you safety. Art, culture, words other than your Good Book.’
The life of a damned soul steeped in sin.
‘No. There is no way of life. Not as this.’
‘Think about—’
Thomas turned away. He stumbled from the pit, his legs shaking.
‘You’re just a child.’ The voice followed him down the grassy slope. ‘Black Mountain. When you understand, we’re at Black Mountain.’
‘Thirty-two,’ Thomas said without looking back. ‘I was thirty-two years old.’
Thomas fled the place of his death.
*
For three days and three nights he wandered alone. The plains seemed to span the breadth of the world; a rolling prairie, covered by knee-high grass. He explored his new body, but it was empty. He could see skin, burnt and flaked by the pyre, but could not feel anything under it. Pressing where veins used to be, he should have felt his blood beating like a parade drum. Instead, silence. Muscles moved, somehow connected to a greater movement – like his finger bone. But there was no process. He couldn’t understand it. He willed his legs to move, so they did, and would continue to do so until he wished otherwise, for ever. There was no growth. There was no weakening. He should be hungry. Thirsty. Tired. He willed himself to feel anything physical, but there was nothing.
With a skin-covered finger he pressed again at his wound. It was a tunnel that ran from his belly, right through his body, and out of his back. The flesh felt like ribbons that fluttered as he probed, his kidney like a mushroom cap – slickly solid.
Pale and dry, the grass crackled underneath his bare feet and around his legs. Half of each foot could feel it; the other halves crushed the blades beneath unfeeling bone. Seeds and stems quickly peppered his worn uniform.
His regiment had skirted the edges of the plains. He’d seen maps that suggested it was a large area. He was alone in a blank landscape. Everywhere he looked more grass carpeted low hills. A map didn’t explain that feeling.
Occasionally, he passed a wrinkled tree squatting on the land. Thorny acacias; their only use was shelter. He didn’t seem to need it. The sun melted lower towards the horizon each evening, leaving a molten sky. His steady pace matched the retreating light, a continuous cycle of step after step, sunrise after sunset.
As dusk spewed over the plains, the insects started their chorus. It was at the edge of his hearing, a bubble of chirps and croaking. After the second night, he forgot the noise was there.
‘A way of life for the man you are now. Safety,’ the Walkin’ had said.
‘An eternity of sinful existence, a fall into damnation.’ Pastor Gray’s words came to him in response. Thomas should be working the fields, helping in the shop, reading stories to his daughter.
*
As the sun sank on his fourth day, the landscape changed. Gone was the carpet of grass. Gone was the flat horizon. In its stead were the Redlands: stone crags and bluffs; ochre and orange, an earth heavy in clay. The rocks were soft; lots of layers pressed together over uncountable years. Wind and water eroded them, shaping the gullies and cliffs.
Nothing much lived there, save insects, under-mutton and the occasional red-wink. He would be alone with the rocks.
It was a good place to die a second death.
1 : 3
It was getting dark in the shop; Sarah McDermott lit a candle. The flame was warm on her hand.
The little light threw shadows down the aisles and against the shelves. As she went, she took stock of what was running low and what wasn’t selling this week. The vegetables were a constant surprise. Sometimes carrots would sell as quickly as she put them out. Other weeks they rotted at their tops and their veins turned white and stringy. People were fickle in what they wanted to eat; people were fickle in everything. It made owning a shop interesting.
She listened for sounds of Mary moving upstairs. She couldn’t hear anything, but she knew Mary was up there. She just knew. At this time of day, the board-walks would be closing down and Mary liked to watch that from her bed. Sarah liked to watch it too, when she wasn’t busy. She flipped the sign to closed and peered out into the street. The thoroughfare was covered in shadow; a moment of dusky darkness before lamps were lit.
The buildings opposite seemed to blur and dance. She rubbed her eyes. It had been a long day. Every day was long. She squinted until the buildings behaved themselves and became clear.
She heard a woman scream. She dropped the candle.
It landed on its side and rolled a little away. Sarah knelt and grabbed it. She quickly blew it out. Men were shouting in the thoroughfare. The flat glow of lamps being lit sparked up and down the board-walks. From where she crouched Sarah could smell dust burnt by the candle. She felt as though she needed to sneeze, but couldn’t. Her shoulder was wedged hard against the door. She didn’t want to know what was going on. A woman had fallen over, most likely. Or a shaggie had made a bolt for it.
Mary came down the stairs.
‘Mum, there’s trouble.’
Sarah peered back into the shop. She couldn’t see her daughter. Of course there was trouble. But it was someone else’s. She had enough of her own without rushing into others’. Mary slowly appeared out of the darkness. She looked worried, her little face tight and frowning. It was the look of a concerned adult. And here was Sarah, hunkering down behind a door, trying to make herself as small as possible. As if that would stop anything.
‘I’ll take a look,’ Sarah said, forcing herself to stand. ‘Bolt the door after me, you hear?’
Mary nodded. Sarah passed her the candle – much use it would do.
‘Don’t come out. No matter what. Not until I know what’s going on.’ There were more shouts. The clap of a rifle rang out, echoing off the shop fronts. Mary jumped. ‘And stay near the back of the shop.’
Sarah hefted the bolt. It seemed heavier than usual. The door had warped this winter and took some opening. The bell tinkled as she yanked the door handle. She stood, her back to the street, and watched as Mary slid the bolt into place. She stared at her daughter’s face until Mary disappeared into the shop. ‘Mum, there’s trouble,’ she had said. This used to be a place without trouble – real trouble. The kind of trouble that takes men away from their families. That makes little girls older before they should be. That makes women stay awake at night until lines appear at their eyes. That was the kind of trouble that was right behind her now and she didn’t want to turn around.
Men ran along the board-walk. She felt the wood bend and shudder beneath their heavy boots. There was a crowd growing in the middle of the thoroughfare. There was jostling and pushing and cursing. Other folk watched, like her, from the presumed safety of their doorways. Sarah fought the urge to duck down again. Bullets and guns didn’t mind where you were standing.
Someone was in the middle of all those men. Someone was being punched and kicked and pushed.
Sarah looked around in disbelief. Why was no one stopping them? Why wasn’t she stopping them? But instead of the crowd getting smaller it got bigger. The air was thick with the sound of deep voices biting off sharp words.
The Pastor came running from the church. His cassock was barely buttoned up. His hair was like a disturbed hive of workers. He held the Good Book in his hand. He reached the crowd and started swinging the book like a club. Heads were clipped and men turned to see the fiery Pastor bearing down on them. They parted under his blows. He was bellowing for calm, which could not be further from his own countenance.
From the centre of the mass of bodies, a man reared up.
‘Ma! Pa!’ he cried. He looked around frantically – as much as the men holding him would allow. ‘Ma!’
‘Jared,’ a woman yelled. She was at the edge of the crowd, trying to claw her way in. She was so small and round compared to the bodies blocking her way.
As the mob passed Sarah she got a good look at Jared. The top of his head was blackened and blistered, with no hair at all. The skin was like scorched paper, as if it might flake and turn to ash at any moment. One of his eyes was missing completely. She saw flashes of burnt red clothing, a jacket. An army jacket. This was Jared Peekman. She had said his name so many times in church she had started to doubt he was even real – like most of the names in the Good Book. Jared Peekman had come home. He was a Walkin’.
The Pastor made the sign of the cross.
‘Thou art damnèd!’ The Pastor’s voice carried here, in the street, as well as under the eaves. ‘Creature of the night.’
The mob stopped. The Pastor looked across to the board-walk. Law-Man Bellis was standing there. His shotgun was slouched in his arms. He had fired earlier, Sarah was sure of it, trying to disperse these angry and frightened people. But what was a gunshot compared to a Walkin’? The Law-Man locked eyes with Pastor Gray. He spat on the ground and turned away.
‘He must burn!’ the Pastor called, holding aloft the Good Book. The mob bayed for blood. Blood Jared didn’t have any more. ‘We’ll save your soul, son of Barkley.’
‘Ma. Ma, please. Help me,’ he sobbed. The men, good churchgoing men, dragged him along the thoroughfare. Mrs Peekman tore at them, at their shirts and their cardigans and their beards. All the while screaming her son’s name. Until someone pushed her over. She landed hard on the dirt ground.
‘That’s not my son,’ Mr Peekman shouted from the board-walks. ‘That’s not my son!’ He had to run to keep pace with them now. ‘My son is dead.’
Sarah let them get far enough away before she went to Mrs Peekman. No one else seemed to care about her. Sarah dropped to her knees and hugged the little woman. Mrs Peekman fell into her. They cried together. They cried for the men the army took from them. The men they would never get back.
Over Mrs Peekman’s shoulder, Sarah could see men and women bringing wood into the thoroughfare. They would dig a stake into the ground at the far end of town, where there was room enough for everyone. The Pastor would make sure the whole town saw this. The army took men from Barkley. But Barkley’s ways were stronger than guns and cannons and uniforms. They didn’t feel so strong to Sarah, with Mrs Peekman trying to thump her in the chest.
Some of the younger men were mounting up. They were just old enough to be married, a few years younger than Thomas and Jared had been. Bethany Gray, the Pastor’s wife, was ordering them about. Their job was to let everyone know – those who lived outside of town. Especially Gravekeeper Courie. There was a way these things should be done. Sarah felt sick. She stopped fighting Mrs Peekman and took the woman’s blows.
*
Luke Morris was at the Pastor’s side. He led the men in clapping and singing. They were going to save a soul today. Hallelujah! He was the Pastor’s acolyte. His job had many duties, but at that moment he had to keep the men mindful of the Good Lord. This was not the rule of the mob, but divine justice.
When one song finished he began another. He could barely hear his own voice above the pounding of blood in his ears. He had been an acolyte for almost eight years and he had never had this kind of opportunity to do the Good Lord’s work. He spent most of his time lighting candles and sweeping floors. They would save a soul today.
‘Hallelujah,’ Luke cried. Others joined him.
They marched from one end of Main to the other. Luke hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at the evil spirit in their midst. He tried to peer through the crowd, but could only see hair and beards
and the occasional cheek. It roiled into one mass. Good, honest men were smothering the work of the devil. As it should be. As it should be.
When they reached the end of Main, the Pastor started giving orders. He told a number of men to fetch kindling. Mr Gregory was given the task of bringing the scented pyre wood from the church. Luke didn’t understand; that should have been his job. Eventually, the Pastor turned to him. Despite the Pastor’s wild hair and beard, his eyes were calm. He drew Luke aside and whispered into his ear. He had a very important task. Luke could not waver in his faith. Could he do it? Luke nodded. Of course, the Good Lord willed it so. As quickly as his cassock would allow, he ran to the Peekmans’ house.
*
He tried the front door, but it was locked. With righteous fury he pounded on it until the wood itself shook.
‘Mara Peekman! Mara, open the door.’
He heard the latch slide back. The door opened a crack and a mousy-looking woman looked out: Jared’s wife. He burst inside. She fell and landed hard on the floor.
‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’ Mara wailed. She was only a few years older than Luke.
‘Your son,’ he said. He went into the kitchen. He opened drawers until he found a knife. ‘Your demon son.’
‘What? What are you doing?’ Mara blocked the doorway. He pushed her out of his way. He checked the living room.
‘Mum?’ The voice was soft but urgent. Luke was at the bottom of the stairs in an instant. At the top was a sandy-haired boy.
‘No! Simon, run,’ Mara screamed. But Simon stood frozen. Luke took each step one at a time. He gazed into the boy’s blue eyes. Were there flecks of black there? Signs of a taint? He grabbed the boy’s arm. Mara tried to stop him. She was so small. He brushed her aside. He left her in a heap on the floor, weeping.
He took Simon to the church. The boy was used to doing what he was told. And the church was a safe place. A safe place for good men and women. Simon was seven, maybe eight years old.
Luke stopped in front of the altar. There was a large cross with the figure of Jesus Christ. There was great strength and dignity in the son of the Good Lord. His muscles were taut and prominent. His face spoke of all the trials he had endured and how he had come through with his faith intact.
