by David Towsey
‘Special. Yes,’ he said softly. He was looking out at the crowd.
‘But,’ Mary said, ‘to the Good Lord everyone’s special, so …’
He smiled at her.
‘I think everyone’s special too. I’ve been away from the town, but I had to come back for the sermon. For the people.’
The acolyte drifted off into the crowd. After a few more deep breaths her head cleared. Watching people was always interesting, especially when they didn’t know you were there. These minutes after church were the real reason everyone came. They all acted like good Leyists – some even meant it – but organising trades and gatherings, work and play, that was the value of the Sabbath. No one worked today, of course, but it was the seed of the week ahead.
Still shading her eyes, Mary saw Mrs Gray stop and speak to people, no doubt parents asking about their children. Her mother would likely do the same; to check Mary hadn’t been drawing again. She had, she just hadn’t been caught. Drawing in the playing patch was silly, she knew that, but she’d been bored and angry. With what she couldn’t remember. It was rarely one thing that got you angry.
Elder Richards was hunched over, talking with a little knot of men. The Law-Man was one of them. He was shaking his head and leaning back. No secret those two didn’t like each other. Adults were a lot like children sometimes. Her uncles, Aunt Hannah, and her grandparents started off towards the cart-hitch. Finally, Mary spotted her mother. Sarah had also noticed the rest of the family. Her face was set in flat lines, tense.
‘Luke Morris says hello,’ Mary said when she reached her mother.
‘Let’s go home. Are you hungry?’
‘Like a huntsman without a web.’
‘Pardon?’ Sarah said.
‘Never mind. It was something Dad used to say.’ It wasn’t, but Mary didn’t wait for a reply. She wanted to get home to the quiet of her room and leave this dusty town behind. She could dream herself away and when she woke up, there was always the river.
*
Two days without water. Two scarred hands and two aching feet. It was worth it. Whenever Luke thought of her bare shoulder, he forced himself to swallow. Each time was like eating dust. He thought about her often. There was nothing base or tawdry about her taking a bath. He hadn’t been aroused at the sight – not physically – and he wasn’t when he recalled the moment over and over. The shoulder was like the unfurling of an angelic wing. It was a symbol of purity.
He had found some more shade at a different part of the river. Here, the water raged. The surface was a jagged mess of white peaks like a scrunched-up tissue. But somehow it still looked soft to the touch, airy. The river narrowed between two outcrops of solid stone, forcing more and more water through the gap. It would never burst these walls, but it would wear away at them – one fleck of dust at a time. In the distance, Luke could see the placid and wide stretches that were the normal way of the Col River. He could go there with little trouble. But he was enjoying the deafening roar of something alive, as it bounced between the rocky walls. The sound washed away everything – his hunger, his thirst, his questions, the Good Book. Almost everything. It couldn’t force her shoulder from his mind.
The bag of oats was open next to him. He had tried eating at roughly midday. He couldn’t manage it. Looking at the dry whiteness – so different from the river – he doubted he would ever eat again. He was sweating in his cassock. This long into his exile he ignored his own smell. It was a dank sweetness he simply lived with. He could bathe in the river. But he was unworthy of bathing. He was no angel.
He was looking once more at his inedible oats when he saw it. The river was coming alive. It spat a ball of white foam onto the bank, not twenty paces from where he was sitting. Luke carefully took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The ball of white was still there. He tried to stand. His knees were sharp with pain and he sat back, tears coming to his eyes. He let them flow without crying. With his hands, he eased himself up. He took each step like an old woman – one foot forward, the other scraping the dust to meet it. His hips locked. He rubbed at them, willing blood into his legs.
It seemed to take the entire afternoon to cross the gulf of twenty paces. As he drew closer, he saw the ball of white was actually a baby woollie. Luke looked around for more of them, a mother perhaps, but found nothing. The little thing was alone. He was close enough to touch the woollie. It didn’t run from him. Instead, it seemed to be pawing at the dirt as if it was looking for something. Luke put his hand out to touch the soft creature. It turned and ran ten or so paces and resumed its pawing. Bending down, Luke tried to find whatever the animal was looking for – something to eat most likely. He brushed away at the dirt, all the while the river shouting at the side of his head, but couldn’t uncover whatever the woollie was looking for. Standing, he almost fell. He put out his arms to steady himself. He felt dizzy, the ground tilting wildly beneath him, the small woollie like a fulcrum for the world. He vomited a mix of dust and stale air. The woollie seemed only interested in its new patch of dirt. Luke stumbled forward. He sank to his knees and again the woollie skipped back. There was a divot where the woollie had been. He squinted. He called to the animal. He dug frantically at the spot, grabbing handfuls of sand and dust until he reached the moist earth beneath. He kept going. More and more earth; he piled it next to him. He hit stones and his nails bled. There was nothing there. He started to laugh. He laughed until he started to cough. The woollie carried on pawing at the ground.
Luke tried to reach the woollie. But as he came closer it skipped off. It never raised its head from its search, somehow knowing when Luke was near. He couldn’t see the animal’s eyes or any part of its face. He squinted, trying to find a feature to focus on, but his gaze seemed to slide away. Eventually, the bluffs tapered down to the river bank. The water was calmer here. The woollie didn’t make a sound when it scratched in the dirt or when it performed its backwards shuffle. Luke had to concentrate to stay on his feet. He no longer tried to catch the woollie. He decided to follow it. Luke wasn’t surprised when it turned away from the river and started backing towards Barkley. At any moment he expected to see a wayward flock of woollies or a frantic-looking shepherd. But there was only a blanket of empty and rolling earth, dry and cracked, broken by the occasional stubborn bush.
It was dark. Luke couldn’t recall the sun setting; the sky turning from blue to orange to black. He blinked, his eyes gritty and tired and begging for water, and it was night. The going was slow. It would take him days to reach the town, if that was in fact where he was being led. The woollie seemed to possess infinite patience. It dug its little holes until he caught up then started over in another spot. It never looked up. Not once.
Through the haze of hunger and thirst and dust, Luke came to realise this was no ordinary woollie. This animal was looking for something, something spiritual. It had taken itself away from the flock and headed into the wilderness. The two of them, pilgrims, had found each other. They would help one another in their search. He knew this, as he ignored the ache in his knees and the shooting pains that struck like lightning in his feet. His stomach was nothing more than a knot in a piece of string. The woollie kept moving and so would he.
Luke woke to find himself still walking. He had been drifting in and out of sleep for some time. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept or what it was like to lay his head down and accept the darkness.
There were lights ahead. He had to shield his eyes from their brightness. As the lights grew closer they bathed the woollie in dirty orange. This angered Luke, but all he could do was keep walking and try to stay awake. He knew this place, those lights. It was very familiar but he couldn’t summon the memories. They skipped from his grasp, like his fluffy guide. He glanced back and saw a trail of holes stretching into the night. He stumbled and almost fell. But the Good Lord watched over him; wanted him to find the truth in this place, in the dirt, in his soul. Hallelujah.
The woollie led him i
nto a labyrinth. Away from the lights. Wooden walls surrounded him. The smell of shaggies was strong in the air. He fumbled towards the smell – it was warm and wet and he was tired. But the woollie kept on and the shaggies grew fainter and then were gone.
They turned a corner and Luke knocked into something heavy. He hit the ground hard; his arm caught under his weight. The breath was chased out of him creating a puff of dust. He couldn’t move. His legs were someone else’s. He was watching another body. It was a barrel that had tripped him. A barrel full of lust and envy and all kinds of sin. Heavy enough to knock any man down.
Inches from his head, the woollie pawed at the ground. He still couldn’t see the animal’s face. Its digging grew frantic, nuzzling one moment and scraping the next. It bleated. The sound trumpeted through Luke like a blast from heaven. His ears were close to bursting. The woollie raised its head from the ground in what looked like triumph – an offering. In its mouth was a piece of bone-grass.
Then it was gone. Luke passed out.
*
Luke dreamed. Then he woke. Then he dreamed. In some dreams he knew where he was. In others he was lost.
He was lying in the dirt. His head rested awkwardly against the rough wooden slats of the barrel. He didn’t have the energy to move it. He blinked and blinked; his eyes felt like a gravel path. He recognised the back of the house. This was her house. He had been here before. Many times. He glanced at the sky but couldn’t see the moon. It must have been behind him. The alley was painted in a pure white; one even coat applied by an almighty brush. The windows gleamed, but this was not from inside. She was sleeping. Her daughter was sleeping. He closed his eyes.
2 : 5
Thomas stood on the bank of the Col River. He had done so many times before, but this time was different. He couldn’t feel the water as it rumbled past him. Couldn’t feel its pounding matched in his veins or in his chest or in his head. The river was loud but it sounded empty. Rocks and rapids cut the surface to white shreds of foam that shone in the moonlight. He could go farther and find a quiet place to cross, but he was tired of not being home. Karl Williams could see the sea from his kitchen window. Thomas couldn’t remember what was outside his. It was at the back of the house, but every time he tried to picture it he couldn’t.
He plunged one foot into the river. The water wrenched at his leg, but he held firm. He was ready for the water to be cold. It probably was. He had no awareness of the water itself. He didn’t seem to be getting wet. There was just the pull, just the force of it. He planted his other foot in the silty riverbed. He kept his feet wide apart and knees bent, trying to make a solid structure out of himself, out of bones and muscles and quiet organs.
Every step took a long time. If anyone was watching, it would look funny: this man swinging his legs high out of the water then bracing against the pull. This Walkin’. He looked around for the blightbird that had been following him, that seemed to appear at his weakest moments, but the sky was empty.
The water streamed through his right leg. He had lost a lot of skin beneath the knee. His calf was being pulled away from the bone, like when he used to ease meat off a well-roasted joint. He needed to make it to the other side before the Col River claimed one or two joints for its own.
He quickened his strides. There was no strain. The work was not difficult or tiring, like a day in the fields. He felt the same as when he started. It would not be long now. He would be home. What was he going to do when he got there? He couldn’t walk down Main calling Sarah’s name. He would start a panic. Some people would not be happy to see him. Elder Richards. The Pastor. His Pa.
He slipped.
His leg, the one that was coming apart, suddenly went from under him. He dropped into the river. The water poured into him. It rushed through his arms and legs, down his throat, behind his eyes. It filled his stomach, his lungs. He struggled in panic, flailing to find the surface or the bottom or anything other than water. But he didn’t choke or drown. He snatched at a rock, getting enough purchase to grab hold with both hands. The river roared at his face. He forced his feet down. He was three, maybe four steps from the bank. He concentrated everything he had on those steps.
He stumbled onto the sand and curled into a wet and shivering ball. He wasn’t cold, but his body shook. He opened his mouth and water drained out. Struggling onto his back, he gazed up at the night sky while he waited for the shaking to stop. The moon was behind a bank of clouds.
Those fleeting moments, when he had been under the water, he did not panic because he might die again. It was the thought of being so close to Sarah and Mary and not to see them one last time.
*
Barkley appeared on the horizon in an orange glow, like the first rays of dawn. Thomas moved faster. The water had almost entirely left his body; seeping out of the cracks and gaps that fire and a bayonet had made. His legs worked fine, though he was aware of the space between his calf muscle and the bone. Air whistled where the water had been. It wasn’t with every stride, but often enough. Another thing to get used to.
He stood at the edge of town. Main street was well lit, even at this hour of the night. Lamps, some oil but most of them candles, chased away the shadows. There would be no place to hide on Main. He skirted the side of the first building – Mrs Freeman’s house if he remembered correctly. Behind Main was entirely covered in darkness. His eyes adjusted instantly. The windows were all empty, but he ducked anyway. He waited and listened. The shop was right at the centre of Main. He counted off the buildings as he passed: Mrs Freeman’s, the tanner, Elder Richards’ office. The houses had small back doors, with little patches of ground fenced off for gardens of sorts. Mrs Freeman somehow managed to keep shrubs and herbs alive in hers. He could smell their sharp flavour. Having to skulk like this, keeping low in the back alleys, didn’t sit right. But it was the only way.
Ahead was a faint glow. Thomas stopped. It could only be one small candle. It came from the back of a bigger place, that sprawled out into the alley. He crept closer. The musky stink of shaggies assaulted him. He had grown up with that smell. It had floated through his house and through his hours of work. And he had forgotten it. Now, seemingly in revenge, the heavy air of manure and fur and trampled straw covered him. He came closer to the candlelight.
There was a piercing whinnying. It came from one shaggie, and then another, and another. They were screaming. Loud thuds accompanied the high-pitched whines. Thomas stayed very still. Anything could have spooked the shaggies – everybody knew some shaggies were skittish and nervous. Anything, but it was most likely him.
A bang shook the stable wall next to him. And again. A board cracked. A shaggie was lashing out.
He had to go quickly, before they tore down the Smithy’s stable. He ran past the entrance, through the candlelight.
‘Hey! Who’s there?’
Thomas dove into the shadows and kept running. The shaggies were still whinnying and stomping and that stable boy would have his hands full for hours. Thomas looked back to see him peering out of the stable entrance, but Thomas was too far away now. The boy went back in to calm the shaggies.
Thomas counted the back doors he had run past. It wasn’t far now. There was a gap between the buildings. He could see Main and its flooding of light. He pressed himself against the alley wall. He stopped at what he guessed was the right place. The garden was bare of any life. Sarah couldn’t grow a thing. There was no farming in her blood. Empty crates were stacked neatly up against the fencing. Crates that would have held food and tools and all kinds of goods. And would again.
He opened the gate latch as carefully as he could. He stared up at the windows, imagining his daughter and wife. Their looks of horror. A creature of the night stealing into their home. He shook away their scared faces. The back door was locked. He tried it again, hoping it might just be stuck. It didn’t budge. The door had hazy glass panes. He could see through to the kitchen; the table where he had eaten meals with his family. He looked around for
a rock or piece of metal to break the glass, but found nothing.
He flexed his hand into a fist. What little skin he had left became taut and strained. People wrapped their hands before breaking glass – Peter had done that when they were kids, breaking into Caleb Williams’ shed. Thomas peeled off a patch of his uniform. It didn’t come easily. It was burnt onto his skin. It didn’t hurt, but he wanted to keep as much of himself whole as possible. Eventually, he had enough to wrap his hand.
The first blow didn’t break the glass. Back along the alley the shaggies were calming down. He tried again. This time the glass cracked. Once more and a large chunk of the pane fell to the ground. It narrowly missed his foot. Reaching in, he unlocked the door. It swung inwards. He stepped into his house.
*
When Luke next woke, his crucifix was in his hand. He gripped it. Some of his scabs and cuts opened and blood begrudgingly slicked the wooden cross. He wept from the dream he’d been having. It was lost to him now, but he remembered the happiness. It was something he had touched. Held in his arms. A very real happiness and he silently cried to have left it.
His vision was blurred when the man appeared. Luke wiped his eyes, smearing blood across his cheeks. But this was not a man. The figure was garbed in a fiery red. Great black wings furled and unfurled from its shoulders. Where it trod the ground erupted in geysers of molten rock. Unbound sin emanated from it, buffeting Luke like a gale. Luke retched painfully. The knot of his stomach managed to creep tighter. He held up his crucifix, blood dripping down his wrist. The devil stood watching her house. It searched for a sign of life, a sign of the purity that Luke himself had glimpsed. Luke tried to call out. To stop the creature of the night. All he managed was a pathetic rasping sound. It was enough to get the devil’s attention. It turned.
Thomas. The creature had the face of Thomas McDermott; the lost farmer, the lost soldier, the lost soul.
