by David Towsey
‘Bring them home to bury,’ the Pastor said.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Bellis said, slapping the wall.
‘Yes, Bellis. For the sake of Christ, He who taught us the way.’
The Law-Man stormed out of the room. Richards let the dust settle.
‘He will do it. He might not like it, but there’s one thing Bellis will always do: uphold the law.’
‘I will need a day. To get the urns ready,’ Nathaniel said, not quite believing what he was agreeing to.
The Pastor nodded. Then he too left the chamber, gliding triumphantly out the door. This was a significant moment for the red-haired preacher. The Elder squirmed in his seat.
‘What are we going to do, John?’ Since they were adults, Nathaniel had called his friend by his first name only twice – on his wedding days.
‘Hope Sarah is right.’
2 : 10
At this, she bowed down with her face to the ground.
She exclaimed, ‘Why have I found such favour in your eyes
that you notice me – a foreigner?’
Ruth
BOOK 3
3 : 1
‘Our lack of dreams is a difficult and contentious subject.
‘Ancient thinkers attributed a great deal of importance to these vivid but often forgotten images. They suggested that dreams were the work of a deeper subconscious. As such, they are the playground of the repressed. Anger, hatred, love, lust, envy – the true emotional content that humanity hides not only from each other, but from themselves. Powerful feelings require a powerful outlet.
‘Dreams can prove so potent as to cross the boundary between waking and sleep. They can influence the actions of an individual the following day – inspiring fear, malaise, or a sense of well-being. Many old religions utilised the dream world as a conduit between deity and worshipper. There are accounts of walking-dreams: men and women and even children acting physically whilst deep in slumber.
‘But, brothers and sisters, do we not feel anger? Do we not feel love? Do we not envy the work of others? Every time I’m foolish enough to pick up a brush, I know I do.
‘Where is our outlet?
‘I submit to the forum: Memories.
‘We have a previous lifetime – be it eight or eighty years – full of vividly remembered moments. Those same emotions that escape the net of human sensibilities within dreams can be found in our memories.
‘There we find solace and experience. That is our outlet.’
– transcribed from The Human Condition, an open forum in the Black Mountain Common Consensus of Winters 2920 – Councilman Cirr speaking in response to Chairman Immu’s remarks on humanity’s need for sleep
The sound of whistling faded as Thomas took Mary away from the river. They were as quiet as grain-thieves when they left the bush. Whoever was checking the traps was down on the bank.
They passed the rest of the afternoon trudging along. He asked her about school and the other children. She said she had so many friends it was hard to keep up. She talked about the town gossip, about the Easter parade and the dance after. He asked about boys and she said they smelt funny. Mary didn’t complain once. The land changed colour slightly. There were fewer scrubs and trees. They’d come to the Redlands proper.
This could be the most stupid thing he had ever done, in a long line of stupid things. Why break with the habit of two lifetimes? He’d been told he was a fool for marrying Sarah; the upstart girl who hadn’t been in Barkley more than three years. He felt a fool for waiting that long.
The wisdom of that particular choice was walking next to him. Her brow was knitted. Perhaps she was also wondering if she’d made a mistake. She would have plenty of time to think about it in the days or weeks to Black Mountain.
Thomas tried to keep the going easy, avoiding the bluffs and gorges that veined the Redlands. Once or twice that afternoon they had to back-track after coming to a cliff edge. Mary still didn’t complain.
The sun was large in the sky ahead of them. The clouds, like fluffy fat grubs, were stained yellow.
‘Dad. You’re not wearing any shoes.’
He glanced down. ‘You’re right, darlin’.’
‘Don’t your feet hurt?’
‘No. I can feel the rocks, but they don’t hurt,’ he said.
‘I’m thirsty, Dad.’
‘I know you are. Just a little further and we’ll get you something to drink. And eat.’
He hoped he remembered the way to Miracle – the ruined town where he’d met the deserter Karl Williams. Karl would share his supplies; maybe even give them some extra to go on with.
Thinking of Karl brought back memories from his time in the army. It felt a long time ago. So many nights sleeping under canvas, talking by a fire, going hungry – they all melted into one. He had only been in a real battle three times. Survived two of them. There were plenty of skirmishes. Red coats sneaking around in the night. Muzzle flashes like falling stars.
There was a howl in the distance. It rang across the plain.
‘Was that a red-wink, Dad?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘It sounded bigger. Are were-winks real?’
‘No. They’re not.’
It was early for a red-wink; they usually only called at night. Unless it was a warning. Could the animal sense Thomas from this far away? Or was there something else out there to be worried about?
They pressed on, but it was a losing battle – the sun was falling. What would he give to Mary? What could he possibly catch with his bare hands? It wasn’t his scent, but somehow even the lowliest critter knew he was there. He’d have to try. And hope for rain.
‘Dad, what’s this?’ She bent down. In her hand was a lump of black rock.
‘It’s good news. We follow it.’
‘But where did it come from?’
He’d forgotten how tiring a line of questions could be. He hoped she had grown out of the ‘why’ stage – he remembered that from before he left. He remembered falling straight to sleep each night.
‘It’s called blacktop. In the old world people drove carts on it. It was all over the place; couldn’t walk a mile without stumbling on some.’
‘What happened to it?’ she said, looking closer at the lump. Parts of it caught the last rays of the sun.
‘Like the good Pastor says.’ He put on his best Pastor Gray voice: ‘The past was no match for the Good Lord.’
‘Dad!’
He laughed. ‘But he’s right. See all that grey scrub? Not exactly fields of the stuff, but it’s enough. Breaks through the blacktop like pie crust.’
‘Can I keep this?’
‘If you want to carry it,’ he said.
She put it in her pocket.
*
They followed the blacktop towards what remained of the sun. The shadowy boxes of Miracle stood framed by the molten disk. How the town had stayed standing this long, he didn’t know – wasn’t much sense in it. What did Automated Man want with this place? What drew them to live here in such numbers? Most of the old world cities and towns had been ransacked, so his fellow soldiers had said. People took everything useful and left the rest. Miracle clearly wasn’t useful.
‘Dad, isn’t that a …’
He followed her pointing finger. She’d seen it before him, so there was no use denying it.
‘I think you should stay here,’ he said.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Mary.’
‘You’re going to stand there, half a cheek missing, and tell me I can’t see that?’ she said.
‘You’ve spent too long with your mother. And your grandmother.’
But she was right. What was a man hanged by his neck in comparison to him?
Thomas gazed around the surrounding hills. You could hide a whole battalion in the crumbling walls of Miracle, if you had a mind to. But he couldn’t see anything and it wasn’t the kind of place worth staying at.
He knew it was Karl before he got t
here. The tree was huge and old, with thick low branches, from which the body dangled. He expected Mary to be shocked or frightened. She only looked intrigued.
The army had left the man to die in his undergarments. That, and the churned ground speckled by hoofprints, told the story. A deserter the army caught up with. Thomas walked around the trunk of the tree. They hadn’t even stopped long enough to carve his crimes. Or, they had some sense and not the heart to call it that. Every one of the soldiers who hanged Karl understood. They would have felt the same urge – home, family, anything but war.
Mary reached up and touched Karl’s foot.
‘Cold.’ She circled the body. ‘What did he do, Dad?’
‘He got caught.’
She didn’t ask what for. She was either too clever or too sensitive.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Cut him down, I guess,’ he said.
Karl’s neck was raw. The rope was stained with dried blood. His tongue lolled in his mouth, fat and purple. His white eyes bulged like boiled eggs.
‘Shouldn’t a dead man smell? Shouldn’t there be birds and specks picking at him?’
He stared at his daughter, amazed. He really knew nothing about this little woman.
‘I suppose so. But maybe not; if he’s going to be a Walkin’ maybe things leave him alone. Either way, we should cut him down.’
‘If he’s going to be a Walkin’ what’s he waiting for?’ she said.
‘I don’t know, maybe a miracle?’ Thomas laughed at his own joke. But it was a hollow sound and Mary didn’t join him.
Night was coming on quick. Thomas stood at the bottom of the tree. He held the little skinning knife between his teeth. The climb was easy enough thanks to the wide gaps in the bark and the branches. He shimmied along the branch holding Karl.
‘Stand back a little, Mary.’
He took to the rope. He might as well have used his nails – the knife was small and not very sharp. He hacked and sawed. Eventually he loosened enough threads and the knot started to slip.
‘Look out.’
It went. Karl hit the ground with a loud thump. Thomas started back down. A blightbird landed on the branch. Thomas almost lost his grip.
‘Blood and ashes!’
The blightbird cawed. Flapping its wings loudly, it settled on the tree.
‘Don’t let it get Karl,’ Mary called up.
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry. It ain’t that kind of bird.’ He climbed out of the tree. He checked Mary was all right and then went to look at the body. Loosening the knot, he slipped the noose over Karl’s head. He thought about throwing it away, but Karl might want it – a kind of explanation.
‘We can’t leave him here,’ Mary said.
The blightbird cawed. It jerked its head from side to side.
‘No, we’ll move him. That one,’ he gestured to the branch. ‘One Eye Blind I call him. Rascal lives on annoying the likes of me.’
‘Dad. It’s rude to call people names.’
Another caw. One Eye Blind hopped from one claw to the other.
‘People, darlin’.’ He picked Karl up under the arms. ‘Vermin is different.’
Caw.
‘Noisy vermin at that. We’ll put Karl in the first house. We’ll need a fire tonight – so we’ll borrow his.’
As they went, Mary gathered kindling and as much dead wood as she could carry. The body wasn’t heavy, just awkward. Halfway to the town, Thomas dragged Karl up over his shoulder. The blightbird didn’t follow them, but its calls did – soft shrieks from the tree.
Thomas approached the buildings cautiously. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed on the main street. He couldn’t see any tracks in the ground either side of the road. Could be the army didn’t come into the town; caught Karl on the outskirts, hunting or fetching water maybe.
Mary’s eyes were plates. She scampered from one house to the next. She leant in over the empty windows. Peered in through the open doorways.
‘These houses aren’t made of wood. Is this stone?’ she said.
‘I think so.’
‘Not like any stone I know.’
‘That would make two of us,’ he said.
He dropped Karl on the floor of the first house they came to that had a roof. He put the noose down in Karl’s lap.
It was a bright night, with a big moon.
‘Some of these are huge,’ she called, her voice echoing amongst the ruins.
‘Try this one.’
He took her to the cavernous building he’d stumbled into the first time. As they walked up the stone steps Mary said:
‘Like church.’
‘That’s the right of it.’
Inside, they both stood awestruck by the size of the main chamber. It had lost none of its effect. Large sections of the ceiling had collapsed, but the impression of the room was still there. All those rows of broken seats.
Outside, Mary shook her head, but didn’t say anything. Thomas led her to the house Karl had lived in. He heard the scuttle of longtails as they came to the back room. He soon saw what they were after.
Strips of meat hung over an unset fire pit. Large, from what animal he couldn’t say, but definitely not under-mutton. They were well smoked. He tried to find Karl’s gun, but there was only a half-empty box of shells on an upturned crate. Mary was still standing in the corridor.
‘What? He’s not going to need the food,’ he said.
‘But …’
‘Here.’ He picked up the large water-skin hanging over Karl’s old bed. She took it and drank. ‘Whatever happens, he won’t need that. Or these,’ he said, cutting down the meat. Using Karl’s blanket, he wrapped up the strips. If there had been any other food the longtails had got to it.
He took the water-skin and handed her the meat.
‘Thank you, Karl,’ Mary said to the room.
He set and lit a fire. Mary sat eating on the bed.
‘What if he wakes up?’ she said between mouthfuls.
‘I’ll be here. We’ll have a good ole chat.’
‘What if he doesn’t?’
Thomas had no answer for that one.
3 : 2
Nathaniel pulled the bed-covers up to his nose. Rachel had drawn back the curtains. He looked out onto a cold morning; the sun was hiding behind a bank of dull clouds. Today he wouldn’t go to the graveyard. He wouldn’t be going there for some days. How long, he had no idea. But today he had to make the urns.
‘Are you getting up?’ Rachel said. She sounded annoyed.
‘I was trying to avoid it.’
‘Nathaniel Courie. You can’t hide in bed, not at your age. You should know better.’
‘Yes, I probably should.’ He moved so he was on Rachel’s side of the bed. There, the blanket smelt like roses. It was still warm.
‘There’s bread and cheese in the pantry. I’m going into town. You’ll need more food when you go.’
‘You could find me a bag of those rusty-almonds,’ he said.
‘Oh, could I?’ She leant down to kiss him. Her hair tickled his ear. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I have to. If it was my choice …’
She nodded. She kissed him again, harder.
The sounds of Rachel moving about the house drifted away, until he could only hear his breath as it hit the blanket. He got up. He passed the dresser where Rachel kept her washing soaps and scents. Over the years she had changed the way the house smelt. She’d changed the way it looked, too. That dresser used to be next to the window.
Some mornings the view from the bedroom would stop him in his tracks. The light made the bone-grass into a lake; the still impression of endless swaying. He pulled himself away.
He could smell the damp, fresh morning as he went into the garden. The water bucket was full, but Rachel hadn’t warmed it. A cold wash was the best way to wake up. It would sting and seem like torture, but feel righteous afterwards like all things good for you. His hair stood on end and his skin turned red as h
e ran the cloth along his body.
He watched the little movements in the garden – the leaves, the petals, the grass.
He scratched his chin;. He went to the pantry. Pulling the curtain aside, he winced. Two onions, some bread, a small lump of cheese and an apple. He was glad winter was over. He took the bread and cheese, and sat down at the table.
*
The shed door creaked, another little job that would have to wait until he returned. Something niggled at him; a job he’d forgotten. The front wall? The windows? Something needed doing, but that was no surprise – finishing one job created two others.
His shed at home was a bigger version of the one at the graveyard. Most of the tools were the same. There were some extras for the vegetable patch – stakes, a hoe, tools for digging small holes. But the main difference was the clay wheel. The dust made him cough. He checked over everything, looking to see if any water had found its way in. The roof seemed sound. Everything was dry.
He pulled the wheel out onto the grass. The wooden legs scraped along the floor. He took it a little way from the shed, almost to the middle of the garden. He didn’t like having his back to either the house or the garden gate. He went out the back gate to the kiln. It was a few paces from the hedge, nestled in a dip in the hills. As tall as his shoulder, it was small and had only one shelf. Firing urns was all it ever did. Rounded at the top, the sides uneven, it reminded him of a wild worker hive turned on its head.
Opening the waist-high door, he was relieved to find he’d cleaned the fire pit after last time. His father drilled that into him – ‘Don’t put off a job, boy, it’ll only be waiting for you.’ He reached in and lifted out the sag-box. Flecks of hardened clay and dust rained out. He banked up the fire and took his flint set from his pocket. It took him three tries before a spark caught. He waited until the flames took hold, the bark breathing orange and red, then added another log and closed the door.
At the gate he stopped and watched the activity on his lawn. Insects zipped silently from one side to the other, a foot or so from the ground. He followed each until he lost sight of it and another came along. Bigger creatures buzzed from hedge to lawn to vegetable patch. Bright-lies bounced around Rachel’s flowers. He brought it to a brief halt, stomping across the grass to the shed. He might have scared a few things, but they’d move on and forget him. It all kept going, regardless of his worries.
