by Kolin Wood
Murphy cowered in the corner, unused to the angry tone of the voice.
John sat, open mouthed, unbelieving of what he was hearing. Dying? Why were they dying? They were thriving; John had never felt so happy. For the entire time that they had been living at the farm, Ryan had always been adamant that they had everything they needed; that there was nothing for them out there. If he thought about it, however, just recently he had noticed a change in his companion; a sadness, a slumping of the usually broad shoulders. John had been too embarrassed to ask, but he had not for a second considered that it might be due to the fact that Ryan—his best friend and the closest thing to a father that he could ever hope to have—wanted to leave!
“But why?” he asked, genuinely dumbfounded and suddenly numb.
It must have been something in John’s tone because Ryan stopped pacing and looked up, his features softening. Sadness floated in his eyes like oil tainting a usually clear pool of water. He walked over to the side of John’s chair and dropped to a knee, resting a coarse, rough hand on top of John’s own.
John suddenly felt the urge to cry and he looked away, embarrassed and blinking hard.
When Ryan spoke this time, his voice was soft and measured. “Trust me, pal; I’m doing this for both of us. Alone, I’ll make good speed. The tracks will take me down into that big town on the water. From there, it’s a few days’ walk to the Refuge. I’ll do what I have to do and then I’ll return straight away, I promise.”
John turned to look at him, uncaring now that his eyes were almost certainly glistening with tears. “What if you don’t come back?”
Ryan gave John a small punch on the arm. When he smiled, John noticed that his eyes were shinier than usual too. “If I’m not back in time for the end of the frost then you’d best come looking for me!”
He leaned in and John felt a tender hand cup him around the back of his head, pulling him into an embrace. Ryan’s hands were cold and his sweater smelt of smoke. He felt Murphy’s head rest down on one of his knees.
“I’ll be back before winter ends, John. I promise you that.”
2
The winter came and went with no word from Ryan. The supplies from the harvest had long since exhausted themselves and with only one person left to work the farm in preparation for the coming spring, the days of under-nourished labour began to take their toll on John. His body was strong, but thin and taught muscles covered visible bones without an ounce of fat. But he worked diligently, as he had been taught and without complaint—not that there was anybody to complain to anyway.
The fish traps brought a welcome source of fresh protein after the leaner winter months, just as Ryan had said, but with only one pair of hands to toil the land and plant the seeds, John found himself unable to keep up with the exhausting list of chores. The ground was compacted from the winter and the tools blunt and crude. Soon, hardened callouses covered his hands.
The extent of his deterioration, however, was not only physical. Mentally, he had begun to suffer too. The constant loneliness had stirred up demons from the past, monsters that had tracked him down and now lay siege to him, torturing his dreams with hellish visions, blood-soaked apparitions that he had managed to suppress for so long. Visions with blurred faces that he could barely recognise, of his mother and the twisted-mouthed corpse of his dad. Soon he could not take it anymore.
When the first welcome rays of spring sun finally shone through after a particularly long and dreary period of rain, John packed a modest bag of supplies and locked and bolted the house. Even though they had not set any rigorous plan in place, Ryan had insinuated that the journey would perhaps keep him away until Christmas, early January at the latest. Now, eight months later, with no word or sign, there appeared to be no explanation other than the fact that Ryan was in trouble.
You’d best come looking for me!
After a few minutes of silence simply standing in the wake of the house and with his friend’s words ringing in his ears, John zipped up his jacket and set off in the direction of the village. He hoped that somebody might have some news on Ryan, or may have seen something, anything, of use. And if not, he intended to make a journey south himself, see if he could’ find word farther down. He had even told himself that, if need be, he would venture as far as the Refuge; although he was not prepared to think about that until after the need arose. The Refuge seemed like a long way away.
The journey to the village was an arduous route that led him along a precipitous coastal path, made even more treacherous by the fact that much of it had been largely washed away by the rain and reclaimed by the grass. Murphy raced ahead, skirting the patches of gorse and bounding over the overgrown wooden bridleways and gates with an envious enthusiasm, ecstatic at being free of the farm for the first time in an age. Wild sheep and deer sprinted in crazed circles, weaving between the scarce, wind-blown trees at the sight of the over-enthusiastic dog, who never stood a chance at keeping up or even getting close to his mismatched and totally unimpressed playmates.
The fresh breeze from the ocean died as they turned off the path and headed down into the valley beyond the coastal ridge. Even though the distance was only that of a few miles, the natural topography meant that the route took longer than would have been expected. By the time the two of them entered the village, the sun was high in the sky and the middle of John’s back was wet with sweat. As seemed to be the custom with these small fishing hamlets, one single road cut through the middle of a cluster of white-washed houses, the majority of which had fallen into disrepair and now acted as storage and make-shift pens for the various dishevelled-looking livestock.
John stopped at both of the remaining abodes, but at each one, the answer was the same. Nobody had seen or heard from Ryan since last trade. Upon witnessing John’s noticeable physical decline, both of the families offered to put him up. On each occasion, however, John graciously declined, settling for tea and a kind offering of a snack in each instead. By the time the sun had started to dip in the sky, only one residence remained.
Harrison’s modest house sat separated from the rest at the very end of the street; the last in the line before the ocean. John crossed the dirt road and walked up the slight incline to the badly maintained wooden front door. The windows of the house were protected by heavy duty, wooden latticed shutters, which Harrison apparently insisted on keeping permanently closed all year round. It gave the house a spooky appearance. Devoid of life, the building shut up and closed down at the end of the summer. John raised his fist to knock on the door and paused to look down the side of the house at the panorama beyond.
From where he was stood, the ground dropped sharply down on one side to a shingle beach, hemmed in by sharp outcrops of rock that were topped with high banks covered in wind-swept brambles and wispy fronds of grass that danced and fought in the continuous breeze. The roadway was uneven, buckled with lumps of rock and littered with holes the size of small ponds. At its end, an age’s old, rickety-looking wooden pier, jutted out from the beach and stretched some ways out into the sea. A single, decrepit-but-seaworthy boat rocked gently in time with the high ocean swells. The Neptune was the only boat remaining in the dock. In the early days of the culling, many of the boats were taken. People just up and vanished, leaving their homes empty and their loved ones worrying, never to return.
White flecks of old paint fell and were immediately stolen by the wind as John rapped his knuckles against the worn wood of the heavy door. Thick vegetation sprouted up through the stairs, creeping arms which had taken host of the door frame and now served to block its easy opening. Seagulls squawked above, riding the thermal gusts with their wings wide and their heads high. Some of them alighted on the roof of the house, keen to scrutinise the new visitor and the lively animal bounding around at his side.
Minutes passed and John waited. Murphy ran down to the shore to investigate the dock. Eventually, the sound of chains rattling before the door opened inward with a creak. Inside there was nothing but she
er darkness.
“What do you want?” came the curious, age-cracked voice.
John stepped away from the door with his hands spread passively in front of his body and smiled. “Harrison, it’s me, John, from Bracken’s Farm.”
For a few moments, nothing happened.
Finally, the door opened wide enough to allow the sunlight to penetrate through into the gloom. A grizzled and creased face looked back at him. A full, grey beard hung under the mouth, the strands wild and unkempt. Matching bushy eyebrows struck a solid line through the centre, highlighting a pair of thin, sun-narrowed eyes, and a mane of wiry hair finished the frame.
The man said nothing as the eye slits took him in. “What business you got up here then?”
For a split second, John felt his hackles rise. He needed help; that was the business. “Ryan’s gone missing. From your surprise at seeing me, I’m guessing you haven’t seen him.”
From underneath the thatch of beard, a grunt. A gnarled hand pulled open the door, and Harrison stood aside.
“You’d better come in, lad.”
John glanced around. Apart from the two of them, the street leading into the village was deserted. Murphy barked from somewhere not far off.
“The dog can come too.”
Ten minutes later and the two of them were sat at the heavily-scarred wooden table in Harrison’s kitchen. Murphy, his huge pink lolling, perched at John’s feet. The wind howled in off of the ocean, causing the house to creak and moan. A log burning stove in the corner kept the room at a comfortable temperature. The shutters over the windows on this side of the house were open, and the vista of the ocean beyond was breath-taking. Harrison reached for a smooth, wooden pipe from the side table and settled back into the high-backed, worn armchair to light it. John watched him curiously.
“It’s bad for you,” Harrison said through a mouth of purple smoke. “Running low now mind. Gots to save it for the nice days, or the bad, mood depending.”
John nodded but said nothing. Being so young when he’d arrived, he had witnessed the odd person smoking the occasional cigarette at public gatherings, but never really understood the draw or appeal of purposefully sucking in the fumes from something on fire, especially since the person smoking knew that it was extremely bad for their health.
Harrison held a match to the glowing pot on the end and sucked again, turning the ash molten red. Then, with his eyes closed, he blew a long plume at the yellowing ceiling. When the last of the smoke had vacated his lungs, he tapped the pipe into an ashtray beside him and set the pipe back down.
“So then, John. Mind if I ask what you is planning to do?” Harrison asked.
“My friend, Ryan. He went south at the end of the past summer. Promised to be back in time for frost end.” Just saying the words out loud constricted John’s throat and he swallowed hard, blinking away the first itch of tears and dropping his eyes to the floor. “Said I should go looking for him if he didn’t return. But he promised he’d be back. And I know Ry would never lie to me. He’s in trouble, I know it.”
Saddened, Harrison nodded. “Did he say where it was he was going?”
“The Refuge,” John answered.
The eyes that found his this time were hard; not cold, but serious all the same. Harrison shifted in his chair, leaning forward so that his body was propped up on his elbows. “You have any idea what the country is like now, son?”
John felt his hackles rise for the second time. How did Harrison know what John had an idea of or not? He had no idea himself what John was capable of.
“It’s the end of the world.”
The words fluttered around him but did not land. The end of the world? The old man was just being dramatic. He’d been to the refuge, and stayed there a while on the journey north all of those years ago. He had witnessed first-hand the turmoil of the countryside… the death, the famine, the violence. Even given the length of time that he’d been at the farm, the memories of their travels were still painfully fresh in his mind. But for every untrustworthy person that they had encountered, for every person that tried to trick or rob them, several more were always there trying to help, offering shelter and food. Surely things had not gotten that bad? Resolutely, John stuck out his chin.
“Still, I have to go.”
Harrison stood and walked over to the window. His old body was thick and strong, but his gait was stooped and crooked. Sunlight shined in on his face, setting his hair alight in a wild mass of silver flame. Without being invited, John stood and joined him. For a while the pair of them said nothing.
“Fifty two years I’ve lived in this house,” Harrison said eventually, his eyes squinting against the bright glare of the sun. “Fifty two years and not once have I ever doubted my existence.”
The warmth from the sun’s rays relaxed the tight skin on John’s face, and for a minute, he simply stood there enjoying the concentrated heat. The gorse bushes surrounding the cottage that he and Ryan lived in ensured that the house was cool from spring to autumn and brass balls in the winter.
“But the land has turned bad,” he said. “The scourge took the last of civilisation with it, and now the people are damned.”
John turned to look at the old man. His wife had passed several winters before, leaving him alone with nothing but the other old people at the other end of town and the ocean. In that moment, John felt sorry for him.
“Look,” John said, desperate to bring a glimmer of hope to the suddenly dim proceedings. “I’m just gonna go and look. I’m sure that Ryan would not have gotten far. Somebody somewhere will know what’s happened to him. Once I know that he’s okay, I’ll come straight back… The farm needs me to.”
Harrison simply shook his head again. “Nobody comes back.”
3
With nothing more to say, John said his thanks and made to leave. At the door, Harrison stopped him and reached in behind a coat rack. When he straightened, John noticed that he was holding something in his hand.
“Here,” the old man said. “You can’t go there without nothing to defend yourself.”
Curious, John reached out to take it, turning it over in his hands. It was a club, tapered at one end and thick at the other; the top, a perfectly polished orb. The wood was sanded down to an impossibly smooth finish. Delicate, ornate carvings garnished its length. It truly was a fine example of craft.
John shook his head.
“Go on, take it.” Harrison’s voice was insistent now. “Not like I got owt else to do all day. Got plenty more like it.”
Somewhat consciously, John smiled. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Harrison nodded. “Keep yourself to yourself. Stay quiet and travel light. There’s a road that joins this one, few miles up, leads all the way inland. Follow it to the next village. There’s not much there now by all accounts, but from there you can take the train tracks all the way south. Hopefully somebody will know something about what happened to your friend.”
John opened his mouth to say something profound but faltered. Thanks was all he could manage… again.
Harrison turned away and John watched him go, suddenly consciously alone. The club weighed heavy in his hand. Murphy barked.
“And don’t forget to find me some tobbacca!” he shouted as the door slammed shut with a bang.
The road to the village turned directly inland, penetrating the thick, spring-green countryside like a spear. Being situated so close to the coast, a tiny, single lane carriageway offered the only way in or out, and the years of neglect had left the road almost unnavigable. Thick swathes of grass and hedgerow pushed in from both sides, their dew-dampened stems stretching up ten feet into the air to dwarf John as he walked. Overlapping feathery tips left white pollen streaks on his dark coat as he pushed his way through the creeping foliage. More than once, a thin whip of grass made a stab for his eyes, forcing him to shield them with a raised arm which ached like hell at his shoulder. For all of his packing and preparation, sunglasses had not even b
een a consideration, even though now, with the grass whipping his face and the sun high in the sky pressing down warm rays on his back, their exclusion seemed like a school boy error on his part.
Grasshoppers rubbed their wings and ladybirds took uncommitted flight as he cut a channel onward. Soon the land began to level out. John did not realise that he had found the village until he was standing right in the middle of the first row of houses. Barely any roofs remained and the walls that still stood were heavily camouflaged with invasive vegetation. Grasses and bushes, unrestricted in their extravagance, grew tall and full, obscuring the square angles and dampening the harsh lines with fluid green. Insects buzzed and swarmed, and the aroma of early flowers in blossom left the space feeling quiescent and tranquil.
A thick veil of sweat now covered John’s body, but he felt strong and happy in the sunshine and out of the wind for the first time in what seemed like forever. He whistled as he walked, some long-forgotten, jaunty tune with a merry chorus that Ryan had been fond of singing on the long nights sat around the hearth at home.
By now, the houses were in closer proximity to each other and less destroyed by the indulgences of nature as a result. At a crossroads and panting heavily, he shrugged the heavy bag from his shoulders and stopped for a drink. The roadway was cracked and crumbling under the push of the weeds, but the space surrounding him was clear and bright. A raised concrete bandstand, still with its roof intact, lay offset from the road to one side. He noticed a white-faced building with a sign out the front depicting a boot. A cobbled stone car park sat behind it. But strangely, it was the red post box—still standing proud amongst the devastation—that hit the hardest, striking something inside of him. The sight of the barren post office with its smashed windows and doors, the mulch of rotten letters spilling from the open building like an infestation of maggots, brought memories to the surface that John pushed back down. He remembered trips to the post office, the hustle of the busy streets, the smell of the smoke, and the noise of the traffic. London seemed like such a long time ago. It pained him to admit that he could no longer remember what his mother’s face looked like. He had no such problem with his father’s, largely due to the fact that his bloody corpse was far harder to forget.
