The Seventh Day (23 page)

 

Blood is on the sand.

A mother's blood.

My mother's hand grew cold. Her hair was yellow against the dust. She could not hold me.

Mother.

Nate.

Were they one? Were they two?

One or two, they are surely dead, and I will die soon and be with them, the one or the two. My hand will grow stiff and cold as that hand grew stiff and cold, and the infant will be too small to walk down the hill to Granny's light.

Only let it be soon.

But I do not want to die and grow cold and stiff and talk no more. I do not want to die.

The Lord helps them who help themselves. These are Pa's words and I help myself to Pa's pills. I empty the last of them into my hand, and when I deem them not enough, my fingers search for more to fall free into my palm.

No more.

‘Lenny!'

Only six pills to help me.

Only six.

‘Lenny!'

Six foetus they sucked from me that last time. Tiny things with round heads and twig limbs. And they sealed them into plasti-cases and flew them away. Do they grow large in the city, fed by the blood of hairless old men who sit in chairs with wheels, and ropes of blood to hold them there? Did the Merith female child grow from me and an old man in a chair?

‘Bastards! Frekin city bastards!'

Six pills.

I do not like the number six, but I accept them, eat all six, chew them to a bitter paste, then wait while the pain screams through me.

Once I poured six bottles of cordial from the window and it was like blood on the earth and then there was no more cordial.

Why am I thinking of the city bastards and their cordial?

I am thinking of it because the tablets do not kill my pain, but they make me sly with the knowledge of something that will.

It is in my basket and will kill more than the pain.

I have known about it since coming here, since seeing the basket on the shelf. I am crawling to it when the screaming pain engulfs me, but I crawl through the pain towards sweet memory.

On this hill Jonjan refused to drink my cordial. The bottle is here, in my basket. And it is near full of diluted cordial.

With real purpose I have kept my distance from that basket, but the pills and the pain and the blood and the fear have made a mockery of purpose. On my knees, and with new purpose, I reach for the ledge, howling like a feral thing. I reach higher, and knock the basket to the floor.

A plasti-can rolls free. Pa's cheese I toss aside as my hands snatch at that brown bottle.

Surely the noise within the cave is not of my making! A banshee, screaming at a bottle top that refuses to turn. The noise is not of my making; it comes from the grey men's animal, from the abomination they have made. It has clumsy paws, and the clumsy paws slip, and the bottle springs from my hand, bounces on my belly as I sit, legs extended, overriding pain while bellowing my frustration to the old gods of this cave. I am ready to smash the bottle, pour its contents with broken glass into my belly, cut the thing within me to shreds.

But the cap loosens.

It comes free.

Thank you. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, my grey men. Thank you, Granny. Thank you. Thank you.

And forgive me, Jonjan.

Sweet it is, and not so thick. Diluted by water in the time of Jonjan. Sweet and numbing this comforting grey mist of my pillow.

Drink.

Drink.

Drink.

Oh Lord, yes. Yes. Drink and dream of tomorrow. Drink and die before tomorrow comes. I care not.

 

I walk in the grey mist where a ray of light cuts its slim pathway between the towering green and I see her ahead of me.

Mummy. I call to her, hold out my arms to her, but she walks away from me to a pool, blue as a late summer sky.

And I hear her laughter, sweet and melodic, and I stand, watch her laugh with the Merith child of the newsprint as she shows her the reflection in the pool. Then we laugh together.

We laugh together?

We laugh?

It is I! I am the child reflected in the pool, my hair a halo of fire. I see . . . and I see the garden and the flowers of another world. Fleetingly. I sit, wanting to see more
.

Then the dream is gone. She is gone. But the thing within me is pushing its way out. I see the bloody head of it and my hands reach down to gouge this abomination from me, to crush its head, drag it free and toss it like a rock at the wall. Pain grates against my bones, and I scream for Honey and her city garden of flowers.

‘Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.' On and on, that one word continues until I am forced to suck in air to scream that word again. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.'

And pain rushes away in a gush of warm relief and I remember the touch of flesh-warmth and that is all.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

To the most distant of the searcher havens the Chosen sent their engineers to improve on the craft of the searcher, and to make a loading space beneath them, for the distance to the settlement was too great for the copter carriers to traverse.

 

The Arms Masters came to instruct the searchers in weaponry. The strategists came to the shelters to consult with the consultants on strategies. And there were others who came to lend their skills. And many plans were drawn and many reports made and information gathered, for the settlement was large.

 

It was known that the males were many and of a great size, and that they carried arms that could fell a running beast. It was known that they had great dogs who could fell a beast. And the dogs made much noise and might give warning of attack.

 

It was seen that the buildings were of the old style, of brick and timber which would burn. Thus, from the viewing tape the strategists came to know each building of the settlement and each mountain and valley, and each place where a searcher might safely put his craft down.

 

And in time they came to know that in the season of the Planting, the females worked in the open fields, a babe upon their back, while the half-grown infants ran free in field and woodland.

And the Chosen desired to possess all which had grown freely on that land. And the strategists promised their strategies would deliver it. And in the great cathedral the High Priest made prayers for the searchers' success.

 

And it came to pass that the searchers were armed with new weapons. And they were given, in advance, great rewards so that they would not fail to deliver.

Daylight works its slow way into the spring cave; full consciousness comes with it. Time has lost its meaning for I have slipped into a new compartment between the now and the later.

A hand, disassociated from me, waves before my eyes. I see it clearly. I see the black dried blood on the hand, watch it fall exhausted to the sandy floor seeking, searching for the place where dreaming ended and conscious thought began.

I am awake. Life must begin again. My pain has gone onto the blanket – poor ugly thing that it is – it has one head. Still my doubting hand feels for a second. It has two legs, two tiny arms and perfect hands. A female. I had wished it to be a male when it was in me. I had cared for it – when it was in me.

So small it is for such a great, great pain. And so angry. Certainly it is I who should be angry – and I am.

I turn away from it to my foot. It stings. What new pain is this that beats its path through older pain? I rub it against the other, dislodging ants investigating the sweetness of spilled cordial. I see my garments, dragged high, are wet with blood. I see all of these things but do not move. Only my foot, and my eyes.

They focus on a long winding line of red trickling across uneven terrain. Up and down. Up and down the red trail goes, up and down – until I think to identify the line as ants on their way to the infant, or the stuff which is joined to it.

I roll onto my side and my hand breaks up the line of workers. One, more tenacious, clings to my thumb, biting into that which has disrupted its labour. Reflexes jerk the hand to my mouth. I suck on my stinging thumb. For minutes I lay on my back sucking.

I have no thought to rise, and for a time I am able to ignore the new noise. I look at the cave roof, and at the reflections of the water, but eventually look at the wailing thing which lies there, one leg kicking feebly at the air.

I turn my face away, close my eyes, leaning towards the sweet oblivion of sleep. It will not accept me, but pushes me aside, until my hand reaches out, grasps at a long stick-thin leg, and by it, draws the wailing to my side.

Something I should do. I know this, but sleep claims me before I can think how to do it. My sleep is heavy and perhaps long, for I awaken to the hollow beat of rain, and such a lonely haunting sound it is.

Head to one side, I listen. Unlike my own storm of birth, the world's is not yet over. I prop on an elbow and wait, listening for Lenny or the dogs. They will find me. Did they not always find me, and where else but at my cave would Lenny think to look for me?

‘Lenny!'

Only the heavy thud of rain replies. No dogs bark. Even the crows are silent.

I rest again, the infant sleeping on me. It lives. I can see the flickering of its blue eyelids. Lord, but it is an ugly thing with strangely misshapen head and squashed face.

Too weakened, and wearied, I look at this burden I have carried these many months, then I place it on the blanket and on my hands and knees crawl away from it, painfully covering the distance to a can of cornbeans, which I pull open by its fastener. I eat with my fingers, and when I can reach no more, I upend the can and drink the cornbeans. They are too soon gone, but Pa's cloth-wrapped cheese is here. I peel away the cloth and gnaw at the hard, dry edge, then deeper into it. It is sharp and salty, and I am pleased by my choice of food, packed many months ago.

Energy begins its return with this food, and with energy comes a little hope. But I have become as old Pa's pigs. There is more food, so I must eat it. I stuff my mouth with cheese and drink much water to help it on its way, courting strength now, strength enough to do what must be done.

The infant has begun its wailing again. With disinterest I turn to it. I have read Granny's doctoring book many times; I know what should be done, and soon after the birth. It was not done soon after birth and desire to do it is still lacking. I do not like this ugly thing of my belly. I had believed it to be an infant of great beauty, with a halo of gold and the face of . . . of Jonjan. I take up the knife, blunted by rust, and with it hack through the umbilical cord, separating the being from its trailing birth membranes before wrapping it in the blanket, left here from the time of Jonjan. Placed in the basket, I lift it with difficulty to the rock shelf. The cave is warm. It will do well enough until Lenny – or the grey men – come to carry it down, but first I must find my own way down.

How much time has passed since I prepared that meal of pig which I had left on the hob to heat when I returned? That first night, certainly, and one – perhaps two – more. Or has a week of nights passed? In truth, I do not know, nor can I ever know how much time has passed, as I do not know why Lenny has not come for me.

And I do not wish to think these things for they make the hairs on my neck quiver.

Blood seeps from me continuously as I kneel at the cave entrance, watching the rain that is pleasing to the eye as it cuts its pathway freely to the earth where it dances on rock, making small rivulets that find their own tracks around the rocks.

I do not feel strong enough to think about walking down to the house, but I prepare my clothing and attempt to bandage my bleeding with a strip ripped from a blanket. I fasten the legs of my overall, and fasten it across my belly. As before, it will not close at my breasts, which do not look like my breasts. My half-dress is fouly soiled, but it covers me. With my cape fastened, I place the remaining cheese in my pocket and wait for the rain to ease. And I wait long.

In time it stills its beat. As I step out to the wet rocks the infant wakes and its wail is wretched, and weakening. One step, two more I make. What choice do I have? I can not remain here, hiding like a rabbit in a hole. I am not a rabbit to live on water and grass. I must get down to the house and my strength is little enough, and insufficient to waste on pity; the path over the rocks will be treacherous, my legs are weak and time is wasting.

There is no sun to tell me if it is morning or afternoon, no cloud-covered glow in the black sky that I know is only waiting until I am far from shelter before it sends more rain down.

The infant's wail grows thin, then silences.

Lord! What am I to do? Though no longer joined to this burden, I am not yet to be free of it. On trembling legs, and disbelieving my actions, I return to it, strip the blanket from its chilled limbs then tuck it at my breast, beneath my half-dress. If I carried it up here in my belly, then surely I can carry it down at my breast. The ties of my half-dress wrapped more firmly around my waist give the burden some support – and I gain another blanket, which I knot with the first over my shoulders. The weight is too much for my legs, but I leave the warmth and shelter and start down to where the world overflows with water.

The rocks have grown slippery in this rain. Several times my feet slide from beneath me. It is odd. Each time I land hard on my buttocks, with one hand grasping at my burden, when certainly my hands would do more good to save me the pain of a fall.

Brief energy is too soon gone. I rest too much, and the rain comes back and hard. We are nearing the edge of the upper woods when the black clouds cover the earth, bringing with them such a blinding rain that we are forced to seek shelter inside a hollow log. I have with me the last of the cheese. I eat it and drink pure water as it trickles from the mouth of my log cave. Wrapped there in the blanket, I sleep – warm or cold I do not know. I sleep where I sit.

And wake to the strangest of all sensations. The infant has found its own food source. It clings to my nipple, and like a piglet, grunts as it draws nourishment from my breasts. They have filled, just as Granny's doctoring book told me they would.

I had not thought to put the infant to suck. In truth, I had not thought of much. Unmoving then, my mind in a strange new place, I wait until the infant falls from the nipple. Had some instinct led me to take it from the basket, carry it at my breast? Consciously, I had thought only to warm its chilled limbs and leave my own hands free; still, there is no time to ponder the wonders of nature, and this log is no place to do it. It is not so dry now and my cloak and blankets are dank and cold.

Desperation moved my feet away from the cave yesterday. Exhaustion drags them today. It is as if I dream this walk. I count my steps but sleepwalk my way through tall timber. I count steps to the great gum tree, its arms spread to the rain, and I do not know how I have come this far, but know I can go no further. I rest against it until my mind can think to count again, to make the steps again.

Fifty, and fifty more, and I reach the ancient cedar which stands alone. I did not see the grey men's fence. I did not hear its singing, nor do I recall if the gate was open or closed. I do not know if I am awake or dreaming.

Twenty steps, and I rest. And twenty more. And ten. I count to the fine leaf tree that offers some shelter from rain and I lean long against the rough bark of its trunk, breathing deeply, striving to force will enough to my legs. I dare not sit, for if I sit I will not rise again. Too long I lean there – until my legs become as the tree trunk and will not move me from this place.

But they must move. I can see the house. They must move me. I take one step, and count it, then again, and again, slow counting. There is no conscious thought left in me, only the counting, the gaining of my objective. There is the foot fall, the foot lift, and the house which seems to move away as I approach.

When I am at last near to it, I look at it with lack of recognition. Only ten or twenty steps away it is, yet I can not make them. My knees shake, bend. The infant tumbles. I grasp it and not the earth, and I sit hard in the mire, so close to the rear verandah. So close.

‘Lenny!' I can not move more. ‘Lenny!'

He does not hear me and I have no voice to call louder. I sit, my legs spread. I sit in the rain while my blood runs red. I can do no more. I can walk no more.

So I will sleep and die here.

But my burden is not yet ready to die. Again it has fastened itself to my breast.

‘Lenny.'

I hear the whimpering of a dog. If I can hear that dog, Lenny can hear my cry. Why does he not come to carry me inside? I have laboured so hard, so long, to come this close to life, but I am close enough to death to make that house and life unattainable. My hand is as cold as my mother's hand.

But it is not still and stiff, and it will not grow still and stiff. I place it in the mire, try to rise. It trembles, my arm shakes and my shoulder shudders with the mere thought of rising.

‘Pa!' I weep. ‘Pa. Help me.'

He does not help me. And who helped him when he was a boy, and alone? He helped himself – as he had helped himself to a mating with Granny. But from his boyhood years until Granny returned he had survived alone. Had he not looked to his own needs, who would have? Who would have saved the hens and the stock, the tomato and the pumpkins? Who would have helped him had he fallen in the mud and cried?

He did what he had to do to survive. Surviving is all there is.

‘I will survive. I will help myself, Pa.'

And I am on one knee. I can not gain my feet, but I wait there, wait, my eyes staring at the verandah where the black cat now walks. She sees me, and approaches. I rise to a squat, one foot beneath me, and I reach out a muddy hand to stroke the damp black coat as she pushes against me before continuing on her way to shelter.

I follow her, and like her, on four legs.

Supporting myself then on the wall, I gain my feet, and somehow gain the kitchen. For minutes I stand head down at the tap, drinking from it, wasting water into the bucket that waits below. I wash my face, my arms, rinse mud from my trailing hair. The bucket overflows.

Cold, cold kitchen. No stove making heat. A crust of cornbread catches my eye. I snatch it, gnaw at it, then sink down onto a chair where I dry my face and hair with a soiled paper towel.

There is sugar-sweet in its grey bottle. I drip it onto the dry crust and stuff its sweetness into my mouth. I drip its sweetness onto my finger then lick it clean. I suck the sweetness from the bottle until weariness wraps me in its shroud, enfolds me, buries me with syrupy saliva still drooling from the corner of my mouth.

I sleep well where I sit, my head in my arms, and I dream of the kangaroo, and its tail is as the coil spring. It makes a strange squeaking as it hops beside the rabbit, who has lost his white gloves. I am following the rabbit, but his hole is too small, and the grey men come with a bottle of cordial and on it is written
Drink Me
.

‘No. No,' I say. ‘I will drink no more.' My words wake me and the world is in darkness.

What is this place where I am? Have I followed the rabbit to Wonderland or am I dead and wandering through some off-land between the world I know and the other? Where did the light go so soon? It was day when I had placed my head down, just for one moment. Now the light has left the world.

Again I rest my head on the table. Just for a moment, and I dream of Granny. She is sitting in a tree, laughing at me.

‘Leave me alone.'

My eyes open, and darkness has given way to light. Certainly I am in another land for in it time can alter in an instant. Ah, but there is the familiar window. And there is the door. And there is the whimper at my breast. I had so many dreams, perhaps I dreamed the dark.

I try to stand, my hands gripping the table. I look up at the ceiling, and my head spins. But up there, beyond that spinning ceiling, is my bed. Let time and the world take care of itself; I will take care of myself.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

And two score of searchers came to the Morgan settlement where they followed the plan of the strategists. One score placed their craft down in a circle and suited themselves with power-pack and gun. And they waited.

 

One score of searchers swooped down from out of the blue of the sky while the sun burned hot on their wings and there was no wind. They came swiftly as silver hawks swooping upon their prey in the open field. And their prey was female.