The Journey (13 page)

A
rgus was surprised, thinking about it later, to realise how quickly the three of them settled into their new relationship, with little apparent effort. There was an atmosphere in the house of sluggishness, as though the old people had been in a long sleep before he came. As Argus moved with energy and vigour through the rooms, he could feel the dormant air being disturbed, ripples emanating from his body and becoming waves. The still rooms stirred into life again.

Argus' parents were content to concede everything to their son. When he spoke they listened deferentially. Meals were served when he was hungry. When he was tired and went to bed they followed almost straight away. It was forbidden for Argus to talk about his journey until after the telling of the seven stories. His parents, traditionalists, kept to this rule; Argus quickly became reacquainted with routines on the farm. And he learnt of the changes which had occurred since he went away. His father had been ill for a long time with pneumonia, and still had little strength. Ranald, the neighbour who often worked for his father, had come as often as he could, but that was not often enough. His mother, quite a bit younger than his father, had not been ill but seemed to Argus to have aged quickly too. Argus found himself working from dawn till after dark, bringing the farm back into condition. Yet his pace was tempered by regard for his father, who accompanied him everywhere, trying to help. Argus felt that his own energy and quickness were somehow an affront to his father, an implicit insult. He forced himself to slow down, to seek his father's counsel, to include him in the work, even though he was often impatient to be getting on with it, and sure of what needed to be done.

As word spread that Argus had returned from his journey, neighbours began to call, bringing customary gifts of food. In talking with them and asking them questions Argus realised the wisdom of the rule that the journey must not be discussed with anyone until after the telling of the stories. The rule reminded the traveller, filled with the importance of his own adventure, that the experiences of the people in his home district were important too, even if they were less glamorous. It reminded him of his place in the scheme of things. While Argus had been coping with love and danger and death, these people, his neighbours, had been growing their crops, tending their cattle, raising their children and mending their fences. In other words, they too had been coping with the whole cycle of life, which included, in the natural course of events, love and danger and death. Argus saw that in many ways his journey had been unnecessary, for all the things he had encountered and learned, could have been learned here in the valley. Yet he also knew that he needed to leave the valley and make the journey in order to come to that realisation.

After he had been home a week his father went away for a few hours, and upon his return handed Argus his summons. He was to appear before the Council of the Valley, in a week's time, for seven consecutive nights. Though the summons did not say so, Argus knew that if he passed this, the great test, on the eighth night there would be feasting and a dance, to which all the people in the valley would come, as he himself had gone to others' feasts when he was younger.

He left his father and walked away, up to the steepest and most distant paddock, Yardley's, to check on a heifer that Ranald had told him was down. He was excited and nervous, yet aware of a strange feeling of detachment. Thinking it through, he realised it was because the importance of the test was not as absolute as he had once believed. Supposing he failed, what then? In the first instance there would be the embarrassment, not only to him but to his parents. There would be painful silences with friends and neighbours, for the embarrassment would often lie in the subjects which could not be raised, rather than in what was actually said. He would be excluded from the privileges and responsibilities that went with the status of adult in the valley. Certainly, as time went on, and he aged, he would be accepted as an adult anyway, but without any ceremony or sense of pride. And the position of elder would be forever closed to him. There was a boy further along the valley, Suraci, who was known to all the children as brash and shallow, a braggart. He had been away for only a short time, a few months, and had returned as cocky as ever. Argus was never told what happened when Suraci appeared before the Council — he was not entitled to know — but there had been no feast for Suraci. From then on the boy had changed completely, and had crept around the valley like a shadow of a bird on water.

But Argus knew that for him it was different. If he failed the test it would be through circumstances outside himself, and he would feel no shame. He did not need a Council of senior men and women to tell him whether he had achieved maturity or not. He knew that he had, though he would continue to gain wisdom, and to mature, through all the days of his life. And his mood was affected by the fact that he did not plan to stay in the valley long. He was anxious to go back to the town of Conroy, where he had left Adious with her aunt, and to return with her and Jessie to their own small holding. Though his resolve to do this had been weakened by the illness of his father and by the state in which he found the farm, it nevertheless remained his major priority. And when he did leave the valley, he wanted it to be with honour and dignity. For this reason the telling of the seven stories was important to him.

He could find no trace of the heifer in Yardley's, so instead he sat on the ridgeline and looked out over the farm. It was an attractive sight, and one that filled him with love for his home and his parents who had raised him here. He knew that he could not call himself an adult if he were to walk away from his responsibilities to them. Yet he also knew that if he stayed on the farm and took its management over from his father, then there would be a part of him that would never grow up. There was no malice in this. It was just the way things were, and a lot of it was to do with love — the love of parents who wished to protect their son from hazards and mistakes. Argus was clear enough about all the emotions involved but unclear about how they could be resolved. He sighed, stood up, and jogged off down the hill to check a blocked pipe in a gravity-fed water trough. All these small jobs! Every day was full of them. Would the time ever come when he could walk away from them and go back to Adious and Jessie?

O
n a cool autumn night, with the dark sky bewitched by stars, Argus stood in front of the Council to begin his first story. Between thirty and forty men and women were present. He knew them all, by sight or by name, and felt himself to be among friends, even though the atmosphere for this important occasion was serious and formal. His parents, both members of the Council, were debarred by custom from attending. There was dinner, a few short speeches, then Argus was introduced by his father's brother, Fahey. He stood, nervously cleared his throat, and began:

The First Story

‘I
N
the days long ago there lived on the earth a creature called Slither. Something like a lizard, something like a snake, he had a body of immense length, so long that he did not know where it ended, and he had no idea how long it might be. His body stretched out across the plains behind him. On a clear day he could see where it disappeared through a gap in the mountains. Sometimes he would amuse himself by shrugging his shoulders and watching rocks crash down the mountains five minutes later, as ripples from the movement reached the narrow defile.

‘For all his great size Slither was extraordinarily dextrous. It was nothing for him to tie his body into interesting knots. One of his amusements was to make these knots as complicated as possible and then to have the fun of unravelling them. A few times, however, he scared himself by tying knots so difficult that he began to wonder if he would ever get them untangled.

‘When he was young, Slither stayed in the same area, eating the leaves and bushes that formed the main part of his diet. He ate quite a lot, because if he went for very long without eating he began to get signals from a distant part of his body that it was hungry and wanted nourishment. Before he was very old he had eaten out most of the plains on which he lived and was obliged to move on. He travelled as smoothly as he could but it was inevitable that the passage of his body across the countryside caused a lot of disruption, especially as it took him years to pass any one spot. He travelled across oceans, which was easy for him, as most of his body was still waiting on the shore when he reached the other side. And he hardly noticed the tidal waves that he generated as he made the crossing.

‘One day, when journeying in a new continent. Slither came across a remarkable discovery. It was a giant barrier that crossed his path from east to west. Slither had never seen anything like it. In size it resembled a mountain range, yet it was made of materials that were not like any mountains he had ever seen. It was a kind of scaly substance, made up of many colours, and quite beautiful when the sunlight was reflecting from it. It was firm to touch but gave when prodded. At times it seemed as though a trembling movement would run right along it.

‘Slither became fascinated by this remarkable barrier. Though he could have slid over it quite easily, he chose not to. He looked to the left, where it disappeared into the west, and he looked to the right, where it disappeared into the east. He decided to follow it to the east, to see where it led.

‘That was the start of a long pilgrimage by Slither. It was a strange time in his life. He ate hardly at all, and his body — as much of it as he could see — became scrawny and thin. He did not even notice the countryside that he was passing through, and would not have known at any given moment whether he was in jungle or grassland or forest. He did much more damage to the land and its inhabitants than ever before because he had become careless about the way in which he travelled. He was obsessed by his quest, to explore the full length of this strange phenomenon that he had found.

‘As he slid along beside it, Slither did notice that the mountain range — if indeed that was what it was — was becoming smaller and meaner and less attractive. He began to feel that he might be disappointed in what he found at the end of this rainbow. But even though he was getting weary and dispirited he pressed on.

‘The time came when Slither felt that he was approaching the end of the search. He had an instinct that there was not long to go. At the same time, he began to feel that there was something very familiar about the part that he was now journeying beside. He could not place exactly what it was, but there was something about it that he felt he recognised.

‘At last came the moment when all his questions were answered. After a few hours of exhausted sleep one night Slither woke at the first shadowing of greyness in the sky. He moved off again straight away, travelled a very short distance, and then, as the sun rose, found himself looking at his own emaciated neck. The barrier he had been travelling beside all this time, was his own body, and he had been depriving himself of everything to do this. There was now only one comfort for Slither — that at least he had recognised in the end what his obsession had been. Otherwise he might still be absorbed in his fruitless journey.'

Argus sat down quietly, as he had been taught. Some minutes of murmured discussion among his audience followed, but, as he had been warned, no looks or comments were directed towards him. In time his uncle rose, and gestured for Argus to follow him. Fahey led him out of the meeting place, and walked him home across the soft wet paddocks, saying nothing to him, except for a parting admonition to be ready at the same time the next night. Argus went to bed and lay for a long time looking out of his window, at the stars that so brilliantly punctured the sky.

The Second Story

‘N
EAR
the town of Perno,' Argus began, ‘was a river which ran deep but which could be forded in places if one was careful. At one of the fords lived a man named Sussan. He had placed a rope across the river to aid those who wished to cross. The traffic at this particular ford was quite heavy, as it was on a direct route between Perno and Capital, so people liked its convenience, even though it was one of the more dangerous crossings. But people didn't mind getting a bit wet if it saved them time.

‘One day the river was flowing swiftly; it was dirty, and had risen a good way because of heavy rainfalls further upstream. A man called Marne came to the river with his wife and children. To the wife, the river seemed dangerous and she told her husband that they should walk up to the next ford and try to cross there instead. The children were not really old enough to assess the situation for themselves but, seeing that their mother was disturbed by the height of the water, they supported her pleas and promised their father that they would not complain about the extra walk. But Marne was a stubborn man and, with the rope to hold on to, he was sure there would be no danger. He told his family he would cross first and then they could follow.

‘As he began to wade into the water Sussan came out of his hut and watched. Marne was already so far advanced in his course that Sussan felt it was futile to try to recall the man. He watched with increasing fear as Marne, with water up to his waist already, approached the centre of the river. Suddenly a new wall of frothy water swept downstream and knocked Marne off balance. It almost dragged the heavy pack from the man's back and Marne reached around in an attempt to get it back onto his shoulders. In doing so he lost his grip on the rope and was swept under. He did not surface again and, although his wife and children and Sussan ran along the banks of the river for quite a way, hoping to find him a mile or more downstream, it was not until the river subsided a week or so later that his body was found, trapped under a log-jam.'

Argus paused in his story and looked around. The drowning of the foolish man was not the point of the tale as his listeners knew. Argus continued.

‘When the wife returned to her home in Capital, she had to tell the story of her husband's death many times to her friends and neighbours and relatives. She did not want to give her husband a bad name by making him sound foolish or lazy, so she explained to them all that he crossed the river because the children were so tired from the long walk that they could not walk the extra distance involved. “Even though they offered to go round the long way,” she would say to people, “we knew that their little legs would find the journey too far.”

‘The children also found themselves telling the story; not just when they were young, but again and again over the years, to new friends and acquaintances. The oldest child, a boy, had a vivid memory of watching his father's face in the water as the man was swept downstream, and he incorporated this dramatic fact into his rendition; and, as time passed, he began to fancy that his father had called out to him as well. The words he imagined that his father had called out were, “My son, my son”. The second child heard her mother's story about the children being too tired to go a safer way and she felt very guilty, as though she were responsible for her father's death. When she told the story she seemed to remember a remorseful conversation in which her father had told her she was a lazy little girl, and had then plunged into the water in a bad temper. The last child was too young to remember the actual tragedy, so his version of the events was a colourful one involving a rope bridge breaking and a number of travellers being swept away.

‘Back at the ford, Sussan sometimes recounted to passing travellers the story of the drowning of Marne. Indeed it became a popular story over the years, and people often asked for it. Sussan would describe a violent argument with the doomed man, where he, Sussan, would be knocked to the ground in his attempts to stop Marne from dashing suicidally into the swollen river. Marne would then be pictured clinging to the rope as Sussan made frantic efforts to reach him, with poles or a length of rope. Just as his desperate, white fingers clutched at the end of the pole a gust of water knocked him loose and with a despairing look he was sucked away to his death. Sussan did not have to tell the story many times before he began to believe in it himself, as did all the other actors in the drama, whenever they told their different accounts. They could see the drowning man's face, could remember the words that his lips formed, could even remember how they felt as they relived events that never happened.

‘Many years later Marne's wife came through the ford again. By then a bridge had been built, but Sussan still lived there. Indeed he had prospered, having built a store and a guest house by the crossing. Marne's widow stayed in the guest house and after dinner she was privileged to hear Sussan, in the midst of stories about the old days, tell of the drowning of her husband. But the story had changed so much that she did not recognise it. She only thought sadly of the many tragedies that the river must have seen, and, not having recognised Sussan, wished that he could have been there when her husband attempted his fatal crossing. “For”, she thought, “we did not try hard enough to dissuade him from going, and perhaps we could have done more to help him when he was washed under.” '

Argus paused, having almost finished his story. ‘By the way,' he added, ‘that's not what really happened. Marne caught cold from crossing the river and died two weeks later from pneumonia. But his children like to believe it was more dramatic than that. That is, if he had any children. And the bit at the end about Marne's widow hearing the story and not recognising it — I just put that in to make a point.'

His listeners laughed heartily with him and Argus knew they had understood, and liked, the story.

The Third Story

A
RGUS
said: ‘There was once a field containing many flowers, all of a small blue type. These flowers were unusual, in that they could come into bloom in any season of the year. At any given time there would be some flowers in the field that were very old — almost withered away — and some that would be in full flower, and others that were still folded buds.' Argus used his hands to sketch in the air the shape of the new buds. ‘And,' he continued, ‘there were butterflies in the field that were always in motion. They would land first on one flower, then on another. It didn't matter what stage the flower was at; the butterflies didn't care. They didn't understand “forwards” or “backwards”, or even straight lines. They just kept going from flower to flower.' He paused.

‘The field,' he said carefully, ‘is called Time. And the butterflies, the butterflies are us.'

The Fourth Story

‘O
NCE
upon a time there lived a girl by the name of Alzire. She was a solitary child who lived near a great hill named Goffa. Every night, as dusk fell, she would climb to the top of this high hill and there she would fly, on the end of a very long string, a star that she had made. The star would be cold and white during the day, when she kept it in a cupboard in her bedroom, but as night approached it would begin to pulsate with colour and life, and glow with warmth. It seemed to take on a life of its own. Every night it would join the millions of other stars in the sky, even though on cloudy or stormy nights Alzire would not be able to see it as it soared high above her in the heavens. But she did not mind its invisibility on these occasions: she was more than compensated on the other nights when her star proudly took its place in the glittering display. As she watched it and felt it tugging on the string, it seemed to her as though the sky were like music and her star an essential note in a concert of triumph.

‘Cold nights and warm nights were all the same to Alzire. Every night she stood on her hill, faithfully flying the kite until the greying of the sky told her that dawn was calling in the stars and the cold white moon. Often she would pass the time thinking about the many other solitary figures like herself, all around the world, each standing on his or her own hilltop, each with a bright star on a long string. She felt a great love for them, as though they were all joined in a network of friendship.

‘One night, when she was about thirteen, Alzire set off for the hill of Goffa a little before dusk, as she always did. Climbing the hill with her head down, body bent forward and the star under her arm, she did not see until she was nearly at the top that something had changed. Suddenly her way was blocked by a huge shadow. Alzire knew every plant, every rock, every smudge of dirt on the path, and she knew that this shadow did not belong. She stopped and looked up. Straddling the top of the hill, staring down at her, was a dark and monstrous shape, so black that it was impossible to tell where the shadow ended and reality began. It appeared to be a living thing, for it had eyes, any number of them, and all focused on her. Alzire shivered and shook. She could not move from the spot where she stood. At last, realising that she could not stay there forever, and a little comforted by the fact that the monster had not moved, she began backing slowly away. As she did so the baleful gaze of those terrible eyes remained fixed upon her, until a bend in the path took her trembling legs around a corner, and she found herself out of sight of the thing. And then she turned and ran for home.