The Seventh Day (13 page)

Hands, not yet quite my own, work slowly. They mix the white powdered clay with aged oil spread, they add a little blue from a silver tube, and a sprinkling of the black soot from the stove.

It is a soft grey I make, and with it I cover my board before beginning to shade it with darker greys. My brush blends in yellow streaks that are as the wind-whipped clouds, it blends the reds and ochres that are the hills. I sketch the fine outline of twin blue pools that twinkle beneath the sun and I paint the tombstones in the graveyard. And when it is done I am pleased with it, and know that behind this scene I have painted the spirit of Granny, for the clouds are her hair and the ochres her face, the pools are her sapphire eyes. I think she might be proud of her student today.

What a pity I have no fine name to write in the corner. The painting in the old library has a name in the right corner. D Logan is written there in heavy black paint. I would like to write my name in heavy paint, but I have no name to write so I paint a dandelion instead. Granny had loved those flowers.

It would be a fine thing to have a name. Rebecca or Jane, Kara or even Monique. I know I once had one. In the old books I have read, it is an important day, that naming day of the infant, and as today is the day of my rebirth, then I think I will find my name. In the old books the mother took her infant to the church and the pastor dripped water onto its head and said, ‘I baptise thee,' so I position my head beneath the dripping rain, and I say, ‘I baptise thee, I baptise thee.' I say it many times but the rain does not tell me my name.

Still, it is somewhere. I will search the archives of my memory until I find it.

My eyes close and I strain to think of a silver flying machine but can not force more than the image of Jonjan's beetle.

‘Fly away,' I said to him. He would not fly.

Run, baby.

They were my mother's words. I believe I remember them, or perhaps I dreamed them, but baby is only the name for an infant.

I stare at my hand, and know with certainty that such a hand once held the brush that brushed my hair. I sing my memory song.

‘Peta?' I say. ‘Jemma. Honey?' Honey is the sticky sugar feast of the bee that Pa sometimes finds. It is not my name. But I believe it was also a name, perhaps my mother's. This morning I give her that name and I speak to her. She does not reply.

Lenny comes, and while the rain is still pouring down. I do not speak to him, but watch him and remember how I clung to him during my illness. He also remembers, for he smiles at me and hands me a can of fruitjell, four crispbites and a container of V-cola.

‘Found you sleeping calm when I come by early. The rain done it. It's rain outside,' he says, and Lord, I think his eyes smile. I stare at his eyes, so small, rimmed by red, but they are blue, as Granny's eyes were blue.

‘It is rain,' I say.

‘Reckon you beat the sickness now, girl,' he says. ‘Reckon you're feeling right.' I nod, and he stands on, looking at me and at my painting, then he sees the water dripping onto my pillow. ‘Storms couldn't blow this frekin place down but the rain will see the end of it.'

‘It makes a strange sound on the roof.'

‘Pouring through the frekin thing. It come late last night. Pa's been reckoning for days he could smell it coming. Reckons it's the young 'un that brung it. Like in the old ones' book, he reckons, like the old ones'
God
is making the land ready for the coming of . . . of whoever the old ones reckoned was coming.'

I nibble at the edges of a crispbite, testing my stomach, which seems eager for food. I drink the V-cola and it makes bubbles in my nose. I think I like its flavour better today without the scum of Pa's pills floating on top.

‘Fence is out. It don't like
God's
rain.' He moves my bed to a place where the water does not reach, and I see the bottle on its side there. It is not a conscious movement, but I reach for it. Lenny reaches it first. He holds it upside down.

There was enough in it for one small sip. I look at the red stain, and my finger attempts to dip into it, but his boot is over it, rubbing it into the wood. He does not talk more but leaves the room, taking the empty bottle and the bucket with him.

I remain on my knees, staring at the stain, thinking of the grey men who will come again with their bottles, thinking Lenny will unpack them, and smash them, but the thought dies when I hear noise from above me.

He is right. The house is falling. I run to the door, thinking to race for the cellar, then I hear his rhythmic cursing as he clambers over the roof above me. There is a hammering and dripping stops.

I look at the wet wood of the floor, at the oblong shape of boards where my bed has been. Dark wood it is, and as I rub it with my hand, it glows with life, like a patch of yesterday, unseen, unworn. Has this bed lived so long in this place? Has it saved this place? My floor is worn grey. Was it grey in Granny's time, or has the chem-spray and the suction tool sucked the glow from it? Lord, but this hidden place is beautiful. Coils and swirls of colour are in the damp wood. I sweep it with my hand and feast my eyes on the old beauty, and I lie on it, my arms spread wide, wanting to fly back with it to that time before. Why had I not seen it? Why had I not looked for it? What else is in this house that I have never seen?

Lenny has finished with his hammering, but rain still hammers at my window. Lord! How aware of all sound I am. The generator cuts in, with its thump-a-thump-a-thumping. It sings to me.

Strange sounds the house is making today. Assuredly the ghosts are out wandering the halls. The floors creak, the roof groans, and in the burnt-out rooms I hear the beat of a slow drum against the orchestra of rain. I think it is music of celebration. The ghosts of the seventy-seven remember this rain and they sing and dance in it.

Then from within me I feel the fluttering, and I still.

‘Do you dance too, my golden foetus?' I whisper. ‘Or do you scream with aching for the taste of the cordial? Since your beginning I have begun my every day with it, closed out my every day with it. How will we close out this day, little one?'

How will we close this day, little one? These were Granny's words. She had called me ‘little one' on the day of the dandelion.

It had grown and bloomed amid Pa's pumpkins, and Granny had plucked it, woven its gold into my hair, and for once her many faceted eyes had smiled. That night she had sat long in her rocking chair on the verandah speaking of the dandelion.

‘The western field in spring was gold with them that last year. Little Moni made garlands and necklets, decked herself in them, girl. A happy day. The sun was shining, little Moni laughing with her brothers, running free.

‘They saw her from the sky. Five of the bastards. She was too busy dancing to see them. And like a pack of wild dogs they came back to hunt by night. There were no more garlands for poor little Moni. No more happy days, girl.'

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

In the sixty-fifth year of the New Beginning the corn crops surpassed expectation, and one sowman, by need, must stand on the shoulders of another so that he might harvest the giant cobs of corn, and each cob was the length of a male's forearm, and thick as his thigh.

 

And when the bread was baked of milled grain, there was much left for delicacies. And there was no waste from the splendid crop. Its refuse made fine paper and finer fabric. And many labourers were required, thus modification was made to the sowman breeding program.

 

But sowmen's fingers could not be made as man's, and thus did not perform as man's, nor have the dexterity.

 

Then came the striped potato from the laboratories of the scientists, and it might be picked clean, for it grew on creeping vines beneath salt water, the stems spurting blood when the fruit was plucked. Then came from the gene laboratories the ebon-carrot which crawled on its many legs when drawn from the soil, and it caused much amusement.

 

In the sixty-sixth year of the New Beginning came the new preserving station in the eastern city for the surplus must not be wasted. And it was found that sowmen would not be flogged into dexterity at the preserving. And it was found that the sons of the Chosen did not care for menial work, of which now there was much to be done.

 

And there was argument and debate and reports made in the city, and in time it was agreed that a male underclass was desirable.

 

And it was done.

 

From the stronger and more dexterous of the males, the cells were taken. From a sow mutation came the ovum. And the embryo was Implanted into females who were beyond breeding age, and also into modified sows.

 

In this way there was created a class of labourer. And these infants were separated from the sons of the Chosen, and given into the care of their masters, who would train them for the tasks allocated to them.

Tonight the fence is not singing. Pa is in the barn with the dogs, the dart gun in his hand. The night is dark but the rain has gone away. Lenny bade me hide in the cave, but I am not there, for from the woods I saw the copter, and I saw a third city man step down from it. He is taller than Lenny but has a similar thickness about his limbs. And he holds a gun. It is long since I have seen those city guns.

I run back towards the house for I know that they will kill Lenny tonight. And I know I do not want him dead. I creep to the water tank, and from behind it hear the threats of the two grey men, and see the thick male's gun is aimed at Lenny. The grey men have come for me and if they do not get me, Lenny will die.

I hear movement, and turn to see Pa and his dogs have also crept near. Lenny's voice is pleading now, and unlike his own.

‘They will slaughter him,' I whisper.

‘If I could get a shot at the bastard with the gun,' Pa replies. He has not learned to whisper, and quickly I walk away from him and around the tank, around the pumpkins to the end of the long verandah, which is in darkness. The dogs are behind me, and behind them is the black of night, and hiding in it is Pa, and his dart gun.

We are three. We have the dogs. We know this land and the grey men do not. We know the dark, so we are not without power.

I step forward. Lenny sees me. He it was who pushed the lever to turn off the fence's singing. He it was who sent Pa to the barn and bade him come only if called. He signals to me now. Go.

Then the one with the gun sees me. His gun lowered, he steps back, behind Lenny. Had he stepped forward, Pa may have been able to fire a dart.

The grey men now look at me. They do not hold guns, but the paralysing tool is in the hand of one, and I know not if he is Sidley or Salter, for from this distance I can not read their shoulder ornaments.

‘Heel,' I say to the dogs, in the commanding voice of old Pa. They obey me and stand like tall guardians at my sides.

‘Come. We have prepared the craft for your transportation. There will be no more delays.' I make no reply but step nearer, for I think, as with Jonjan, the third thick man has not seen a true female. He stares at me, makes a movement with the hand not holding the gun, a strange, two-fingered movement from his head to his thick chest, and to each side of his chest, and his head bows low, I think so he will not see me.

I step forward again. Does he fear the females? I comb my long hair with my fingers, I make my breasts lift high. Tonight I wear Pa's green overall, which will fasten at my breasts, though the fabric moulds them. As I step into full light, my eyes watch only his face. He looks up but his gun looks down as he takes a further fast step back.

‘From her womb a new world shall arise,' I say. I do not quite know why I choose to speak the words of Jonjan's Book of Moni, but they are as words from some ancient charm for they make the one with the gun do the two fingers crossing sign once more before disappearing around the corner. Salter crows an order, but it appears that Sidley wishes to follow the thick male, for he too has stepped back. Lenny, behind him, also steps back. I believe he only requires the support of the brick wall.

So I do it again, my voice more commanding, and not my own. ‘And it shall come to pass that this land will flow with milk and honey, and your great city will fall.' I believe these words are a little like the words Granny read from her Bible, and I strive to think of more for the two grey men stare at me with wide eyes. Quickly I add: ‘And God will send a great flood of rain so it may wash the land clean for the coming. And he will send the plague to wipe the sinful from this land. And it has begun, for I have been told that the third one of you has left the living.'

‘It was his misfortune,' they chorus.

‘So you think to bring the city sickness to me when I have just been recovered by the sacred waters of Moni?'

Lord. I think Sidley will die of that name. His grey marble eyes grow so huge that surely they will burst and spray their grey juice in streams. And how hard his round mouth works to make reply.

‘We are free of the sickness,' Salter says, then he calls an order, loudly, perhaps to the thick limbed man with the gun – who does not come.

My dogs step forward, so I step forward. ‘And what of the unfinished ones you have taken from me? The messenger tells me they die in your filthy city.'

They make no denial, but Salter calls again for the thick man before turning to Lenny. ‘She is free of the cordial,' he says.

Lenny can only shake his head. I answer for him. ‘She is free of the tomorrow juice that leads to acceptance of the unacceptable,' I say. ‘You may now bring her V-cola.'

Salter is looking at my belly, which has swollen in the weeks since my illness. I have been eating very well of eggs and meat and cheese and pumpkin. I think perhaps it is better if I speak of the one which swims within me.

‘I am breeding,' I say, and I think now that Lenny dies, for he sits down hard on the brick window ledge, and it is well that it is there or he may have sat all the way down to the verandah floor. His actions will tell them the truth

‘She has not been Implanted,' the grey men chorus.

‘Was it not written by the ancient ones that the messenger would come to Mary . . . in the barn, and Implant her? Was it not written?'

‘It was written,' Sidley says, and his face shows great fear. I think he grows more white than grey. Salter only stares at Lenny and I do not wish him to stare at Lenny. I do not wish to stare at Lenny, so I turn to the loft and speak on swiftly, wishing only to give more fear and hold the grey men's attention away from Lenny.

‘He came to me . . . in the loft, and he placed his golden hand upon me and with his hand planted his seed within me, and there was a great light that blinded my eyes. And I heard the singing of a chorus of ghosts that came from the clouds in a golden craft.' Is that not what Jonjan said? There is not time to think of right or wrong. ‘It was the messenger who told me of the poison in your cordial, and he who said to . . . unto me, “From her womb a new world shall arise.” Was it not written in the Book of Moni?'

Salter thinks to approach me but Sidley can only stare while his little mouth purses and stretches, purses and stretches. Again I step forward. ‘And as it was written, so now it is done. You may take your Implanting tools and leave. Go in peace.' I wait, a dog on either side of me as Salter again crows out his strange call to the one with the gun – who does not obey. ‘Forward,' I say to the dogs. They obey, stepping before me to show all of their fine teeth while they snarl their great threats. Salter steps back twice from them. He glances at Lenny, and at Pa, who is standing near the water tank.

‘It is the golden child,' Sidley crows.

‘And in the city we will safeguard the birth of it,' Salter replies.

‘It is surely golden, and in the mountains it will be freeborn and live . . . live in the promised land of Moni – as it is written.' I hope it is written . . . somewhere.

‘It is written,' Sidley says.

‘So go in peace, and when you return in forty days and forty nights you may bring with you the Book of Moni, for the voice said unto me that I must read the words of Moni, a wise prophet whose words have been mocked in the city. You may also bring me a clean newsprint that has all of the pages, for the chorus of ghosts also said there is much to learn of the city in order that we might cleanse it of plague.' I fold my arms and stand, my head high while they communicate.

‘Come. We wish only to test your words.'

‘There will be no interference with the messenger's Implanting.'

They speak long together, with some mutterings but little movement of the lips; they do not speak to Lenny and for this I am pleased. His hands are covering his head and his cap is falling to the side. He looks at me as he may have looked at my mythical visitor, his mouth open wide.

‘When was the time of his Implanting?' Sidley asks.

‘My great time on earth is my gift to you. Do not question a gift.' These words I borrow directly from Granny. I can think of no fitting reply I might take from the tales she told me of her Bible. I did not like them as well as her poems, which now is a great pity, but her words sound strong.

‘It is written,' the grey men chorus.

‘Come,' I say to the dogs, as the grey men say ‘come', and in their voice, then I walk away into the dark, so fast, and the dogs walk at my side. I think Granny is pleased with me tonight for within my head I hear her laughter.

The grey men do not follow me, which is well. Pa follows me as I walk to the barn, then I run from him beyond the barn where I allow my own laughter its freedom.

 

Forty days and forty nights. The city men have set the buttons on Lenny's day calculating machine. Forty days and forty nights. We have new supplies, new overalls for Lenny, new sandals for me and new pills for Pa. And, Lord, there is such a lightness in the old house and there is green on the hills.

The grey clumps of spiky grass that Lenny cuts for the pigs and cows have grown tall and soft with moisture. I walk with him to cut it, and the dogs chase a rabbit and bring it down, and we see another, and another, and they bring down three, and Lenny steals them for the freezer, but I take two from his hands and give one each to the dogs. They thank me and carry them home so proudly.

And Pa's pumpkins! They race headlong across the yard and each day the size of their fruit near doubles, and more flowers grow when we thought no more would grow and I think we will have a hundred, or two hundred pumpkins. And the other plant, that grows at their side, has its own smaller fruit.

The first rain lasted only for two days and three nights, but the season which follows it is one of many variations. We have heat and sun and storm together, we have the howling winds and rain and such a trembling from deep within the earth that feels as if it will never still, then, when it does still, our legs, grown accustomed to walking on trembling ground, do not walk so well, and we laugh, and even the dogs laugh, and Pa smiles.

And how he talks. He sits often on Granny's rocking chair on the verandah, watching the sky and speaking of the cloud formations. The rain, the smell of the earth and the wind excite him. He appears to have grown so much older in body, but younger in mind, and spends less of his day sleeping and more of it in speaking of the old world, and the old rains, and of the creek, and the fish that once swam in it, and when Lenny and the dogs grow bored with listening to him, he speaks to me.

I listen, and find there is much to learn from this old one.

‘My pa used to tell
his-story
of them first ones – like them settin on this here same chair watching movement like . . . like truck moving on that track, like great sky buses, flying to Enlan. Out there somewhere. And there was the Mericas on other side.' He points, waves his arms east and west. ‘God's
rogomet
sunk um.'

I do not understand his words, but I know of England and the queen who lived there and had fine garden parties, and of the king who cut off heads with a sword, and I know of America and the war of the slaves and the tall twins that were felled. Granny told me, too, of Africa where giant elephants once roamed. Also it is in the books. All of the past is in Granny's books. There are books that show the shapes of the old world and other books that have fine pictures of the ones who inhabited the old world. Also I know truck and car and boat and bus from Granny's dictionary, which has all of the words of all of the old world.

‘Was there rain when you were young, Pa?'

‘Rains? They come some years when I was a boy. Creek run some years. Place a seed in the earth and it grew, girl. Back then. We was still getting rain from time to time when my pa died, just weren't reg'lar.'

‘And the trucks . . . and other road vehicles. You did not see one?'

He shakes his head. They was in my pa's grandpa's time. No, no it weren't. It were one more pa, I reckon.' He sits a while, thinks a while. ‘Reckon it were my pa's grandpa's grandpa's time. Near enough. There weren't nothing much left when my pa was a boy, 'cepting more of them strangers wanting to trade. Nothing much left when I was a boy – 'cepting a few strange bastards.'

‘Did they, the trucks, come from the city?'

‘Old 'uns reckon there was cities all over back then. Beasts and people all over back then – so my old pa used to tell
his-story
. Reckoned that if you followed that there track down far enough, you come to this –' He rubs his mouth, spits, thinks a while. ‘Town,' he says. ‘Town. They used to go
down
to
town
. Something like that, girl. And there was people there and friendly visiting and all of 'em living in houses, and places you went to get your supplies before plagues come. My pa used to have some of the old metal bits the old ones used for trade. Reckon they're still around some place – less Lenny turned 'em into darts. Old Thomas, he lived in a house down that way. Some place. Back then. Before the
rogomet
.'

‘Was it a long way?'

‘Reckon so. Walked a long ways down that track. Not much older 'an you then. Didn't find much. Trees felled over it and hard work walking back up it. Didn't try it no second time. Reckon the houses was down further than I walked. My old pa reckoned a lot of bits of them houses got brung up here by the old 'uns to build the huts. Huts was still standing when I was a boy.'

He thinks a while and I wait. Granny had never spoken of what was down the hill, and I have never thought of it, but I know of town and city from my books, and I know that there were many people who laughed and loved and danced in the towns.

‘I would like to walk down that hill, Pa.'

‘Winds around like a snake with fleas, girl. Frekin near turns around and bites itself on the bum.'