The Seventh Day (29 page)

Before I leave the house I go to her bedroom for I know I must bid it goodbye.

The tapestry. Lord, I had forgotten it. How had I forgotten it? I attempt now to pull it from the wall – and raise a fine cloud of dust. The hooks and rod holding it are strong but there is a small table beside her bed. It is well made and holds my weight; thus I retrieve the rabbit and the hounds and the owl. And so heavy, so bulky it is when folded. My final load will be of mammoth proportions.

There is much in this room that might be useful. It is a pity I did not think to come here before. The small table, the bed coverings can not be left behind. Like Aaron's mother, I must think long-term. Perhaps it is better if I make two more loads.

The first is done quickly, and Lord, what a struggle I have with the rocking chair and tapestry, but it will make my last load small. The dart guns and darts, the knives and spoons, the kettle and the last of the saucepans, Granny's woven undergarments, her two strong blankets are loaded. I glance at her wooden box of rings, allow the pearls to slide between my fingers. I can not eat them, nor gain warmth from them.

As I walk from the room the wardrobe door swings wide. Expecting the emptiness of my wardrobe, I am surprised to find an array of curled footwear and an odd garment of an aged gold. I think it is a fantasy that will crumble when I touch it, but it stands proud.

Perhaps my loss, my labour of these last days has twisted my mind. I know I have no time to waste, the tock-tick-tocking clock tells me so, but I waste time so gladly. Minutes pass while I encourage the old fastener down, then I am not content until I strip off my overall and find a pathway into the garment and slide the fastener up. The fabric is firm at my breasts but fits well elsewhere and I think I may take it with me to the hills to live beside Aaron's journal. I believe my young writer and the one who had worn this garment may have come from the same time. It is a fine idea, but when I try to remove the garment, the fastener refuses to release me.

So strange it is to walk with the fabric sweeping my boots and, in my walking of the passage, the swish-swish, swish-swish of my skirts. I believe I can feel Aaron close to my skirts as I still my feet at the top of the stairs and glance at my image in the cabinet's small mirror.

Lord. I think I am not myself today, but one of the old ones returned from that time before. Many feet have walked these stairs, so many have laughed and cried here and died here.

But I will not, and baby will not.

The booming of the fourth hour has me struggling with the fastener, which is placed at the rear of the frock, and not visible, or accessible. It will not move and I am loath to rip the fabric. So I will wear it to the hill.

Baby is awake. I want no wailing when we are on our way; thankfully the garment is brief at the breast. I smile as the puckered mouth seeks the nipple. Silly thing, silly little tongue. I kiss her soft face and I laugh at the silly expression. She likes my kisses; I believe I have quite forgiven her the pain she caused in coming.

From her tadpole beginning until she became the size of a rat, I drank liberally of the grey men's cordial. Yet baby is whole, and I swear I see intelligence in the slate blue eyes. She knows me and, as the dogs do, likes my company. Her dear face studies me, and my strange garment, and I am certain she attempts to smile. She must learn to smile, and play. I hope we live long enough for her to learn to play. But not today. We must make haste. I think these short days mirror my energy, as if we are joined, the days and I. As this day's sun places its head on the earth tonight, so too will the earth be my pillow.

My ability to manoeuvre Jonjan's vehicle has grown. On my final trip with Granny's rocking chair, I dispensed with the wheel-sled and bound the chair to the rear box and seat – which left little space for me, but the machine had the mind of a beetle, its wheels seeming to read the terrain, and follow it. So fast and easy it was travelling without the wheel-sled, this is the way we will travel tonight. Fear is dead in me and in its place has grown the lost seed of determination.

As with the earth. The rain and sun have awoken many determined seeds, and in the patch of earth beside the cellar window, strange green shoots are breaking free. What a pity that I must leave them. Perhaps they are flowers.

I close the kitchen door and walk slowly away from my house. I think if there can be such a thing as love of bricks and rotting timber, then I may love this house. It would be a fine thing to turn back time, to see for a moment the front verandah with its new chairs upon it, and bright new blinds swinging between the verandah posts. Red and white they were, and there were white lace curtains hanging proudly at each gleaming window.

All of the rooms were new when Aaron lived here, and there were parties and perhaps his mother wore the old gold garment that I wear. Its skirts make a fine sound, though they do not have the comfort or convenience of my overall. Perhaps it gives my poor old house comfort to see that which has not been seen for too many years, and to say its own goodbyes, for I believe it sighs heavily when I cover the gown with my brown cloak.

With baby slung safe at my breast, I position my final load, in box and sling, then mount the seat, feeling like the Queen of England riding her chariot as I settle the golden fabric around me. The lights of the Queen's chariot do not wink when she steps on the ramp. The frekin battery has died again! Oh, there are more, in my cave, but the vehicle and I are down here, and may not ride up there to retrieve them.

‘Lord, let the sun shine strong a moment and warm your wings. I can not walk to the hill in this garment. I can not.'

I have wasted my day. The lazy sun has crawled beneath its blanket of black cloud and gone early into its frekin bed, and not since the day of baby's birth have I craved the bitter sweetness of my cordial. I want to taste it, to sip it and sleep, hide in its grey mists. I have wasted my fine day in play. Those clouds warn me that there will be rain before nightfall.

 

The old clock sings the hour of seven. It is as good as eight. Today may be Saturday, or Tuesday. I do not know. Time is a gift, Granny had said. Time is a riddle too, which can not be deciphered, for Lenny took the answer with him to the fire. I have searched long for his day calculator. It is not in the house.

The golden garment is off, its fastener broken. I have eaten a little; there is little left down here to eat, but my stomach did not much wish to take more. I had thought to be gone from here this day, but the night is cold and rain again falling and surely today is not Wednesday. We will sleep here tonight and in the morning perhaps the sun will shine.

Baby is sleeping, the stove burns hot and I sit beside it. Lenny's dart gun is on the table. I will take it with me to the hill, though I do not know how he made it shoot the killing darts in a straight line. I watched often when he made the darts in the way of the old ones. In an old pot over a strong flame he melted the metal, and when it was liquid silver, he poured it into a mould of the old ones, through which he had already threaded a length of heavy wire. So quickly it set, and when cool, he had his weapons, which are shot from the gun by the release of a strong cord. I have gathered twenty-two of these darts and I think I would trade all for the searcher's light-gun which, foolishly, I had left in the woods to decay or burn with Lenny.

This evening I tested three darts against the wall, and a city man's heart would need to be wide as a door if my dart were to pierce it. I do not think they have such things as hearts, or if they do, they are very small. How I wish I had learned from Lenny how to make these arrows travel true. How I wish I had time to learn. Also I wish I had not wasted my day, and that I did not have this creeping chill at the rear of my neck. I believe it tries to tell me that today is indeed Wednesday.

Oh, Granny, let tomorrow come fast. Let me be a rabbit and safe in my hole in the earth. Let the land grow green again with food enough for all rabbits. Let the fields be filled with flowers so baby and I may run free there.

Then I hear it.

Distant familiar thunder.

But it is not thunder.

And my heart stops its beating, then starts again with a mighty thrust.

Why did I not listen to the animal within me? Why did I not run? I have played the fool all day and wasted my chance and baby's chance.

Fast I am on my feet. Fast the wax-light is extinguished. I open the rear door and call my dogs to my side, though they do not much like to be indoors. I lift baby carefully from her carton crib so as not to disturb her, tie her carefully into a sling at my breast. I pick up my dart gun and the hide purse of darts, while outside the flying machine is set down, its roar silenced, the fluttering of its great spinning blades stilled.

I stand behind the near closed door, stand and wait and watch. And try to think – logically.

I can not run to the barn. Their great light illuminates it. I will run towards the woods, but first the city men must be close to the house so they will not see me run.

The night is dark; my cloak is dark. Lord, I wish the female dog were as dark, but she is not. She looks at me now, her head to one side in question.

‘Stay,' I whisper.

How the house moans and trembles tonight. Does it sense that this is the end? And the silence. How slow the clock's tock-tick-tock, as if aware this is to be the final night, it seeks to stretch time.

Silent night. Misty rain falling. My dogs stand guard beside me, waiting for me to make my move.

And I do. I see one of the city men approaching towards the rear of the house. I believe there are two, but I know not where the other has gone. I make my slow way through the dark passage to the front door where I stand in the cover of the collapsed verandah. The dogs will not sit, but watch the night, and watch the black cat, who prowls this place, her back arching.

I see a moving battery light scanning the land, the building. If I run, that light will find me. I must stay here, cower here, keep my dogs still.

Time stretches long, and longer. The men do not come. They do not call.

I wait and baby murmurs. Lord, let her be silent. My hand moves to cover her mouth, for one of the men is near, so near I hear his footsteps, hear the whisper of his garments. He is not the one I have seen with the battery light, but another.

Why do they not stop their creeping about and end this frekin thing? Why do they not call, let me know where they are, how many of them there are?

I turn quickly then to the door. There is movement from within the house. The dogs hear it. I point Lenny's gun at the door, releasing my hold on baby, for I need two hands to make the arrow fly.

Then the one with the battery light finds first my white dog, then me.

There is a communication amongst them. I believe three voices. I can not fight three of them. I can not evade three of them. So it is over. So this is the end.

But they have not come here to kill me. They want the grey men and my freeborn child. They will not kill me, but take me to the city.

I hope they will not kill me. I do not think more, but like a rabbit from its hole in the earth, I break, run. Out from the verandah, I run, my head down. Across the yard I run, dodging, stepping where I may. The battery light finds me, washes over me, but I take no heed of it as I run towards the woods, my dogs at my side. I see a slim pencil line of purple fire before me, smell its burn on the earth.

So perhaps they mean to kill me. Certainly they will kill my dogs.

‘Heel,' I say. ‘Heel.'

But it is I who come to heel, and abruptly, for there is the shape of a great one looming before me.

So the frekin city men have sent one of their number to the woods. They have surrounded me.

Then a wide slash of purple fire comes from the gun of the great one before me and it lights all of the earth with its purple glow. I can not think to run more. I think I am dead of that gun, for a deafening thunder shakes all of the land and the night grows brighter than the day.

I turn. My pursuers are behind me and visible, and three, but their battery lights glow weak as Granny's pig-lard lights. The great explosion and its fire has made playthings of their lights.

And it has stilled their city feet.

And it has turned them. Now they run back towards the house, yelling their communications, for they know what it is that burns.

It is their copter which burns.

And it is my sowman who has made it burn. I recognise his large head and his teeth, so white in the night as he pursues the city men. One by one they are felled by a fine purple line. And I hear the terrible screaming as the last of them is caught in that pencil line. Three of them. One by one, they glow brightly, then are no more.

From this place, which is still far from the woods, I watch my sowman approach the fallen men, watch him shoot a final swift violet flame at each, watch him circle the house then return to where I wait.

He stands at a distance and the foolish dogs think to turn on him now. ‘Stay,' I threaten, then I leave the darker dark and walk to him. What can I say? How do I begin? My heartbeat is too fast, my mouth too dry for words. I stand beside him.

‘Vaaa haa,' he says, and Lord, I believe he smiles as he offers the gun. ‘Aaaawa gaaah,' he says.

‘All gone,' I say and I shiver, though there is great heat coming from the burning machine. I breathe in the stink of the burning, then quickly breathe it out.

‘Haa hah,' he says, and Lord, for a moment it sounds to me like a laugh.

I do not take the light-gun he extends, but walk back to the house. He follows, places the gun on the rear verandah, then shows me one finger and two.

‘Aaaawa gaaah gaaav daa. Aaah. Dooo.' Again he shows the fingers.

‘All gone copter. One. Two. No more copter.'

He nods, nods, and we stand apart, but together, watching the fire, feeling the heat from it, until my dogs grow weary with their obedience and become loud with their disapproval; they snarl at him until he moves away.