The Seventh Day (30 page)

‘Wait,' I say, wanting to thank him, needing him to understand that I am very well pleased with his night's work. There is no food here to give him. I go to the kitchen and from behind the door take up Pa's bullock hide cloak. I take a large saucepan, the long blade of a knife, and I offer these things, and I make his crossing sign of the breasts. ‘I honour you with these small things,' I say. ‘For tonight you are my friend and my saviour.'

He takes first the cape, and he knows how to wear it, donning it immediately. I think the dogs are bemused by my actions, and his, for they know this cape well. He takes the old saucepan, places it on his head as a hat. The knife, he nods, smiles over before placing it between his teeth. Then, his head low, he touches hand to head, to stomach, to each breast, and like a gallant knight in his fine armour, he leaves me.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

And twenty years passed and no male lay with Moni, for none could look upon her face.

 

But there were those amongst the New High Chosen who desired to breed in her a living child before her time of breeding was past, for her power over the females and her intellect could not be discounted.

 

And it was whispered in the breeding station of the freeborn that during the time of Moni's short death, she had been given advance knowledge of one who was to come and lead the world out of darkness. And in the city it was widely believed that from Moni's womb this golden Messiah would be born. For she was a virgin.

 

But not for long.

 

The Chosen ordered for her a full veil which covered both her face and shrivelled breasts and they bound her to her bed and one by one they lay with her. And in this way Moni was impregnated. In the second month she aborted.

 

Ten times she was impregnated and ten times she aborted.

 

And Moni taunted the Chosen, and she said unto them: ‘Do you think that the get of a rabid dog will save your filthy world? And she said unto them: ‘I will see your city crumble. I will watch your blood flow as a river in the gutter. The plagues of hell will rise from your cesspits and poison your strongest sons.'

 

And in the season of the chill, the earth trembled and the great apartment building of the Chosen fell, and many died beneath it. And in the season of heat, the ancient blood plague rose again from the cesspits and the strongest sons died in pools of blood.

 

And the Chosen were afraid. And Moni's power increased tenfold. Thus she was unbound and removed from the breeding station to be sent for sport to the recreation hall of the labourers.

 

And she spoke to them while they lay with her. She spoke of freedom and there were those who came to spill their seed, but spilled their tears instead. In this way Moni gathered many male followers about her.

Beneath the bright sun of morning my vehicle again grows strong; the city man's copter is only a collection of black metal on a circle of stinking black earth. Life was lost here, but it seems somehow fitting. The city men came in their flying machines to steal away the Granny child, they burned her house, her family. Now they have been burned on Morgan land, and by one of their own creation.

I question not why my gallant sowman knight did this thing. I question not the violence within him which allowed him do this killing – if a docile cow be raised by dogs, would it not learn to lick a little blood?

At the cave mouth I leave my clever vehicle with wings spread wide to catch the sun while I make space for it inside. The city men will come again. They will come, and they must see no sign of me or my vehicle.

There is much to do, much sorting and stacking and finding of items. Where first do I make a beginning?

‘Fire,' I say, for I need a focus now. I have not brought wood with me, but there is bark blown up here. I find enough and find a place to set my fire. It is well to the rear of the cave and beneath a natural chimney where perhaps the ancients' fires may have burned in that time before. I place two hides down, spread my bedding upon them. I fill my kettle from the pool and set it to boil, then baby's small belly wishes to be filled.

‘We will do well enough here,' I tell her as I take Granny's rocking chair into the sunshine. I fought hard to bring this chair here, but it is out of place, out of time, and does not sit well on rock and sand. And her books, which lie in the sand near my new door – surely they will grow damp, or make very good nests for the rats. Far better I had brought the cow to my cave, and the black cat.

I have not thought well. I have taken from the house that which was important to me in the house, but this is a cave and there are ants here, and certainly many of the cave-dwelling spiders, and there will be wild things that wish to drink at my pool, and surely rats, and they will crawl onto my bedding and into my –

‘Lord.' Apprehension prickles me, but baby does not appear to share my concern. She plays at drinking, content at my breast and warm from the sun; she does not complain when I place her down on my bedding.

‘We will do well enough,' I say to her and to my dogs, who also wish to lie on my bedding. I believe I say these words to convince myself, but I can not convince even the dogs.

‘We will do well enough,' I tell them. ‘Now please take your great sandy feet from my bed.'

With tails down they follow me and my battery light to the narrow cave of the ancients' gallery where there is a good shelf which may hold my books. I place Granny's doctoring book beside the old stone axe. I have brought the ancients' Bible here and also the Book of Moni, and many others which I have read and loved.

‘Rebecca? Would that not be a fine name for baby?' I ask my dogs. ‘Or Scarlet?' They shake their heads. Names are important. I must find her a name soon, but it must be the right name, and until I find it, we do well enough, nameless together.

My fingers trace the shape of the kangaroo, of the rabbit, who now guard my books. I have not before seen them in such bright light and I think they were not painted by the same hand, or in the same time. The kangaroo has little reality and has become one with the rock wall, but the lines of the rabbit are strong. It looks at me with a cheeky round eye and I think Aaron or Emma Morgan had made this likeness. Certainly they had been here; many of the handprints are small. I place my own hand over one, and I smile. Yes, Aaron has been here, and Granny too. She had lived in this fine cave after her escape from the city. She was strong and she had survived. And I am strong, and I too will survive.

It takes long to boil my kettle, and longer to cook my pumpkin. There is little wood to be had and the windblown bark burns fast. How will I keep my fire burning with no metal doors to close on it? How will I sleep tonight with no doors to close on me?

I must not think of this. It brings a prickling fear to my neck. I will think of the cow. When baby wakes we will walk down and drive the cow to the upper woods, then tomorrow I will find a good place for the tapestry and make for myself a wall. I have brought the great hooks which held it on Granny's wall. They are somewhere, as is Lenny's adhesive gun – somewhere amid this muddle of goods.

Evening is creeping up the mountain and the sky fading to its soft purples when we return to the cave with a bucket near full of milk. The path is steep and my load heavy. I am pleased to place it down and to sit a while, to look at the sky and the house of yesterday. How well it looks from up here. I remember then the painting I have long promised to make from this place. So I will make a beginning. My painting boards are here. Somewhere. My case of paints and brushes are . . . somewhere.

I find what I need, and I believe it comforts me, this painting. For a time I forget my fear of this great space as my brush makes imitation of the colours of this land, my hands at peace, my mind gone awandering.

It wanders to Jonjan, as it is apt to do in this place. I think of his likeness on the V cube; I have brought many of them here. Tomorrow I will search for the one which holds his likeness so I might one day show baby the man who mixed his seed with mine to give her life. A stranger, he came into my world when to awaken each morning was to awaken to a void. He gave to me the desire to take back my life, and he gave to me my baby.

I am not the one of the misty mind, which I was on the day he came. I am changed, and tomorrow I will be changed again, for last night I slept beneath yesterday's roof, in yesterday's bed; tonight I will sleep on the sands of today.

Who will I be tomorrow?

 

Two days pass. I sleep little in the deep blackness of night, and when I sleep, I wake with thumping heart and know not where I am. And I use my battery light too much for there are strange creakings and rustlings and ghostly wind sounds, and my lightbeam finds strange eyes that stare at me, and I do not know if they are beast or ghost. Better I do not use my battery light if it finds such things! I hear no city copter, but know soon the men will come to look for the other copter and those who flew in it.

On the third morning, when I return from the upper woods with my bucket of milk, I find my sowman waiting below my cave. He has brought me the gift of a freshly skinned rabbit, and Lord, I am pleased to see him. And I tell him this.

He stands at a distance from me and places the rabbit down then gives me his crossing sign, as if he thinks to leave. And I do not want him to leave. I go to him and praise his rabbit. He has exchanged the saucepan head covering for a rabbit skin and he looks fine in his fur cap and Pa's cloak. I tell him this, though I do not know if he understands my many words. ‘Come,' I say to him, and I reach to take up my bucket. He takes it for me and follows me to the cave mouth.

My dogs like the scent of rabbit, and I believe they recognise Pa's cloak. They show their teeth to the sowman as they pass him, but it is only a token snarl.

He is a humble one, and will not enter my cave, nor take the food I offer in trade for his fat rabbit. Soon he leaves.

It is on the seventh day that he returns and brings to me a gift of flowers. And Lord, I have never seen such splendour.

‘Flowers,' I say. ‘Such beautiful flowers.'

‘Vaaa wa,' he says.

‘Beautiful flowers. Where did you find such beauty?'

He nods, points to the east, then his hands and his eyes speak to me of much beauty he has seen, and they tell me so clearly that the rain fell, and the sun was round in the sky and the flowers came from the earth, and opened. He steps nearer, one finger pointing to baby, who is in her sling at my breast.

‘My baby,' I say and I offer him milk, fresh from the bucket. He looks at it but shakes his head. I offer water and eggs. These things he accepts, and he drinks and eats, with much enjoyment and much crunching of egg shells while I place baby on a blanket and I sit beside her in the sun. ‘Will you sit with us?' I say.

He does not sit easily on the earth, but he folds one knee and sits upon one foot, but at a distance, then together we watch the small legs kick and the tiny hands wave.

‘Baba. Boooowa vaaaa wa,' he says.

His hard-found words bring tears to my eyes, but I nod, nod, then repeat his words so he will know I understand him. Baby is indeed a beautiful flower newly opened to the sun and she grows in beauty every day.

He stands then, makes the crossing sign on head, stomach and breast, and I repeat his actions and say to him, ‘Do you have a home with water? You are welcome always to come for water and eggs.'

He spreads his arms wide, his head turning from east to west as he makes a circle with his hands then points to my pool.

‘Everywhere is water?' I say.

‘Aaahwa wa,' he replies, then leaves me.

Only then do my dogs bark. They chastise him because he did not bring them a rabbit. I believe they only love with their bellies.

So the days pass slowly and the city men do not come, and I do not know why they do not come. And two weeks pass – I have counted the days on Granny's calendar board, have marked each day with a charcoal cross. And today is Wednesday and today I will finish my painting.

From this hill the house appears so small, and though I am pleased with the eerie sky, it is not enough to fill the board. So I will paint my mother.

The face must remain without feature. I know only the yellow hair, and the hands that were as mine. I make a feature of them, and the hair; I do not know her garment, so I give to her the golden one from Granny's wardrobe and I paint the shoulders bare, and when it is done it is good. This is my mother, for from out of the painting her hand reaches out to hold me.

In this place of little labour I am remembering many things from my infancy. Certainly I remember Nate of the city gardens, who had given me the apricot. Perhaps in time I will know the all, and the everything; however, each day it grows more difficult for me to define the narrow line where the edge of memory and my imagination meet.

My brush has placed my mother's figure in profile; she leans at the entrance to the spring cave, so her image is trapped with the house behind her. And Lord, I am pleased with her hair, though I think, as my brush works the final strands, that I have made it as that of Jonjan.

 

In the light of early evening we walk down to collect the hens' eggs. I can not stop my feet from entering the house but find the ceiling of the upper hall has fallen. So cold, so damp it is, as if my house understands that its great work is now done and it can return to the dust. I am pleased to return to the warmth of my cave.

The evening walk has been good for us. For the first night since my coming to this place I sleep soundly, baby at my side, my dogs guarding the entrance of my fine house, but I think my dogs have slept too soundly, for when morning comes with its light I find my painting of Honey is gone. I had set it to dry close to my fireplace. And it is gone, and I loved it well.

But . . . but in its place there is a basket, woven rough of green canes, and it is as the trading basket of the harmless one who now sleeps in the woods. And in the basket there are five strange golden fruit, and surely they are apricots. I take one up, bite into it, remembering the taste of nectar. These fruit are not apricots. The skin is strong and the flavour bad, but from within there comes a sweetness. I lift away the outer skin and break the fruit into many small, perfect pouches. They are sweet and have seeds, which I spit into my palm. I squeeze a little juice onto baby's lips but I do not think the silly thing enjoys it as well as my milk. Her tiny face contorts in such a funny way, I laugh and forget my disappointment over the loss of my painting. I can make another.

But why had my sowman come in the night, and where did he find this basket? Mine is here, still on the shelf. And how had he passed my dogs? And why had he taken my painting? And these fruit? Where had he found such fruit?

I plant my new seeds close by my new door, with the pumpkin and the honeydew, and in truth I begin to think my painting a small price to pay for such fine treasure.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

In time there were secret meetings in the recreation halls amongst the followers of Moni. And she sat unveiled amongst the labourers and they saw not her disfigurement but the beauty of her words.

 

And her words were as balm to those who came to hear her. And they illuminated the darkness of their lives. For Moni spoke of beauty and of places unseen. And many tales she told were long, but they were remembered.

 

And one of the tales was of the labourer who also knew the Master's whip. And this was the favourite of the labourers and was asked for before each meeting. And Moni named it the Longfellow.

 

Thus it came to pass that many labourers also learned to speak the Longfellow. And they became as the Book of Moni, and they spoke the words in the mills and in the preserving stations where the rhyming of the old world's words swiftly implanted into the fertile minds of the labourers. And the telling of it was thus: