The Seventh Day (31 page)

Spring is the time of rebirth, Granny used to say, and Lord, how she would have celebrated this spring; the dandelion is blooming, the bees a buzz-buzzing and other insects fly. Such colourful things they are, almost as flowers with their petal wings. And the air – it smells of the sugar honey feast Pa had sometimes found. I think I could eat this air and nothing more, and I would grow well on it.

How I love this warmth, as does my golden one, and truly she is golden for the sun has touched her skin and left its gold dust behind and it has brushed her head and turned her little hair to gold. We are sitting in the sunshine, looking down at the house and I am thinking of eggs, and thinking perhaps I will soon learn to kill a poor hen with my dart gun so I might make Pa's broth. Each time I go to the hen yard I look at the hens and think of rich broth.

And he comes.

He comes from within my cave. And he is clad in my hooded brown cloak, and I know not how he stole my cloak or who he is . . . or how he came into my cave because I have been about it all morning.

I run for my light-gun while the dogs snarl at him and force him back to the rock wall. And I do not command them to heel.

‘We are not trading and we are not giving anything away.' I speak Pa's greeting, my gun pointing at his heart, and his basket – which he now offers. When I do not move to take it, he places it on the earth. It is as the other basket, a rough woven thing and filled with the golden fruit of the juice pouches. Today there are also flat breads or . . . or a form of crispbites.

‘We are not trading. Return my cloak and take your basket.'

‘Honour her,' he says.

Two fast steps back I make, and three more, back from the cave mouth and into full sunshine, for the words he spoke have created a chill in my head. They are the words of my memory archives. Who is he? What does he want from me?

‘Go,' I reply, my gun signalling. ‘I do not wish to make my weapon spit fire, but I will. Go.'

I can not see his face for he keeps the hood of the cloak close about his nose and mouth. Only his eyes are visible. They stare at baby for a long moment, then he turns and walks back into my cave. I watch him disappear into the dark of it, and I think into the small cave of the gallery.

This is my cave. I stand long watching that place while my heart beats fast. For much time I do not feel safe to follow him. But if he thinks to live in my cave then he will not. With baby tied into my breast sling, my battery light in one hand, my gun in the other, I approach that narrow cave, my dogs before me. Like me, they are certain the trader hides in the place of the ancients' paintings.

But he is not there. I walk deeper, lighting Granny's gallery to its narrow end then returning. And the trader – or ghost – has been at my books! He has scattered them.

I direct my lightbeam up to the cave roof. There is no room nor place for him to hide, and no opening for him to leave this sealed cave, as there was none when I had come here with Granny.

Nothing has changed
, she had said to me.
You must do the changing, girl, when I am gone. For this reason I stole you.

Certainly I have changed. I am mother and I hold a city gun, which I now must place down while setting my books again on the shelf beneath the rabbit and the kangaroo.

The kangaroo was a native of this land, girl. It only bred when it knew the season was right for raising its young. And it kept them close, carried them in a pocket. The rabbit was brought here as sport for the hunters. A survivor, girl, it bred by the million and ended up making a sport of the hunters. The two together make a fine coat of arms. But we need the two, girl. One without the other has no balance.

Perhaps they do look a little like the old king's coat of arms, my row of books beneath, a near oval shield between them. How Granny had liked to talk of rabbits – rabbits and ghosts. Perhaps my visitor was a ghost and now he has disappeared – with my fine warm cloak. I think I will not feel safe to sleep here tonight, for what will he wish to trade for his basket of fruit when next he appears?

My battery light still searching, I walk backwards from the small cave to shine my light into other corners, and its light is weakening. How will I see into dark corners when the small batteries are all gone? I allow its light to play over my bedding, then up over the tapestry – and I see my brown cloak still hangs from the tapestry's hook.

He did not take it! He only borrowed it so I might see him, and I wish I had not seen him.

Lord. I do not like this happening. There is a chilling cold in my bones and crawling fear in my head. I walk fast into the sun so it might melt the ice of my blood and still my trembling.

It is later when I look at the basket. The fruit are as the others, which I had believed to be a gift from my sowman. The crispbites smell is new, but tempting. I break one, feed it to my dogs who like it well, be it baked by ghost or man. The things are large as my palm; they would be filling. I hold one to my nose, but I will not bite it.

Then I see there is more in this basket. It is beneath the crispbites and of a rough-textured paper, the like of which I have never seen. And there are words, many words written heavily in black upon it.

Honoria
, it begins. I think the ghost has tried to write the words he spoke to me, until I read further.

I know the one our night watchers speak of is the one who saved my life and my leg on the mountain, for they say she has hair of fire and two great dogs, and a child
.

My heart begins a race with my eyes. Too fast. Then one hand to my heart to slow its pounding I read on, but more slowly.

These people have much fear of outsider and city disease, yet they carried me into their valley and during the time of my confinement healed my leg with their herbs. If I walked well enough, I would come to you, but the walk is long and hard.

You spoke to me of mother, of Honi. Now I say to you, Honi was known here. Rowan, the one who will bring these words to you, was contracted to her. He believes you to be Honoria, lost to him and the valley twelve years ago.

The elders speak of you at the meetings as the infant who would not be silent. They speak of a searcher who came in the time before the sealing off of the entrance to the second valley, and of Honoria, an infant of three years, who ran to look upon the flying machine. They speak of the loss of Honi, who followed you into the open.

It was believed that you and Honi had been taken by the searcher, until a female child was sighted in the woods. Dan, full brother of Rowan, chose to show himself at the house so he might ask news of you. He did not return.

These past weeks, the night watchers' reports are all of you and your dogs, and the danger you bring to our valley. They know of the beast who follows you. They know of your use of the tri-fly. For their safety and your own, they offer to you and your child a life with us.

As you, we live within the caves and the old diggings of the ancient ones. In their years in this valley these people have cut great halls into the hills, and created many comforts, the best of which is laughter and friendship. To come here is to commit to their ways. To come here is to agree to a ninety-day confinement and a daily cleansing with herbs. I have found with these people a simple freedom unknown in the city, and in the months since leaving the cave of confinement, have made their ways my own.

Here we have no book, no pen, thus those born of the valley do not read or write. Too, they have developed a method of hand communication, which is used widely, thus much oral language is being lost.

Will you bring to us your child and your books, Honoria? Will you live with us and teach the children all you have learned from your books? Will you show to them the great power of reading, and show the way of making your paint pictures that trap the movement of sunlight?

And will you come to me, girl of the mountain, for I do not forget you, and in my night dreams and my day dreams, you are ever with me.

 

I wipe my eyes with my hands, and with my arm, and with my hair. I fold the letter and I place it at my breast but take it from there and read it again.

Oh Lord, will I come to you my man of the city. I do not forget you, and I love you well.

‘I am Honoria,' I say to baby. ‘I am the one who will not be silent. I have a name, baby. I am Honoria.' Then I look at my dogs, my friends, my helpers. ‘But I will not leave you.'

So I weep then and look at the place of my small garden where the pumpkin seeds and the honeydew thrust their green heads from out of the earth. I dip water for them, and search anew for the sprouting of my orange fruit seed.

It is later when I take my child to the pool and scoop water for her, which I trickle onto her brow.

‘You are Honey Dew, girl of city and mountain,' I say. ‘You were found in the barn, by accident, and you grew well and strong, and you are sweet, and your flesh is pure. You were freeborn and will live free. And you will laugh and cry and call my name aloud when we play. And this I pledge.' Then I make my sowman's cross sign on her tiny breast. She likes her name well for she offers me her silly open-mouthed smile. I tickle her, to make her smile more, and she tries to make a laugh for me. I think she is like Honoria and she will not be silenced.

That night, by my last wax-light, I plan long on what to write, how to write my own words to these people, but how can I write that which will explain my love of these great dogs and my debt to them, and all of my feelings? And if I should write, how will they read it?

So I paint my reply. I paint my Honey Dew's likeness as she sleeps beside my dogs. I paint them as her tall guardians, for they have been our guardians. I paint my good Sir Sowman too, and he is offering to me the splendid flowers, for I wish to show these people his humanity. I paint my cows, and the silly cocky red rooster with sunlight glinting on his fine green-tipped tail feathers. And I paint my dart gun; I am learning to make its arrow fly true, and it is less wasteful than the light-gun, which last evening turned a fine fat pig into two rear legs of a fine fat pig.

Then in the corner of my painting I write my name, strong, with black paint:
Honoria
, and I place it on the shelf with the trading basket, then go to my bed.

I will not sleep tonight, but wait for the tall brown-clad one, who is Rowan, my father. And Lord, how long will be this night.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

Came the morning when the prophet, Moni, crawled from her bedding and bowed low to the Chosen. And she kissed the Ring of Rule they wore on their left thumbs. And she pleaded with them for mercy.

 

And the Chosen laughed and they taunted her. But they took her from the recreation halls and made her to wear the face veil. And they gave her menial labour in the cloning laboratory where she cowered and walked with her awful face hidden from view.

 

And in time the Chosen saw that she was a pitiful thing without claw to scratch, without teeth to bite. And thus her movements were not observed closely.

 

And she murdered ten of the Chosen in their beds with their own sharp laboratory blades. And she held a blade to the throat of the laboratory flier, Rene, and his great craft carried her, two youthful labourers and eight females, out of Hell and into freedom.

 

And the earth shook, and there was war in the city between the east and the west, and fine buildings crumbled and fell. And the tall fence which divided the city was dismantled.

 

And for thirty days anarchy raged over all of the city, and in the streets blood flowed red in the gutters.

 

And for thirty days the searchers could not pursue the prophet, Moni, for the followers of Moni held the city, and held all crafts to ransom.

 

And the Chosen fell to their knees and cursed the name of Moni Morgan as her face veil was carried as a banner through the streets of all of the city, both the east and the west.

 

And her laughter was echoed there.

The shelf below Granny's art gallery disguises a rock door that swings wide. It has been placed just so between the rabbit and the kangaroo. Behind it there is a small tunnel, and into it the tall one, Rowan, bids me crawl. He has brought strong cord to bind my dogs and I have bound them – for his peace of mind. They do not much like entering this place, but I hold the cords in my hand and when the tunnel is tall enough for me to stand, I pet them well, and feed them one of the strange sweet biscuits.

As Rowan closes the door and joins me, I pass my child to him, though I do not yet know if I trust him more than I trusted the grey men. He is too silent, and in silence he starts forward. I follow close on his heels, the dogs on mine. As I, they do not like our Honey Dew to be in another's arms but my own.

Jonjan's letter told me that the distance was long. With his flickering light to guide him, the man who gave his seed to my mother steps confidently before me into a maze of tunnels, which I believe are the diggings of the ancient ones who came here for gold.

‘Care,' Rowan says. ‘Danger.'

Certainly there is danger. The descent is steep and there is much water about. It drips from the ceiling, drips onto my hair as we walk deeper, down, and down. But the worst of the down is soon done and the decline becomes easier to traverse.

There is a second rock door, taller, wider. It is guarded by a second male, who stares at me and my dogs. Perhaps his hands speak but he utters not a word.

Such silence, hollow. Only the scrape of footsteps and the panting of the dogs.

Then the pathway widens and soon tiny lamps glow from walls that are not man-made, but here and there rough steps have been cut to lead down, and thankfully, so thankfully, I see distant daylight. My dogs wish to race for it, but I hold them back.

And Lord, here is a hidden valley of such greenness and colour that I fill my eyes with it and forget to walk. Here is the garden I have known. It was not that city thing with its plasti-dome and white overall-clad workers. These garden walls are rock, and when I look up to see the sky, there is no sky, but a roof. Oh, not of rusting metal, as with my house, or the plasti of the city garden, but a roof woven of browns and greys, draped between the trees, and beneath it, there is the pool, wide and pure and blue.

The dogs are afraid. The male's tail is down and curled far beneath him; the female's tongue hangs low. She sits panting, not wishing to advance further.

But I know this place. My first memory is of this place. I played in this place. I swam in this pool, and I wandered hand-in-hand through the soft green with my mother. Now in my mind's eye I see Honi, see her golden hair. Now in my mind's eye I hear her laughter as she picks a small bouquet.

The one who is my father beckons and walks ahead. I follow him and my Honey Dew into this paradise.

‘Come,' I urge my tardy dogs. They do not like it, but they obey.

And I see children, small ones and tall ones. I walk forward feeling the warm rain that falls from this woven sky, mixing with the warm rain from my eyes, for I remember the children's play in this land where trees grow tall and straight up through the sky to the place where a slim swathe of sunlight cuts its pathway through to our valley, like an opaque rainbow cut from the milky way.

Oh, Lord. I have come home.

He is there with his long golden hair. He walks with a stick, but walks quickly towards me, his dear smile wide. And other doors swing open in the rock face and others come to these doors to peer at me and shake their heads at my dogs.

‘Sit,' I command. The dogs have never before been so eager to obey. I tie the cords to a small tree and I take back my Honey Dew from her grandfather's arms and we run. We run to my Jonjan.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

And Moni led her followers to a hidden valley where the ancients had laboured for gold, and when her work was done in this place, she left the group and returned to the building of the old Morgan settlement to wait alone for the coming of the golden child.

 

And in the hidden valley the eight females lay willingly with the flier and the youthful labourers and children were freeborn. And they grew strong. And it was seen that they had no disease. Thus in time, where there had been few, there were many. And there was food and freedom for all.

 

And a generation was born free, and a generation died free. And they were buried in the earth and the cross of God made and words spoken over them.

 

But the promised golden child did not yet come.

 

And it came to pass that a messenger arrived from God. And his chariot was of gold, and it was drawn by two golden steeds. And the messenger spoke unto Moni, and he said: ‘Come. It is time.'

 

And Moni said unto the messenger: ‘I have done what was asked of me. I have waited patiently. She has not yet come.'

 

And the messenger said: ‘Her time now is near at hand, but Her pathway has become unclear for there has been great interference in the way long prepared for Her.'

 

And Moni was seen no more in the land of the living, though her soul did not yet leave the land of her fathers.

 

Then came the night when an infant cried in the dark. And thus was Moni's soul reborn.

 

And She was recognised. And She was fair of face and Her eyes were blue and wide with advance knowledge. And around Her head was a halo of gold.