Beastings Page 11

  The stream followed a bend and then the girl pulled up as she saw half a mile ahead through the trees some buildings and a road and just beyond them the pebbled shoreline of the narrow end of the lake. She saw people she saw life.

  The girl’s shoulders slumped. She had walked the long way round from her fallen tree camp. She had taken a wide arc that had led inland. She had walked maybe ten hard miles to cover an easy three.

  There were row boats along the shore line and in the distance a wooden pier with a large steam boat beside it. It was bigger than any boat she had ever seen. A union jack flag hung from the brow of it and the name of it was painted along the hull: THE GILDED SWAN. Further along the shore where the water gave way to a flat green flood plain there was a large hotel with a slate roof.

  And there were people. There were people everywhere. They were sitting and talking and milling and resting. Civilisation was here with all its laughter and appetites and desires and cruelties.

  THE LAKE LOOKED less silver down there. Some of the people were sitting on benches and looking out across the water. Some of them had binoculars while others had picnic hampers and blankets. One man was playing a game with a group of children that involved a stick and a ball and a lot of noise. They all looked happy. There were dogs. The dogs looked happy too.

  The girl watched them.

  She saw people gather at the pier one or two at a time then they slowly formed themselves into a line and the line walked onto the steamer then the steamer stoked its furnace and pulled away. It sounded a hooter and the noise echoed across the lake. It was the loudest noise the girl had heard in a long time. Louder even than the thunder of the day before.

  The girl watched the steamer get smaller and smaller until it moved out past an island and she realised it was her island – the one she had looked down upon from a great distance – and then the steamer drifted around the dog-leg bend and it was gone.

  Looking at the people by the lake the girl felt more alone than ever. Up on the hill in the trees she hadn’t felt this alone. In the darkness of night she had felt cold and sometimes wet and maybe hungry and she worried that the man from the cave wasn’t what he seemed and might come back with more people in the night; she had worried that they – Hinckley or the Sisters or worst of all Father – might catch up with her and take her baby away and she worried about the terrible painful things they could do to her. She was more scared of that than anything but she had not felt alone. Now she did. As she watched the people with their sandwiches and their flasks and their laughter and their dogs the girl felt more alone than all those nights in St. Mary’s. More alone than a dozen Christmas days without presents or smiles or family or song.

  She wished that she had never seen the people by the lake. She wished she had stayed up on the hill or was on her island or in a cave. Anywhere but here on the edge of other people’s lives.

  Some of the buildings near the water were houses. Small stone houses. Others were shops selling provisions and postcards and clothes for walking and one was a tea room.

  It looked like a popular place.

  The girl wanted to go down the hill and out of the trees and across the road. She wanted to push through the gate and walk down to the people. Down to the shore. She would sit and rest a while and say hello what a nice day it is have you had a nice walk and people would reply. They would say yes lovely thank you isn’t the lake beautiful aren’t the hills beautiful isn’t the sky beautiful and then they would invite her to come and join them on their blanket because there was plenty of tea and sandwiches and fruit cake for everyone. And then they’d say oh what a lovely child you have and the girl would smile and say thank you and they would say it’s very well behaved and then ask how old and she would say oh just a few months and they would say they’re special when they’re that young and the girl would smile and reply yes yes they are and they would say you should cherish every second because before you know it they’ll be grown and gone and the girl would say oh yes I will I mean I am I do and she would take another sip of tea. But when she thought now about the baby growing and becoming something else – first a wee one then an adolescent then a young adult who was no longer reliant on her to feed and clothe and protect it – she felt an even greater chasm of sadness open up inside her. A bottomless dark dank well bigger and deeper and more intense than ever. Because without the child who relied upon her she did not know if she would exist any longer. So long as there was this responsibility – this bond – life had a purpose. But without the child she would be back to being what she was before.

  A person without purpose. Nothing. A non entity.

  The girl turned away from the lake. Away from the people with their hampers and balls and dogs. And away from the tea-room that she so desperately wanted to go in but knew she couldn’t.

  People might know about her down there. Word had likely spread. It always did.

  Keep your tongue from evil and your lips from speaking lies.

  Because that’s what they were like. People. They gossiped. They celebrated the misfortune of others. They loved to hate as much as they loved their other sins and they always needed targets. That hate had to go somewhere otherwise it would chew them up inside and make them take a hard look at themselves and no-one likes to do that because they rarely like what they see.

  Yes. The girl knew exactly what they were like. She may not have been out in the world but she had seen and heard enough of people to know the cruelty they were capable of.

  The girl wished that she could go into one of the shops to find a newspaper because although she couldn’t read they might have a photograph of her in there and then she would know if they were on to her.

  Of course they were on to her.

  Who was she kidding.

  Of course they were.

  Who would let a girl steal a baby without doing something about it?

  No-one normal.

  And if it did make it into the paper the photograph would be old. It would be the only one she had ever had taken.

  It was when she had arrived at St Mary’s. That very first day. They had a man come round. A man with a big camera and a tripod and a moustache. He made her sit straight-backed on a stool and told her not to smile. Said it wasn’t that type of photo whatever that meant. Said it was for their records.

  They combed her hair and gave her clean clothes and told her not to fidget or she’d get a strap. She sat confused. Rigid. A statue of a scared child.

  That was a long time ago now. How long? Long enough for her body to grow and swell and develop new scents and her features to cast new shadows across her face. Once she was a slight thing but now she had filled out. A decade’s work. She had lost her freckles and her shape had changed. She had hips now – and full breasts and hair growing on different parts.

  And she bled. She had never bled back then when the photograph had been taken but now it seemed to happen all the time – damn near every few weeks. She couldn’t understand it. She wondered if something was wrong inside; that maybe things weren’t built right in there and that perhaps she was dying and then it wouldn’t matter if they caught up with her because it was likely that she didn’t have long left anyway.

  Death didn’t scare her though. Not at all; death brings peace and silence.

  The only thing that worried her was the bairn – the thought of it without someone who fed it and clothed it and carried it and protected it from thunder and farmers and wild animals and more than anything loved it; who would love it more than anyone had ever loved any single thing. Her. The new mother.

  She never did see that photograph.

  After it had been taken she had climbed down from the chair and gone to the camera and waited for the man to open it so she could see the picture inside but he slapped her hand away and said that these things took time and money and what did she think – that he was some sort of magician or
something?

  Stupid lass he’d said.

  Stupid lass.

  THE POACHER USED a fistful of grass to wipe the blade of his hunting knife then he inserted it into the rabbit’s anus and cut along its belly. In two more moves he had disembowelled it and thrown the guts to Perses who wolfed them down then looked to him for more. His huge tongue painting a circle of saliva and viscera around its nose.

  With one hand he pared along the rabbit’s frame and with the other he tugged at its pelt.

  Isn’t it a sin Father he asked.

  The Priest was sitting on a stone and poking at the fire with a stick.

  What?

  You know. I hardly want to say it.

  The Poacher dropped his voice.

  Murder he said.

  What do you think?

  I do believe killing is bad.

  The Priest raised his head from the fire and looked at him.

  Yet you kill animals every day.

  That’s different.

  Trapping and snaring and shooting and hooking isn’t sinful?

  It’s different.

  Is it?

  They’re just animals.

  And humans aren’t?

  Humans are humans. But animals are animals.

  That’s your justification? Animals are animals.

  Some of them are pests Father.

  So are some humans.

  What does God say about all this?

  Why don’t you ask him.

  Ask him?

  Yes.

  How?

  Through prayer.

  Prayer.

  Yes.

  But I’m not Godly Father. You know that.

  The Poacher held the rabbit aloft and inspected it. He ran his forearm across his brow. Its eyes were brilliant stone and its narrow front teeth long and inverted. Tinged brown. He pressed at its snout and checked its mouth then dropped it.

  You say you aren’t but yet you ask God’s opinion said the Priest.

  I asked your opinion on what God would think.

  That’s the same thing.

  Not quite.

  Yet you still seek God’s approval.

  I’m just worried I’m going to the other place.

  The other place.

  Down there. Hell like.

  You believe in hell?

  Of course. Don’t you Father?

  We make our own hells.

  That’s a strange answer.

  It’s a truthful answer said the Priest.

  So am I going there Father? When I die like.

  That’s up to Him to decide.

  How. How will he decide?

  It depends how well your have served Him in life.

  The Priest reached into his bag and took out a small mirror and checked his hair. He gently palmed it into place.

  Served him Father?

  Yes. It depends on whether you have done His work.

  What about you?

  What about me?

  Are you going there?

  The Priest unscrewed his vial and spooned some powder into each nostril. He made a snorting noise at the back of his throat.

  I told you he said. That’s up for Him to decide.

  What happened back there –

  What happened back there will remain a secret if you know what’s good for you said the Priest as he carefully palmed the vial’s stopper back into place.

  Heck said the Poacher. I’m not going to be bragging about it down the Shoulder Of Mutton Father. I’m not stupid.

  It happened. It was God’s judgement. A sacrifice for a greater good.

  Would you do the same to the girl though?

  I wasn’t thinking about the girl. I was merely mopping up the mess you created.

  The Poacher ran his stick into the skinned rabbit’s mouth and pushed it out through its back end. Then he rested it on the Y-shaped spit handles that he had cleaved and then driven into the ground either side of the fire.

  By making a bigger mess? he said quietly. I just hope we don’t get found out. I only meant to scare him a bit. A little or cut or two. A new smile to remember us by. You being a Priest I didn’t think that you’d be so –

  Look said the Priest. What is more valuable: the life of an innocent baby stolen from its parents and good God-fearing people at that – members of the community – people who contribute to the order of things or the life of a useless old troglodyte who sees no harm in taking the Lord’s name in vain because he doesn’t even believe in the Lord? A man who is of no use to society or the advancement of civilisation because he chooses to live like a beast in a mountain cave and whose worthless life is nearly over anyway? If Solomon was a good Christian he would have offered to help us in our search. But as it is he chose to oppose us. The Book of the Wisdom Of Solomon says: as gold in the furnace he proved them and as sacrificial offerings he took them to himself. It is already written.

  Book Of Solomon. I didn’t see him with no book.

  My point is we are just fulfilling a deed as prophesied.

  What’s prophesised?

  Predicted said the Priest. It means predicted. Foretold.

  You mean this was meant to happen all along? You looked like the devil himself back there by that cave. You can’t tell me that was planned Father.

  I took the action that the situation demanded said the Priest.

  But we’ve still not found the bairn.

  We got information out of the old man didn’t we? We know we’re on the right path. We know she’s been through here. The girl.

  The Poacher adjusted the rabbit on the spit. He held it firm as he pulled the stick part of the way out of the centre of it and then he pushed it in again.

  Seems like he had to pay a high price he said.

  He’ll not be missed. But that baby has everything to live for. We’ll find them.

  You think? said the Poacher.

  I know.

  Because it was prophesised?

  The Priest cleared his throat and looked into the fire. He licked his thin lips and ran his tongue over his small square teeth then smoothed his fine auburn hair into place again. His fingers felt electric on his scalp. Charged. The flames wavered and fluttered. He was entranced; his gaunt face illuminated.

  Because it was prophesised Father the Poacher asked again.

  Because I just know.

  THAT NIGHT THE girl crouched behind a wall on the fells and tried to sleep.

  She had left the lake and the people with their picnics and their games and their dogs behind. She needed to put distance between them so she had climbed the next fell over. She had walked all day and drank from streams and made the baby drink too. It fidgeted and howled and scratched at her back.

  When the lake was a small mirror reflecting the sky in the distance she stopped. Her legs ached and she felt the rise and swell of a blister on the ball of her other foot. She set the baby free and let it crawl through the long grass and for a few minutes it was quiet and it seemed happy but when it picked up sheep droppings and started to stuff them into its mouth the girl had to knock them out of its hand and then it started crying again. It howled harder and louder than before. It cried for an hour and it didn’t stop. The girl didn’t do anything about it. She was too tired. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes and blocked everything out.

  When she opened them the baby was still crying so she took the final tin of food and opened it with the tin opener. It had beans in it. The colour of the beans was vivid and almost unreal and they smelled strongly of salt and sugar. She hungrily ate a few spoonfuls without even giving any to the baby and almost instantly felt some strength returning.

  The girl fed the bairn and it gulped each mouthful down and then opened up for mor
e. It was a hungry little bird sitting in the world’s biggest nest.

  She poured water in its mouth to help fill it up more quickly and drank more herself; she wanted to create an illusion of satisfaction. She wanted to trick their stomachs into being full.

  She also wanted fire and shelter and warmth but she was on an open fell side and couldn’t risk fire. The best she could hope for was to find another bracken patch and crawl into it.

  In the far distance the village by the lake was now just a cluster of tiny specks. There was no movement and it was hard to believe that there was life there. Behind her the mountain loomed large.

  She turned the bairn loose again and let it crawl and roll in the grass while she took in the view. From up here she could see three different valleys feeding down to the lake and make out part of a fourth just beyond a series of long meandering tree plantations. It was on a dense outcrop at the lower end of one of these that she had slept in the night before.

  Each valley was different in length but similar in colour and creation. The middle valley was a very popular area for walkers. Walkers brought money. Money rung changes. The Lakelands were changing. She had seen that down by the lake.

  As she rested she watched the sky. She watched the clouds slide overhead and she listened to the light breeze in the grass and she observed the baby as it discovered the world for the first time. With each slow movement of the eye a new experience.

  The girl stood. She was unstable on her legs. They were weak and unsure. She scanned the fell above her with squinted eyes. She shielded them with one hand. The sun was moving behind the mountains. She couldn’t picture winter.

  A few hundred yards uphill she thought she could make out a path. An old horse trail perhaps and before the trail she could make out another shape on the fell side. A sheepfold.

  She picked up the bairn in her arms and walked up the hill towards it. Her thighs were screaming now and she felt like she could drop but she continued straight up the hill for ten minutes then across to the right for ten minutes. She walked on grass. This was grazing territory. There were few boulders.