Beastings Page 13

  THE SUN CAUGHT something on the fell side above them – something glinting – and the Poacher said here look at that and pointed at it with the stick he was using and the Priest said what is it and the Poacher said I don’t know but I’ll find out right enough. He broke off from the path and walked uphill and when he got closer the sun was no longer reflecting off the brass plating of the camping stove but he was close enough to see it so walked on and when he got there he picked it up and turned in his hand. Puzzled he turned it upside down and shook it and then turned it back again and began to try and unscrew its various components. He held it up by the handle and let the late afternoon sun shine on it again and downhill the Priest was waving his arms to get his attention and then he was shouting something through cupped hands but the Poacher ignored him and studied his precious find again.

  THE GIRL PICKED her way carefully aware that even a minor injury like a turned ankle could be catastrophic for both of them.

  The base of the mountain bulged and there was coverage in which she was able to sit and rest. Once or twice as she blundered through the undergrowth she startled rabbits who burrowed beneath it. Sometimes three or four of them at a time darted out not more than a few feet in front of her but always just out of reach. If she had twine she could set snares but there was no twine.

  Then she remembered the serrated edge of the tin lid and she took it from her pocket and ran her thumb along it. It was still sharp. She left the gorse and carried on walking down to the next dry stone wall that marked the top end of a farmstead. She scanned the ground for a stick. There were very few trees.

  She finally found a knotted length of larch branch that ran to shoulder height.

  The girl carried it back into the bracken then took the baby from her back and began to pick the needles from the stem. Then she sharpened one end with the improvised blade. The wood was hard and she had to scrape and scratch at it but after a few minutes she had fashioned a crude spear with a tip so pointed it looked too fine and ornamental to kill any living thing.

  She climbed higher up the slope and left the baby sleeping in the shade then found a clearing where she crouched with spear poised. Ready to strike. It was only twenty feet or so across – a space where the bracken had not taken.

  Minutes passed. The girl’s thighs began to burn from the strain of her hunkered position. Then she heard the sound of crying on the breeze. The baby. She ignored it. More minutes passed before the girl stood and stretched. The bracken was too vast and dense to expect a rabbit to appear in this small clearing. She turned to walk back to the baby and as she tramped through the tangle a blur of white crossed the corner of her vision. She spun round as a disturbed rabbit shot past her and made a break for it. The girl pulled the spear back then aimed for a second and flung it as hard as she could. It hit the ground flat and bounced as the rabbit darted off at a tangent into the dark safety of the soil.

  She stared at the spear for some time. The hope of earlier had given way to hopelessness and she felt foolish to have felt that nature was her ally; that the landscape somehow was on her side and would provide when she needed provisions.

  She hadn’t even broken soil.

  THE CHILD’S CHEEKS were flushed red and scratched from its lolling in the stubble and the fallen fronds. It was howling and when the girl picked it up it violently grabbed for her breast with a curled fist but this time she knew that nothing would come. She pressed the back of her hand to its cheek and felt it burning up. The child’s eyes searched the girl’s face for an answer to its increasing feelings of hunger and heat and thirst but she could offer nothing. Not even water. She too was thirsty. She had to move.

  Now.

  The herd were masticating and swatting flies with their whip-like tails in the languid afternoon heat as the girl rested her hands on the top of the lower farmstead wall and slowly placed her chin on top of them.

  They were dappled Shorthorns as creamy in colour as their produce. Their undersides painted darker with dust. Some of them were noisily chewing cud and letting their jaws work in circular motions. Others stood staring into the middle distance with blank long-lashed eyes. Three or four laid prone.

  She checked for a bull but there was none to be seen. The grazing meadow ran out the back of a farm with a small milking parlour up where the mountain levelled out to this smallholding.

  The girl waited and watched for a farmer or a herdsman. She picked out one of the smaller cows that had shown little movement for minutes. She knew she would have to be quick.

  When you reap the harvest of your land do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and the alien.

  She penned the child in with large stones and covered it in bracken then climbed the wall. Her movements were slow and considered. She tried to stay calm and relaxed as she walked directly to the cow that she had chosen. When she reached it and gently patted its great trunk and felt the foam that was seeping from its hide the cow turned its head and considered her with a look of disaffection.

  She made sure that the creature stood between her and the milking parlour then she knelt and reached for one of the teats that dangled from its distended udder. She pulled and squeezed but nothing happened. She did it again and a sharp thin jet of milk squirted out of its pin-hole teat end and soaked her hand. The girl placed the tin can beneath the udder and massaged the thick stubby teat again. When it was a quarter full she couldn’t wait any longer and she stepped back and drank the milk straight down. It was warm and strong and velvety. A not-yet-clotted coating for her dry throat. The cow adjusted its footing but showed no signs of anxiety so she squatted again and milked it until the can was two thirds full. Each squeeze of the teat was a gamble against her freedom; she could wait no longer. She turned and briskly walked back to the wall. She placed the tin on top then climbed over and then returned to the baby who was howling again.

  The girl sat it up in the crook of her arm and shoulder and it drank thirstily. She kept stopping so that the bairn didn’t get sick. It stopped crying. She took a sip or two for herself but fed the baby until all the milk was gone. The girl sat and savoured the buttery aftertaste. The child vomited then fell asleep.

  DUST WAS DANCING over mossy humps and rotted stumps.

  The girl reached the forest by evening just as the sun was sitting low. She was close to collapse.

  There was a boggy patch of mulched leaves so she followed this dark patch uphill deeper into the darkness until she found the trickle of running water that had fed it. She drank for a long time then picked twigs and needles from her mouth and doused the babies’ head and made it drink.

  The baby was subdued. She freed it from the wrappings and let it crawl. It lay on its back and quietly gurgled.

  The forest felt like a dead location. Semi-submerged logs rose from the earth like the bows of sunken ships resurfacing or the limbs of mossy creatures rising from the leaf-covered loam and old overgrown logging trails appeared ghostly in the absence of industry. It was a dusty cluttered place where even in high summer fallen branches appeared skeletal: unfurling ribbons of bark peeled back from the tree trunks by the force of their own tightening membranes.

  The air was dense and pungent; the aroma of the ancient weald, one of rot and decay. Between the trees and the black marais small stagnant hollows rank with sulphur held the remains of a thousand years of fallen creatures. Putrefaction and petrification occurred here. There was little sign of human visitation. The trees were birdless. Ultimate silence prevailed.

  Thou makest darkness – and it is night.

  Here the girl slept. Spent.

  A DRONE. DEEP and monotonous. Sonorous and broad.

  It pierced her fitful sleep. It soundtracked her anxiety and made her fearful.

  A dark bombination.

  Not yet awake but already walking she gravitated towards it. She left
the bairn to follow it. In the moment she wasn’t even aware it was in her possession was not conscious of her surroundings or predicament; only the pull of the reedy thrum. Through the woods she went.

  The drone thickened her sleepy fug. The girl walked some way blindly stepping over trunks and roots. Then the trees were ending and barbs were piercing her skin but she was immune to the pinheads of pain. She stopped and parted branches and there was a stream running over smooth round stones and across the water she saw people. Fifteen or more. She stooped out of sight. They had a look of closeness about them. A genetic continuity.

  The drone came from a boxy instrument that a hunched man was playing. One hand held down keys while the other pumped air into the back of it. He wrestled with it as if it contained a demon. He was grimly determined as he squeezed out a threnody to the unseen dead.

  The stream was shallow but an eddy had been sectioned off to form a side pool only a few feet across and little more than two feet deep. The water was clear. Mountain water. A slow shift of glass.

  The crowd were focused on a girl in a white smock who was standing knee deep in the water. She had red cheeks and red wet lips. Around her age – maybe younger. Next to her was a man in a dark robe. A priest. He had a book in his hand and he was reading from it. Another Father.

  The girl could just make out his words above the drone from the harmonium and the trill of the water flowing over the rocks.

  Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might he intoned. Put on the whole armour of God that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood but against the rulers against the authorities against the cosmic powers over this present darkness against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armour of God that you may be able to withstand in the evil day and having done all to stand firm.

  A murmur ran through the assembled crowd. A couple of them nodded. She thought of Father. Of course she did.

  Stand therefore having fastened on the belt of truth and having put on the breastplate of righteousness and as shoes for your feet having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace.

  The priest guided the girl in the smock deeper into the water. She could see that the girl was younger than she first thought – at the dawn of her body turning – and she looked scared. The water rose above her knees and dampened her thighs. He moved round her so that he was facing the people on the bank side. None of them were smiling. The waterline rose and soaked her robe. Made it transparent.

  The priest continued proselytizing and his voice raised louder than before. The girl watched from the tangle at the edge of the woods. She barely dared to breathe.

  In circumstances take up the shield of faith with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one he recited. And take the helmet of salvation and the sword of Spirit – which is the sword of God – praying at all times in the Spirit with all prayer and supplication.

  Another murmur of approval. The girl in the water shivered. Her pubic hair could be seen through the cloying cloth of the smock. The man put his hand on her head.

  To that end keep alert with all perseverance. Making supplication for all the saints and also for me that words may be given to me in opening my mouth boldly to proclaim the mystery of the gospel for which I am an ambassador in chains – that I may declare it boldly – as I ought to speak.

  At the edge of the trees the girl lost her footing and fell back in the barbed furze with a howl. The drone stopped dead. The priest ceased his recitation and looked up. Collectively the crowd turned towards her. The young girl in the smock looked up. Their eyes searched the trees for the source of the noise. She went cold with fear beneath their gaze.

  Who’s there said the priest and took unsteady steps further out into the water. Who goes there?

  The girl turned and ran as fast as she could back into the wood. Her torso led and her legs followed and her arms cartwheeled to propel her onwards.

  She sprinted back to the baby and snatched it up along with her scant belongings: the matches the empty can and the tin opener. She ran. She ducked timber limbs and leapt the tangled roots that crawled across the forest floor like monstrous ligneous snakes. Branches thrashed at her face scratching and snagging in her hair but she didn’t slow until her lungs were burning and she tasted bile in her throat. She gasped for breath. She drank it in and held a hand to the mouth of the bairn whose face was souring and darkening and screwing up like newspaper thrown onto a fire. Soft gums nipped at the edge of her hand but she held it there and willed the baby into silence. Forced it to breathe through its tiny mucus-encrusted nose. Then the girl found a tree and leaned against it. Chest heaving and burning. She pushed herself into the ground and wished the soil beneath would take her.

  IN ALL SERIOUSNESS man to man like – where is it you’re from Father? Your family I mean. Where did you grow up.

  The Priest sighed.

  Why? he said. Why do you need to know this?

  The Poacher and the Priest and the dog were moving side by side through the trees. Strips of sunlight crossed their faces then shadows then sunlight again. The Poacher had taken a stick and was whittling it with his knife as they walked. The gas stove that he had found was stashed in his inside pocket.

  It’s not a need Father he said. It’s not a need at all. I’m just asking. Just trying to get another angle on all this.

  The Priest didn’t reply.

  Is it a religious family you’re from? Is that how you became a Priest? Was it decided young like?

  You ask a lot of questions.

  Someone once told me the best way to make conversation was to ask questions Father.

  Maybe I don’t want to make conversation.

  I thought it’d take our mind off things.

  Maybe I don’t want to make my mind off things.

  Stop us thinking like.

  Only a fool would want to stop thinking.

  Are you saying I’m a fool Father? That’s not the first insult you’ve sent my way today.

  The brain is a gift from God. You should use it. An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.

  They walked on.

  Alright then said the Priest. What about you?

  Ask me anything you like.

  Is it a poaching family you’re from. Is that how you became a poacher. Was it decided young?

  The Poacher smiled.

  Very good Father. I see what you did there – turned my questions back on me. But since you ask: yes it’s a poaching family I’m from. My father hunted and his father before him. I remember when I was a nipper –

  I’m not interested in your banal Bildungsroman snapped the Priest.

  Minutes passed in silence. Finally the Poacher spoke.

  You know I was just thinking that right around now Father I feel like I could drink up a cup of coffee. Do you take coffee?

  Unless you’ve got some there’s no point in asking.

  Yes. Coffee would be good.

  You don’t understand do you?

  Understand what Father?

  Just keep walking.

  Understand what Father?

  ....

  Understand what Father?

  ....

  9.

  EVERYTHING HAD TAKEN on a yellow hue as if a jaundiced veil had been drawn. The landscape had a flatness to it. The mountains stood tall and the cirrus clouds streaked across the sky high above them but it was as if distance had diminished and perspective no longer existed. The clouds now appeared within reach. Everything appeared within reach. A flat collage of dead shapes. The girl’s head swam from the wanting. The hunger. The yellow tones turned ochre. Her body seemed to separate at the waist. Her upper lip was wet. She wiped it and licked her finger. Tasted salt.

  Thirst and hunger. Hung
er and thirst. Both were doing battle and making the girl delirious. Toying with her perceptions. Her legs and arms were hollow. Her tongue torrid. Her fingers trembled and tried to take flight. Vision skewed. Sounds bent. Fear.

  She needed drink and she needed food. Her and the bairn. Milk and water was all that had passed their lips in two days.

  The drone and the people and the girl in the river was miles back.

  She had left the wood behind them and skirted a hamlet crossed a fell and walked without direction. Without thought. The baby’s breathing was unsteady now. Dangerously so. The clock of it was ticking now.

  The hills took them.

  When she stopped to urinate it burned. When she held the bairn to her breast to suckle nothing came. She tried to trick it – deceive it with her tender teat – but the baby was not fooled and it cried and kicked and screamed until it resembled a red cabbage swaddled in rags.

  She needed a stream. A puddle or a stagnant sump would do. Anything to drink from. She’d even share a trough with beasts or suck the damp from pond weed if she had a chance. Let it turn her stomach sour; she didn’t care.

  The fathers have eaten a sour grape and the children’s teeth are set on edge.

  The gratification of those first mouthfuls would be enough.

  Thirst as her tormentor.

  Thirst like she had never known. A thirst to turn the world yellow. Make her eyeballs tingle and her throat scream. Lips crack. Teeth itch. Panic.

  It was more than a craving now and greater than necessity. This thirst was controlling her. It was a form of torture that infected every dry dusty moment. It was shutting her senses down slowly. Sending warning signals. Telling her she was stupid and irresponsible and not deserving of life. Not deserving of the child.

  The girl stopped then lowered herself down on straining knees. Her hand hovered over the till and dry shale. She picked out a pebble. Small and flat like a penny bit. Wiped it on her cuff. Placed it under her tongue. Held it there and swallowed. Got some saliva going. Swallowed hard. Got more spittle going. Sucked the stone. Then walked on.