The Journey (5 page)

O
n the first night after the company left Ifeka they camped on a low windswept plain near a small lake. There was a strange tang in the air, a taste on the wind, that Mayon told Argus was the first sharp bite of the ocean. Argus was excited and enchanted. He sat late that night at the big fire, enjoying the cold salt ruffles of air on his face, until the only people left around the coals were Ruth, Mayon, the male-female Tiresias, the storytellers Delta and Cassim, the spidery Titius and a dark, attractive young girl named Temora, who had been employed as a stringer just before the convoy left Ifeka.

Argus was only half listening to the conversation, which was about the town of Wintle, where they were headed. With zest and good humour, Ruth was recounting the story of her last trip to Wintle, when she had apparently married a man who had deserted her a week later. Argus did not know how much, if any, of the story was true, but it did not seem to matter to anyone else. ‘A good story is a good story' was the creed of the professional storytellers of the fair, and Argus was inclined to agree with them.

‘It was a wonderful honeymoon,' Ruth sighed romantically, ‘until we had an argument one night over who should put the cat out. Well, you know how hard it is for me to get up at nights. Every other night he put it out, but this night he dug his little heels in and nothing would shift him. Maybe I'd worn him out.' She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘So there was nothing else for it but for me to get up and do it myself. Oh, I wasn't half mad. So after I'd put the cat out I came back and put him out too. He kicked and struggled but I wasn't having any. I threw him out the door, down the steps, and that was it. After I'd closed the door on him I never saw him again.'

‘Yes, I remember,' said Cassim. ‘He was only wearing a pair of shorts. Jud took pity on him and gave him a bed for the night but he went early the next morning, taking Jud's only good set of clothes. And that was the last any of us ever saw of him.'

‘Well, he could have been worse off,' Ruth sighed. ‘Remember Marma, the fat lady who used to work on the east coast years ago? Did you ever hear what became of her and her man?'

‘No, what happened?' Mayon asked.

‘Well, she passed out as they were going up a set of stairs one day in the house that they'd bought for their old age. And she fell back on top of the little fellow and crushed him to death. She came to an hour later and found him dead underneath her.'

None of the company seemed to be much moved by this sad tale, except the new girl, Temora. ‘It must be hard being a fat lady,' she said quietly.

‘Well,' said Ruth, delighted at finding a sympathetic ear, ‘it's hard when you have to walk any distance, especially if it's uphill. There's no gainsaying that. And it's not nice when people make unkind remarks to you, like they do in the tent sometimes. But most people just enjoy a chat. I'd have to say, all things considered, that it's been a good life. You see, I've been especially blessed.'

‘How's that?' asked Temora.

‘Well, you see dear, being a lusus, it means you're given a very fortunate life.'

‘What's a lusus?' Argus whispered to Mayon.

‘A kind of a freak,' the man whispered back.

But Temora was pursuing the point. ‘How do you figure that, fortunate?' she asked. ‘I mean, no offence, but I guess most people think if you're born a lusus you've been given a pretty tough deal.'

‘Oh no,' the fat woman remonstrated as though the idea had never occurred to her before. ‘Oh no, quite the opposite. I mean, everyone's a freak anyway. I'm just lucky that I don't have to work at it. I make a good living out of being myself. I don't have to do anything; people pay to see me as I am, whereas other people have to go and dig potatoes or trade or fish or sew clothes in order to keep themselves alive. They're unlucky that their freakishness just isn't as obvious as mine, so they can't make much of it. Then there's the ones who worry that people can't tell that they're a lusus, so they set out to make themselves a bit more conspicuous. They don't believe people can see it when it's on the inside of them, so they recreate it on the outside, just to be sure. They're the ones who dress funny or paint their bodies or mark themselves. Do you know, I knew a man once, he had messages carved into his skin, all over his body, whole sentences, so you could read him like you'd read a book.'

‘What did they say?' asked Mayon with interest.

‘Oh, all sorts of things,' Ruth chuckled. ‘I remember up his left leg it said: “We always go too far.” ' She shook with helpless mirth. ‘Now ain't that the truth! It's always the simplest words are the truest.' She became serious again. ‘But you know, all he was trying to do was to let people know he was a lusus. As if everyone doesn't know that about everyone else already!'

‘How do you mean, everyone is?' Argus asked shyly.

‘Oh my dear,' the fat lady said. ‘We're all different, aren't we? So we're all freaks to each other. Now you look at Mayon here. The way his eyebrows meet in the middle like that. And have you ever noticed his hands? His little finger's as long as his fourth finger.' Mayon gravely held his hands out for inspection, while Ruth continued. ‘There ain't a person been born that you can't find something like that about them. But it's not just on the outside, it's on the inside too. Take the other day, when Mayon was reading his book by candlelight, and he got too close to the candle and the book caught on fire — why, everyone else was running around looking for a bucket full of water, and Mayon, what was he doing? Sitting there laughing, that's what.

‘And another thing, you watch him when he's about to start eating. He closes his eyes for a minute and says something — very quietly, so that no-one notices but me. And you ask him what he thinks about burials, and what he wants done with his body after he dies. You see, he's got different reactions and thoughts and opinions from everyone else, and so have we all, and that's another way we're all freaks.'

‘My nose has got a big bump in the middle,' said Argus. ‘And I've got a birthmark on my right leg.'

‘Course you have dear,' said Ruth. ‘It's all a matter of degree. With me, my fat's more obvious, and on a bigger scale than the bump in your nose, that's all. Now imagine if that bump was the size of a coconut. Why, you'd be able to have my kind of life then, and very lucky you'd think yourself too.'

‘I don't think I'm lucky,' said Tiresias, speaking for the first time. He was sitting in the shadows, and Argus could only just make out his slight, ambiguous figure.

‘No, well dearie, that's because you accept other people's judgements about you, instead of making up your own mind. You've got to look at yourself from your point of view, not someone else's, and decide for yourself what your good points are, and then what you don't like, and want to change. It's no good being unhappy because other people say you should be. Just like it's no good being happy when everyone tells you how well off you are. The things they think you should feel good or bad about mightn't be the things that mean much to you. People tell you to listen to the song of the thrush, when in your heart you know yours is the song of the night owl. You've got to find your own music. It's already playing inside you; all you have to do is listen a little harder, so it's not drowned out by all the noise around about.'

The last of the coals were still glowing and putting out a surprising amount of warmth. Assisted by Cassim and Mayon, Ruth got to her feet and, with farewells to all, lumbered away to bed. The others too began to leave. Argus and the young girl Temora were left to put out the fire, but they hesitated to do it, so settled was its glow.

‘I like Ruth,' Temora said at last. ‘She's so kind.'

‘Yes,' Argus agreed, ‘after a while you forget that she's fat, and you just think of her as a nice, friendly lady.'

‘Isn't it good the way that happens?' Temora said. ‘It's the same with the twins. Already I forget that they're connected — they seem such different personalities. But it usually takes longer to get over your first impressions.'

‘It works in a sort of opposite way too,' Argus said very nervously, driven to take risks by his growing liking for this dark-haired girl. ‘When I first saw you, I thought you were really attractive looking, and I still think so, but that's only on the outside. Until I know you better I won't know what you're like on the inside — what you're really like. It's the opposite but the same, because with the freaks who work here you have to get over your first negative impression, which stops you from seeing them as people; and with someone who's very good-looking, you have to get over your first positive impression, which still stops you from seeing her as a person.'

‘Yes, exactly,' Temora said. ‘I hate it when people comment on my looks, because I know they're saying nothing at all about me. Absolutely nothing.'

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, not an uncomfortable silence, but one rich with the promise of future possibilities. Finally, however, Temora yawned and stretched. ‘I'm going to bed,' she said. ‘Do you want me to put out the fire, or are you staying up?'

‘I'll stay up,' Argus answered. He sat gazing into the coals for another half an hour, as though he would find the answers to all questions there.

T
he convoy of wagons and caravans moved slowly, at the pace of its slowest member, so that it took two more days to reach the coast. Argus was impatient, yet he passed the time profitably enough. Mayon taught him how to juggle and Parara, the more extroverted of the conjoined twins, told him many stories of their lives in sideshows and fairs. Lavolta interjected occasional comments, usually sour ones, and Argus came to realise that the taunts and blows they suffered had deeply wounded one twin while leaving the other virtually unscathed.

The land was becoming flatter, the ground sandier and the breeze saltier. On their third day out from Ifeka they pitched camp at about four in the afternoon, in a sheltered spot that Mayon said was as close to the sea as they would be for a while. Argus hurried through his jobs, then obtained permission to go off on his own. With his heart beating he set out for the long line of sandhills in the distance, jogging and walking, his face pointing up as he sniffed the surf like an overjoyed dog.

When he reached the line of sandhills, about an hour from the camp, he found there were more dunes concealed behind them. His enthusiasm slowed a little as he climbed them, and then more hills. Sinking in and out of the sand at each step was tiring; it reminded him of times at home when he and his sister had played on the mud floors of dams that were drying up. When he did reach the final crest it came as a surprise: he had ceased to think about his reasons for ploughing through the endless sand.

But suddenly there it was — the wonderful ocean, fretting at the edge of a wonderful beach. Argus felt mad delight. He did not know what to look at first: the infinity of beach curving away to his left and right, or the infinity of flecked blue stretching out in front. He had never known before how something so empty could contain so much. He laughed and laughed. Making wild chortling noises, shedding his clothes and inhibitions, he ran down towards the edge of the water some distance away.

When he had thrown off his last piece of clothing he turned and ran backwards, pissing as he ran, wetting the sand in a pattern of huge zig-zags. A series of untidy somersaults then brought him to the ocean itself, and he stood with his feet in the water, watching the exhausted waves froth around his ankles. ‘Fantastic!' he laughed excitedly. ‘Fantastic! Fantastic!'

There was plenty of heat left in what had been a hot day, and Argus advanced a little further into the water, pushing against it with his shins. He looked around anxiously to make sure that he still had the beach to himself. Reassured, he waded on, gasping as waves broke against him, until he was up to his waist. ‘Amazing,' he muttered to himself. He was now at the crucial point in the surf. Ahead of him the waves were breaking in agitated crashes; beyond was the calmness of the big swell. Behind him the breakers that had spent themselves in orgiastic climaxes were regrouping and surging again, in weak imitation of their earlier thunder; but Argus stood in the calm between the two lines of surf, exulting in the power of the water that broiled around his body.

Then, with a triumphant whoop he flung himself forward, lifting his knees and trying to run, charging at the roaring madness of white ahead of him. He reached it and flung himself into it; but he knew instantly, before his feet had even left the sand, that he had made a mistake, that here was a power beyond his experience and beyond his imagining. Suddenly, for the first time that he could remember, he had no control at all over what happened to him, no control over his body. The wave tossed him and rolled him and threw him around as though he were a rabbit held in the jaws of a dog, shaken furiously in all directions.

Even in the middle of the worst of it all, he knew that it would only last a few seconds, but those few seconds seemed never to end. And he failed to realise how quickly the next wave would be on him. As the maëlstrom passed he found the ocean floor with his feet again and stood up, gasping for breath and wiping the water from his eyes. No sooner had he done so than the next breaker exploded over him before he could see it. His lungs were still empty of air, and he found himself caught in another cauldron of white violence.

Argus was close to panic. He was thrown heavily into the sand. With no breath left in him he felt that he would not survive; if his first dumping had seemed to last a long time this second one was interminable. He was desperately tempted to open his mouth but still had enough reason left to resist. He knew he was in danger but did not know how to begin getting out of it. A vague instinct told him that someone would come and rescue him, but he also knew that the deserted beach could not suddenly grow people.

When the second wave had finished with him he had the sense to gulp some air before the onslaught of the third. To his relief it seemed less turbulent than the other two; he did not realise for a few moments that it was because an undertow was carrying him out to sea, but he understood what was happening when he tried to stand again in the wave's aftermath. He had a moment's sensation of slipping and thought he was going right under, but the water came to his neck, lapping under his chin as he desperately tried to keep his head up. Distracted by this, he did not think to gasp a proper breath again, and started to panic as he felt himself swept off his feet. This time it was not the cascading surf that was his enemy but the savage back-pull of the rip. Argus was helpless as it carried him, kicking and struggling, well out beyond the line of the breakers, so that he was floating in the big undulations of the swell. His head was an insignificant dot in the vast green movement of water.

Argus could swim; he and Sunday had swum many times in the dams and creeks of the farm, but this situation was very different. One of the dams at home — their favourite one — had been too deep in the middle for them to stand, but a few lazy strokes had always been sufficient to carry them to the shallows. And the water had always been passive — the swimmer was in control. Argus knew that he could float and tread water for a time, but he did not know if he could defeat the undertow, and he did not know how he would get through the surf again, assuming he could get that far.

As one of the swells lifted him Argus twisted around to get a glimpse of the beach. He was horrified to see how far away it was. He was also amazed to realise that he was being carried along to his left, and was now quite close to the headland. For the first time he became aware of cold, and could feel his limbs begin to tremble, not only with cold but also with fear. The boy strove to think clearly. What was he to do? Again his mind came close to being overwhelmed by panic. He had a momentary vision of his parents' faces when they heard the news that their other child was gone, and he recalled his father's voice, as clearly as though the man were at his shoulder now. And he remembered his father's favourite saying, one that had irritated the boy on many occasions in the past. ‘Don't bring me problems, bring me solutions,' his father would say when Argus tried to tell him of a sheep that had got out onto the road, or a tree that had fallen on a fence, or a heifer that had sunk into the mud of a drying dam.

Now Argus summoned up the last shreds of his fragmented mind. What was the solution here? He tried a few experimental strokes towards the shore but knew he was making no progress. Then he tried swimming at a less direct angle and found that he was able to make some headway. But his body was shivering so much it was hard for him to make his limbs move vigorously again. He started yelling at himself through chattering teeth, abusing himself in an effort to get a response, trying to tap the reserves of energy that he knew would be there. His arms and legs slowly began to function, and even as his chest and muscles cried out in protest he began to make some progress.

After about ten or fifteen minutes Argus was drawing close to the wall of breaking waves again, but new problems were looming on his left, as he drifted steadily closer to the rocks at the end of the beach. By now he was swimming in a kind of fog of pain and weariness, in which his mind continued to function but was unable to motivate or inspire him. He was aware of the need to get through the breakers before he was carried onto the rocks, but it was his reflexes rather than his will that made his arms move faster and his legs kick harder.

In the event it proved to be easier than Argus had anticipated. The point at which he was attempting to come in had little undertow and, when he swam into the surf, his heart riddled with fear, the waves picked him up and carried him, so that he involuntarily became a bodysurfer, if a rather awkward one. He spoilt the ride quite quickly by attempting to stand up; he went sprawling on his knees, then rolled over in the froth and foam, but so great was his relief at feeling sand again that he did not mind its abrasive texture. He staggered to his feet and ran out of the water, still afraid of the way it pulled and strained at him, even though he knew that the danger was over.

Argus collapsed onto all fours on the damp sand, panting and sobbing like an animal. He knew how lucky he had been. Although he felt at first that he had not even the strength to stand, energy came back into his body more quickly than he expected, and after a few minutes he could walk back along the beach, to the spot where he had begun his swim in such carefree circumstances. The walk gradually warmed him and there was still plenty of daylight left when he reached his clothes. He dressed wearily thinking of the long hike still ahead of him. Suddenly he was feeling dizzy and weak. Yet he knew, as he had known in the water, that there was no rescue about to happen. No-one was about to drop out of the clouds and fly him back to the camp, or better still, back home. His fate was in his own hands; he had to get himself back to the security and warmth of Mayon's caravan. With a new maturity of determination he started on the first sandhill.