The Lanyard (9 page)

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

It was not yet dark when the boy walked back into the camp, conscious of the snap of twigs under his feet that seemed to carry all the way out to the edge of the trees and reflect off the bristles, breaking apart the sound, fracturing it, until it was not a sharp echo of his feet anymore but more the sound of a metal brush sweeping around a sink, the sort of noise his mother made when she was angry, turned to stain eradication to try and lose her thoughts, to try and lose his.

He had the taste of so many branches that had become wind and lifted his hair as he had struggled back, towards where the sky was changing colour and the first stars began to shine. It was not yet dark but it was becoming, and the shadow of his half-broken body stretched away from him in the low sun, all the way to the edge of the fire, and then past, getting shrouded by trees in the direction which his father's tent sat, glowing as if a bright bulb span light within.

Looking on the dull flush, he thought for a moment about times past when they had shared tents rather than sleeping apart, divided by the zipa, by the rift, the valley down which he ran only to return like elasticated cord; he remembered the first time they had camped together. It could have been a trial run for this moment, in fact, sited not in the forest but part-behind a crumbled wall under the gaze of one of their old houses, not far from the back door, where the ground gave little resistance to the pegs that he now felt hammering into the side of his head, since the residing memory he had of it, could create of it, was not of the night itself, not what they had done, or said, or experienced, but instead the next day, the new light, dawn, reflected in the drops of liquid, on the grass, on the side of the tent, in the morning when they awoke, giant spheres of dew that he rarely saw, since, ever, before, as if the sky had wept for a memory that one time, just that time, a memory of all of that ocean of blue light in the sky, had wept hard, and the tears had not dried.

Why did they stop sharing, sleeping one alongside the other? When? Was it because of a lack of space? Because they had stumbled upon another tent, stuffed at the top of another house, in a storage room, in a shed? Or because his father no longer wanted to, was giving the boy what he seemed to want, given how he had abandoned the camp and gone off on his own first shot?

He stared past the tent to the trees, greedy with long needled leaves. Maybe he shouldn't feel so bad. This trip hadn't been his idea; he hadn't had a choice. And he had sat in the car with his father all the way up, he had slept in it, and walked out to camp. They had spent plenty of time together. And sure, they had some fun, but sometimes the boy liked to be on his own, too, in the yard behind one of their houses or somewhere else, and his father should have known that after all the times, and yet, and yet... He couldn't fulfil the argument. It didn't fit. It didn't settle. For although he had wanted time alone, after he had stumbled upon another child he had not exactly complained.

The sky began to take on the colour of those dark trees with the branches that seemed to reach across to the middle, becoming tinged with the same green, as if spreading with veins that pumped chilled blood, offering the prospect of blankness, of no thought, the kind of space that the soul inhabits in sleep, at least until the dream comes, until the threats of the day find ways to prod back. He took a step towards his father's tent but then held his feet, toes angled to push, but not continuing, distracted by a crackle from the campfire, which didn't appear lit, just a pile of wood that had begun to collapse. He walked closer to it, until colours grew at the base, cycling from red to white, small flames lifting their heads and bowing as he approached, as if they sensed his presence. He crouched close to the edge and held out his hand, letting the flames try to lap his skin with their invisible tongues, enjoying the gentle warmth.

To the side of the fire was what looked to be some thick vegetable soup in a brass coloured bowl and a spoon sticking out. The surface had congealed, and on bending down to sample it his foot slipped from under him and the spoon flipped and rattled onto a rock. He froze. Nothing changed about his father's tent, the glow continued unaltered, become some sort of baby refusing to leave the womb, with its own mind and it's own purpose. That noise had probably not carried anyway, although he knew sounds like that, unnatural sounds, soft metal on rock, often did.

He picked up one of the skewers that had been left on a stone by side of the fire, the sort they used to roast meat, still clean, unused. He dropped it on the rock after the spoon so that it too clattered and fell onto the ground. He left it where it landed. He kicked a pebble after it and it trundled along slowly and then skipped up and died.

His father must have known he was back. He must have heard the footsteps, the movement, the sounds. Thus the only conclusion could be that he was angry, pissed off; perhaps rightly, using his patented silent treatment. It happened sometimes. It happened a lot. And normally it would take time to solve. That wasn't a big ask, but not so comfortable when they were separated out from the rest here and sealed off, when he had done something stupid like this, like rushing off into the forest with a girl he didn't know, holding hands, kissing, finding things out.

Why hadn't either of his parents ever spoken of disease and giant pyres? Or if they had, why not to him. Maybe they thought it was better not to say. Maybe they fought. How his father had hinted about letting him find his own way, not telling him what to do, how to be. So should he ask? Could he ask? Perhaps as a way to break through, to talk. The fire seemed not to know, the warm glow only suggesting that there were indeed some things, some thoughts, best never to tell a loved one, a child. Things that were too hard to bare, too hard to stomach, too bright to observe on their own, set apart, like a star seen up close, like the sun, that needed to die down some.

Could he imagine himself in that position instead? Were there things he wouldn't have told the girl he just met, even if pressed, like how he couldn't look her in the eye real good, but had forced himself? That he sometimes imagined there were others watching him too when he was outside, and was scared had come to life and embraced him?

He sat by the charred logs and tried to compare the construction of the fire to the majesty of that stack of bodies he had seen, unsure as to why he kept thinking on it, reflecting on it, as if it was some pre-burned memory that would flash whenever he tried to forget, like the afterglow of the sun when he stared too hard, when she did, through the shadow shapes of the leaves, seeing in that stack a whole pile of desire to touch, to grab, to hold, to take it and set light, to let it set him.

He held his hand to the flame at the camp and imagined it leaping onto his skin with its claws, disappearing as he closed his fist, crushing it into his skin, an orange fin swimming on his palm when he opened his hand, willing him to close his fingers again, to absorb it like a droplet of snow, take it with him, take it with her, always, together, in his heart, in his head now, running all the way back to the heap of bodies he had fallen for, that she had, to set them away, to see them burn, to burn him, to burn her.

He wiped his hand across his shirt. It clung for a moment near his chest, as if sticky with sweat. Could the pyre light if he merely touched it? He shook his head. What if he used the lighter he had found not far from here instead? It had seemed a chance thing back then, but not now. Suddenly there could be a purpose to it, wondering how hard would it be to ignite if he tried -- a simple thing surely, what with all of those bodies full of fat like downed birds, which would smoulder at a push, would spit and crack with globs of white fire, in his head, in theirs, a storm of ball lightning rather than the yellow ribbons, dazzling like fireflies, like the sparks from hot metal crashing to the ground, like small bolts of lightning creating their own clap of thunder a million times per second.

He tried to pull away from the image, found himself on his knees, head rocking close to the ground, staring at the shapes of spirits twisting and dancing like the head of a drill turning into the earth.

Soon came the sound of scattered rain falling across leaves, the sound of the zip to the tent sliding open, tumbling down the line of teeth, the sound of someone struggling out of a superhero costume to prove they're a man, all sticky and pink with the sweat caused by pretending to be something else, hiding behind fabric, behind canvas, behind masks. That's what people would have said in the before, wasn't it? He had seen pictures, he had watched his parents behave the same way, stuck not with masks, not with costumes, not all the way, but half hats, half shirts, all of which mimic some long forgotten past, yet do not fully embrace it either, same way as hunters wear the skin of whatever they slay, while animals just eat.

The boy didn't turn around. He continued to gaze into the fire as if he was trapped in it, in an orange jail that surrounded him on all sides, columns of white, pillars of salt, climbing up into the night.

"Where the hell have you been?" his father said.

The boy did not respond. A moment later there was a hard knock on the shoulder.

"Hey, did you eat?"

The boy shook his head.

"Aren't you half starved?"

"No."

"I thought you weren't coming back. That something had happened...Where were you? I looked for you."

"I followed the cairns..."

"You got lost?"

"Yeah," the boy said staring at the ground. He was glad of the escape offered by this route. He thought about how much he should say, how much he should know, or if he could forget, if he should forget all of the bits in between that tugged at the skin between his eyes, rattled around his head, busting to get out of him like a ghost trapped in a loft. He stared at the charred edges of sticks coming out of the fire, imagining a small version of him and her popping out of a tuft of grass nearby and standing looking up at this thing in awe.

His father turned the boy around and narrowed his gaze as if half-thinking, half-worrying, trying to work something out of his head.

"You shouldn't go off alone like that," he said.

"I know."

"You're just a child."

"But..."

"I know, all that stuff I said... but suddenly growing up overnight is not the best solution to being a child." He pushed his hands hard into his pockets as if to stop them from pulling at his hair. He turned away and took a step towards the dark trees at the edge of the clearing.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the boy said after him.

"That you maybe think we talk about things one time, and now you are on your own and that's that. Ready to take on the world."

"I don't think that."

"There's no rush."

"But I
don't
think that."

"I can tell you do."

"Do not."

"All that talk about never having the chance to do anything else. I get it, like I said. You should have checked with me first. You will."

The boy shrugged.

"Maybe your mother was right... What were you thinking? Huh?"

"I don't know... Maybe I just want to grow up so I don't have to keep wanting to grow up?" the boy said. He wasn't sure really what that meant. It was a thought that he began to release before it was finished, before it was ready, a thought that ran away from his head and found it had no way to go back.

"You want independence?"

"I don't know."

"You just need to be slightly more careful."

"I will. I was. Sorry."

"I guess the best advice I can give is that you shouldn't
exactly
rebel
against
the world. Your mother said that to me, once. And maybe she's right. Rebellion implies you are trying to change things, but it's better to find a way to... well, cheat."

"Cheat?"

"Yeah. Because the best way is to live with things the way they are, but to do what you want without others finding out. I mean, I guess that's kind of what you pulled today. Difference was, I found out. And now there has to be consequences to that..."

"Oh."

"Or should be."

The boy adjusted his position, uncrossing his legs and pushing them out behind him in a crooked shape. "But you said cheating was bad."

"I know, I know. But this is slightly different from a board game or something, and it's different when you are playing against me, because then I am the authority and I don't want you to cheat, obviously."

"So cheating is ok, from some points of view."

"Yeah. It's something that everybody tries when they're young, without even realising it. I know I did. You try it to test whether it works. I don't even think it's a conscious choice, I mean, I don't remember it being. But I am sure that in some ways it's a natural response, and I know parents will say don't do it, don't cheat, but what they mean is don't cheat
me
, you know, that's what I am saying now. Maybe good parents
should
tell you to cheat. Absolutely. They should explain why you
have
to cheat, because if they are good parents they can probably have only got there by cheating themselves, not cheating you but cheating the system, giving you the chance to have the life you want. Because if you just submit to everything, you know, if you just follow the rules then nothing changes. And if you rebel you will be destroyed. So you evade authority. You submit to authority, but you try to subvert it. Does any of that make sense?"