The Seventh Day (18 page)
Authors: Joy Dettman
As the years of my childhood passed, so too had the horror of Granny's burned features. The hideous became the normal. My young eye learned to make its own comparisons, as it did with the grey dust and the soft green of Pa's pumpkin patch, and their sweet yellow flowers.
I recall asking her once where we lived on the world map. She had pointed to a pink shape. âThat's Morgan Hill, girl,' she said. âAnd that's all there is.'
Back then, I believed that shape to be the Morgan acres, the point at the top was our hill! Lord, why did she confuse me so? Why did she not speak to me in words I understood?
I recall the day I saw a flying machine gliding in the sky and it had been as free and silent as an eagle. I recall her fear of it, and my lack of fear. I had run out to the yard and she had followed me, grasped my hair, her free hand hitting hard as she dragged me indoors.
âIt's a searcher,' she had screamed.
âWhat is he searching for?'
âFor what I stole from him.' She had laughed then, and sat down hard on a chair, laughing, holding her breast, coughing and near choking on her laughter. I brought water and stood back, watching the patchwork of her face glow with reds and purple-blue until I began to fear that the fine parchment would split wide and peel away and her white bones would spring free.
It was long before I asked my question. âWhat did you steal from him?'
âHis future.'
âHow can you steal a future, Granny?'
âYou steal his children, girl.'
My questions died long before Granny died. We had placed her in the earth, closed her door, and I had near stopped my thinking of her by the night the grey men came.
How well I remember that night. I remember the noise of the giant flying machine and the dogs barking and Lenny â he had sent me to the barn to hide while he and old Pa waited on the verandah with their dogs and dart guns.
âWe ain't trading and we ain't giving nothing away,' Pa had spoken his greeting while I spied on the three funny little men, not fearing them at all. Nor had I feared the two who stood behind them with the light-guns.
Why had I not feared them? Because I had known them â or known others like them.
But one gun then made a fine line of purple light that felled Pa and Lenny had tossed his dart gun to the earth. Then I had feared the guns and the little men and I had not waited to see more but hid in the loft as Lenny had bade me hide.
That is where he found me.
He carried me to the kitchen and held me, and the stink of his sweat was in my nostrils, and the strange smell of the little grey men, strong, as they stripped me of the rags I wore, then cleansed me with fluid from a flask before using their tools on me to steal my blood and to pry into my ears and my mouth. And all the time there was the chill of their small, grey, plasti-wrapped hands.
And . . . and I was on the table.
And Pa, he was on the floor, a gun at his head.
And Lenny. He shook so hard as he held me for my tormentors, who spoke together of my blood and of fever and of immunity and immaturity while studying me as I might study a strange beetle blown in on the wind. Lenny did not speak, but his hands on me dripped wet with the sweat of fear.
Granny was dead. Her pain had ended. Mine was beginning. The grey men gave me much pain when they wished to study the inner parts of me. I screamed and kicked out at one of the little men, sent him to the floor, and I rolled from the table, and with my hands tried to cover my nakedness from their eyes.
Better that I had run for a knife.
âControl her,' a grey man demanded, and Lenny grasped me again, held me, and for the first time the men used their paralysing tool on my neck.
âThe breeding females are difficult to control,' one said to Lenny. I remember that, though I did not understand the words, or Lenny's reply.
âShe ain't of breeding age.'
âShe will be.'
I remember little after that. My limbs were no longer my own to command, and so fast I lost command of my mind. Only scattered segments remain of that night and the days that followed, only shredded newsprint tossed on the wind. Only the bright light of the grey men. Only the dark of my bed. Only the pink drink when I thirsted.
I drank it. It was sweet and cool and calming. I liked pink.
My bedding altered. The scent of my room altered, but the little man beside my bed never altered, though each day he wore a different name on his shoulder ornament. Stanley. Sidley. Salter. But always those same protruding grey marble eyes. Always that same small grey hand offering cordial or stealing my blood or delving into the inner parts of me. Painful. Intrusive.
The cordial brought calmness, acceptance of their intrusion, brought sleep. And soon what was sleep, and what wakefulness? And time, what was time?
I did not know, nor do I now know, how much time passed. There was the cordial and the pills when I opened my eyes, and sometimes in the night the harsh roar of the flying machine and the shuddering of the windows when it flew away. And there came the nightly chorus of the wailing and the screaming that was not of my making. I knew it was not of my making. My screams had been silenced. I had learned that screaming brought only the grey men with the tool they used on my neck, the tool that made my limbs become as wood. I did not wish to be wooden so I did not scream.
Then one day there was the new thump-a-thump-a-thumping in my waking, in my sleeping, and there was the bright white light overhead, like a brilliant moon.
I watched that moon, for the ones outside had been stolen from me. I liked that moon that cleansed my room of shadow, and I became aware of the bed I lay on, and I became aware of the straps that bound my hands and my feet. I became aware of the light coverings on my bed and of the softness of the pillow beneath my head.
I did not see Lenny and Pa, did not hear them, and thought them dead. I heard only the flying machine, saw only the little grey men â one or three I did not know, only that each day he wore a different name on his shoulder ornament.
Slowly there came a rhythm to the days, the cleansings and the cordial, the pills, the sleeping and the waking, and there came a great peace to me, so deep that I cared not when the shining tools were brought to my room, or that I was clad only in my so-clean skin and nothing more.
I remember the day and the blood of the first immature foetus.
Two.
I remember the grey hands placing the unformed beings into small plasti-containers, and I knew not what they were, only that they had been drawn from out of me. And I understood not how these grey men had made these things from my flesh.
I was a child.
I was a sow.
I screamed while the grey men clucked over the foetus like hens over their new chicks.
Then they took them and they went away and I screamed.
Lenny was not dead. He came to my room, clad in a fitting garment of green that clung as a skin to his broad shoulders and chest, that shaped his short tree-trunk legs. He did not much look like Lenny in his new clothes, but he sounded like Lenny.
âGet some food into you, girl, then we'll get you out of this frekin room. They aint coming back â not for a time. Not taking you either â not for a time.'
He had freed my hands from the wrist straps that bound them but I did not wish to leave my bed and I wanted no food. I screamed long until Pa came to lean against my door, so thin, so pale, weak from the hurt of their light-gun, and still clothed in the hides of a wild man, though never again the wild man he had been.
I screamed at him also. The men could not calm me.
Pa brought my cordial. He sat on my bed, held the mug for me while I gulped it down. And he brought more.
âIt will do her no frekin good, Pa. It's poison. You seen what it done to me when I drank the shit.'
âBetter she was poisoned,' the old one had said. âBetter we was all poisoned, boy. We shoulda fought them little bastards to the death, died with heads high, boy.'
I remember that.
Lenny it was who later brought me the pills. Lenny it was who for many days lifted me from my bed and carried me into the sun, sat me in Granny's rocking chair.
The grey men were gone. Slowly, so slowly I began to believe that my nightmare was over. They were gone.
But their cordial and pills remained, and their strange machines, and their fence, and the clothing they had brought for us, and the strange food.
But they came again, to begin again.
And again. And again.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
There was great celebration and rejoicing in the western city when the copters were sighted, and many came to the air-road centre to view the unloading of the female bounty.
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And there was much sport to be seen, for amongst the feral females there were those who wept, and those who spat, and those who pleaded with strange accents. And some were clad in tattered garments of the old world, and some were clad in hides, and some were unclad.
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And there were those who were of a different colour to the norm. And those of a different species to the norm. And some were taller than a man, and some small as an infant but with the breasts of an adult.
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And much talk and interest they raised, and they were documented and likenesses made of them, and these likenesses were traded for cordial at the dividing fence.
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And in recreation halls of the eastern city the labourers exchanged their promissory notes for these likenesses, and they gambled so that they might possess the prizes for a time.
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Thus it came to pass that the Chosen weekly displayed a feral female at the recreation halls, where the labourers might spend their promissory notes on the viewing of the spitting fiends.
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And lotteries were held and the prize was a mating with a gigantic female who could not be tamed by the cordial, for she was as the man-eaters of the old world who ate of man and painted their bodies with the blood of their prey.
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And the High Priest and the High Chosen came to the recreation hall to award the prize and they remained to watch the sport.
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And the winner was the loser
.
The days have been fine, and for many I have found occupation away from Aaron's pages. This morning the rain comes again, and strong, so I return to Aaron's room thinking to save his pages from a flood. The room remains dry. I sit a while glancing at his June page, then I see in July he tells of a storm.
July: Someone left the window open in here last night, and the wind came and scattered the pages everywhere. I nearly chucked it in the bin, but Mrs Logan came in and she stopped me. She said I'm doing an excellent job, and I'm the only one of the kids who has kept going with the diary and that I have to keep on doing it. The Logans have moved in with us, because Mrs Logan is Mum's best friend and she's getting a baby soon, and we're right up the top of the mountain in the fresh air and if our cows didn't get the animal disease, then we mightn't get the human disease either.
Heaps of people in the cities have got it, like there's no more school anywhere, because all anyone has to do is breathe on you and you're good as dead and the Prime Minister is on the news all the time saying stuff, and the health people are giving warnings, and it will probably be okay once summer comes because the hot weather might kill the bugs, but Mr Logan, who is a smart-arse, says the hot weather will make it worse, because Tommy Martin heard him say it. Also, he heard him say that Gran's fall-out shelter might come in handy because Retribution is still heading towards earth.
We used to have two spare bedrooms until the Logans moved in. Now we've just got the study. And today Dad asked the Martins to move in with us and they'll have to sleep in the sunroom. Two bathrooms used to be plenty when it was just us. Since the Logans came, everyone is always waiting to get to the loo and Emma has to share her room with Dallas, and if the Martins come, I'll have to share with Tommy and Jake and we'll be like sardines packed in a can. Mum's got about umpteen million cans of sardines and I hate them.
August: Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. And I'm sick of this, and I'm sick of everything. The End.
September: I don't even know why I'm writing this, but I am anyway, because we're not allowed to watch the television any more because it's always bad news, Mum says and she won't let us watch it. They watch it. It's like they don't want us to know what's happening. As if we're deaf or something. Tommy Martin knows everything they know, because he sort of creeps up and listens, and they're always talking about it. Like how many died and like even though plague got to Australia and people are dying of it, the stupid fighting idiots in other countries are still dropping bombs and shooting people.
I turn another page, and another, and read of food once more and the Logans and the
Toyota
which has been out again.
November: I forgot October. Sorry October. We haven't seen anyone for weeks. We've hardly been outside the rotten house, but today Dad and Mr Logan went off in the ute, just to see if there is anyone left in town. And they said there was a truck on the road before they got down to the town, and there was no driver in it. Anyway the truck was loaded with rice, and like it just stopped on the road. They loaded up the whole back of the ute with rice then went back for more. Dad says it's probably safe because it's sealed in plastic bags, and anyway, it has to be cooked, which would kill the virus.
Anyway, later they went right to the town and they said everyone is gone and Mr Hanson from the shop was gone too, and his shop looked as if it had been robbed. Like everything was gone. It wasn't much of a town to start with, just Mr Hanson's shop and the service station and the take-away place. It's like everyone is turning into robbers, like pinching things. Like pinching that rice. I hate rice. Anyway, I had to put on one of Mum's masks and rub Vicks around my nose and help unload the rice. We left it outside in the sun, just in case of germs, which the television used to say don't live long unless they get into a host or something, then we all had to have a wash in disinfectant and soak our clothes in it before we came inside.
The Logans brought plenty of food with them when they moved in because Mrs Logan started storing stuff as soon as Mum and Gran did. She got a lot of tinned meat and stuff, and even baby food and baby formula.
It's still November. Dad and Mr Logan have been out again and they found some salt at Mr Rowan's place. They've gone to Melbourne. Dad asked them if they wanted to move in with us but they had two daughters in Melbourne and they wanted to be with them. I hope they're all right, because it's gone mad down there. Like everyone pinching trucks and robbing people, like they've all turned into terrorists. Nobody has come to rob us yet and that's because no one knows we're here, like we were twenty-eight kilometres away from the town and no one came to the town because there was nowhere to go except here after you got there. Anyway, the Rowans left us their dog because she would have hated the city. Dad said we'd look after it, and Gran said, âOr eat it.' But she said it quietly. It's a huge dog, half Rottweiler and half great Dane. It's a good friendly dog, and big enough to scare off anyone thinking of robbing us.
The next page has been written with a blue pencil, and written well â Granny would have been pleased with Aaron's letters and his neat joining of the letters.
It's December, six days to Christmas and something has gone wrong with the power. No computer. No television. Every day, till it went off, the television said that Retribution wasn't going to hit anything, that America would nuke it. We're not getting any news, but Mr Martin said a bloke in a truck had a radio which told him they did nuke it over America but only knocked it in half or something. Dad said because America is in the northern hemisphere and we are in the south, we're going to be all right, and that's why everybody and their dogs have been coming to Australia like for months, and months, like maybe they knew it was going to hit up the top of the world. Before the television went off they used to say, remain calm. Do not leave your homes, and that was because Sydney and Melbourne were already stuffed full with illegal immigrants and sick people and the cops and the army were going crazy trying to sort it out.
If the worst comes to the worst, we can live on rice I suppose, until things get back to normal, except I hate rice and most of it is brown rice, which is worse than white rice and now we've got tons of it. Even if we don't die of the plague or the comet, or even the nuke, then we'll probably die of rice poison.
Me and Tommy Martin had a belly ache last night, only because we stuffed ourselves with plums and stuff while we were picking them. Mum and Mrs Martin are bottling everything. Dallas smart-arse Logan said me and Tommy had bloat, because we are animals, and it's lucky her father is an animal doctor.
The weather is getting crazy and that's because the wind from the northern hemisphere is mixing with the wind from the southern or something. That's what Mr Logan says. And anyway, Mum sat us all down last night and she said that this is a disaster and that we have to all work together and not fight, because fighting started the whole mess. And she said three families pooling their talents will do a lot better than one family by itself. And she said we won't be able to use the bathrooms because we have to keep the tank water to drink, not flush. Which is why Mr Martin has been digging a hole near the back verandah, to make an outdoor loo like in the old days. Stuff just disappears into the dirt, like mulch, and doesn't need water to flush it.
We've been cutting hay for weeks, and storing it in the garage. Dad and Mr Martin are going to bring some of his pigs up here. Not many, because they'll have to live in the barn too, because Mr Logan said it's going to get a bit like living in Russia, like keeping the stock inside in the winter. They do that in Russia because of the long winters, and if there is a nuke winter, which happens after a holocaust, Mr Logan said it might last for a long time. And guess what? Tommy Martin started singing âI'm dreaming of a white Christmas' and I started laughing and no one else did. Dallas Logan started howling.
I glance at the next page, made on a printing machine, though not the same machine. For a moment I think it is not Aaron's writings but another's. But he is back and I am pleased to read him. I do not wish to leave these people.
G'day again. Mr Martin knocked off the emergency generator from Mr Hanson's shop, and also pinched the diesel that runs the generator, and anyway Dad and Mr Logan were busy getting the outside loo finished so Mum and me and Tommy went out with Mr Martin and we wore masks like robbers and just knocked off diesel and anything for fuel and poured it into drums Mr Martin got from the dump. It felt weird, like we went into most of the houses in town, only after Mr Martin checked there were no dead bodies. Then we just helped ourselves to everything, like blankets and stuff. Anyway we drove for miles, and brought back the loads and Mum was all dirty, like I've never seen her look as if she needs a wash, but she didn't bother washing it off just unloaded it onto the verandah and got back in the truck and said, let's go.
The only person we saw was old Mr Graham who's got a garden and a bit of a hut in the valley. He's about ninety and he said he preferred to die on his own land. Mum tried to make him come with us to our house, but he wouldn't come. He gave us a ton of pumpkins and some other vegetables to take with us, and he said, Good luck, good health, and God bless you.
By the time we got back, Dad and Mr Logan had put the generator on the back verandah and connected it up. It started first pop and, as Gran said, âLet there be light', and there was light. She went and got her sewing machine out and sat it on the kitchen table and went back to making her aprons for the Red Cross. Anyway, Mrs Logan said I could use her old word processor, which isn't as good as our computer, except the computer has gone, like it's lost its brain. Like Mr Martin has lost his because he found some bottles and since they got back with his pigs he's been sitting on the back verandah looking at the sky, singing and wiping his brain out with what's in his bottles and Dad is getting cranky with him. That's because already he can't stand living with Mr and Mrs Martin who are arguing now. I can't standing living with Mr smart-arse Logan either, but I'm not allowed to be cranky. Anyway, the weather is getting worse. It's scary, like I'm watching a scary movie or reading a Steven King and it won't end. That's why I keep writing this stupid thing because I want to get to the end and go back to school. Got to go. Mr Logan is yelling. He wants to turn the light off and save the juice.
Dad dragged us out of bed this morning, even if it didn't look like morning, and we were stacking hay in the loft because the Martins are going to move their beds down to the garage so there is room to move in the house and we can stop tripping over each other and they can yell in peace. Me and Tommy were up the top of the barn and the others were tossing hay up and we all heard screaming, and Mum thinks Mrs Logan is having her baby and she runs over to the house and it's dark and she nearly trips over this dead bloke.
Mrs Logan shot him because he had a gun on the girls and he was trying to drag off Dallas, to probably â you know what. She's not even twelve yet. Anyway, Sarah told me that her mother was in the laundry where Mr Martin put his rifle that wasn't supposed to have any bullets in it. Lucky it did have bullets in it, because she just comes out with it and lines the bloke up in the rifle sights and fires. Like, POW, he's dead. She's cool-hand Luke. Her and Sarah are cool. Anyway we didn't stack any more hay. Dad and Mr Martin dragged the dead bloke down to the orchard and dug a hole and just threw him in and covered him over and they didn't even ring the cops, because we can't ring anyone. One good thing about it is the bloke left his truck near the fence and it's full of food and even jewellery and all sorts of stuff he's been robbing and it's got a tank full of diesel and even some cans of diesel.
Tonight Mrs Logan cooked rice [as usual] but with the dog sitting on her feet and the rifle on the bench. She wasn't looking worried or scared about killing that robber, just kept saying all the time, âI'm glad the gun was loaded. It was him or Dallas, and I'm glad I did it. And I'll do it again too. I'll do whatever I have to do to survive this thing.'
I am glad she did what she had to do. I like Mrs Logan very well. I wish she had written some words for me to read, and told of the baby she carried. I think I would like to read the words of another who has carried a foetus within them.
There is a strangeness in reading of those who walked these rooms in that time before. I look at the cellar as a different place now, for I know Mr Rowan and his son dug it deep beneath the house. I sit in the kitchen and feel the warmth of the stove and know that Gran sits there, stitching aprons with red crosses. Sometimes I think that I am as the weaver at my loom, slowly interlacing the frayed threads of every used-up yesterday and joining them to the threads of today, thus creating from them a fine fabric of time.
The old Bible and the Book of Moni live side by side on the kitchen table, and each morning I read first from one then from the other. If I am to learn of all the world, the old and the new, then I must begin at the beginning, and read my way to the end. There is much in these books I find tedious, but much also I find satisfying, so I persevere. I have read all I can find of birth in Granny's doctoring book. Grown heavy too fast, my waist is thick, my belly awkward, and truthfully, as with Mrs Logan, I am beginning to fear this being's entrance into life. She had other females to help her when it was time for it to emerge. Who will help me? Will my body give it up easily or will it have to be cut from me as the Caesarean births Granny's doctoring book tells of? And who will cut me, except the grey men? Damn them! Damn their cordial. Damn the grey men's filthy world and the thing that came from the sky and got nuked â which is a word I can not find in the dictionary, which now lives in Aaron's room beside his journal.
