The Seventh Day (21 page)

That night, as Granny before me, I make a calendar, and I use the names of Aaron's time, and I say that this month is July. From Lenny's day calculator, I see the number is 12.

So, I will begin to measure time.

The hour is late and my back aches. I have sat too long at my calendar, but still I sit on, loath to leave the warmth of the kitchen. I glance at the pages of newsprint, which I have looked at many times before. They are filled with names, colour and fantasy. There are likenesses of fine tables and very fine chairs and fabrics of many colours; there are likenesses of birds, of the sparrow and the starling, the pigeon, which live in the city and fly free. They do not fly here. Perhaps the distance is too great for their small wings.

I read a little, turn a page, and do this until I come to the end, then start again at the beginning, thinking perhaps I will see a name to give the one within me. It has little room left in which to grow and when it has no more room, it will come out, and it will have a name.

Girl of the mountain. This is the name Jonjan gave me. It is better than ‘girl', but I will find the infant a very fine name.

If –

I shake my head and think of Salter, Sidley and the lost Stanley. What silly names these are. I would rather be ‘girl' than have such silly names. Jonjan is a precious name, and Aaron. Perhaps the infant's name should be Aaron Morgan, for the one who sired it was of Granny's ovum and thus of Aaron's blood.

Lenny is watching me. He makes a drink of chem-tea, then walks to my side, extends a mug, which I accept. He stands, his back to the fire, swallowing great gulps of tea. Pa has gone to bed with his pills; with this ice-cold weather his aches are so bad he can not at times walk to the table to eat.

I turn more pages. Lenny walks to the shelf and takes up the last packet of crispbites. He opens them. ‘We'll be eating pumpkin for breakfast, dinner and tea soon,' he says.

‘I will gladly die of pumpkin poisoning,' I reply, still thinking of Aaron.

‘All right for some,' he says, then offers the packet. I take a crispbite and eat it.

He has cleansed himself and taken the hair from his face with his new knife, which he worked long on before the blade was slim enough for his liking. He has taken the habit of the face-scraping and the chem-tub on the nights he wishes to come to my bed.

‘She's a female,' he says, leaning over me, looking at the child in the newsprint.

‘Perhaps I will have a female,' I say.

He nods, scratches at his ear, then moves away. ‘Better if he comes out a male, girl. They're not wanting for males in the city.'

He is looking at me, but I am looking at the Merith child. Her hair is a fiery cloud and her eyes are wide. I think she is afraid of the one who made this likeness. Her small hands twist the fabric of her overall.

I know her face well, for it is the face I painted on my board. I read of her now, and of the promised one, and I search for more of it. Search all of the pages. They do not tell me who her father is. I study each of the male faces, seeking Nate, and though I can not clearly see his face in my mind, I know that he is not in these pages.

‘It has reached its third year and has been named Merith,' I say to Lenny. ‘I am pleased it has a name, though in the newsprint the words say they do not trust it, for it has a strange ability with letters and figures. I think this is not allowed for the females.'

‘If yours comes out a male, we'll name him Thomas, for the old one.'

‘Thomas?' I make full eye contact with Lenny. In Aaron's journal there is much mention of Tommy. ‘There is a stone in the graveyard for Tom Martin.'

‘Pa says that tall red stone marks the first one of his blood. He lay his own pa beside it.' He sits, wants to speak again, so I say the other name from Aaron's pages.

‘Logan is a good name for a female.'

He does not seem to know that name. ‘Better he comes out a male.'

I yawn, stand. He places his mug down, steps from foot to foot. He does not talk of this thing we do, but I can read his actions as easily as I read this newsprint. I walk to the stove, turning my back to it, gathering some final warmth before I go to my bed. He walks outdoors to the chem-shed.

The newsprint still open at the image of Merith, I take it with me to my room and place it beneath my pillow so I might dream of her and the one who was her father.

I am asleep before my head is down. I dream not of the Merith child, but of Lenny, and Lord, it is such a strange dream I have, and real. We are entwining in the forest amid webs of plaited greenery, and he lies beneath me, and I look down at him and I think he has the look of Jonjan, though I know that he is Lenny. A sweet and stirring dream it is, and there comes to me such a feeling as that which I had felt in the loft.

Then Lenny's movement on my bed brings me back from my dream with this feeling of . . . of loss. I sigh so deeply. I do not want the reality of Lenny, but the one of the dream, and I want to sleep again, reclaim my dream.

He is beside me, his hand reaches out to touch me. I take the hand, hold it, and in the dark I trace its palm with my finger, feel the calluses of his labour, feel the nails of each finger.

‘You have a good hand,' I say.

He does not wish to speak but to mate.

I have no love for him, but a liking, and a trust of him now, and tonight this heat of the inner flesh, this great need for the closer closeness draws me to him, and I allow his hands to be the hands of my dream.

He is not Jonjan. Perhaps he caused the death of him, though I think not. He had not caused the death of the trading wanderer who had asked only for books.

But soon I think little more. The feeling of the dream begins to drive me, and as in the dream, I move over Lenny, my eyes closed as I move slowly, so slowly to my own need. In truth, I do not want this mating to end fast. And it does not end fast, and when it does, it is with a great explosion – enough, I think, to cause a second Great Ending.

How I cry when it is done. I cry because he is not Jonjan and I cry for Lenny too, and I do not understand which one I cry for. Jonjan is gone and Lenny it is who pets me, pats me, mouths my face, smooths my hair. And later, when my crying ends, there is such gentleness and humility in his manner as he speaks strange soft words, of us, and of the young one, and of what he will do to the grey men.

My poor, poor Lenny, he does not know that tonight he is the used and I the user. But . . . but, were male and female not meant to be together to share this closeness? And if there is no choice of who we are together with, and when there is this great need of the flesh, then surely the two must join and become complete with each other.

All night he remains with me, and in the morning, he creeps silently from my room, returning late with my cup and toasted cornbread and I sit up in bed like the old Queen of England from those ancient times, and I read to him from my newsprint while he watches the infant heaving in my belly, his good hand on it, his small eyes filled with wonder.

‘Is it hurting you, girl?'

I turn to him. ‘There is no pain, only the discomfort of fullness. I believe it may soon wish to come out.'

‘Last night. It wouldn'ta harmed it?'

‘Last night did it – and me – no harm,' I reply, and my blood moves anew with the memory of last night.

In my mind, in the dark, I could see the dream Lenny, but the light is bright now, and the daytime Lenny is with me. I see his age, his features, yet it does not banish the sweet remembered pleasure of our joining. In truth, I look at him and wonder if he will wish to come to my bed again tonight. I believe I will not mind.

He rises then, and I feel the loss of the closeness. ‘The warmth of another in the bed is certainly a wonderful comfort in this season,' I say to him. My face warms with these words and I turn it towards the window, but he has picked up the newsprint and I do not think he heard my words for he stares at the Merith child, his expression puzzled, then he stares at my flushed face and my tumbled hair, his small eyes wide.

‘She's one of yours, girl!'

‘You speak in riddles.'

‘The little female,' he says. ‘Those eyes. She's from out of you.'

‘They take from me a litter of foetus I think would not survive.' I shrug. ‘The newsprint says Merith is from one of the old ones' frozen embryos, as was Jon – as was another who died.'

‘Maybe she is and maybe she ain't, but they're doing something with what they're taking from you, girl, and they are wanting bad what they're getting from you.'

I lean towards him and share the newsprint. ‘Her hair is almost as mine.'

‘And the eyes – like yours used to look, when you was on the cordial.'

‘Her eyes are afraid.'

‘She's one of yours. They're growing them full size in the frekin city. And they'll know to the day when this one is coming out. That's what they're waiting for.'

‘When they come again, I think that they will not care if it is ready or not.'

He hands the newsprint to me, and there is silence as the infant heaves, rolls over.

‘They're not taking it,' he says, and I see that his eyes have become wet, and for an instant I see the pale blue gems washed clean. I pat his arm.

‘They are not taking it from us, Lenny.'

‘First time you said that, girl.' For a moment I do not understand what he speaks of. Then he adds, ‘Reckon it's my name. Reckon I wanted that hard old bitch to speak me name. Never got to hear it.'

‘Names are important and must be spoken and remembered, Lenny Martin,' I say.

‘Right,' he says, then quickly he walks from my room and I hear him on the stairs. ‘Lenny Martin,' he says. ‘Lenny Martin.'

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

It is written in the book of ancients that a flier once flew too close to the sun and the wings of his craft melted. This is not possible. The air above the clouds grows thin and cannot sustain life. In time the searchers became accustomed to the thin air and could not easily breathe air of the lower earth. And in time their eyes grew large, and their legs thin, and they could not walk upon the earth. And they did not thirst as man, nor eat the food of man, nor did they make much communication with those of the lower earth.

 

In time power packs were built for them, that they might wear upon their backs. And these packs carried them with great ease when they were away from their craft. And these packs provided filtered air and nourishment.

 

And it came to pass that havens were built beyond the city boundaries where the searchers might have safe anchorage for their craft when the sun went down, and where comfort and entertainment, such as the searcher desired, might be found. For they were the heroes of the new world.

 

And two such havens were constructed to the east of the city, within the flying distance of the copters, and many stores were stored there, and quarters were built there for the visiting Chosen, who came to the havens to have conversation so they may know of all that the searchers had seen.

There is no wind and no ice this morning but the clouds hang low and I can not see the hill; it is wrapped well in its milky veil, though to the east I think there is the ghost of the sun. Today it may break free. I believe it is as restless as I, and eager to again move freely across the land.

For twenty-seven days I have been a prisoner of this kitchen and its warmth, and for the past seven nights Lenny has warmed my bed. And I have welcomed him.

I tell myself it is the infant which draws me to him, and the sharing of it in the dark of my bed, where it becomes more difficult for me to remember that it is not of Lenny's direct seed. It is certainly of his blood. Also, I think, as my dream of last night suggested, it is better I do not remember. In my dream Lenny came to me, and in his arms he carried the infant. It was a male child, and large and, Lord, how it resembled him. In my dream I wished him to take it to the hills and bathe it clean, for its clothing was rags, such as Granny had found for me to wear.

The dream brought with it memories of my infancy, and arms that carried me. I do not think they were Granny's arms. Memories of my early life here are in dark shadow, with only patches lit by sunlight, or moonlight. It is the odours of this place I recall well. The aged odour of Granny's bed, the odour of books, and the offensive odour of the men. My nose became accustomed to it.

Then the grey men came and the odour altered, and our garments altered.

Lenny was pleased with his city overalls, though Pa did not change his style of dress, not then, not for some time. Lenny learned to use the city tools, and to cleanse himself in the chem-tub. He has the mind to learn, and he has the hands to seek new knowledge.

He has made Jonjan's vehicle drive across the frosty earth – though I did not much like to see this.

‘Docile as a cow,' he said to Pa. ‘Reckon I might fix it to pull the water barrel.' He spoke long of the machine to Pa, who showed little interest, though I agreed with Lenny that the three wheels of the vehicle would save Pa a heap of walking.

I watch Lenny now from the window. He is always at work – if not at hammering or gluing of the old house, then he is cutting pumpkin for the stock, or carrying water or wood. I think he has a goodness in him, and certainly he has a gentleness, and such a desire for the infant.

So, it is best that I forget Jonjan and what has passed, and think now of what will come, for I think that the infant will soon come. I am as fat as the sow before she had her piglets – ten of them.

Always I feel that the movement within me is a single foetus though last evening it seemed that there were many, all fighting for space to sleep. Now it sleeps and its weight is heavy. Perhaps I should wake it, take it for a long, long walk while the clouds keep the searchers from the sky; still, in truth we have not been bothered much with them since that one fell from the sky to Morgan Road.

I look again to the shrouded hills as I take up Pa's pills. He has not risen yet; I will make him chem-tea and take the pills to him. As each day passes and my own agility grows less, I sympathise more with his aches.

The water in the kettle is hot. I pour it over the dark powder, add six drops of sugar-sweet, then take it to his door, but he sleeps and snores so peacefully beneath the huddle of his bedding that I can not disturb him.

His room is a large one, with doors that once opened to the rear verandah. The glass from one door has been replaced by old timber, though the other is near intact. I stand before it sipping the chem-tea as I place his pill container in my half-dress pocket. He will wake soon enough to his aches.

Lenny moved early from my bed. He thinks to pen and slaughter the yearling bullock today. I watch him from Pa's room, watch his dogs work with him, but I believe the bullock does not wish to cooperate in becoming food. He evades all three and runs for life and freedom with Lenny and the dogs in pursuit. I smile. ‘Run free,' I whisper to the bullock. ‘Run free.'

Lord, how I wish I could run free, how I wish this one out of my belly and on my back.

In the kitchen I take up a small garment I have made and laugh at it. Cut from the unworn parts of Lenny's green overall, it has been stitched into a miniature garment with the black reel thread, of which we still have much. One overall leg fastener, grey but still strong, I have stitched into the small garment, from neck to leg. I do not like the look of this creation, and laughter shakes me as I visualise the small Lenny of my dreams, wearing it.

‘Soon,' I say, my hand touching the heavy melon fruit of my belly. ‘Soon you will come to meet me. I hope you are a male child, and I will call you Aaron, and when you are grown, you may give me a name, and we will have names together. You may call me Emma, eh? Or Logan?'

I look to the white-shrouded hills. What a strange, still morning it is, as if the world, like Pa, is old and aching and not wishing to leave its blanket.

It is time, girl
. Granny is with me.

I stiffen, still my hands and my thoughts while I search for her. She is not beside me, or behind me, but I feel her. And where has she come from, and why has she come? I have not thought of her today, or yesterday or for many days.

‘Are you here, Granny?'

I know she is here, though she does not reply.

Rock still I wait, then swing around quickly, certain that I will see her ghost for my scalp crawls with her presence. There is no ghost, only her voice in my head.

I told you everything I could, girl. Now it had better be enough
.

The small garment tossed down, my eyes search the walls, behind the doors, the halls for her, though I know that her voice comes only from the moaning of the old house, the creaking of doors. It is my restlessness that has raised these sounds into voice. Again I sit and take up my needle.

Listen to the signs, girl
.

‘There are no ghosts, Granny. You invented them to keep me close to your side. I no longer fear them, or you. Your words are only memory.'

Then listen to memory. Listen to the animal within. Feel the hairs on the back of your neck begin to crawl. Feel the chill in your spine. It is time, girl. Put your head down. Run. Run!

The hairs on the back of my neck are certainly crawling, but it is she who has made them crawl. I leave the stove and walk to my room. She follows me, and it is too cold up there. I walk to her room. She follows me, so I stand by her bed looking at her stained pillow.

‘So your student is here. You may give her another lecture on rabbits, Granny.'

She does not lecture, but the eyes of the brown rabbit watch me. They draw me closer to the tapestry, to the hounds, so real I feel their hunger.

This is a city thing, each stitch placed in it by the many hands of the females. It is beautiful, yes, but only a series of small stitches and colours. Yet when I move to leave the room, a draught stirs, lifts the corner of the tapestry.

There is no wind inside or out. There is no breeze.

She is here! She is lifting the tapestry.

I walk to it, lift it, and the weight is heavy. I look at the wall behind it, then up to the rod that holds it, and to each of the great hooks secured deep within the wall. I look at the rear of the fabric, where the picture is confused by many tails of thread.

There are green threads, and browns. There is no form to them until I look at the front, find the form; the green make the leaves of the shrubs that shelter the brown rabbit. Again I look at the rear, searching for the eyes of the rabbit. I can not find them. It is like a riddle, until I look at the face of it, then suddenly it becomes clear.

‘What do you want me to see, Granny? What is here that I do not see?'

Stitches, girl, placed there by the sisterhood. You see a rabbit and the pursuing hounds. The rabbit is a survivor, girl, not of this land, but he made it his own. When the kangaroo died, the rabbit lived on. Bring logic to it, girl.

‘He crawled into a hole. I remember him well, and I have searched for that hole, Granny, and also for the trapdoor spider's hole. I have read Aaron's words and know where you found your idea for the hole in the ground. And I have searched the cellar. Each wall, and also the floor. I have found no hole. Can you not say more to me than “remember the rabbit”?'

The rabbit is brown.

‘And I am not. The rabbit's hole is small and I am large. Shall I find a bottle with
drink me
on the label, Granny, and chase a rabbit with white gloves down a rabbit hole?'

The rabbit is brown!

‘And your room is cold!' I turn on my heel, walk to her door.

Find him, girl!
Her voice is loud. Harsh.
For this I taught you. Study his hole in the earth and crawl into it. It is time.

I am no longer a child to be berated, and not by a ghost. ‘It is time to remember the rabbit and to crawl into his hole. Yes. You have told me this before, and many times. Thank you for this lesson but I do not like your riddles. I never liked your riddles, Granny. Why do you speak to me in riddles?' I have backed away to the door, and from a distance I study the tapestry again. From here the stitches lose their definition, and the fabric becomes as my paintings, as when I step away from them and cannot see each brush stroke.

Again it moves.

So there is a crack in the wall beneath it. So there is a wind outside that I do not hear.

Quickly then I return to the kitchen, but she has come with me!

All morning as I go about my work she will not leave my side. When I eat a slice of cornbread, she speaks to me. When I cook the meat Lenny has brought up from the freezer, she speaks to me. When I boil the carrots. When I drop the potatoes fast into boiling water.

The city bastard played God with nature. He tried to turn the female into a potato. Will you wait here and become as a screaming potato, girl?

‘I am surely the shape of a potato.' My voice is loud too as I place the lid on fast to kill the squeaking.

Then wait here for their lid to seal in your screams.

I run from her then, run from the kitchen, and finally she is silent.

The land looks a little brighter and I believe the white blanket mist is lifting; the sun will fight its way free today and there will be green on the hill, and perhaps a flower. I want to see a colourful flower. I crave to see other than grey.

Our battery supply too low, we save them for the long dark nights, and for the freezers. The fence is not singing, so today I may walk via the water barrel's direct path to the hills, an easier walk than via the animal track. Lenny will not be home soon. If he catches his bullock there will be much bloody work for him to do with the skinning of it, and Pa, he will enjoy the scraping of its hide, and he will smell of it when he is done.

So I will walk to the cave, and bathe there. The warmth of the spring may wash this restlessness from me, and, if I am late in returning, then the meal is ready; the men have only to heat it. Still, I think I will not be very late for if the sun should rise from its sick bed, it will be weak and surely wish to return to it early.

My overall is warm, where it covers me, and it has long since failed to cover my breasts and belly. The half-dress, poor faded thing, has no warmth in it at all, but I place cornbread and fruitjell in its pocket, I don my woven cape and fasten the discs, one by one, and wonder again why Granny never wore it. Perhaps it was too long, as it is too long for me. I take it off, seek the reel thread and a sharp needle, and quickly loop up the length of it and wonder why Granny did not do as I am doing, still, during her final years her poor burned hands had not worked well with these small needles. She liked better the large hide needle and the punch that made the holes.

My cloak again fastened, my ankles now free of it, I take up a worn blanket to wrap me warmer, then walk outside.

The sun peeps out to shine upon my face as I leave the house, and a light wind stirs the limbs of my freedom tree. How this land is fighting to live. And the air. Such a pure thing it is today, untainted by the odour of dust and of the pigs; it teases my nostrils with memory.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

In the year 97 of the New Beginning, a searcher returned with news of such a settlement that had not been found before. It was of many dwellings a great distance from the city, and hidden in the shade of the mountains where storms came out of the mountains fast and with great ferocity.

 

And many searchers were sent to that place. And it was discovered that a large group had survived there from the time of the Great Ending, that they lived not the life of the feral wanderer, but followed the old ways and buried their dead in a graveyard, each grave marked with cross and stone.

 

It was found that fresh water ran in a stream from the mountain, crossing the land as a twisting silver serpent. And it served the land well, for crops of the old strains could be seen thriving beside it.

 

It was also learned that herd stock had survived in this place. And one searcher counted the herd stock at thirty plus. Upon the earth there were countless birds which did not fly, and in the hills were many of the ancient wool-bearing sheep. And in pens there were swine of the small ancient breed.

 

It was also learned that the males and females of this settlement clothed themselves in gowns and other apparel and they wore foot coverings.

 

And in the fields many worked at the cultivation, and in a grove of trees both youth and infants were sighted eating fruit of the old strains.

 

Thus it came to pass that the searchers made a viewing tape of this settlement, and in the city, the Chosen viewed, but believed not what they saw. For on the viewing tape there was the killing of a beast, and the butchering of it. There was the taking of milk from many beasts.